“Are you all right? Did something happen?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” She turned away. Nothing, except that her pulse was racing from what she’d just seen.

“Why are you out here?”

He stopped beside her. She felt the heat from his body and knew he was close.

“I just…”

She glanced back at him, and that one tiny glimpse drew her uncontrollably. His hair was ruffled. Whiskers darkened his chin. He’d closed the center button on his shirt, but that was all. The tail flapped in the breeze. The cuffs were open. Black crinkly hair covered his chest. His broad, bare chest.

“What are you doing out here?” Stephen asked.

Never—ever—in her entire life, in all the countries she’d lived, in all the circumstances she’d found herself, had Caroline once wanted to press her hands against a man’s chest. Until now….

Dear Reader,

This month our exciting medieval series KNIGHTS OF THE BLACK ROSE continues with The Rogue by Ana Seymour, a secret baby story in which rogue knight Nicholas Hendry finds his one true love. Judith Stacy returns with Written in the Heart, the delightful tale of an uptight California businessman who hires a marriage-shy female handwriting analyst to solve some of his company’s capers. In Angel of the Knight, a medieval novel by Diana Hall, a carefree warrior falls deeply in love with his betrothed, and does all he can to free her from a family curse. Talented newcomer Mary Burton brings us A Bride for McCain, about a mining millionaire who enters a marriage of convenience with the town’s schoolteacher.

Whatever your taste in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historicals novel. We hope you’ll join us next month, too!

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell,

Senior Editor

Written in the Heart
Judith Stacy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Available from Harlequin Historicals and JUDITH STACY

Outlaw Love #360

The Marriage Mishap #382

The Heart of a Hero #444

The Dreammaker #486

Written in the Heart #500

To Judy and Stacy—thanks for always listening

To David—thanks for always being there

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter One

Los Angeles, California

April 26, 1896

Surely there was an easier way for a woman to get work.

Caroline Sommerfield shifted on the leather seat of the hansom cab, mentally rehearsing the speech she’d prepared. She’d waited weeks for this chance. She wasn’t about to waste it. Even if it meant sneaking around and lying about her whereabouts tonight.

“Who is it you’re visiting, Caroline?”

Across the darkened hansom Caroline heard her cousin’s voice. She hadn’t wanted Sophie to come along with her tonight. But since they’d both been leaving their aunt’s at the same time she couldn’t reasonably protest.

“A friend,” Caroline said. “A sick friend.”

“I didn’t realize you knew anyone in the city but family,” Sophie said.

“I’ve met a few others,” Caroline said.

Sophie was quiet, so Caroline figured she’d accepted her lie as fact. Which was good, because Caroline wasn’t particularly adept at telling less than the truth, even to someone she hardly knew, like her cousin.

“How did you meet this friend?” Sophie asked.

Caroline cleared her throat. “All those parties Aunt Eleanor arranged invitations for.”

“Really? Which party?”

“Last Saturday night’s.”

“And whose was that?”

Caroline tightened her grip on her handbag to keep from wrapping her hands around her cousin’s neck. This thing of having family, of answering to other people, was getting on her nerves. It was all so strange. And inconvenient.

Still, Caroline had no one but herself to blame for her uncomfortable circumstances tonight. This wasn’t what her father had had in mind when he insisted she travel to Los Angeles and move in with her aunt a month ago.

“The Latham party,” Caroline said. “We met there.”

“Oh, yes, the Lathams,” Sophie said. “That’s where you showed off your—what is that thing again?”

The thing that had nearly sent Aunt Eleanor into a faint.

“Graphology,” Caroline said. She’d repeated the word dozens of times since arriving in Los Angeles.

“Oh, yes. Quite…interesting,” Sophie said. “Aunt Eleanor was…”

“Surprised?”

Sophie managed a polite laugh. “Yes, something like that.”

Despite Aunt Eleanor’s embarrassment, Caroline had been the hit of the party. The craft of analyzing handwriting was a novelty here, but Caroline had studied it from masters in France and Germany, where the skill was taken more seriously. After only a few minutes of studying a handwriting sample Caroline could interpret the character of the writer. Only a few people in this part of the world could do that.

“Did your father know about your…talent?” Sophie asked.

“Of course,” Caroline said. “He encouraged me.”

Caroline wished her father were here with her now. Instead he was happy and contented in Europe—where Caroline wished she were—while she’d been exiled to the States.

To find a husband, of all things.

She’d been annoyed with him for weeks but now she just missed him. He meant well. After all, at twenty-four years of age Caroline was more than old enough to be married. That’s why she’d agreed to come, why she hadn’t protested this husband-hunting expedition, why she let Aunt Eleanor parade her from party to party.

Besides, Aunt Eleanor wasn’t as smart as her father and didn’t know her as well, so she wouldn’t catch on to Caroline’s real intentions until it was too late. She didn’t want or need a husband. She had plans of her own.

Caroline gazed out the window of the hansom, forced to admit that those plans weren’t turning out as well as she’d like. She’d been a little surprised by the reception she’d gotten two weeks ago at the Pinkerton Detective Agency—even after she’d dropped her father’s name.

They recognized Jacob Jackson Sommerfield as the renowned detective on the Continent, the man who’d solved some of Europe’s most intricate, puzzling crimes. But how, exactly, did that apply to his daughter?

No one at the Pinkerton Detective Agency knew what a graphologist was. She’d explained it, presented her references, even offered a demonstration, but they simply weren’t interested.

Undaunted, Caroline had trotted out her skills at all the parties she’d attended these last weeks. Parlor tricks were hardly what Caroline had intended when she’d studied the craft, but it looked as if they had finally paid off. She’d been approached by a Mr. Richard Paxton on behalf of his employer, who had offered her a job. A real job.

The clip-clop of the horses’ hooves ceased and the hansom swayed to a stop. Sophie peered out the window. The glow of the streetlamps reflected on her face and Caroline saw her eyebrows bob.

“Good gracious, Caroline, you didn’t tell me your friend was rich.”

“Rich?” She leaned closer to the window.

“Yes, rich. This is West Adams Boulevard. It’s become as famous as San Francisco’s Nob Hill and New York’s Fifth Avenue. Haven’t you heard of this place before?”

She’d heard. The elite of the nation had considered Los Angeles a vacation spot, then moved here permanently once they’d recognized the area’s potential wealth. These affluent people built their mansions in the West Adams district, setting standards and creating the finest homes found in the city.

“Goodness,” Sophie said. “Just look at this house.”

Caroline gazed out the hansom at the beveled and stained glass windows of the magnificent three-story house. It was a huge square brownstone with circular turrets on each corner. Palms, shrubs and hedges flourished behind a scrolled wrought-iron and stone fence.

When Richard Paxton had instructed her to meet with his employer at his home tonight, she’d had no idea the man was wealthy—at least, not this wealthy.

Visions of an aging, cranky old man came to Caroline’s mind. A curmudgeon too set in his ways to see her during normal business hours, in his office.

“Oh, and look, Caroline. They’re having a party,” Sophie said.

The house was lit from top to bottom. Faint music drifted out into the street. Dancers glided past the glowing windows on the second floor. On the balcony a man in a tuxedo stood with a woman in an exquisite gown.

“Are you properly dressed?” Sophie asked, concern in her voice.

Caroline looked down at her blue dress. It was the height of fashion, since her father provided a generous allowance, but far from appropriate for a party on West Adams Boulevard.

Caroline reined in her panicky thoughts. “I’m here for a jo—to see a sick friend, not attend the party.”

Sophie nodded. “Well, I suppose…”

“Don’t tell Aunt Eleanor about this,” Caroline said. “I wouldn’t want her to get the wrong idea.”

“I see your point.” Sophie smiled. “All right, I won’t say a word.”

Carrying her small satchel Caroline climbed out of the hansom, paid the driver and stood on the walkway until the cab moved on. It irked her a bit that Richard Paxton had put her in this position—or rather, that his employer had put her in this position.

But a job was a job. Mr. Paxton had assured her that she was just what his employer needed. He’d been adamant.

So who knew where tonight’s meeting might lead? Caroline squared her shoulders. She didn’t care. As long as it wasn’t marriage.

He considered shooting himself in the foot, just as an excuse to leave his own party.

Stephen Monterey watched his elegantly attired guests dancing in the ballroom under the half-dozen crystal chandeliers, laughing, sipping champagne. They were having a wonderful time, or as good a time as polite society allowed itself to have. His aunt Delfina would be pleased. Apparently Stephen was the only one who was bored.

Or the only one who had important matters waiting for him.

The face of Russell Pickette sprang into Stephen’s mind, making him angry all over again. Damn that Pickette. The lying son of a bitch had brought a halt to a profitable business deal. He’d brought up old memories, too, ones Stephen couldn’t quite shake.

Stephen glanced at the mantel clock, anxious for his birthday party to conclude, the guests to leave, things to get back to normal. Turning thirty-two was nothing to celebrate. Just another day. Certainly not worth the time it took to dress in a tuxedo, suffer through a formal dinner, open gifts he didn’t want, attempt to make small talk with guests he hardly knew.

“Stephen? Stephen, dear?”

His aunt chugged toward him, her face drawn in its perpetual lines of worry. She wore the maroon gown he’d had to help her pick out, the diamond tiara he’d assured her wasn’t too much, the elbow-length gloves that hid the rolls of flesh on her arms.

“Stephen.” Breathless, she latched on to his elbow. “The party, Stephen, the party. I just don’t know….”

“What’s wrong, Aunt Delfi?”

“I’m not sure if it’s going well. I’m not sure at all.” Delfina touched her hand to her large bosom. “I think…I think my knees are feeling numb.”

“Your knees are fine, Aunt Delfi.” Stephen patted the fingers digging into his arm. “The party is wonderful.”

“Wonderful?” Panic widened her eyes. “Only wonderful?”

“Perfect,” Stephen said. “The party is perfect.”

She pressed her lips together. “Oh, it’s so difficult to plan properly. Your uncle Colin always did this sort of thing, you know.”

Stephen simply nodded. Of course he knew. His uncle, Delfina’s brother, had run the house, the business, the family—everything—until he’d passed away last winter.

Stephen took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Everything is perfect. Everyone is having a perfectly wonderful time.”

Delfina gazed hopefully over the sea of guests. “Oh, do you think so?”

“I’m certain.”

“But you?” Delfina looked up at him, fresh worry lines creasing her forehead. “Why aren’t you dancing? I invited several young women for you—”

“I’m enjoying myself.” Stephen managed to smile. “Having a fantastic time.”

He eased her toward the crowd. “You should see to the guests, Aunt Delfi.”

“Oh, of course. Oh dear, oh dear…” Delfina blended into the swarm of guests again.

Stephen made his way to an empty corner, watching the dancers but thinking about the work that waited on his desk downstairs. A suite of offices had been built into the house, from which the business was run. His uncle had liked being at home. Though never married, he’d pulled together an assortment of relatives—Stephen included—and made them his family.

Uncle Colin had taught Stephen everything he knew, and Stephen had taken over the operation of their vast holdings long before his uncle had become sick. Since his death, Stephen had stepped in to fill his uncle’s role in every aspect of the household they all shared.

Leaning against the wall, Stephen slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a folded note card. So far, it was the only interesting thing about the evening.

It was from Richard Paxton, his assistant, his friend. Richard wasn’t at the party but was expected shortly.

According to the note, Richard’s birthday gift to Stephen would arrive sometime during the party. And it was just what Stephen needed.

Stephen smiled and slipped the note in his pocket again. Just what he needed. What could that mean?

He thought back over the conversations he and Richard had shared recently. Business. They always discussed business. Stephen didn’t remember mentioning anything he needed, because he didn’t need anything.

Leave it to Richard to liven up his birthday party with this cryptic message. He’d known Stephen wasn’t looking forward to the party his aunt had insisted upon; she’d been concerned about the family’s social position since Uncle Colin’s death.

Stephen pressed his lips together, thinking harder. The only conversation they’d had recently that stood out in his mind and didn’t involve business was when Richard came late to work one morning a few weeks ago. Richard was never late. But he’d been at the wharf at San Pedro the night before, checking on a cargo shipment, and had met a beautiful young woman who turned out to be a prostitute.

According to Richard, being late for work that day was well worth it. He’d been so dazed by the woman that he’d bumped into furniture all morning long. Richard had raved about her and said that Stephen should—

Heat ignited low in his belly, fanning through him like wildfire. He tensed.

Was that Richard’s gift? The woman?

Stephen looked around at his guests. These were wealthy, dignified people, as close as Los Angeles came to aristocracy. Surely Richard wouldn’t send him a whore for his birthday, right under the noses of his guests—and his aunt.

Even if it was just what he needed.

No, Richard must have something else in mind. But what? He knew Stephen didn’t need anything, didn’t want anything.

Still, Stephen couldn’t let go of the idea. His imagination started to roam. A slow heat built inside him. He bit into his lower lip to keep from smiling. Would Richard do such a thing?

Richard wasn’t like his other friends, these people in the ballroom. He’d give Stephen something he really wanted—really needed.

A smile bloomed on Stephen’s face. Yes, he just might do it.

“Excuse me, sir.”

Jarred from his thoughts, Stephen found Charles, their balding butler, standing at his elbow.

“A visitor has arrived, sir.”

Another guest. The last thing he needed.

“Send him up, Charles.”

The butler shook his head. “Not an invited guest, sir. A personal visitor, she says.”

“She?”

“Yes, sir. Sent by Mr. Paxton.”

“Paxton?”

“Yes, sir.” Charles frowned distastefully. “I explained to the young woman that you were occupied, but she insisted—”

“No, that’s fine, Charles. I’ll see to her myself.”

Stephen hurried out of the ballroom, anticipation humming in his veins. Could this be his present from Richard? Would he have actually done such a thing?

At the top of the steps, Stephen stopped. The grand, central staircase led straight down to the marble foyer and the carved, double front doors. Off to the right he glimpsed a woman wandering through the sitting room. Was this she? His gift?

The woman turned and Stephen’s knees weakened. Oh, yes. Beautiful. Shapely. A woman meant for rolling around in bed with, if ever he’d seen one.

Just what he needed.

Stephen trotted down the stairs and across the foyer. He forced himself to stop at the entrance to the sitting room.

“Good evening,” he said.

She swirled. “Mr. Monterey?”

Heavens, she was pretty. Not gorgeous, but touchable. Wholesome and natural-looking. With big blue eyes framed by dark lashes, soft skin, full pink lips, brown hair.

She had on one of those shirtwaist dresses that Aunt Delfi thought so scandalous, with a bell-shaped skirt pulled across the front and gathered high in back, emphasizing her small waist. High buttoned shoes peeked out from under the hem. Her bosom filled out the pleated blouse; a big soft bow was at her throat. Large leg-of-mutton sleeves on her short jacket made her wrists look small.

And that hat. Stephen loved the wide brim, all done up with ribbons and flowers, dipping over her face at a provocative angle.

Not what he expected to see in a whore. She looked more like one of the ladies Aunt Delfi invited to tea. But he hadn’t seen a whore in a while, and Richard had said he’d mistaken the woman himself, at first.

Stephen stepped farther into the room. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

She heaved a little sigh of relief. “Oh, thank goodness. You were expecting my arrival.”

“Anticipating is more the word.”

“I’m Caroline Sommerfield. Mr. Paxton asked me to come here tonight.”

“So Richard did send you?”

“Yes, he did.”

“For me?”

She frowned slightly and clutched the handle of her satchel tighter. “He said I was to speak to you specifically. But when I saw that you’re entertaining guests, I thought that maybe—”

“Oh, no, that’s fine.” Stephen couldn’t hold back his grin. “Actually, it’s perfect.”

“Well, then.” Caroline cleared her throat. “I suppose we should…proceed.”

A full smile broke over his face. “Let’s not waste a minute.”

“Mr. Paxton said you have an office here in your home. Should we go there, or did you have some other place in mind?”

His office. Oh, heavens. Right there on the desk. Stephen thought his knees would give out completely.

He gestured grandly toward the foyer. “My office, by all means.”

Caroline hesitated a moment. “Mr. Paxton said he would be joining us. Should we wait? After all, he did recommend me after seeing my demonstration at a party.”

Stephen frowned. “You gave Richard a…demonstration? At a party?”

She shook her head. “Just a sampling.”

His heart thudded harder. “Richard is on his own, as far as I’m concerned.”

She held up her satchel. “I brought references.”

His eyes widened. “References?”

“Yes, and my tools.”

“Tools?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve found that one needs tools to do a thorough job,” Caroline said. “You do expect a thorough job, don’t you?”

Stephen opened his mouth, but no words came out, just stutters and some babbling. All he could manage to do was point.

Music from the ballroom upstairs drifted down as he led the way to the suite of offices at the back of the house. Halfway there he realized he was walking so fast he’d left her behind. He stopped and waited for her.

Caroline hesitated as he opened his office door and hurried in ahead of her. Only a few lights burned in this part of the house. It was quiet, except for the music. No one else was around. Cautiously, she peered into the office. Stephen Monterey moved briskly about the room, clearing off his desk.

He looked around suddenly, realizing that she was still in the hallway. He hurried to the door, looking stricken.

“You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” he asked.

Caroline glanced around. The situation was a little unnerving, but this was the opportunity she’d waited for. She wanted the job.

“No,” Caroline said. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

She drew a deep breath and walked inside.

Chapter Two

He wasn’t what she expected.

From the way Richard Paxton had spoken about his employer, Caroline had pictured an eccentric old geezer. Not the handsome Stephen Monterey.

He was over six feet tall, she estimated, since her nose was about level with his shoulder. He had black hair. Green eyes with little worry lines crinkling the corners. He looked dapper in white tie and tails, and a single-breasted vest. It made his shoulders look straight and his chest wide.

And maybe he was a little eccentric, Caroline decided, since he was clearing off his desk for no apparent reason, hurriedly piling everything onto the floor. But other than that he seemed intelligent, capable of running the large international business Mr. Paxton had mentioned.

Stephen scooped up the last stack of papers from the desk and dropped them on the floor. He ran his hand slowly over the walnut finish.

“You don’t mind if we do it…here, do you?” he asked.

Caroline bit into her lower lip. “Are you unwell, Mr. Monterey? You look flushed. Feverish.”

“Anxious to get started, that’s all.” He dashed past her and closed the office door. “Key. I need the key.”

He hurried back to his desk and began pawing through the drawers.

Caroline took a step away. “I’d prefer you didn’t lock the door.”

He looked up. “But someone might walk in.”

She glanced around. “So?”

He sank forward, bracing himself on the desktop, and drew in a huge breath. He let it out slowly. “Miss Sommerfield, you’re one hell of a woman.”

All right, she’d never been on a job interview before, but this was decidedly strange. She wished Mr. Paxton would arrive.

Caroline dropped her satchel onto the desk, anxious to get this over with. During the hansom ride over she’d been thrilled at the prospect of securing a job. In the sitting room she’d been a little intimidated by the opulence of the house, a home well beyond that of her aunt Eleanor. Now Caroline sensed a spark in the air, radiating from Stephen. It caused something to flicker within herself, and unnerve her.

Across the desk, Stephen straightened. “You may as well get…comfortable.”

“Comfortable?” Caroline asked.

“Yes.” He nodded quickly. “Do you need anything?”

A cup of tea, laced with a shot of brandy, suddenly seemed appealing.

“No, let’s proceed,” Caroline said. “Where would you like to start?”

He circled the desk and looked her up and down, taking his time in doing so. His gaze traveled from the tips of her shoes to her skirt, to her face, to her hat.

Caroline flushed. Her skin tingled beneath her dress. A heat flowed from him, wafting over her.

Finally he nodded. “Your dress,” he said softly. “Take it off.”

Breath left her lungs in a frightful huff. Caroline froze to the floor, staring at him. Had she heard him right? Had he told her to undress?

“But wear the hat,” Stephen said. “And your shoes.”

Indignant outrage surged through Caroline, stiffening her arms at her sides. “I will do no such thing.”

“Oh.” He looked disappointed. “All right, then take everything off.”

Her mouth flew open. “How dare you suggest such a thing?”

Stephen stepped closer. “You’d prefer I undressed you myself?”

“I can’t believe you have the gall to speak to me that way!” She faced him squarely, too angry to back away. “How could you say such a thing?”

He spread his arms. “Because you’re a whore.”

Caroline slapped him—an openhanded, roundhouse swing that landed against his cheek so hard it knocked him back a step.

“You bastard! You shameless, conniving bastard!” Caroline trembled with outrage.

Stephen pressed his fingers against his cheek. “If you think I’ll pay you extra for the rough stuff—”

“Shut your filthy mouth!” Caroline yanked her satchel off the desk. “You horrible, disgusting man! You lured me here pretending—”

“Lured you? Richard Paxton arranged this—”

“So, you’re both in on it.”

“I’m not in on anything,” Stephen insisted.

The office door opened and Richard Paxton walked into the room. Caroline saw him and her anger turned to rage.

“You!”

She drew back her hand and slapped his face, just as hard as she’d slapped Stephen. Stunned, he plastered his palm to his cheek, staring at her, completely lost.

“You’re both disgusting,” Caroline said. Anger, humiliation, hurt coursed through her as she backed toward the door. “I hope you two are proud of yourselves. Tricking me. Luring me here with empty promises. Making me think I could really have a—a…”

She burst into tears. Big, gut-wrenching sobs. Both men stared, holding their cheeks. Caroline pressed her palm to her lips and ran out the door.

They just stood there for a few seconds, staring at the empty space Caroline had occupied. Finally, Stephen turned away.

“Great birthday present,” he grumbled. “Thanks a whole hell of a lot.”

Bewildered, Richard held out his hands. “What did you do to her?”

“Does it look like I had time to do anything?” he demanded. He stalked back to his desk. “Next year just send me a box of handkerchiefs.”

“You can’t let her leave,” Richard said. “You need her.”

Stephen knelt, gathering ledgers into his arms. “The next time you decide to send me a whore, make it one that will—”

“A whore? She’s not a whore.”

Stephen stopped. He glanced up. “She’s not?”

“No. Where did you get that idea?”

“From you.”

“Me?”

Stephen fished the folded note card from his pocket. He thrust it at Richard.

“See? Right there. Your gift was just what I need.”

Richard looked at the note. “Just what you need to prove Pickette is a fraud.”

“What?” Stephen shot to his feet, dumping his ledgers onto the floor.

“Caroline Sommerfield is a graphologist. A handwriting expert. She can prove that Pickette’s document was forged.”

Stephen gnashed his teeth together, spitting out curses. “Why didn’t you tell me that in the note?”

“Because it was your present. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Stephen cursed again. “Go get her back.”

“Oh, no.” Richard held up his hands and backed away. “I’m not getting slapped again. You made this mess, you’ll have to deal with it.”

“Damn…” Stephen paced back and forth, rubbing the back of his neck. He stopped. “Are you sure she’s a—what is she?”

“A graphologist. And yes, I’m sure. I saw her at a party last Saturday and her skills are unbelievable. One look at someone’s handwriting and she can size up their personality in a snap. She can compare samples and tell who wrote what.” Richard shook his head. “I’m telling you, Stephen, she can prove Russell Pickette forged that document.”

Stephen cursed again and ran out of the office.

Damn this city.

Caroline stumbled down the street, sniffling, wiping away tears, hopelessly lost. She had no idea where she was, no idea which way was home.

Home.

A wave of fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. Home was with her father, not here in this dreadful place. Even though she’d been born in America, as had her parents, they’d migrated to Europe when she was just a child. The Continent had been her home ever since.

Caroline gulped back a sob, willing herself to calm down. She couldn’t think while crying. She deserved to cry, no doubt about it. But right now she needed to get to her aunt’s house, and for that she needed to think.

Instead, the vision of Stephen Monterey leaped into her mind. He’d intended to have his way with her tonight, deflower her. Right there on his desk. Wearing only her hat and shoes.

Caroline’s cheeks burned at the thought, spreading a strange heat through her. She’d been kissed before, and she knew about men and such. After all, she’d lived in France for quite a while. But no man had ever suggested making love to her—certainly not on a desktop. It was scandalous. Outrageous.

Intriguing and a little titillating.

Caroline’s cheeks burned hotter. What had Stephen intended to wear?

She gasped aloud at her unladylike thought and the mental image it conjured up. Stephen was a big man. If the whispered gossip she’d heard were true, that meant he—

Caroline pinched the bridge of her nose, forbidding herself to think any further. At least on the subject of Stephen Monterey. Right now she had pressing problems to deal with.

She looked around the neighborhood at all the beautiful homes and knew she was still on West Adams Boulevard. She hadn’t gotten very far. A block or two, maybe. She wasn’t sure. She couldn’t measure distance well through tear-blurred eyes.

Drawing in a fresh breath, Caroline considered her options. She could approach one of the houses and ask for directions. That, surely, would raise questions about why a woman was alone on the streets at this late hour. She’d already been mistaken for a prostitute once tonight and didn’t want to go through that again.

If she knew where a police station was she could go there. They could take her home. But what would Aunt Eleanor say when she arrived under police escort? Caroline wasn’t anxious to explain her circumstances to anyone, particularly her aunt.

Well, she had to do something. She gazed up and down the street in both directions. Maybe if she—

A man appeared under a streetlamp down the block. Caroline’s breath caught. Good gracious, it was that Stephen Monterey. He’d come after her.

Caroline hitched up her satchel and took off.

Running footsteps sounded on the pavement behind her, spurring her to move faster. She heard his voice shouting.

Her high buttoned shoes and whalebone corset didn’t make the best athletic attire, and her satchel dragged like an anchor, bumping against her thigh. But she couldn’t face that man. Not after what had happened at his house, and certainly not so soon after the thoughts she’d just been entertaining about him.

“Stop, Miss Sommerfield.”

He appeared at her side, jogging along with her. Caroline’s heart jumped into her throat.

“Go away!”

“No, wait. Stop.”

“Leave me alone!” Breathless, she hugged her free hand to her stomach. She could hardly keep going.

“Just stop,” he said. “Please.”

She slowed simply because she couldn’t take another step. Stephen stopped, too, and it annoyed her that he wasn’t even breathing hard, while she was panting like a steam engine.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

“I came to see if you still wanted the job.”

“Oh! Of all the nerve!” Caroline headed off down the street again.

“And—” he blocked her path “—and to…apologize.”

Caroline put her nose in the air and turned her head away.

“Look, Miss Sommerfield, I was misinformed about your…purpose for coming to my home tonight,” Stephen said. “Richard told me you were just what I needed, so when I saw you I thought—”

“—that I looked like a common streetwalker?” Caroline tossed her head. “Well, thank you very much.”

She whirled away and started off again.

Stephen caught up with her and put himself in front of her, forcing her to stop.

“No, that is not what I thought,” he said. “It’s just that it’s been a long time since I—”

Stephen curled his hand into a fist and pressed it against his forehead. “Let me start again. You see, Miss Sommerfield—”

“Oh, never mind.” Caroline dropped her satchel, finally catching her breath. “It’s my fault, anyway. Not yours.”

“Your fault?”

“Yes, mine. Mine, for trusting Mr. Paxton. For being foolish enough to come to your house at night. For thinking you were an upstanding, decent businessman.” Caroline nodded emphatically. “Believe me, I will not make any of those mistakes again.”

Stephen pushed his fingers through his hair, watching her, obviously holding in words that itched to be spoken. Finally, he said, “Regardless of all that’s happened, Miss Sommerfield, I am in need of a—What are you again?”

“A graphologist.”

He waved expansively. “The position is still available. Are you interested in discussing it?”

Her eyes widened. “You expect me to work for you? Now? After all that’s happened?”

“Richard thinks you’re good at what you do,” Stephen told her. “But, frankly, that remains to be seen.”

“You won’t find a better graphologist than me,” Caroline said.

He doubted he’d find a graphologist at all, actually. But he didn’t want to go hunting for one. Not when he had this one standing in front of him, who was exactly what he needed.

“Well, are you interested or not?” he asked.

Caroline pressed her lips together, thinking. Was she being a fool twice in the same night to even consider going back to his house?

Here in the soft light of the streetlamps, Stephen Monterey didn’t look so intimidating. The breeze had blown his hair over his forehead and his chase after her had disheveled his tuxedo.

He had apologized. Mix-ups happened; she understood that.

And she did need the job. Aunt Eleanor had more parties, teas and dinners scheduled, more eligible bachelors to parade her in front of. If one of them actually took an interest in her she’d never fulfill her dream of working for the Pinkerton Detective Agency.

“I don’t have all night to stand around out here, Miss Sommerfield. Are you interested in discussing the job or not?”

There was something dangerous about Stephen Monterey. Not because of what had nearly happened at his house just now. She wasn’t frightened of him, not in a physical sense. If he’d wanted to hurt her, or force himself on her, he’d had opportunity to do so in his office, and there was nothing to stop him from taking what he wanted at this moment.

No, the danger in Stephen Monterey was something deeper. Something that could seep into her soul. Caroline couldn’t put a name to it. But it tugged at her, nibbled at her already, though she’d only just met him.

“All right, look,” Stephen said. “Come back to the house. We’ll discuss the position there.”

Caroline shook her head. “No, I don’t think I should.”

She felt his stare bore into her, and she could see he was displeased that she’d turned him down so easily. Stephen Monterey was a man used to getting his way.

“You can’t stand out here on the street all night.” The tiniest hint of a smile twisted his lips. “Somebody might get the wrong idea.”

She couldn’t argue with that. Even if Stephen went on his way and left her here, she still needed to get back to Aunt Eleanor’s.

“Come back to the house,” Stephen said again. “I’ll have my driver take you home.”

She’d be wiser to leave now, at this moment. To walk the streets until dawn, if that’s what it took to get home—and away from this man.

They gazed at each other in the dim light of the streetlamp, until Caroline felt herself being drawn to him so intensely it startled her.

But Stephen broke eye contact first and shuffled his feet. “Well, Miss Sommerfield?”

“All right,” she finally said. “I’ll come to your house for a ride home. But nothing more. No talk of hats and shoes and…desktops.”

Stephen pulled in a quick breath and looked pained for a second or two. Then he grabbed up her satchel and held it in front of him.

“Certainly. Go ahead, Miss Sommerfield. I’ll follow you.”

Chapter Three

She found Richard Paxton pacing the office when she returned to the house, with Stephen maintaining a discreet distance behind her.

“Miss Sommerfield, I’m terribly sorry about what happened,” Richard said, coming forward.

He was a pleasant-looking man, nearly as tall as Stephen and close to the same age. He had dark hair, and blue eyes that at the moment reflected the sincerity in his words.

“I’m to blame,” Richard said. “I didn’t make clear to Stephen exactly what my gift was.”

“Gift?” Caroline looked back and forth between the two men.

“Yes,” Richard said. “Today is Stephen’s birthday.”

“Your birthday?” She turned to him.

“Yes, and so far it’s been a hell of a disappointment,” Stephen grumbled. “Miss Sommerfield is going home. I instructed Charles to have the carriage brought around for her.”

Caroline stood across the room from the two men as an awkward silence enveloped them all. She willed herself not to look at Stephen, but her gaze darted his way just the same. He watched her. Studied her, actually, like a cat waiting at a mouse hole.

“Can I offer you some refreshment?” Richard asked.

“No, thank you,” Caroline replied.

Another silence stretched in the office. Stephen began pacing behind his desk. She tried to ignore him. In fact, she wanted desperately to ignore him, but he kept looking at her, making her uncomfortable.

After a few moments he stopped.

“You may as well go ahead and show me what this graphology is all about, Miss Sommerfield,” Stephen said. “You’re already here and have to wait for the carriage, anyway.”

It was a reasonable suggestion and, in a way, she was almost relieved to have something to focus on, rather than endure Stephen’s stares.

“Well, all right,” Caroline said. “I guess I may as well.”

Richard picked up her satchel, which Stephen had left by the door. “Where would you like to work, Miss Sommerfield? The desk?”

Caroline’s gaze collided with Stephen’s.

“No!” they said in unison.

Stephen groaned softly and sank into a wing chair in the corner.

“How about this table?” Richard suggested.

He led her to a round table with four chairs in the corner opposite Stephen. Caroline assembled her tools—several magnifying glasses, straightedges, papers and pencils—while Richard fetched several handwriting samples from a cabinet.

“You can use these, Miss Sommerfield.” He presented them to her and smiled. “Can I get you anything else?”

She glanced past him to Stephen fidgeting in the chair. He crossed one leg, then the other, then the first again.

“No, thank you, Mr. Paxton,” she said.

“Is there any way I can make you more comfortable?” Richard asked.

The question brought Stephen’s gaze around to Caroline, his face drawn in tight lines. Only a few minutes ago he had offered to make her more comfortable by undressing her.

Caroline refused to let herself blush, and deliberately turned back to the papers spread out in front of her.

“I’m fine,” she lied.

“All right, then.” Richard smiled. “Just take your time. There’s no rush.”

It was more than a little unnerving being in Stephen’s office again. Caroline wasn’t sure she could concentrate. A strange sensation vibrated through her, stirring her senses to a sharper awareness, making everything seem more intense.

She glanced across the room once more and found Stephen staring at her again. He looked away sharply. Caroline drew in a calming breath. She got out her magnifying glass and went to work.

Faint strains of music drifted from upstairs and a clock ticked somewhere in the house, then chimed the hour. Caroline lost herself in her work, as she usually did.

She wasn’t so absorbed, though, that she didn’t notice Stephen every time he moved. He seemed agitated. He squirmed in his chair, then paced, then sat again. Beside him in the matching wing back, Richard read a stack of papers, oblivious to them both.

Caroline worked steadily, and when she was finished she looked over her notes one final time, then rose from her chair.

“All done?” Richard asked, coming to where she stood, smiling at her again.

He was a nice man and Caroline felt at ease with him. Like a brother, she guessed, though she didn’t actually have a brother to compare him to. But Richard had been equally pleasant at last Saturday’s party where she’d met him, and so far, he’d been the only amiable thing about tonight. She was sorry she’d slapped him.

“Yes, all done,” she said.

“Maybe you could tell Stephen a little about graphology?” Richard suggested.

He was in the chair now, his legs crossed, his fingers propped together in front of his chest. When he looked up at her a little ripple of something passed through Caroline. Nerves, she decided. What else could it be?

“Graphology is the study of handwriting,” she said. “It’s been researched primarily in Germany and France. That’s where I learned the skill.”

Stephen rose from his chair and began pacing, hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets, eyes studying the tips of his black shoes.

Caroline went on. “Handwriting is unique. Because there are so many different writing styles, it’s unlikely that any two people would write precisely the same. By studying an individual’s style, many things about the writer can be determined.”

“Like what?” Richard asked.

“Personality traits, mostly,” Caroline said. “Age can be determined to some degree. But no absolute distinguishing style can differentiate a man’s and woman’s handwriting. Sometimes samples indicate if a writer is left- or right-handed. It can’t, however, tell things like nationality or race.”

“Miss Sommerfield,” Richard said, “at the party last week you mentioned that graphology is being used in Europe for criminal investigations.”

Caroline nodded. “Yes, it’s used for verification of signatures, for example, and in forgery cases.”

Richard’s smile broadened. “Come over here, Stephen. Let’s see what she’s come up with.”

Stephen ventured closer, looking over Caroline’s shoulder as she sorted through the handwriting samples Richard had given her. Heat from him caused her heart to thump a little faster.

She held up the first one. “This writer, I would say, is unimaginative, rather boring and preoccupied with money matters.”

“Jenkins wrote this. He’s Stephen’s head accountant,” Richard said. He turned to Stephen. “Dead accurate analysis, I’d say.”

Caroline was pleased with herself, though Stephen only grunted noncommittally. She turned to the second sample.

“This person is a worrier,” she said. “Indecisive, I’d imagine, and a little materialistic.”

She glanced up at Richard, who smiled.

“Aunt Delfina,” he said.

Stephen’s eyebrows drew together, and Caroline guessed that analysis was correct as well, whoever Aunt Delfina was.

“The writer of this,” she said, turning to the final sample, “is confident, enterprising and ambitious. But also obstinate, pigheaded and…sexually frustrated.”

Stephen glared over her shoulder. “That’s my handwriting.”

He jerked the paper away from her and crumpled it up. Caroline saw crimson creep up from his shirt collar as her own cheeks warmed.

“Excellent demonstration, Miss Sommerfield,” Richard said. “I think it’s obvious that you have extraordinary talent in this field.”

Stephen mumbled something and shoved the ball of paper into his pocket.

“Excuse me, sir.” Charles spoke from the doorway. “Your carriage is at your disposal.”

A little pang of disappointment thumped in Caroline’s stomach. She hadn’t wanted to be here, had been on edge since arriving, yet now was reluctant to go.

But it was for the best. She chanced another look at Stephen. He was again watching her. Yes, she decided, it was for the best that she leave.

She loaded her tools into her satchel.

“I’ll walk you out,” Richard said.

At the doorway, Caroline glanced at Stephen one last time. He stood staring out the dark window, his back to her.

“Happy birthday,” she said.

He spun around, obviously surprised.

“Sorry you didn’t get the gift you wanted.” She glanced at the desk. “But the day’s not over.”

Stephen leaned forward slightly, then plopped into his chair.

How was he ever going to work in his office again?

Stephen stepped behind his desk and squared the ledgers and stacks of papers Richard had replaced while he was chasing down Caroline. But he didn’t see the work that awaited him. He saw a naked woman. On his desk. His two favorite things in the whole world, together.

Stephen sank into his chair. Of course, the naked woman he imagined on his desk wasn’t just any woman. It was Caroline Sommerfield.

He pulled loose his tie and popped open his collar. What a hell of a birthday.

“So, what do you think?” Richard asked, striding back into the office. “Isn’t she wonderful? Isn’t she everything I said she was?”

That and more. If only Richard knew.

Stephen leaned back in his chair. Richard was his assistant, and would have been a partner if he’d had the required financial backing. Still, he was indispensable. Stephen listened to him, trusted him, confided in him. And Richard had never let him down.

“I don’t know…” Stephen said.

“You saw her evaluation of those handwriting samples,” Richard said. “She had old Jenkins cold.”

“That’s true.”

“And Delfina?” Richard grinned. “I like your dear, sweet aunt Delfi as much as anyone, but you have to admit that she is indecisive, just as Caroline said.”

Stephen shrugged. He couldn’t argue with Caroline’s assessment of his aunt.

Richard chuckled. “She did a good job on you, too, Steve.”

He sat forward, not the least amused by Caroline Sommerfield’s determination of his own personality. Not that she wasn’t accurate. He just didn’t like being analyzed like a bug in a jar.

“Sexually frustrated.” Richard laughed again. “Maybe I should have sent you a whore for your birthday.”

“I can find my own women.”

“Then why don’t you?”

Stephen shifted in the chair. “I don’t have time.”

“Yes, you do,” Richard said. “You have plenty of time. But you spend all of it working.”

“I have a lot to do,” Stephen grumbled.

“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone,” Richard said softly.

Stephen glanced up at him, then looked away.

“No one equates you with your father and what he did,” Richard said.

Stephen dismissed his words with a wave of his hand. “Let’s stick to business.”

Richard just looked at him for a moment, then went on. “As I see it, Caroline can analyze the handwriting on Pickette’s document and prove that it’s fraudulent,” he said. “The agreement he claims is genuine will be exposed as a hoax. Pickette will be gone, out of your hair, and should consider himself lucky if he doesn’t end up in prison. Your problem will be solved.”

“But can she prove that?”

“She’s an expert in her field,” Richard said. “She has letters of recommendation from Germany and France.”

“Will anyone believe her here, in this country, in this city?” Stephen asked. “This graphology. Has anyone here even heard of it? Do they respect it? Believe in it?”

Richard shook his head. “No, not like in Europe.”

“Then what good is it to me?”

Stephen pushed himself out of the chair and began pacing again. He rubbed his chin and stared at the floor. He did some of his best thinking like this.

He turned suddenly to Richard and snapped his fingers. “We could make her an expert.”

“Make her one?” Richard asked. “How?”

“By giving her other work to do,” Stephen said. “I’ve suspected for a while that someone on the warehouse crew is stealing. What if I put Caroline on the case? I’ll get handwriting samples from all the employees and have her look for traits such as dishonesty, untrustworthiness.”

Richard nodded slowly. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

“We can’t fire a man over a handwriting sample,” Stephen said. “But we can determine the employees with those traits and have them watched. We just might turn up our thief.”

“You could be onto something here,” Richard said.

“I can use her to screen prospective job applicants. Weed out the questionable ones.” Stephen gripped the back of his desk chair. “Once I’ve established her credibility here, I can loan her to other prominent businessmen in town.”

Richard frowned. “That sounds like we’re just using her.”

“I’m giving her a chance to use this graphology thing she’s so proud of,” Stephen insisted. “Once the other businessmen see what she’s capable of they can testify to her credentials. And when the Pickette case gets to court, Caroline will be the leading graphologist in Los Angeles and her word will be accepted.”

“I don’t know…”

“She wants to use this graphology skill of hers, doesn’t she?”

“Yes,” Richard said. “She applied with Pinkerton but they turned her down. She was very disappointed. She wanted that job. Her father sent her here from Europe to find a husband, but she wants to work instead.”

“Well, then, you see? I’m doing her a favor.”

“You’re doing yourself a favor, Steve.”

Stephen’s face hardened. “I’m not going to let Russell Pickette make a fool out of me.”

A few moments of silence passed before Richard slapped his knee and rose from the chair. “All right, we’ll do it your way. And it just might work, as long…”

“As long as what?”

“As long as you’re sure Pickette’s document is really a forgery,” Richard said.

Stephen started pacing again. Russell Pickette had been a pain in his side ever since he’d shown up two weeks ago waving a document that claimed he had title to a two-hundred-acre farm belonging to Stephen.

Stephen didn’t know Russell Pickette personally. Had never met him. He recognized his name from the ledger book his accountant used to keep track of the semiannual rent Pickette paid on the acreage he farmed. It was a small amount. Insignificant, really.

Pickette didn’t look like a con artist, or a thief, just a worn, weary farmer. But he was trying to defraud Stephen, just the same. Cheat him out of a prime piece of real estate, just when Stephen was about to pull together a large business deal involving that property.

Pacing behind his desk, Stephen got angry again just thinking about Pickette. Then, as it always did, humiliation surged through him, deep in the pit of his stomach.

Pickette claimed the document had been written by Stephen’s father, George Monterey. Stephen cringed at the memory.

George had died when Stephen was a boy, and Stephen still remembered what that felt like. Uncle Colin had agreed to take in him and his little brother, Thomas. Even now, standing in his office in the West Adams Boulevard home, Stephen remembered the day he and Thomas had arrived at Uncle Colin’s home. Colin hadn’t wanted them to forget, either. He’d had a photographer on hand that day to mark the occasion.

Still pacing, Stephen rubbed his hand over his chest. What his father had done still made him sick, all these years later.

He stopped, realizing Richard was speaking to him.

“What?” Stephen asked.

“I said, do you want to go ahead with this?” Richard asked.

Stephen was tired, but restless, too, for some reason. Memories of his father, that Pickette bastard, Uncle Colin—they filled his head tonight. But something else nagged at him, too. Something he couldn’t pinpoint.

“Get her in here tomorrow,” Stephen said. “Put her to work. I want to resolve this issue with Pickette.”

“It might not be that simple,” Richard said. “I don’t think Caroline was all that happy to be here.”

Stephen waved away his concern. “She’ll take the job.”

“All right. I’ll talk with her first thing in the morning,” Richard said, and headed for the door.

“Richard? I want you to keep this Pickette problem to yourself,” Stephen said. “Miss Sommerfield doesn’t need to know what I have planned for her just yet.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Richard said. “When she finds out, she’s bound to think you set her up just so she’d testify on your behalf.”

“I’ll take care of Miss Sommerfield.”

“Caroline Sommerfield looks like a handful,” Richard said, grinning. “Are you sure you can handle her?”

Stephen sank into his desk chair. Of course he could handle her. But it would be a hell of a lot easier if he could stop thinking about her naked.

Chapter Four

“She said no?” Stephen rocked forward in his desk chair, glaring at Richard. “Caroline Sommerfield said no? She turned down my job offer?”

Richard nodded slowly and sank into the chair across from him. “Turned it down flat.”

Morning sunlight beamed in through the open windows, brightening the room and bringing a little breeze with it.

“Did you explain to her that Monterey Enterprises is one of the largest, most prestigious corporations in the country?” Stephen demanded.

“I did.”

“That I have holdings that reach around the world?”

“Yes,” Richard said, “I told her that as well.”

“That she should count herself damned lucky that I’m even considering her for a job?”

Richard rose. “I did that, Stephen. I told her all those things.”

“Did you offer her the salary I specified?”

“Yes, and I even went beyond that figure,” Richard said.

Stephen shoved away the reports he’d been looking at. “Then what the hell else does she want?”

Richard shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Stephen pushed himself out of his chair and started pacing. Until last night he’d never even heard of a graphologist. But now, this morning, he absolutely had to have one.

And not just because of those dreams he’d had last night.

Stephen mumbled a curse as he paced. Damn that Russell Pickette. That rogue wasn’t going to get away with stealing his land, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to make a fool of him.

Stephen stopped pacing. “I need that Sommerfield woman. And I don’t care what it takes to get her here.”

“I’ve tried everything.”

“Then try something else.”

“There is nothing else,” Richard insisted.

Stephen pressed his lips together, fuming silently.

“I tried everything, Stephen. Her mind is firmly made up.”

“We’ll see about that….” Stephen grabbed his jacket and stalked out of the room.

When the bell jangled at the front door, Caroline bolted to her feet, nearly upsetting the teacups on her aunt’s breakfast table.

“Caroline,” Aunt Eleanor admonished, “let Bessie get the door. You know what’s expected of servants.”

Eleanor wasn’t a wealthy woman, but moved in social circles that occasionally intersected the upper class. Her long-deceased husband had left her well off, with a nice home and a servant, both well past their prime. Bessie was maid, cook and personal secretary to Aunt Eleanor. The years were catching up to her.

But it wasn’t Caroline’s concern for Bessie’s health that drove her from the breakfast table. It was her own aunt and the husband-hunting strategy session that was under way.

“Really, I don’t mind,” Caroline said, easing away from the table.

“If it’s someone selling something, tell them we’re not interested,” Aunt Eleanor called.

Caroline beat a hasty retreat through the house. If a salesman were at the door, she’d beg him to come inside and she’d listen to his sales pitch all day, if she could. Anything to get away from Aunt Eleanor.

Already this morning Caroline had had a visitor. Richard Paxton. She’d thought she might run into him at a party sometime, since he moved in the same crowd as Aunt Eleanor, or perhaps encounter him at a luncheon or dinner party. Where she didn’t expect to see him was on her doorstep bright and early in the morning.

And with a job offer. An offer of the job she’d dreamed of. But Caroline had told him no and sent him on his way without even letting him into the house.

Luckily, he’d come by before Aunt Eleanor had risen for the day, so Caroline hadn’t had to make up a lie to explain his presence. She shuddered to think what her aunt might say if she knew what Caroline’s real plans were. And surely she’d faint away if she ever found out where Caroline had been last night.

That whole unfortunate incident was best forgotten, Caroline decided, as she reached the front door. And that most definitely included Mr. Monterey.

Stephen.

The thought of him slowed her footsteps and tied a knot in her stomach. Her skin tingled, just as it had last evening in his office when he’d watched her every move and made it a little difficult for her to breathe.

Caroline shook her head, clearing her thoughts. That man was trouble. He did things to her—without even touching her. No, Stephen Monterey was better forgotten. She was glad to be rid of him, to have him out of her life. In fact, she hoped she never saw him again.

Caroline smoothed down the folds of her dress and opened the door.

Stephen stood on the porch.

She gasped, stared wide-eyed. Then slammed the door in his face.

What in the world was he doing here? Caroline fell back against the door, pressing her hand to her forehead. Why on earth would he—

The doorbell rang again.

She ignored it.

It rang another time.

She ignored it again.

Once more, the bell rang.

Caroline whipped around and opened the door wide enough to squeeze her face into the crack.

“Would you just stop that?” she hissed.

The angles of his face drew into hard lines. “Miss Sommerfield—”

“Go away.”

He squared his wide shoulders and glared at her, one eyebrow creeping upward. “Miss Sommerfield—”

“Shh!” Caroline glanced back through the house, praying her aunt wouldn’t come to see what all the racket was about. She peeked out the door again.

“You have to leave,” she said.

“I want to talk to you.”

“We have nothing to discuss.”

“We sure as hell do.” He braced his arm against the door, forcing it open.

Caroline pushed back. “Don’t come in here. I—I have a gun. I’ll shoot you, I swear.”

Stephen rolled his eyes. “Fire away.”

She fell back into the foyer as he pushed his way inside. Darn, she was going to have to work on her lying. She couldn’t fool one single soul.

Stephen closed the door, looking slightly annoyed. “This may come as a surprise to you, Miss Sommerfield, but there are literally dozens of people who would give their right arm to have me appear on their doorstep with an offer of employment.”

“Keep your voice down.” Caroline waved her hands at him and glanced over her shoulder again.

He craned his neck, following her line of vision. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” she said quickly. “Of course not. Why would anything be wrong? Now look, Mr. Monterey, I appreciate your coming here, but I’m simply not interested. Good day. Please leave now.”

He didn’t budge.

She drew herself up taller, stretching her chin as high as it would go. “Mr. Monterey, I’m afraid I must insist that you—”

“Caroline? Caroline?”

She cringed. It was Aunt Eleanor, and by the sound of her voice she was drawing closer.

“Hurry.” Caroline caught Stephen’s arm and tugged him toward the door. He didn’t budge. Didn’t even sway. It was like pulling on a tree trunk.

“Mr. Monterey, you really must—”

“Why, Caroline, who have we here?”

She spun around as Aunt Eleanor glided into the foyer. Too late. She was trapped.

Caroline dropped Stephen’s arm and stepped a discreet distance away.

“No one, Aunt Eleanor,” she said. “Just some vagrant asking for a handout.”

“Why, Caroline, how you do tease.”

Aunt Eleanor crossed the room, her hand extended. She was a tall, thin woman with gray hair and an uninspired wardrobe. But she was the epitome of social graces, a gentlewoman who always did the right thing and never stopped striving for perfection. In others, as much as herself.

“I know quite well who this gentleman is,” Aunt Eleanor said. “Mr. Monterey, it’s so very nice to have you here. What a pleasant surprise. I’m Mrs. Eleanor Markham, Caroline’s aunt.”

Stephen removed his derby and took her hand. “Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Markham.”

Her gaze shifted between the two of them. “I take it you’ve come to call on Caroline?”

His gaze settled on Caroline. “Actually, I have.”

Aunt Eleanor fairly beamed with pleasure. A big smile stretched across her face and her eyes glazed over.

Caroline didn’t blame her aunt. Stephen did look exceptionally handsome this morning. He wore a dark blue suit with pleated trousers and a high buttoned vest. His shirt, with its starched collar, was snowy white, contrasting with his gray-striped necktie.

But Stephen’s good looks weren’t what held Aunt Eleanor’s attention. She’d spotted her prey—a highly eligible bachelor—and was plotting her next move.

“Caroline never mentioned that you two had met.” Aunt Eleanor laughed gently. “And here I was planning another round of parties for her. Her father will be so pleased when he hears the news. And so quickly after arriving in the city, too.”

A slow smile spread over Stephen’s face.

Caroline didn’t like the look of that smile. Something was behind it. Something calculating. She cautioned herself to be on guard.

“Come into the parlor, Mr. Monterey,” Aunt Eleanor said, guiding him to the room off the foyer.

Stephen folded himself onto the peach settee and tucked his long legs behind a marble-topped table. Caroline considered making a break for the door while she still could, but didn’t want to leave him at the mercy of her aunt; she didn’t dislike him that much.

Aunt Eleanor took the chair directly across from Stephen. “So, tell me, how did you two meet?” she asked.

Caroline perched on the piano stool, the farthest seat from Stephen. Now was when better lying skills would come in handy. Her brain spun, trying to invent some reasonable story that didn’t involve last night’s escapade, when she’d been mistaken for a prostitute. Nothing came to her.

She sighed, forced to tell the truth. At least an abbreviated version of it.

“Actually, Aunt Eleanor, I was at Mr. Monterey’s home last night,” Caroline said. “I stopped by to see a sick friend.”

Aunt Eleanor nodded. “Oh, yes, your cousin Sophie said that you’d gone to visit someone on West Adams Boulevard.”

Caroline seethed. Darn her cousin. She’d promised not to tell. Goodness, relatives were proving to be more than inconvenient—a downright pain in the neck.

“So, who did you visit?” Aunt Eleanor asked.

Caroline pressed her lips together. “Well, actually—”

“My aunt,” Stephen said.

A wave of profound gratitude washed over Caroline. Their gazes met and Stephen Monterey suddenly took on the look of a knight in the shiniest armor ever imagined.

“My aunt Delfina,” Stephen explained. “Perhaps you know her, Mrs. Markham?”

“I’ve never had the pleasure, but I’ve heard of her, of course.” Aunt Eleanor rose from her chair. “I’ll have Bessie prepare us some tea. Caroline, do make Mr. Monterey comfortable.”

Eleanor smiled knowingly and disappeared out of the parlor.

Caroline watched her leave, then turned to Stephen, and suddenly he didn’t look like a knight in shining anything. He was smirking. Actually smirking. Oh, he was trying very hard to hide it, but that was definitely a smirk she saw on his face.

Caroline rose from the piano stool. “Why are you here?”

“I’m here about the position we discussed,” he said.

The position on the desktop? Caroline bit into her lip, forcing the image out of her head. Goodness, why couldn’t she stop thinking about that?

“The position of graphologist,” Stephen said.

“Oh, yes, of course.”

“I’m here to convince you to accept my job offer,” Stephen said.

“I don’t want to work for you.”

“Everyone wants to work for me.”

He was pompous and arrogant…and devilishly good-looking. Caroline struggled to hold on to her anger against the onslaught of his masculine presence, which overwhelmed Aunt Eleanor’s delicately furnished parlor. He was far too rugged for doilies and lace.

“I, Mr. Monterey, am not everyone.” Caroline stared down at him, and it made her feel superior to do so.

That feeling lasted only a few more seconds, until Stephen rose from the settee and towered over her. He folded his arms across his chest.

“So, tell me, Miss Sommerfield, why do you refuse to come to work for me?”

There were a dozen reasons—and there were none. Caroline had lain awake most of the night reliving the short time she’d been in his house, in his presence. She’d tossed and turned, wrestling with emotions she’d never imagined before. Stephen had managed to take over most of her thoughts, somehow, and no one—not one single person—had ever done that.

He had consumed her, and the scary part was that he would continue to do so. Caroline had sensed that in him the first moment they met, even though she couldn’t put a name to the feeling at the time. He would devour her and all she believed in, until there was nothing left of herself.

Caroline eased away from him, needing the distance, hoping that space between them would ease the tension. It didn’t.

“I don’t need your job,” she said.

His brow creased. “You didn’t find work elsewhere?”

“No,” she admitted. “But I realized that if Richard Paxton, then you, would recognize my skills and offer me employment, so would someone else. It’s just a matter of time before another offer comes along.”

Stephen’s frown deepened. “Don’t be so sure about that, Miss Sommerfield. I know every businessman in the city. If the wrong type of rumor got out about you…”

Stunned, she faced him again. “You’d—you’d do that? You’d ruin me?” she demanded.

“The business world can be very ugly, Miss Sommerfield.”

“But that would be a lie! A bare-faced lie!”

Stephen glanced toward the parlor door. “Do you want your aunt back in here, asking questions?”

Caroline clamped her mouth shut, capping her anger but not stopping it.

“Won’t your aunt be surprised to learn that your real goal in coming to Los Angeles isn’t to find a husband?” he asked.

She felt violated. “How did you know that?”

“Don’t think I haven’t seen that look in her eye before, on the face of countless other aunts, mothers and grandmothers,” Stephen said. “And tell me this, Miss Sommerfield, what would your aunt say if she found out your true desire is to work for the Pinkerton Detective Agency?”

Caroline’s mouth flew open. “Who told you?”

He pressed on. “Would she be scandalized to learn that you want a job? I think she would be. In fact, she might even contact your father.”

Caroline’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you saying these things? Why are you doing this?” She spun away and stalked to the window, struggling to hold her temper down. “You’re a wicked man,” she said.

Yes, he was. Stephen knew that because at the moment he was having some very wicked thoughts.

He walked to the window and stood behind her, as close as he dared. Her hair was done up in a knot atop her head, with a few tendrils curling loose. He wanted to lean his head down and press his mouth against that lovely neck of hers. Ease himself closer until her soft body cushioned his. Loop his arms around her and cup her breasts in his palms.

Oh, yes, he was a very wicked man.

Caroline shifted, keeping her chin high and her shoulders straight. The movement rustled her clothing, and Stephen imagined peeling away all those layers. Lace, silk, bows, ribbons, all waiting there for him to discover…and discard.

“I’m glad I slapped you last night,” Caroline said, still refusing to turn away from the window.

He deserved that slap. And he could probably use another right now. Something to bring him back to reality and restore a little sanity to his thoughts. He’d been almost continuously aroused since he’d laid eyes on her last night, and he never did his best thinking in that state. In fact, he could hardly think at all. Except about one thing.

On the way over here this morning he’d planned what he’d say to her. Richard had told him how she wanted to work for Pinkerton, and that she’d been sent to Los Angeles to find a husband. He’d intended to use that against her, threaten to tell her aunt, force Caroline to come to work for him.

Running an international corporation meant using what means were at his disposal to get what he wanted. Tough problems needed tough solutions sometimes. And that was all right with Stephen. He liked getting his way.

But this time, with Caroline, it brought him no pleasure. No business opponent had ever looked hurt before, as Caroline did. None had made him feel ashamed, as she had.

She turned then, her chin still high. Her nearness hummed through Stephen. She smelled rich and earthy. If he moved forward, just the tiniest bit, he could touch her.

Instead he forced himself to back up a step.

“It appears you’ve left me no choice,” she said.

She held herself rigid, clinging to her dignity and pride despite the fact he’d forced her to do it his way. The desire to kiss her roiled through Stephen. He wanted to replace that hurt look with pleasure, make her smile again.

But the image of Russell Pickette appeared in Stephen’s mind, along with the memory of his father. He wouldn’t let either of them get the best of him. For that he needed Caroline. And now he had her.

“All right, Mr. Monterey, I’ll accept your job,” she said. “But this is strictly business. No personal involvement of any kind.”

Stephen nodded. “Of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Chapter Five

Aunt Eleanor glided into the parlor, still smiling.

“Bessie will have tea for us in a moment,” she said.

Stephen retrieved his derby from the table. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Markham, but Caroline and I are going out.”

“You are?” she asked.

“We are?” Caroline echoed.

Stephen turned to her. “We are.”

“But—”

“You should bring a wrap,” Stephen said. “We’ll likely be out until late.”

“But…Now?”

Stephen smiled. “No sense in waiting.”

Caroline planted her hands on her hips. “Did it occur to you, Mr. Monterey, that I might already have plans for today?”

He shrugged indifferently. “No, not for a minute.”

“Run along, Caroline, dear,” Aunt Eleanor said. “You mustn’t keep Mr. Monterey waiting.”

Caroline threw Stephen a sour look and left the room in a huff.

Aunt Eleanor waved goodbye from the front porch a few minutes later as Caroline rode away in Stephen’s carriage, with him seated across from her.

“Well, I hope you’re happy,” Caroline said, and jerked her chin at him.

He nodded. “I’m very happy.”

“Do you always get your way?”

“Most always.”

“Then I suggest you brace yourself for a few disappointments, Mr. Monterey,” Caroline told him. “You’ll find that I’m not like everyone else you know.”

He smiled a slow, lazy smile. “I’m already aware of that, Miss Sommerfield.”

Caroline tugged on her skirt and turned her face to the window, ignoring him.

Since she refused to speak to him, Caroline had to content herself with watching the homes of the West Adams district roll past the carriage window. In the morning sunlight, with their large green lawns, swaying palms and ferns, stone walls and wrought-iron fences, they were even more impressive than when she’d seen them last night.

The homes displayed a variety of grand architecture. There were storybook houses with gingerbread and scrollwork, great stone castles, English Tudors, white brick Colonials with Grecian columns.

The carriage swung into the driveway of Stephen’s home. The brownstone looked bigger, more imposing that it had last night. Witches’ caps topped the circular turrets on the house’s four corners. Balconies opened on the second story. Massive stone chimneys and dormers punctuated the steep roof.

“My uncle Colin and I designed the house,” Stephen said, gesturing out the window. “It’s on two acres, one of the biggest lots in the city.”

“It is a beautiful home,” she agreed.

“Seven bedrooms, not including the servants’ quarters. A trophy room, a card room, a billiard room, several sitting rooms and parlors, a formal dining room and breakfast room, and probably several other rooms I’ve never been in.” He smiled. “We had marble brought in from Italy. The stained glass windows are from France. Aunt Delfi always has some decorating project going on.”

The carriage stopped. Stephen climbed out and helped her down. Richard waited on the front steps. He broke into a full smile when Caroline stepped out of the carriage.

“Miss Sommerfield is starting work today, Richard,” Stephen announced, and presented her as if she were a trophy from a big game hunt.

“Welcome, Miss Sommerfield,” he said. “I’m glad you changed your mind.”

“Thank you,” Caroline said. She liked Richard and wouldn’t be rude to him, even though she might have decidedly different feelings for Stephen.

The front door opened and the butler stepped outside.

“Excuse me, Mr. Monterey. Your aunt asks that you come to her at once.”

Stephen nodded, then excused himself and went inside. Richard stepped over to Caroline.

“His aunt Delfina,” he explained. “The slightly materialistic, indecisive worrier.”

Caroline remembered her from the handwriting sample last night. “Oh, yes. Her. Is she ill?”

“Aunt Delfina?” Richard chuckled. “She’s never had a genuine illness in her life. But that doesn’t stop her from being a…situation that Stephen must contend with. He has several…situations.”

Caroline was certain she’d been one of those situations this morning. What did that make her now? No longer a situation, had she been clicked over into the “dealt with” category?

“Well, I suppose we’d better go in,” Richard said.

But instead he stood there gazing toward the far corner of the house for so long that Caroline turned and looked also.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“What?” He turned back. “Oh, no. I just…I just wanted to mention that you should see the grounds. They’re impressive.”

Caroline wasn’t all that anxious to go inside, so if Richard wanted to stand here casting glances toward the corner of the house, that was fine with her.

“Should I see them now?” she asked.

“See what?”

“The grounds.”

Richard shook his head, as if clearing his thoughts. “No, no, we’d better get inside. Stephen will be…” His gaze drifted away again, but after a few seconds he caught himself. “Well,” he said briskly. “Let’s get inside before—”

Shouts came from the corner of the house, turning them both in that direction. A moment later a little boy rounded the corner, running toward them at full steam, short legs churning, arms pumping.

“Uncle Richard!”

A smile broke over Richard’s face as he walked toward the child, scooped him up and swung him in a big circle. The boy squealed as Richard lifted him high overhead, then settled him into his arms.

Caroline couldn’t help but be drawn to the two of them, laughing together, both so thoroughly happy to see one another.

“And who do we have here?” Caroline asked.

Richard turned so that she could see the child in his arms. Her breath caught. Black hair. Huge green eyes. Good gracious, the boy looked exactly like Stephen.

It hadn’t occurred to her that he might be married. Or have a child. A huge weight settled on her chest.

“This is Joseph Thomas Monterey.” Richard tickled the boy’s chin. “Say hello to Miss Caroline, Joey.”

The boy giggled and turned his attention away from Richard long enough to hold up four chubby fingers.

“I’m this many,” he declared.

“Four years old?” Caroline nodded in pretended surprise. “Goodness, you’re an old man now, aren’t you?”

Joey giggled again and threw his arms around Richard’s neck. “Play, Uncle Richard, come play with me!”

“You’re his uncle?” Caroline asked.

“Honorary title,” Richard said, struggling to hold the squirming boy in his arms.

“And so Mr. Monterey would be his…”

“Uncle,” Richard said. “Stephen is his uncle.”

“Oh…”

“You gots to play with me, Uncle Richard.” Joey tugged on his neck. “You gots to. Miss Brenna is too slow.”

Richard’s eyebrows rose in exaggerated surprise. “Is she?”

“Yes,” Joey insisted. “She can’t catch a ball, or nothing.”

Richard gazed toward the corner of the house. “And where is Miss Brenna this morning?”

A moment later a young woman sprinted around the corner, holding up her skirt. When she saw them she froze for an instant, then walked over, hurriedly smoothing down wisps of her dark hair.

She stopped a few feet away. “Good morning, Mr. Paxton.”

Despite the child in his arms, Richard straightened his tie. “Good morning, Miss Winslow.”

The two of them looked at each other, then looked away.

“Good morning,” Caroline said, and introduced herself.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” she said. “I’m Brenna Winslow, Joey’s nanny.”

Brenna was about her own age, Caroline guessed. Slender, with dark hair and deep brown eyes. Pretty. Richard seemed to think so, too.

“I’m starting work here today,” Caroline said.

“What type of employment?”

“I’m working in Mr. Monterey’s office,” Caroline said, not wanting to explain yet again what a graphologist was.

“Welcome,” Brenna said. She turned to Joey. “Come along, sweetie.”

“I’ll come out and play with you in a while,” Richard promised, as he set Joey on the ground.

The boy looked up at him with his big green eyes. “Promise?”

Richard winked. “You bet.”

Joey took Brenna’s hand and skipped across the yard, pulling her along with him. She glanced back and waved.

Richard waved, and his hand froze in the air for a few seconds.

“He’s adorable,” Caroline said.

“Who?” Richard gave himself a little shake. “Joey, you mean. Yes, he’s something, all right. Rough life, though, for such a little fellow. His mother…abandoned him.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Joey lives here,” Richard said, still watching them cross the yard. “Brenna…Brenna takes good care of him.”

Even after the two of them disappeared around the house, Richard stood there for a few minutes, then finally gestured toward the stone steps leading inside.

“We’d better go,” he said. “Stephen is waiting.”

And so was her new life. Caroline drew in a big breath and headed up the steps.

As Charles greeted them, Caroline glanced at the sitting room off to her left, the place where she’d first seen Stephen. Last night seemed like a year ago.

There were many things she hadn’t noticed about the house yesterday evening—the red marble entry, the intricately carved ash woodwork, the ceilings painted with elaborate scenes. Stephen was rightfully proud of his home.

When Caroline and Richard arrived at Stephen’s office, Caroline’s heart thumped its way into her throat. Last night. The desk. His offer to undress her.

Caroline silently admonished herself for having such thoughts. Regardless of the circumstances, here she was, one of the pioneer women in the workplace. And all she could think of was Stephen Monterey’s desire to make love to her in her hat and high buttoned shoes. Disgraceful!

Caroline pulled herself up to stand a little straighter.

True, she didn’t know exactly how an employee should act. She’d never known a woman who actually had a job. But men did it. How difficult could it be?

One thing was certain. Thoughts of her employer—at least those kinds of thoughts—should be put out of her head.

She followed Richard into the office. Stephen wasn’t there.

“He might need rescuing from his aunt. I’ll be right back. Make yourself comfortable,” Richard said, and left her alone.

Comfortable? A ridiculous notion.

Caroline wandered through the big room, situated at the corner of the house. A row of windows ran down one side of the office, around the circular turret and across the back. Paintings of animals and hunting scenes hung on the walls. The furniture consisted of heavy walnut pieces that looked very masculine.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the beveled mirror above the stone fireplace and straightened her hat. When she’d dressed this morning she’d had no idea she’d end up with a job before noon, but was glad she’d worn a take-me-seriously dark green shirtwaist.

Caroline studied her reflection for a few minutes. She was taking the first step down a path she’d be hard-pressed to return from. Accepting a job. Working. Not many thought it proper.

Aunt Eleanor would not be pleased. In fact, she’d be horrified when she found out. Caroline wasn’t quite sure how she’d explain this to her.

The notion of women in the workplace was accepted in progressive circles—circles that were very tiny. Hopefully, by the time she returned home this evening she could come up with some plausible excuse for her absence. And what she’d do about tomorrow and the day after, Caroline had no idea.

She didn’t even want to think about how Aunt Eleanor would react when she found out Stephen Monterey wasn’t courting her.

Despite the fact that she hadn’t wanted this particular job—really, this particular boss—working was the only thing that made sense to Caroline. The alternative was marriage. She cringed at the thought of being stuck in the same house, mindlessly preparing menus, overseeing the mundane activities of a household, never going anyplace new, seeing anything different.

She couldn’t imagine why her father thought she’d like such a life. Since her mother’s death when she was ten years old, the two of them had traveled Europe, living in hotels or as guests in fine homes, never staying in the same location for more than a few weeks or months. Always new places to see, new people to meet. How could anyone find contentment with the same man, one house—forever?

Caroline adjusted her hat again and gave herself a nod of encouragement in the mirror. Even though she’d been coerced into accepting this position, she was glad she had it. Because after today, she might not have to worry about a ghastly future of marriage ever again.

And to think she had Stephen Monterey to thank for that.

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