As I strode toward the staff quarters intent on finding Mrs. Hutchinson first to discuss Angeline’s room for her stay, I spotted a housekeeper, Sarah McCulloch, coming out of the staff elevator struggling with two champagne buckets filled with empty beer bottles.
Sarah had worked at Ardnoch for seven years and was the granddaughter of local farmer Collum McCulloch. I knew from her payroll information she was thirty-one years old, but if I didn’t know that, I’d think Sarah was only in her early twenties. Yes, she was young looking, but her painful shyness also made her seem younger than her years.
“Let me help.” I hurried over, my heels clacking across the floor.
“Oh no, Ms. Howard, I have it.” Sarah looked mortified by my offer of assistance.
I smiled at her. “I can carry a bucket.” As the beer bottles clattered around in it, I frowned at the sight of the whisky bottle jammed in between them all. There were two whisky bottles in Sarah’s. “Where did these come from?”
Sarah met my eyes briefly before looking ahead as we walked toward the housekeeping department. “Mr. Hunter left them and some empty food trays outside his room. Frannie told me she’d deal with the trays.” She referred to her new housekeeping partner. After my good friend Sloane quit last week to pursue her bakery business dream, we reorganized the teams.
Irritation made my jaw clench. I took a minute and then calmly asked, “Has Mr. Hunter refused you entry to his room?”
“For over a week now.” Sarah bit her lip, expression uncomfortable. “Mrs. Hutchinson isn’t happy.”
“I’d think not.”
Two months. North Hunter had been hiding out at Ardnoch for two months since the story broke that he and his friends were responsible for the death of that homeless man all those years ago. In that time, Cara Rochdale dumped him over the scandal, giving weight to its veracity. Then he was dropped as the face of a well-known designer’s brand. North’s sexy ads for their cologne had driven a dramatic spike in sales, so that must have been a difficult decision for them. And, of course, the studio producing his upcoming spy thriller dropped him. I’d gotten a little info from my dad, who knew everyone in Hollywood, and apparently, the studio had paused the film. The script had been written specifically for North, and they were struggling to find a new male lead.
I wasn’t sure North was aware of that information. I wasn’t sure he was aware of anything but his self-pity. The man had been wallowing. At first, he’d left his room every day to attend the gym and/or swim. He’d hidden in his room during the New Year’s Eve party, which I understood. Two weeks ago, however, he stopped leaving his room entirely. I’d kept an eye out and knew there was a lot of alcohol being sent up during this period too.
Enough was enough.
I didn’t know if North had many friends beyond Theo Cavendish, but I knew from my research when I first reached out to his people that North was an orphan. He didn’t have a family to flee to. He didn’t have a family to kick his ass and drag him out of the dark hole of a pity party. The last person I wanted to be was the one yanking North from his misery, but we needed to clean his room. And he needed to return to his life.
I followed Sarah into the utility room and slid the bucket onto a counter. “Have you got this?”
“Of course, Ms. Howard. Thank you for your help.” Her eyes held mine for once and I was surprised to realize they were a beautiful green. Not mossy green like mine but a striking jade green, clear and startlingly pretty.
“You’re welcome.” I gave her a kind smile, and her gaze lowered with shyness again. It was a shame she hid like that, but I knew a little something about wanting to hide.
Thoughts of Sarah disappeared as I hurried toward the secure room where we kept spare key cards. It was time to boot North Hunter out of the Bruce Suite. At least for a few hours so we could clean the place. I worried about what I’d find in there.
“Ms. Howard?” Walker Ironside stood slowly from the table of monitors. Another security guard accompanied him. “What can we do for you?”
Walker had joined Ardnoch a year ago when Brodan Adair, Lachlan’s brother, retired from Hollywood. Walker had been his bodyguard. In that time, he’d fallen in love with Sloane, and only a few months ago he took a bullet to the gut trying to protect her from a man hired to kill her for the inheritance left by her father. It was a scandal still being discussed in the media. At six foot five, Walker was a rugged, intimidating specimen who worshipped Sloane and adored her daughter Callie. For that reason alone, he was kind of my favorite among the staff. But I’d never let that show. He was also stubborn and insisted on returning to work as soon as possible. I’d demanded he return to reduced duties only until he was fully healed. Sloane thanked me for that.
“I need the spare key card for the Bruce Suite.”
Understanding crossed Walker’s face. “Would you like me to accompany you? Perhaps I can talk to North?” So everyone knew the actor was holed up in there, huh? I guessed Walker felt he owed North for helping him stop Byron Hoffman from hurting Sloane all those months ago. However, I worried that the feeling of gratitude would make Walker too soft on the guy. North Hunter needed a firm hand in this.
“I can handle it,” I promised him.
“Of that, I have no doubt.” Walker’s mouth curled at the corners. Before Sloane, I’d never seen the brooding Scot smile. Since her, he’d melted a little. The first time I saw him grin at Sloane, I nearly fainted with surprise … and a small amount of envy. It must be spectacular to have someone love you so much that you change them for the better. Make their world a world worth smiling for.
Dismissing a pang of longing, I thanked Walker once he handed me the key and then I strode in the direction of the staff elevator. Determination rode that elevator with me.
The Bruce Suite was on the second floor and was one of our best rooms. Its windows faced the North Sea, and it comprised a large bedroom, a small sitting room with a writing desk beneath the window, and a luxurious en suite.
I dreaded to think what state it was in.
Attempting diplomacy, I knocked hard on the door. When no answer was forthcoming, I rang the doorbell. Not even a whisper of a footstep. I rang the doorbell again.
“Go away!” a belligerent male voice yelled from inside.
Charming.
“Mr. Hunter, it’s Aria Howard. Please open the door.”
No answer.
“Mr. Hunter!”
His muffled “Piss aff!” heated my skin with indignation.
I swiped the key card and strode inside, letting the door slowly shut behind me. Blinking against the dim light spilling in through the half-closed curtains, I allowed my eyes to adjust.
“Whit part eh piss aff dae ye no understand?”
My eyes moved over the unmade bed, the half-eaten sandwich molding on the bedside table, the clothes strewn everywhere … to North. He was slumped in an armchair in the sitting room, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers. He was also only wearing pajama trousers. They hung low on his hips as his legs sprawled out, and I noted the carved definition of his obliques. North didn’t have massive broad shoulders and bulging biceps. But I was momentarily stunned to notice the hardest six-pack I’d ever seen in my life. The man looked sculpted from stone, not an inch of fat on him. Surprising, considering the amount of alcohol he’d consumed this week.