Chapter 2
Two
SLOANE
The head housekeeper, Mrs. Agnes Hutchinson, asked after my well-being once I returned downstairs (reluctantly in that damn elevator with my cart) to have lunch.
She then asked me, before I hit the staff cafeteria, to deliver a message to Mr. Ramsay, the ma?tre d’h?tel, about a new stock of silverware that had arrived.
Mrs. Hutchinson seemed to know all the goings-on at the castle, including the minutiae of everyone else’s jobs.
Having delivered said message, I was trying to stroll inconspicuously through the dining room as I headed toward the staff quarters to have my lunch.
All staff quarters were at the back of the first floor (or ground floor, as they called it here) of the castle.
The rooms and hallways were utilitarian compared to the rooms dedicated to the members.
Soft gray walls and wooden floors gave way to wood-paneled and wallpapered walls and hardwood floors covered in Aubusson carpets.
I hurried out of the dining room and glanced to my left. The grand reception hall of Ardnoch Castle was a thing of beauty. I saw the head butler, Mr. Wakefield, carrying a tray with cups and a teapot. He gave me a nod and swept into the grand hall in his butler’s tailcoat and white gloves.
He strode across polished parquet flooring that was interrupted by an enormous Aubusson carpet in the center of the room.
The décor was traditional, Scottish, timeless luxury.
A grand staircase descended into the center, fitted with a red-and-gray tartan wool runner.
It led to a landing where three floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows spilled sunlight.
Then it branched off at either side, twin staircases leading to the floor above, which I could partially see from the galleried balconies at either end of the reception hall.
A fire burned in the huge hearth on the wall adjacent to the entrance and opposite the staircase.
The smell of burning wood added a coziness to an otherwise mammoth room.
Tiffany lamps scattered throughout on end tables gave the space a warm glow too.
Opposite the fire sat two matching suede-and-fabric buttoned sofas with a coffee table in between. Mr. Wakefield moved toward it where a member sat reading on his phone.
Moving quickly past, I entered the staff area and got excited about lunch.
The amazing estate chef served lunch to the staff.
It was a definite perk of working at a five-star resort that we got to eat five-star meals.
Even staff who worked in separate buildings farther out from the castle made the trek across the estate for lunch.
I grabbed my phone from my locker before I headed toward the lunchroom.
There were no texts from Callie, though there were a couple of new cake orders from locals.
I smiled at that and resisted the urge to text my daughter.
I’d given her a basic cell phone because it made me feel safer knowing she could contact me whenever she wanted, but I also tried to deter her from using it unnecessarily. And definitely not at school.
I’d dropped her off this morning for her first day of primary six.
It took some getting used to—the names for things.
Callie would be a fifth grader if we were back in the States.
Right now, she was dismayed because last year Monroe had been her teacher, and this year, Monroe was on maternity leave.
Callie had Mrs. Hunter, who wasn’t as warm and sweet as Roe.
I was itching to know how my girl was. I hated the thought of her not enjoying school.
Before I could even step foot in the lunchroom, however, my phone rang. I stopped in the quiet hallway, concern flashing through me at the sight of Regan Adair’s name. “Regan?”
“Hey.” Her bright, American-accented voice sounded free of worry, and I relaxed a little. “Sorry to call you during your lunch break, but we missed each other this morning at the school gates, and I wanted to run something by you.”
“Oh? What’s up?”
“So, yesterday while Callie was at our place, Lewis was showing her the program for the tae kwon do school he starts next week. It’s in Inverness.”
Confused, I replied, “Okay?”
“Well, Callie got really excited about the idea of attending the classes too.”
I frowned. “She never mentioned a thing to me last night.”
“Maybe she thought you wouldn’t let her.”
Feeling defensive, I asked stiffly, “What does that mean?”
“Oh, no, you’re an amazing mom, Sloane. I … you’re just super protective. Which I get.”
Of course I was super protective. I’d given birth to Callie when I was seventeen years old.
I was a scared kid, but I took one look at my daughter and she became my entire world in an instant.
As terrifying as it had been (especially any time she got sick), it had been my job to protect her.
Only mine. It was difficult to loosen the reins sometimes.
“Callie learning self-defense can only be a good thing,” I said.
“Great! Agreed. So why don’t you talk to her about it tonight because we’d have to get her signed up pronto. There are only a few spaces left.”
What? Wait. “Inverness? Isn’t that a two-hour round trip?”
“Yeah, but it’s after school, so I’m happy to take them and wait. I can study in my car until class is over and then bring them back.”
Regan was in business school, preparing to open her own preschool. That she looked after Callie on top of being a full-time mom and student meant a lot to me. Offering to take the kids to class was typical awesome Regan.
But still … “How much are classes?”
“It’s ￡50 a month.”
My jaw dropped.
Fifty pounds a month!
I know that didn’t sound like much to some folks, but every penny I made counted. Living in a tourist spot in the Scottish Highlands meant the cost of living wasn’t cheap.
“Plus, if she likes it, there’s a uniform and equipment to buy. Oh, and the instructor said there’s a fee every time they advance to the next rank, and there are entrance fees if they want to take part in competitions.”
Panic rose. I wanted Callie to do whatever made her happy, but she’d never had a hobby that cost so much money before.
Her paint-by-numbers phase was a lot cheaper.
“Um … let me talk to Callie first. Like I said, she didn’t mention it, so I want to make sure she really wants to attend the classes before we decide anything. ”
“Of course. We’ll talk when you pick her up tonight.”
I was still worrying about how I’d afford to send Callie to tae kwon do lessons two hours later as I cleaned Byron Hoffman’s room.
Hoffman was the youngest son of Henry Hoffman, owner of one of the largest TV and film production companies in the world.
He’d only been granted membership and arrived on the estate two weeks ago.
I had no idea who he was, but Mrs. Hutchinson liked to point out all the members and give me a rundown on their background.
Last week, I was dumping used towels from another guest’s room into my cart outside the door when I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise.
When I turned around, Byron Hoffman was strolling down the hallway, his eyes glued to my ass.
Catching him in the act, he’d taken his time looking me in the eye.
When he did, he winked at me like he was God’s gift to mankind.
I looked away, but when I glanced up, he’d turned around so he was walking backward, staring at me in a lascivious way that made my hackles rise.
He was also a total slob. His room was always a mess.
Clothes strewn everywhere, food crumbs in places that made no sense …
but the worst part was his sheets. Don’t get me wrong, I’d had to pretend like I hadn’t seen “dirty” sheets many a time in the year I’d been working at Ardnoch.
However, Hoffman almost always had dirty sheets, and there was a part of me that wondered if the sick bastard was doing it deliberately.
Sometimes, I really hated my job.
However, there was also satisfaction in looking around the beautifully appointed room and seeing it returned to rights.
Replacing shampoo bottles with new, I grabbed the old and walked toward the door to let myself out.
Finishing up Hoffman’s room meant I was almost done for the day.
And I was excited to see Callie and find out how the first day of school had gone.
I was also hoping she’d contradict Regan and tell me she didn’t want to go to tae kwon do.
Totally selfish, yes, but I really didn’t know how I could afford it.
Mind elsewhere, I didn’t even see him when I stepped out of the room toward my waiting housekeeping cart. But as I dumped the empty bottles into it, I felt the abrupt hard heat of a male body at my back, and my heart lurched into my throat.
I tried to turn, but firm hands on my hips stopped me.
“Working hard?” a male voice asked huskily in my ear.
Fear shivered through me, but I looked down the corridor, reminding myself we were out in the open, and there were security cameras all around the castle.
I glanced over my shoulder and, sure enough, it was Hoffman who had me pinned to my cart. “Just finishing up, Mr. Hoffman. Have a good day.” I moved to push away with the cart, and his grip tightened.
Pulse racing, I opened my mouth to protest when two actors appeared at the end of the hallway.
Hoffman released my hips, and I hurried away.
The women, whose famous faces had graced the covers of magazines, barely even noticed me as I rushed past them and into the service elevator at the end of the hall. I didn’t look up.
My heart pounded in my chest, and my legs trembled.
Summer at the estate was the busiest time of year, except for New Year. I knew from growing up in LA that Hollywood took time off around summer and returned to business as usual in September.
I was looking forward to a quieter estate.
And the departure of Byron Hoffman.