Chapter 1

Steering my car toward the huge brown gates, I blast the horn to announce my presence and wait. In the few seconds it takes for the gate to unravel I appraise myself in the rearview mirror and adjust the brown strands that fall over my face from the wind as I drive.

As expected it didn't take up to a minute for me to be granted entry and so I let go of the brakes and drove into the vast compound which housed a beautiful house.

It's a state-of-the-art storey building structured in an L shape with the floor above comprising only glass. On my first day here I thought it was a show house only to discover later on that it was indeed his residence.

Nicholas Damien Lazarus, 32, handsome, tall, attractive, intelligent and stinking rich is an architect who has made a name for himself outside his aristocratic family. The Lazarus were known to be from old money and owned most of the properties here in Los Angeles.

I know you must be wondering why I was in the house of such a renowned man, well Nicholas and I have a simple agreement. He needs someone to cook special dishes for him and I need his money.

Parking the car in the garage beside a black Range Rover, I turn off the ignition and unhook my seatbelt. Stretching over to the passenger side, I retrieve my handbag and basket that contains all the things I need to prepare today's dish.

I give myself a final look in the mirror, my green eyes shining as I check for any hanging leaf from the burger I rush to gulp down before driving over. Like every other Saturday, I alighted from the vehicle, bags in hand.

A ready smile appears on my rosy lips as I catch sight of a familiar face as my black trainers meet the concrete. Hair swishing with the light morning breeze I stroll in a red tank top and thigh-high jean shorts toward the building.

I nod and wave at the bodyguards who nod in return as I walk past, all dressed in black suits and slacks with white shirts underneath and blank expressions. There's an eerie aura once you step foot in the compound, one I noticed on my first day.

It wasn't too much to make your skin crawl but enough to make you curious and alert. 

“Hey Klein,” I greeted the man whom I could manage to call my friend as I reached the entrance doors. He was one of the bodyguards but appeared to be of a higher rank than the rest hence was the only one whom I had seen about a dozen times since my job, unlike the others who seemed to be changed every week.

“Welcome Lu- sorry Chef Lisa,” he bows slightly and smiles at me. He always seems to stutter each time we meet which I find odd hence he isn't a stammer and doesn't appear to be one who would stutter.

“This has become a norm, should I be worried?” I lift a perfectly carved brow and observe him try to compose himself. “Is it normal for you to get my name wrong each time?”

“Sorry Lu- sorry Chef Lisa,” he repeats the same mistake and lets out a groan, brown eyes downcast, nose crinkled, jaw stiff, and thick brows creased.

“It's okay,” I laugh as I watch him and shake my head. “And for the 100th time, you can call me Lisa.”

He doesn't a word and bobs his head. I take it as my cue that the conversation is over and kick the mahogany door open with my feet. Inside, I get rid of my trainers and slide into blue flip-flops.

I pause for a while and take a minute as I always do whenever I'm here to take in the interior. Despite my frequent visits to his house in the months since the agreement was drawn up I never get tired of staring.

The walls are the same spotless white shade as the outside and in front of me is a single long blue couch that faces a very wide-screen TV to my right. The tiles are a brown hue and the same shade as the wooden sculptures positioned on the four corners of the living room.

I have always been curious about them hence the first was a half moon, the second was of the head of a howling wolf, the third a full moon and lastly what appeared to be a hand but with very sharp elongated nails.

A chandelier is hung from the ceiling and the light reflects on the rectangular glass table in the center of the room and other side tables. The white walls help to make the artwork hung on it stand out making the interior beautiful.

I spiral staircase led to the top floor which I haven't checked out as it is forbidden except if called by the man of the house. Speaking of, I haven't caught sight of him in like two weeks, the only indication of his presence I get is when I hear movements from above whenever in the kitchen.

On that thought my eyes spot the grandfather clock to see it's 20 minutes past ten, meaning I should be in the kitchen and cooking already. Hoisting the bags that seem to slack on my arm from my minute pause I trace my way to my left where a door led to the kitchen.

There I drop my bag on the counter and begin offloading the groceries. What I plan to prepare is Chinese rice in the way I like it and not the way I do for my clients.

I'm sure from my little conversation with Klein you should have gotten a hint I'm a chef. At the age of 20, I got a scholarship to culinary school after winning a cooking competition and so after I graduated I decided to set up a restaurant and catering service.

For someone who had grown up without parents, I can say I brush up nicely. After Grandma's passing when I was 19, I was left alone to care for myself with no relatives or family to lean on.

I have always been a loner and therefore have no friends except for one, Josh. He is a nice guy and we are the same age. We met in elementary school and he has been the only one to stick beside me all these years.

Where am today is only because he pestered me nonstop to participate in the cooking competition, he even went as far as signing me up for it when I was proving too stubborn.

It turned out to be a good thing hence as God would have it, I aced the competition and got the scholarship. He's a pest though a handsome one and I love him to death.

No romantic feelings are involved though we made a pact to be each other's last resort if none of us gets married at the age of thirty. It seems we might end up doing that thus we are both twenty-seven and still single.

He is the reason I arrived an hour late today because he thought it best to drag me to a party last night as opposed to our rule of only partying on Saturday nights.

“I wish he will end up getting sick,” I mutter under my breath and turn on the faucet to rinse the utensils I'm going to use. Setting things up, I proceed to cook.

The next hour is spent with chopping, washing, frying, seasoning and tasting. In no time the kitchen is filled with an amazing aroma that brings a satisfied grin to my lips.

I love cooking, ever since my grandma had taught me how to make my first meal, I was stuck in the kitchen. I always loved experimenting with food, tasting different delicacies, trying different methods and coming up with my own recipes.

“What a beauty,” I beam at the face of the meal in the pot after I had turned off the cooker. Placing it in its rightful position, I check the watch on my wrist to note I still have an hour plus before I'm set to leave.

“How about cookies?” I ask no one in particular as the idea pops up and begin shuffling around the kitchen to retrieve the floor, yeast, milk from the fridge and other necessities.

In 30 minutes I'm done arranging them on the two oven trays. I put the first one in and set the timer as I started to tidy up. Before I'm done, the first batch is ready so I put it to cool and put in the second.

Done with cleaning the kitchen and arranging my things to go I'm exhausted. Checking the timer on the oven to see if I have some time till it's ready I decide to sit on the only chair available in the kitchen.

“Damn, my back,” I moan as I lean on it, feeling my muscles relax. It takes only a minute for exhaustion to set in and before I know it I doze off.

******

A beeping sound penetrates the darkness inciting me to groan in irritation as the noise happens to grow louder with each passing second. In a bid to muffle it, I turn on my right, the side of my face pressing to a cold, hard surface.

‘Cold? Hard?’ I murmured in my head and frowned, more so as the beeping became fast. ‘Hold up, where--’

“Oh shit!” I clamored, my eyes flashing open in an instant as realization sets in. “What the” I get cut off by a cough as a burnt smell penetrates my nostrils.

“My cookies!” I shriek in panic and fear as smoke coming from the oven clouds my vision. Coughing and now fully awake I hurry and unplug the machine before the fire alarm rings or worse the house blows up.

Heaven knew I'd be as good as dead if I ever blew up Nicholas’s masterpiece of a house, that's if I didn't get roasted first. 

“Fuck, Nicholas, house,” I ramble and freeze the next second as it all sets in. “Shit, the time.”

“Fuck fuck fuck,” I mutter in fear as the watch on my wrist reads 2:47 PM. “Okay Lisa, deep breaths,” I say to myself.