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With Private Eyes
Eileen Wilks
Claudia Barone was the perfect choice to shadow Ethan Mallory and discover what he knew about the sabotage of her family's business. She could steamroll anyone. Anyone but Ethan. The cagey P.I. would never tell her his prime suspect was her brother. Nor could he hide his attraction–red-hot, out of control and licking at her heels….To a society deb like Claudia, Ethan was rough around the edges, and used caveman tactics to get his way. Yet that earthy animal attraction threatened to eat her alive. Claudia had never been bested by a man, but working closely with Ethan, desperately trying to keep her hands off him, she wondered if she'd met her match….


November’s menu
BARONESSA GELATERIA
in Boston’s North End
In addition to our regular flavors of gelato, this month we are featuring:

Tall, cool drink of tart lemonadeWith her incredible legs and honey-blond hair, Claudia Barone bowled Ethan over at first sight. But the strong, sassy society dame was not about to make him forget who was in charge of this investigation. He’d match her clue for clue, kiss for kiss…
USDA Grade-A prime beefsteakEthan Mallory was as different from Claudia as any person on the planet. But the rough-and-tumble private eye got to her like no man ever had. Beneath his gruff exterior was a real diamond in the rough.
Decadent chocolate bombeNo longer able to resist him, Claudia gave herself over to Ethan’s kisses, to his touch. Being with him was different—explosive, dizzying, mind-blowing. She’d revel in it—for as long as it lasted. After all, none of her other relationships had had any duration. But, then again, Ethan wasn’t like any other man….
Buon appetito!
Dear Reader,
Thank you for choosing Silhouette Desire—where passion is guaranteed in every read. Things sure are heating up with our continuing series DYNASTIES: THE BARONES. Eileen Wilks’s With Private Eyes is a powerful romance that helps set the stage for the daring conclusion next month. And if it’s more continuing stories that you want—we have them. TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB: THE STOLEN BABY launches this month with Sara Orwig’s Entangled with a Texan.
The wonderful Peggy Moreland is on hand to dish up her share of Texas humor and heat with Baby, You’re Mine, the next installment of her TANNERS OF TEXAS series. Be sure to catch Peggy’s Silhouette Single Title, Tanner’s Millions, on sale January 2004. Award-winning author Jennifer Greene marks her much-anticipated return to Silhouette Desire with Wild in the Field, the first book in her series THE SCENT OF LAVENDER.
Also for your enjoyment this month, we offer Katherine Garbera’s second book in the KING OF HEARTS series. Cinderella’s Christmas Affair is a fabulous “it could happen to you” plot guaranteed to leave her fans extremely satisfied. And rounding out our selection of delectable stories is Awakening Beauty by Amy J. Fetzer, a steamy, sensational tale.
More passion to you!


Melissa Jeglinski
Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

With Private Eyes
Eileen Wilks

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This one’s for Karen,
who’s always willing
to listen.

EILEEN WILKS
is a fifth-generation Texan. Her great-great-grandmother came to Texas in a covered wagon shortly after the end of the Civil War—excuse us, the War Between the States. But she’s not a full-blooded Texan. Right after another war, her Texan father fell for a Yankee woman. This obviously mismatched pair proceeded to travel to nine cities in three countries in the first twenty years of their marriage, raising two kids and innumerable dogs and cats along the way. For the next twenty years they stayed put, back home in Texas again—and still together.
Eileen figures her professional career matches her nomadic upbringing, since she’s tried everything from drafting to a brief stint as a ranch hand—raising two children and any number of cats and dogs along the way. Not until she started writing did she “stay put,” because that’s when she knew she’d come home. Readers can write to her at P.O. Box 4612, Midland, TX 79704-4612.


Meet the Barones of Boston—an elite clan caught in a web of danger, deceit…and desire!
Who’s Who in
WITH PRIVATE EYES
Claudia Barone—She’s always fixing her family’s problems, but her own love life is a mess. Her former beaux never lasted longer than four months; they were too intimidated by her stubbornness and her strength….
Ethan Mallory—Despite hailing from the wrong side of the tracks, he’s always been attracted to tall, cool blondes—all of whom have been Ms. Wrong. This time he tells himself he’ll stay away from Ms. Barone, no matter how much it kills him….
Derrick Barone—He, more than anyone, knows you can’t fight who you really are.



Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen

One
Uncle Miles had always told him his sense of humor would get him hanged one of these days, Ethan reflected. Maybe today was the day.
“I’d like to start as soon as possible.” The blonde sitting on the other side of his desk gave him a bright smile. “This is going to make a terrific article.”
Maybe it was his curiosity that would get him in trouble this time. As much as it tickled his sense of the absurd for Claudia Barone to present herself in his office posing as a reporter, he wouldn’t have let her run through her spiel if he hadn’t wanted to know what she was up to. “I haven’t agreed yet,” he pointed out.
“Oh, well.” She said that tolerantly and crossed her legs, sliding one long, silky thigh over the other. “How can I persuade you?”
Then again, those legs might be the real culprit. The moment she’d appeared in his doorway in her lipstick-red suit he’d wanted to get her into the visitor’s chair in front of his desk. He’d wanted to find out how far that one-inch-too-short skirt hiked up.
They were world-class legs, he thought regretfully. And she knew it. She’d crossed and uncrossed them four times since she sat down. “I don’t imagine you can.”
Not a whit discouraged, she launched into a repetition of her asinine story, her hands flying enthusiastically. It was an intriguing contrast, he thought. Her posture was very proper—shoulders squared, spine straight—and she certainly didn’t raise her voice. But her gestures were as loud as the color of her suit.
Even on ten minutes’ acquaintance, he could tell Claudia Barone was crammed with contradictions. She looked like the prototype for a tall, cool sip of blond elegance. She was pale and slim—skinny, he told himself—with blue eyes and classic features marred by a nose too assertive for its setting. Her honey-colored hair was pulled back in a kind of a roll at the back, very sleek and polished. The cut of her suit was conservative, too, if you ignored where the hemline hit.
And the color. Which was echoed in the siren-red gloss she’d sleeked over a cute little rosebud mouth.
Her story might be crazy, but her voice was worth listening to, even if it did tug at memories he’d prefer stayed safely buried.
She didn’t really look like his ex-wife. Bianca had been a blonde, too, but the color had been courtesy of Clairol, not nature. Not that he knew for a fact Claudia Barone’s sunny shade hadn’t come from a bottle, too. There was one sure way to find out…. Don’t go there, he told himself, even as his body enthusiastically endorsed the proposed investigation.
But she sure sounded like Bianca. That smoky alto was uncannily familiar, though that had to be sheer coincidence. The Contis and the Barones were no more related than the Hatfields and McCoys had been, and for similar reasons. Her accent was the same as Bianca’s, too, but that was no fluke. Upper-class Boston was Miss Claudia Barone’s natural habitat.
Unlike the office of a thoroughly working-class detective. Ethan steepled his fingers on the desk and smiled at her blandly. “How can you call the article ‘A Day in the Life of a Private Investigator’ if you’re planning to follow me around for a week?”
“Oh, it will be a composite day.” She waved that away. “Not a literal day. That would actually be deceptive, wouldn’t it? Any given day might not be typical at all. It’s much more accurate to pick and choose parts from several days.”
“Then you should call it ‘A Typical Day.’ Or ‘An Average Day.”’
“Perhaps you’re right.” She turned the wattage up on her smile. “Whatever I call the article, it will be great publicity for your agency. Free publicity. And I won’t be any bother, truly. What do you say?”
“Free publicity is usually welcome. The only problem I can see is that you aren’t a reporter.”
She didn’t even blink. “What makes you say that?”
Maybe it was her casual attitude toward her own lies that made him decide to do it. Or that perverse sense of humor his uncle had warned him about. Or maybe it was those legs—those mile-long, silk-clad legs she’d been showing off ever since she sat down. “First, there’s your shoes.”
“My shoes?” She looked down as if checking that the red-leather pumps were still there. “What’s wrong with my shoes?”
“Not a thing. Except that no one on a reporter’s salary can afford custom-made Italian shoes. The coat looks too expensive, too.”
“Well, damn.” The mild epithet came out sounding quite ladylike. “I spent three hours shopping for this suit yesterday at a couple of those chain stores that pop up like mushrooms at all the malls. I wanted something with a touch of class, even if it had to be modestly priced to suit the image. Why should being a reporter mean one lacks taste?” She paused expectantly.
“No reason, I suppose,” he said, fascinated. She had to be a natural blonde. She sounded blond.
“That’s what I thought. Stacy wanted me to wear this shapeless pants suit in a dreary shade of brown. Of course,” she added with the tone of one wanting to be fair, “she can wear earth colors. They turn my complexion muddy. But the style was impossible.” She glanced down at her suit with some satisfaction. “I found this on sale for eighty-seven dollars. Can you believe that? But I do so dislike off-the-rack shoes. They always rub or pinch somewhere, especially when they’re new. And I didn’t think you’d know enough about women’s shoes to spot the difference.”
“Because I’m not from your background?” His voice took on an edge.
She rolled her eyes. “Because you’re a man. Men never know the least thing about women’s clothing, not unless they—” Now she blinked, startled. “You aren’t, are you? Inclined toward women’s clothing yourself, I mean.”
“Good God. No.”
This time her smile crinkled up the corners of her eyes. It looked more natural that way. “I must say, I’m pleased to hear that. Though I shouldn’t be. It’s none of my business, but one learns so little if one is overly concerned about that sort of thing, don’t you find?”
It was time to get rid of her, before he became too fascinated by the prospect of what absurd thing she’d say next. His uncle had also warned about Ethan’s tendency to let his fascination with people distract him. Ethan shoved his chair back and stood. “You didn’t have to pretend to be a reporter, you know.”
“No?” She watched curiously as he rounded his desk. “Does that mean you’ll let me be part of your investigation?”
When frogs fly. “It means that a lot of women find P.I.s…appealing.” He loaded the words with innuendo and let himself enjoy a leisurely visual journey over her body. Small, high breasts…slim waist…smooth hips…and those drool-worthy legs. Pity he had to chase them, and the rest of that enticing package, back out the door. “Not many are as gorgeous as you are, though.”
With that, he bent and clamped his hands on the arms of her chair, penning her in. At last her eyes turned wary. “You’ve misunderstood.”
“Don’t be embarrassed.” He leaned in closer. Her breasts were rising and falling a little too fast beneath the red wool jacket. He turned his smile into a smirk. “I’m flattered. I’m sure we can work out a way to get better acquainted.”
Up close, her eyes looked different. The irises were summer-sky blue, but they had a darker ring around the outside that was almost green. His gaze dipped to her red, red lips. She licked them. His heartbeat jacked way up.
Something stabbed down on the arch of his left foot. Hard. He yelped and straightened. Why, that little—! She’d stomped on his foot with the heel of one of those wicked red shoes.
“You should be ashamed of yourself,” she said sternly. “Sexual intimidation is not playing nice.”
“Playing nice?” He snorted. “What about that thing you kept doing with your legs? And the way you licked your lips just now?”
Guilt flashed across her face, but she tilted her chin up. “That wasn’t intimidation.”
“No, that’s not the word I’d use for it.” He propped his hip against his desk, crossed his arms and scowled at her. He’d try plain old intimidation this time. A man his size usually didn’t have any trouble pulling that off. “Unless you plan on following through with what you were offering, I’d say it’s time for you to leave.”
She didn’t budge. “I think you knew who I was all along.”
“Of course I did. I’m investigating the fire at the Baronessa plant. I’ve got a newspaper photo of you in my file.”
“But I don’t have anything to do with the plant or the company.”
“You’re a Barone, and I’m a thorough kind of a guy.” And she’d had her face in the paper often enough—the society pages, of course.
She leaned forward. The neckline of her suit gapped enough to give him a glimpse of cleavage. “Listen, that fire was— Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She glanced at where he was looking and straightened. “I know you think of sex seven times a minute or something like that. You can’t help it, being a man. But could you please try to pay attention? This is important.”
“I can pay attention and look down your top at the same time,” he assured her. “Being a man, I’m used to that kind of multitasking.”
She chuckled. It was low and husky and caught him by surprise. “Your point,” she conceded. “But not set and match. My point is that you’re investigating the weird things that have been happening with Baronessa lately—the tampering with the gelato at the tasting. The arson at the plant. Obviously we need to know who your client is and what you’ve learned.”
“Obviously, I’m not going to tell you.”
“You need the cooperation of Baronessa employees. I can get that for you. All I ask in return is a little information. Or the chance to accompany you while you uncover information.”
“No. And don’t bother to wave a checkbook at me. I don’t take bribes.”
“Did I suggest that?” She was indignant. “I wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble to trick information out of you if I thought money would work.”
His lips twitched. “Just as well. Your brother already tried.”
A crease formed in her forehead. “Derrick? He wasn’t supposed to. We agreed that I’d handle things. Well.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Never mind that. I—”
His phone rang. He picked it up. “Mallory Investigations.”
It was Nick Charles, the arson investigator in charge of the Baronessa case—and a good friend of Ethan’s cousin, Mel. Nick didn’t really have anything for him; mostly he was fishing, himself. Ethan dragged out the conversation, keeping his responses uninformative, just to make his audience squirm with curiosity. Petty, maybe, but a man took what satisfaction he could. Lord knew it was all the satisfaction he was likely to get from Ms. Claudia Nose-in-the-Air Barone.
When he hung up, she had her purse in her lap. “If you’d believed I was a reporter, would you have let me tag along?”
“Probably not. Reporters aren’t entitled to the details of my investigation, either.”
She sighed. “You’re not going to be helpful, are you?”
“Sleep with me and see how helpful I can be.” The suggestion slipped out before he could edit it.
“You don’t mean that,” she informed him, and opened the big clutch-style purse. “Smile.” She pulled out a little camera—one of those new digital jobs that aren’t much bigger than a wallet.
“What the— Hey!” He held a hand in front of his face a second after the flash went off.
“For my collection,” she said breezily, retrieving her coat from the other chair.
No, not a coat, he realized as she slung it on. A cape that fell to mid-calf. Her dramatic side had apparently won out over the proper Boston deb on that particular shopping trip.
Her smile was perfectly polite. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Mallory. When you change your mind about working with me, let me know. I’m sure a thorough man like yourself has my phone number in that file of yours.”
He watched the gorgeous legs move briskly out his door and out of his life. She had a damned fine behind, too—high, round and not as skinny as the rest of her.
Not that the rest of her was really skinny. He sighed and reached for his phone. He might lie for a living, but he didn’t lie to himself. Ever. Fact was, she was packaged just right. Incredible legs.
Incredible ego, too. Ethan punched in a number he didn’t have to look up. Conceited little society twit. Did she really think he was going to invite her to tag along just because she wanted him to? He’d have to be nuts.
The phone was answered on the third ring. “Sal,” Ethan said to his client and former father-in-law, Salvatore Conti, head of the family that occupied eight or nine slots on the Barones’ Top Ten list of enemies. “You’ll never guess who just showed up in my office.”

At eight-thirty that night, Claudia had her hands full of milk—two gallon jugs of it, to be precise. She was in her kitchen. Her best friend since the third grade, Stacy Farquhar, stood near the pantry, watching her suspiciously.
Claudia’s kitchen occupied the rear end of her apartment. It was divided from the long, narrow living area by an ivy-covered lattice and the dining table, a glass slab set on a cast-iron frame. Her dining table could seat twelve, and sometimes did. Tonight it held an empty pizza box, two paper plates and a few scattered bits of mushroom and bell pepper.
Claudia was very fond of bell peppers. “Grab the olive oil from the pantry, would you?” she said, using her hip to swing the refrigerator door shut.
“What are you going to do with that milk?” Stacy’s voice was filled with accusation. “You said you’d fill me in while we gave ourselves pedicures. Weird ones, maybe, but so much of what you do is weird.”
“Don’t be silly. What could be more natural than olive oil, salt and milk?” Claudia pulled out a soup pot and poured the milk in a gallon at a time. “You’re allergic to so many things, I thought we’d try—”
“I’m allergic to milk!”
“You’re allergic to drinking it. This is for soaking our feet after we give them the salt-and-olive oil scrub. You’ve heard of milk baths, for heaven’s sake. Now, quit squinting at me and go get us a couple of towels, okay?”
Stacy rolled her eyes and headed for the linen closet. “I don’t know why I let you do this to me. It’s not as if I’ve forgotten the time you persuaded me to try out for the boxing team. I still have nightmares…. Hey, the printer’s finished.”
She darted into Claudia’s bedroom, which was affixed to the rest of the apartment like an afterthought about midway down the living area. And emerged waving the just-printed photo. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
“I told you what happened.” Claudia tested the milk with the tip of her finger. Still cold. She turned the gas up a bit.
“You said Ethan Mallory reminded you of a grizzly bear.” She slapped the image down on the counter. “Exhibit A: photograph of major hunk who does not look like any kind of bear.”
Claudia glanced at the photo. Crisp brown hair that would curl if it weren’t cut so ruthlessly short. Hazel eyes framed by dark, extravagant lashes, that might have looked pretty if they hadn’t been set in such an uncompromisingly masculine face.
“He’s very big,” she offered, trying to remember just why she’d thought of a grizzly bear when she met him.
“He’s an ex-football player, you said. From his college days. Of course he’s big.”
“Solid, too. And not just physically. I had the feeling it takes a lot to rile him. Not because he lacks a temper, but because he’s so insufferably confident that anything other than a direct hit just rolls off. I guess it was the way he loomed over me when he had me pinned in the chair that made me think of a grizzly bear.” Claudia headed for the pantry for the olive oil. “Are you going to get us some towels, or not?”
Stacy opened a drawer, grabbed two dish towels and tossed them on the table. “And just when did he pin you in a chair?”
“I told you he tried to intimidate me.”
“Humph.” Stacy grabbed a mixing bowl from the cupboard. “He can’t be all that bright. A runaway train wouldn’t intimidate you.”
“No, I think he’s sharp enough.” Claudia paused, frowning at the container of salt in her hand. “Too bright, maybe. And very stubborn. He isn’t going to be easy to work with. Oh, well.” She shrugged and put the salt and olive oil on the table. “I have to work with what’s available, not with what’s ideal.”
“Claudia.” Stacy’s tone was ominous now. “He’s smart. He wears his hair short. He’s got shoulders like a—well, like a football player. And he’s domineering. Is he successful? Leader of the pack in his field?”
“Confident and assertive are not synonyms for domineering.” She went to check the milk. Nice and hot. “He does wear his hair short, doesn’t he?” Claudia had an image of the surly Mr. Mallory with his hair grown out enough to curl, cherublike, around that hard face. She grinned. “Curls would interfere with his tough-guy image.”
“Oh, Lord. He’s big, sexy, macho as hell. He’s practically the archetype. Your archetype.”
“I wouldn’t say that Ethan Mallory is at the top of his profession. He’s made himself a nice little niche in the detective business here in Boston, investigating white-collar crimes, but…” Claudia decided not to think about that. “The milk’s ready.”
Stacy dragged out a chair, plunked herself down and fixed Claudia with her most repressive stare. Since Stacy’s eyes swallowed about half her face, she looked like a cute, green-eyed owl. The green, of course, was supplied by her contacts. Without them she couldn’t have seen who she was glaring at. “You are not to have anything further to do with this man.”
“Well, I have to. Besides, I’ve changed.”
“You’ve made one of your plans, that’s all. You decided to change. That doesn’t mean you have changed.”
“Quit worrying. I’m reformed,” Claudia assured her, setting out two plastic tubs for their feet. “On the wagon. I’m dating Neil.”
“Four, five dates—big deal. Besides, Neil is not a cure. He’s a symptom.”
Claudia paused with the pot of steaming milk in her hands, surprised. “I thought you liked Neil.”
“Of course I like Neil. He’s my type. But I like caution. I love caution. You don’t.”
“The Neils of this world are an acquired taste. I’m acquiring it. I learned to like coffee, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but you still don’t like spinach.”
“I do, too. Sort of.”
“It makes you throw up.”
Since that observation was hard to dispute—Stacy had been at the restaurant when a serving of pasta Florentine had sent Claudia running for the ladies’ room—Claudia ignored it. She poured the milk carefully into each plastic tub. “Now for the exfoliating. Mix a heaping handful of salt with some olive oil.”
“I don’t know about this.” Stacy eyed the ingredients dubiously.
Claudia rolled her eyes. “You don’t quibble over spreading that green gunk all over your face, with who knows how many chemicals and preservatives in it, but you’re worried about rubbing a little olive oil on your feet?”
“If God had wanted us to put olive oil on our feet, She would already have put it in a lotion sold at Filene’s.”
“If you don’t trust me, trust my grandmother. She told me about this.”
That worked—as Claudia had known it would. Stacy was nuts about Claudia’s Italian grandmother. Of course, it had actually been Claudia’s mother’s mother, the very proper Bostonian, who’d read about this in some magazine, not her father’s thoroughly Italian mother. But mentioning that wouldn’t help Stacy relax and enjoy herself.
The two of them rubbed their feet with gritty oil. “So do you think your plan will work?” Stacy asked. “The one to make Ethan Mallory let you tag along on the investigation, I mean. Not your other plan, with Neil. That’s doomed.”
“Not right away.” Claudia gave her heel a little extra attention. Calluses built up there so quickly. “He’s stubborn, like I said. He’ll try to wiggle or trick his way out.”
Right after her meeting with the detective, Claudia had e-mailed the photograph she’d taken of him to her cousin Nicholas, COO of Baronessa. He, in turn, had sent it to all Baronessa department heads and supervisors, telling them that no one, but no one, was to speak with Ethan Mallory or allow him onto corporate property unless he was accompanied by a Barone family member.
That family member, of course, being Claudia. They’d settled that at the family council two nights ago. She had the time and the energy to devote to this complication. The others didn’t. Besides, she was good at fixing things. And boy, did things need fixing right now.
“So what’s plan B? I know you have a plan B. You always do.”
“I’ll just follow him around, see what he’s up to, that sort of thing. That will annoy him.” Claudia eased her feet into the warm milk and wiggled her toes. “But I think I’ll enjoy it. I’ve never done detective work before.”
“You’re getting carried away here, Nancy Drew. You’re supposed to find out who this guy’s client is, not start playing detective yourself.”
“My family is counting on me.”
“They don’t expect you to turn into Nancy Drew.”
“Things are wrong. More wrong than I’d realized.”
“Of course there’s something wrong. Like arson, for one. Good Lord, your sister was nearly killed. Has she remembered anything else?”
“Nothing about the night of the fire. And of course arson is wrong, but…” The unease she felt went deeper than any anxiety about the family corporation. She pulled out one foot and began drying it.
Claudia was happy that Baronessa existed, both for the opportunities it provided several family members and the wealth it generated. She wouldn’t be able to accomplish nearly so much if she were tied to a nine-to-five job. But the core of her unease lay in the fallout from the sabotage—fault lines within her family she hadn’t known existed, and still hadn’t identified clearly.
Her sister had survived the bout with amnesia and met a delicious man while recovering; Emily should be head-over-heels happy. Mostly she was, but something was eating at her, something from the night of the fire that she couldn’t remember. Then there was Derrick.
Claudia sighed. Sometimes she thought her brother was a changeling. In a family of overachievers, he consistently…missed. Not by much. His failures, like everything else about him, were unremarkable, more likely to irritate than command attention. Poor Derrick. He did try. Lately, though, his muddled efforts to push to the head of the line seemed to have acquired an edge.
Then there was her cousin Maria, who had turned weird overnight, running off to who-knew-where. Uncle Carlo and Aunt Moira were worried. That was so not like Maria.
Stacy broke into her brooding. “You can’t fix everything, ’Dia.”
Claudia’s chin came up. “I can try.”
A muffled ringing announced a phone call. Claudia muttered at herself as she conducted a quick hunt. She managed herself quite as ruthlessly as she did everyone else, and did not understand why this one quirk of hers refused to vanish on command. The phone was never where it was supposed to be.
This time it turned out to be in the pantry. “Hello?”
“Cute trick with the photo. I’ve decided to accept your deal.”
The voice wasn’t one she could forget. Not this quickly. Not when it set up such a delicious resonance inside her. “I hadn’t expected to hear from you this soon.”
“It seemed better to call and capitulate than to pout and drag things out. I have to be able to speak with Baronessa personnel to complete my investigation.”
“I see. A commendable attitude. Ah, I do want to make sure we’re talking about the same deal. This is not about me sleeping with you, correct?”
Stacy’s eyes went barn-owl wide.
“That’s no longer a requirement.”
“Good. About your client—”
“That’s not part of the deal, either.”
“How shall we begin our collaboration, then?”
“I’ll pick you up at nine tomorrow morning.”
“All right. I’ll be waiting downstairs—the parking is impossible here. I assume you have my address in that file of yours?”
He chuckled, agreed that he did, and told her to look for a nondescript gray Buick.
A dangerous man, Claudia thought as she disconnected. That deep, rumbly chuckle had vibrated right out of the phone and into her belly. She tapped the phone with one finger. “That was too easy. He turned belly-up in less than six hours.”
“So? You got what you wanted. Not that I’m surprised. Or are you disappointed that he wasn’t more of a challenge?”
“Of course not. I don’t want him to be difficult to handle. That would be counterproductive.” Claudia put the phone down, a frown tucking a small vee between her brows. She had gotten what she wanted. So where was the slick, greasy feel in her stomach coming from?
The pizza, obviously. And maybe she was a teensy bit worried about what Ethan Mallory might be cooking up…and how she’d react the next time she saw him. She sighed. “I think the challenge is still to come.”

Two
At nine o’clock the next morning, Claudia stood in front of her apartment building reading a grant application and making notes in the margins. Her fingers were freezing, but she hated fumbling with the pages through gloves. The rest of her was comfortable enough, though she did hope Mallory wouldn’t keep her waiting long.
She’d been up since six, but that was nothing unusual. She always got up at six. Claudia believed in the discipline of routine. Yoga first, then yogurt, cereal and coffee followed by her shower. She’d dressed, dried her hair, applied makeup, placed a sell order with her broker, answered e-mail and spoken with the manager of a women’s center.
The only chore that had presented a problem was dressing. What did one wear to go detecting?
She’d spent ten minutes trapped by indecision, pulling out one thing after another. Claudia hated indecision even more than she hated being dressed inappropriately, so in the end she’d opted for casual. Black blended in almost anywhere. Of course, her electric-blue leather coat didn’t exactly blend in, but unrelieved black was so boring. She’d pulled on her oldest pair of boots in case they went tramping around the burned-out plant.
The problem was, they might be going anywhere. She hadn’t asked. Claudia tapped her pen against her bottom lip, irritated. She’d allowed herself to be distracted by Ethan Mallory’s low, rumbly voice. Or possibly his chuckle. Or the memory of his shoulders.
A horn honked. Claudia woke from her reverie to see a dirty, gunmetal-gray, four-door sedan stopped in the traffic lane. She stuffed the grant proposal into her satchel and darted between the parked cars.
Mallory leaned across the bench seat to open the door for her and she slid in, her arrival trumpeted by the horn of the driver behind the Buick. Some people had no patience.
“Good morning,” she said brightly, eyeing his tie with fascination. It was blue with green squiggles and didn’t go with his suit, which was the same color as his car, but cleaner. About the best thing that could be said for the tailoring was that it had the proper number of sleeves and trouser legs. He’d tossed a khaki trench coat in the back seat that would look perfectly ghastly with the gray suit. “Where are we going first?”
“Huntington Avenue.” He accelerated smoothly.
“Baronessa headquarters, in other words.”
“Yep.”
Her heartbeat had no business speeding up. And her tummy was going to have to get over that lurch of anticipatory joy, because nothing was going to happen.
What was it with her, anyway? He wasn’t even good-looking—not the way Drake had been, at least. Or Charles, for that matter. His hair was a nondescript brown, his lips were too thin and his nose was crooked. Aside from the to-die-for body, he looked quite ordinary.
Ordinary, that is, for a tough guy. She’d bet he developed five o’clock shadow by 4:00 p.m. But his eyes didn’t fit the image. The irises were a cool dun color speckled with green that, at a distance, blended into hazel. Speckled eyes, set off by lashes too dark and long for either his hair or his gender. And…and she was staring, blast her, and he was smiling, blast him, an irritating little quirk of those thin lips announcing that he’d noticed her attention.
Claudia switched to a safer visual inquiry—the debris on the seat, the back seat and the floorboard. Her eyebrows lifted.
He noticed that, too. “I use my car as a rolling office sometimes. Things accumulate.”
“I see. No, I don’t. That would explain the files, books and calculator. Possibly the newspaper, candy wrappers and empty soda cans, too, if we allow for a degree of slobbiness. But not the Slinky, the Rubik’s Cube or the empty mayonnaise jar.”
“Those are for stakeouts. They can get pretty boring.”
Okay, so the toys were just toys. She wouldn’t ask about the handcuffs. “What do you do with the jar?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”
He flashed her a grin. “Emergency urinal.”
Oh. It didn’t look used…. Hastily she mentioned traffic. Traffic was the Boston equivalent of talking about the weather. Often it segued into a discussion of the Big Dig. Would the underground highway ever be finished? Was it an enormous boondoggle or an engineering feat to rival the Great Pyramids?
“Traffic sucks,” he said. “Why were you the appointed family member to deal with me? You aren’t connected to Baronessa, except by dividend checks. Seems like someone like, say, your cousin the corporate president would swing a bigger stick.”
“I believe the size of my stick was sufficient to get me into your car this morning. Who do you want to see at headquarters? My cousin the corporate president?”
“Him, yes. Also your cousin, Gina.”
“Why?”
“I’m looking into the tampering that occurred last Valentine’s Day, too. It was almost certainly the same person. Gina ran that show. I’ll need to talk to your brother Derrick, as well.”
“Why Derrick?”
He gave her a sardonic look. “He’s in charge of quality control. Seems like having your new flavor tampered with was a pretty major failure in his department. And his office was at the plant, before it burned.”
Yes, it was. He’d complained about that often enough. Derrick was ever watchful for a slight, worried that his cousins were achieving more than him, getting more perks, more recognition.
Claudia chewed on her lip. Derrick had been especially difficult ever since the fiasco at the gala held to promote the newest Baronessa flavor—which had now been scrapped. Someone had adulterated the passion fruit gelato with habanero pepper juice. If that hadn’t been bad enough, one of the guests had suffered an allergic reaction and had to be rushed to the hospital. Derrick seemed to think the whole thing was a personal attack on his effectiveness.
“You can get me in to speak with these people, right?”
“Oh, sure.” She flapped a hand in a vague affirmative. The traffic was living up to his pithy description, creeping along at a snail’s pace. At this rate she’d be trapped in this car with him for another twenty minutes. Claudia resolved not to look at him too often. “You have any ideas about the culprit yet?”
“Yeah.” He slid her a look out of those sneaky, two-toned eyes. “It’s someone who’s real unhappy with you Barones.”
Claudia unbuttoned her coat, wondering again who had hired this man. “You think it’s personal, rather than a business competitor who has lost his sense of proportion?”
“I’m not ruling out the possibility of a competitor. There’s Snowcream, Inc. And there’s Anderson Enterprises. Baronessa has taken over several of their markets in the last two years.”
Uh-oh. Did he know about Drake? She studied him warily. Yes. Too much of a coincidence for him to mention Anderson otherwise. Of course, he couldn’t know everything. Just the more public portions of what had turned out to be an all-too-public romantic debacle.
“Anderson sells a good deal more than ice cream, Mr. Mallory. Baronessa only sells gelato. We might irritate them, but we only compete with one corner of their business. Arson isn’t a reasonable response to a small dip in the profit column.”
“Business rivalries can escalate beyond the reasonable when there’s a personal element involved. And from what I hear, you and the Anderson son and heir were involved very personally.” He shook his head. “No accounting for taste, I guess, but just what did you see in that pin-striped piranha? Aside from the teeth and great suits, that is.”
It sounded as if he’d met Drake. Emotions rose like a swarm of gnats, putting a tug on Claudia’s lips that was part annoyance, part amusement. If worse came to worst, she wouldn’t have to fight her way past any illusions created by Ethan Mallory’s sartorial brilliance, would she? Maybe she could actually have the quick, hot affair her body was urging….
Bad idea. Really bad. “Tell me, do you actually have a client? Someone who’s hired you, that is. It occurred to me you might be doing a favor for an old friend.”
He lifted one eyebrow. They were very nice eyebrows, darker than his hair, like his eyelashes, and with a pleasant arch. Expressive eyebrows for such a tough face. “So you know about Bianca and me.”
“Well, of course. Though Bianca took her maiden name back after the divorce, so I didn’t place your name right away. It’s been a few years, hasn’t it? Not that I mistake gossip—” she fluttered a hand as if fanning away the chaff “—for reality. Was your parting amicable?”
“Now, why would you think that was any of your business?”
“I’d like to determine where your biases lie. And your loyalties. I could easily imagine that Sal Conti played some part in the breakup of your marriage, for example, leaving you with the burning desire to embarrass or hurt him in return. But you might have remained fond of your ex, and be determined to clear her family.”
“You go right ahead and speculate, honey. I know how fascinated some women are by other people’s love lives.”
“Well, honey, while I’m enjoying my speculations, you can circle the block. You just passed the Baronessa building.”

Ethan didn’t actually have to circle the block, since the parking garage that served the building had an entrance on the nearest cross street. Claudia directed him to the portion reserved for visitors. She didn’t say a word about his having almost passed his target. She didn’t have to. Her smirk said it all.
As soon as he cut the engine, she jumped out. That didn’t surprise him. This wasn’t a woman to sit around waiting on a man, or anyone or anything else. He bet she’d skipped learning to walk in favor of hitting the ground running, and hadn’t stopped since.
He hit the button that locked his car. She was standing on the other side, tapping one foot impatiently, her hands thrust in the pockets of that absurdly bright coat that looked like a double dip of sky.
“So tell me,” he said companionably, “is it true you dumped a whole carton of melted ice cream on Drake Anderson’s head in front of the power-suit crowd at the Radius?”
She flicked him an annoyed glance. “It was only slightly melted.”
“Pretty stupid of him to have shot off his mouth that way, where you could overhear him.”
“Drake has a problem knowing when to keep his mouth shut. It’s a common failing.” The disdain in her glance suggested it was one Ethan shared. She turned and set off briskly for the door to the lobby.
Damn, but she was cute. Ethan grinned and whistled the first two bars of the William Tell Overture as he stretched his legs to catch up with his pretty blond passport.
She held the door open for him. “You haven’t talked to anyone here yet, right?” she asked.
“Not yet. I focused on the plant first.” And had found one thread worth tugging on, which had led him to headquarters. “I did try to speak to some people here yesterday. Got turned away.” He lifted his eyebrow. “Good block.”
“I do what I can.”
The building itself was one of those oversize glass-and-chrome splinters modern architects were fond of, buffed and buttressed by steel. Attractive enough, Ethan supposed, in its way. But he preferred brick or stone. The foyer made him think of bank lobbies—lots of glass, a gleaming tile floor, with potted plants huddled in the corners trying valiantly to soften things. One wall held the bank of elevators; another was dedicated to a photographic history of Baronessa’s early years.
The executive offices occupied the fifth floor. He pushed the up button.
She pulled off her coat and draped it over her arm. Ethan sighed with pleasure. Nothing like a long, cool blonde dressed all in black. She’d left her hair down today, too, which made up for the fact that she wasn’t wearing a skimpy little skirt like yesterday’s. He planned to enjoy looking at her while he could. She wouldn’t be around long.
“Who are we talking to first?” she asked. “Nicholas?”
“Good question. I need to see a personnel file. How do I obtain it?”
“First you tell me whose file you need, and why.”
He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “And if I do, can you get the file for me?”
Her lips pursed. “I think so, but I have to know why I’m getting it first.”
“Ed Norblusky. He worked at the plant until three days after the tasting was sabotaged. He was fired for showing up for work drunk. Seems he shot his mouth off afterward about how he’d teach ‘those rich bastards’ a thing or two. And he’s disappeared.”
She bounced on the balls of her feet, excited. “You said you didn’t know who it was! This Norblusky—”
“May have just moved, not intentionally disappeared. And people blow off steam all the time without setting fire to an ice cream plant to make their point. But he’s worth checking into. I need the name and address of his last employer, his next of kin, his social security number—all of which should be in his personnel file.”
She nodded decisively. “I can get it. Nicholas and I deal well together. That’s whose approval we’ll need.”
“Tell me what he’s like.”
“A man with a mission,” she said as the elevator doors opened. Three people got out, giving them curious glances. “He always has a plan, a goal to shoot for. When he was eight, his mission was a puppy.”
“Did he get it?”
“Of course. A hyperactive little Dalmatian, cute as could be. He took care of it, too, right from the first. That’s why his missions usually succeed. He plans, he works toward that plan and he follows through.”
“What’s his mission these days?”
“Being the world’s best daddy, I think.” Her smile was wide and bright, but he noticed that it didn’t push any crinkles into the corners of her eyes. “Or maybe Husband of the Year. I’m sure perfect Chief Operations Officer is still high on the list, too.”
“Do you always do that?”
“What?”
“Smile harder when something hurts.”
Her eyebrows twitched crossly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m very fond of Nicholas. Naturally, I’m happy for him.”
“If all it took to make us happy was the happiness of someone we cared about, the world would need only one happy person. Chain reaction, you see. The original happy person would make everyone he or she met happy, and they’d make all their friends and family happy, and they—”
“You have a strange mind, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told. Did you know that your eyes only crinkle up at the corners when you really mean your smiles?”
She blinked, opened her mouth, then closed it again.
“I guess not.” How about that. She was speechless. He bet that didn’t happen often. Whistling softly, he straightened and punched the button for the fifth floor.

For some reason Claudia’s stomach was tight. Not because Ethan Mallory’s observation had upset her, of course. He was way off base. She was happy for Nicholas, who deserved every drop of his recent good fortune.
No, it was her distressingly competitive nature that was to blame. Claudia had long ago acknowledged that she just plain liked to win. The score between her and Mallory wasn’t quite even—she remained one up due to her flanking maneuver with the photograph—but he’d certainly narrowed her lead.
He was an annoyingly observant man, though. That was a good quality in a detective, she conceded privately as the elevator carried them to the fifth floor. But tricky in an opponent.
Fortunately, Nicholas wasn’t in a meeting or otherwise unavailable. Claudia had very little time to chat with his assistant before they were told to go on in, which was probably just as well. Mrs. Peabody was trying to give away puppies.
Claudia liked Nicholas’s office. The window-walls made it sunny when the weather was clear, and even on a gray November morning like this they imparted a spacious feeling. Nicholas was seated when they entered, a big, dark-haired man with what Claudia liked to call laser eyes—sharp and keen as a scalpel.
At the moment he was looking decidedly wary. He stood and walked around his desk, holding out his hands. “I’m delighted to see you, of course, but…you haven’t decided Baronessa needs your attention, have you?”
She chuckled as she took his hands, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “Don’t worry. You’ve done too good a job here. There’s nothing for me to fix. Aside from the problems we discussed the other night, that is. Nicholas, this is Ethan Mallory.”
“Ah. The detective.” Nicholas nodded, but she noticed he held on to her hands long enough to make it unnecessary to shake Ethan’s. “Mr. Mallory. You’re here with questions, I assume.”
“That, and a request.” He slanted Claudia an amused glance. “Properly vetted by the family’s tame dragon, here.”
Nicholas smiled. “Don’t bet on the ‘tame’ part.”
Claudia had no objection to being called a dragon. They were beautiful, powerful beasts, after all, highly intelligent and, in Chinese folklore, the repositories of wisdom. But she didn’t care for tame. “I am civilized, I trust, but tame implies a certain subordination. While I’m perfectly capable of working with others—”
“Ha,” Nicholas muttered.
“I’ll admit I have trouble working for others. Shall we sit down to discuss Ethan’s request, or are you on a tight schedule this morning, Nicholas?”
Nicholas waved at the visitors’ chairs. “By all means, sit down. I can give you a few minutes.”
They all found their places—Nicholas behind his desk, Claudia and Ethan in the cushy chairs opposite. Nicholas tented his hands on his desk. “So, what is this request?”
“Two requests, actually,” Ethan said. “First, I need to talk to a few of your people about how the tasting was arranged. Claudia assures me she can get me in to see them, but I figured I should clear it with you, too. Maybe you can answer some of my questions. You must have ordered an internal investigation.”
Nicholas met her eyes for a moment. She knew what he was thinking—Derrick would be furious if his competence was questioned. Especially by Nicholas. “We did perform an internal investigation. My time’s a little short this morning. It would be faster for you to read a copy of the report.” He buzzed Mrs. Peabody and told her to pull it and make a copy. “If you still have questions after reading that,” he said to Ethan, “you may speak to anyone Claudia approves. I trust her judgment.”
Ethan’s fingers tapped once on the arm of the chair. “Thanks. I also need to see the personnel file on a former employee—Ed Norblusky.”
“Norblusky,” Nicholas repeated thoughtfully. “Why?”
Ethan repeated what he’d told Claudia about Ed Norblusky. Claudia listened with half an ear, willing to let him make his own case and intervene only as needed.
She should have told him it was no business of his how she smiled. Good grief, most people had a whole wardrobe of smiles—grins, grimaces, openmouthed laughter, polite smiles, wry little twitches. Crinkly eyes probably caused wrinkles, anyway.
She certainly wasn’t so petty as to begrudge her cousin his good fortune. Nicholas been through a rough time, first with the girlfriend from hell, then learning—two years after the fact—that he was a father. He deserved the happiness he’d found with Gail.
And their couple-ness did not make her feel left out. Not really. Maybe there was a twinge of discomfort now and then. Just because one was strong didn’t mean one wanted to be strong every minute, or alone every night…but she’d learned her lesson. When a woman of twenty-eight couldn’t sustain a relationship past the four-month mark, it was obvious she had a serious flaw.
Claudia believed in facing her own deficits straightforwardly. After her last romantic disaster—the one with Drake—she’d done quite a bit of soul-searching. In the end, there had been only one possible conclusion: her sexual antennae were tuned to the wrong channel.
Strong, take-charge men revved Claudia’s motor. Men who ran businesses or rose to the top of their chosen fields, deliciously male beings who could match her wit for wit, strength for strength.
Men who didn’t want her back.
It had come as a shock when she finally accepted that the kind of men she was attracted to were in turn attracted to female pillows—soft women, squishy and delicate. Women who, by contrast, made their men feel even more hard and strong and male. Exceptions did exist, but were so rare as to be statistically negligible. Look at Tony’s new wife, or either of Max’s wives—the one he’d been rebounding from when he and Claudia were together, or the one he married a month after they broke up. Then there was that bit of fluff Hal had been sleeping with on the side…no, she couldn’t count that. Hal belonged outside her test sample. Infidelity was the symptom of a weak character, not a strong one.
After Hal had come Drake. She’d been in recovery from that humiliation when she’d finally woken up and smelled the testosterone. All of Drake’s other romantic liaisons had been Pillow Women. Every one except her. That should have warned her, but she hadn’t wanted to see the truth until she’d overheard him at a party.
He’d been planning to dump her. He’d laughed at her with his friend, and said horrible, humiliating things about her lack of femininity, her—well, never mind. She’d been particularly foolish about Drake, but she’d learned her lesson.
The men she wanted sometimes did want her back, but they got over it. This made for a pretty good-sized flaw, but she had a plan. She—
“Claudia?” Nicholas waved a hand back and forth. “Where did you go?”
“Oh. Sorry.” Frantically she cast her mind back over the last minute or so and grabbed a wisp of memory before it evaporated. “Respecting an employee’s privacy is all very well, Nicholas, but this is a criminal investigation.”
“Yes, but Mr. Mallory is not the police. As I just pointed out.”
Whoops. She’d missed that.
Ethan was leaning back in his chair, his legs outstretched, as at ease as if they were talking about football. Or traffic. It was not the reaction most men had to Nicholas. They were such muscular legs, too…. Behave, she told herself firmly.
“I can give you my word,” Ethan said, “that nothing I learn from a personnel file will be used unless it bears directly on the crimes I’m investigating.”
Damn that deep, rumbly voice of his. It seemed to vibrate things inside of her. “That seems reasonable, Nicholas.”
His brows twitched up. “Trust him, do you?”
“Oh, no. I’m sure he’s a good liar. He would have to be, in his profession, wouldn’t he? But what earthly use could he make of Ed Norblusky’s employment history outside of this investigation? I don’t think we need to worry about him selling the man’s phone number to a telemarketer.”
“No telemarketers,” Ethan said dryly, “I promise.”
Nicholas shook his head, but said, “All right. You can look, Mallory. Claudia, you go with him and make sure he doesn’t slip anything into his pocket. And I want to know what you learn when you find this man.”
“I’ll keep you posted,” she assured him.
“If I find any evidence,” Ethan said, “it will go to the police. They’ll keep you informed, I imagine.”
Nicholas’s smile was a masterpiece of cool skepticism. “No doubt.” He leaned forward to punch in a number on his speakerphone and asked someone to pull the file on Ed Norblusky. “My cousin Claudia will be down in a few minutes with a man named Ethan Mallory. They may look at the file, but it’s not to leave your office.” He disconnected. “Satisfied?”
Ethan nodded. “Thanks again.” He stood. “You recognized Norblusky’s name. Mind telling me why?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Norblusky drove the truck that transported the gelato that was tampered with.”
“Nicholas!” Claudia bounced to her feet. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
“I wanted to know Mr. Mallory’s reasons for looking for the man.” He stood. “Good to meet you, Mr. Mallory.” This time, he offered his hand.
Claudia wondered what mysterious male test Ethan had passed to rate the handshake. “I’ll see you soon, I’m sure. Tell Gail hello, and give Molly a big, sloppy kiss for me.”
“Will do. I’d like a word with you before you leave.” He glanced at Ethan. “Family matters. If you wouldn’t mind waiting outside—?”
“No problem.” Ethan’s smile was wide, almost sleepy.
He didn’t look like a shark, but Claudia’s antennae were quivering. “You can talk to Mrs. Peabody. Nicholas’s assistant? She’s very nice.” And she really needed a home for those puppies.
He gave her a wry look. “Think I’ll read the report instead. I don’t need a puppy.” With a last nod at Nicholas, he headed for the door.
Claudia frowned at him. He’d seen right through her. How annoying.
As soon as the door closed behind Ethan, Nicholas turned those laser eyes on her, trying to slice through to the back of her head. “I don’t like the look in his eyes when he’s watching you.”
“Really?” Surprised pleasure hummed in her middle. She ignored that. Involuntary responses didn’t count. “I hadn’t noticed that kind of look on his face.”
“He doesn’t do it when you can see. Claudia.” He shook his head. “Mallory intends to trick you.”
“Oh, I know that.” She waved it aside. “He doesn’t know me very well.”
Nicholas’s lips twitched once before he smoothed them out. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
She smiled brightly, easily, at him and tried to make her eyes crinkle. “Of course. Don’t I always?”

Three
By the time Ethan left the building, he was feeling quite satisfied with the bargain he’d struck with his tame dragon. Norblusky’s personnel file had been all he’d hoped it would be—references, social security number, the works. Derrick Barone had played least-in-sight, but Gina Barone Kingman had been helpful.
And the report Nicholas had given Ethan was extremely interesting.
Whoever had handled the in-house investigation had done a good job of reconstructing events. The report concluded that the gelato had been adulterated when a person or persons unknown had entered the back of the refrigerated truck ferrying the gelato to the tasting while the truck was stuck in traffic.
Nothing amazing about a truck getting caught in traffic, but Ethan’s curiosity was snagged by the reason for that particular traffic jam. A produce truck had spilled bushels of habanero peppers all over the street.
Life was full of bizarre coincidences, and that was probably all this was. But he thought he’d check out the driver of the produce truck, anyway.
Ethan glanced at the woman beside him. Claudia had been elated by the news of Norblusky’s connection, then irritated when they learned her brother was gone—to a luncheon appointment, according to his secretary. Two hours before noon. Ethan was definitely curious about Derrick Barone.
It didn’t take a body-language genius to interpret the way Claudia tensed up every time Derrick’s name was mentioned. Ethan figured that Derrick was the Barones’ problem child. Most families had one. That by itself wouldn’t make him suspicious, but the report Nicholas had given him had confirmed what Ethan had suspected: the gelato tampering had been an inside job.
The people with the most knowledge and best access to the gelato were all Barones. Admittedly, an employee made a more likely saboteur than someone who was getting rich off Baronessa, but the Barone problem child had expensive tastes. Offered a big-enough bribe from one of Baronessa’s competitors, he might have chosen money now over money later.
All of which meant Ethan had to ditch the blonde. Pity, but given half a chance, Ms. Claudia Barone would put herself in charge of his investigation—and she wasn’t likely to investigate her brother.
Bossy woman. He smiled, thinking of the way she’d primmed up when he’d referred to her as a tame dragon.
“What’s that about?” she asked, all blue-eyed suspicion.
“What?” He opened the passenger door for her.
“That sneaky smile. Most of us do have different smiles, you know, for different occasions.”
“That stung, did it?” He went around to his side, climbed in and tossed the red-bound report in the box in the back seat that held his working files. “I wouldn’t worry about it,” he told her reassuringly. “I doubt most people notice the difference. Personally, though, I kind of like the crinkles.”
“I don’t recall expressing an interest in your opinion. My goodness, this car is chilly. Would you turn on the heat, please?”

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