Chapter no 66

The Housemaid's Secret (The Housemaid, Book 2)

Russell and I are celebrating with a bottle of champagne.

Even though it was a bit of a risk, he drove me out to his cabin on the lake, to get away from the massive number of reporters camped out in front of both the penthouse and the house on Long Island. Technically, this is Marybeth’s cabin, and when he leaves her, it will be hers again. That’s fine, because I am now rich beyond my wildest dreams. I am rich beyond all human comprehension. I don’t need this dinky two-bedroom cabin.

Although it does have an incredibly nice whirlpool setting in the extra-large bathtub. It’s like being in a Jacuzzi.

During the drive, we kept an eye in the rearview mirror to make sure no reporters were following us. The last leg of the journey was fairly deserted, so anybody trailing us would have easily been spotted. Russell told Marybeth that he was going on some sort of business trip. Scouting furniture or whatever. I don’t care what he told her. She doesn’t matter anymore.

“I’m so happy,” I murmur. “I don’t think I’ve been this happy in a long time.”

Russell smiles, although there’s something tight in his expression. He hasn’t made a secret of the fact that he didn’t want to kill Douglas. I still can’t believe he made me do the dirty work while he cowered in the kitchen. He’s lucky he’s handsome because I lost a lot of respect for him that night. He should be grateful to me, not looking at me like I’m some sort of monster, for heaven’s sake.

Well, if he isn’t happy, he can go back to his shrew of a wife and I will find somebody new to enjoy my millions of dollars with.

I tip the last of the champagne into Russell’s glass. “This is delicious,” I say. “Where did you get it?”

“Marybeth likes it.” It feels like he’s been talking about his wife more often lately, and with less resentment than before. It’s not a good sign.

“Do you have any more?” I ask.

“I don’t think there’s any more champagne. But there may be some wine in the kitchen.”

I’m irritated that Russell doesn’t offer to get it himself. Men are all the same—in the beginning, they trip over themselves to give you anything you want, but then eventually, they take you for granted. What sort of gentleman doesn’t offer to grab a bottle of wine for a woman?

But I’m craving it and the champagne we’ve been drinking was only half full to begin with, so I grab a towel to wrap around my naked body and I step out of the bathroom and into the living room, my feet making wet prints on the wooden floor. The rain is coming down hard on the porch, dripping down the roof. It’s a good thing in case somebody was trying to follow us. There will be no tire tracks to follow.

I step into the kitchen, and sure enough, there’s a bottle on the counter. It’s pinot noir, three-quarters full, and it looks a bit cheap but better than nothing. I grab it and start to head back to the bathroom, but then I stop short.

One of the windows in the cabin is wide open.

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