Page 21 of House of Lies

“Too busy to make a phone call?” I swear I hear her murmur to herself, but when I turn to look at her, her face is that of an angel’s.

“The master suite is off limits. And Olivia…I’m not to be disturbed.”

“Understood, Sir.”

Olivia gives me another bright, blatantly fake smile as I back out of the room. She’s getting better at them.

Good for her.

Chapter 8

Cassidy

Damn it. When I came up with this idea to impersonate Olivia, I never thought it would be so difficult being subservient to a man like Ethan. What an arrogant prick. It’s like he assumes just because I’m a maid that I’m begging to lick his boots and then thank him for the fucking pleasure.

If he’s this rude to every cleaning lady that rocks up at his door, it’s no fucking wonder he has to make do with me. That’s why Olivia was so happy to swap with me. She’s probably got her feet propped up in front of some cozy fireplace somewhere, rubbing her hands and cackling with delight.

I slide a hand under the lapels of my coat, clutching my necklace. The dark stone flecked with green and red warms in my hand. Other than fond memories, this piece of jewelry is all I have left of my mother. It’s part of a set, but she took the earrings with her when she left.

“I meant what I said,” I whisper. “I’m going to find you. Even if it means cleaning this bastard’s entire mansion.”

I shake out my hands, stretch my neck.

Time to get into character.

I stare into the kitchen. Cleaning that massive room won’t get me any closer to what I need. There’s no computer or cellphone in there. How am I supposed to snoop through his things after he made it so clear he wasn’t to be disturbed?

What I need is an excuse to venture upstairs.

Not later.

Now.

My eyes sweep back to the pile of clothes in the corner, and my mouth quirks up.

“Bingo.”

Can’t have the man of the house wandering around in dirty clothes, can I? And unless he has two walk-in closets, I’m pretty sure most of his wardrobe is on the floor.

I drag out an armful of his clothes, fervently trying to ignore the smell of his cologne or body wash or whatever the hell is seeping out of them.

It’s fucking intoxicating.

As I’m sorting out a pile to go into the machine, I notice something strange.

No bras. No panties or thongs. Not a blouse or a skirt in sight.

Is Remington…a bachelor?

Hastily shoving that thought out of my mind, I toss the clothes into the industrial sized washing machine along with half a box of detergent. There’s no time to figure out all the dials and whatnots on this machine, so I just press ‘start’ and hope that’ll get me a load of clean laundry at the end of the hour and a half timer.

There’s a whoosh of water being let into the machine, and I watch the clothes tumbling around inside with a smile on my face.

“You’re my ticket upstairs, baby,” I whisper, tapping a nail against the machine’s window.

On my way out of the laundry room, I accidentally step on a pair of pants that look fancy enough to be part of a three-piece suit. I pick them up, glaring at the belt he didn’t even bother taking out before tossing them down the chute.

I scoff at the label.

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