CHAPTER 1
THEA
“Take off the dress,” the voice orders.
For one stupid second, I forget he isn’t real.
Forget the man whispering filth in my ear belongs to an audiobook, not the shadowed hotel suite where I’m on my knees with a mop, a bucket, and a stain that looks suspiciously like evidence.
He has a private elevator, a filthy mouth, and a woman begging against a penthouse window.
I have two aching feet, a gray maid uniform, and the very strong feeling room 1806 has seen things I’m not paid enough to know about.
In this building, I am Thea Andrin.
I’m twenty-five.
Night-shift maid.
Blonde hair twisted into a bun.
Name tag always crooked. Body that does not know the meaning of “blend in.”
Which would be less of a problem if rich men didn’t look at maids like we were part of the room service menu.
I know that look by now.
The lingering glance when I bend to tuck a sheet.
The slow smile from a man old enough to have a cardiologist on speed dial.
The wedding ring twisted absentmindedly while his eyes drag over my hips like he’s pricing a mistake he can afford.
The “accidental” hand at my lower back when I’m squeezing past a room-service cart.
I know how to spot the bastards from a mile away.
I also know how to angle a housekeeping cart directly over a man’s Italian loafers when his hand wanders too far south.
Oops.
They always think they’re subtle.
They are never subtle.
And they always think women like me are too polite, too broke, or too scared to do anything about it.
They’re usually right about the broke part.
The rest depends on how badly they want to test me.
I scrub harder at the stain.
It continues looking guilty.
My radio crackles at my hip.
“Thea, you still on eighteen?” Marco’s voice, dry and precise.