Mysterious Millionaire

“My daughter,” he responded quickly. “Natalie.”

Her expression went blank as if she had something to hide. All of a sudden, her adorable freckled face seemed less innocent. He wondered why she’d approached him, why she spoke of love.

There had been incidents in the past when female employees had tried to seduce him, but Liz’s body language wasn’t flirtatious. Her arms hung loosely at her sides. Her feet were planted solidly. Something else motivated her.

“You have a reputation as an adventurer,” she said. “What kind of stuff do you do? Something with the airplanes you manufacture?”

“I test-pilot our planes. Not for adventure. It’s work.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Cool job.”

“I’m not complaining.” He glanced up the hill toward the house. It was time to get his grandpa outside in the sun. Maybe he could talk some sense into the old man. “Please excuse me, Liz.”

Instead of stepping politely aside, she stayed beside him, matching her gait to his stride. “I think I met your sister at the house. Real slim. Dressed in black.”

“That’s Patrice.” And not good news. He’d known that his sister and her husband, Monte, were coming to dinner, but he hadn’t expected her until later. As a rule, he tried to keep his sister and Charlene separate. The two women hated each other.

“Is your sister married?” Liz asked.

“Yes.”

“Any kids?”

Patrice was far too selfish to spoil her rail-thin figure by getting pregnant. “None.”

From the house, he heard a high-pitched scream.

Ben took off running.

When he looked over, he saw Liz with her uniform hiked up, racing along beside him. She had to be the most unusual maid he’d ever met.

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.”