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Her visitor, immaculate from his tailored Armani suit and leather briefcase to his Edward Green shoes, had to be wearing well over five grand in clothing. His warm smile belied the perception behind his clear, light blue eyes. She watched him take in the room—and her—with a single glance.

Her mental alarm buzzed. This was a powerful man, one not to be messed with. Yet he seemed vaguely familiar for some reason.

“Good afternoon, Mister…?” She held out her hand, and he took it. His grip was politely firm, and before he let go, she had an odd feeling of déjà vu.

“Thompson. Albert Thompson.” He had a British accent, but where Robertson’s voice was rounded and warm, much like his frame, this man’s silky, cultured drawl matched his tall, lanky stature and angled face, topped by perfectly styled grey-blond hair.

“Anastazia Proctor.” She indicated a chair in front of her desk. “How can I help you today, Mr. Thompson?” She liked that he waited to sit until after she did. His suit didn’t even rumple.

“I shall get right to the point. My employer, Matthias Hawthorne, is looking for a new in-house attorney. You were highly recommended.”

“Corporate law is not my specialty, Mr. Thompson. Besides, I’m happy here.”

“I know.” He reached into his briefcase and removed a thin folder. He handed it to her over the desk. “You are a ‘fixer.’ With quite the reputation. That’s exactly what my employer needs.”

She reevaluated her visitor as she leaned back in her chair and thumbed through the folder. After skimming the contents, she closed it, tapping the edge on her desk. “This is very interesting. I’m still not sure why you approached me for this position. There are others more qualified.”

“None with your expertise, shall we say. And contacts.” Thompson fixed her with his eyes, and for a moment she lost her train of thought.

Her throat went dry. She forced her gaze away from his as she put the file on her desk. “I’m paid very well.”

“You would be guaranteed much more. My employer would like a chance to meet with you to discuss it in person.”

“I’ll have to look at my schedule.”

“Tomorrow evening?”

She tapped the intercom. “Karen, how does tomorrow evening look?”

“I’ll check.” Pause. “You’re clear.”

Her visitor smiled. “He’ll send a car to pick you up.”

“I’ll drive myself, thank you very much.”

“But—”

“Mr. Thompson,” she said, her eyes narrowing, “I am perfectly capable of driving myself. Frankly, I’m really not comfortable with the thought of getting into a car and going somewhere without—”

“Control?” he finished for her, smiling.

Annoyingly accurate. She hated when people pegged her like that. Not that it happened very often. “Yes, as a matter of fact.” She tapped the intercom button again. “Karen, please show Mr. Thompson out. Get the information from him about tomorrow night, thank you.” She stood. “I’ll read through the paperwork and consider it.”

He smiled, tipped his head, and followed Karen out.

Anastazia had a word or two for Bob Stanley.

* * *

Taz found Bob Stanley, stereotypically, practicing his putting. Considering she had the firm’s highest billable hours for the past nine years running, she’d earned the right to barge in unannounced.

“Bob, I just had an unusual visitor.” She perched uninvited on his leather sofa while he lined up a shot.

Bob’s eyes never wavered from the ball. “Albert said he wanted to talk with you.” Putt, score. He looked at her. “And?”

“What’s the deal with this freaky company? Is it a front for a drug cartel or something?”

Bob laughed and shook his head, returning the putter to his bag. “No, not quite. They do a lot of things. Matthias Hawthorne took over from his father. Looks just like him, too.” He sat. “You’d be stepping up in the world if you accepted their offer.”

“So tell me about the company.”

“I can’t. There’s not a lot I know. They’ve got fingers in a ton of pies. He pays his taxes and does things aboveboard, as best I can tell.”

“Then why does he want a fixer on the payroll?”

“Who knows?” He smiled. “You’re the best. You could make Jack the Ripper look like Winnie the Pooh.”

She smiled despite herself. She had a lot of practice in her field and had learned at the feet of the best of the best. How many times had Robertson gotten her parents out of jams, handled the press, squelched embarrassing stories, kept them from killing each other? All while getting her to school on time and helping her pass algebra.

“You’re saying you’re tired of me and want me out of here?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m not saying that at all. I’d hate like hell to lose you, Anastazia, but I don’t want to hold you back, either. It’s the kind of opportunity most people would give their left nut for. Just because you were lucky enough to nail an internship in college and sail on through into a cushy job doesn’t mean others can.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean? I worked hard to get where I am.”

“Yes, you did. You’re the absolute best of the best, and I’ve been damned lucky to have you on my team the last ten years. That’s why when Hawthorne came to me looking for recommendations, I had to put your name in the hat. Because you are the best.”

She puffed up a little. “Thanks.”

He smiled. “Now if we’re done, get the hell out.”

Chapter Three

The next evening, Anastazia drove up to the gate of Hawthorne’s estate at five till seven. It was impossible to see the house past the high, vine-covered wall. Before she rolled to a stop, the gate opened. She pulled through, watching it close behind her in the rearview mirror.

In the distance, lights glowed behind a thick stand of trees. The driveway, unpaved gravel but well maintained and nearly as smooth as asphalt, wound up a slight rise through a small wooded area before emerging in a large field. The house towered over the clearing. Large, but not one of those hideous hotel mansions with fifty rooms.

If Hawthorne sought to impress her, he failed. It was a little smaller than the house she grew up in. Bianca and Eric Proctor didn’t believe in keeping up with the Joneses—they’d kept up with the Hiltons. And the Trumps. When they died, Taz couldn’t bear to live in the monstrosity and scaled down to a condo just large enough to keep her and Robertson from tripping over each other every time they turned around.

A uniformed valet waited by the front steps and opened her door as soon as she stopped. Albert Thompson met her at the front door. “Good evening, Ms. Proctor.”

“Mr. Thompson.” She looked away from his eyes. Something still nagged her about him, like she knew him from somewhere. He seemed so familiar. She must have seen him in court before or something.

Robertson. That was it. He reminded her a lot of Robertson.

“Please, follow me.” He led her through the front entrance, which she was relieved to see wasn’t garishly decorated in what she thought of as faux old riche style. The decor was fairly modern, an odd mix that could only be called country Scandinavian. Not sterile, not a fake hunting lodge. Somewhere between home and hotel, striking just the right tone.

They passed a large formal banquet room and continued toward the back of the house to a small, comfortable dining room which, from the sound and scent, lay in close proximity to the kitchen. The round table seated six, but had been set for two.

“Please, have a seat. Mr. Hawthorne will be with you in a moment.” Thompson disappeared through another door, and she caught a glimpse of kitchen cabinets and tile floors as it swung shut behind him. A whiff of what she hoped was dinner drifted through to her. Something smelled really good.