Cynthia stood frozen in the dimly lit hallway, her breath caught in her throat.

Laughter. A woman’s laughter.

It floated through the slightly open door of Mike’s bedroom, soft and sultry, carrying the weight of something far too intimate.

Her fingers clenched into the fabric of her silky nightgown. The words of the maid still echoed in her head—she was expected to sleep in his room.

She had barely begun to accept that when this new reality smacked her in the face.

Mike wasn’t alone.

Her stomach twisted painfully.

Why was she even surprised?

She had always known the kind of man Mike Richard was—cold, arrogant, reckless with women. He...