CHAPTER 1
DARIAN
While workingat the Bellamy Grand I have always been aware of wealth, have observed the trappings of it in guests, but this is the first time I've seen it so…
Up close and personal.
I stare out the window of the town car that picked me up from my embarrassingly-addressed apartment, my fingers tracing the intricately embossed pattern on the polished wood trim as we glide past the rows of towering redwoods that must give this estate its name.
Redwood Manor.
From the private driver and town car, to the iron gates and guards, to the extensive, manicured gardens, this placedripswealth. Even for Los Angeles, it's an extraordinary home, taking up three times more space than the already-extensive estates that can be found out here.
At least I know Ilookthe part. My clothes are always on point, because I subscribe very heavily to the idea that clothes maketh the man. I'm dressed today in a bespoke suit that suggests Savile Row with an LA twist. I've done a lot of Google-stalking of mypotential employer and I think Julian Castellani will appreciate the look.
I hope he will, anyway. This is my chance—my opportunity to prove myself. When the interview offer came through the management of the Bellamy Grand, I was surprised but flattered. Julian Castellani had personally requested me to interview for the position of butler. It's a position I'm admittedly young for, but as my manager pointed out, it would give me a huge jump forward in my career.
As the car turns the final bend and the house comes into view, I straighten my already perfect posture.
First impressions count, after all.
The driver brings the car to a smooth stop before the front of the house, and I have my first surprise. Four men stand there, all dressed in black, with what looks like—are they—tactical vests? Body armor? And they're all heavily armed, weapons slung around their bodies on straps, guns in holsters on hips?—
The driver is already opening up the door for me, but I shrink back, uncertain, as four sunglass-wrapped sets of eyes take me in. For a moment no one says anything.
Then one of them steps forward, leaning down to look into the car.
"Hey," he says, taking off his sunglasses. "Darian Thornfield-Hayes, right?" His eyes are a deep brown, almost the same color as his hair, and he has laugh lines radiating out from the corners of his eyes though he can't be much older than I am myself, at 26. "I'm DeLuca." He slings his weapon to one side and holds out a hand. "Raffi DeLuca. Security."
I put my hand in his. It's warm and reassuring and he gives mine a little squeeze as he helps me out of the car, then lets me change the grip into a firm, decisive shake. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. DeLuca."
He's taller than I am, and broader, and he's very good-looking in a scruffy sort of way. He flashes the kind of grin that can only be described as roguish. "Pleasure's all mine," he says, gaze traveling over me in a manner that does not seem strictly…necessary.
I'm still holding his hand.
Clearing my throat, I take my hand back and clasp both behind my back, adopting a more formal posture. "Shall we proceed inside? I wouldn't want to keep Mr. Castellani waiting."
Raffi is all business again immediately. "Sure, sure. But I'll need to pat you down before we—how'd you put it? Proceed inside." His expression is neutral, but I feel certain that somewhere inside himself, he is laughing at me.
I blink at him, my mouth going dry. "P-pat me down?" I squeak.
Behind Raffi, the other three guards shuffle, and one—I am sure—stifles a snicker. Raffi lowers his voice. "I'm real sorry for any discomfort, but it's standard protocol. We take security extremely seriously here at Redwood Manor." Before I can protest further, Raffi steps closer, his hands hovering near my shoulders. "May I?"
Swallowing hard, I give a jerky nod, bracing myself for the indignity of having this near-stranger's hands patting me down like some common criminal. To my surprise, however, Raffi is nothing but professional, his movements brisk and efficient as he lightly pats down my arms, torso, and legs.
"Just so you know, most of the guys around here are armed," he explains as he works, his voice low and matter-of-fact. "But it's purely for your protection, Mr. Thornfield-Hayes. Can't be too careful these days, and we wanna everyone here safe, you get me?"
I let out a shaky breath as Raffi steps back, feeling oddly vulnerable despite his clinical touch. "Why on earth would a film producer need armed guards?" I ask, voice pitching higher than I would have liked.
Raffi grins. I don't.
"Oh," he says after a pause. "Is that what Julian told you?"
A knot twists in my gut as I look between Raffi's face and the long, white, French chateau-style house looming behind him, stretching out to the left and right with scores of windows peering down at us. "It's what the Bellamy Grand advised me," I say slowly. "Is that…not the case?"
Raffi purses his lips, seeming to weigh his next words carefully. When he speaks, it's a low murmur, as though he doesn't want the other guards to overhear. "You know, you seem like a nice guy. Maybe this isn't the right job for you after all."
A flare of indignation rises in me, smothering my growing trepidation. "I'll decide for myself if the position suits me, Mr. DeLuca."
