Mysterious Millionaire

by Cassie Miles

  "That's for you to investigate," Rachel said. "In the meantime, report to the kitchen."

  "I'll be there in a flash. Right after I comb my hair."

  Liz tiptoed up the stairs to the second floor. No matter what Rachel thought, her first order of business was to locate Ben's bedroom and search for his drug stash. She opened the door and stepped into the center of a long hallway decorated with oil paintings of landscapes hung above a natural cedar wainscoting. She peeked into an open door and saw an attractive bedroom with rustic furnishings—nothing opulent but a hundred times better than the tiny garret on the third floor where she'd dropped off her backpack and changed into the starchy maid outfit.

  A tall brunette in a black pantsuit emerged from one of the rooms and stalked down the hallway.

  Though Liz beamed a friendly smile, the brunette went past her without acknowledging her presence. Apparently, this was what it felt like to be furniture.

  "Excuse me," Liz piped up.

  The woman paused. "What?"

  "I'm new here. And I'm looking for Ben's bedroom."

  "'My brother's room is right down there. Close to Grandpa."

  The double doors to Jerod's room were open, and she heard other people inside. "Thank you."

  There were too many people milling around to make a thorough search of Ben's room. Later, she'd come back. And right now? Liz wasn't anxious to report for maid duty in the kitchen. She'd use this time to explore, to get a sense of this sprawling house and the acreage that surrounded it.

  On the drive here, she hadn't seen much. After the turnoff in Evergreen, she'd gone three-point-four miles on a narrow road that twisted through a thick forest of ponderosa pine, spruce and conifer. A wrought-iron gate between two stone pillars protected the entrance, and a chain-link fence enclosed the grounds. She'd had to identify herself over an intercom before the gates opened electronically.

  The stone-and-cedar mansion nestled against a granite ridge. The main section rose three stories. Several different levels—landscaped terraces and cantilevered decks— made the house seem as though it had grown organically from the surrounding rocks and trees.

  Liz went down a short hallway beside the staircase. A beveled glass door opened onto the second-story outdoor walkway made of wood planks. At the far end, the walkway opened onto a huge, sunlit deck.

  Towering pines edged up to the railing. Hummingbird feeders and birdhouses hung from the branches. Several padded, redwood chairs and chaises faced outward to enjoy the view, but no one was outside. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined this side of the house, which was very likely Jerod Crawford's bedroom. Lucky for her, the drapes were closed.

  As Liz walked to the railing, a fresh mountain breeze caressed her cheeks. Twitters from chipmunks and birds serenaded her. Multicolored petunias in attached wooden flower boxes bobbed cheerfully.

  People like her didn't live in places like this. A grassy field dotted with scarlet Indian paintbrush and daisies rolled downhill, past a barn and another outbuilding, to a shimmering blue lake, surrounded by pines. In the distance, snow-covered peaks formed a majestic skyline.

  At the edge of the lake, a wood dock stretched into the water. Though she was over a hundred yards away, she thought she recognized Ben. He faced a woman with platinum-blond hair and a bright red sweater.

  Though Liz couldn't hear their words, they were obviously arguing. The woman gestured angrily. Ben pulled back as though he couldn't stand being close to her.

  She stamped her foot.

  And then, she slapped him.

  Ben restrained an urge to strike back at Charlene. Much as she had earned the right to have her ass thrown off his grandpa's property, that wasn't Ben's call.

  Through tight lips, he said, "You're not always going to have things your way."

  "No matter what you think, I'm the one in charge around here. Me. I'm Jerod's wife."

  A ridiculous but undeniably true statement. At age thirty-six, she was only two years older than Ben himself. He hated having to consult with her on his grandpa's medical care and would never understand why the old man listened to her.

  "Be reasonable, Charlene. I've been talking to specialists and neurosurgeons. They think Jerod's tumor could be removed."

  "I don't want your doctors." She screeched like a harpy. "Jerod is happy with Dr. Mancini. And so am I."

  Dr. Al Mancini had been the Crawford family doctor for years, and he was competent to treat sniffles and scraped knees. But a brain tumor? "Mancini isn't even practicing anymore. He's retired."

  "And Jerod is his only patient. Dr. Mancini comes here every single day. Your specialist would put Jerod in the hospital. And he refuses."

  Unfortunately, Charlene was correct. His stubborn, Texas-born grandpa had planted himself here and wouldn't budge. Every day, the tumor inside his head continued to grow. His vision was seriously impaired, and he barely had the strength to get out of his wheelchair. "If not an operation, he needs access to other treatments. Radiation. Cutting-edge medications."

  "He won't go. And I'm not going to force him."

  For the moment, he abandoned this topic. There were other bones to pick. "At least, cancel your damn dinner party. Jerod needs peace and quiet."

  "You want to pretend like he's already dead. Well, he's not. He needs activity and excitement. That's why he married me."

  "Really? I thought it had more to do with your thirty-six double-D chest."

  She slapped him again. This time, he'd earned it.

  With a swish of her hips, Charlene flounced up the hill toward the house.

  Five years ago, when his grandpa had announced that he wanted to marry a Las Vegas showgirl, Ben had been almost proud of the old guy. After a lifetime of hard work that had started in the Texas oil fields, Jerod had the right to amuse himself. Even if it meant the rest of the family had to put up with a gold digger.

  Charlene had readily agreed to a very generous pre-nuptial agreement. Whether their marriage was ended by divorce or death, she walked away with a cool half million in cash. Not a bad deal.

  Ben had expected Charlene to divorce his grandpa after a year and grab the cash, but she'd stayed...and stayed...and stayed. In her shallow way, she might even love Jerod. And he had to admit that their May-December marriage had turned out better than his. Nothing good had come from that union, except for his daughter.

  He walked to the end of the small dock. A spring wind rippled the waters. Trout were jumping. In the rolling foothills of Colorado, he saw the swells of the ocean. He missed his home in Seattle that overlooked the sea, but he cherished every moment here with his grandpa as the old man prepared for his final voyage.

  Behind his back, Ben heard someone step onto the dock. Had Charlene come back? He turned and saw a gray maid's uniform. "What is it?"

  "You must be Ben." She marched toward him with her hand outthrust. "I'm Liz Norton. The new maid."

  He accepted her handshake. Though she was a slender little thing, her grip was strong. He took a second look at her. The expression in her luminous green eyes showed a surprising challenge. Not the usual demeanor for household staff. "Is this your first job as a servant?"

  "Servant?" Her nose wrinkled in disgust. "I can't say that I like that job description. Sounds like I ought to curtsey."

  "I suppose you have a more politically correct job title in mind."

  She pulled her hand away from his grasp and thought for half a second. "Housekeeping engineer."

  In spite of her droopy gray uniform, she radiated electricity, which might explain why her hair looked like she'd stuck her finger in a wall socket. He would have dismissed her as being too cute. Except for the sharp intelligence in her green eyes.

  "Nice place you've got here." She stepped up beside him. "Are there horses?"

  "Not anymore. Horses were my grandmother's passion. Arabians. God, they were beautiful." He had fond memories of grooming the horses with his grandmother. "After she passed away, ten years ago, Jerod sold them to
someone who would love them as much as she had."

  "Wise decision. Every living creature needs to be with someone who loves them."

  A hell of a profound statement. "Are you? With someone who loves you?"

  "I do okay." She cocked her head and looked up at him. "How about you, Ben? Who loves you?"

  "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."

  "I'll bet," Charlene countered. "That's why you married Monte."

  Liz stifled a chuckle. Though she wasn't taking sides, she gave a point to Charlene for her nifty insult.

  Patrice planted her fists on her nonexistent hips. "Leave my husband out of this."

  "Gladly."

  "And I want an apology. I wasn't stealing. Just reclaiming something that belongs to me."

  "Wrong," Charlene said. "This is my house. Everything in it belongs to me."

  "Not for long—prenup. Remember the prenup," Patrice said smugly. "When Jerod dies, you get a payoff and nothin
g more. Not a stick of furniture. Not one square foot of property. And certainly not my Remington sculpture."

  A sly grin curved Charlene's glossy lips. "What would you say if I told you that Jerod has decided to change his will?"

  Patrice looked like she might faint. Her complexion went ghostly pale. Her arms fell limply to her sides. "How could you say such a thing?"

  "Maybe because it's true." Charlene preened. "You can check with the family attorney. He'll be at dinner."

  "Grandpa wouldn't do that," she mumbled. "He couldn't. Not on his deathbed."

  "He's not going to die," Charlene said with vehement conviction. "He's going to get better."

  "Damn straight, honey. You tell 'em."

  Those few words, spoken in a Texan drawl, riveted everyone's attention to the doorway. A white-haired man in a wheelchair was pushed onto the landing by a nurse in scrubs. Dark sunglasses perched on his beaklike nose. A plaid wool bathrobe hung from the frame of his shoulders. Though debilitated by illness, he was clearly the patriarch. Jerod Crawford, age seventy-six, took immediate, unquestioned control of the situation. "You girls quit your squabbling. And I mean now."

  A laugh bubbled from Charlene's lips as she bounced toward her husband, leaned down and planted a quick kiss on his forehead. "You look good today. Excited about our party?"

  "I'm waiting to see what you'll wear. I like you all gussied up and smelling like roses."

  "I know you do." She checked her wristwatch. "I need to run into town and pick up my dress from the seamstress. Don't get yourself too tired before our guests arrive."

  "Ain't much strain sitting in this here chair."

  She held both of his gnarled hands and squeezed. "Take care, lover boy. You're my bumblebee."

  "And you're my honey."

  Even though Charlene was probably a gold digger, Liz thought her fondness for Jerod rang true. Likewise for Ben, who stepped behind his grandpa's wheelchair and pushed him along the driveway toward a narrow asphalt path leading toward the lake.

  Rachel tapped Liz's shoulder. "Put the sculpture on the table in the den and report to the kitchen."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  As she entered the house, Liz reflected. She'd learned a lot about the dynamics of the Crawford family. Their greed. Their hostility. The seething undercurrent of hate and anger masked by these luxurious surroundings. Unfortunately, she'd gained zero evidence that Ben was an unfit father.