extremely important reasons, he reminded himself. The difference between a second chance at life and the possibility of going back to hell for several more years.
The sun felt good on Kayla’s back as, later in the afternoon, she pulled weeds from the garden on the far side of the house. Rich autumn smells filled her nostrils, from a neighbor burning leaves to the wild onions that grew at the edge of the porch. She listened to the sound of sawing and nail-pounding from upstairs, birds twittering in the trees all around. It was like surround sound for nature. She sighed. It had been a long time since she’d felt such contentment, such a sense of peace….
“Kayla!”
The harsh sound of her name made her jerk her head up. No, she thought, standing, wiping her hands on her jeans, pushing her hair off her face, no doubt leaving traces of dirt on her cheeks as she did so. She’d been so absorbed in her role as the happy gardener, she hadn’t heard his car drive up.
“Steven,” she said, turning to face the newcomer, who stood a few yards away, and wishing she were clean and nicely dressed. Walter’s son always made her feel as though she’d thumbed a ride on a cabbage truck and didn’t know enough to clean up afterward.
She said nothing other than his name, not “It’s good to see you” or “How nice of you to stop by,” because neither were the truth, for either Steven or her.
She’d tried, in her years with Walter, to let his older son know that she had no intention of trying to replace his mother, that she had no interest in Walter’s money, and that she truly cared about his father. But Steven, stiff-necked and given to deep grudges, had never bought it. So to keep the peace, Kayla had learned to be civil to him. But it wasn’t easy.
He was dressed today as he always was, in an exquisitely tailored designer suit and tie. His cuff links were gold, his loafers soft Italian leather. His salt-and-pepper hair was perfectly styled, his face showed nary a whisker on its clean surface. Nothing was out of place, which was how he wanted his entire life to be. Twice married and twice divorced, Steven hated messiness and loose ends.
Which was how he viewed his father’s widow.
He stared at her and she stared back. She considered not opening the conversation, but she’d been placating him from the day they’d met, and old habits died hard. “I didn’t expect you,” she said with composure. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, shall I make us some coffee?”
“No, I don’t want coffee.” He folded his arms across his chest and glared at her.
“Then just what is it you do want, Steven?”
He wanted his father back. She knew that, and wondered if he did. Kayla was enough of a student of human nature to know that first his mother’s death, then his father’s, had shaken Steven to the core, and in his pain he’d lashed out at the nearest target: Kayla. She’d withstood many of his verbal assaults; some she’d answered, at other times, she’d just walked out of the room, leaving him frustrated and probably even angrier.
“My lawyer tells me you haven’t responded to our suit yet,” he said.
“My lawyer tells me he’s taking care of it.”
“I thought, maybe, we could speed things up.”
“Oh, did you?” She, too, crossed her arms over her chest. “And how exactly did you think we might do that?”
“I’ve hired a new firm of private detectives,” he said with an air of gotcha! “They’re researching your entire life, top to bottom, beginning with your birth, through the day you were hired to take care of my mother and on to when you supposedly walked in on my dead father. There are a lot of gaps in your story. This time, they’re going to find the truth.”
She’d heard these threats before. When Walter had told his sons, Steven and Joe, that he was marrying Kayla, Steven had had her investigated. What showed up was all there was to know—she’d led a life that had its share of pain, limited success, some tragedy, some joy. There were things that she’d thought were her right to keep private, but not according to Steven. Still, insofar as proving her a gold digger, the most innocent of the accusations, or a murderer, the least, they’d come up with exactly nothing. Because there was nothing to come up with.
The deaths of both Sonny and Walter Thorne had been completely natural. Sonny had had terminal cancer; Walter had an embolism that burst loose and caused instant death. Kayla had played no part at all in either.
But Steven couldn’t hear that. Wouldn’t.
“Are you through?” she asked him.
“These people mean business, Kayla. They’re going to find out every black moment in your life, everything you’re ashamed of and want kept hidden. Why did you run away from home at sixteen? How did you support yourself as a runaway?”
“Steven—” she said warningly.
“How many lovers did you have before you met my father? I know you killed him, and I won’t let you profit from it.”
She held up a warning hand. “Stop it. Just stop it. Go away.”
Instead, he began to walk toward her, the look in his eyes threatening. For the first time in her dealings with Walter’s son, she wondered if she was at physical risk.
She held up both hands now, palms outward, toward him. “Please don’t come any closer.”
“You heard the lady.”
The menacing voice from behind startled her. Turning her head, she saw Paul standing back a few feet and to her left. He was shirtless, the muscles of his upper torso gleaming with sweat. In his hand, he held a hammer.
Teeth clenched tightly, Paul had to fight the rage building inside him. He wanted to rip the guy’s heart out.
When, from the upstairs window he’d been working on, he’d heard a murmured conversation between Kayla and a man she called Steven, he’d figured it was none of his business, so he’d kept on working. When the man’s voice had grown louder, he’d decided to make it his business and, picking up a weapon, tore down the stairs.
Just in time to hear the last few threats and Kayla’s answers. He held the hammer down, by his side. For now.
The minute the guy in the suit saw Paul, he took a step back. His eyes raked him up and down, then took in the hammer. “Who are you, her bodyguard?”
“Does she need one?”
“Or maybe you’re her lover. How long has this been going on? And doesn’t that add a nice little wrinkle to my father’s death?”
“Listen, you little creep—”
Paul started toward him, but Kayla put up a restraining hand. “Paul, don’t,” she said, then turned back to the “suit”—Steven, she’d called him. “This man is doing work for me, Steven, for you and Joe and me, taking care of the things that need repairing in the house.”
He greeted her statement with marked skepticism. “Yeah, right.
