by Diana Miller
“Of course not.”
“Of course you are.” A corner of his mouth quirked, crinkling an oil splotch. “It’s because I’m unbelievable in bed.”
Even assuming Ben’s claim wasn’t macho egotism, Catherine couldn’t believe any sex would be good enough to motivate a successful woman to marry an arrogant, small-town mechanic, especially one who lived where it snowed in June. Then again, it had been a while since she’d had sex. She also knew firsthand why that book about smart women and stupid choices had been a bestseller.
“Well, my ex-husband taught me men are all too damn much trouble. I’ve sworn off the lot of them, which is another reason your plan won’t work.”
“You can still pretend to be crazy about me. Lawyers lie for a living, after all.”
That too-familiar gibe sparked Catherine’s temper, and she narrowed her eyes at him. “This is from an auto mechanic?”
“An honest auto mechanic.”
“There’s an oxymoron to end all oxymorons.”
Ben’s lips quirked again. “Guess I deserved that. Though you’ve got to watch it. If you go using words like ‘oxymoron,’ people will think you’re too intellectual to be my type.”
“You expect me to limit myself to one- and two-syllable words?” Catherine had no idea why she was even discussing this since it was not happening.
“Like a lawyer could manage that.” Ben studied her for a moment, rubbing his chin, then nodded. “You can be a college dropout. That’s why you came to Lexington from Illinois or Indiana or some other northern place, to go to the university.”
“I dropped out of college.”
“After one year, because it was too much work. Now you’re a cocktail waitress.”
“Which everyone knows is the easiest job on the planet.”
“No, it’s damn hard work, too,” Ben said. “But you like it more than studying, and it’s got fringe benefits.” He leaned sideways and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Like meeting me when I stopped in for a drink after the wedding.”
Catherine slipped out from under his arm and turned to face him. “Even if I were willing to go along with your plan, it has a fatal flaw.”
“You don’t drink?”
“Your grandfather probably mentioned my name and that I’m his lawyer.”
“I doubt it. He was pretty secretive about his legal and financial affairs,” Ben said. “The letter about the two-week requirement that I got after Grandfather died was signed by some guy at First Trust in Minneapolis, not you.”
“Trey sent me things fairly frequently.” Thomas J. Donaldson III—nicknamed Trey—was Max’s full-time accountant and had an office at Nevermore.
“Trey’s off the suspect list since he just gets a year’s severance pay,” Ben said. “But he’s been Grandfather’s best friend for so long he’s almost family and will be around Nevermore. If he knows who you are, he might slip up and give us away. You’ll have to change your name.” He folded his hands on what looked like six-pack abs, rocking back in his chair. “What about Cat? Or better yet, Tiger.” He smirked. “Sounds like major fantasy material to me.”
Catherine responded with the withering look that was one of the few useful skills she’d picked up from her mother.
His smirk morphed into a chuckle. “Spoilsport.”
“I don’t suppose you’d consider hiring a private investigator.”
“Grandfather’s letter said he didn’t want anyone besides you and me looking into this and maybe uncovering family secrets not related to the murder. I wouldn’t feel right disrespecting his wishes.” Ben righted his chair. “If you aren’t willing to help me, I’ll go it alone.”
Max had made the same request in her letter. She’d hoped Ben would be willing to disregard it, but no such luck.
Catherine thought for a moment, chewing her bottom lip. She had other work, but nothing that couldn’t wait, and Max had insisted she be paid her regular rate so her firm wouldn’t be losing billable hours. It wasn’t as if Ben were proposing she do something unethical, either. If Max had been murdered, she needed to make sure her current client First Trust, which had taken over as trustee when Max died, didn’t distribute any of the trust to his murderer. In fact, when she’d told the trust officer now handling the trust about Max’s letter, he’d requested she do what Max had asked.
She also owed it to Max to make sure his murderer was punished. He’d been a good client, and getting his business had jump-started her career. And most important, her Aunt Jessica would have wanted her to do it.
She was only giving it a couple of days, though, just long enough to satisfy her conscience that she’d respected Max’s wishes and her brain that this whole thing wasn’t a hoax. If she hadn’t identified the killer by then, the trustee was hiring a P.I.
She released her lip, along with a resigned breath. “My middle name is Alexandra, so I could be Alex. Or Aly.”
“How about Lexie?” Ben asked.
“Lexie from Lexington?”
“It’s easy to remember.”
Did it matter? “Fine. Lexie it is.”
Ben got to his feet. “Now we might as well go meet the family.”
“First let me make sure I’ve got the names and relationships right.” Catherine paged backward in her legal pad until she reached the relevant notes. “Max’s sister Muriel gets five percent of the trust. Since Max’s children all predeceased him, the remainder goes one-third to Edgar’s sons Seth and Jeremy, one-third to Allen’s children Cecilia and Dylan, and one-third to Rebecca’s son. Max said your mother was named after Daphne du Maurier’s masterpiece.”
“Yep. She’s lucky she wasn’t a boy, or she’d probably have ended up named Poe.” He picked a key ring off the corner of his desk. “Let’s go. Unless you’re scared.”
“Of meeting Max’s family?” Catherine smiled faintly. “He did say some members … have issues.”
“Talk about rephrasing for politeness. I meant scared of staying at Nevermore. It’s haunted, you know.”
Catherine stuffed her pen and legal pad into her briefcase, and then stood. “Your grandfather made a fortune writing books that probably terrify Stephen King. Max would never own a house that wasn’t supposedly haunted. Luckily I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Neither do I.” Ben’s keys jangled against the blotter. “You need to dress more like my girlfriend would. Do you have any clothes that don’t look quite so lawyer-like, or should we pick something up at The Clothes Garden?”
Catherine suppressed a sigh. Looking like the girlfriend of a man with Ben’s admittedly Neanderthal taste in women was at the top of her Never to Do list, but she’d signed on to this. “Give me a couple of minutes,” she said. “Where’s the restroom?”
Ben pointed her to it, and she was glad to find that the restroom was warm but clean and had decent lighting and a large mirror. Catherine set her jacket on the toilet lid and pulled her turquoise silk shirt out of her black skirt. A few rolls of the waistband and the skirt was four inches above her knees, not exactly a mini, but she was closing in on thirty-five, after all. She tied the hem of the shirt so it covered the rolled waistband, then checked the mirror. The shirt had a few wrinkles, but the sauna outside should steam those out before she reached her car. Then she undid enough buttons to expose the top of the black cotton-and-lace camisole she’d worn underneath. The cotton hadn’t prevented her shirt from resembling a saturated silk towel, but at least it was proving good for something.
Finally, she took out the pins securing her French twist, releasing hair she paid a fortune to keep what used to be its natural golden hue. She finger-combed it, reapplied her lipstick, and then studied herself. She probably still didn’t look the part, but she was not buying anything at The Clothes Garden. With a name like that, she’d bet every item sold there featured flowers or ruffles, and she detested flowers and ruffles. She’d been raised in a world of solid colors and clean, elegant lines, and old habits were hard to break. Besides
, her ex-husband Neil’s new wife Deidre was a ruffly, flowery person.
Catherine opened the restroom door just as a redhead in cutoffs so short they were likely illegal in several states flip-flopped up to Ben, stopping right where he had a prime view of her cleavage above her gold halter top. “Hey, Ben. I heard my car’s ready.”
“It’s parked outside. Trudy’s got the key.”
“I know, but I wanted to thank you personally for fixing it. You’re so talented.” The woman rested her hand on Ben’s arm. Her glittering gold nails had to be more than an inch long.
“It just needed a new muffler.”
The woman moved closer to Ben. “If you hadn’t figured it out, the muffler might have gone out totally while I was driving and made my car crash. I could have been killed.” She stroked his arm. “Let me know how I can repay you for saving my life.”
“Trudy has the bill.”
She touched a nail to his lips. “I wasn’t only talking about cash.”
“I’ll remember that, babe. Call if you’ve got any problems with the car.”
“I’ll do that. Keep in touch.” She turned and wiggled her way out of the garage.
Rule Number 148: Never get involved with a man who calls any woman “babe.” Catherine pressed her lips together. Two new rules in one day. Definitely a bad sign.
At least her involvement with Ben was as fictitious as one of Max’s bestsellers. She stepped out of the restroom. “I assume she’s just your type.”
Ben tore his gaze from the door the woman had exited through and looked at Catherine. “Absolutely. Although I’ll have to wait to take her up on her offer until my girlfriend from Lexington’s gone.”
“I’ve changed my mind about that plan. I’m not up to acting like a Playmate of the Month wannabe.”
Ben raised his eyebrows. “You’ve got a problem with puppies, bubble baths, and world peace? Those are Miss June’s favorite things.”
Naturally he’d know. “I’ve got a problem pretending to be dumb enough to think a broken muffler could make a car crash. The apparent double-D requirement is also way beyond me.”
“I didn’t say you had to be dumb, just not intellectual.” He winked. “As to the other, I’m willing to make allowances for blondes. Follow my truck.”
# # #
Ben drove his pickup down Main Street, Catherine’s rented Taurus trailing behind him, resisting the urge to floor it and try to lose her. Jesus, what had Grandfather gotten him into? From what little he’d said about his lawyer—and all he’d left unsaid—Ben had always pegged her as a clone of his ex-wife Olivia. But now that he was expected to work with her, he’d hoped he’d read between the wrong lines.
No such luck. Catherine’s entrance into the garage had confirmed that, the way she’d tiptoed as if stepping on a year-old spot of oil would ruin her expensive shoes. And when it came to shooting condescending looks, Catherine had Olivia beat.
He hadn’t realized he’d given her a once-over when he’d been trying to figure out whether she could carry off the girlfriend role, but at least he’d apologized. Not that she’d believed he’d meant it. She probably assumed a small-town mechanic like him spent his free time parked in his La-Z-Boy recliner in a room with deer and moose heads covering nearly every inch of wall space, chugging beer and watching reruns of the Miss Hooters pageant—at least when he wasn’t out killing yet another defenseless animal to add to his décor. Okay, so maybe he’d encouraged that impression, but her attitude had pissed him off.
On the other hand, he could use her help. Ben’s gut twisted, and he gritted his teeth. This thing with Grandfather really sucked. Knowing his great-aunt or one of his cousins was responsible made it even harder to take.
He owed Grandfather more than he could ever repay. He could put up with Catherine Barrington and this charade for a little while.
CHAPTER 2
Photographs of Nevermore didn’t do it justice. After driving eight hilly miles northwest from Lake Superior—the last two on a road cut through a thick forest of pines and birch trees—the massive house appeared, set on an island of grass in an ocean of trees. Built of rose-colored stone with enough gray overtones to eliminate any hint of warmth, it featured a black roof and trim, three circular towers, dozens of wrought iron stakes, and several gargoyles.
Although it looked as if it had housed Nathaniel Hawthorne’s contemporaries, Max had built Nevermore himself more than forty years ago. He’d claimed the place had cost him a fortune—especially the ghosts he swore he’d bought to haunt it.
After parking in the circular drive and popping the trunk, Catherine stepped out of her car. The relative silence, broken only by trees rustling and creaking in the slight breeze, provided an ominous sound track. She hugged herself against a chill that had little to do with a temperature at least ten degrees cooler than in Lakeview.
“It looks like something out of a gothic novel,” she said. “It’s spooky even during the day.”
“You should see it at night when the spotlights are on,” Ben said, referring to a half dozen lights scattered around the front lawn. “Grandfather claimed he had them installed to illuminate the driveway for late arrivals, but the way the light’s filtered, I guarantee his real motive was to make the place even eerier.” He walked over to the open trunk of Catherine’s car.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Getting your bags.” He grabbed the handle of her suitcase.
“I can certainly carry my own bags.”
“My girlfriend wouldn’t.”
Catherine stepped away from the trunk. If he wanted to play Mr. Macho, fine. Her suitcase was so heavy she’d paid a surcharge at the airport.
Ben pulled the bag out of the trunk without grunting, but immediately dropped it onto the ground and flexed and unflexed his fingers a couple of times. Then he reached back in for a stuffed garment bag. “How long are you planning on staying? Six months?”
“Don’t tell me that’s all you need for two weeks,” Catherine said, her gaze on the navy gym bag slung over his shoulder.
“I left some things here earlier,” he said. “If I need anything else, I can stop by my house, since I’ll be going into Lakeview every day to work. But everyone else will mostly stick around Nevermore, so you don’t have to worry about getting lonely.”
“Whoopee.”
Ben slipped the garment bag strap over his shoulder. “Your sarcasm is definitely warranted.”
“What’s sarcasm?”
He looked at her blankly. “What?”
“I asked what sarcasm is,” Catherine said. “Don’t bother answering, because I’m just practicing. I assumed it was like ‘oxymoron,’ something one of your girlfriends wouldn’t understand.”
“Actually, even though you don’t understand it, you shouldn’t care enough to ask the definition.”
She almost smiled until his serious expression made her realize he wasn’t kidding.
Ben closed the trunk, picked up her suitcase, and headed up the stone steps to the massive front door. Before he could lift the gargoyle door knocker, the door opened.
A nun in a black and white habit stepped out. She had Max’s brown eyes and wore bright red lipstick.
Ben dropped the suitcase and hugged her around the gym and garment bags. “How are you holding up, Aunt Muriel?”
“With God’s help, I’m coping.”
Max’s sister was a nun. Catherine hadn’t known that. Given his lifestyle, it must have been a difficult relationship for both of them.
“This is Lexie,” Ben said, wrapping an arm around Catherine’s shoulders. “When she heard about Grandfather’s death, she insisted on coming all the way from Kentucky to comfort me. My Aunt Muriel, Lexie.” He squeezed her shoulder.
Catherine started. That’s right, her name was supposed to be Lexie. She’d better begin thinking of herself that way or she was going to screw this up. “Please accept my sympathy on the loss of your brother,” she told Muriel.
>
“My brother’s in a far better place,” Muriel said, fingering the cross she wore around her neck. “At least I’m praying he is.”
“Let’s go inside.” Ben picked up the suitcase again and carried it into a foyer decorated with a Persian carpet, dark wood paneling, and a stuffed grizzly bear.
“The bear starred in See All Evil,” Ben said, referring to one of Max’s books that had been made into a Hollywood blockbuster featuring a grizzly on a rampage in Vail. “Although Grandfather waited until the bear died of old age to have him stuffed.”
“That movie terrified me.” Lexie stepped up to the bear and forced herself to touch the fur. The hairs on the back of her neck rose.
“Igor, take our things to my room,” Ben said.
At Ben’s words, Lexie turned her attention from the menacing-even-when-stuffed bear to a thirty-something man in full butler garb who was approaching them. Ben apparently assumed they’d be sharing a room.
“You and your friend are not sharing a room,” Muriel said before Lexie could figure out a logical reason to object. “Think of your grandfather.” She twisted her cross.
“Grandfather wouldn’t give a damn.”
“Ben, it’s okay,” Lexie said, resting her hand on his bare forearm. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable sharing a room with you under these circumstances.” She curled her hand slightly, fingernails poised to press her point if he disagreed.
Ben was silent for a moment, and then shrugged. “Having two rooms will give us more space. Put her next door to me, Igor.”
The man strapped Ben’s gym bag and Lexie’s garment bag over the same shoulder, then picked up Lexie’s suitcase as easily as if she’d filled it with a single down jacket, instead of jamming it with clothing, hair products, makeup, and four pairs of shoes.
“His name is Igor?” Lexie asked when he’d headed up the spiral staircase at the end of the foyer.
“I doubt it,” Ben said. “Grandfather’s butlers are always called Igor. This one’s the seventh.”
“Actually he’s the eighth,” Muriel corrected. “The seventh was the one who left for Disneyland.”
