Chapter 1 The Half-Naked Man

I slowed my steps as I approached Cavendish Heights. The building sat tall at the front of the complex, the morning sun having turned the many windows into mirrors, and yet a chill still hung in the air. Nothing like British weather.

I closed my collar with one hand and gripped my cleaning caddy with the other, continuing onwards and through the glass doors. Inside, the smell of new carpet and paint hung in the air and suddenly I was happy to have skipped breakfast.

The concierge gave a brief smile as I passed the long desk and made my way to the elevator. I checked my phone and squinted at the message from my manager. Morning Nyla, hope you had a blah, blah, blah…okay…please fill in for Mika, she’s ill. I glanced over the address again. Seventy-seven, penthouse. Easy job. Mostly dusting and tidying, the client is never in during cleaning hours. Good, I preferred when clients stayed out of my way. They also had a tendency to ask for extras here and there which I always had to decline. Awkward. Just awkward.

I stepped out onto the fifteenth and highest floor and avoided the dizzying view to my left.

Around the corner to my right, the corridor took me to door seventy-seven where a key safe was waiting for me. I poked in the code, took out the key and opened the door, only to be greeted by smashed glass all over the floor, titled and torn lampshades, curtains hanging off the rails, dining chairs tipped over…“What. The. Fuck.”

Easy, how?! Where?!

I closed the door behind me and moved cautiously through the penthouse. There was no way I could complete this in the hour given.

I placed the caddy on the island counter in the open planned kitchen and tried to take it all in. Items were strewn across the white, grey and gold marble floor. In fact, nearly everything was white with a gold accent, from the massive corner sofa to the frames of the huge mirrors hanging on the walls. But if it was meant to be beautiful, I couldn’t see it. Not now. Though I could still see the money. The place was big - cubic metres worth millions if I had to guess. And again with the ceiling to floor windows. It was an impressive view of London’s skyline; bright and blue but disrupted by the many cranes jutting into the sky. I immediately wanted to paint it.

A heavy sigh interrupted my daydreaming and I somehow managed to stifle the shriek that threatened to pierce the room.

A man entered the living room from the staircase to my left, slung a t-shirt over his broad shoulders then narrowed his eyes at the state of the rug. He could’ve been my age - thirty or a little older with damp, tousled black hair and a body clearly built in the gym. He walked forward while buckling up his black jeans, muttering to himself until he finally caught my reflection in one of the many mirrors.

We both froze.

I raised my hand and jingled the keys as if to imply it wasn’t me who’d broken in and trashed the place. Quite the opposite, even. “I’m the cleaner,” I said, confused by my own nerves, though probably because the half-naked man had stopped watching me in the mirror and was now watching me directly, stalking slowly around the room’s edges until he was almost a silhouette against the bank of windows.

I lowered the keys and reached for the caddy to further convince him I was indeed the damn cleaner.

“Hello…” he greeted with a hint of amusement.

“Morning.” I cleared my throat. “I’m the cleaner,” I repeated.

He paused an arm’s length in front of me and smiled, but not one that put me at ease. It was the kind that let me know I wasn’t quite off the hook, the kind that didn’t make the situation any less dangerous, like a cat swishing its tail in play. And he didn’t just watch me up and down, he scanned everything. My clothes. My hair. My face.

I wanted to ask what the hell he was looking at but I also wanted to keep my job. What did he think I was here for? “I’m a cleaner, your cleaner. That you hired,” I said, finding my voice. “I’m not a strippergram or something.”

His lazy eyelids widened slowly and he straightened up. “Of course.” He presented a hand. “Apologies. I’m Leo.”

Fitting. “Short for…?”

“Leonardo.”

“So who made the mess?”I asked. “Raphael? Micheal?”

“Could never be Donatello, that’s not like him.”

Quick as a cat, too. “Nyla,” I introduced then withdrew my hand because it felt like he never would. I turned my attention back to the penthouse. “What was the occasion?”

“I turned thirty-three.”

“I didn’t think that was a special enough age to warrant this.”

“A party is a party.” He pulled his dark grey t-shirt over his head.

“Right, well, I suppose…” I stepped back and glass crunched under my feet. “I should get started.”

“Don’t worry about the kitchen. You can start in the reception.” He stepped to the side and gestured to the wide space that was his living room.

I walked past with my caddy, ignoring how his eyes followed my every move as I covered my shoes with plastic protectors. In truth, I had no idea where to start so I went for the easiest thing; finding and rearranging all the scatter cushions. I picked them up from the floor one by one, their locations more bizarre than the next until I found the last behind the large plant pot of a broken bonsai tree. At that point, I started to question this ‘party’.

Were they throwing pillows?

There were one or two broken ornaments, so my theory lined up, but there were also candle sticks on the floor, smashed picture frames and open books with bent pages…yet not a single cup. No alcohol bottles. No cigarettes. No loose credit cards on the glass coffee table alongside ‘miscellaneous’ white powder.

I gave the cushion in my hand a few absent-minded smacks then returned it to the sofa, only to glance up and lock eyes with Leo. It was for a few seconds, but long enough for him to salute me with a small cup of espresso.

Irritation swept over me. There was something unsettling about a client being present and idle while I cleaned. Or maybe it was just him. I checked the clock as he started up the coffee machine again and made a call.

“I have one of your maids here… Uh huh… Yup, Nyla,” he informed. “Oh no, she’s doing a great job. Very professional.”

I frowned at him.

“Actually…” He smiled at me. “I’d like her tomorrow, too… No, all day.”

Huh?

“That’s fine, I’ll pay the extra fee.”

What?

“Much appreciated.” He hung up.

“You can’t just do that,” I challenged.

“Why not?”

“Because…” He hadn’t exactly done anything wrong and what would I tell my manager? That I didn’t like how he wasn’t cleaning up his own mess?

“Because?” He slowly strode towards me with a second cup in hand. “You won’t be cleaning.”

“What else would I be doing?” I asked rhetorically. “I’m a cleaner.”