He had just stepped into his bedroom when a hand shot out of the darkness.
Cold fingers pressed hard over his mouth.
“Don’t make a sound.”
It was the maid.
Elena yanked him backward into the walk-in closet, slammed the door shut, and pinned him there, her palm still covering his lips.
His heart did not race.
His instincts did not panic.
But her hands were shaking.
Through the thin crack of the closet door, Vincent saw the bedroom lights flick on.
Footsteps.
Not hers.
