to your family? Are you positive you should cross me?"
She wrinkled her pert nose. "I'm not afraid of you."
"You should be."
"Your grandfather said you were a spoiled bully. Now that I've met you, I see that his assessment was correct."
Her mentioning Harold was shocking, as if she'd cursed or spat on the floor.
"Don't you dare speak of him," Lucas commanded.
"What's the matter, you pathetic baby? Could it be that I have something you want and you can't get it back? Poor, poor Lucas Merriweather. Beaten by a girl ."
He leaned in, wishing he was the sort of man who would commit violence against a female. She deserved an old-fashioned thrashing.
"Don't be smart with me," he seethed.
"Why shouldn't I be? I know all about you."
"You couldn't possibly."
"You'd be surprised what Harold had to say." She whispered, "It was never anything good."
He narrowed his gaze, studying her, curious as to what machinations were rumbling through her devious, convoluted mind. Her words about his grandfather, her claim that Harold had made derogatory comments about Lucas, had Lucas rattled.
He had a small pile of memories of his grandfather—the man sitting in the bleachers at Lucas's T-ball game, holding his hand as they walked in a park—but they'd been drowned out by the shouting and recriminations that had come later.
Lucas always kept a tight rein on his emotions. He couldn't have been raised by his stern, autocratic father or his cool, detached mother and turned out any differently. But for some reason, the notion that his grandfather hadn't liked him was particularly wounding.
"Miss Benjamin"—Ms. Stone huffed over to where they were pressed together—"I have to ask you to leave."
"Yes, I should be going," Benjamin blithely agreed, and she had the gall to wink at Lucas. "I need to get home and check all the curtains so those pesky private detectives can't stick their cameras in my windows."
She started out, but spun at the last second and said, "By the way, the money is mine. Harold gave it to me, and you can't have it. Just thought you should know."
She waltzed out, and Lucas and Ms. Stone waited in a dreadful silence until the front door closed with her exit.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Merriweather," Ms. Stone began. "I had no idea she'd—"
"That woman is a menace," he interrupted, not in the mood for excuses.
"Yes, she certainly seems to be."
"And it's occurred to me that you have none of the skills necessary to negotiate with her."
"I was simply late. I didn't mean to be. I called your cell, but I—"
Lucas held up a hand, stopping her. "You're fired, Ms. Stone." He whipped away and stomped off. "As to Faith Benjamin, I'll deal with her myself."
CHAPTER TWO
"It was so hilarious. I wish you'd been there."
"Tell me every detail again. I never get tired of hearing about it."
Faith grinned at her dear friend and foster mother, Gracie Green. They were at home and three days past her encounter with Lucas Merriweather.
They lived in an older, two-story, four-bedroom house, complete with a front porch and oak trees in the yard. It had been Harold's, but was Faith's now. Not that her ownership had produced any changes. She'd just inherited ten million dollars, but she was carrying on modestly and quietly—as she always had.
Faith was making a pot of tea, while Gracie sat in the corner, dressed in a flowery caftan. Red was her favorite color, and she looked like an exotic bird: red hair, red lips, red nails.
They'd known each other for fifteen years, since the time when Faith had been a lonely orphan. She'd been lost in the Nevada foster care system, and when the state had placed her with Gracie, they'd clicked immediately. Gracie had had a rough childhood herself, so she had a knack for coping with kids like Faith.
Gracie was sixty, but when she was younger, she'd been a beauty who'd thrived on the seedier side of Las Vegas. She'd worked as an escort and had
She wrinkled her pert nose. "I'm not afraid of you."
"You should be."
"Your grandfather said you were a spoiled bully. Now that I've met you, I see that his assessment was correct."
Her mentioning Harold was shocking, as if she'd cursed or spat on the floor.
"Don't you dare speak of him," Lucas commanded.
"What's the matter, you pathetic baby? Could it be that I have something you want and you can't get it back? Poor, poor Lucas Merriweather. Beaten by a girl ."
He leaned in, wishing he was the sort of man who would commit violence against a female. She deserved an old-fashioned thrashing.
"Don't be smart with me," he seethed.
"Why shouldn't I be? I know all about you."
"You couldn't possibly."
"You'd be surprised what Harold had to say." She whispered, "It was never anything good."
He narrowed his gaze, studying her, curious as to what machinations were rumbling through her devious, convoluted mind. Her words about his grandfather, her claim that Harold had made derogatory comments about Lucas, had Lucas rattled.
He had a small pile of memories of his grandfather—the man sitting in the bleachers at Lucas's T-ball game, holding his hand as they walked in a park—but they'd been drowned out by the shouting and recriminations that had come later.
Lucas always kept a tight rein on his emotions. He couldn't have been raised by his stern, autocratic father or his cool, detached mother and turned out any differently. But for some reason, the notion that his grandfather hadn't liked him was particularly wounding.
"Miss Benjamin"—Ms. Stone huffed over to where they were pressed together—"I have to ask you to leave."
"Yes, I should be going," Benjamin blithely agreed, and she had the gall to wink at Lucas. "I need to get home and check all the curtains so those pesky private detectives can't stick their cameras in my windows."
She started out, but spun at the last second and said, "By the way, the money is mine. Harold gave it to me, and you can't have it. Just thought you should know."
She waltzed out, and Lucas and Ms. Stone waited in a dreadful silence until the front door closed with her exit.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Merriweather," Ms. Stone began. "I had no idea she'd—"
"That woman is a menace," he interrupted, not in the mood for excuses.
"Yes, she certainly seems to be."
"And it's occurred to me that you have none of the skills necessary to negotiate with her."
"I was simply late. I didn't mean to be. I called your cell, but I—"
Lucas held up a hand, stopping her. "You're fired, Ms. Stone." He whipped away and stomped off. "As to Faith Benjamin, I'll deal with her myself."
CHAPTER TWO
"It was so hilarious. I wish you'd been there."
"Tell me every detail again. I never get tired of hearing about it."
Faith grinned at her dear friend and foster mother, Gracie Green. They were at home and three days past her encounter with Lucas Merriweather.
They lived in an older, two-story, four-bedroom house, complete with a front porch and oak trees in the yard. It had been Harold's, but was Faith's now. Not that her ownership had produced any changes. She'd just inherited ten million dollars, but she was carrying on modestly and quietly—as she always had.
Faith was making a pot of tea, while Gracie sat in the corner, dressed in a flowery caftan. Red was her favorite color, and she looked like an exotic bird: red hair, red lips, red nails.
They'd known each other for fifteen years, since the time when Faith had been a lonely orphan. She'd been lost in the Nevada foster care system, and when the state had placed her with Gracie, they'd clicked immediately. Gracie had had a rough childhood herself, so she had a knack for coping with kids like Faith.
Gracie was sixty, but when she was younger, she'd been a beauty who'd thrived on the seedier side of Las Vegas. She'd worked as an escort and had
Similar Books
Office Seduction
Lucia Jordan
Night of the Living Demon Slayer
Angie Fox
Majoring In Murder
Jessica Fletcher
A Writer's Tale
Richard Laymon
An Unexpected Love
Claire Matthews
Spitfire (Puffin Cove)
Carla Doolin
The Bitter Taste
Leanne Fitzpatrick
Waiting Fate
W.B. Kinnette