His Undercover Maid

The maid dress was tight around my chest, smelled like cheap detergent, and made me itch. I didn't care though, It was the only thing getting me through the front gates of the Montclair estate.

"Keep your eyes on the carpet, Nora," the head housekeeper snapped, walking briskly ahead of me. "Mr. Montclair pays double the market rate because he expects zero mistakes. You do not touch his personal mail. You do not speak unless spoken to. Most importantly, you stay out of the west wing."

"Yes, ma'am," I answered, keeping my voice timid.

My fingers brushed against the hem of my apron where a slim flash drive was sewn into the lining.

I was not here for the paycheck.

Three days ago, my brother Caleb was arrested with ten kilos of contraband planted in his company locker. The police called it an open-and-shut case. But Caleb had called me first, whispering that he found the dummy shipping company Philip Montclair used to move off-the-books cargo through the city ports. Caleb was a scapegoat. The real evidence was locked inside this mansion.

"Start with the front sitting room," the housekeeper ordered, thrusting a spray bottle and a rag into my chest. "Wipe the tables. Vacuum the runner. Mr. Cooper will be down in ten minutes to inspect."

She turned and marched toward the kitchen.

The moment she turned the corner, I dropped the humble posture.

I scanned the tall ceiling. Three security cameras blinked back at me. Two covered the grand foyer and the front doors. One swept the lower staircase. But right behind the wide marble steps, there was a blind spot wide enough for someone to slip through unnoticed.

Footsteps cut through my thoughts. Heavy, crisp, and fast.

Two men entered through the private side entrance.

"The port director wanted an extra five percent to look the other way," a brisk, low voice said.

"Did you pay him?" a second voice answered.

That voice stopped me cold. It was calm, smooth, and chillingly quiet. The kind of voice that belonged to a man who signed multi-million dollar contracts by day and ruined lives with a single phone call by night.

"I didn't have to," the first man replied. "I showed him pictures of his offshore accounts. He cleared the containers ten minutes later."

Philip Montclair. And his right hand, Taylor Cooper.

I dropped to my knees by the edge of the dark wood floor, grabbed the rag, and began rubbing at a spotless corner. I bowed my head, letting my hair fall forward to hide my face.

The leather shoes stopped inches from my knees.

The silence stretched. It was thick and suffocating. I didn't look up, but I could feel the cold weight of Philip's attention locked on the top of my head.

"Who is this?" Philip asked.

"New temp from the domestic agency," Taylor answered from behind him. "Gable brought her in twenty minutes ago."

Before I could breathe, fingers clamped under my chin.

The grip was firm and unyielding. Philip lifted my face, forcing me to meet his eyes.

Up close, he didn't look like a thug. He looked like the pristine, untouchable corporate titan he was. Crisp dark suit, neat hair, and eyes as cold and gray as slate. He stared at my face, then his gaze slid down to my hands resting against my apron.

I had forgotten to make them shake.

A faint, sharp smirk touched the corner of his mouth.

"Taylor," Philip said softly, never breaking eye contact with me.

"Yes, Mr. Montclair?"

"Run her prints against the city database. Cleaners don't hold their breath like soldiers."