Page 66 of Twisted Temptation

"Mrs. Di Zaro?"

"What if I screw this up?"

He folds his hands behind his back and looks at me.

"I have worked for this family for twenty-three years. I have watched men twice your size and half your intelligence walk into rooms full of very dangerous people and hold their own on nothing but bravado and cologne." He straightens the emerald gown on its hanger. "You have something far more useful than either."

"What?"

"You're likeable." He gives me a wink. "They won't know what hit them."

I give him a sunny smile. “How do you know exactly what to say and when to say it?”

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Sunny.”

My smile turns into a broad grin. “You just called me Sunny. And you can’t take it back. We’re friends now.”

He gives me an unimpressed look. But he doesn’t mean a second of it.

“I will leave you to it.”

He shows himself out, and I pick up the pair of headphones I found by the TV, put on a playlist on my phone, and crank it up loud.

It’s an ’80s song. A fun song that keeps the anxiety out and the confidence in. By track four, I’m feeling excited for the night ahead and dancing around the kitchen as I make popcorn.

Putting the popcorn in the microwave, I dance and spin … and freeze.

Because there's a strange woman standing in my living room.

She's leaning against the back of the sofa with one hip cocked, watching me with a look that makes my stomach drop.

"Can I help you?" I ask, pulling off my headphones.

She doesn't move from the sofa. Instead, she gives me a small, polished smile that makes my spine tingle.

"You must be the wife."

The wife.

I hear the snark in her tone, the contempt radiating off her in waves.

"And you are?"

"Chantelle." She pushes off the sofa and walks toward the kitchen. She's wearing a fitted black dress that hugs every curve and a gold chain around her waist that catches the light. "I'm the housekeeper."

I look at her dress, the heels, and the full face of makeup.

Housekeeper. My ass.

I cock an eyebrow. "The housekeeper?"

"I take care of the penthouse. Have done for the past three months. But Dante and I go way back."

Her eyes flash at me, and my stomach tightens with a hot, ugly knot that burns.

"I usually come on Fridays," she says, trailing a manicured finger along the edge of the counter as she walks through the kitchen. "Dante likes me to come on Fridays."

She smiles and lets the sentence hang between us, and I feel the sting.