delivered this for you. It says personal and confidential, so I didn’t open it.”
He nodded and absently took the envelope, his attention still on the generous rise of her breasts she’d thoughtfully revealed by removing her jacket. “Thank you.”
“I’ll just get settled at the desk,” she added with a smile. “And thank you.”
She turned to leave, offering him that nice backside view again. “Just a second…” Dorie? Damn, what was her name?
“Yes, sir?”
“You may have to work a little late tonight.” He gave her an appropriately innocent look. “Just to learn some of the Ashton-Lattimer policies and procedures.”
“No problem, Mr. Ashton.”
He dropped the letter on the vast, empty surface of his desk and picked up his phone to call Lilah to let her know he’d be staying in his city apartment tonight and not driving home as he’d planned.
As he dialed the private line to his estate winery in Napa, his gaze fell on the envelope. On the front, his name was typed, with no return address.
While the phone rang in his ear, he sliced the envelope with his finger and swore as the paper cut a quarter-inch slash in his skin. He’d have to train…whatever the hell her name was…to open everything for him.
“Ashton Estate.”
He recognized the voice of his housekeeper, Irena, and didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Give me Lilah.”
“Of course, Mr. Ashton. One moment, please.”
As he waited for his wife, he sucked the drop of blood from his finger and pulled out a folded sheet of paper from the envelope. When he opened it, a yellowed newspaper clipping fluttered onto the desk. What the hell was this?
Like the envelope, the note was typed. One paragraph. No date. No signature.
An unholy tendril of apprehension snaked through him as he read the first sentence, the cut finger still in his mouth.
“Bigamy is against the law.”
He swallowed and tasted the bitterness of his own blood as he read:
Enclosed is the obituary of one Sally Barnett Ashton. Unfortunately, this newspaper seems to be in error. In the third paragraph it states that Mrs. Sally Barnett Ashton was divorced from her husband, Spencer Ashton, at the time of her death. In fact, Mrs. Sally Barnett Ashton was never divorced. Careful research reveals no divorce documents to be found in Crawley, Nebraska, or San Francisco, California. According to the laws of both states, that means her husband couldn’t remarry as long as Mrs. Sally Barnett Ashton remained alive. If he did, such a union would be illegal, and any results of that union would be null and void. Wouldn’t the second Mrs. Ashton be interested to learn that her marriage—and the subsequent divorce settlement—was not legal?
The taste in his mouth turned metallic, as white-hot anger shot through his veins.
He picked up the clipping and stared at the obituary of the woman he’d been forced to marry thirty years ago. His gaze dropped to the handwritten note in the newspaper margin.
“It’d be a damn shame for anyone to find out about this.”
His fists balled as tightly as the knot in his gut. No one would blackmail Spencer Ashton. No one would dare. He’d kill them with his bare hands first.
“Hello, darling.” Lilah trilled in his ear. “Sorry to keep you holding. Don’t tell me you’re not coming home.”
Disgust and something frighteningly close to fear strained his chest. “Of course I am.” He glanced at his closed office door and thought of the new secretary. There’d be plenty of time for that. He needed to think tonight. “I’m leaving here around six.”
“Wonderful, darling. Then you haven’t forgotten it’s Paige’s birthday. The party is Saturday, but your baby is ten today.”
“Of course I haven’t forgotten.”
He hung up without another word and grabbed the letter again, watching in horror as a single drop of his blood spread a scarlet stain on the paper. Swearing, he tore the sheet in half again and again until he had dozens of pieces in his hand. Then he stuffed them all into the trash.
Chapter One
“And the lady is…sold! To the gentleman at table four!”
The auctioneer’s gavel smacked the podium and the 450 guests in the Ashton Estate Winery reception hall erupted in a chorus of cheers and boos. The bidding for a date with the blond Napa Valley socialite, also known as bachelorette number seventeen, had been fast and furious.
She had a name—the auctioneer had even said it—but Paige Ashton’s mind worked better with numbers than names. And now that number seventeen was bought and paid for, there were only three women left before dessert and dancing could commence. Then Paige was done.
She hugged her clipboard and beamed from the side of the stage. They were just shy of the magic number of $20,000, to be raised for the Candlelighters of Northern California. God bless the brave ladies willing to parade on that stage, willing to let men shout out dollar amounts they’d pay for a date.
Not only was it a wonderful cause, the annual Candlelighters Bachelorette Auction was a smashing event, and she’d coordinated every detail for the “Take a Walk on the Wild Side” jungle theme right down to rainforest-inspired centerpieces. It had been a breeze after the balancing act she’d been performing with her family the past few months.
Still, she’d been a little nervous about executing this event—her first on her own since she’d returned home to the winery to help her sister handle the massive functions held at the world-famous estate. Megan would be proud, if she weren’t in the throes of morning sickness. Paige planned to debrief her sister on the success the next day, and they’d share a welcome reprieve from discussing their father’s murder and the various leads the police were following to find the person who shot Spencer Ashton.
“Tiffany Valencia is gone.”
The words, whispered to Paige by one of the auction aides, tickled her ear and raised a hair on the back of her neck.
“Gone? Number eighteen is gone?” It didn’t take her lightning-speed brain to solve this problem. “Get nineteen.”
The aide, a young intern for the auction company, shook her head. “No can do. That one just left with Ashley Bleeker for a smoke.”
“Bleeker? That means eighteen, nineteen and twenty are gone?”
“We have to take a break.”
“No break,” Paige insisted. That would ruin the rhythm of the event and, worse, stop the bidding. The event would ultimately be judged by how much money was raised. “Where the heck is eighteen—er, Tiffany?”
“I think she met a guy and took off with him,” the aide said apologetically.
Paige rolled her eyes. “He’s
