He backed out of the bedroom, bumping into a small table. He caught a vase of lilacs before it fell but not before water sloshed onto his hand. His shoulder bumped into the door frame when he stepped through it. With the vase still in his grasp, he disappeared into the hall.
Well, he couldn’t be more different from Leila than chocolate from vanilla. Hard to believe they were related. Hank must be fifteen, sixteen years younger than Leila. Funny. Was Hank a late baby? A midlife surprise for his mother?
No, wait. Leila had mentioned that her mother had died when she was young and her father had remarried. Maybe the second wife was a much younger woman.
Hank had whispered one word on the verandah—exquisite. A smile tugged at her lips, the first genuine one she’d felt in ages. She’d pretended not to hear, but it did her soul good that a man found her attractive. Especially these days.
The smile fell from her face.
It doesn’t matter, though. Nothing is going to happen here.
She stepped into the hallway and walked toward the dining room. The vase of flowers from her bedroom sat in a puddle on the hallway floor beside the open dining room door.
The suspicion that Hank was a bit of a bumbling gentle giant eased her low mood.
She entered a room swollen with sound. Hank sat at the far end of the table and an older gentleman, who matched Leila’s description of the foreman, Willie, sat at the near end. A couple of teenagers sat on one side of the table. Camp counselors? The young children filled in the remaining places, save one. Baseball caps hung from the backs of their chairs. She paused, arrested by the sight of all those bare heads lining the table, too vulnerable in their white roundness, like a nest full of goslings.
She bit her lip.
THERE OUGHT TO BE a law against a woman looking so sweet and beautiful, yet having the potential to be so much trouble. Hank shifted in his seat and watched the accountant walk to the chair beside Willie’s, worrying her pretty bottom lip with her teeth.
Hank watched Willie glance up at Amy, his water glass raised to his lips, then do a double take and choke. He slammed the glass back onto the table.
“Willie,” Hank said, “meet Amy Graves, Leila’s friend. The accountant.”
Willie coughed and sputtered into his napkin.
Hank knew how Willie felt. Amy Graves was a shocker. Beautiful. A generation younger than Leila. Smart.
Willie jumped to his feet, pulling Amy’s chair out for her. “How d’you do, ma’am? I’m Willie.”
Amy shook his hand.
“So, you’re stayin’ with us the whole summer?” Willie asked after he sat.
“No, only long enough for me to figure out the finances.”
Hank’s abs tightened.
“Uh-huh. What are you gonna do about the finances?” Willie asked.
Amy’s eyes darted to the children. “Well, I’m going to take a look at the books and make some recommendations for Leila.”
“Uh-huh? Like what?”
Hank knew that Willie was only making conversation, but this particular discussion didn’t belong here, now, in front of the children.
“We can discuss this after lunch,” he said and the accountant nodded, the tension around her mouth relaxing. Looked like she didn’t want to talk about this in front of the children any more than he did.
They finished Hannah’s excellent minestrone then Amy said “no” to dessert. Watching her weight? Lord, why? He stole a glance at as much of her body as he could see above the table. Her lovely chest rose and fell with her breathing. She wasn’t a large woman, nor was she too thin. She was just about right.
Hank finished two servings of Hannah’s apple cobbler. Then, while the children lingered over dessert with Willie and the counselors, he asked Amy if she would join him in the living room.
He led her across the hall to the far end of the room and gestured toward one of the two maroon sofas. He sat in an armchair across from her.
“Listen,” he started. “There’s been a mistake.”
She frowned. Quizzically. Great word.
“I don’t know what kind of letter Leila got from the bank,” he continued, “but there isn’t a problem here.”
“There must be something wrong or the bank wouldn’t have sent a letter.”
“Did you see it?” Hank asked. “Do you know what it said?”
“No, Leila called me from Seattle. Her boss sent her there this morning to handle a business emergency. She expressed grave concern about the state of the finances here.”
“I called the bank this morning,” he said, raising his arms and linking his fingers behind his head.
Her gaze dropped to his chest. “What did they say?” she asked.
“That nothing was wrong,” he answered. “They didn’t send Leila a letter.”
Amy’s gaze returned to his face. “But I know Leila received a letter.”
“I guess you’d better head back to the city and take it up with her.”
She looked at his chest again and he realized his shirt was stretched real tight across his pecs. She was staring. Made him feel warm. Self-conscious. He wasn’t used to women looking at him like that. She wasn’t thinking about money and banks. She was thinking about him and his chest. He lowered his hands to the arms of the chair.
She relaxed against the back of the sofa as if a string stretched tautly from him to her had let go. “I’ve told her I intend to check things out here, and I will,” she said.
“But there’s no need,” he insisted, his pulse picking up.
“In this situation, as the owner of the ranch, Leila is my boss, and I answer to her.” Her voice was quiet, but there was no denying her determination.
There it was, the bald truth he hated so much—that Leila could do whatever she wanted with his ranch, with or without his cooperation. He curled his fingers into his palms.
“What are you looking for?” he asked, unable to hide the belligerence in his tone. He’d been raised better than to treat a guest badly, but his heart rate was shooting through the stratosphere. Leila had been desperate enough to send a stranger here to look at the books. That could only presage bad news.
Presage. He liked that word.
Hank flexed his jaw and narrowed his eyes.
“I’ll look for evidence of neglect—” She hesitated, her manner cool now, then said, “Willful misuse of funds.”
She couldn’t possibly find out, could she?
Mice with sharp claws skittered up Hank’s spine, accompanied by foreboding.
Naw, he’d called the bank himself. Things were fine.
“Best-case scenario,” she said, “I’ll make recommendations on how to maximize your income and minimize your expenses.”
Hank’s throat burned. His pride ached. It had suffered when Dad had willed the ranch to Leila. Now here it was again, rearing its godforsaken head.
“Worst-case scenario?” Hank asked, his voice even rougher than earlier.
“We can discuss those options after I look at the books.”
Buzzing hummed in Hank’s ears. He shook his head, but it only grew louder.
He couldn’t stop. He needed to know.