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The Playboy Assignment
Leigh Michaels


Finding Mr RightKit, Susannah, Alison–Single, successful and not searching for husbands–but love finds them anyway!Persuading a millionaire to part with a fortune seemed like mission impossible. Even if it was in the public interest, it was going to be tough–especially as the man in question turned out to be Marcus Herrington…Susannah's first love.Eight years ago, Marc had stormed out of her life, believing she was having another man's baby. Convincing him otherwise, while sweet-talking him into helping a worthy cause, would be tricky. Even more so when Marc insisted negotiations take place in the bedroom! Suddenly Susannah was struggling to remember that the playboy assignment was business, not pleasure!







Finding Mr Right (#u184bbcb0-4202-5adc-9cbd-e4de7e7796de)Letter to Reader (#uc2eb737e-6e84-577a-82fb-260cb9bd3fbc)Title Page (#u49dc10da-5035-58b8-879a-4ff75e1dc1bb)CHAPTER ONE (#u38381d1f-ba70-5839-b404-e06acb186a2a)CHAPTER TWO (#ue7441397-cceb-5d79-9cac-283816f27f46)CHAPTER THREE (#u6f4dd0f0-8288-569d-be2f-6e17f8c7673c)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Finding Mr Right

Welcome to the second book in Leigh Michaels’s wonderful new trilogy—all about dating games and the single woman!

Meet Kit, Susannah and Alison. Three very special women who are friends, business partners—and happily single! Ambitious and successful, they live life to the fullest and have no room on their agenda for husband hunting!

But it seems they don’t have to go looking for Mr Right... because each finds themselves unexpectedly pursued by their very own dream date....

Last month we saw Kit, sensitive and practical, organizing a bachelor auction and winning The Billionaire Date (March #3496).

Now meet Susannah—bubbly and impulsive, she thought she’d never see Marcus again after their affair ended. Until a work project brings them together and Susannah faces The Playboy Assignment (April #3500).

Next month, warmhearted Alison can no longer deny her craving for a baby when she meets a doctor who could help her, and finds herself taking on The Husband Project (May #3504).

You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, but you won’t be able to put these books down as you share in a very special friendship between three wonderful women, and fall in love with the gorgeous men who—eventually—win them over!


Dear Reader,

Over the years, I’ve greatly enjoyed writing books which are connected—sequels, prequels and spin-offs. They usually come about because a secondary character in one book is so interesting that he or she demands a story of their own. But until now, I’ve never tackled an interconnected set of books, knowing from the very beginning that the stories would be so closely tied together that—while each book can stand alone—the three form a very special package. So the FINDING MR RIGHT trilogy has been both a challenge and a joy.

My editor and I had been talking about a trilogy for some time, and I’d been looking for the perfect setting in which my heroines could be business partners as well as friends. Then one of my friends mentioned that her sister was a partner in an all-woman public relations firm in Kansas City, Missouri. Now that was a story possibility made just for me, since I have a journalism background and public relations experience. And though, to this day, I know nothing more about that real-life PR firm than that it employs only women, I want to thank the members of that company for the inspiration they provided for the FINDING MR RIGHT trilogy.

And I thank you, my wonderful readers, for following along through the fifteen years since my first book was published, all the way to this new challenge. I think you’ll enjoy meeting Kit, Susannah and Alison every bit as much as I enjoyed writing about them. I must warn you, though—I cried when I had to give up these three special new friends....

With love,






P.S. I love to hear from readers! You can write to me at:

P.O. Box 935, Ottumwa, Iowa, 52501-0935.




The Playboy Assignment

Leigh Michaels







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CHAPTER ONE

THE scent of freshly made coffee filled the small café. and Susannah paused in the doorway for a second to breathe her fill of the rich aroma. But one of her partners was already waiting in the back booth they reserved for their staff meeting every Monday morning, so Susannah strolled down the length of the long, narrow room and sat across from Alison.

She winced at the hardness of the green vinyl bench. “I’m either going to have to start carrying along a cushion or convince the management to redecorate.”

Alison folded her newspaper and laid it aside. “The cushion would be easier. This place has looked the same as long as I can remember. So unless you’re looking for a challenge—”

“Any reason I shouldn’t be?” Susannah poured herself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the table.

“Only that redecorating isn’t really a matter of public relations.”

Susannah squirmed on the bench. “I don’t know about that. My particular segment of the public would have a lot better relations with the management if—”

“And we’ve already got plenty of regular business to tend to. Which forces me to point out that you’re late.” Alison’s tone was matter-of-fact, without a hint of reproach or irritation.

Susannah reached automatically for the pendant watch which dangled from a heavy gold chain around-her neck. “Five minutes,” she said. “And I’d have been smack on time if there hadn’t been a bake sale going on outside the high school as I walked past.”

Alison showed faint interest. “At this hour on a Monday morning?”

“Incredible, isn’t it? I thought any teenager who was enterprising enough to be selling brownies this early deserved my support.” She pulled a paper bag from her briefcase and waved it under Alison’s nose. “So I bought both fudge and chocolate-chip cookies—but you can’t have any till after breakfast.”

The waitress set an omelette in front of Alison and grinned at Susannah. “What’ll it be this morning, Sue?”

“Just a raspberry Danish. No hurry.”

Alison picked up her fork. “Better make it bacon and eggs instead of more sugar, or you’ll be bouncing off the walls by noon. Not that you don’t most of the time, anyway.”

“I didn’t buy that much fudge.” There was no defensiveness in Susannah’s tone; Alison’s comment was too near truth to allow room for resentment. Of the three partners in Tryad Public Relations, Alison was the practical manager, Kit was the steady get-it-done-whatever-it-takes sort, and Susannah was the visionary, never short of an idea.

The fact that nine out of ten of those ideas went nowhere had ceased to bother her—because the tenth was always a winner.

Of course, that had been true all her life. For every good plan she’d ever come up with, Susannah Miller had managed to find nine bad ones. Or sometimes, she thought dryly, an idea so far beyond bad that it was worth nine all by itself. That whole thing with Marc—

And that, Susannah told herself, was enough of that; Marc and the last of her disasters were eight long years in the past, and there was no point in rehashing the circumstances. The important thing was with two down-toearth partners to keep her anchored to reality, her wilder ideas were squashed before they could get her into trouble.

Thinking of the partnership reminded her of the empty place where the third member of the triangle usually sat. “Tell me again when Kit’s going to be back?”

“She said she was only taking two weeks off.”

Susannah raised her eyebrows. “You sound a little doubtful. Have you ever known Kit not to keep her word?”

“She’s never been on a honeymoon before.”

“That’s true.” Susannah admired the smooth glazed surface of her raspberry Danish. She was just about to take her first bite when a photograph in the newspaper Alison had tossed aside caught her eye and made her forget everything else. “What’s jolly old Cyrus doing in the press?” She put the Danish down and reached for the paper. “Pierce will be furious if he called in the media himself instead of letting the museum squeeze all the mileage we can out of the announcement...” Her voice trailed off as she saw the headline.

Cyrus Albrecht, industrialist, dies suddenly. The announcement was cool and dispassionate. Even the headline was in discreet black type, not the sort which blared from the page. If it hadn’t been for the photograph—outdated by at least twenty years but still unmistakably Cyrus, with the beaklike nose and enormous ears which hadn’t changed an iota with age—she’d have missed the story altogether.

“He can’t die,” Susannah said flatly.

Alison glanced at the page. “Well, I doubt the Tribune published his obituary as a practical joke. Why can’t he die, anyway? At seventy-eight, I’d say the man has a right.”

“Because he hasn’t rewritten his damned will yet, that’s why. At least, he hadn’t the last time I talked to Pierce.”

Alison nodded wisely. “I’d already gathered this is the millionaire art collector you’ve been dangling after for months.”

“I wouldn’t call it dangling, exactly,” Susannah objected.

“The one who was so sensitive about causing speculation over his intentions that you couldn’t even tell Kit and me exactly who he was.”

“It’s not that I didn’t trust you,” Susannah pointed out. “Pierce was afraid if there was talk—”

“—That the mysterious collector wouldn’t donate his pretty pictures to Pierce’s museum after all.”

“They’re not pretty pictures.” Susannah saw the gleam of humor spring to life in Alison’s dark eyes, and she wanted to bite off her tongue. “Wait a second. Let me rephrase that.”

Alison was hooting with delight.

“Oh, all right,” Susannah admitted. “Some of them—most of the modern art pieces, in fact—are about as far from pretty as it’s possible to get. What I meant was they’re more than just random paintings. It’s a major collection, and it would mean the earth to the Dearborn Museum.”

“Plus putting a finger in the eye of all the other places who’d like to have it?”

“Chicago’s a big city,” Susannah said stubbornly : “Why shouldn’t it have another big art museum?” Her Danish had cooled, and the raspberry filling had congealed. She pushed the plate aside. “Of course, it’s a moot point now, unless Cyrus signed a new will since I talked to Pierce. He might have had time, I suppose, but ”

Alison sighed. “All right, I know better than to think your mind will settle on the week’s work schedule till after you’ve found out what’s going on at your precious museum.”

Susannah jumped up and gathered her purse and brief case. “Ali, thanks a million. You really are the anchor that keeps Tryad from drifting off, you know.”

“Cut out the poetic language and just go,” Alison said tartly. “Before I change my mind.”

Susannah grinned and flung an arm around Alison’s shoulders for a quick hug.

Alison shrugged her off, but she was smiling. “Keep me posted, all right?”

Susannah feigned a look of shock. “But of course. After all, the Dearborn is Tryad’s client—not just mine.” She hurried out to the street before Alison could return an acid answer.

Morning rush hour in Chicago was no time to be hailing a cab, but today she was lucky. The taxi was going the wrong direction, but that was only a minor problem; the cabbie screeched to a halt in the traffic lane and Susannah darted across the street and flung herself into the back seat. “The Dearborn Museum,” she gasped, “and hurry.”

Horns honked behind them, and the cab screeched off, flinging Susannah against the seat.

“You want me to make an illegal U-turn, or can I take a minute to go around the block?” the cabbie asked dryly. “What’s the rush, anyway? That place don’t open till ten.”

“I know.”

The cabbie muttered, “People watch way too many movies these days, that’s the trouble. Somebody’s always shouting ‘Follow that car’—and thinking he’s a comedian.”

Susannah smothered a smile and refused to let herself be drawn into a discussion. Instead she stared out the window at Lake Michigan as the cab sped down Lakeshore Drive.

Despite the hour, several sailboats were already on the lake, their bright sails billowing in the early morning breeze. Far out on the horizon she saw a freighter, its progress so slow and stately that it was hard to tell if it was moving at all.

The cab turned toward downtown, and soon they were in the worst of the morning rush, fighting their way block by block between the skyscrapers, through the dark cold caverns where sunshine never fell. It was several weeks yet till summer would officially arrive, but some of these streets would still feel chilly in the middle of August.

Finally the cab swerved almost onto the sidewalk in front of the converted warehouse where the Dearborn Museum had found a home. At street level were retail shops; on the upper floors were small apartments, and the Dearborn was sandwiched in between. This year’s goal would be to raise enough funds to improve access for the handicapped; Susannah’s proposal for organizing the appeal was lying on her desk.

The Dearborn Museum, named for the frontier fort which occupied what later became the city of Chicago, had been one of Tryad’s first clients. In fact, the tiny public relations firm and the struggling art museum had come to life at about the same time, both bravely taking on the challenge of competing with far larger and more established organizations.

Perhaps that similarity was the reason Susannah had so quickly taken the Dearborn to her heart. At any rate, Kit and Alison had been as delighted to leave the museum to her as Susannah was to take it on.

For three years now, she’d worked with the staff—which actually meant, of course, that she worked with Pierce Reynolds, the director. And she’d been as thrilled as anyone when Pierce had first made contact with Cyrus Albrecht and learned that the old man was considering the future of the collection he’d so painstakingly built.

Susannah paid the cabbie and walked around the warehouse to the unmarked back entrance. She pressed the intercom button and gave her name, and a moment later a buzzer sounded and the lock released. She frowned a little as she climbed the narrow steps to the museum floor, wondering if Pierce had considered the need for additional security. Though the Dearborn’s present collection wasn’t shabby, it also wasn’t the sort to draw the attention of thieves. But the Albrecht pieces would be different...if, of course, the Dearborn ever got them.

Pierce was in his office, a small, shabby, industrial-green room to one side of the stairwell, and the moment Susannah saw him she knew she didn’t have to be the one to break the news. His blond hair, normally so neat it almost looked as if it had been painted on, was wildly disarranged. Even more unusual, his tie was at an angle, and the collar of his shirt curled up at the back.

“You look almost like one of your artist friends.” She dropped into the rickety chair beside his desk. “The Bohemian kind who think that even owning a mirror is narcissistic.”

Pierce’s hand went automatically to his hair, even as he said, “That’s not funny, Susannah.”

“I know. I saw the newspaper.” She hesitated. “It was a shock to you, too, obviously.”

“Shock is hardly the word. Nuclear attack is more like it.” Pierce sank into his chair and rubbed his temples.

Susannah’s heart had dropped to her toes. “He hadn’t finished the will?”

Pierce shook his head. “If I’d only pushed a little harder! He was talking about the details last week when I saw him, and if I’d urged him to stop talking and get on with it—”

“If you’d pressed, he might have backed out altogether.”

“I suppose so. But if I could have just made him see that the fine points could be adjusted anytime—”

Susannah had stopped listening. The fact that they had lost the collection was settling cold and hard in the pit of her stomach. Only now that the prize had been snatched away did she realize how much she had come to count on it. For months she’d been tentatively making her plans around the Albrecht collection. The announcement would be a boost to public recognition of the museum. The visitor list would increase dramatically, and fund-raising would be a snap.

Of course, she admitted, not all of her motives were so entirely selfless as those. The renown would make her job instantly easier. And part of the glory of the museum’s success would reflect on Tryad, and therefore on Susannah...

She sighed. Back to the drawing board, she thought.

“It was odd,” Pierce said. “The way Cyrus was behaving last week, I mean. I didn’t realize it at the time, but—”

“Maybe he was already feeling ill?”

“No, that’s not it at all. It was like he was teasing me, holding something back.”

Possible, Susannah thought. And it was equally possible that Pierce’s perceptions were being colored by twenty-twenty hindsight. “Cyrus was a world-class wheeler and dealer. Perhaps he wanted you to offer him something else, something extra, in return for the collection.”

“Then why didn’t he just ask? Anyway, what else could he have wanted?”

Susannah shrugged. “More power to influence the museum’s future, perhaps.”

“We’d already offered him a seat on the board.”

“I know. Or maybe he was just playing out the game, for the fun of it and the attention it got him. He certainly liked having everybody dancing attendance on him.”

“And he waited just a little too long to get down to business?” Suddenly Pierce’s face brightened. “You don’t suppose Cyrus made that will anyway, do you? Maybe he didn’t tell me because he didn’t want the attention to stop.”

Susannah had her doubts, but this was the first positive note Pierce had expressed, and she thought it was hardly the time to discourage him. At any rate, before she’d gathered her thoughts, he’d picked up the telephone and was fumbling through his wallet. “Cyrus’s attorney—what was his name? I’ve got his card in here somewhere...”

The business card he eventually produced had once been crisp and elegant, Susannah was certain. Now it was dog-eared, the edges frayed and the type rubbed and blurred—but not so damaged that Pierce couldn’t read the phone number.

“I don’t think he can tell you anything,” she said as he dialed. “What a client puts in his will is a confidential matter.”

“I’m not going to ask what’s in the will, just whether Cyrus made any changes recently.” He spoke into the phone. “Pierce Reynolds calling for Mr. Joseph Brewster, please.”

The way Pierce’s voice deepened whenever he wanted to impress someone had never failed to amuse Susannah, and even now a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She wondered if Pierce knew what he was doing. Probably not, she decided; the habit could well be so ingrained he was no longer aware of it.

As Pierce asked his question, he began to tap a pencil on his desk blotter at even intervals, and by the time he put the telephone down the steady rhythm had almost driven Susannah mad. She took one look at his glum face and forgot the tapping. “I told you he wouldn’t answer the question.”

“Oh, he answered.” Pierce tossed the pencil aside. “Cyrus hasn’t changed his will in years.”

Susannah sighed. “I guess that’s that.”

“Unless he went to some other attorney, of course.”

“Come on, Pierce—how likely is that? Maybe we should look on the positive side of this whole thing.” Susannah tried to laugh, with little success. “With all those valuable paintings, and the publicity we expected to get, security would have become a massive problem. We’d have been begging for handouts in the street just to pay guards.”

Pierce didn’t hesitate. “We wouldn’t have any trouble fund-raising for security.”

Didn’t the man have any sense of humor? “Okay, so it was a bad joke. But you may as well accept the facts.”

“And if things had gone right we wouldn’t have had to worry about securing this place at all.”

Susannah frowned. “What does that mean?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” Pierce looked a bit shamefaced. “But—oh, what difference does it make now? I’d hoped that Cyrus would give his house to the museum, too.”

Susannah had never seen Cyrus’s home, but Pierce had told her about the huge old Queen Anne house, featuring all the grandeur of the high Victorian style, furnished with solid old walnut and located on a half-block square lot in one of Chicago’s oldest and finest suburbs.

“And move the present collection there?” She shook her head. “It certainly makes our current troubles with access for the handicapped look like peanuts.”

Pierce dismissed the problem with a wave of the hand. “Cyrus installed an elevator just last year.”

Susannah rolled her eyes. At least, she thought, that harebrained scheme would never come to pass. Surely the board of directors would never have gone along with it...

On second thought, however, she realized that there was method in Pierce’s madness. In fact, the idea made an odd sort of sense. In its downtown location, the Dearborn would always be just one among Chicago’s several prominent art museums. But in the suburbs, it would stand alone, surrounded not by competition but by middle class families with time and money for cultural activities—not only visits but art classes, lectures, tours... Possibilities poured through her mind.

“Well, why not?” Pierce said defensively. “It’s not as if Cyrus had a family to leave it to. Besides, his pictures were the most important thing in his life. Why not leave them in the setting he created for them?”

Reluctantly, she pushed the stream of ideas aside. It was too late for them. And too late, Susannah thought, for sympathy to do Pierce any good, either. She said, finally, “What about the funeral? Shall we go together?”

For a moment, she wasn’t certain whether Pierce hadn’t heard her or if he intended to refuse. Then he gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Oh, why not?” he said. “Doesn’t every fisherman like to get a last glimpse of the one that got away?”

Susannah was on the telephone when Alison tapped gently at her office door and put her head in.

Susannah beckoned her in and said, “Yes, Mrs. Adams, I know exactly how disappointed you are. I’ve found, however-”

Alison sat down on the edge of a chintz-covered chair, looking half afraid that the deep, soft cushions would drag her down like an undertow. Funny, Susannah thought, with half her mind still on Mrs. Adams, how different the partners were. Alison could sit like that, hands folded like a studious schoolgirl, for hours. Kit, if forced to wait, would probably have reorganized the bookshelves. Susannah would have flung herself on the overstuffed plaid couch and at least pretended to take a nap.

Finally she soothed Mrs. Adams into hanging up, and rubbed her ear as she put the telephone down. “Someday,” she said, “I’m going to try to hang up the phone and discover that I can’t because it’s melted into my ear and become part of me.” She looked longingly at the couch, but she knew better than to chance wrinkling her skirt. Linen—even black linen—showed every crease.

Alison smiled in sympathy. “Rita told me she’d put through calls from every single member of the Dearborn’s board of directors today.”

“Oh, she has. I can’t decide whether to thank her for being such an efficient secretary, or yell at her—for exactly the same reason.” Susannah’s voice was dry. “Thank heaven that was the last of them—at least for this round.”

“What’s on their minds? Or did they all know about Cyrus?”

“No. Not by name, at least. But the news seems to have leaked just this morning that all hope of getting the collection has gone up in smoke, and every person who isn’t running for cover is making threats instead.”

Alison’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “What kind of threats?”

“Oh, the usual noises about hiring a new director.” Susannah waved a hand. “I think I got most of the feathers soothed. Eventually they’ll realize it wasn’t Pierce’s fault—and also that they can’t hire anyone else for what they’re paying him—and everybody will be back on good terms. What’s up, Ali?”

“Pierce, actually. Rita sent me up to tell you that he’s waiting downstairs.”

Susannah stood up, smoothed her skirt, and slipped her black jacket on over her snowy white blouse. “Good. I mean, I’m not looking forward to Cyrus’s funeral, but it’s better than dealing with the phone.” She picked up her wide-brimmed black hat and glanced in the mirror mounted on the back of her office door.

“I know. That’s why Rita asked me to come up and tell you—because she didn’t want to break into your call.” Alison paused in the doorway. “You and Pierce look like a matched set, by the way, except you don’t have a black tie and he wouldn’t look nearly as good as you do in that hat.”

Susannah paused as she adjusted the tilt of her hat. “You’re sure it isn’t just a little over the top? I don’t want to look like a professional mourner. But I did like the old man, and as a mark of respect...”

“Looks great,” Alison said. “If I could wear a hat with that kind of dash, I’d never take it off.”

Susannah smiled in spite of herself. “They really get in the way when it comes to being kissed, you know.”

“Just as I said—I’d never take it off.” Alison grinned and started up the stairs toward the top floor production room.

“If you’d stop being quite so practical, Ali, you’d have lines of men wanting to kiss you.”

Alison didn’t even pause. “Really? Well, since I don’t have time for that sort of nonsense, I’ll definitely have to look for a hat.”

Susannah made a face behind her partner’s back and turned toward the staircase to the main floor.

Pierce was standing in the receptionist’s office, hands clasped behind his back, shifting his weight from toes to heels and back again. He was staring at a framed poster which hung near Rita’s desk, but Susannah doubted he’d even seen it, or heard her come in. She was wrong on both counts.

Pierce stepped back from the poster and said, “I could get you something really nice to hang there.”

“On Tryad’s decorating budget? I doubt it.” She let her gaze run over him. In his dark suit he looked taller, but in fact his eyes were exactly on a level with Susannah’s when, as now, she was wearing heels. His tie wasn’t black, it was charcoal; Alison had been wrong: But she’d been correct about the rest. They couldn’t have patched more perfectly if they’d been dressed by a single designer. Rita, she noticed, looked impressed.

Pierce had left his tiny sports car in front of Tryad’s converted brownstone. He helped Susannah into the passenger seat, and she tried to keep her skirt from sliding impossibly high.

“At least it’s a pretty day,” she said as he got behind the wheel. “I wondered why the services were delayed so long, but it worked out beautifully, didn’t it? After the rain yesterday and the day before—” Why was she babbling? The urge to talk simply to fill the silence was a sensation she’d never felt with Pierce before, and it took Susannah by surprise. Theirs had always been an easy and professional relationship.

“The funeral was put off for the heir’s convenience.”

Susannah frowned. “What heir?”

“Didn’t I tell you what I’ve found out? The will currently in force was made more than ten years ago, and—”

Susannah interrupted with a long, low whistle. “You’ve put the delay to good use, haven’t you?”

Pierce shrugged. “I don’t know what use it is to know that Cyrus left everything he possessed to the son of an old flame.”

“Well, well,” Susannah drawled. “Who’d have thought it of Cyrus?”

“I know,” Pierce said bitterly. “It’s hard to believe that somebody as savvy as Cyrus was didn’t bother to update his will now and then, even if his financial circumstances hadn’t changed. A ten-year-old will is ridiculous... to say nothing of his leaving everything to somebody who wouldn’t even bother to cut his Hawaiian vacation short so the funeral could be held on time.”

“That wasn’t quite what I meant,” Susannah said. “It just occurred to me that perhaps the son of the old flame might be Cyrus’s son, as well.”

Pierce looked startled. “Oh, I don’t think—”

“Even Cyrus was young once. And now that I think about it, there was a certain twinkle in his eyes sometimes.”

Pierce snorted.

There were to be no church services, only a gathering in the cemetery. A surprising number of cars were already parked along the narrow, winding roads which cut the grand old cemetery into segments, and Pierce had to park at a distance. Susannah glanced from the gravel lane to her shoes, and sighed.

But before they’d gone far, the inconvenience of walking across grass and gravel in heels had given way to Susannah’s love of old cemeteries. She’d almost forgotten how much she loved graveyards, full of elaborate monuments and family histories carved in stone in a kind of shorthand only the initiated could read. She’d been good at that, once, deducing from names and dates what had happened to the people who lay below the quiet sod. But she hadn’t gone exploring for years now. Eight years, to be exact....

“But how do you know?”

The question echoed in her head, in an almost-plaintive baritone that she hadn’t heard in the better part of a decade. Funny, she thought, that she could still hear it so clearly...

“How can you tell from a tombstone that life was rough for women?” Marc had asked on a crisp November day, as he stood beside her in an old cemetery in a far north suburb of Chicago. “It’s a man’s tombstone, at that.”

“That’s right,” Susannah had said. “The monument is for the patriarch, but look on the back at the list of names. His three wives didn’t even get a stone to themselves. He married them one at a time, of course, but now they’re all lying here bedside him, together for eternity.”

“But how?” Marc had asked, very practically. “He’s only got two sides.”

Susannah had found the comment hysterically funny, and she’d finally wobbled over to a low flat stone nearby and sat down to recover from her fit of laughter..But in fact she’d never managed to get her breath back, for Marc had joined her there, and kissed her...

And she hadn’t walked in a cemetery since.

“What a nuisance this is,” Pierce said. “Trust Cyrus to make things inconvenient.”

“Shush.” They were getting close to the small tent where the crowd had gathered. A soft breeze tugged at Susannah’s hat and ruffled the corners of the American flag covering the casket.

She hadn’t known that Cyrus had been in the armed services. But then, Susannah thought, there seemed to be lots of things that they hadn’t known about Cyrus.

They were almost the last to arrive, and only a few moments later a man in flowing robes began the service. Susannah tipped her head a little, allowing the wide brim of her hat to shield her eyes as she glanced around the crowd.

She saw a few vaguely familiar faces, but no one she knew well. And try as she might, she couldn’t locate any likely candidate to be—what was it Pierce had called him? The son of the old flame, that was it. No one stood out from the crowd. There was no row of chairs, no one obviously fighting strong emotion...

Perhaps, she thought, Pierce was wrong and the heir hadn’t showed up after all?

The service was brief. From a distant hillside, a rifle salute cracked the air, taps sounded, and an honor guard briskly and efficiently folded the flag which had covered Cyrus’s mahogany casket.

Susannah watched with interest as they presented it to a man standing nearby. But all she could see was the back of a well-groomed head and a brilliant white shirt collar showing between sleek black hair and a gray pin-striped suit. Not black, she thought, with interest.

“That must be the old flame’s son,” Pierce muttered into her ear. “Wish I could get a better look.”

The pastor said a final prayer, then looked out over the crowd, drawing them all together with his gaze, and said, “It was Cyrus’s request that everyone who attended this service be invited back to his home immediately afterward, for a party.”

Susannah smothered a gasp. “That’s macabre!” she whispered.

“What it is,” Pierce muttered, “is a waste of money the museum could have put to far better use. A party! What nonsense.”

But instead of turning back toward the city, Pierce followed the trail of cars toward the western suburb where Cyrus had lived.

“Wait a minute,” Susannah said. “Surely you don’t intend to go to the party, Pierce. Both of us think it’s bad taste—”

“That’s beside the point,” Pierce said grimly. “Odds are the old flame’s son has equally bad taste, or he wouldn’t have gone along with the idea.”

Susannah thought about that sleek dark head, and frowned. “I don’t quite see—”

“He probably doesn’t have a clue about what to do with Cyrus’s old pictures. Maybe he doesn’t even realize that they’re important. So maybe I can introduce myself and make another stab at the collection.”

“Pierce, isn’t it time to give up?”

“What kind of PR person are you, anyway? We can’t lose by just asking. You’d feel like an idiot if he gave it to somebody else—or threw it away—because we didn’t tell him we’re interested.”

He was right. In any case, she was going to end up at the party, since throwing herself out of a moving car didn’t strike Susannah as much of an option. So she might as well give the idea a stab.

Cyrus Albrecht’s house wasn’t just a Queen Anne, she realized as Pierce pushed open the wrought-iron gate to the front walk. It was the most elaborate Queen Anne she’d ever seen. Towers and porches and balconies sprouted from everywhere she looked. The details of gingerbread and moldings and finials had been picked out in a palette of soft greens and browns, with an occasional startling touch of red.

“It would make a great haunted house,” she said. “All it needs is a full moon and a few spider webs. But I don’t see it as a full-fledged art museum—there can’t be enough big walls.”

Pierce shrugged. “We could have built a new wing. But that’s out of the question now. This house is worth a fortune, the heir wouldn’t even consider donating it.”

Susannah paused. “The paintings are worth a fortune, too.”

“But everybody has an idea what a house like this will sell for. On the other hand, to an inexperienced eye, the paintings might not look like much at all.”

“Pierce, you can’t misrepresent—”

They reached the front door, standing open to the summer breeze, and the murmur of the crowd reached out to them. Susannah knew her protest would carry back inside, so she bit her tongue and resolved to have it out with Pierce later.

They stepped across the threshold into the enormous dark-paneled front hall. Despite Susannah’s hat, the change from sunlight to dimness blinded her for an instant. Before she saw the heir, who stood with his back almost squarely to the door, Pierce had already moved toward him, pulling her along. His right hand went out, demanding the heir’s attention, and in the deepest voice she’d ever heard Pierce use, he said, “I’m sorry we meet on such a sad day. I was a friend of your.... I mean, of Cyrus’s. I have a bit of an interest in art, too, you see.”

Susannah stared up at him in shock. A bit of an interest?

“Indeed,” the heir said, and his voice echoed through Susannah’s brain like the boom of a cannon.

Like a wooden marionette who could move only one joint at a time, she turned away from Pierce toward the heir. Under the wide brim of her hat, she spotted the monogram on his shirt cuff as he reached out to shake Pierce’s hand. MDH, it said, in delicate embroidery.

MDH... Marcus David Herrington.

Marc, who had been the single biggest mistake Susannah Miller had ever made. Marc, who had prompted the most disastrous idea of a long and varied series.

Marc...

Slowly, afraid of what she would see, she lifted her eyes to his.


CHAPTER TWO

EVEN as she raised her head to look at him, Susannah told herself it was impossible. The Marc Herrington she’d known hadn’t even owned a necktie, much less a pin-striped suit, and he was far more likely to flash a rude slogan on the front of a sweatshirt than his initials embroidered on a cuff.

Impossible.

She’d set herself up, that was what had happened. The walk through the cemetery had prompted her to think of Marc—and once those memories had been activated, all it took to set them spinning out of control again was a baritone voice and a chance monogram....

It was quite a coincidence, those initials. But the voice was easily explained; this man did sound a little like Marc—or, to be more accurate, her eight-years-old memory of Marc.

Susannah fixed a smile on her lips so she could properly greet a man who was not—who could not be—Marcus Herrington.

And she looked up into a pair of wide-set brown eyes, surrounded with a forest of long, dark, curly lashes. Eyes she had thought, once or twice, that she could drown in. Including that day eight years ago in the cemetery, when he had kissed her so long and so well that her scattered senses had allowed the worst idea of her life to look like a winner.

Marc’s eyes. It was impossible—but it was also undeniable.

“Well,” he said. In his rich baritone, the single word seemed to carry an entire encyclopedia of meaning. Or did it only seem that way to Susannah’s guilty conscience?

Not guilty, she reminded herself. She’d been foolish, yes—and impetuous and perhaps even idiotic—but she had nothing to feel guilty about.

She held out her hand to him and willed her voice to stay steady. “Marc.”

His hand was warm and firm and strong. Susannah’s fingers felt fragile and shaky in his grip.

Pierce stared down at her. Though he was obviously thunderstruck, he recovered in moments. “You know each other? But—but that’s wonderful! Old friends, I suppose?”

Prompted, Susannah stumbled through the introductions.

“Marcus Herrington,” Pierce said thoughtfully. “I don’t believe I’ve heard the name.”

“Oh, of course Susannah wouldn’t have mentioned me,” Marc said. Only the slightest emphasis set the last word apart, but there was no more doubt in his voice than there was humor in his smile.

Irritation surged through Susannah’s veins. His meaning could hardly have been clearer even if he’d come straight out and said they’d been lovers. Of course, if he had, she could not only have denied it, but any listener would have doubted his motives. This was far more cunning. The implication was perfectly obvious—she could see from the expression in Pierce’s eyes that he’d gotten the message loud and clear. And yet Marc hadn’t really said a thing.

“No, I don’t believe I ever brought up your name,” she said coolly. “You were hardly important enough.”

Marc lifted his eyebrows. “But of course, my dear. What else could I possibly have meant?”

That you were too important to talk about. Which was precisely what Pierce was thinking right now.

Susannah’s annoyance was mixed with reluctant admiration at the way he’d so neatly boxed her into a corner. The Marc she’d known had been as transparent as glass. Just when—and how—had the man learned to be so smooth?

Not that it mattered, Susannah told herself firmly, what Pierce—or anyone else—thought.

Marc had turned back to Pierce. “It’s rude of me to bring up ancient history. You shared Cyrus’s interest in art, you said?”

The tinge of irony in Marc’s voice was so subtle that Susannah almost doubted her own ears, despite the demonstration she’d just suffered at his hands. For an instant she wondered if he’d recognized Pierce’s name, and therefore doubted the casualness of his interest. But she concluded that wasn’t likely; the Dearborn was far from prominent as yet, and its director was hardly a household word across the country.

Then she followed Marc’s gaze over Pierce’s shoulder to one of Cyrus’s favorite and most recent acquisitions, and knew why he was feeling ironic.

“I find his taste—shall we say, interesting?” Marc went on. “Personally, I’d probably use that thing to wipe the mud off my shoes.”

Susannah braced herself.

The work was a long way from being her favorite. The artist—and she used the term loosely where Evans Jackson was concerned—had used a housepainter’s bush to smear three slashes of blood-red pigment on a huge white canvas, and then left it to drip. Susannah thought it looked like something from a butcher’s shop.

Pierce, on the other hand, considered the painting a master work. When he’d taken Susannah to the gallery to see Cyrus’s new purchase, Pierce had been shocked by her lukewarm reaction. He’d spent the next half hour instructing her on artistic genius and the intricacies of expressionistic symbolism—at least Susannah thought that was what he’d called it. Her eyes had begun to glaze only a couple of minutes into the lecture.

She couldn’t wait to see Marc’s reaction to that same speech.

Pierce, too, had turned to look at the painting. “Oh, well, that sort of thing,” he said tolerantly. “Cyrus would have his little jokes now and then.”

Susannah blinked in surprise, remembering the outlandish price he’d told her Cyrus had paid. Then the metallic taste of fear rose in her throat. She’d forgotten, for just a moment, Pierce’s implication that he only dabbled in art. Surely, she thought, he wasn’t crazy enough to continue that charade, now that he’d had a chance to take Marc’s measure...

“Not all the collection is so blatant,” Pierce went on. “Cyrus actually had a few pieces which aren’t half bad.”

A voice in the back of her brain told her to stop him, no matter what it took, before he offered to do Marc a favor by taking the problematic pieces off his hands. But she was mesmerized by the pressure of Pierce’s fingers on her elbow, and unable to protest.

“Blatant,” Marc murmured. “What an interesting choice of words.”

“In fact,” Pierce went on, “if you’re looking for someone to help value things for the estate—”

“That’s very thoughtful,” Marc said. “I wonder where Joe Brewster went. He’s the one who’ll handle all that.” He glanced around the foyer, his six extra inches of height giving him the advantage of being able to look over most of the crowd, and gestured to someone Susannah couldn’t see.

Joe Brewster. The name hit her like a rock. Brewster was Cyrus’s attorney—the one Pierce had talked to about the will. If Joe Brewster recognized Pierce’s name...

Pierce, however, seemed unconcerned. His smile was firmly in place.

A short, round man hurried up. “You wanted me, Marcus?”

“Joe, I’d like you to meet Susannah...” Marc paused.

Doesn’t he even remember my name? Susannah thought irritably. “Miller,” she said coolly.

“Still? Or again?”

Susannah felt marginally better. Marc’s hesitation made sense after all; there was a good chance that in eight years she’d have married—and perhaps divorced, as well. At least he hadn’t assumed she’d married Pierce; maybe she should award him a point or two for that. “Still.”

“What a shame,” Marc said softly. “I seem to remember you were determined to have a wedding. And with good reason, too.”

Fury rose in Susannah’s throat. And if he solicitously asks what went wrong with my plans, she thought grimly, I’ll strangle him!

But Marc had moved straight on to introduce Pierce. “He’s offered to help appraise Cyrus’s collection, Joe.”

The attorney stretched out a hand. “That’s very generous of you, Mr. Reynolds. Your opinion would be valuable. As the director of the Dearborn—”

Pierce’s fingers tightened on Susannah’s elbow; it was the only sign of surprise she could detect. “Actually,” he said casually, “I didn’t exactly volunteer my services. The time constraints which come along with my job prevent me from doing appraisals. What I meant to say was, if you’d like help valuing the estate’s art, I’m sure Susannah would be happy to pitch in.”

Susannah opened her mouth to protest, and closed it again. She felt like a balloon with a slow leak. Now she knew that tightened grip of Pierce’s hand hadn’t been due to surprise after all; it had been more in the nature of a warning. He’d had this planned all along.

She could feel Marc’s gaze drifting over her face, appraising every feature, every expression. “And Susannah is...qualified?” he asked.

She couldn’t stay silent any longer. “Pierce, I hardly think that I—”

“Nonsense,” Pierce said firmly. “Of course she’s qualified. Don’t underestimate your talent, Susannah.”

“Or your resources,” Marc added, very gently. “You know, Joe, I believe I just might take more of an interest in Cyrus’s collection myself—under the circumstances.”

His hand still on her elbow, Pierce guided Susannah across the foyer and into the broad hallway that led toward the dining room at the back of the house. Most of the crowd had moved on toward the buffet tables, and for a few moments, in the shadow of the staircase, the two of them were completely alone.

“I think that went very well,” Pierce said.

The note of self-satisfaction in his voice grated on Susannah’s nerves. “Then all I can say is that I’d like to see your definition of a disaster. The only thing that could have made it worse was if you’d offered to buy everything outright at some bargain-basement price.”

Pierce tipped his head to one side and considered. “It’s an idea. Herrington might actually have gone for it.”

Susannah went on ruthlessly. “But Mr. Brewster would know you were trying to scam his client, and then you’d be in the soup and the museum would lose all credibility.”

“That’s an interesting point,” Pierce mused. “Why he knew me, I mean—I didn’t mention the museum when I called about the will. Cyrus must have told him about me along the way. Susannah, do you really believe I’m so shortsighted I’d try to pass myself off as an amateur?”

“It looked to me as if you were making a pretty good. stab at it.”

“I did nothing of the sort. I simply didn’t boast of my position, my education, or my background. If the man wanted to draw conclusions—”

Susannah stood her ground. “You deliberately tried to convince him that the Evans Jackson canvas is worthless.”

“I was being diplomatic. Feeling out his tastes. Trying to establish a bond. All good gallery owners do that sort of thing, or they’d never sell a single piece. It’s no thanks to you, by the way, that I read him so clearly. Why didn’t you tell me you knew him?”

“Because I didn’t know it myself till it was too late to run,” Susannah admitted.

“You did look a little stunned,” Pierce admitted. “What was all that stuff about weddings, anyway? You didn’t marry the man, did you?”

“No.” Susannah’s throat was dry, her voice taut.

“That’s good. If you had, I’d really wonder about your judgment. I grant you, for a couple of minutes I was a bit unsure about him, myself. His clothes weren’t bad, not bad at all. And the name... I wonder how somebody like that ended up with such an aristocratic name.”

“Funny,” Susannah muttered. “My mother asked almost the same thing once.”

“But I knew as soon as he looked blankly at that magnificent Evans Jackson canvas that my first instinct was right.” Pierce shuddered. “The very idea of threatening to wipe his feet on it! I only hope Evans doesn’t hear what I said about his work.”

“I doubt the two of them hang around in the same circles.”

Pierce laughed. “That’s certainly true.”

“And all good gallery owners talk that way, don’t they, to gain the customer’s confidence?” Susannah didn’t even try to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “Pierce, about this assignment you’ve saddled me with... Surely you don’t expect me to pass myself off as a staff member, because I won’t do it.”

“Oh, no. We’ll refer to you as—let’s see...”

She cut in ruthlessly. “We’ll call me exactly what I am—the museum’s public relations representative.”

“Actually,” Pierce mused, “that’s ideal. Because of your inexperience—”

“I thought you told Marc I was qualified.”

Pierce shrugged. “I didn’t say expert. So any errors can easily be passed off—”

“Are you saying you want me to make errors?”

“Susannah, my dear, you’ll have all of the museum’s resources to draw on. And I expect you to use all the expertise the Dearborn can provide. Including me.”

“I suppose that means you’ll make the errors? Never mind.”

“I’m still determined to end up with this collection, Susannah. So just remember—if you value things high, you’ll have to raise the money to pay for them and explain to the board why they’re worth so much.”

“And if I value them low, I’ll end up looking like a fool.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Pierce said easily. “Didn’t you see the way he was looking at you—sort of like a hungry wolf? I imagine, if you play your cards right, you’ll be able to keep Marcus Herrington from asking any questions at all.”

Tryad’s office, a converted brownstone not far from the green expanse of Lincoln Park, was quiet when Pierce dropped Susannah off early that evening. The same couldn’t be said of the rest of the neighborhood; since it was still mostly residential, the streets really came alive after work and school were over. And with the newly warmer weather to celebrate, kids were out in force.

Susannah dodged two roller skaters, paused to observe a cutthroat marbles tournament, finished teaching the two little girls next door a rope-skipping rhyme from her childhood, and stopped to study a hopscotch layout drawn in chalk on Tryad’s own front walk.

“You know,” she told the hopscotch artists, “this doesn’t make us look very professional, having big white-numbered squares drawn on the concrete leading straight to our offices.”

The girls looked stricken. “But we drew it as neatly as we could, Susannah,” one of them said.

Another chimed in, “And it’s only chalk, you know. It’ll wash off when it rains.”

The third added, “Maybe we could use colored chalk next time. It’d be prettier. Would that help?”

Susannah laughed, shook her head, and skirted the carefully drawn hopscotch field. The hopscotch craze would last only a few weeks; good neighbors—of any age—went on forever.

Almost automatically, she waved at the bay window of the house on the other side, the twin half of Tryad’s brownstone. She wasn’t surprised to see the white lace curtain flutter as if the corner had been hastily dropped. Mrs. Holcomb might be a recluse, but there wasn’t a move made in the neighborhood which escaped her.

What did startle Susannah was a glimpse of a hand behind the curtain, half raised in what might have been a hesitant wave. It was the first time Mrs. Holcomb had ever responded directly to any approach Susannah had made, and she was surprised at the surge of pleasure which swept over her.

Such a little thing a wave was, to cause such a reaction. And yet, for Mrs. Holcomb—who, so far as Susannah knew, had left her house only once in the three years since Tryad had moved in next door—it was a major overture of friendship.

Inside, the office was dim and quiet. A few rays of late sunshine found their way in through the stained-glass panel at the top of the main stairway, and security lights glowed here and there, lighting the way to the exits. The usual hum of copy machines and computers, and the muted chime of the telephones, had stilled into silence.

In the receptionist’s office, once the brownstone’s living room, Rita’s desk was neat, the blotter empty except for tomorrow’s to-do list. The in-basket marked with Susannah’s name was empty.

That was one minor miracle, Susannah thought. At least she was no farther behind than she’d been early this afternoon—it felt like a million years ago—when she’d left the office to attend Cyrus’s funeral...

Except, of course, for the job Pierce had dumped on her. Putting a value on an art collection was hardly a public relations job, but Susannah liked both art and research, and under other circumstances she might have found it an enjoyable challenge. If she had plenty of time, if she didn’t have a dozen pressing projects...

“Be honest,” she told herself. “If it didn’t involve Marc Herrington, you’d like the job a whole lot better.”

She climbed the stairs from the main level to her own office, at the back of the building. Her desk was in chaos, piled with papers and folders, just as it had been late this morning when the telephone calls started to come in. The project she’d been working on was due to be presented to the client tomorrow afternoon, but Susannah had no enthusiasm for facing the final details tonight. She’d come in early in the morning to finish.

She sailed her picture hat across the room toward the chintz-covered couch. The hat landed almost atop a calico cat, curled up nearly out of sight under the edge of a cushion. The cat opened one yellow eye and surveyed her warily. Susannah apologized and went on down the hall to Kit’s office, with its view of the street and the green expanse of Lincoln Park beyond.

The room was unnaturally neat, and Susannah thought the air smelled a bit stale after ten days of disuse. She wasn’t quite sure how that could happen, since the door had been open all the time. Perhaps it wasn’t staleness she felt, but loneliness.

She flung herself down on the chaise longue. She missed Kit. Missed being able to bounce ideas off her, to share frustrations and problems and triumphs.

“So what would Kitty do?” Her voice was loud in the silence of the office.

Stupid question, of course. Susannah would have bet money that Kit—straightforward, uncomplicated Kit—had never had a secret in her life.- She’d even fallen in love so transparently that Susannah and Alison had known it- almost before Kit herself had.

Susannah sighed.

Alison, the warmhearted and practical, wouldn’t be much more help. She’d be sympathetic, of course, but Alison—who had X-ray vision when it came to predicting the outcome of a business decision—would never comprehend how, even at the tender and inexperienced age of eighteen, Susannah could have been so foolish, so impractical, so shortsighted.

The truth was, if she tried for a month Susannah couldn’t explain to Alison what had happened eight years ago between her and Marc—because she wasn’t certain she understood it herself.

And neither Kit nor Alison would be able to fathom why they’d never heard about Marc Herrington before. If he had once been an important part of Susannah’s life, they should have known all the details long since. And if he hadn’t been significant, why was she making such a fuss about meeting him again now?

No, Susannah decided, her partners would be no help whatsoever. She was in this one on her own.

The last rays of sunlight were still filtering through the hallway, but Kit’s office had dimmed slowly and imperceptibly till Susannah was sitting in darkness.

Maybe she was overreacting, she told herself hopefully. Despite what Marc had said about being involved in the fate of Cyrus’s art collection, perhaps he really had no intention of doing anything of the sort. Maybe he’d just been pushing buttons, simply to see what her reaction would be. She wouldn’t put that sort of behavior past the new Marc.

Besides, the collection was big, and with her lack of experience, valuing it wouldn’t be the work of a few days. The task could stretch over a period of months, especially since she couldn’t just drop her other obligations. Surely Marc couldn’t rearrange his life to leave room for that.

Marc wasn’t the sort to be without a job. He’d never been too proud to work at whatever came to hand, and Susannah doubted that had changed. Besides, hadn’t Pierce said something about Cyrus’s funeral being delayed because Marc was on vacation? A vacation surely implied a job, and also an employer—who would not be likely to look kindly on a lengthy absence.

But what kind of a job? she found herself wondering.

Once, Marc had been a welder in a factory which built farm machinery. She supposed he might have made the jump into management, pushing numbers instead of steel. As a supervisor of sorts, perhaps; his hands—though not calloused—had been hard, as if he still did physical work. She hadn’t realized till just now that she’d noticed.

But then there was the fit of his pin-striped suit. Susannah still had trouble reconciling that suit with the Marc she remembered.... Not that it mattered, she told herself firmly. It was a waste of time to speculate about a man from a far distant past. A man who could never be important to her again.

She’d do her job, and Marc would go back to his regular life, wherever it was. And whatever—and whomever—it involved.

In the end, Susannah was glad her presentation was scheduled for Friday afternoon, because it forced her to push the entire problem of Cyrus’s paintings out of her mind. Instead, she spent the day concentrating on how to carry off a widespread recall of child safety seats without creating a national panic, and—less important but perhaps even more difficult—how to present her strategy to the manufacturer without causing an uproar which might cost Tryad future business.

By late afternoon, she’d managed both, and she celebrated by taking a cab back to Tryad’s offices. The work was far from over, but with all the plans approved and in place, the rest would be relatively easy.

She’d actually forgotten Cyrus and the paintings until she reached into her handbag to pay the cabbie and her fingertips touched a small square envelope. Rita had handed it to her as she went out the door for her presentation, saying it had just been delivered by a courier service. Susannah hadn’t even opened it, just shoved it into her bag. But she knew what was inside; through the heavy paper, embossed with Joseph Brewster’s name, she’d been able to feel the shape of a key.

The key to Cyrus Albrecht’s house, no doubt. Well, Monday would be soon enough to figure out how she was going to handle the problem of setting a fair value on Cyrus’s art collection and keep Pierce and the museum’s board happy.

The good news, she told herself, was that by Monday, Marc Herrington would have gone back to—wherever it was he’d come from. In fact, she thought he was probably gone already, or Joe Brewster wouldn’t have sent her a key. Not that she was planning to check; she deserved a peaceful weekend.

And the sudden drop in spirits she was suffering at the moment was an aftereffect of hard work and stress, of relief, of worry about how she was going to pull off this assignment. It had nothing to do, she was certain, with whether or not Marc Herrington. was still in Chicago.

She handed the fare over to the cabbie and reached for the door handle, only to feel it slide away under her hand as the door was opened from outside.

Another commuter, she thought, anxious to pick up a cab at rush hour. At least he could wait till I’m out!

But the odds were that anyone hailing a cab in this neighborhood was a client of Tryad’s, so she swallowed the tart comment she’d have liked to make and smiled instead. “I’m glad I happened along just when you needed the cab,” she said sweetly, and planted one foot on the curb.

“Perfect timing, in fact,” a rich baritone answered.

Susannah’s heel went out from under her and she tumbled back against the cab’s seat.

“Except that since you’re here, I don’t need a cab,” Marc went on reasonably. “May I offer you a hand, Susannah, since you seem to be having trouble getting out on your own?”

Today he looked more like the Marc she remembered—his jeans worn to pale blue and clinging to narrow hips, his pullover shirt emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the strength of his arms. Without apparent effort he almost lifted Susannah out of the cab, then stood with a hand still on her arm as if to steady her as he waved the driver away.

“What are you doing here?” As soon as the words were out, Susannah wanted to bite her tongue off; as opening gambits, that was about the worst she could think of.

“Don’t you think we have a few things to talk about?”

Pierce had said something yesterday about Marc looking at her like a hungry wolf. Susannah couldn’t see anything of the sort, herself. And she could detect nothing suggestive about his voice; his tone was perfectly level, and in fact he didn’t sound particularly interested. The combination made her feel a great deal more sure of herself, and she attacked. “I can’t imagine what we’d have to discuss. If you happen to be wondering what makes a public relations person qualified to appraise an art collection—”

“Oh, nothing so dull as that,” Marc said. “Besides, who am I to question your aptitude for the job? Growing up in such a privileged family, one of the Northbrook Millers—I imagine you absorbed more about art with your infant formula than I know now.”

A privileged family. For a moment, she wondered if there was the smallest hint of sarcasm in his tone. But Marc didn’t know. Marc couldn’t know...

He added, very gently, “I left a message for you with your receptionist, that I just wanted to talk over old times. She seemed to think you’d be disappointed to have missed me.”

Just my luck, Susannah thought, to have caught him on the way out. If I’d been five minutes later—just five minutes...

The white lace curtain on Mrs. Holcomb’s bay window next door didn’t just flutter as it usually did when anything of interest happened on the street outside. This time the lace was actually folded back, and Susannah didn’t think she was imagining the shadowy face which appeared behind the glass.

And if Mrs. Holcomb could see this very interesting conversation, so could Rita and Alison—if they happened to look out the window. And if Susannah walked into Tryad with Marc Herrington in tow, she might as well issue engraved invitations to a grilling, with herself on the barbecue spit.

She sighed. “There’s a little restaurant around the corner. How about a cup of coffee?”

“I thought you’d never ask. Shall I carry your briefcase?”

Susannah surrendered it, and pretended not to notice when Marc offered his arm. She spent the couple of minutes’ walk debating with herself. Had he always been a gentleman, or was that, too, something new? At eighteen, in the midst of a revolt against her parents’ values—a rebellion which had come a little later but no less violently than that of most teenagers—would she even have noticed such things as courtly manners?

The same waitress who had been working at breakfast hour on Monday brought their coffee, and dimpled when Marc thanked her.

Susannah stirred cream into her coffee and said, “Old times, you said. All right—you go first. What have you been up to for the last eight years? What are you working at these days?”

“I’m still in manufacturing.” Marc stretched out his hands—long fingers arched, each knuckle tensed. It was a gesture Susannah remembered seeing often, though the reason for it was less vivid in her mind. She vaguely recalled that he’d said something about the need to keep his hands flexible, for the work he did...

“Welding must be paying better these days,” she said crisply, “for you to afford to dress like that. The suit you were wearing at the funeral yesterday—”

“Did you like it? I bought it just for the occasion.”

“Is that why the funeral was delayed—to let you go shopping? Nice that you thought that highly of Cyrus.”

“I didn’t, particularly. I never met the man in my life.”

That much didn’t surprise her, but it chipped away at her original theory that Cyrus’s mysterious heir was also his son. To the best of Susannah’s recollection, Marc had had a perfectly serviceable set of parents... “I must admit I’d like to know how your mother met him.”

“I’ll have to ask her sometime. As long as we’re talking about families, how’s your daughter, Susannah?”

The question came at her like a curve ball, hanging just out of reach for an impossibly long time, taunting her. She wasn’t shocked, exactly; she’d been half expecting something of the sort. Why had he fixed on a girl? “I don’t have a daughter.”

“Really? It seemed a perfectly reasonable conclusion. A professional office probably wouldn’t provide hopscotch layouts on the front walk for clients’ children—at least, not the sort of firm yours obviously is. And since hopscotch is not only a little girl’s game, but is most fascinating to girls exactly the age yours would be...” -

“Very logical,” she admitted. “Very reasonable. And very wrong. The neighborhood girls like to play there. It’s the widest and flattest walk around.”

“A son, then?”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

Marc was stirring his coffee. “Oh, I couldn’t be any more disillusioned with you than I was eight years ago. I must admit, however, I’d like to know what happened. I expected, after you told me that you hadn’t married after all, that you’d still be trying to convince the world your child was also mine, and I’d been too much of a bum to marry you. Naive of me, wasn’t it, to think that? Of course the Northbrook Millers would figure out a neater, easier way. What was it, Susannah? A convenient miscarriage?” The spoon didn’t stop moving in concentric circles as his gaze lifted to meet hers. “A very private adoption?”

“As you pointed out yourself, it’s none of your business.”

“Perhaps I should ask Pierce.”

“He doesn’t know.”

“In that case, it might be even more interesting to compare notes.”

“Be my guest. Is there anything else you wanted, Marc?”

“Oh, I could think of a few things.”

Susannah took that with a grain of salt. “Then I doubt I’ll see you again.”

“What makes you think that?” Only mild interest spiced his voice.

She shrugged, but the gesture turned out, despite her best efforts, to be more like a shiver. What was there about his gentle, even voice that scared her so? “I assume you’ll go back to your life. There must be things you can’t walk away from.”

“You mean things like the job, the mortgage, the wife, and the kids?”

Wife? Kids? But why shouldn’t he have married? Susannah could think of no good reason.

Her gaze went straight to his left hand, cupped easily on the plastic surface of the table. He wore no wedding ring, and there was no telltale pale band where one might have rested in the past....

Marc followed her gaze. His eyes narrowed, and he stretched out his hand toward her. “So you still have wedding rings on the brain. Sorry to disappoint you.”

“I see,” she said. “The machinery you work around makes a ring dangerous. Catch it wrong, and it could tear off your finger.”

“True,” he said. “Besides, it makes a handy excuse not to wear a ring. I think you’ve misunderstood, though. I’m not going back for a while. The wife—well, you know how these things go. A break sounds like a very good idea. And as for the kids—I don’t know why you’d assume that one can’t walk out on children, Susannah, considering your own record.”

She was too numb to be shocked.

“And as far as the job and the mortgage—well, it’s such a large inheritance, you see, that neither of those things matters much just now. Or at least it should be a tidy sum, if it’s properly looked after and not left to a bunch of vultures.”

“Meaning me?” Susannah managed to keep her voice steady, but it took enormous effort.

“Now why would you jump to the conclusion that I was talking about you?” Marc’s tone was soft, almost caressing. “Right now, it just makes sense to stick around and keep my eye on things—and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”


CHAPTER THREE

DESPITE the effort she’d made to convince herself that Marc woutdn‘t—couldn’t—stay in Chicago, Susannah wasn’t really surprised. It was a sizable estate. One had only to walk into Cyrus’s house to realize that.

She could imagine the impact that house had had on Marc—the gleaming furniture, the solid walnut staircase, the art on the walls...even if he didn’t care for the subjects, he must have realized the paintings themselves were far above poster quality.

She could still remember his low whistle when he’d gotten his first glimpse of the Miller’s house, on that never-to-be-forgotten weekend when Susannah had brought him home on her Thanksgiving break from college to meet her family. If her parents’ house, spare and modern and all stainless steel and glass, had evoked that sort of response, Susannah could imagine the way he’d reacted to Cyrus’s exuberant Victorian.

And, once realizing the probable worth of his legacy, of course Marc would stay, watchful and protective, until everything was settled and the cash safely in his hands. He had no reason, after all, to trust Joe Brewster—or anyone else. And beside the magnitude of Cyrus’s estate, a welder’s income must look like peanuts, easily tossed aside.

“Of course,” she said coolly. “It only makes sense to protect oneself.”

Marc’s eyes narrowed. “Thank you for sharing your personal philosophy.”

Susannah opened her mouth to say that she hadn’t been talking about herself, and then decided the point wasn’t worth explaining. She wasn’t going to convince him with mere words. Not that she wanted to convince him; what did it matter what Marc thought of her?

“You’re quite right,” Marc went on thoughtfully. “And I’ll certainly keep your advice in mind as this process unfolds. I wonder how long it will take. A year, maybe.... Another cup of coffee?”

Susannah shook her head. The motion felt like forcing rusty machinery to move against its will; the tension in her muscles was the worst she’d ever felt. A year? Of course he was right; an estate the size of Cyrus’s would take forever to untangle.

On the other hand, perhaps she’d overestimated her part of the work. It would take time, of course, but much of it would be spent in libraries, not with the paintings themselves. She might not run into Marc much at all.

“Very well,” Marc said. He slid out of the booth.

Susannah made the mistake of looking up at him. He seemed incredibly tall, broad-shouldered, strong, as he stood there. He wasn’t frightening, exactly, but it was only sensible to be watchful. And she was certainly that; there seemed to be as much wariness circulating in her veins as blood.

“I’ll see you Monday, then,” he said. “Unless you’d prefer to spend the weekend with me?”

Susannah had turned, reaching for her handbag and briefcase. Her head snapped up once more; all her inner alarms shouted, Danger.

“Inventorying Cyrus’s pictures, of course,” he added smoothly. “Good heavens, Susannah, your eyes look like the Gulf of Mexico—the same shade of blue-green, and nearly as big. What did you think I meant?”

Susannah knew perfectly well what he’d meant. He’d meant for her to think that he was offering a weekend full of passion. And of course she’d fallen straight into the trap by reacting as she had. In fact, the only real question was what he’d truly been offering—an honest-to-goodness illicit encounter, or only a chance to make a fool of herself once more for his entertainment.

The old Marc wouldn’t have thought of either alternative, she knew. The young man she had known had been ardent—no doubt about that; she had yet to meet another man who could knock her socks off with a kiss as Marc had been able to. But he’d also been respectful, sometimes to the point of being quaint. He’d almost worshiped her; he would never have made that careless, offhand reference to sleeping together. And he would never have baited her, or embarrassed her.

The new Marc was cynical, sardonic, distrustful—and far more dangerous. The sooner Susannah stopped thinking of the man he’d once been and started handling him as she would a jar of nitroglycerine, the better off she’d be.

Still, she spent most of the weekend turning the whole thing over in her head—grooming the acid barbs she wished she’d thought of earlier and fretting about what Monday would bring. Why had she committed herself to showing up at Cyrus’s house on Monday, anyway?




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