Fatal Trust Read Free Page B

and wiggled her
way out of the garage.
    Rule Number 148: Never get involved with a man who calls any
woman “babe.” Catherine pressed her lips together. Two new rules in one day.
Definitely a bad sign.
    At least her involvement with Ben was as fictitious as one
of Max’s bestsellers. She stepped out of the restroom. “I assume she’s just
your type.”
    Ben tore his gaze from the door the woman had exited through
and looked at Catherine. “Absolutely. Although I’ll have to wait to take her up
on her offer until my girlfriend from Lexington’s gone.”
    “I’ve changed my mind about that plan. I’m not up to acting
like a Playmate of the Month wannabe.”
    Ben raised his eyebrows. “You’ve got a problem with puppies,
bubble baths, and world peace? Those are Miss June’s favorite things.”
    Naturally he’d know. “I’ve got a problem pretending to be dumb
enough to think a broken muffler could make a car crash. The apparent double-D
requirement is also way beyond me.”
    “I didn’t say you had to be dumb, just not intellectual.” He
winked. “As to the other, I’m willing to make allowances for blondes. Follow my
truck.”
# # #
    Ben drove his pickup down Main Street, Catherine’s rented
Taurus trailing behind him, resisting the urge to floor it and try to lose her.
Jesus, what had Grandfather gotten him into? From what little he’d said about
his lawyer—and all he’d left unsaid—Ben had always pegged her as a clone of his
ex-wife Olivia. But now that he was expected to work with her, he’d hoped he’d
read between the wrong lines.
    No such luck. Catherine’s entrance into the garage had
confirmed that, the way she’d tiptoed as if stepping on a year-old spot of oil
would ruin her expensive shoes. And when it came to shooting condescending
looks, Catherine had Olivia beat.
    He hadn’t realized he’d given her a once-over when he’d been
trying to figure out whether she could carry off the girlfriend role, but at
least he’d apologized. Not that she’d believed he’d meant it. She probably
assumed a small-town mechanic like him spent his free time parked in his
La-Z-Boy recliner in a room with deer and moose heads covering nearly every
inch of wall space, chugging beer and watching reruns of the Miss Hooters
pageant—at least when he wasn’t out killing yet another defenseless animal to
add to his décor. Okay, so maybe he’d encouraged that impression, but her
attitude had pissed him off.
    On the other hand, he could use her help. Ben’s gut twisted,
and he gritted his teeth. This thing with Grandfather really sucked. Knowing
his great-aunt or one of his cousins was responsible made it even harder to
take.
    He owed Grandfather more than he could ever repay. He could
put up with Catherine Barrington and this charade for a little while.

CHAPTER 2
    Photographs of Nevermore didn’t do it justice. After driving
eight hilly miles northwest from Lake Superior—the last two on a road cut
through a thick forest of pines and birch trees—the massive house appeared, set
on an island of grass in an ocean of trees. Built of rose-colored stone with
enough gray overtones to eliminate any hint of warmth, it featured a black roof
and trim, three circular towers, dozens of wrought iron stakes, and several
gargoyles.
    Although it looked as if it had housed Nathaniel Hawthorne’s
contemporaries, Max had built Nevermore himself more than forty years ago. He’d
claimed the place had cost him a fortune—especially the ghosts he swore he’d
bought to haunt it.
    After parking in the circular drive and popping the trunk,
Catherine stepped out of her car. The relative silence, broken only by trees
rustling and creaking in the slight breeze, provided an ominous sound track. She
hugged herself against a chill that had little to do with a temperature at
least ten degrees cooler than in Lakeview.
    “It looks like something out of a gothic novel,” she said.
“It’s spooky even during the