Prologue
SARAH
Ardnoch Castle, Scotland
October
The castle seemed hushed. Not just because it was evening at Ardnoch, but because many of its members had returned to their film and television projects a few weeks ago. Summer was their season off, and we saw many members descend upon the estate only to depart in droves come September.
They’d been gone for a month and the castle had grown gradually quiet, just as I liked it. Not that it matters, I thought as I hurried down the carpeted corridor toward Theodore Cavendish’s room. I technically no longer worked here. It was the end of an era. But it was time.
Before I left, however, I was going to use my proximity to the rich and famous to get what I wanted.
Drawing to a stop outside of Mr. Cavendish’s door, I sucked in a breath and pushed down the sudden swarm of fluttering nerves in my stomach. Seriously, I felt a wee bit sick.
Fueled by a newfound confidence in myself and a promise I’d made to my now-deceased grandfather, I didn’t turn away.
I would not run from this opportunity. Even if it meant putting trust in someone I wasn’t even sure I liked.
Mr. Cavendish wasn’t just a droll, flirtatious son of an English viscount.
The cynical bitterness within him might be my ruin.
How did I know these things about someone I’d never actually spoken to?
I was very observant.
Because I was shy and introverted, some people assumed I lived in my own world and didn’t pay attention to what was going on around me.
It was the exact opposite, actually. I paid close attention.
I watched people. I read them. Attempted to understand them.
And realized that because of the last three decades of doing just that, I had a pretty good gut instinct.
Years ago, when someone was threatening my boss Lachlan Adair and terrorizing the estate, I’d come under fire as a suspect because of the bad blood between my grandfather and the Adairs.
The fact that I blushed in his presence because I found my boss attractive didn’t help matters.
Yet, I’d forever be angry with myself for never voicing my suspicions.
I’d always suspected the real culprit. The actor Lucy Wainwright.
Everyone thought she was a sweetheart, but she’d often been erratic toward me when I cleaned her room.
One moment she was kind and generous and the next yelling at me for some misdemeanor for which I wasn’t to blame.
I’d also observed her from a distance and noted her intense preoccupation with Lachlan.
Moreover, I saw her talking with her partner in crime, Fergus Ray, more than once and thought their interactions odd and cagey.
I didn’t speak up because I thought no one would listen to the opinion of a shy housekeeper. How I regretted that after they kidnapped Lachlan. Thankfully, Lachlan’s now wife Robyn and my grandfather were there to save his life.
So, aye, I had good instincts about people. And my instincts told me to be wary of Mr. Cavendish, even if he was my first choice.
I raised my fist to knock on his door but before I could, it flew open and the man himself jolted to a stop.
“Fuck!” Mr. Cavendish clasped a hand to his chest in fright. His alarmed expression immediately darkened to a glare. “I almost defecated in my trousers, thank you very much.” His Eton upper-crust British accent made even the most disgusting sentences sound charming.
Uncomfortable under his glower, my cheeks grew frustratingly hot.
As did the sight of him up close. Theo Cavendish was annoyingly attractive.
Tall, at least a few inches over six feet with a swimmer’s build, he wore clothes well.
Like a model. Even just in his current sweater and jeans, he looked like he’d stepped off a photo shoot.
The sweater molded to his taut physique and accentuated his broad shoulders.
His pale gray-blue eyes complemented a face that was almost too pretty due to his full, pouty mouth.
The sharp angle of his jaw and cheekbones, along with his designer stubble, attempted to make him a little more rugged.
I knew I was probably gawking, but thirty-one years down the line and I still hadn’t quite figured out how to act around handsome men.
I think taking the job at Ardnoch was an attempt to make myself immune to them.
After all, it was a members-only club for film and industry professionals, and a lot of the members were good-looking.
Including the behind-the-scenes people like Theo, who was a screenwriter and director.
However, it didn’t make me immune and instead, I’d shrunk further into my shell, allowing my old insecurities and traumas to dictate my introverted behavior. Or so all the podcasts I’d listened to on therapy and mental health told me.
“May I help you?” Theo snapped impatiently.
There. I saw and heard it in his voice. His contempt.
My cheeks flushed even hotter, and I wanted to run away.
Don’t you dare, treasure. I heard my grandfather’s growled words in my head as if he were there beside me. It’s time to go after what you want. You’ve already proven to yourself what you’re worth.
Okay, Grandpa, I thought. For you and for me.
My keen perception might tell me that Mr. Cavendish was a wounded, cynical aristocrat who would lash out at anyone who dared get too close to him …
but it also told me he was the right man for the job.
I might not be a fan of him as a person, but as a creator, there was no one quite like him.
And finally, I was beginning to believe in myself.
Moreover, I’d promised Grandpa that I’d start living.
I threw back my shoulders. “I—I’d like to speak with you, Mr. Cavendish.”
He searched my eyes, and I noted the spark of curiosity glinting in his.
Suddenly, he looked taken aback, like he’d never seen me before.
His perusal grew so intense, I could feel my nerves getting the better of me again.
I nibbled nervously on my lip, trying to draw from that well of courage the memory of my grandfather had opened inside me.
“Well?” Mr. Cavendish grimaced. “Sarah, is it?”
Despite his obvious impatience to be rid of me, I was shocked he knew my name. “Aye. Sarah McCulloch.”
He gestured for me to hurry up.
“Oh.” You can do this, Sarah! “Um … May I come in?”
Raising an eyebrow, Mr. Cavendish leaned against his door, arms crossed over his chest. The pose caused his slim but muscular biceps to flex.
“Wishing to follow in the boss’s footsteps, my love, and bag yourself a member?
” He referred to Aria Howard, the estate manager, who’d recently gotten engaged to the Scottish actor North Hunter.
The sneer in Cavendish’s words sparked my ire.
That’s what people seemed to think of me.
Some pitiful creature that scuttled around Ardnoch, crushing on the male celebrities.
A good percentage of those members were entitled arseholes who weren’t worth a damn.
Theodore Cavendish was the last person I’d ever crush on.
I had a crush on his brain. That was it. “That’s not why I’m here.”
He pushed off the doorjamb. “Then why are you?”
Do it! I licked my lips again, looked him straight in the eye, and stated, “We have business to discuss, Mr. Cavendish.”
I’d shocked him. And intrigued him. That gave me courage. “Well?” I gestured to his room.
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and he waved me inside. “This I have to hear.”
Forcing my feet one step in front of the other, I smoothed a hand down my housekeeping tunic. Tonight was the last night I’d ever wear this uniform. Clutching my handbag strap, I forced my grip to loosen. My nails had probably left crescents in my skin.
Licking my lips nervously again, I stared out the large window of the bedroom suite, watching the rain lash the pane, wondering if I could have this entire conversation with my back to Cavendish.
He cleared his throat, indicating that wasn’t going to happen.
Turning, I squared my shoulders and decided to go for it without overthinking. “I’m about to tell you something that very few people are aware of, and I must ask for your discretion, no matter the outcome of our conversation.”
He shot me another amused look as he crossed the room to sit on the end of the bed. Leaning back on his hands, I ignored the visual feast he’d created with the unconsciously inviting pose. “Good God, little mouse, have you killed someone and need a partner to bury the body?”
I frowned at the horrendous pet name that brought back terrible memories. “Please don’t call me little mouse.”
Cavendish huffed. “Yet no denial of murder. Should I be worried? Is there really a corpse somewhere decaying as we speak?”
“Well, considering I only committed the murder an hour ago, I very much doubt it’s decaying just yet.”
For a moment, Cavendish blinked at me warily. Then he let out another huff of air. “You almost had me there, little mouse.”
Scowling at his continued use of the pet name that spiked the ire in my blood, I decided to push through the indignation and get to the point. “I want to write a screenplay with you.”
Something like disappointment tightened his features. “Of course you do.” He moved to get off the bed, his body language turning dismissive in an instant. The man was more temperamental than the Highland weather, unpredictable and quickly changeable.
“No.” I stepped forward to explain. “I mean, I want to write a screenplay with you for the adaptation of my book series.” Tilting my chin back in defiance of any coming ridicule, I continued, “I write under a pen name. No one knows but my cousin. My grandfather knew too …” I drifted off, still unable to talk about losing him.
“I write a thriller series about a detective inspector called Juno McLeod.” Opening my handbag, I pulled out the paperback copy of book one, Hollow Grave, and held it out to him.
Cavendish attempted to mask his shock when he realized I was serious, but I saw a flicker of astonishment in his eyes as he took the book from me.
The first time I held a copy in my hand, I’d burst into tears.
I couldn’t believe I’d finished a novel.
My e-books were self-published. I’d done a lot of research on how to do it, on how to run ads, and as I wrote more books in the series, my income started to increase in very healthy increments.
Enough so, if the industry wasn’t so unpredictable, I’d have considered quitting my job.
Then, something miraculous happened, and word of mouth on social media platforms led to the series going viral in the US and UK a year ago.
I hit number one and even now the first five books were still in the top 100 charts in several countries.
I’d made more money than I knew what to do with. Moreover, I’d gained a literary agent, sold foreign rights in twenty countries, the print rights to a publisher in the US and UK, and I’d been approached by two different and well-respected producers interested in film and television rights.
Which brought me here. With Cavendish. The mind behind one of my favorite TV shows of all time, King’s Valley.
I knew in my gut that Cavendish was the right person to bring Juno to life.
She was a complicated human, driven by her trauma and darkness.
Her relationship with the main antagonist in the story was twisty and dark, with an underlying sexual tension that would require a nuanced and delicate hand to pull off on-screen.
Cavendish knew how to make those kinds of relationships work on film.
I’d seen everything he’d ever done, and while he’d directed movies and guest-directed episodes of TV shows here and there, he’d only been the creator of TV shows brought to life from his own screenplays and ideas.
Until now.
I hoped.
In a blushing ramble, I spewed all this to him as he read the blurb on the back of the book.
Heavy, mortifying silence fell between us as Cavendish turned the book over to its front cover. “S. M. Brodie. Interesting pen name.”
“It’s my initials and my grandmother’s maiden name.”
He didn’t react. Instead, he ran his fingers over the embossed tagline along the top of the cover and read, “‘The Multimillion-Copy Bestseller.’”
When I didn’t respond, he looked up from it. “I’m to believe that an author who has sold several million copies of her series continues to work as a housekeeper?”
The idea that I might lie about my secret career made me clench my hands into fists at my sides. I didn’t inform him that today was my last day on the job. What was the point if he wasn’t going to believe me, anyway?
However, his eyes narrowed at whatever he saw in my expression. “No, you’re not lying, are you?” He stood, gazing down at my book again. “You really are S. M. Brodie. How surprising.”
I swallowed nervously. “Like I said, I’ve had two producers contact my agent about buying the film rights. I can show you the emails.”
Cavendish shook his head and held out the book for me to take.
I waved him off. “Keep it.”
To my irritation and hurt, he sighed and threw it on the bed as if it was an inconvenience. “Sorry, little mouse. I don’t do adaptations. I write my own stories.”
Even though I’d known there was a good chance he’d tell me that, I fought through the crushing disappointment. “You won’t say anything to anyone?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Who would believe me? I barely believe it.”
I huffed, disheartened but not surprised by his carelessly hurtful attitude. “Right. I am used to people underestimating me, Mr. Cavendish. Sorry for taking up your time.”
“No apologies necessary,” he said to my back. “And congratulations on your secret success.”
The mocking tone made me stop at the door.
I glanced over my shoulder at him, holding his gaze.
“Congratulations on your wonderful work,” I told him sincerely.
“I suppose as surprising as it is that a ‘little mouse’ such as me is a Sunday Times best-selling writer, it’s astonishing that such a cliché of entitled aristocracy with your pathetic ennui and cynicism …
is capable of writing television characters with such complexity and depth.
” I strode out of Cavendish’s room, legs trembling from my daring insult, heart racing, skin flushed.
However, as I reached the staff elevator, a smile tugged at my lips as I remembered the way Cavendish’s expression slackened with furious shock at my volleying his mockery back at him.