The Fitzgerald Family Boxed Set (Books 1-3)

By E. B. Walters

Discover the sexy bestselling Fitzgerald series by E. B. Walters

This boxed set contains three full-length, stand-alone novels:

SLOW BURN: Ashley Fitzgerald and Ron Noble's story
MINE UNTIL DAWN: Jade Fitzgerald and Vince Knight's story
KISS ME CRAZY: Baron Fitzgerald and Kara Michaels

Dangerously handsome millionaire playboy Ron Noble is hiding a deadly secret. Now someone else knows it and is leaving him clues, which leads him straight to Ashley Fitzgerald, the woman who has every reason to hate him and his family.

Gorgeous, but damaged millionaire and gallery owner Baron Fitzgerald plays by his own rules. He is unstoppable when he wants something and he always wins. Always. When his most valuable employee decides to quit, he offers her everything to make her stay, including a week in his bed at a secluded cottage. But his offer is just the beginning.

Arrogant investigative reporter Vince Knight lives dangerously. In fact, he craves danger and trouble always finds him. When he goes in search of a missing artifact, he finds a priceless gem—a woman he can’t have. Or can he?

ALSO IN THE SERIES:

DANGEORUS LOVE (Book Four): Faith Fitzgerald's story
FOREVER HERS (Book Five): Eddie Fitzgerald's story
SURRENDER TO TEMPTATION (Book Six): Chase Fitzgerald's story
IMPULSIVE DESIRE (Book Seven-coming Nov 17th): Lex Fitzgerald's story
FROM THE AUTHOR:
To my fans, thank you for your support. Without you, this series would not have become this popular. So enjoy...

*hugs*
E. B. Walters

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ednah Walters
• Release date: Oct 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310627750

E. B. Walters

Ednah B Walters is a multi-published author of four different series: She writes contemporary romance under E. B. Walters. The Fitzgerald Family series started with SLOW BURN. There are six books in this series. She has a new series, Infinitus Billionaire. Impulse (book 1) was published in January 2015. Indulge (book 2) will be released in the fall. She's also the author of the bestselling YA Paranormal romance series, RUNES-YA Paranormal romance and THE GUARDIAN LEGACY-YA fantasy series *Stop by www.author-ebwalters.com and join her mailing list: http://bit.ly/EBWaltersNewsletter

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Ashley woke up gasping for breath, acrid air clogging her lungs. She jerked up as her eyes darted around the room. There was no smoke and no fire, just the familiar high ceiling of her loft. The light streaming from the downstairs windows reflected on the full-length mirror of her dresser, causing her to squint. She flopped back on the bed and took deep, calming breaths.

The nightmares were becoming more and more vivid. She was safe, not trapped in a burning house with her parents. And the shrill sound was the telephone, not a fire truck. She leaned sideways and picked up the phone from the cherrywood nightstand.

Yes. Her voice came out muzzy and faint.

Ashley Fitzgerald? an unfamiliar, deep male voice said.

This is she.

Ronald Douglass. I left a message on your voicemail last night.

Ashley frowned at the slight censure in his tone. I haven’t gotten around to checking my messages yet. What can I do for you, Mr. Douglass?

May I stop by your studio for a brief talk?

The grandfather clock downstairs chimed. It was seven-thirty—too early for someone who’d gone to bed at two in the morning. Worse, the male model for her next erotic series was due in less than an hour. Ashley groaned. She’d need a pot of coffee to function.

I’m sorry, that’s not possible, she said. I’m busy this morning.

I have a slight problem, Ms. Fitzgerald. I want to surprise my grandmother with a portrait on her birthday and I’m told you’re the person to go to if I want a first-rate work. I promise you, I won’t take much of your time. In fact, I’m only a few blocks away from your studio.

I’m sorry, Mr. Douglass. I’m not accepting any more commissioned works, not for a while. But I can recommend a very good friend and colleague.

I don’t want anyone else, Ms. Fitzgerald.

His words were very flattering, but his timing sucked. With the grand opening of the new children’s museum next month, the wall murals must be completed before then. Then there was her erotic series show. She didn’t have time to take extra work.

I’m sorry I can’t be of any help to you, Mr. Douglass. I’m really swamped.

Listen, I know I’m being particular about this, he said after a brief pause. You see, my grandmother doesn’t have long to live, but she loves your work and owns several of your original pieces. Having you do her portrait would mean so much to her.

A lump formed in her throat and her insides softened. She’d lost her grandmother when she was in her teens, just before her parents died. Like the caller, she’d adored her grandmother.

Ashley sighed. Okay, Mr. Douglass. But we can’t meet now.

Later today perhaps?

If she photographed the model in the morning, her afternoon would be spent sketching. Her evening was taken, too. It was girls-night-out with her cousins. She dared not cancel or they’d have her hide. Besides, she preferred to meet potential clients in their homes.

I’m completely booked today. Monday evening would be much better.

I’ll be out of town the whole of next week. He sounded frustrated. What about tomorrow?

No way. Sunday was her day off. I’m sorry I can’t. Listen, why don’t you call me when you get back from your trip and we can pick a more suitable time?

This time the silence on the line was longer, uncomfortable.

Fine. Have a nice day, Ms. Fitzgerald. The line went dead.

Not a happy camper, was he? Ashley shrugged, scooted to the edge of the four poster king size bed and stepped down. Her feet sank in the egg shell shaggy rug covering the wooden floor. Not bothering with slippers, she hustled down the winding metal staircase to the kitchen and started the coffeemaker, then headed straight back upstairs to shower.

The hot water didn’t ease the tension coursing through her, the effect of the nightmare. Would they ever stop? At this rate, she’d go crazy. She pulled on a floral working kimono, slipped on loafers and hurried down the stairs. After pouring herself a cup of coffee and added hazelnut creamer, she scribbled a few notes on a Post-it and pressed it on the fridge door.

Sipping the coffee, she walked to the H-shaped, floor easel and smiled at the piece she’d finished the night before. What a beautiful kid. So unfair he had died so young, like her parents.

Here I go again, thinking about Mom and Dad. At this rate, she wouldn’t accomplish much today. The problem was, the nightmares tended to remind her of her loss. She frowned at the door as though she could make the model appear through sheer will. Where was he? Dee’s models were usually very professional and rarely tardy. Maybe she should have asked to see the portfolio of this new guy, talked to him first. No, that would have been pointless. Dee had never failed her in the four years they’d worked together.

A sigh escaped her. She needed to relax before the man arrived or their session would be a waste of time. There was only one way to deal with the angry energy twirling inside her.

Ashley drained her coffee and placed the cup on top of the chest of drawers that held her paints. Then she propped the finished oil painting on a shelf to dry, replaced it with a blank canvas and put a bucket of water on a stool by the easel. She squirted dime-size globs of paint on a palette, picked up a brush and started working. No pencil sketches to begin with, just bold sweeps across the canvas.

Her hand trembled, but she didn’t stop working. Couldn’t stop was more like it. Time stood still as her past and present collided, as the demons threatening her very sanity coalesced on the painting before her. She dropped the brush and the palette in the bucket of water and shuddered. How many times had she painted this house? The exercise didn’t stop the nightmares.

She dragged her gaze away from the painting to the myriad of cloth-covered canvases on wooden shelves along the walls. People commissioned and paid thousands of dollars for her one-of-a-kind paintings, yet she was locked in a loop—fifteen years old at night and twenty-five during the day, all because she couldn’t let go of the past.

There was only one solution. She wanted the house razed to the ground. Ripped through to its foundation until not a single block, beam or panel was left standing. Call her childish or vengeful, but completely obliterating that place from the surface of the earth would fill her with a great deal of satisfaction, and give her the closure she sought.

Ashley turned and snatched up the telephone from the kitchen counter. Her glance touched the surface of the clock. It was nine o’clock and Toni should be in her office. She speed-dialed the realtor’s number.

Morning, Toni. Did you meet with Nina Noble’s agent yet?

Ah, yes. He walked me through the house and the compound. It’s in great condition and has lots of old trees, but I think you could do better.

No, I want this one. She leaned against the counter and glowered at the painting on the easel. Accept whatever they’re asking for it and bring me the papers to sign.

Are you kidding? That’s not the way to get the best deal, Ash. I intend to check the market value first, then offer them ten percent less than—

Don’t. She reached forward, flipped the painting so it faced the easel. I’ll pay whatever they want.

O-okay. But her agent hinted that it’s important to Nina who the new owner is and what he or she plans to do with the house.

Ashley grimaced. Only Nina, the grandstanding diva, would add such a stipulation to something she was selling. But there was no telling how the actress would react if she knew Ashley wanted to buy her house.

I don’t think giving them my name is a good idea. But if her people want to know what I intend to do with it, tell them I mean to turn it into a commune for artists, a place where in-house artists can offer dance, voice and art lessons to kids. It was the dream her parents had wanted before they died, and Carlyle House had been their chosen building. Now the dream was hers to fulfill except hell would freeze over before she used that house. Call me when you have everything set, okay? I’ve got to run. Bye.

Ashley pressed the off button and placed the phone back on its cradle. For a beat, she stared at her shaking hand, her breathing shallow. She fisted her hand and took a deep breath. She was weary of being haunted by her past, longed to be free. No, she deserved to be free, to live a life without doubts and phobias, some of which neither she nor her therapist could explain. With the house destroyed, she’d begin her healing process.

Now that’s settled, I need to focus on something else. Her glance went to the door, again. Where was her model? Dee had some explaining to do.

Ashley rinsed her brushes and palette, took one look at her kimono and groaned. In her haste to exorcise her demons, she’d forgotten to put on a smock to protect it. She hurried upstairs to change.

***

You should have dropped in on her unannounced. I know I would have.

What would that accomplish? Ron leaned back against the leather passenger seat and glanced over at his long time friend Kenny Lambert, ex-FBI-agent-turned-private-investigator.

A lot. In my line of business, Kenny continued, being nice gets you zip. You want to get to the bottom of this, forget your corporate image and your scruples, and start playing dirty. You’re already on the right path…Ronald Douglass. For an alias, it has a nice ring to it, he added with a smirk.

Ron grimaced. It wasn’t much of an alias. Douglass was his middle name. I couldn’t tell her my real name, man. I’ve gotten nothing but ice from my father’s fire buddies. They don’t mind reminiscing about the past until I mention Carlyle House. Then they have places to go, things to do. I didn’t want her shutting me out, too. But you’re right. It’s time to stir things up a bit. They entered NoHo Arts District. Head to Lauderhill Boulevard. I want you to drop me off outside her building.

He exchanged a grin with Kenny, but his insides wound like a spring. He hated to lie, but finding out what happened the night of the fire meant a lot more than a few principles. And the wall of silence from these firefighters only made him more determined to get to the truth. To top that, guilt weighed hard and heavy on him. He shouldn’t have allowed his uncle to dissuade him from investigating the fire when his father died. Granted he’d been twenty at the time and his mother had needed him, but he should have gone with his gut instinct and hired an investigator. He’d given up too fast, ran away from the rumors and the innuendo that his father started the fire. This time, he wouldn’t be dissuaded. Someone out there knew what went down that night. Though their motive for leaving him the clues remained questionable, he’d not be able to live with himself if he didn’t try and find out the truth. Maybe he could even clear his father’s name.

They entered Magnolia Boulevard, passed a light and turned left on Lauderhill. Ron waited until Kenny pulled up and parked before he spoke.

What’s the plan? he asked, glancing at Kenny.

A former colleague at the bureau owes me a few favors. I’m heading to Wilshire Boulevard and handing him these. Kenny indicated the Ziploc bag from the tray between the seats. In it were the two envelopes someone had left Ron in the past two weeks.

The first time Ron saw the small envelope stuck under the windshield wipers of his car, he’d thought it was a parking ticket. Needless to say, he’d tugged at it, opened and left his fingerprints all over the envelope and the letter. That was two weeks ago.

The second time was yesterday afternoon. He’d been in his office and his car parked in the underground garage of the building housing Neumann Security offices, the Los Angeles branch of his family’s company. His car was still in the same spot, waiting for Kenny. This time, he’d covered his hands before he took the envelope and opened the letter.

The letters had a list of three names and the question, What really happened that night? The weirdest thing was each letter was cut out of the newspaper and glued to the paper, very archaic. A simple text message would have sufficed. And the words ‘really’ and ‘happened’ were spelled with one L and P.

It had taken Ron days to identify the three men on the first list. All of them had worked at the fire station where his father used to volunteer as a firefighter. But was it a coincidence that they had quit right after the fire at Carlyle House? That question was driving him nuts. He had yet to talk to anyone on the second list. Ashley Fitzgerald’s name topped it.

As for the cryptic message, he’d reached the conclusion that whoever sent him the letters either wanted him to reopen the case or had come up with a wacky blackmail scheme. Both the Fire Marshal’s office and L.A.P.D.’s finest had refused to take the letters seriously. Not enough evidence to suspect foul play and reopen the Carlyle House fire case. Neither did they consider the letters threatening. It didn’t matter. Nothing would stop him from going ahead with the investigation, including Ashley’s busy schedule.

When do I get back my ride? Ron asked Kenny. The P.I. had taken a detour to pick up Ron at his Hollywood Hills home.

Sometime today…as soon as my friend dusts it for prints. You said you spoke with the building security?

Briefly. The recordings from their surveillance cameras didn’t show anyone loitering near my car. But feel free to have another look at them, I might have missed something.

Or someone. I’ll also have another chat with your father’s closemouthed fire buddies.

Good. Thanks for the ride. Ron stepped out. Calling Kenny had been a brilliant move. Hopefully, the P.I would help him ferret out the person sending these damned letters. Let’s get together later.

Kenny saluted him with a finger. I’ll let you know when the car is ready and what my friend finds out. Are you still going to the convention in San Diego?

As a volunteer wildfire fighter, he rarely attended the firefighters’ conventions. This year was different. His father’s former chief was on the second list.

Yes. I heard Jonathan Blackwell is receiving a medal. I hope to catch up with him there.

Watch your back. Whoever is doing this must have something to gain. No one stirs up a ten year old case for shits and giggles. Kenny squinted at Ashley’s building and added, Let me know what the lady says.

Ron couldn’t agree more with Kenny. No one did things from the goodness of their hearts, not from his experience. He stepped away from the car, waited until Kenny pulled away before he started for the entrance.

The building, like many in the area, used the products and services of Neumann Security. His family manufactured and supplied state-of-the-art electronic surveillance equipment and custom-designed software to businesses, homes and even P.I. firms like Kenny’s. The branch Ron ran also managed highly trained security guards. The one on duty recognized him and stood before he reached the desk.

Ron headed for the elevators after speaking with the guard. He fought the tension knitting his gut as he watched the LCD panel flash numbers. What if she recognized him and refused him entrance? Ten years was a long time for someone to remember details of an accident, especially one that changed their life. He’d be screwed if she chose not to help him.

When he stood outside Ashley’s door, Ron took a deep breath before he pressed her doorbell. He waited a few seconds then angled his head to listen for movement from inside. There was not a whisper from inside, yet he knew she was home.

He leaned his thumb on the doorbell, held it longer than necessary. When there was still no response, he sucked in a breath and pivoted on his heels. Two steps away, the door opened and a low, throaty voice hit him from behind, sending a jolt through his system.

Quit with the ruckus. You’re, uuh…. Her voice tailed off.

He turned and took in her creamy, flawless skin, the pert nose and lush lips. Her almond-shaped eyes the color of honey drops flashed and the glossy, abundant auburn hair with coppery highlights struggled to burst free from whatever pinned it back.

Could this gorgeous woman be the frightened girl of ten years ago? The image of her from that night had stayed with him over the years. He couldn’t even explain why.

Ashley Fitzgerald?

You’re late, she said in a cool, impatient voice.

He raised an eyebrow. I am?

She thrust a delicate wrist under his nose. Her gold watch caught the overhead light and sparkled. It’s after nine-thirty. You were due at an hour ago.

Her feminine scent drifted to his nose. Something flowery. Roses? He frowned, annoyed with himself for letting his mind wander.

He cleared his throat, readying himself to explain his presence. I believe you’ve mis—

Never mind, she said, took a step back, and with her other hand clutching a cell phone, gestured him into the loft. You’re here now. Come in.

She was obviously mistaking him for someone else. But after the obstacles he’d encountered in the past two weeks, he’d be a fool not to take the advantage of the situation. Being invited inside her home was one step closer to achieving his goal.

Thank you. He flashed a grin as he strode into the loft.

What’s your name? she asked, closing the door.

Ron.

Make yourself comfortable, Ron. She waved in the direction of a leather lounge. I’m on the phone. I’ll be with you in a sec.

He watched her sashay towards the kitchen, the phone at her ear, and found himself enjoying the way the silk one-piece outfit shifted and flowed around her curves.

Ron tore his gaze away, shook his head to rattle his brain back in place and grimaced. He needed to get a grip, quick. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. Ashley knew a lot, but from the stubborn gleam he’d glimpsed in those eyes, she wasn’t going to roll over and spill her gut just because he asked.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee pulled him farther into the room. He took a deep breath and looked around with interest. The sheer number of cloth-draped canvases along the walls combined with the effect of the light pouring inside the loft from large windows was startling. He wished he could see some of the pieces. The ones he’d seen around town, including the two his grandmother owned, were truly magnificent.

A piece on the easel drew his attention. It was facing backward, but something about it pulled him closer. He tilted it for a better look and sucked in his breath.

Carlyle House was unmistakable. Its massive front door was missing, flames leapt from every window and a face…no, a pair of large eyes watched from the smoke billowing over the turrets.

Excuse me. What do you think you’re doing?

He let the canvas go, backed away from the painting and shifted his gaze to meet hers. Her hand was on her hip, drawing his attention to its enticing curve, and her hazel eyes smoldered. He’d be damned if he didn’t admit she looked glorious.

I apologize. I shouldn’t have looked at your work without asking you first. He waited, his gut tightening with each second that passed. Way to go, Noble. Now she’ll kick you out, and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself. He gave her an apologetic smile.

She looked ready to read him the riot act. Then the anger seemed to drain out of her. She leaned against the counter and let out a long breath.

There are two things I will not tolerate from a model—tardiness and peeking at my work. Her voice was firm, but neither rude nor angry. Dee told me you’ve done this before, so undress there. She pointed at a partitioned area in the corner. Since you were late, I’ll just do a few shots. We’ll start with upper torso, so the shirt goes and the pants stay for the moment. If you want to listen to music, I have classical, jazz, rock…whatever you wish. We’ll work there. With a nod, she indicated the black leather chaise lounge near a window and the easel. If we have time, I’d like shots of you in briefs.

Briefs?

Ashley ignored his incredulous expression. Why had her request for a mature male model been filled with this six-foot mass of male arrogance? Beautiful to look at but trouble to work with. Dee already apologized for the man’s tardiness during their brief telephone conversation, but swore he was a joy to work with. Yeah, right.

Yes, briefs. She pushed off the counter and approached him, taking in his sun-kissed skin, which screamed outdoorsman. But the combination of Monet’s cobalt blue eyes and short-cropped hair the color of midnight was more suited for a corporate office with a view. He was a contradiction, and her fingers longed to pick up a paint brush and immortalize him on canvas.

Slowly, she circled him, eyeing his tall, well-built body from every angle, wondering if he was tanned all over. The black T-shirt and blue jeans didn’t do much to hide the lean muscles beneath. She wasn’t into men with facial hair, but the shadowing on his jaw contrasted with his golden skin and gave him a sexy, rakish look. A tattoo of something was partially visible on his upper left arm. Did he have more on his torso? Not that it mattered. She easily imagined him with nothing on but a red, silk sheet draped across his hips. With her paintbrush, she could turn him into every woman’s fantasy. She smiled at her thoughts. But that was for later, now she wanted him in briefs. No boxers or cutoffs. Just briefs. The smaller and tighter the better.

I hope that’s not going to be a problem because later, I’ll need nude shots. Her smile deepened. Lots of them.

I have no problem with being nude. He turned until they were facing each other. A quirky grin played on his sensuous lips. I just don’t strip for money.

But—

I’ll do it for free, if I know the lady. Blue eyes twinkled above arched eyebrows. I don’t know you…yet.

She smothered a groan. Look. Dee told me you were a pro and pros know the rules. No personal remarks or cheap come-ons. And FYI, buddy, I’m not interested in you knowing me, I just want your body. The corner of his lips lifted and her cheeks warmed. Uh, I mean I want to use it.

When he crossed his arms and continued to grin, Ashley sighed. You know what I mean. Be nice. Take off your shirt. She needed coffee, now. Maybe she would offer him some later, if he behaved. Right now, she was too bothered even to look at him. Dee was so dead for doing this to her. A professional indeed. He was a menace.

Ashley turned and marched toward the kitchen.

Who’s Dee? Ron asked from behind her.

What? Ashley stopped and spun around. Deirdre Packard, the owner of Dee’s Artistic Expressions. Aren’t you the model she sent?

He smiled. No. I’m not a male model, but thanks for the compliment. He moved to stand in front of her, the smile disappearing from his lips and his eyes growing serious. I’m here to see you about an entirely different matter. We spoke earlier…Ronald Douglass.

Ah, the sweet man with a dying grandmother. Although ‘sweet’ wasn’t exactly what she’d dub him this up close and personal. Arrogant came to mind, thinking he could waltz in here and lie to her. Too handsome for his own good was another. It irritated her to admit she’d been looking forward to capturing his square, raw-boned face and those electrifying blue eyes.

Ashley sighed. I told you I was too busy to meet with you this morning. And why didn’t you tell me who you were the minute you realized I’d mistaken you for my model?

I apologize. It’s not often a woman asks me to strip immediately after meeting her. A disarming smile flitted across his sensuous lips.

Now he was a comedian. Ashley pinned him with narrowed eyes. Do you even have a dying grandmother or need her portrait done?

A guilty look crossed his face. She’s as healthy as a horse, and that’s the truth. But I’d like to present her with her portrait on her next birthday. Listen, I hoped you’d spare me a few minutes. A lost puppy look settled on his face.

Definitely too sure of his charms and used to getting his way, she concluded. Either case, he was a total stranger. Although there was nothing threatening about him, Ron was a big man. How fast could he move? The panic button on her cutting edge security system was by the door, and he stood smack between her and it. She took in the Rolex and the designer jeans, groomed hair and those eyes. Something sizzled between them, but Ashley disregarded it. Good looks and expensive tastes didn’t mean jack. She had two choices here, tell him to get out or hear him out.

Ashley moved until the kitchen island was between them. Only then did she indicate the stool across the counter from hers. Okay, Ronald Douglass, you have my attention.

He approached her slowly. I appreciate that.

Would you like some coffee? she asked.

That would be nice, thank you. He smiled.

How do you take it?

Black. He watched her as she pulled out mugs from a cupboard. What I told you earlier was true. My grandmother really likes your work, and I do need a portrait of her done. Do all your subjects have to sit for you?

No. I often use photographs. You see that one, she pointed at the uncovered painting she’d finished the night before. I used several pictures of both the young man and the horse.

May I? Ron asked.

Go ahead. She filled two mugs of coffee and added hazelnut creamer to hers. From the corner of her eye, she watched Ron study the painting, his smile quick and appreciative.

A quirky smile. She was a sucker for anything unusual. Her gaze followed his jaw-line to his ear, the hollow beneath his jutting cheekbone and the arched eyebrows above an arrogant nose. She’d painted her share of beautiful men, but there was something about Ron that made her want to pick up a sketchpad, a paintbrush and palette.

This is amazing…so real, Ron said, making her realize she was staring. The pony looks as though it might step out of the painting and prance around. He laughed, and she smiled. I can almost hear the boy yell, ‘giddy up.’ He must love horses.

Yes, he did. Sadness crept through her voice and her throat closed so she had to swallow hard to clear it. He died two months ago in a road accident. She heard him swear softly under his breath as she carried the mugs to the island counter and sat down on a stool.

It must be hard to work on a piece like that. Ron’s gaze locked on her face when he joined her.

He didn’t know the half of it. Yes it is. But I understood the love that prompted his mother to want to do something special in her son’s memory. Here you go. She placed the second coffee in front of him.

Thanks. He sat down opposite her, took a sip of his drink and cradled the cup in his large palms. Ashley, I want your help with something very important to me.

I know…your grandmother’s portrait. I need to know how soon you want it. I can work from a few recent pictures, unless you’d prefer when she was younger and…. Her voice trailed off when she saw the bleak look on his face. What is it?

He hesitated before saying, I want to talk to you about Carlyle House.

Ashley bit her bottom lip, her insides tightening. Had Toni given out her name despite their earlier conversation? Are you Nina Noble’s agent?

No, I’m her son.

But you said your name was Ronald Douglass. Her voice was accusatory, but she didn’t care.

Both are my names, I just omitted my surname. Every time I give out my full name, doors get slammed in my face.

Excuse me?

His gaze shifted to the painting on the easel, then back to her face. I’m investigating the fire at the house ten years ago.

A chill snaked up her spine. She opened her mouth to ask him why, thought better of it and decided she didn’t want to know. Instead she pushed her stool back and stood. Sorry, I can’t help you. You need to leave.

Ron scrubbed his face and let out a deep breath. His gaze, when he looked up, was direct, almost pleading, but she wasn’t completely sure about that. Still, she could not take any more craziness, not on top of the nightmares and everything else.

I really need your help, he added softly.

She stepped back from the counter and away from him, her insides churning. No.

He scowled. I’ve been receiving anonymous letters with a list of names. One has firefighters, all friends of my father, all retired after the fire. I was curious enough to get in touch with them. Yet as soon as I mention the fire, they don’t want to talk. It’s almost as if they know something, as if they’re afraid. What if the fire was deliberately set and someone wants me to find out the truth? The people responsible could still be out there. That would mean your parents—

No. She flung her arms as though to stop his words from reaching her ears. Not that it mattered. She already knew what he was going to say. I don’t want to hear it. My parents’ death was accidental, I’ve accepted that. The Fire Marshal said it was faulty wiring. She swallowed, refusing to entertain the possibility that someone had started the fire, that her parents had been murdered. She’d mourned and accepted her loss. All she needed to move on was to get rid of Carlyle House, not relive that horrific night.

I want you to leave now, Ron.

Ashley—

Please, just go. She wrapped her arms around her body and refused to meet his gaze, but she could still feel it on her. After a moment, he got up.

Her head pounded with tension and her teeth hurt from too much clenching, but Ashley held it in. She followed Ron’s lean, muscular frame to the door. A few days ago, she’d been ecstatic to see the house on a listing, and her decision to buy and demolish it had seemed so feasible. Now this.

Ron opened the front door, stepped out into the hallway and turned to face her. Before she could speak, he reached out and touched her arm.

Think about it, he said.

There’s nothing to think about.

I’ll be in touch about my grandmother’s painting. He turned and sauntered away.

Ashley stared after him, unwanted images from the past flashing in her head. When he entered the elevator and the door closed on his unsmiling face, she sagged against her doorframe. Her body was shaking. She no longer wanted to do his grandmother’s portrait. He’d only used it as a ruse to get inside her home, she was sure. And for what? To fill her heart with dread, to dare ask her to relive her worst night. The man was out of his mind.

CHAPTER 2

Ashley placed the brush on the palette, wiggled her fingers and arched her back, careful not to make sudden movements. Her position on top of the ladder was precarious to say the least. Inhaling and exhaling deeply, she turned her head to study the mural on the wall to her left.

Seventy-five feet long and ten-feet high, animals grazed in the savannah. Vivid blue skies contrasted sharply with the brown earth and Jacaranda trees. The tall grass seemed to sway gently in the breeze, an illusion created by her two talented assistants. Gazelles appeared ready to leap from the wall and into the room.

She smiled. The thematic scenes in each room would mesmerize kids. They’d gone the whole nine yards, from prehistoric to science. The last room would feature artwork by selected elementary students from schools across the city. She couldn’t wait to work with them.

Hey, don’t you have a two-thirty meeting today with Ms. Noble? a voice called from below her.

Oh no, she completely forgot.

Thanks, Josh. This was the result of that arrogant woman changing their meeting time from tomorrow to today. Ashley shifted to get down, and the paint palette, brushes and sponges fell off her lap. They tumbled down while she watched helplessly. A curse escaped her lips.

That brings the total to five dollars.

What? Ashley glowered at the bare-footed, mocha-complexioned man below her. Josh Keller was busy airbrushing the shadings and shadows on an animal, his dreadlocked hair held back in a ponytail.

You used a swear word, Josh said.

So?

So your cousins told us to keep count. Right, Micah?

Far to her right, on a different wall, Micah Walden was working on a rainforest scene. His long, wavy, blonde hair brushed his bare, tattooed back as he nodded.

Yep. A dollar a word, he said.

She wrinkled her nose. Her aunt had started that rule to curb her sons’ use of four-letter curses. Somehow, the girls came in under her radar too when she heard them slip up during family get-togethers.

Tattle-tale on me and you’re both fired. She stepped down from the ladder.

And where would you find talents such as ours to finish the murals? Micah asked without an ounce of shame.

Yeah, Josh added.

Ashley couldn’t help smiling. They were young, gifted and knew it. She couldn’t fault them for being cocky. And they were right; she couldn’t complete this job without them.

Shameless. Whatever happened to modesty? she muttered, but they heard her.

Became obsolete— Josh started.

In the new age phenomenon of self-promotion, Micah finished.

There’s a thin line between self-advertising and bragging, and you two are very close to crossing it. She untied her apron and placed it on a table. Her gaze bounced between the two men. I’ve got to make this meeting or lose my chance at getting the house. If you guys don’t see me by five, lock up. She picked up her purse. See y’all later…or tomorrow.

Good luck, they said in unison as she headed toward the entrance.

She waved and exited the museum. It was a beautiful spring afternoon, but her mind was too preoccupied with the imminent meeting to appreciate it. A cloud of apprehension loomed over her, and butterflies did a jig in her tummy. She’d had two days to prepare herself since her realtor set the meeting, two long days of self-doubt and nervous tension. How should she present herself to Nina? Pretend the past didn’t happen? Bring it up just to get it out of the way? Should she divulge her plans for Carlyle House?

At one time the house had been the in-place for new and upcoming entertainers, the place for creating stars. Even her parents had launched their careers in its banquet hall. Tearing it down would be erasing a part of music history, which made her feel like such a monster. But her sanity was at stake. How could anything compete with that?

Here I go again, stressing. If Nina’s assistant hadn’t called this morning to move forward their meeting, she’d have had one more day to compose herself, to think things through, to…what a crock of crap. She would have continued on the spiral path to nervous wreck-land. Why did the woman insist on meeting buyers anyway? It was a ridiculous stipulation.

Ashley put the top of her Mustang convertible down before she eased out of the parking lot. For once, traffic on the freeway was slow. It gave her a chance to run through the speech she was preparing for Mrs. Noble.

To be honest, her nervousness went beyond the meeting with Nina. Ever since Ron Noble dropped that bomb about investigating the fire at Carlyle House, she’d lived with constant worry. It stared her in the mirror every day, and stole her sleep most of the night. The fact that he hadn’t contacted her or dropped off his grandmother’s pictures didn’t help either, although she’d expected him to hound her for an answer about his investigation.

Why did he have to stir things up? What did he hope to gain? He was nuts to think she’d want to revisit that night just to help him. On the other hand, he’d said none of his father’s former colleagues were willing to talk about the fire. Could the men be shielding an arsonist, maybe one of their own? The person responsible could be out there, getting away with murdering her parents.

No, stop it. The copy of the report she’d gotten from the county records said faulty wiring started the fire. Her aunt, whom she’d spoken with after Ron left, had confirmed it, which should be reassuring but unfortunately wasn’t. Every time she thought about Ron, the flash of determination in his eyes when they spoke, she knew he wasn’t going to let this go. He was probably biding his time, giving her a false sense of security before he pounced. Icy fingers clawed up her spine at her thoughts, making her shiver. Better not think about that now.

Ashley was getting ready for the shower when she realized all her suits were still at the drycleaners. If Mrs. High and Mighty Noble had stuck to the original plan, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. The older woman’s blatant arrogance annoyed her. A moan of frustration escaped her as she grabbed the phone and dialed the drycleaner’s number.

No, no, Ms. Fitzgerald. Not now. Five o’clock. I told you five o’clock, yes? the Pakistani said.

I don’t want the whole load, Mr. Noor. Just one.

Not possible, Miss. I do rush job, yes? Have it ready by three. Three o’clock good, yes?

Three o’clock no good. She was beginning to sound like the man. She stopped short of begging him and hung up. Not only was she on a time crunch, she had nothing decent to wear.

Twenty minutes later, Ashley stepped out of the closet with yet another outfit and held it against her frame. Ew, she said and threw it on top of the growing pile on her bed.

Every dress she’d pulled out of her closet had something wrong with it. They were too casual, too old or just plain. Ashley rocked on her heels and took a deep, calming breath. There was no point in stressing over this. Whatever she wore wasn’t going to change Mrs. Noble’s decision about selling her Carlyle House or ease her worries about Ron’s investigation.

The next garment she pulled out was a straight black skirt with a slit on the side. Pursing her lips in thought, she studied it. She placed it on her dresser and turned to dig in the pile of clothes on her bed until she pulled out a silk fuchsia shirt with black buttons. A slow, satisfied grin spread on her lips as she held the skirt and the top against her frame and looked into the mirror.

Not bad. Not bad at all, she murmured.

She put on the skirt and studied her image. A little tight around the hips, but it would have to do. She patted her tummy, checked her backside one last time and murmured, Knew that late night chocolate chip mint ice-cream had to be going somewhere.

She put on the top and stared in the mirror. The gentle swell of her breasts above the décolletage elicited a frown, then a sigh. She couldn’t do much about her well-endowed chest if she tried. This was as good as it was going to get.

As she sat down to apply make-up, her thoughts turned to the past week. Working on the murals at the new museum had kept her busy. Unfortunately, she had done nothing on her exhibition pieces. She’d already gone through three male models, but none had inspired her to create a masterpiece. At this rate, she’d have to cancel the show.

She checked the time, smothered a curse and jumped up from the dresser stool. Grabbing her high-heeled, black sandals and purse, she hurried down the stairs. She stopped briefly to scribble a reminder note to herself on a Post-it, slapping it on the fridge door before she exited the loft.

***

Ashley made it to the Noble’s home just as a silver Jaguar drove through the gate. A tall, buffed guard marched from behind the security booth, raised his massive arm and signaled her to stop. The sun reflected on his brown skinhead as he stared at her suspiciously from above dark glasses.

Wait here, he said when she gave her name.

She watched the guard walk back inside the security booth and resigned herself to waiting. From what she’d seen while driving, the homes in the area were huge, beautiful and well maintained. But she couldn’t admire Nina Noble’s home while she waited. Trees obstructed the house. Sighing, she turned her attention to the rear view mirror.

There was a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead and upper lip. Convertibles were great when they were in motion, but when parked, the sun was relentless. She turned up the AC and cool air fanned her face. She would have loved to pull the top up but she didn’t think her nerves could stand the confined space—a phobia she could never explain. No need to fret over it, though. She always found a way around her demons, choosing a convertible instead of a normal car, an airy loft instead of an apartment, rarely taking the elevator unless she absolutely had to. The list was long.

Not liking the direction of her thoughts, Ashley pulled out her powder and blush to repair damages to her make-up. It was another five minutes before the guard finally waved her through. She gave him a stiff smile and drove up the curving road to the cobbled, circular driveway.

Several cars were in the driveway, including a dark green pickup truck. As soon as she parked beside the truck and switched off the engine, the sound of piano music reached her ears. If she weren’t so tense, she would have enjoyed the lovely tune and Nina Noble’s beautiful home. Instead, she gave the well-tended lawn and colorful patches of flowers a sweeping glance as she hurried to the pillared entrance. Before she could knock, a tall brunette in navy-blue pants and a pink shirt opened the door.

Ms. Fitzgerald, Connie Wilkins. They shook hands. Come in, please.

Ashley glanced with awe at the two-story foyer with its gleaming staircase. Two earlier works of Francis Bacon shared a wall with a Chagall, and preserved plants were strategically placed around the room. The beautiful music she’d heard earlier appeared to come from a room to her right.

This way, please, Connie said.

Ashley followed Nina’s assistant across the foyer, past an arched entrance and into what was either an entertainment or a living room. A tall, lithe figure rose from a chair.

Ron, she whispered. Her heart skipped a beat, then thundered away.

Their eyes locked and time seemed to disappear. An electrifying sexual charge zipped between them. She struggled to breathe. For a beat, he didn’t move, then his sexy, quirky smile appeared.

Ashley. It’s nice to see you again. He closed the distance between them and engulfed her hand with his large one.

His scent, musky and male, teased her senses. Her temperature went up a notch and her breath lodged in her chest.

I didn’t expect to find you here, she managed to say. Her voice was steady, thank goodness.

I hope you don’t mind. Please, join me. He took her arm to lead her to a chair beside the one he’d occupied. A bottle of Heineken was on a table beside it.

She turned to thank Connie, but the woman had long since disappeared. It was just the two of them. The thought was exciting and a little discomforting.

She freed her arm and clutched her purse with both hands. There must be a mistake, Ron. I’m supposed to be meeting your mother. She caught herself fidgeting with the clasp of her purse and forced herself to stop. It was bad enough having his presence throw her off but quite another to make him aware of it. The meeting was supposed to be tomorrow, but her assistant called and changed it.

I know. A slow grin settled on his mouth, then spread to his cobalt blue eyes. My mother is not feeling too well, so I hope you don’t mind if you and I talk instead. Would you like something to drink?

A drink would steady her nerves, but that would mean spending time in his company. The speech she’d prepared was meant for his mother, not him. His agenda didn’t exactly coincide with hers. Plus, there was the attraction between them. It kept catching her off guard.

No, thank you. I’d rather—

Come on, Ashley. One drink. I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman.

As if that had anything to do with why she was wary. Okay. White wine, please.

While he walked to the bar to get her drink, she sat down and took a fortifying breath, then another. He’s just a man, one that I can handle. The word ‘handle’ brought to mind images that had nothing to do with Carlyle House. She found herself peeking at the way he filled his jeans and the ease in his swagger.

Focus, Ashley. She was supposed to be thinking about what she would say once he brought up his investigation not how he would look bare-chested. This was so insane, so unlike her.

Here you go, Ron said as he handed her a crystal glass.

Thank you.

He picked up his Heineken bottle and touched it to her glass. Here’s to friendship. Then he waited and watched her as she took a sip of her wine. His gaze lingered on her lips before snaring hers. Is it okay?

Perfect. She studied him from above the rim of her glass as he sat down and took a swig of his beer. She would never have guessed he was a straight-from-the-bottle beer drinker. But then again, she knew nothing about him. The blue shirt he wore played tricks with his eye color, making them appear darker than usual, and the faded jeans couldn’t hide his muscular thighs or strong legs.

He shifted, drawing her attention back to his face. The smile on his lips indicated he’d been aware of her scrutiny. Heat suffused her face and she rushed into speech.

What did you want to talk to me about?

Carlyle House.

The man was direct if anything. If this is about your investigation, then you should know I have done a little of my own. I stopped by the Public Records Office again a few days ago and picked up a copy of the fire report on the house. Faulty wiring was the verdict. Also my aunt and uncle hired a detective to check into it right after it happened. The P.I. never found anything to indicate foul play.

Ron leaned back against his seat, stretched his long legs and studied her from under lowered lids. Her gaze stayed locked with his.

The silence grew tense, unnerving. Whoever was playing the piano stopped, and the house became eerily quiet. Ashley started to sweat. Hoping her hand didn’t shake, she lifted her glass to her lips and took a sip of her wine. Swallowing was damn near impossible but she managed it.

Well? she asked, cocking her eyebrows.

Admiration flashed in his eyes, then quickly disappeared. I wasn’t talking about my investigation although I’m happy you took what I said seriously. With my mother flying back to New York tomorrow, I’m in charge of Carlyle House. Anyone interested in it must now deal with me.

That was the last thing she needed. When will she be back?

He shrugged. Next weekend, perhaps. She’s producing a play, so I don’t know for sure. Can I ask you something?

Sure.

Why Carlyle House?

Ah, the dreaded question. Here goes. It’s location near Culver City Art District makes it perfect for an art center. It was what my parents had planned before they died. They made their first public appearance at the old Carlyle Club and spoke about it with nostalgia. She smiled, remembering. You know they used to say to work, sweat and dance in Carlyle Club was to be part of a tradition. A tradition an aspiring artist should be honored to be a part of.

He smiled with approval, and Ashley wondered how he’d react to her next words.

She swallowed and took a deep breath. I plan to demolish it and rebuild.

Ron’s eyebrows shot up. You’re kidding, right?

I’m not. It’s old. With its asbestos, lead and fire-safety problems, it wouldn’t pass the building codes.

Why not just refurbish it? It is cost-effective.

She’d checked into that and didn’t have a good enough excuse except, Meeting the new fire codes would cost me a fortune. As a part-time firefighter, oh yeah, she’d checked and knew about his volunteer work with the Kern Valley Hotshot wildfire crew, you know the city requires sprinklers systems in commercial buildings rather than the old fire-escape routes from upper stories. She knew she got him when his eyes grew thoughtful and he leaned forward, his gaze not wavering. Also, I wouldn’t want anyone developing cancer years from now because of asbestos. They used it in everything prior to the seventies—flooring, ceiling spackle, roofing, siding, pipes, ducts, walls, gaskets, even soundproofing. But I plan to use the original architectural designs to recreate a replica of the house. She held her breath and waited for him to say something, anything.

Ron released a deep breath and leaned back. Sounds like you’ve thought this through.

She’d picked her cousin’s brain. Without Lex’s expertise, she wouldn’t have known where to start when it came to old buildings. I mean to fulfill my parents’ dream.

I can understand that, except there’s a slight wrinkle in your plans.

What?

There’s another person interested in the house.

Her eyes widened. Who?

His eyes were watchful as he added, Ryan Doyle of Doyle Enterprise.

Ashley’s heart dropped. Ryan Doyle was a real estate shark with rumored connections to organized crime. Born and raised in Los Angeles, he was street smart and ruthless. Rumor had it he made his first million at thirty by questionable means, billion at forty and was now worth a lot more than was usually reported in magazines. Despite his wealth, he was still considered a thug by the business world. There was no way she could win a bidding war against him.

What could he possibly want with Carlyle House? Ashley asked.

According to my mother, he’s moving his headquarters to Los Angeles. He intends to have his main office in the downtown area and in Culver City. He owns a large slice of undeveloped property nearby, a situation he means to rectify, and he wants to restore Carlyle House. Why, I don’t know.

Ashley sank back into her seat. Whatever offer she made, Doyle could easily top it or double it without putting a dent in his bank accounts.

I’m not getting the house, am I? I mean, how could I possibly win a bid against Doyle? And he wanted to revamp it, damn it. How could she even begin to compete?

No one is starting a bidding war, Ashley. Besides, you can have me on your side. He wiggled his eyebrows as a naughty smile curled his mouth.

That would be unethical. Kind of like insider trading. And tie a noose around her neck? She knew exactly what he’d want in return.

He laughed, the sound deep, warm and rich.

He knew he had her cornered. She scowled at him. Fine. I do want you in my corner. I deserve to get the house since I offered first. Besides, I intend to pay market value. No fuss, no negotiations.

He winked at her. Then feel free to use me. All you have to do is ask and I’ll make sure you get the house.

So cocky, so sure he’d get his way. She ought to decline his offer but she wouldn’t achieve her goals by being bull-headed. What if she waited for his mother to come back? Would that hurt her chances of getting the house?

She stole a glance at him through lowered lids. Ron gave the illusion of being relaxed, yet there was edginess in him that was part exciting and part unsettling. Despite his casual attire and relaxed manners, he projected an air of authority and self-confidence few men possessed. She didn’t know how old he was, but she’d bet he was only a couple of years older than she. The polished veneer of sophistication was probably due to growing up among showy jetsetters. And the way he carried himself and the calm in which he spoke exuded a rare sensuality that was hypnotic.

His head lifted and their gazes locked. Raw desire sizzled between them, and for a moment, Ashley couldn’t think or breathe. When he arched an eyebrow, annoyance coursed through her. He was enjoying toying with her.

Well? Do you want my help in getting the house? he asked.

Her eyes narrowed. Of course, I do. But first, I’d like to know what you’d want in return.

He touched his chest. A selfless offer and you think I have an ulterior motive?

Don’t you? she challenged.

A smile tugged the corners of his mouth. Of course.

How predictable. She hated predictable men. Okay, out with it.

He leaned forward, his movements languid and graceful, like a timber wolf on the prowl.

Ashley swallowed. Tell me what you want, Ronald Noble.

The satisfaction of knowing I’ve helped a friend.

What kind of a half-baked answer was that? What about his investigation? Ashley studied his expression. He was plotting something. It was a good thing she had no intention of asking him for help. She’d rather take her chances with his mother. Still, it never hurt to have all her bases covered.

A friend, huh? she said slowly.

He leaned back and gave her a slow perusal. Haven’t you ever had a male friend before?

Ashley laughed. I did. A long time ago. His name was Silas Hendricks. He broke my heart.

Ron scowled. You must have cared about him.

I adored him. It was the first time my parents put roots anywhere long enough for me to make friends. When he caught chicken pox, I swore to never touch chicken again, and it was my favorite dish.

Ron’s expression grew suspicious. Exactly how old were you when you and Silas were friends?

Four.

He chuckled, cobalt blue eyes flashing. Laughter softened the chiseled planes of his face. She grinned back at him. He was five, dumped me when he started kindergarten. Said he was a big boy and couldn’t hang out with a preschooler.

So how long has it been since Silas?

Twenty-one years.

Well, I most certainly won’t give you chicken pox. And I promise not to break your heart. Before she could comment on his outrageous statement, his gaze shifted to something behind her. Excuse me. He uncrossed his legs and stood.

Ashley followed his gaze to find Connie Wilkins standing behind her.

Pardon the interruption, Ms. Fitzgerald, the woman said. Just want to borrow Ron for a few seconds.

Excuse us, Ashley, Ron said again, following the woman out of the room.

Left on her own, Ashley studied her surroundings. Glamorous green velvet damask on the over-stuffed sofa, a tuft ottoman and the subtle, neutral wool upholstery used on three comfortable armchairs complemented the green and gold silk draperies. An eighteenth century English writing desk occupied a wall, right below a carved giltwood mirror. Combined with Persian rugs on parquet floor and strategically placed collectibles, the effect was an understated elegance that was pleasant and comfortable.

Then she heard Nina Noble say, Did I hear you promise Carlyle House to that girl? I’d rather give it to Doyle for a pittance than have her set foot in it.

Ashley’s breath caught. If the older woman had no intention of selling her the house, why had she asked for a meeting?

***

Ron scowled and reached for his mother’s arm. Come with me, please. She refused to budge, her gaze fixed on the entrance to the living room. Mother.

Don’t mother me in that patronizing tone, Ronald. She allowed him to lead her away from the living room and Ashley. Where are we going? she hissed.

Away from here. He led her toward the stairs. I told you I’d take care of the situation with Ashley.

And this is how you mean to do it? With laughter and silly childhood anecdotes?

He meant to gain Ashley’s confidence first. He couldn’t guarantee it would work, but it was better than pushing her to see things his way. Besides, they’d reached an impasse—he wanted her help with his investigation and she wanted Carlyle House.

I want to know what happened the night of the fire, Ron, and I want to know now. Tears danced in his mother’s expressive grey eyes. Go back in there and ask her for every detail.

Ron sighed. For years, she’d rejected the rumors that his father, her husband, had started the fire at Carlyle House. The same couldn’t be said for his grandmother or uncle—the two had never approved of his father. And once Ron started receiving the anonymous letters, his mother’s patience had grown thin.

There’re other ways of finding out what Ashley saw that night without antagonizing her, Mother. She’s not the enemy.

Isn’t she? She lied, didn’t she? Remember the photos?

How could he forget? Another anonymous envelope was found at the gate last night. This time, there were photographs along with another note with cutout letters, but more detailed than the previous two, which had prompted his mother to call him back to L.A. from the firefighters’ convention and reschedule her meeting with Ashley.

"She was fifteen years old at the time and traumatized by the death of her parents. She might