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why he would pretend to live in a tiny loft. Not that she was into big and flashy, but she’d have rather known the real him. What, she wondered, was really him?
    The type of life Cassie imagined did not take place in a 10,000 square-foot home. She had no need for landscaped lawns and tennis courts. Nor did she desire the isolation that came from living like that.
    Then again, isolation from Stephen might not be such a bad thing.
    Turning, she pulled up to a guarded gate. “One-hundred White Carriage Court.”
    “Name?” The man was large, probably ex-military. He wore a gun on his hip and a grim expression.
    “Cassie Sands. They should be expecting me.”
    He glanced down his list, then buzzed her through.
    Who lived like this? On either side, the street sat lined with gorgeous, opulent houses. Old-fashioned light poles, perfectly manicured front lawns. Houses that belonged to people with too much money and not enough sense.
    Cassie couldn’t hide her disgust.
    Not that she didn’t like nice things. No, she liked nice things as well as the next person, but really. Really? She passed a house on the right with a six-car attached garage. The house towered three stories high, had what she knew to be an imported three-tier French fountain and a long curved driveway circled in perfectly manicured topiaries and marble statues. She’d studied some interior design in college. That place would have been her professor’s wet dream.
    She kept her eyes open for White Carriage Court.
    The deeper in she drove, the more bucolic the surroundings. After a few minutes she spotted a house so obnoxious, so tediously large that Cassie had a sinking feeling she knew exactly where Stephen lived. As she drove closer, her feeling was confirmed.
    One-hundred White Carriage Court had its own fence and an intercom and camera outside the gate.
    After she was buzzed in, she drove through a winding thicket of crape myrtle and ash trees and over a small hill before pulling in front of the house.
    She slammed the door of her Civic and her shoulders drooped.
    Welcome to hell, she thought.
    At least it had pretty roses. Gathering her suitcases and purse, she walked to the front door and gave it a quick rap.
    “Mrs. Sands?”
    A rail-thin woman, who looked to be in her mid-forties, answered. Her cropped hair hung loose over her ears, a tiny mole sat on her right cheek just below her eye. She wore a tidy uniform with a button-up navy vest over a clean pressed shirt. Her face was plain other than the mole, and her expression mostly blank, except for the light behind her eyes. It was unreadable. Mirth or possibly disgust, it was impossible to tell and Cassie couldn’t ask this stranger how much she knew of her new arrangement. “Yes. You must be Abigail?”
    “Yes, ma’am. May I take your bags?”
    Cassie shook her head. “I can carry them myself. Thank you though.”
    Abigail looked confused. “It is my job. Please, let me take them to your room.”
    Room. Another thing Cassie hadn’t thought about. In order to pull this off, she’d have to share a room with Stephen. Otherwise, household staff at very least would talk and it’s only a matter of money before one spills the beans to a tabloid.
    Ah, hell.
    “Thank you, Abigail. May I follow you?”
    “Yes, ma’am,” the woman said as she marched ahead. They walked up a winding marble stairwell and down one of the longest hallways Cassie had seen in her life. Who lived like this? “Abigail, how many people live here?”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “Do Stephen’s brothers live here? Extended family? Who all lives here?”
    The woman turned, a bemused look on her face. “Why you, of course. And Mr. Sands.”
    Of course.
    “This is the master bedroom,” she continued as she swept open a door. “I will be downstairs preparing dinner. Mr. Sands should be home momentarily.”
    “Thank you, Abigail.”
    The woman nodded and left the room.
    Cassie wondered what Stephen had told his staff.