A lick of fury rises up my back, vibrating at the base of my neck, between my shoulder blades, and resonates to my fingers that ball into a tight fist. “Call him right now. Tell him who you’re pissing off. Believe me, barbie, I’m itching to dislocate someone’s jaw. Send him my way if he has the balls to fight your battles. Although, if I were you, I wouldn’t hold my breath. If he doesn’t already work for me, he sure as fuck knows who I am.”
She scoffs, arms akimbo. “And who may that be?”
“Dante Carrow. I’m sure it rings a bell.”
Her eyes widen, then narrow a second later. “Bullshit.”
“I’m paying you to clean, not to talk. Either get to work or get the fuck out of my house.”
She rises from her knees, taring her gloves off. “My brother will hear about this.” Head up high, she marches out of the house, slamming the door hard enough to reinstate my headache. Fucking drama queen.
“I’m so sorry,” her friend squeals. “I’m really, really sorry, Mr. Carrow. It’s her first day. She’s the boss’s niece, so she feels entitled. Please don’t send me away. I will clean the whole house, fast, I promise. It will be spotless. My boss will fire me if I don’t finish, and I really need this job...” she rambles on, crumpling the yellow duster in her hands, eyes on my nose or chin, never once landing on my eyes. Hers are large, blue, and brimming with unshed tears. A mess of in-need-of-combing hair surrounds her thin, freckled face.
“What’s your name?” I lean against the back of the couch.
“Grace. Grace Quincy.”
“Why do you work, Grace?”
She pulls her eyebrows together, staring at my nose. It’s one of the gestures diffident people use to appear confident. They chose a spot close to the eyes, like the nose or forehead, avoiding eye contact.
“I need the money...”
“Yes, I figured out that much. I’m askingwhy. How old are you? Eighteen? Nineteen? You should be in school.”
“Seventeen.” She drops her gaze to one of the many stains marking the floor. “School won’t pay the rent or buy me groceries.” She pulls on a loose thread of her apron, shoulders sagging. “Please let me finish.”
If I met her before Layla, her pleas wouldn’t mean shit, but post-Layla Dante mellowed a touch. A touch too fucking much. I can’t dismiss Grace while she’s on the brink of tears.
“You can finish,” I say. “I’m about to leave now, but I’ll be back in three hours. One of my men will keep an eye on you while I’m gone.”
“Of course. I’ll make sure the house is spotless. I promise you won’t regret this.” She drops to her knees, shoving her small hands into the yellow gloves discarded by the blonde.
The rumble of Rookie’s Camaro infiltrates the house, adding a bit more to the growing, dull ache at the base of my skull. Fuck, this is going to be a long day...
“You look like someone ate you then threw you up,” I smirk, standing in the open door, not one bit sorry that I dragged him out of bed. “Make sure the house is clean before you let the cleaner go. And get Jackson to run a background check on her for me, will you?”
Rookie narrows his bloodshot eyes. “You wanna hit that?”
“No.” Fuck, no. I shudder, coming apart at the seams as the mere idea of touching another woman pins me down between hard teeth. It’s way too soon to ponder the idea. Besides, Grace is a minor. Illegal. I’m far from a decent human being, but there are certain lines even I wouldn’t cross. “I need a maid. I want to know who she is before I offer her the job.”
I’ve been stabbed in the back by someone I trusted with my life recently, andlesson learned.
Fool me once...
CHAPTER THREE
Dante
“Where would you like to see this displayed?” The interior designer stands in the middle of the first room at Delta. He looks me up and down, blowing his longish hair out of his face. “How about the entryway? Or maybe the VIP area on the balcony?”
I arrived ten minutes ago to check the progress made by the construction crew so far. The fire damage was limited to the bar area in the first room, but I used the downtime to refresh and update the rest of the place. The crew I hired took their sweet time, charging by the hour, but it looks like we’ll be back in business by Friday.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re holding, and you’re asking me where I want it displayed? Which one of us is the decorator here? Figure it out.”
The guy steps back, setting what resembles a giant copper dildo on the floor, then combs his long, blond hair with his fingers, fucking up the hap-hazard behind the ear tuck he had going on. He’s a spit-shine replica of Nick Carter of the Backstreet Boys. Though judging by how often his eyes fall to the inseam of my trousers, I’m betting his sexual orientation does not match Nick’s.
“It’s a sculpture. A very expensive one at that, made by a world-renowned artist. It has been a part of my personal collection for years, but I feel, given yourprofession, it belongs here.”