Читать книгу Mysterious Millionaire - Cassie Miles - Страница 9

Chapter Three

Liz charged up the incline from the lake toward the house. Though her legs churned at top speed, she couldn’t keep pace with Ben’s stride.

She heard a second scream…and a third that trailed off into an incoherent, staccato wail that reminded her of a kid throwing a tantrum in the grocery store aisle. The cries seemed to be coming from the front entrance.

Trailing behind Ben, she couldn’t help but admire his running form. His long legs pumped. His forest-green shirt stretched tightly across his muscular shoulders. For a supposed drug addict, he appeared to be in amazing physical condition. As he approached the shiny, black Escalade parked at the front door, he muttered, “Son of a bitch.”

Two bitches, actually. Beside the SUV, two women grappled. Patrice shrieked again. Still clad in her sleek black pantsuit, she had both arms clutched possessively around a large metal object. Charlene tugged at her arms and delivered a couple of ineffectual swats on Patrice’s skinny bottom.

Liz stopped and stared at the spectacle of two grown women scuffling like brats on a playground. She didn’t envy Ben as he waded into the middle of the wrestling match and pulled them apart. “What the hell is going on?”

Without loosening her grip on what appeared to be a two-foot-tall bronze statue of a rearing bronco, Patrice tossed her head. Her smooth, chin-length mahogany hair fell magically into place. “Grandma Crawford gave this original Remington to me. It once belonged to Zane Grey, you know.”

“You’re a thief.” Charlene jabbed in her direction with a red manicured fingernail that matched her sweater. “How dare you come to my house and steal from me.”

“Your house?”

“That’s right.” Charlene’s blue eyes flashed like butane flames. “I’m Jerod’s wife. All this is mine.”

Patrice’s nostrils flared as she inhaled and exhaled loudly. She spat her words. “You. Are. Sadly. Mistaken.”

“I’ll show you who’s wrong.” Charlene lunged.

Ben caught the small woman by her waist, lifted her off her feet, carried her a few paces and dropped her. “Stop it,” he growled. “Both of you.”

Other residents of the house had responded to the shrieks. The gardener and chauffeur peeked around a hedge. On the landing, a man in a chef hat hovered behind another maid with eyes round as silver dollars. Rachel Frakes glared disapprovingly. When her gaze hit Liz, she remembered the lecture on decorum and reached up to adjust the starched white maid’s cap that hung precariously from one bobby pin.

Ben strode toward his sister. “Give me the damn horse.”

“It’s mine.” She stuck out her chin. “Besides, you’re supposed to be on my side.”

“Give it to me. Now.” His eyes—which were an incredible shade of teal—narrowed. An aura of command and determination emanated from him, and Liz recognized the strong charisma of a born leader. It would take a stronger woman than Patrice to stand up to Ben.

His right hand closed around the neck of the rearing bronco, and he gave a tug. Reluctantly, his sister released her grip.

Quickly, he passed the sculpture to Liz. “Would you take this inside, please.”

“Sure.” She remembered her earlier conversation with Rachel about proper responses and amended, “I mean, yes.”

The burnished bronze was still warm from being cradled against Patrice’s body. Liz held it gingerly. She wasn’t a big fan of Western art, even if it had belonged to the legendary Western writer Zane Grey, but this lump of metal must be worth a lot.

Ben turned back to Patrice and Charlene. “Shake hands and make up, ladies.”

“No way,” Charlene responded. “I’m not going to touch that skinny witch.”

“This feud has gone far enough.” His baritone took on an ominous rumble. “Like it or not, we’re family. We stick together.”

Liz edged around the three of them on her way toward the front door. This squabble—though plenty juicy and perversely entertaining—really wasn’t her concern. Her job as a private investigator meant finding evidence proving that Ben was an unfit father—a task that had taken on a layer of complication. She’d expected him to be an addict or a crazed playboy or an irresponsible adventurer. None of those identities fit. He seemed family oriented and rational…even admirable.

Before Liz could step inside, a well-tanned man—dressed in the male version of Patrice’s black suit—appeared in the doorway and struck a pose as if waiting for a GQ photographer. Though his blond hair was thinning on top, he’d compensated with a long ponytail. He squinted at Liz’s face, then his gaze caught on the sculpture. “What do you think you’re doing with that horse?”

“I was planning to saddle up and ride in the Kentucky Derby.”

“It’s mine.” He gestured toward Patrice. “Ours.”

“And who are you?” Liz inquired. “The great-grandson of Zane Grey? A Rider of the Purple Sage?”

“Monte. Monte Welles.” Like Bond. James Bond. “Patrice’s husband.”

When he made the mistake of reaching for the statue that had been entrusted to her care by Ben, her reaction came from pure instinct. With both arms busy holding the bronze horse, Liz relied on her feet. Two quick, light kicks tapped on his ankle, then the toe of his left foot.

He gave a yelp and backed off. “You’re fired.”

“The hell she is,” Ben said. “Monte, get your butt over here and talk some sense into your wife. She and Charlene need to kiss and make up.”

“Hah!” Patrice tossed her head again. “I’d rather kiss a toad.”

“I’ll bet,” Charlene countered. “That’s why you married Monte.”

Liz stifled a chuckle. Though she wasn’t taking sides, she gave a point to Charlene for her nifty insult.

Patrice planted her fists on her nonexistent hips. “Leave my husband out of this.”

“Gladly.”

“And I want an apology. I wasn’t stealing. Just reclaiming something that belongs to me.”

“Wrong,” Charlene said. “This is my house. Everything in it belongs to me.”

“Not for long—prenup. Remember the prenup,” Patrice said smugly. “When Jerod dies, you get a payoff and nothing more. Not a stick of furniture. Not one square foot of property. And certainly not my Remington sculpture.”

A sly grin curved Charlene’s glossy lips. “What would you say if I told you that Jerod has decided to change his will?”

Patrice looked like she might faint. Her complexion went ghostly pale. Her arms fell limply to her sides. “How could you say such a thing?”

“Maybe because it’s true.” Charlene preened. “You can check with the family attorney. He’ll be at dinner.”

“Grandpa wouldn’t do that,” she mumbled. “He couldn’t. Not on his deathbed.”

“He’s not going to die,” Charlene said with vehement conviction. “He’s going to get better.”

“Damn straight, honey. You tell ’em.”

Those few words, spoken in a Texan drawl, riveted everyone’s attention to the doorway. A white-haired man in a wheelchair was pushed onto the landing by a nurse in scrubs. Dark sunglasses perched on his beaklike nose. A plaid wool bathrobe hung from the frame of his shoulders. Though debilitated by illness, he was clearly the patriarch. Jerod Crawford, age seventy-six, took immediate, unquestioned control of the situation. “You girls quit your squabbling. And I mean now.”

A laugh bubbled from Charlene’s lips as she bounced toward her husband, leaned down and planted a quick kiss on his forehead. “You look good today. Excited about our party?”

“I’m waiting to see what you’ll wear. I like you all gussied up and smelling like roses.”

“I know you do.” She checked her wristwatch. “I need to run into town and pick up my dress from the seamstress. Don’t get yourself too tired before our guests arrive.”

“Ain’t much strain sitting in this here chair.”

She held both of his gnarled hands and squeezed. “Take care, lover boy. You’re my bumblebee.”

“And you’re my honey.”

Even though Charlene was probably a gold digger, Liz thought her fondness for Jerod rang true. Likewise for Ben, who stepped behind his grandpa’s wheelchair and pushed him along the driveway toward a narrow asphalt path leading toward the lake.

Rachel tapped Liz’s shoulder. “Put the sculpture on the table in the den and report to the kitchen.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As she entered the house, Liz reflected. She’d learned a lot about the dynamics of the Crawford family. Their greed. Their hostility. The seething undercurrent of hate and anger masked by these luxurious surroundings. Unfortunately, she’d gained zero evidence that Ben was an unfit father.

LIZ ALWAYS HAD TROUBLE following orders, but she tried to do as Rachel asked. Now she was baffled. Her assignment was to put together the place settings with half a dozen utensils, four plates, three different glasses and cup and saucer. She stood at the head of the table, shuffled the forks, switched the positions of the wineglass and water glass. Was that how it went?

When she looked up and saw Ben watching her with an amused smile, she felt a hot flush creeping up her throat. Blushing? She hadn’t blushed since sophomore year of high school when the captain of the baseball team had kissed her in the hallway, and she’d let him get to second base.

Ben came closer. “Could you use some help?”

Embarrassed about blushing, she thought of icebergs and snowstorms—anything to cool her off. Though she hated to admit that she didn’t have a clue about the third fork, Liz feared that Rachel would have a coronary if the place settings weren’t perfect. “I could use some expert advice.”

His shoulder brushed her arm as he reached across the plate setting to rearrange the knives. She was aware of his bodily warmth and a natural masculine scent that was far more enticing than aftershave. Not that she should be noticing the way he smelled. Her focus should be on gathering evidence to prove that he was an unfit father.

When he finished with the formal setting and stepped back, she nodded. “I knew that.”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “Did you?”

“Not really, but it’s not something that bothers me. In the grand scheme of things, why should I waste brain cells on knowing where to put the forks?”

“You’re not really a maid. Sorry, housekeeping engineer. Why are you really here?”

His intense blue-eyed gaze rested suspiciously upon her face. He wanted the truth, which wasn’t something she could give.

From her other undercover experiences, she’d learned that successful lies were based on truth, so she stuck to reality. “I’m a law student, paying my own way. I need a summer job, and I heard about this maid gig through a friend of a friend.”

His scrutiny continued; he wasn’t totally satisfied with her answer. “I liked the way you handled Monte. You know karate.”

Now the truth got more complicated. If she mentioned Dragon Lou, Ben might check her out with a phone call, which might lead to someone mentioning her part-time work as a private eye. “I learned the basics of self-defense. Seemed like a smart thing for a woman living alone.”

Having offered a rational explanation, she should have stopped talking but really wanted him to believe her. She continued, “You probably won’t find it hard to believe that I’ve gotten myself into a few scrapes. About six years ago, I went out with this guy…” A warning voice inside her head told her to shut up. Shut up, now. “Maybe I had too much to drink. Maybe he did. I don’t know.”

Ben’s attention never wavered. “Go on.”

“Somehow,” she said, “I ended up at his apartment. He got aggressive. When I told him no, he didn’t stop.”

She had never told anyone—not her mother, not her friends, not Harry Schooner—about that night. She’d been date raped. Remembering her weakness made her sad and angry at the same time. “That’s when I started taking karate lessons. And I’m good. No one can force me to do something I don’t want to do. Never again. No means no.”

He took a step toward her, and she feared he would offer sympathy. A shoulder to cry on. Or a gentle platitude that could never make things better.

Instead he shook her hand. “Smart decision, Liz.”

“Thank you, Ben.”

She was beginning to really like this guy.