His voice got louder as he came down the stairs, so now she couldn’t move. “I’m at Fiona’s, of course. Where else would I be, Harry?”
Harry? Who was?—
“Hello, again.” He reached the bottom of the stairs, a half-smile pulling at his face as he spotted her on the other side of the railing. “Hey, I gotta run,” he said into the phone, tapping the screen without taking his eyes off her.
Was he wondering how much she’d heard?
She straightened and took a good look, searching for clues. But all she saw was a man wearing a dark T-shirt and khaki shorts, a toolbox in one hand and his phone in the other. He was taller than she remembered, and now she could really see his face.
He was about fifty, so not exactly a “much younger lover,” although Fiona was at least sixty. He had black hair with threads of silver at the temples, and blue-gray eyes that seemed to spark with humor, as if heknewsheknewand didn’t care.
“If she told you I can take off that wood she hates?” He angled his head toward the molding. “The answer is no. I don’t have the time or the talent.”
“But you do have a toolbox,” she said.
He gave a mirthless laugh. “Please. It’s a prop. But I’m starting to get the hang of it.”
He wasn’t even going totryand pretend he was a handyman?
“I was thinking we could paint it the same color as the wall,” she said.
“Don’t look at me,” he replied. “Paint is way above my pay grade.”
Was heserious?
“Look, I’m just here because I love the woman, okay? And you have to in order to work for her…as I think, based on your expression, you figured out.”
“You…love her?” She tried, and failed, to keep the disbelief out of her voice.
“Well, I can’t say no to her.” He looked past her to the office, Fiona’s muffled voice coming through the door. “So, call that love if you want.”
He smiled and it changed his whole face, taking it from standard handsome features to…yeah, above standard handsome. She pushed the thought away and narrowed her eyes, trying to remember all the things Peter told her to look for—the money flow, expensive things, if he isolated Fiona.
“So, if that’s a prop…and painting is out of your league, why are you here?”
He studied her for a moment, looking like he might confide something, but then he shrugged.
“Look, she lost her husband a year ago and made the classic widow’s error—she bought a house she doesn’t know what to do with, has a business she might not know how to run, and inherited a mountain of money and needs help with it. And I’m not kidding when I say no one will work for her. The list is short. Basically, you and me.”
“She needs your help handling a mountain of money?”
He grinned then glanced down at his watch—aRolex.
“Handling moneyisin my pay grade.” Then he grunted. “I’m late. See you around, Vivien. Unless she chews you up and spits you out like the last two designers. And the electrician. And the moron who installed the sprinkler system that I have, I’m happy to inform you, finally fixed.”
Laughing, he breezed by her and went out the door and, a few seconds later, she heard the purr of that German machine he drove.
Wait…what the heck just happened? Was he conning Fiona? Sleeping with her? A real boyfriend? She’d been widowed for less than a year! And had amountain of inheritance?
And what had he said to “Harry” on the call…she doesn’t pay attention to her cash flow? How convenient for him and his Rolex and BMW. The poor woman probably thinks he loves her, too.
Should she tell Fiona, or would that put Vivien right in the crosshairs like…the last two designers?
Dang. She was in a bind, and it didn’t look like there was any easy way out.
The clang of the weight plates echoed across the gym as Eli pushed up the barbell, arms straining, his breath measured. Peter stood over him, hands poised beneath the bar, ready to catch it if needed.
“C’mon, two more,” Peter urged, his voice even, calm.
