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  "Mr. Merriweather?" she hesitantly said.

  "Yes?"

  "I'm Carolyn Stone."

  "You are Carolyn Stone?"

  "Yes."

  He whipped his hot gaze to the vixen perched over him, the one whose breasts were nearly brushing his chest, whose pouty lips were begging to be kissed.

  "Then who the hell are you?" he barked.

  "I'm Faith Benjamin." She grinned as if it was all a big joke, as if she'd played a great trick on him.

  Like Poseidon arching up out of the ocean, he rose to his feet. He grabbed her and set her away, and he loomed over her, trying to intimidate, but she couldn't be cowed. She stuck out her hand, expecting him to shake it, but he glared as if it was a venomous snake.

  Undaunted, she laughed and waved it under his nose, making sure he knew she deemed him an ass.

  "What's going on?" the real Ms. Stone inquired. "Miss Benjamin, what are you doing in here with Mr. Merriweather?"

  "I've been waiting for you," Ms. Benjamin said. "We have an appointment."

  Ms. Stone blanched. "Not today. Tomorrow. At three."

  "Oh, I must have gotten the dates mixed up. Silly me."

  Lucas demanded of Ms. Stone, "Why were you meeting with her?"

  "I decided"—Stone gulped with dismay—"I should speak with her immediately to see if I could resolve things."

  "She imagined she could trap me into signing papers." Miss Benjamin batted her lashes—she actually batted her lashes!—and chortled with glee. "Tiny, harmless me, without a lawyer or expert advice. Ms. Stone assumed I would crumble and cede what's mine without a fight. Were you intending to have her bribe me, Mr. Merriweather? Did you think you could scare me, then toss me a few dollars, and I'd go away?"

  That was precisely what Lucas had thought. He'd intended to threaten her with lawsuits and public shaming and jail time. Then he'd pay her a pittance to shut up and slither into obscurity.

  In his musings about Faith Benjamin, he'd pictured an avaricious criminal who'd stumbled on an opportunity for larceny and had seized it. He'd wondered if she was a prostitute or meth addict. Obviously, he'd miscalculated.

  She was intelligent and clever and sexy. She looked like someone's virtuous daughter, but acted like a loose, lonely wife on the prowl. How was he supposed to deal with such a person?

  He took a step toward her, then another and another, until his body was touching hers all the way down. His posture hinted at physical aggression, but the idiotic woman was brave to the point of recklessness. She didn't budge.

  "You think this is funny?" he raged.

  "No. I think it's very, very serious."

  "Do you know what I could do to you? Do you know what I could do to your family? Are you positive you should cross me?"

  She wrinkled her pert nose. "I'm not afraid of you."

  "You should be."

  "Your grandfather said you were a spoiled bully. Now that I've met you, I see that his assessment was correct."

  Her mentioning Harold was shocking, as if she'd cursed or spat on the floor.

  "Don't you dare speak of him," Lucas commanded.

  "What's the matter, you pathetic baby? Could it be that I have something you want and you can't get it back? Poor, poor Lucas Merriweather. Beaten by a girl."

  He leaned in, wishing he was the sort of man who would commit violence against a female. She deserved an old-fashioned thrashing.

  "Don't be smart with me," he seethed.

  "Why shouldn't I be? I know all about you."

  "You couldn't possibly."

  "You'd be surprised what Harold had to say." She whispered, "It was never anything good."

  He narrowed his gaze, studying her, curious as to what machinations were rumbling through her devious, convoluted mind. Her words about his grandfather, her claim that Harold had made derogatory comments about Lucas, had Lucas rattled.

  He had a small pile of memories of his grandfather—the man sitting in the bleachers at Lucas's T-ball game, holding his hand as they walked in a park—but they'd been drowned out by the shouting and recriminations that had come later.

  Lucas always kept a tight rein on his emotions. He couldn't have been raised by his stern, autocratic father or his cool, detached mother and turned out any differently. But for some reason, the notion that his grandfather hadn't liked him was particularly wounding.

  "Miss Benjamin"—Ms. Stone huffed over to where they were pressed together—"I have to ask you to leave."

  "Yes, I should be going," Benjamin blithely agreed, and she had the gall to wink at Lucas. "I need to get home and check all the curtains so those pesky private detectives can't stick their cameras in my windows."

  She started out, but spun at the last second and said, "By the way, the money is mine. Harold gave it to me, and you can't have it. Just thought you should know."

  She waltzed out, and Lucas and Ms. Stone waited in a dreadful silence until the front door closed with her exit.

  "I'm so sorry, Mr. Merriweather," Ms. Stone began. "I had no idea she'd—"

  "That woman is a menace," he interrupted, not in the mood for excuses.

  "Yes, she certainly seems to be."

  "And it's occurred to me that you have none of the skills necessary to negotiate with her."

  "I was simply late. I didn't mean to be. I called your cell, but I—"

  Lucas held up a hand, stopping her. "You're fired, Ms. Stone." He whipped away and stomped off. "As to Faith Benjamin, I'll deal with her myself."

  CHAPTER TWO

  "It was so hilarious. I wish you'd been there."

  "Tell me every detail again. I never get tired of hearing about it."

  Faith grinned at her dear friend and foster mother, Gracie Green. They were at home and three days past her encounter with Lucas Merriweather.

  They lived in an older, two-story, four-bedroom house, complete with a front porch and oak trees in the yard. It had been Harold's, but was Faith's now. Not that her ownership had produced any changes. She'd just inherited ten million dollars, but she was carrying on modestly and quietly—as she always had.

  Faith was making a pot of tea, while Gracie sat in the corner, dressed in a flowery caftan. Red was her favorite color, and she looked like an exotic bird: red hair, red lips, red nails.

  They'd known each other for fifteen years, since the time when Faith had been a lonely orphan. She'd been lost in the Nevada foster care system, and when the state had placed her with Gracie, they'd clicked immediately. Gracie had had a rough childhood herself, so she had a knack for coping with kids like Faith.

  Gracie was sixty, but when she was younger, she'd been a beauty who'd thrived on the seedier side of Las Vegas. She'd worked as an escort and had dealt cards in games that never would have been sanctioned by gambling authorities. She was cunning and clever, a con artist who was an expert at analyzing the odds and beating them. She also had a heart of gold.

  Faith had no idea who her parents had been. Shortly after her birth, she'd been dropped anonymously at a Vegas fire station. She figured she'd been born in Vegas, but her few attempts at investigating her origins had never provided any answers.

  Gracie had been friends with Harold in Vegas. Gracie had introduced Faith to Harold. It had all been downhill—or uphill, depending on your point of view—from there.

  "I went to that snooty lawyer's office"—Faith recounted the tale—"but I had my dates mixed up. I was supposed to be there the next day."

  "There's nothing worse than talking to an attorney," Gracie replied. "It could have been a waste of a perfectly good afternoon."

  "But it wasn't, because Lucas Merriweather showed up. I still can't believe it."

  "Neither can I. What a stroke of luck."

  Faith chuckled at the memory, not able to fully absorb what had happened. Typically, she was a laid-back and unassuming person, so she couldn't understand why she'd vamped and flirted so shamelessly.

  He was uber-handsome and oozed sexuality, and he'd
ignited a feminine spark that had made her want to get closer to him. She blamed it on hormones and a magnetic attraction beyond her control, and even though she didn't like him, she hadn't been immune.

  "You should have seen me," Faith said. "I scammed him like a pro."

  "I'm so proud," Gracie teased, and they both laughed.

  "When I first arrived," Faith explained, "the receptionist plopped me in Ms. Stone's office. By myself! The Merriweather file was right on her desk."

  "I hope you read it."

  "Every page."

  "That's my girl."

  "So I'm standing there waiting for Carolyn Stone, and Merriweather waltzes in. He thought I was Stone, and he's such a pompous ass, it never occurred to him that I might not be."

  "You didn't bother to correct him."

  "Of course not. And"—Faith's eyes gleamed with mischief—"he spilled his guts."

  "Let me guess: You're a greedy thief who must be brought to justice."

  "Yes."

  "What is it with those Merriweather men?" Gracie huffed. "Why are they so sure they know it all?"

  "They're rich and idle, and they spend all their time, calculating the ways they're wonderful."

  "Was he as sexy in person as he looks in magazines?"

  "Sexier."

  "Yum."

  He was occasionally featured in the gossip pages, usually noted as the companion for some famous model when she was entering a trendy club or restaurant. Faith had other pictures of him too, more candid shots that Harold had had taken over the past decade.

  Lucas Merriweather wasn't the only one who could hire a private detective. If he had any notion of how meticulously his grandfather had tracked him, he'd probably faint.

  "They're coming after the money," Faith said.

  Grace shrugged. "Harold knew they would."

  "They'll fight dirty."

  "So will we." Grace reached over and patted Faith's hand. "They won't be able to take it from you. Don't worry. Harold was very careful in how he drafted his will."

  "I hate to bicker, though. They have so much, and we have just this tiny bit. Why can't they leave us alone?"

  "They're sharks; they're used to feeding on people like us."

  "Maybe we'll give them heartburn."

  "We can only hope."

  The front door slammed, and children's feet raced toward them. Her dog, a mutt named King, woofed a greeting.

  "Faith, Faith," a little girl called, "where are you?"

  "We're in the kitchen, Peanut."

  Penelope—Peanut to everyone—skipped into the room. She was four and had recently learned to skip, so she was very proud of it. Her mop of black curls bounced with each hop.

  Ten-year-old Bryce came in too. He resembled Peanut, with her same dark hair and striking blue eyes, but he had none of her perky exuberance. He was possessed of an inquisitive mind, was quiet and perceptive, and he moved with the ease of a dancer or athlete.

  They were Harold's adopted children. Faith's children now. The money was theirs, and she'd never give it up.

  "There's a car outside," Peanut said.

  "Really? What kind?"

  "A fancy one!"

  "A Porsche," Bryce clarified. "There's a man driving it. He's studying the house."

  "Interesting," Faith mused.

  Gracie grinned. "Why do I suppose it's Lucas Merriweather?"

  "Why would you automatically assume it's him?"

  "He was planning to bully you into submission, right?"

  "Yes."

  "But now that he's met you, he realizes it won't work, so he has to try a different tactic."

  "Like what?"

  "Friendship, seduction, bribery. It's hard to tell what he'll choose." Gracie nodded toward the street. "Go talk to him. See what he wants."

  Faith rose and started out, her small family trailing after her. She stopped and peeked out the front window. The driver had exited the car and was leaned against the passenger side, his arms cross over his muscled chest.

  Sure enough, it was Lucas, all six feet, one-hundred-eighty pounds of him. He was wearing a leather jacket that accented his broad shoulders. A white tee stretched over his great pecs. Tight jeans hugged his long legs. Scuffed boots made him appear tough and dangerous.

  His black hair was a little too long, his blue eyes a little too jaded. He could have been a fallen angel or the bad boy from high school your mother warned you about.

  What on earth could he want?

  Gracie checked him out and clucked her tongue. "Ooh, I wish I was five years younger."

  "Down girl," Faith murmured, and she went outside.

  She stood on her porch, assessing him as intently as he was assessing her, and a frisson of concern slithered down her spine. She was definitely in the middle of a moment, as if fate had intervened and her life would never be the same.

  For a brief interlude, she huddled there, afraid to speak or walk toward him. Then he smiled, gifting her with the full force of his dynamic charm, and she remembered that she loathed him.

  She wondered how many women he'd smiled at just that way, and she shook herself out of her stupor and marched down the steps.

  "Hello Merriweather." She smiled her brightest smile too. If he could preen and attempt to seduce, so could she. "Fancy meeting you here."

  "Hello, Miss Benjamin. Or since you married Harold, maybe I should call you grandmamma."

  "That makes me sound so old," she pouted.

  He raised an imperious brow. "You're the one who wed a ninety-year-old man. The title comes with the territory."

  "Did you travel all this way just to insult me? Or did you have some other purpose in mind?"

  Her question was deliberately suggestive. When she was with him, she couldn't seem to behave. He overwhelmed her better sense, oozing so much testosterone that she had no ability to deflect the onslaught.

  She approached him until she was so close that her thigh brushed his jeans. It was a beautiful summer afternoon, and she was dressed in flip-flops, shorts, and a halter top. Her hair was down and curled around her shoulders, so she looked nothing like the stuffy lawyer he'd encountered at Carolyn Stone's office.

  Back then, he'd tried to keep his gaze where it belonged. Now, with her barely clothed, he was happy to let his attention roam.

  His eyes dropped to her cleavage, to her breasts that were scarcely constrained by the stretchy fabric of her tiny top. A flash of desire shot through her torso and out to her extremities. His focus was so potent that she was electrified by it. If she'd pointed her finger, sparks would have flown from the tip.

  He was aware of the effect he had, and he smirked as if she'd reacted exactly as he'd expected.

  He leaned toward her so they were inches apart. Was he thinking of kissing her? Would he dare?

  "How long were you married?" he murmured.

  His query was bland and casual, but his tone made it seem as if she'd been propositioned. Her cheeks flushed, her temperature rose ten degrees.

  "Six weeks."

  "Why, you're practically a newlywed. I should have brought a gift."

  "I only accept cash."

  "In the millions, I've heard."

  "It's millions or nothing for me," she blithely retorted.

  "Doesn't it bother you to be called a gold digger?"

  "It might—if I was one."

  He snorted. "You stole from my befuddled, dying grandfather, but you don't feel you did anything wrong?"

  "No, and it galls you, doesn't it?"

  "Absolutely. But I'm not worried. You won't have the money for long. I intend to take every penny."

  "You're so mean," she sarcastically cooed.

  Behind her, the front door opened, and she glanced around to see that Gracie, Bryce, and Peanut had come outside. King sat by Peanut, his tail thumping on the porch boards.

  "Is that your family?" He was puzzled, as if she was too bizarre a creature to be related to anyone.

  "Yes."

&n
bsp; "Your kids?"

  "Yes," she said again as he studied them. Would he notice any resemblances?

  "The boy looks to be ten or eleven. When did you give birth to him? When you were a baby?"

  "They're Harold's children," she explained, but provided no more. He could assume whatever he wanted.

  "He fathered two kids in his eighties? I don't believe it."

  "I don't care."

  He nodded at Gracie. "And the flamboyant redhead?"

  "My mother."

  "Figures," he muttered.

  He stared at them, as they stared back. She could almost read his thoughts as he struggled to deduce what was indicated by the presence of the children. He was smart, but arrogant and obtuse. He'd never unravel the mystery, and even if he did, it didn't matter.

  He couldn't harm them or her; Harold had made sure of it.

  He wrenched his gaze away from them and shifted it to Faith again. A surge of energy flickered between them. She'd first noted it at the lawyer's office, and she'd never felt anything like it before.

  She liked how he scrutinized her, as if she was hot and sexy and he might gobble her up. It was his nature to be forward with females, and he looked at every woman the same way, but still, she enjoyed having his attention showered on her.

  "Aren't you going to invite me in?" he asked.

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't like you, and I don't want you in my home."

  "Can't I at least be introduced to your family?"

  "No."

  In a flirtatious voice, Gracie piped up from the porch. "You can come on in, honey. If she won't invite you, I certainly will."

  She was leaned on the railing, a hip cocked, her incredible bosom thrust out.

  "Go inside, Gracie," Faith snapped.

  "You never let me have any fun."

  "Take the kids with you." None of them moved, and Faith added, "I need to talk to Mr. Merriweather. Alone."

  "Oh, all right," Gracie grumbled. As she herded Bryce and Peanut through the door, she suggested, "Lucas, why don't you give her a ride in your car? Her opinion of you is awfully low. It might be a way to impress her."

  "I just might try that, Gracie," he replied.

  She vanished, and as he watched the sway of her retreating backside, he chuckled. "She's interesting. I see where you get your… charm."