Page 2 of Kingpin's Baby
Those last two? Very important. Mr Harvey emphasised them several times.
But even murdery mafia bosses need their fancy Victorian mansion offices cleaned, and I need a job, so here I am, at the crack of dawn.
Five AM is an hour no one should see. Having been let in by a surly guard, I’m going to do all my work before anyone else is out of bed. I huff up two flights of stairs, my sleepy thigh muscles creaking in protest, and decide I’ll start with Mr Booth’spersonal office. That’s the safest option. Then I can be finishing off the communal spaces downstairs by the time he appears.
I breeze in, duster in hand, dragging my trusty red vacuum cleaner behind me, and grope around in the dark before dawn for the light switch.
It hardly illuminates anything when I find it, but it’s enough. The room is an old-fashioned library, with walls of leather-bound books, a plush carpet you could use as a mattress, and the windows are black with spots of orange-gold. London. There’s a heavy dark wood desk covered with papers, several expensive shiny devices, and a glowing computer screen shedding light onto the back of a massive chair that faces towards the window.
I pause and admire all this luxury. The view of London. The scent of wax polish and something smoky andmasculine.
Oof.
I’m a tragic case. I googled Mr Booth, and let me tell you, my tummy got butterflies, but not from fear. Even in a photo, he exudes power and authority. In his office, it’s almost as though I can feel his presence, perhaps because it has a vibe that is both intimidating and also reassuring and comfortable. Like being friends with a black bear. Terrifying, and yet soft and cuddly.
I begin with the dusting, in the corner, humming to myself as I make my way around. I know everyone says cleaning is the worst, but I really like it. There’s nothing as good as making a room shiny and sweet smelling.
This opinion, I admit, may be due to lack of experience. I’ve always been the gawky shy girl with her nose in a book, so there are certain activities I concede most people believe are better than cleaning. But I’ve never done them, and I get a glow of pride from a room that is neat and sparkly.
The back of my neck prickles as I work. I rub it, but the hairs won’t go down.
Maybe this old house is haunted? Perhaps that was what happened to the last cleaner? Saw a ghost and ran off. Or was dragged off by the apparition. Ugh, I have an overactive imagination. I blink at the books, the gold reflecting the light of the room. And that’s when I see it.
Something reflected in the shine. It’s not a shape so much as… I don’t know. A movement behind me.
It’s nothing. It has to be nothing.
But I turn all the same.
And in the leather chair at the desk, sits Mr Booth.
He’s even more intimidating and gorgeous in real life. Black stubble covers his cheeks, and his dark hair is messed up, as though he’s been running his hands through it. He has a square jaw and moss-green eyes. And he’s watching me, a scowl on his face.
Do not annoy Mr Booth.
Well, that was a fail, wasn’t it?
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and he continues to regard me, brows lowered.
I’m too young to die. I haven’t lost my V-card. I haven’t been in love. I haven’t rubbed myself all over Mr Booth like a demented cat.
Really shouldn’t do that last one. But I want to. He’s in a white shirt with a black tie and gold cufflinks. And his hands, oh wow his hands. They’re big and square and look like they would cover my entire torso. He wears an expensive gleaming watch and has the lightest dusting of hair on his wrists.
“We haven’t met, Miss…”
“Smith.” But that sounds formal. Not like me at all. “Renee Smith. My first foster parents were English, but I was found on a little boat the authorities thought came from France, so they called me Renee. But people call me Ren.”
As I speak, I wring my duster in my hands and Mr Booth trails his gaze down my body—clad in leggings and an old hoody. My skin tingles even as I talk about my name like a doofus. As though he would be interested in me.
“I didn’t think anyone would be here.” Oh god I wish I could shut up, but I haven’t actually said the one thing that could save me. “I’m the new cleaner.”
I clamp my mouth closed.
A trace of amusement lights Mr Booth’s eyes so briefly I’m not certain it was ever there. “I see.”
Do not talk to Mr Booth.
Crapola. Good job, Ren.
