He leaned in close, as if to kiss her.

If she’d wanted to shove him away, she had ample opportunity. In no way was he forcing himself or taking advantage. She should have objected…

Instead she tilted her chin up, welcoming his kiss. When his lips brushed hers, a brilliant flash of white heat exploded behind her eyes and blinded her to common sense. A burst of passion surged, forceful and challenging. She wanted the kiss to deepen and continue for long, intense moments. She wanted to know his body in every sense of the word. Her ferocious need for him felt like nothing she’d experienced, as though they were meant to be together.

She had to be mistaken. The maid and the millionaire?

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Liz Norton – Working her way through law school, earning money as a part-time karate instructor and part-time private eye, she goes undercover as a maid.

Ben Crawford – His reputation as a millionaire adventurer masks his hard work, dedication to his family and his love for his five-year-old daughter, Natalie.

Jerod Crawford – The seventy-six-year-old patriarch of the wealthy, powerful family suffers from a brain tumour.

Charlene Crawford – Jerod’s gold-digging trophy wife has a talent for ticking people off.

Patrice and Monte Welles – Ben’s sister and her husband expect to inherit a fortune when her grandfather dies.

Al Mancini – As an almost-retired general practitioner, the doctor is out of his element in treating a brain tumour.

Tony Lansing – His drinking problem clouds his judgement as the Crawford family attorney.

Ramon Stephens – A male model, he knows everybody’s secrets.

Victoria Crawford – Ben’s estranged wife is suing for sole custody of their daughter.

Annette Peltier – Being a housemaid sparks her Cinderella dreams and fantasies.

Rachel Frakes – As housekeeper for the Crawford family, she demands perfection from her staff.

Harry Schooner – The former cop and owner of Schooner Detective Agency looks forward to retirement.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

For Cassie Miles, the best part about writing a story set in Eagle County near the Vail ski area is the ready-made excuse to head into the mountains for research. Though the winter snows are great for skiing, her favourite season is autumn, when the aspens turn gold.

The rest of the time Cassie lives in Denver, where she takes urban hikes around Cheesman Park, reads a ton and critiques often. Her current plans include a Vespa and a road trip, despite eye-rolling objections from her adult children.

Mysterious Millionaire

CASSIE MILES

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To those who love guitars and wooden boats.

As always, to Rick.

Chapter One

Being a part-time private eye put a serious crimp in Liz Norton’s social life. At half-past eleven on a Friday night in May, she ought to be wearing lip gloss, dancing, flirting and licking the suds off a beer that somebody else had paid for. Instead, she’d spent the past two hours and seventeen minutes on stakeout with Harry Schooner, her sixty-something boss.

She slouched behind the steering wheel of Harry’s beat-up Chevy. Even with the windows cracked for ventilation, she still smelled stale hamburger buns from the crumpled bags littering the backseat. On the plus side, the cruddy, old car blended with the rundown Denver neighborhood where they were parked at the curb away from the streetlight, watching and waiting.

In the passenger seat, Harry pressed his fist against his chest and grunted.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Heartburn.”

His digestive system provided a source of constant complaint. Long ago, she’d given up lecturing him on the evils of a strictly fast-food diet. “Did you take your pill?”

“What are you? My mother?”

“A concerned employee,” she said. “If you keel over from a heart attack, where am I going to find another job as glamorous as this one?”

He peeled off the silver wrapping on a roll of antacid tablets, popped the last one in his mouth and tossed the wrapper over his shoulder into the trashed-out backseat. “That reminds me. You’re done with your semester. Right?”

“Took my last exam two days ago.”

At age twenty-six, she’d put herself halfway through law school. The accomplishment made her proud, even though she still heard echoes of her mother’s refrain: “Why bother with an education? The only way a girl like you can make it is to find a man to support you.” This bit of advice came right before the grooming tips: “Lighten your hair, shorten your skirts and stand up straight so your boobs stick out.”

Of course, Liz did the exact opposite. Her thick, multicolored blond hair remained undyed and unstyled—except for her own occasional hacking to keep the jagged ends near chin-length. Her wardrobe included exactly one skirt—knee-length and khaki—that she’d picked up at a thrift store for a buck. Mostly, she wore jeans and T-shirts. Tonight, a faded brown one under a black windbreaker. As for Mom’s advice to show off her chest, Liz had given up on that plan long ago. Even if she arched her back like a pretzel, nobody would ever confuse her with a beauty queen.

Her twice-married mom had actually done her a favor when she’d shoved her only daughter out the door on her eighteenth birthday and told her that she was on her own.

Liz had done okay. Without a man.

Harry groaned again and shifted in the passenger seat. “You’ll come to work for me full-time during your summer break. I could use the help. I’m getting too damn old for this job.”

“Thanks, Harry.” She’d been counting on this summer job. “But I still need Monday and Wednesday nights free to teach the under-twelve kids at the karate school.”

“I got no problem with that.” He made a wheezy noise through his nostrils and shrugged his heavy shoulders. His formerly athletic physique had settled into a doughy lump. Only his close-cropped white hair suggested the discipline of long-ago military service and twenty years as a cop. “How’s my grandson doing at karate?”

“Not exactly a black belt, but he’s hanging in there.” She’d met Harry at Dragon Lou’s Karate School when he’d come to watch his six-year-old grandson and ended up offering Liz a couple of part-time assignments.

Some aspects of being a P. I. were just plain nasty, like serving subpoenas or confirming the suspicions of a heartbroken wife about her cheating husband. But Liz enjoyed the occasional undercover disguise. Most of all, she liked grumpy old Harry and his two grown daughters. The Schooners represented the family she’d never had.

She peered through the scummy windshield at a ramshackle bungalow, landscaped with weeds and two rusty vehicles up on blocks. Gangsta music blared through the open windows. In the past hour, a half-dozen visitors had come and gone. She’d caught glimpses of three or four skinny children playing, even though it was way past normal bedtime, and she hoped the drug dealers inside the house weren’t selling in front of the kids. Or to them.

“Are you sure we have the right address?”

“My source gave me the place, but not the time. He’ll be here tonight.” Harry rubbed his palms together. “Once we have photos of Mr. Crawford making a drug buy, we’re in for a real big payday.”

Liz found it hard to believe that Ben Crawford—millionaire adventurer and playboy—would show up in person. Didn’t rich people hire underlings to do their dirty work?

But she hoped Harry was right. The Schooner Detective Agency could use the cash. They’d been retained by Ben’s estranged wife, Victoria, who wanted enough dirt on her husband to void the prenup and gain sole custody of their five-year-old daughter. Photos of Ben making a drug buy would insure that Victoria got what she wanted, and she’d promised a huge bonus for the results.

Though Liz felt a twinge of regret about separating a father from his child, Ben Crawford deserved to be exposed. He’d been born with every advantage and was throwing his life away on drugs. In her book, that made him a lousy human being and definitely an unfit father.

A shiny, black Mustang glided to the curb in front of the house. This had to be their millionaire.

Harry shoved the camera into her hands. “You take the pictures. Don’t worry. I’ll back you up.”

“Stay in the car, Harry.”

“Get close to the front window,” he said as he flipped open the glove compartment and took out an ancient Remington automatic.

A jolt of adrenaline turned her stakeout lethargy to tension. If Harry started waving his gun, this situation could get ugly. “Put that thing away.”

“Don’t you worry, Missy. I don’t plan to shoot anybody.” With another grunt, he opened his car door. “Go for the money shot. Crawford with the drugs in his hand.”

The camera was foolproof—geared to automatically focus and adjust to minimal lighting. But she doubted she’d get a chance to use it. Most of the visitors to the house went inside, did their business and came out with hands shoved deeply into their pockets.

She darted across the street toward the dealer’s house and ducked behind one of the junker cars in the driveway. Ben Crawford stood at the front door beside a bare bulb porch light. His shaggy brown hair fell over the collar of his worn denim shirt, only a few shades lighter than his jeans. He looked like a tall, rangy cowboy who had somehow gotten lost in the big city.

Holding the camera to her eye, Liz zoomed in on his face. Wow. Not only rich but incredibly good-looking, he had a firm jaw, high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. What was he doing here?

She pulled back on the zoom to include the dealer in his black mesh T-shirt and striped track pants. He pushed open the torn screen door and stepped onto the concrete slab porch under a rusted metal awning.

The pounding beat of rap music covered any noise Liz made as she clicked off several photos to make sure she caught them together.

Instead of going inside, Ben remained on the porch. For a moment, she hoped he wasn’t here to make a buy, that there was a legitimate reason. Then he pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. The dealer handed over three brown, plastic vials.

Click. Click. Click. She had the money shot. A big payday for the Schooner Detective Agency.

The two men shook hands. Ben pivoted and returned to his Mustang while the dealer stood on the porch and watched Ben’s taillights as he drove away.

Another man with a scraggly beard staggered outside and pointed.

Liz glanced over her shoulder to see what they were looking at. Harry crouched between two cars at the curb, his white hair gleaming in the moonlight.

“Hey, old man.” The dealer came off the porch. “What the hell you doing?”

Harry straightened his stiff joints. “Guess I got lost.”

“You watching us?” The two men stepped into the yard. From down the street, she heard ferocious barking, the prelude to a fight, and she knew Harry wasn’t up to it.

She stashed the camera in the pocket of her windbreaker and rushed toward her partner. “There you are, Gramps. I’ve been looking all over for you.” To the two men in the yard, she said, “Sorry if he bothered you. He wanders sometimes.”

Their cold sneers told her that they weren’t buying her story. The dealer snapped, “Stop right there, bitch.”

“I’ll just take Gramps home and—”

The crack of a gunshot brought her to a halt. She froze at the edge of the yard, praying that Harry wouldn’t return fire. A shootout wouldn’t be good for anybody.

Liz turned and faced the two men, who swaggered toward her. Her pulse raced, not so much from fear as uncertainty. She didn’t know what to expect. Forcing an innocent smile, she said, “There’s no need for guns.”

“What’s in your pocket? You carrying heat?”

As long as they didn’t immobilize her, she ought to be able to take these two guys. Her five years studying martial arts at Dragon Lou’s gave her an edge. Liz was capable of shattering a cinderblock with her bare hand.

From across the street, Harry yelled, “Leave her alone.”

Please, Harry. Please don’t use your gun. She had to act fast. No time to wait and see.

Liz aimed a flying kick at the bearded guy, neatly disarming him. Before his buddy could react, she whirled, chopped at his arm and kicked again. Though her hand missed, the heavy sole of her boot connected with his knee, and he stumbled.

The bearded man grabbed her forearm. Worst possible scenario. Both men had more brute strength than she did. Her advantage was speed and agility. She twisted and flipped, wrenching her arm free. He still clung to the sleeve of her windbreaker. She escaped by slipping out of her jacket.

Before they could brace themselves for another assault, she unleashed a series of kicks and straight-hand chops. Not a pretty, precise display. She wouldn’t win any tournament points for style, but she got the job done with several swift blows to vulnerable parts of their anatomy. Throat. Gut. Groin.

Both were on their knees.

Another man rushed out the door. And another.

Behind her back, she heard Harry fire his automatic. Five shots.

She ran for the car.

Harry collapsed into the passenger side as she dived behind the wheel and cranked the ignition. Without turning on the headlights, she burned rubber and tore down the street.

Gunfire exploded behind them.

Liz didn’t cut her speed until they reached a major intersection, where she turned on the headlights and merged into traffic. Her heart hammered inside her rib cage. They could have been killed. The aftermath of intense danger exploded behind her eyelids like belated fireworks.

Thank God for Dragon Lou and his martial arts training.

Beside her in the passenger seat, Harry was breathing heavily. With the back of his hand, he wiped sweat from his forehead. “Did you get the pictures?”

She cringed. “The camera was in my windbreaker. The bearded guy pulled it off me.”

“It’s okay.”

“But you’re not.” She took note of his pasty complexion and heaving chest. “I’m taking you to the emergency room.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Kick the old man out of the way and take over his business.”

“Yeah, that’s my evil plan. Adding your debt to my student loans.” Sarcasm covered her concern for him. “That’s every girl’s dream.”

“Seriously, Liz. I don’t need a doc.” He exhaled in a long whoosh that dissolved into a hacking cough. “This was a little too much excitement for the old ticker.”

“Is this your way of telling me that you have heart problems?”

“Forget it. Just drive back to the office.”

Checking her rearview mirrors, she continued along Colfax Avenue. She didn’t see anyone following them; they’d made a clean getaway. Just in case, she turned south at the next intersection and drove toward the highway. “We need to call the police.”

“Nope.”

“Harry, those guys shot at us. They assaulted us.”

“But I returned fire.” He cleared his throat, breathing more easily. His clenched fist lifted from his chest. “And you kicked ass. You might look like a Pop-Tart, but you were a fire-breathing dragon.”

“My form wasn’t terrific.”

“You did good.” He reached over and patted her shoulder. Always stingy with his compliments, Harry followed up with a complaint. “Too bad you messed up and lost the camera.”

“Don’t even think about taking the cost out of my wages.” At a stoplight, she studied him again. He seemed to have recovered. “We need to fill out a police report. Those people are dealing drugs.”

“And I guarantee that the narcs are well aware. Leave the drug dealers to the cops, we’ve got problems of our own. Like how to get that juicy bonus from Victoria.”

Tomorrow, she’d put in a call to a friend at the Denver PD. At the very least, she wanted to see those children removed from a dangerous environment.

Harry sat up straighter. “Time to switch to Plan B.”

“I don’t like the sound of this.”

“My source is the housekeeper who works at the Crawford estate near Evergreen. She can—”

“Wait a sec. How did you get to know a housekeeper?” She glanced toward the backseat. “You’ve never tidied up anything in your whole life.”

“I served with her dad in Vietnam, and we stay in touch. Her name is Rachel Frakes. She’s actually the one who recommended me to Victoria.”

That connection explained a lot. The Schooner Detective Agency wasn’t usually the first choice of the rich and famous. “What’s Plan B?”

“Rachel gets you inside the estate. While you’re there, you dig up the dirt on Ben.”

“An undercover assignment.”

That didn’t sound too shabby. Maybe she’d impersonate a fancy-pants interior decorator. Or a horse wrangler. An upscale estate near Evergreen had to have several acres and a stable. Or she could be a guest—maybe an eccentric jet-setting heiress. A descendant of the Romanov czars. “Who am I supposed to be?”

He almost smiled. “You’ll see.”

Chapter Two

The next afternoon, Liz tromped down the back staircase from her brand-new undercover home—a third-floor garret at the Crawford mansion. Her starched gray uniform with the white apron reminded her of a Pilgrim costume she’d worn in fourth grade. The hem drooped below her knees, which was probably a good thing because she belatedly realized that she hadn’t shaved her legs since before she started studying for final exams. Entering the kitchen, she adjusted the starched white cap that clung with four bobby pins to her unruly blond hair.

A maid. She was supposed to be a maid. The thrills just kept coming.

At the bottom of the staircase, Rachel the housekeeper stood with fists planted on her hips. She was a tall, solidly built woman who would have fit right in with the Russian women’s weightlifting team. Her short blond hair was neatly slicked back away from her face. “Liz, may I remind you that a maid is supposed to be as unobtrusive as a piece of furniture.”

“Okay.” Call me Chippendale.

“While descending the staircase, you sounded like a herd of bison. We walk softly on the pads of our feet.”

“If I walk softly, can I carry a big stick?”

Rachel’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Surely, you don’t intend to hit anything.”

“I’m joking.” If this had been a real job, Liz would have already quit. “Any other advice?”

“The proper answer to a question is yes or no. Not ‘okay.’ And certainly not a joke. Is that clear?”

Liz poked at her silly white cap. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Do something with your hair. It’s all over the place.”

She bit the inside of her mouth. “Yes, ma’am.”

“No perfume. No nail polish. No makeup.”

“No problem.” That part of the assignment suited her normal procedure. “You know, Rachel, Harry and I really appreciate this—”

“Say nothing more.” She pulled the door to the stairwell closed, making sure they were alone. “If anyone finds out what you’re doing here, I’ll deny any knowledge of your true profession.”

“Yes, ma’am.” In a low voice, she asked, “What can you tell me about Ben?”

“A fine-looking man but brooding. When Victoria told me about his drug problem, I had to act. I can’t stand the thought of his daughter being raised by an addict.”

“He doesn’t usually live here, does he?”

“His home is in Seattle where he runs Crawford Aero-Equipment. They supply parts to the big airplane manufacturers and also build small custom jets.”

Seemed like an extremely responsible job for a drug addict. “Why is he in Colorado?”

“This is his grandfather’s house. Jerod Crawford.” Her forehead pinched. “Jerod is a generous, brave man. He’s dying from a brain tumor.”

“And his grandson came home to take care of him.”

Again, Ben’s behavior wasn’t what she’d expect from a druggie degenerate. Maybe he was here to make sure he inherited big bucks when grandpa died.

“For right now, you’re needed in the kitchen,” Rachel said. “We have a dinner party for sixteen scheduled for this evening.”

Maybe some of these guests would provide negative evidence she could use against Ben. “Anybody I should watch for?”

“In what sense?”

“Other drug users. He must have gotten the name of his dealer from somebody.”

“That’s for you to investigate,” Rachel said. “In the meantime, report to the kitchen.”

“I’ll be there in a flash. Right after I comb my hair.”

Liz tiptoed up the stairs to the second floor. No matter what Rachel thought, her first order of business was to locate Ben’s bedroom and search for his drug stash. She opened the door and stepped into the center of a long hallway decorated with oil paintings of landscapes hung above a natural cedar wainscoting. She peeked into an open door and saw an attractive bedroom with rustic furnishings—nothing opulent but a hundred times better than the tiny garret on the third floor where she’d dropped off her backpack and changed into the starchy maid outfit.

A tall brunette in a black pantsuit emerged from one of the rooms and stalked down the hallway.

Though Liz beamed a friendly smile, the brunette went past her without acknowledging her presence. Apparently, this was what it felt like to be furniture.

“Excuse me,” Liz piped up.

The woman paused. “What?”

“I’m new here. And I’m looking for Ben’s bedroom.”

“My brother’s room is right down there. Close to Grandpa.”

The double doors to Jerod’s room were open, and she heard other people inside. “Thank you.”

There were too many people milling around to make a thorough search of Ben’s room. Later, she’d come back. And right now? Liz wasn’t anxious to report for maid duty in the kitchen. She’d use this time to explore, to get a sense of this sprawling house and the acreage that surrounded it.

On the drive here, she hadn’t seen much. After the turnoff in Evergreen, she’d gone three-point-four miles on a narrow road that twisted through a thick forest of ponderosa pine, spruce and conifer. A wrought-iron gate between two stone pillars protected the entrance, and a chain-link fence enclosed the grounds. She’d had to identify herself over an intercom before the gates opened electronically.

The stone-and-cedar mansion nestled against a granite ridge. The main section rose three stories. Several different levels—landscaped terraces and cantilevered decks—made the house seem as though it had grown organically from the surrounding rocks and trees.

Liz went down a short hallway beside the staircase. A beveled glass door opened onto the second-story outdoor walkway made of wood planks. At the far end, the walkway opened onto a huge, sunlit deck.

Towering pines edged up to the railing. Hummingbird feeders and birdhouses hung from the branches. Several padded, redwood chairs and chaises faced outward to enjoy the view, but no one was outside. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined this side of the house, which was very likely Jerod Crawford’s bedroom. Lucky for her, the drapes were closed.

As Liz walked to the railing, a fresh mountain breeze caressed her cheeks. Twitters from chipmunks and birds serenaded her. Multicolored petunias in attached wooden flower boxes bobbed cheerfully.

People like her didn’t live in places like this. A grassy field dotted with scarlet Indian paintbrush and daisies rolled downhill, past a barn and another outbuilding, to a shimmering blue lake, surrounded by pines. In the distance, snow-covered peaks formed a majestic skyline.

At the edge of the lake, a wood dock stretched into the water. Though she was over a hundred yards away, she thought she recognized Ben. He faced a woman with platinum-blond hair and a bright red sweater.

Though Liz couldn’t hear their words, they were obviously arguing. The woman gestured angrily. Ben pulled back as though he couldn’t stand being close to her.

She stamped her foot.

And then, she slapped him.

BEN RESTRAINED AN URGE to strike back at Charlene. Much as she had earned the right to have her ass thrown off his grandpa’s property, that wasn’t Ben’s call.

Through tight lips, he said, “You’re not always going to have things your way.”

“No matter what you think, I’m the one in charge around here. Me. I’m Jerod’s wife.”

A ridiculous but undeniably true statement. At age thirty-six, she was only two years older than Ben himself. He hated having to consult with her on his grandpa’s medical care and would never understand why the old man listened to her.

“Be reasonable, Charlene. I’ve been talking to specialists and neurosurgeons. They think Jerod’s tumor could be removed.”

“I don’t want your doctors.” She screeched like a harpy. “Jerod is happy with Dr. Mancini. And so am I.”

Dr. Al Mancini had been the Crawford family doctor for years, and he was competent to treat sniffles and scraped knees. But a brain tumor? “Mancini isn’t even practicing anymore. He’s retired.”

“And Jerod is his only patient. Dr. Mancini comes here every single day. Your specialist would put Jerod in the hospital. And he refuses.”

Unfortunately, Charlene was correct. His stubborn, Texas-born grandpa had planted himself here and wouldn’t budge. Every day, the tumor inside his head continued to grow. His vision was seriously impaired, and he barely had the strength to get out of his wheelchair. “If not an operation, he needs access to other treatments. Radiation. Cutting-edge medications.”

“He won’t go. And I’m not going to force him.”

For the moment, he abandoned this topic. There were other bones to pick. “At least, cancel your damn dinner party. Jerod needs peace and quiet.”

“You want to pretend like he’s already dead. Well, he’s not. He needs activity and excitement. That’s why he married me.”

“Really? I thought it had more to do with your thirty-six double-D chest.”

She slapped him again. This time, he’d earned it.

With a swish of her hips, Charlene flounced up the hill toward the house.

Five years ago, when his grandpa had announced that he wanted to marry a Las Vegas showgirl, Ben had been almost proud of the old guy. After a lifetime of hard work that had started in the Texas oil fields, Jerod had the right to amuse himself. Even if it meant the rest of the family had to put up with a gold digger.

Charlene had readily agreed to a very generous prenuptial agreement. Whether their marriage was ended by divorce or death, she walked away with a cool half million in cash. Not a bad deal.

Ben had expected Charlene to divorce his grandpa after a year and grab the cash, but she’d stayed…and stayed…and stayed. In her shallow way, she might even love Jerod. And he had to admit that their May–December marriage had turned out better than his. Nothing good had come from that union, except for his daughter.

He walked to the end of the small dock. A spring wind rippled the waters. Trout were jumping. In the rolling foothills of Colorado, he saw the swells of the ocean. He missed his home in Seattle that overlooked the sea, but he cherished every moment here with his grandpa as the old man prepared for his final voyage.

Behind his back, Ben heard someone step onto the dock. Had Charlene come back? He turned and saw a gray maid’s uniform. “What is it?”

“You must be Ben.” She marched toward him with her hand outthrust. “I’m Liz Norton. The new maid.”

He accepted her handshake. Though she was a slender little thing, her grip was strong. He took a second look at her. The expression in her luminous green eyes showed a surprising challenge. Not the usual demeanor for household staff. “Is this your first job as a servant?”

“Servant?” Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “I can’t say that I like that job description. Sounds like I ought to curtsey.”

“I suppose you have a more politically correct job title in mind.”

She pulled her hand away from his grasp and thought for half a second. “Housekeeping engineer.”

In spite of her droopy gray uniform, she radiated electricity, which might explain why her hair looked like she’d stuck her finger in a wall socket. He would have dismissed her as being too cute. Except for the sharp intelligence in her green eyes.

“Nice place you’ve got here.” She stepped up beside him. “Are there horses?”

“Not anymore. Horses were my grandmother’s passion. Arabians. God, they were beautiful.” He had fond memories of grooming the horses with his grandmother. “After she passed away, ten years ago, Jerod sold them to someone who would love them as much as she had.”

“Wise decision. Every living creature needs to be with someone who loves them.”

A hell of a profound statement. “Are you? With someone who loves you?”

“I do okay.” She cocked her head and looked up at him. “How about you, Ben? Who loves you?”

“My daughter,” he responded quickly. “Natalie.”

Her expression went blank as if she had something to hide. All of a sudden, her adorable freckled face seemed less innocent. He wondered why she’d approached him, why she spoke of love.

There had been incidents in the past when female employees had tried to seduce him, but Liz’s body language wasn’t flirtatious. Her arms hung loosely at her sides. Her feet were planted solidly. Something else motivated her.

“You have a reputation as an adventurer,” she said. “What kind of stuff do you do? Something with the airplanes you manufacture?”

“I test-pilot our planes. Not for adventure. It’s work.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Cool job.”

“I’m not complaining.” He glanced up the hill toward the house. It was time to get his grandpa outside in the sun. Maybe he could talk some sense into the old man. “Please excuse me, Liz.”

Instead of stepping politely aside, she stayed beside him, matching her gait to his stride. “I think I met your sister at the house. Real slim. Dressed in black.”

“That’s Patrice.” And not good news. He’d known that his sister and her husband, Monte, were coming to dinner, but he hadn’t expected her until later. As a rule, he tried to keep his sister and Charlene separate. The two women hated each other.

“Is your sister married?” Liz asked.

“Yes.”

“Any kids?”

Patrice was far too selfish to spoil her rail-thin figure by getting pregnant. “None.”

From the house, he heard a high-pitched scream.

Ben took off running.

When he looked over, he saw Liz with her uniform hiked up, racing along beside him. She had to be the most unusual maid he’d ever met.

Chapter Three

Liz charged up the incline from the lake toward the house. Though her legs churned at top speed, she couldn’t keep pace with Ben’s stride.

She heard a second scream…and a third that trailed off into an incoherent, staccato wail that reminded her of a kid throwing a tantrum in the grocery store aisle. The cries seemed to be coming from the front entrance.

Trailing behind Ben, she couldn’t help but admire his running form. His long legs pumped. His forest-green shirt stretched tightly across his muscular shoulders. For a supposed drug addict, he appeared to be in amazing physical condition. As he approached the shiny, black Escalade parked at the front door, he muttered, “Son of a bitch.”

Two bitches, actually. Beside the SUV, two women grappled. Patrice shrieked again. Still clad in her sleek black pantsuit, she had both arms clutched possessively around a large metal object. Charlene tugged at her arms and delivered a couple of ineffectual swats on Patrice’s skinny bottom.

Liz stopped and stared at the spectacle of two grown women scuffling like brats on a playground. She didn’t envy Ben as he waded into the middle of the wrestling match and pulled them apart. “What the hell is going on?”

Without loosening her grip on what appeared to be a two-foot-tall bronze statue of a rearing bronco, Patrice tossed her head. Her smooth, chin-length mahogany hair fell magically into place. “Grandma Crawford gave this original Remington to me. It once belonged to Zane Grey, you know.”

“You’re a thief.” Charlene jabbed in her direction with a red manicured fingernail that matched her sweater. “How dare you come to my house and steal from me.”

“Your house?”

“That’s right.” Charlene’s blue eyes flashed like butane flames. “I’m Jerod’s wife. All this is mine.”

Patrice’s nostrils flared as she inhaled and exhaled loudly. She spat her words. “You. Are. Sadly. Mistaken.”

“I’ll show you who’s wrong.” Charlene lunged.

Ben caught the small woman by her waist, lifted her off her feet, carried her a few paces and dropped her. “Stop it,” he growled. “Both of you.”

Other residents of the house had responded to the shrieks. The gardener and chauffeur peeked around a hedge. On the landing, a man in a chef hat hovered behind another maid with eyes round as silver dollars. Rachel Frakes glared disapprovingly. When her gaze hit Liz, she remembered the lecture on decorum and reached up to adjust the starched white maid’s cap that hung precariously from one bobby pin.

Ben strode toward his sister. “Give me the damn horse.”

“It’s mine.” She stuck out her chin. “Besides, you’re supposed to be on my side.”

“Give it to me. Now.” His eyes—which were an incredible shade of teal—narrowed. An aura of command and determination emanated from him, and Liz recognized the strong charisma of a born leader. It would take a stronger woman than Patrice to stand up to Ben.

His right hand closed around the neck of the rearing bronco, and he gave a tug. Reluctantly, his sister released her grip.

Quickly, he passed the sculpture to Liz. “Would you take this inside, please.”

“Sure.” She remembered her earlier conversation with Rachel about proper responses and amended, “I mean, yes.”

The burnished bronze was still warm from being cradled against Patrice’s body. Liz held it gingerly. She wasn’t a big fan of Western art, even if it had belonged to the legendary Western writer Zane Grey, but this lump of metal must be worth a lot.

Ben turned back to Patrice and Charlene. “Shake hands and make up, ladies.”

“No way,” Charlene responded. “I’m not going to touch that skinny witch.”

“This feud has gone far enough.” His baritone took on an ominous rumble. “Like it or not, we’re family. We stick together.”

Liz edged around the three of them on her way toward the front door. This squabble—though plenty juicy and perversely entertaining—really wasn’t her concern. Her job as a private investigator meant finding evidence proving that Ben was an unfit father—a task that had taken on a layer of complication. She’d expected him to be an addict or a crazed playboy or an irresponsible adventurer. None of those identities fit. He seemed family oriented and rational…even admirable.

Before Liz could step inside, a well-tanned man—dressed in the male version of Patrice’s black suit—appeared in the doorway and struck a pose as if waiting for a GQ photographer. Though his blond hair was thinning on top, he’d compensated with a long ponytail. He squinted at Liz’s face, then his gaze caught on the sculpture. “What do you think you’re doing with that horse?”

“I was planning to saddle up and ride in the Kentucky Derby.”

“It’s mine.” He gestured toward Patrice. “Ours.”

“And who are you?” Liz inquired. “The great-grandson of Zane Grey? A Rider of the Purple Sage?”

“Monte. Monte Welles.” Like Bond. James Bond. “Patrice’s husband.”

When he made the mistake of reaching for the statue that had been entrusted to her care by Ben, her reaction came from pure instinct. With both arms busy holding the bronze horse, Liz relied on her feet. Two quick, light kicks tapped on his ankle, then the toe of his left foot.

He gave a yelp and backed off. “You’re fired.”

“The hell she is,” Ben said. “Monte, get your butt over here and talk some sense into your wife. She and Charlene need to kiss and make up.”

“Hah!” Patrice tossed her head again. “I’d rather kiss a toad.”

“I’ll bet,” Charlene countered. “That’s why you married Monte.”

Liz stifled a chuckle. Though she wasn’t taking sides, she gave a point to Charlene for her nifty insult.

Patrice planted her fists on her nonexistent hips. “Leave my husband out of this.”

“Gladly.”

“And I want an apology. I wasn’t stealing. Just reclaiming something that belongs to me.”

“Wrong,” Charlene said. “This is my house. Everything in it belongs to me.”

“Not for long—prenup. Remember the prenup,” Patrice said smugly. “When Jerod dies, you get a payoff and nothing more. Not a stick of furniture. Not one square foot of property. And certainly not my Remington sculpture.”

A sly grin curved Charlene’s glossy lips. “What would you say if I told you that Jerod has decided to change his will?”

Patrice looked like she might faint. Her complexion went ghostly pale. Her arms fell limply to her sides. “How could you say such a thing?”

“Maybe because it’s true.” Charlene preened. “You can check with the family attorney. He’ll be at dinner.”

“Grandpa wouldn’t do that,” she mumbled. “He couldn’t. Not on his deathbed.”

“He’s not going to die,” Charlene said with vehement conviction. “He’s going to get better.”

“Damn straight, honey. You tell ’em.”

Those few words, spoken in a Texan drawl, riveted everyone’s attention to the doorway. A white-haired man in a wheelchair was pushed onto the landing by a nurse in scrubs. Dark sunglasses perched on his beaklike nose. A plaid wool bathrobe hung from the frame of his shoulders. Though debilitated by illness, he was clearly the patriarch. Jerod Crawford, age seventy-six, took immediate, unquestioned control of the situation. “You girls quit your squabbling. And I mean now.”

A laugh bubbled from Charlene’s lips as she bounced toward her husband, leaned down and planted a quick kiss on his forehead. “You look good today. Excited about our party?”

“I’m waiting to see what you’ll wear. I like you all gussied up and smelling like roses.”

“I know you do.” She checked her wristwatch. “I need to run into town and pick up my dress from the seamstress. Don’t get yourself too tired before our guests arrive.”

“Ain’t much strain sitting in this here chair.”

She held both of his gnarled hands and squeezed. “Take care, lover boy. You’re my bumblebee.”

“And you’re my honey.”

Even though Charlene was probably a gold digger, Liz thought her fondness for Jerod rang true. Likewise for Ben, who stepped behind his grandpa’s wheelchair and pushed him along the driveway toward a narrow asphalt path leading toward the lake.

Rachel tapped Liz’s shoulder. “Put the sculpture on the table in the den and report to the kitchen.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As she entered the house, Liz reflected. She’d learned a lot about the dynamics of the Crawford family. Their greed. Their hostility. The seething undercurrent of hate and anger masked by these luxurious surroundings. Unfortunately, she’d gained zero evidence that Ben was an unfit father.

LIZ ALWAYS HAD TROUBLE following orders, but she tried to do as Rachel asked. Now she was baffled. Her assignment was to put together the place settings with half a dozen utensils, four plates, three different glasses and cup and saucer. She stood at the head of the table, shuffled the forks, switched the positions of the wineglass and water glass. Was that how it went?

When she looked up and saw Ben watching her with an amused smile, she felt a hot flush creeping up her throat. Blushing? She hadn’t blushed since sophomore year of high school when the captain of the baseball team had kissed her in the hallway, and she’d let him get to second base.

Ben came closer. “Could you use some help?”

Embarrassed about blushing, she thought of icebergs and snowstorms—anything to cool her off. Though she hated to admit that she didn’t have a clue about the third fork, Liz feared that Rachel would have a coronary if the place settings weren’t perfect. “I could use some expert advice.”

His shoulder brushed her arm as he reached across the plate setting to rearrange the knives. She was aware of his bodily warmth and a natural masculine scent that was far more enticing than aftershave. Not that she should be noticing the way he smelled. Her focus should be on gathering evidence to prove that he was an unfit father.

When he finished with the formal setting and stepped back, she nodded. “I knew that.”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “Did you?”

“Not really, but it’s not something that bothers me. In the grand scheme of things, why should I waste brain cells on knowing where to put the forks?”

“You’re not really a maid. Sorry, housekeeping engineer. Why are you really here?”

His intense blue-eyed gaze rested suspiciously upon her face. He wanted the truth, which wasn’t something she could give.

From her other undercover experiences, she’d learned that successful lies were based on truth, so she stuck to reality. “I’m a law student, paying my own way. I need a summer job, and I heard about this maid gig through a friend of a friend.”

His scrutiny continued; he wasn’t totally satisfied with her answer. “I liked the way you handled Monte. You know karate.”

Now the truth got more complicated. If she mentioned Dragon Lou, Ben might check her out with a phone call, which might lead to someone mentioning her part-time work as a private eye. “I learned the basics of self-defense. Seemed like a smart thing for a woman living alone.”

Having offered a rational explanation, she should have stopped talking but really wanted him to believe her. She continued, “You probably won’t find it hard to believe that I’ve gotten myself into a few scrapes. About six years ago, I went out with this guy…” A warning voice inside her head told her to shut up. Shut up, now. “Maybe I had too much to drink. Maybe he did. I don’t know.”

Ben’s attention never wavered. “Go on.”

“Somehow,” she said, “I ended up at his apartment. He got aggressive. When I told him no, he didn’t stop.”

She had never told anyone—not her mother, not her friends, not Harry Schooner—about that night. She’d been date raped. Remembering her weakness made her sad and angry at the same time. “That’s when I started taking karate lessons. And I’m good. No one can force me to do something I don’t want to do. Never again. No means no.”

He took a step toward her, and she feared he would offer sympathy. A shoulder to cry on. Or a gentle platitude that could never make things better.

Instead he shook her hand. “Smart decision, Liz.”

“Thank you, Ben.”

She was beginning to really like this guy.

Chapter Four

To Liz, the flurry of anticipation and activity surrounding the arrival of the dinner guests seemed out of proportion. It wasn’t as if the Queen of England would be popping by for a state dinner. Her attitude was in direct contrast to the other maid, Annette Peltier, who twittered excitedly as she rearranged the centerpiece on the dining room table.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Annette gushed. Her maid’s cap nestled perfectly above a neat chignon at the back of her head. “I just love these dinner parties.”

“Who’s coming, anyway?”

“Patrice and her husband. He’s a famous athlete, you know.”

“Monte? What sport?”

“He was in the winter Olympics. In the biathalon. The one where they ski and shoot. He’s a marksman.”

“Who else?”

“Dr. Mancini and Tony Lansing, the family lawyer.” She fussed over the elegant china and crystal, adjusting the place settings one centimeter left, then right. “And Charlene’s friends from Denver. They’re so beautiful, especially Ramon Stephens. He’s dreamy.”

Rachel came into the dining room and gave a snort. “Watch out for Ramon when he has a couple of martinis in him. That young man thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”

Though there were wineglasses on the table, Liz hadn’t noticed a liquor setup. “Where’s the bar?”

“In the downstairs lounge. Which is, undoubtedly, where they’ll go after dinner.”

“I used to be a bartender. Maybe I could—”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?” For the first time, Rachel regarded her as though she were more than a waste of space. “Bartending will be your primary assignment. Run downstairs and make sure everything is in order.”

“I’m on it.”

“Liz, please,” Rachel chided. “Proper response.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Liz skipped down the staircase into a long, low room with a beamed ceiling and a fireplace. Classic leather furniture arrayed around a red-felt pool table and giant flat-screen television. The carved cherrywood bar was stocked with an inventory of mixes for a very upscale selection of liquor. Nothing but the best for the Crawfords.

In the fridge, Liz found garnishes—lemons, limes, cherries and olives—everything she’d need for cocktails. An impressive bit of organization.

From upstairs, she heard the chatter of the first guests arriving. She ought to trot up there and see if she could be helpful, but Liz wasn’t planning on winning any prizes for Maid of the Year. Instead, she went to the far end of the room where sliding glass doors opened onto the forest. Outside, the sun dipped toward the mountains and colored the underbellies of clouds with a golden glow. From this vantage point, she could see down to the lake. To the south, there were two outbuildings. The big one was probably where the Arabian stallions of the first Mrs. Jerod Crawford had been kept. The other, constructed of rough logs, had only one story with garage-sized double doors across the front.

As she watched, she saw Ben emerge from a side door of the log barn. Though she was too far away to clearly see what he was doing, it looked like he was fastening a lock on the door. That kind of secrecy suggested nefarious purposes. The barn might be where he hid his drug stash.

How could he be an addict? The guy reeked of integrity. But she’d seen him making a buy from the dealer in Denver. Seen him with her own eyes.

She went back into the lounge in time to greet two men coming down the stairs. The white-haired man, neatly packaged in a three-piece gray suit with a red bow tie, was Dr. Al Mancini, the family doctor, who had been pointed out to her when he’d arrived at the house. Though the other man wore a casual sweater and jeans, he had the arrogance of a well-paid professional. From his precisely trimmed brown hair to his buffed fingernails, he was polished. In law school, she’d learned to recognize these guys on sight: lawyers. This had to be Tony Lansing, family attorney.

“Gentlemen,” she said. “May I get you something to drink?”

Barely noticing her, the doc ordered a whiskey on the rocks. The attorney wanted vodka with a twist.

“About Jerod’s new will,” the doctor said.

“I can’t discuss it, except to say that the amended document has just been signed, witnessed and filed away in my briefcase.”

“I can guess what it says.” The doctor leaned his elbow on the bar with the attitude of someone accustomed to drinking. In spite of his white hair, he didn’t look all that ancient. He was probably only in his fifties. “Jerod intends to cut the family and leave the bulk of his estate to Charlene. Is that about right, Tony?”

“I can’t say.”

But he gave a nearly imperceptible nod. Liz hadn’t come to the Crawford estate to investigate family matters, but the intrigue surrounding Jerod’s will was too juicy to ignore. She placed the whiskey on the bar in front of the doctor. With a deft flick of a paring knife, she peeled off a lemon twist for the vodka.

Picking up his whiskey, the doctor said, “I’ve known Jerod for nearly twenty years. He’s no fool. Charlene hasn’t tricked him into leaving her the millions. I think he truly loves that little blond cupcake.”

“Can’t blame him for that.”

“But here’s the kicker. I think she loves him back. If Charlene wasn’t here to enforce what Jerod wants, Ben would have put the old man in a hospital with a troop of specialists poking and prodding.”

Which didn’t sound like such a bad idea to Liz. Jerod had a brain tumor and gazillions of bucks to spend on medical treatment. Why not get the very best care?

Both men drank in silence.

The doctor licked his lips and grinned. “There’s one big problem with the new will.”

“What’s that?” Tony asked.

“Patrice is going to kill Charlene.”

When the two men had finished their drinks, Liz cleaned up the glasses. Straightening the starched white maid cap on her unruly blond hair, she ascended the staircase into a maelstrom of activity. Guests had been greeted at the door with flutes of champagne and were mostly in the living room, where a wall of windows displayed a magenta sunset. Patrice wore her trademark black, but the other women were a couture rainbow. The men were equally chic but in more subdued tones.

Her gaze went immediately to Ben. Though he still wore jeans, he’d thrown on a white fisherman’s knit sweater that made his shoulders look impossibly broad. She was surprised to find him looking back at her. With a subtle grin and a lift of his eyebrow, he communicated volumes. He’d been here before, heard all the chitchat before. And he’d rather be standing by the lake counting the ripples. Or soaring through the sunset in a sleek jet.

Or maybe she was reading too much into a glance.

Purposely turning away, Liz reported to the kitchen, where she did her best to follow the orders of the very nervous chef and Rachel.

Throughout the dinner, her assigned task would be serving each course and unobtrusively whisking away the dirty dishes. Her real agenda? Listening for clues. One of these guests might be Ben’s drug connection. He took a seat at the foot of the table. To his right sat an impassive blond woman with a plunging neckline and arms as skinny as pipe cleaners. Though she was as gaunt as a heroin addict, Liz guessed that her vacant expression came from hunger rather than drugs. On Ben’s left was Tony Lansing, who held up his empty cocktail glass, signaling to Liz that he wanted a refill.

She darted downstairs, whipped up another vodka with a twist and returned to the dining room in time to see Jerod make his entrance. Rising from his wheelchair, he leaned on Charlene’s arm as he made his way to the head of the table.

Illness had not diminished the charisma of this former Texas oil baron’s personality. As he greeted his guests, he showed dignity rather than weakness. Nor did Charlene treat him like an invalid. Standing close at his side, she effortlessly outshone every other woman in the room. Though small and slim, her hot-pink dress emphasized her curves. Her blond hair caught the light from the chandelier and shimmered as she gave her husband a peck on the cheek and took a seat beside him.

“I’m hungry as a bear,” Jerod announced. “Let’s eat.”

Liz and the rest of the staff leaped into action. Serving a formal dinner wasn’t as simple as when she’d worked as a waitress in a pancake house. Though she tried to follow the moves of Annette and Rachel, she bumped against chairs and the shoulders of the guests. The appetizer plates made loud clinks when she placed them into the formal setting. When she cleared those plates and stacked them one on top of the other, Rachel was waiting for her in the kitchen.

“You’re doing it all wrong,” she snapped. “Take the plates two at a time. One in each hand and return them to the kitchen.”

“Seems like a waste of time,” Liz said.

“This china is antique and worth a small fortune. Handle it carefully. We don’t want chips.”

Serving the clear consommé soup was a choreographed ritual with Liz holding the tureen while Annette ladled. Should have been easy. But Liz had never before moved with a glide. Her steps bounced. The soup sloshed. Hot droplets hit her hands, clinging tightly to the handles. Don’t drop it. Whatever you do, don’t drop this slippery, heavy piece of heirloom china.

When they got to Ben, he looked up at her. “Are we having fun yet?”

How would you like this whole tureen dumped onto your lap, Mister? She muttered, “Yes, sir.”

When the main course—filet mignon so tender that it could be cut with a fork—hit the table, Liz realized that she hadn’t eaten. Hunger pangs roiled in her belly as she stood at attention with a pitcher of ice water to replenish the glasses. She tensed her abs. Don’t growl. Please, stomach. Don’t growl.

Dinner conversation twittered around the table. Though the basic topics involved golf scores and vacation plans for the summer, Liz recognized an undercurrent of tension in the too-shrill laughter and hostile grimaces. Patrice fired hate-filled stares at Charlene. One of the couples were former lovers who sniped mercilessly at each other. The dark, handsome man who sat to Charlene’s left eyeballed her cleavage with undisguised longing and spewed compliments as if Charlene herself had cooked this fabulous dinner. That had to be the infamous Ramon.

As she leaned close to Ben to fill his water glass, her stomach let loose with a roar loud enough to stop conversation at that end of the table.

Patrice glared at her.

Rachel gaped.

Gallantly, Ben patted his own belly. “Excuse me,” he said. “I must be enjoying the meal.”

Instead of being grateful, Liz felt a surge of annoyance. She didn’t need for him to rescue her from embarrassment; she had nothing to be ashamed of. But her cheeks burned. Another blush?

At that moment, she hated all these people with their expensive clothes, hidden agendas and cost-a-fortune dishes. She remembered every time she’d been hungry—not from a self-imposed diet but because she couldn’t afford a loaf of bread. In the real world, stomachs growled, and she wanted to stand up and take credit. Demure, silent serving definitely wasn’t her thing.

Tony Lansing waggled his cocktail glass at her. “I’d like another.”

“Yes, sir.”

Though he was the only person drinking hard liquor, the others had gone through more than a dozen bottles of wine. The pipe-cleaner woman next to Ben had barely touched her food but managed to polish off several glasses of Chablis. She leaned to the left like the Tower of Pisa.

Downstairs at the bar, Liz attacked the garnishes in the fridge, devouring a blood orange in two seconds flat. Of course, she drooled the juice onto the front of her uniform. Of course.

Her choices were to go through the rest of the meal with a big, fat stain on her chest or to wash it out and be soggy. Another idea popped into her head. She could go up to her maid’s garret bedroom and change—maybe using the time to make a quick search in Ben’s bedroom.

After she delivered the vodka to Tony Lansing, she pointed out the stain to Rachel. “I should change.”

“No time,” she said. “Clear the dinner plates. Serve the dessert. Then you can change.”

She whipped through her duties, noting that a couple of guests had already left the table to take bathroom breaks or “freshen up.”

As soon as the last dessert plate was delivered, she headed for the back staircase, ducking into a darkened hallway off the kitchen. There was just enough light for her to see a couple locked in a passionate kiss.

Consumed by desire, they didn’t notice her. But Liz soaked in every detail. The bouncy blond hair belonged to Charlene. The man was the very polished lawyer, Tony Lansing. Their embrace put a whole different light on Jerod’s changed will. They might be working together to siphon all the money away from the Crawford estate. Should she tell Ben? Was it any of her business?

The overhead hallway light flashed on. Ramon charged past her.

“Bastard,” he shouted as he stalked toward the couple.

Charlene and Tony broke apart. In the sudden burst of light, she blinked wildly. Her bruised lips parted in a breathless gasp. Tony seemed disoriented, which wasn’t a surprise to Liz. The lawyer had tossed back a gallon of wine and three vodkas during dinner.

Ramon’s arm raised over his head.

Liz saw the glint of light on a kitchen knife. Her reaction was pure reflex. She kicked hard at the back of Ramon’s knee, sending him sprawling against the wall.

He whirled, facing her. “Stay out of this,” he warned.

“Drop your weapon.”

He lowered the blade, threatening her.

There wasn’t much room to maneuver in the narrow corridor, and the skirt on her uniform restricted her ability to kick high. Aiming carefully, she delivered a quick chop to his wrist. The knife clattered to the floor.

Ramon blocked her next blow. He flung his entire body at her, pinning her to the wall. His breath smelled like the inside of a garbage disposal. “Not so tough now, are you?”

The only way out of this hold was a knee to the groin as soon as he gave her the space to strike. And she was looking forward to that ultimately disabling attack.

Before she could act, Ramon was yanked away from her and thrown facedown on the floor.

Ben stood over his prone body with the heel of his boot planted firmly between Ramon’s shoulder blades. He turned toward Liz. “Are you all right?”

“I could have taken him down,” she said as she adjusted her stained uniform. “I don’t need you to rescue me.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He looked down at the knife on the floor, then confronted Tony and Charlene. “I want an explanation.”

“A misunderstanding,” Tony said smoothly. “Nothing to worry about.”

“He lies,” Ramon wailed from the floor. “He has insulted me. And my beautiful Charlene.”

Ben lifted him off the floor as if the muscular young man weighed no more than a sack of feathers. Ben’s large hand clamped around Ramon’s throat.

“Charlene is Jerod’s wife,” Ben reminded him. “She doesn’t belong to you.”

Charlene rushed forward. “Let him go, Ben.”

“I want this son of a bitch out of here.”

“Too damned bad.” Charlene tossed her head. “This is my house. I say who stays and who goes. Ramon amuses me.”

A vein in Ben’s forehead throbbed, and Liz sympathized with his anger. Some women enjoyed having men fight over them; the danger acted as an aphrodisiac. Indeed, Charlene appeared to be turned on. Her lips drew back from her whitened teeth. “I want Ramon to stay. And Tony, too.”

The lawyer found his voice. “Actually, I should be going. Thought I could catch a ride with Doctor Al.”

“If you must,” Charlene said.

“Thank you,” he said in a formal tone that was comical, given the threatening situation. “For a lovely evening.”

When the lawyer sidled out of the hallway, Ben released his hold on Ramon who slouched forward, rubbing his throat.

“One more thing,” Ben said to him. “Apologize to the lady.”

Ramon turned toward Charlene. “You know I would never hurt you. From the bottom of my heart, I am—”

“Not her,” Ben interrupted by physically turning him toward Liz. “Apologize to this lady.”

Ramon’s dark eyebrows pulled down in an angry scowl. His full lips pursed as he forced the words. “I am sorry.”

“Accepted,” Liz said quickly. She definitely wanted this episode to be over.

“There,” Charlene said. “Everything’s fine. And the night is young. I want to have some real fun tonight.”

In a low, dangerous voice, Ben warned, “Be careful what you ask for, Charlene.”

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