Millions to Spare

So that’s where he got all the money. “Are you in line for the British throne or something?”

“Number two hundred and forty-seven.”

“You know the exact number?”

“Of course I know the exact number.” His mouth twitched for a second in what had to be an aborted smile. “Two hundred and forty-six untimely deaths, and I’m in.”

Julia struggled not to grin in return. “Will you kill them off yourself?”

His eyes squinted ever so suspiciously, reminding her that they were adversaries not friends. “Why? Is that what you’d do?”

The questions took her by surprise. “Hey, I might be willing to steal—” She cut herself off, astonished to realize she had been about to confess to stealing a swab of horse DNA.

“What?” he asked softly.

She frantically struggled to regroup.

“What is it you’re willing to steal, Julia?”

Her brain scrambling, she blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Toilet paper.”

His brows went up.

“Back at the jail,” she improvised. “I was getting pretty desperate.”

He propped a hand against the concrete rail, his gray eyes narrowing. “Why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you have trust issues.”

He gave a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Never had them before.” Then he shook his head. “You are definitely a problem for me, Julia Nash.”

She shrugged. “Then let me leave.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

He stared levelly at her for a few silent heartbeats, while the air all but crackled between them.

“If you know,” he finally said, “then I don’t need to tell you. And if you don’t know, then I definitely can’t tell you.”

“That was more convoluted than your full name.”

He gestured to a wide concrete staircase that led down to the pool and began walking. “Care for a swim?”

She kept pace with him. “I thought we were having a tour.”

“It’s getting warm.”

“I’m fine.”

He nodded, but he led her to one of the umbrella-covered tables and pulled out a chair.

Julia sighed. Getting a tour of the stables wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d hoped.

They’d no sooner sat down than three servants arrived. One spread a tablecloth in front of them. One added silver, china and crystal place settings. While the third placed a floral arrangement, a plate of scones and jam, and a pitcher of peach-colored juice.

“Roughing it?” she asked him.

“Is that an interview question?” Harrison dismissed the servants and poured the juice himself.

“No.” She sat back in her chair. “More of an editorial comment on your life.”

“Am I about to get a lecture on privilege and excess?”

“You’re number two hundred and forty-seven in line for the British throne. I’m guessing this isn’t the worst of your excesses.”

He put down the pitcher. “I see you remember the exact number.”

“I told you I had a good memory.”

“And here I thought your lack of a notebook meant you were lying through your teeth, and you never really intended to interview me at all.”

Julia experienced a twinge of guilt. “Shows you how wrong you can be, doesn’t it?”

“Say my name?”

“Harrison Rochester.”

“You know what I mean.”

Julia smiled to herself. “The Right Honorable Lord Harrison William Arthur Beaumont-Rochester.” Then she paused for a beat. “Baron Welsmeire.”

“Damn,” he muttered, obviously surprised.

She pressed her advantage. “Has it occurred to you that I might not be lying?”

“Not even for a second.”

Their gazes caught and smoldered, while some sort of arousal rose unwanted within her.

“Where were you born?” she finally asked him.

“This is going to be a bloody long interview.”

She waited.

“I was born in Welsmeire Castle, south of Windermere—”