Chapter 1 (SLOW BURN)

CHAPTER 1

 Ashley woke up gasping for breath, acrid air clogging her lungs. She jerked up as her eyes darted around the room. There was no smoke and no fire, just the familiar high ceiling of her loft. The light streaming from the downstairs windows reflected on the full-length mirror of her dresser, causing her to squint. She flopped back on the bed and took deep, calming breaths.

The nightmares were becoming more and more vivid. She was safe, not trapped in a burning house with her parents. And the shrill sound was the telephone, not a fire truck. She leaned sideways and picked up the phone from the cherrywood nightstand.

“Yes.” Her voice came out muzzy and faint.

 “Ashley Fitzgerald?” an unfamiliar, deep male voice said.

“This is she.”

“Ronald Douglass. I left a message in your voicemail last night.”

Ashley frowned at the slight censure in his tone. “I haven’t gotten around to checking my messages yet. What can I do for you, Mr. Douglass?”

“May I stop by your studio for a brief talk?”

The grandfather clock downstairs chimed. It was seven-thirty—too early for someone who’d gone to bed at two in the morning. Worse, the male model for her next erotic series was due in less than an hour. Ashley groaned. She’d need a pot of coffee to function.

“I’m sorry, that’s not possible,” she said. “I’m busy this morning.”

“I have a slight problem, Ms. Fitzgerald. I want to surprise my grandmother with a portrait on her birthday and I’m told you’re the person to go to if I want a first-rate work. I promise you, I won’t take much of your time. In fact, I’m only a few blocks away from your studio.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Douglass. I’m not accepting any more commissioned works, not for a while. But I can recommend a very good friend and colleague.”

“I don’t want anyone else, Ms. Fitzgerald.”

His words were very flattering, but his timing sucked. With the grand opening of the new children’s museum next month, the wall murals must be completed before then. Then there was her erotic series show. She didn’t have time to take extra work.

“I’m sorry I can’t be of any help to you, Mr. Douglass. I’m really swamped.”

“Listen, I know I’m being particular about this,” he said after a brief pause. “You see, my grandmother doesn’t have long to live, but she loves your work and owns several of your original pieces. Having you do her portrait would mean so much to her.”

A lump formed in her throat and her insides softened. She’d lost her grandmother when she was in her teens, just before her parents died. Like the caller, she’d adored her grandmother.

Ashley sighed. “Okay, Mr. Douglass. But we can’t meet now.”

“Later today perhaps?”

If she photographed the model in the morning, her afternoon would be spent sketching. Her evening was taken, too. It was the girls’ night-out with her cousins. She dared not cancel or they’d have her hide. Besides, she preferred to meet potential clients in their homes.

“I’m completely booked today. Monday evening would be much better.”

“I’ll be out of town the whole of next week.” He sounded frustrated. “What about tomorrow?”

No way. Sunday was her day off. “I’m sorry I can’t. Listen, why don’t you call me when you get back from your trip and we can pick a more suitable time?”

This time the silence on the line was longer, uncomfortable.

“Fine. Have a nice day, Ms. Fitzgerald.” The line went dead.

Not a happy camper, was he? Ashley shrugged, scooted to the edge of the four poster king size bed and stepped down. Her feet sunk in the egg shell shaggy rug covering the wooden floor. Without bothering with slippers, she hustled down the winding metal staircase to the kitchen and started the coffeemaker, then headed straight back upstairs to shower.

The hot water didn’t ease the tension coursing through her, the effect of the nightmare. Would they ever stop? At this rate, she’d go crazy. She pulled on a floral working kimono, slipped on loafers and hurried down the stairs. After pouring herself a cup of coffee and added hazelnut creamer, she scribbled a few notes on a Post-it and pressed it on the fridge door.

Sipping the coffee, she walked to the H-shaped, floor easel and smiled at the piece she’d finished the night before. What a beautiful kid. So unfair he had died so young, like her parents.

Here I go again, thinking about Mom and Dad. At this rate, she wouldn’t accomplish much today. The problem was, the nightmares tended to remind her of her loss. She frowned at the door as though she could make the model appear through sheer will. Where was he? Dee’s models were usually very professional and rarely tardy. Maybe she should have asked to see the portfolio of this new guy, talked to him first. No, that would have been pointless. Dee had never failed her in the four years they’d worked together.

A sigh escaped her. She needed to relax before the man arrived or their session would be a waste of time. There was only one way to deal with the angry energy twirling inside her.

Ashley drained her coffee and placed the cup on top of the chest of drawers that held her paints. Then she propped the finished oil painting on a shelf to dry, replaced it with a blank canvas and put a bucket of water on a stool by the easel. She squirted dime-size globs of paint on a palette, picked up a brush and started working. No pencil sketches to begin with, just bold sweeps across the canvas.

Her hand trembled, but she didn’t stop working. Couldn’t stop was more like it. Time stood still as her past and present collided, as the demons threatening her very sanity coalesced on the painting before her. She dropped the brush and the palette in the bucket of water and shuddered. How many times had she painted this house? The exercise didn’t stop the nightmares.

She dragged her gaze away from the painting to the myriad of cloth-covered canvases on wooden shelves around along the walls. People commissioned and paid thousands of dollars for her one-of-a-kind paintings, yet she was locked in a loop—fifteen years old at night and twenty-five during the day, all because she couldn’t let go of the past.

There was only one solution. She wanted the house razed to the ground. Ripped through to its foundation until not a single block, beam or panel was left standing. Call her childish or vengeful, but completely obliterating that place from the surface of the earth would fill her with a great deal of satisfaction, and give her the closure she sought.

Ashley turned and snatched up the telephone from the kitchen counter. Her glance touched the surface of the clock. It was nine o’clock and Toni should be in her office. She speed-dialed the realtor’s number.

“Morning, Toni. Did you meet with Nina Noble’s agent yet?”

“Ah, yes. He walked me through the house and the compound. It’s in great condition and has lots of old trees, but I think you could do better.”

“No, I want this one.” She leaned against the counter and glowered at the painting on the easel. “Accept whatever they’re asking for it and bring me the papers to sign.”

“Are you kidding? That’s not the way to get the best deal, Ash. I intend to check the market value first, then offer them ten percent less than—”

“Don’t.” She reached forward, flipped the painting so it faced the easel. “I’ll pay whatever they want.”

“O-okay. But her agent hinted that it’s important to Nina who the new owner is and what he or she plans to do with the house.”

Ashley grimaced. Only Nina, the grandstanding diva, would add such a stipulation to something she was selling. But there was no telling how the actress would react if she knew Ashley wanted to buy her house.

“I don’t think giving them my name is a good idea. But if her people want to know what I intend to do with it, tell them I mean to turn it into a commune for artists, a place where in-house artists can offer dance, voice and art lessons to kids.” It was the dream her parents had wanted before they died, and Carlyle House had been their chosen building. Now the dream was hers to fulfill except hell would freeze over before she used that house. “Call me when you have everything set, okay? I’ve got to run. Bye.”

Ashley pressed the off button and placed the phone back on its cradle. For a beat, she stared at her shaking hand, her breathing shallow. She fisted her hand and took a deep breath. She was weary of being haunted by her past, longed to be free. No, she deserved to be free, to live a life without doubts and phobias, some of which neither she nor her therapist could explain. With the house destroyed, she’d begin her healing process.

Now that’s settled, I need to focus on something else. Her glance went to the door, again. Where was her model? Dee had some explaining to do.

Ashley rinsed her brushes and palette, took one look at her kimono and groaned. In her haste to exorcise her demons, she’d forgotten to put on a smock to protect it. She hurried upstairs to change.

***

“You should have dropped in on her unannounced. I know I would have.”

“What would that accomplish?” Ron leaned back against the leather passenger seat and glanced over at his long time friend Kenny Lambert, ex-FBI-agent-turned-private-investigator.

“A lot. In my line of business,” Kenny continued, “being nice gets you zip. You want to get to the bottom of this, forget your corporate image and your scruples, and start playing dirty. You’re already on the right path…Ronald Douglass. For an alias, it has a nice ring to it,” he added with a smirk.

Ron grimaced. It wasn’t much of an alias. Douglass was his middle name. “I couldn’t tell her my real name, man. I’ve gotten nothing but ice from my father’s fire buddies. They don’t mind reminiscing about the past until I mention Carlyle House. Then they have places to go, things to do. I didn’t want her shutting me out, too. But you’re right. It’s time to stir things up a bit.” They entered NoHo Arts District. “Head to Lauderhill Boulevard. I want you to drop me off outside her building.”

He exchanged a grin with Kenny, but his inside wound like a spring. He hated to lie, but finding out what happened the night of the fire meant a lot more than a few principles. And the wall of silence from these firefighters only made him more determined to get to the truth. To top that, guilt weighed hard and heavy on him. He shouldn’t have allowed his uncle to dissuade him from investigating the fire when his father died. Granted he’d been twenty at the time and his mother had needed him, but he should have gone with his gut instinct and hired an investigator. He’d given up too fast, ran away from the rumors and the innuendo that his father started the fire. This time, he wouldn’t be dissuaded. Someone out there knew what went down that night. Though their motive for leaving him the clues remained questionable, he’d not live with himself if he didn’t try and find out the truth. Maybe he could even clear his father’s name.

They entered Magnolia Boulevard, passed a light and turned left on Lauderhill. Ron waited until Kenny pulled up and parked before he spoke.

“What’s the plan?” he asked, glancing at Kenny.

“A former colleague at the bureau owes me a few favors. I’m heading to Wilshire Boulevard and handing him these.” Kenny indicated the Ziploc bag from the tray between the seats. In it were the two envelopes someone had left Ron in the past two weeks.

The first time Ron saw the small envelope stuck under the windscreen wipers of his car, he’d thought it was a parking ticket. Needless to say, he’d tugged at it, opened and left his fingerprints all over the envelope and the letter. That was two weeks ago.

The second time was yesterday afternoon. He’d been in his office and his car parked in the underground garage of the building housing Neumann Security offices, the Los Angeles branch of his family’s company. His car was still in the same spot, waiting for Kenny. This time, he’d covered his hands before he took the envelope and opened the letter.

The letters had a list of three names and the question, “What really happened that night?” The weirdest thing was each letter was cut out of the newspaper and glued to the paper, very archaic. A simple text message would have sufficed. And the words ‘really’ and ‘happened’ were spelled with one L and P.

It had taken Ron days to identify the three men on the first list. All of them had worked at the fire station where his father used to volunteer as a firefighter. But was it a coincidence that they had quit right after the fire at Carlyle House? That question was driving him nuts. He had yet to talk to anyone on the second list. Ashley Fitzgerald’s name topped it.

As for the cryptic message, he’d reached the conclusion that whoever sent him the letters either wanted him to reopen the case or had come up with a wacky blackmail scheme. Both the Fire Marshal’s office and L.A.P.D.’s finest had refused to take the letters seriously. Not enough evidence to suspect foul play and reopen the Carlyle fire case. Neither did they consider the letters threatening. It didn’t matter. Nothing would stop him from going ahead with the investigation, including Ashley’s busy schedule.

 “When do I get back my ride?” Ron asked Kenny. The P.I. had taken a detour to pick up Ron at his Hollywood Hills home.

“Sometime today…as soon as my friend dusts it for prints. You said you spoke with the building security?”

“Briefly. The recordings from their surveillance cameras didn’t show anyone loitering near my car. But feel free to have another look at them, I might have missed something.”

 “Or someone. I’ll also have another chat with your father’s closemouthed fire buddies.”

“Good. Thanks for the ride.” Ron stepped out. Calling Kenny had been a brilliant move. Hopefully, the P.I would help him ferret out the person sending these damned letters. “Let’s get together later.”

Kenny saluted him with a finger. “I’ll let you know when the car is ready and what my friend finds out. Are you still going to the convention in San Diego?”

As a volunteer wildfire firefighter, he rarely attended the firefighters’ conventions. This year was different. His father’s former chief’s name was on the second list.

“Yes. I heard Jonathan Blackwell is receiving a medal. I hope to catch up with him there.”

“Watch your back. Whoever is doing this must have something to gain. No one stirs up a ten year old case for shits and giggles.” Kenny squinted at Ashley’s building and added, “Let me know what the lady says.”

Ron couldn’t agree more with Kenny. No one did things from the goodness of their hearts, not from his experience. He stepped away from the car, waited until Kenny pulled away before he started for the entrance of the building.

The building, like many in the area, used the products and services of Neumann Security. His family manufactured and supplied state-of-the-art electronic surveillance equipment and custom-designed software to businesses, homes and even P.I. firms like Kenny’s. The branch Ron ran also managed highly trained security guards. The one on duty recognized him and stood before he reached the desk.

Ron headed for the elevators after speaking with the guard. He fought the tension knitting his gut as he watched the LCD panel flash numbers. What if she recognized him and refused him entrance? Ten years was a long time for someone to remember details of an accident, especially one that changed her life. He’d be screwed if she chose not to help him.

When he stood outside Ashley’s door, Ron took a deep breath before he pressed her doorbell. He waited a few seconds then angled his head to listen for movement from inside. There was not a whisper from inside, yet he knew she was home.

He leaned his thumb on the doorbell, held it longer than necessary. When there was still no response, he sucked in a breath and pivoted on his heels. Two steps away, the door opened and a low, throaty voice hit him from behind, sending a jolt through his system.

“Quit with the ruckus. You’re, uuh….” Her voice tailed off.

He turned and took in her creamy, flawless skin, the pert nose and lush lips. Her almond-shaped eyes the color of honey drops flashed and the glossy, abundant auburn hair with coppery highlights struggled to burst free from whatever pinned it back.

Could this gorgeous woman be the frightened girl of ten years ago? The image of her from that night had stayed with him over the years. He couldn’t even explain why.

“Ashley Fitzgerald?”

“You’re late,” she said in a cool, impatient voice.

He raised an eyebrow. “I am?”

She thrust a delicate wrist under his nose. Her gold watch caught the overhead light and sparkled. “It’s after nine-thirty. You were due at an hour ago.”

Her feminine scent drifted to his nose. Something flowery. Roses? He frowned, annoyed with himself for letting his mind wander.

He cleared his throat, readying himself to explain his presence. “I believe you’ve mis—”

“Never mind,” she said, took a step back, and with her other hand clutching a cell phone, gestured him into the loft. “You’re here now. Come in.”

She was obviously mistaking him for someone else. But after the obstacles he’d encountered in the past two weeks, he’d be a fool not to take the advantage of the situation. Being invited inside her home was one step closer to achieving his goal.

“Thank you.” He flashed a grin as he strode into the loft.

“What’s your name?” she asked, closing the door.

“Ron.”

“Make yourself comfortable, Ron.” She waved in the direction of a leather lounge. “I’m on the phone. I’ll be with you in a sec.”

He watched her sashay towards the kitchen, the phone at her ear, and found himself enjoying the way the silk one-piece outfit shifted and flowed around her curves.

Ron tore his gaze away, shook his head to rattle his brain back in place and grimaced. He needed to get a grip, quick. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. Ashley knew a lot, but from the stubborn gleam he’d glimpsed in those eyes, she wasn’t going to roll over and spill her gut just because he asked.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee pulled him farther into the room. He took a deep breath and looked around with interest. The sheer numbers of cloth-draped canvases along the walls combined with the effect of the light pouring inside the loft from large windows were startling. He wished he could see some of the pieces. The ones he’d seen around town, including the two his grandmother owned, were truly magnificent.

A piece on the easel drew his attention. It was facing backward, but something about it pulled him closer. He tilted it for a better look and sucked in his breath.

Carlyle House was unmistakable. Its massive front door was missing, flames leapt from every window and a face…no, a pair of large eyes watched from the smoke billowing over the turrets.

“Excuse me. What do you think you’re doing?”

He let the canvas go, backed away from the painting and shifted his gaze to meet hers. Her hand was on her hip, drawing his attention to its enticing curve, and her hazel eyes smoldered. He’d be damned if he didn’t admit she looked glorious.

 “I apologize. I shouldn’t have looked at your work without asking you first.” He waited, his gut tightening with each second that passed. Way to go, Noble. Now she’ll kick you out, and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself. He gave her an apologetic smile.

She looked ready to read him the riot act. Then the anger seemed to drain out of her. She leaned against the counter and let out a long breath.

“There’re two things I will not tolerate from a model—tardiness and peeking at my work.” Her voice was firm, but neither rude nor angry. “Dee told me you’ve done this before, so undress there.” She pointed at a partitioned area in the corner. “Since you were late, I’ll just do a few shots. We’ll start with upper torso, so the shirt goes and the pants stay for the moment. If you want to listen to music, I have classical, jazz, rock…whatever you wish. We’ll work there.” With a nod, she indicated the black leather chaise lounge near a window and the easel. “If we have time, I’d like shots of you in briefs. What?”

“Briefs?”

Ashley ignored his incredulous expression. Why had her request for a mature male model been filled with this six-foot mass of male arrogance? Beautiful to look at but trouble to work with. Dee already apologized for the man’s tardiness during their brief telephone conversation, but swore he was a joy to work with. Yeah, right.

“Yes, briefs.” She pushed off the counter and approached him, taking in his sun-kissed skin, which screamed outdoorsman. But the combination of Monet’s cobalt blue eyes and short-cropped hair the color of midnight was more suited for a corporate office with a view. He was a contradiction, and her fingers longed to pick up a paint brush and immortalize him on canvas.

Slowly, she circled him, eyeing his tall, well-built body from every angle, wondering if he was tanned all over. The black T-shirt and blue jeans didn’t do much to hide the lean muscles beneath. She wasn’t into men with facial hair, but the shadowing on his jaw contrasted with his golden skin and gave him a sexy, rakish look. A tattoo of something was partially visible on his upper left arm. Did he have more on his torso? Not that it mattered. She easily imagined him with nothing on but a red, silk sheet draped across his hips. With her paintbrush, she could turn him into every woman’s fantasy. She smiled at her thoughts. But that was for later, now she wanted him in briefs. No boxers or cutoffs. Just briefs. The smaller and tighter the better.

 “I hope that’s not going to be a problem because later, I’ll need nude shots.” Her smile deepened. “Lots of them.”

“I have no problem with being nude.” He turned until they were facing each other. A quirky grin played on his sensuous lips. “I just don’t strip for money.”

“But—”

“I’ll do it for free, if I know the lady.” Blue eyes twinkled above arched eyebrows. “I don’t know you…yet.”

She smothered a groan. “Look. Dee told me you were a pro and pros know the rules. No personal remarks or cheap come-ons. And FYI, buddy, I’m not interested in you knowing me, I just want your body.” The corner of his lips lifted and her cheeks warmed. “Uh, I mean I want to use it.”

When he crossed his arms and continued to grin, Ashley sighed. “You know what I mean. Be nice. Take off your shirt.” She needed coffee, now. Maybe she would offer him some later, if he behaved. Right now, she was too bothered even to look at him. Dee was so dead for doing this to her. A professional indeed. He was a menace.

Ashley turned and marched toward the kitchen.

“Who’s Dee?” Ron asked from behind her.

“What?” Ashley stopped and spun around. “Deirdre Packard, the owner of Dee’s Artistic Expressions. Aren’t you the model she sent?”

He smiled. “No. I’m not a male model, but thanks for the compliment.” He moved to stand in front of her, the smile disappearing from his lips and his eyes growing serious. “I’m here to see you about an entirely different matter. We spoke earlier…Ronald Douglass.”

Ah, the sweet man with a dying grandmother. Although ‘sweet’ wasn’t exactly what she’d dub him this up close and personal. Arrogant came to mind, thinking he could waltz in here and lie to her. Too handsome for his own good was another. It irritated her to admit she’d been looking forward to capturing his square, raw-boned face and those electrifying blue eyes.

Ashley sighed. “I told you I was too busy to meet with you this morning. And why didn’t you tell me who you were the minute you realized I’d mistaken you for my model?”

“I apologize. It’s not often a woman asks me to strip immediately after meeting her.” A disarming smile flitted across his sensuous lips.

Now he was a comedian. Ashley pinned him with narrowed eyes. “Do you even have a dying grandmother or need her portrait done?”

A guilty look crossed his face. “She’s as healthy as a horse, and that’s the truth. But I’d like to present her with her portrait on her next birthday. Listen, I hoped you’d spare me a few minutes.” A lost puppy look settled on his face.

Definitely too sure of his charms and used to getting his way, she concluded. Either case, he was a total stranger. Although there was nothing threatening about him, Ron was a big man. How fast could he move? The panic button on her cutting edge security system was by the door, and he stood smack between her and it. She took in the Rolex and the designer jeans, groomed hair and those eyes. Something sizzled between them, but Ashley disregarded it. Good looks and expensive tastes didn’t mean jack. She had two choices here, tell him to get out or hear him out.

Ashley moved until the kitchen island was between them. Only then did she indicate the stool across the counter from hers. “Okay, Ronald Douglass, you have my attention.”

He approached her slowly. “I appreciate that.”

“Would you like some coffee?” she asked.

“That would be nice, thank you.” He smiled.

“How do you take it?”

“Black.” He watched her as she pulled out mugs from a cupboard. “What I told you earlier was true. My grandmother really likes your work, and I do need a portrait of her done. Do all your subjects have to sit for you?”

 “No. I often use photographs. You see that one,” she pointed at the uncovered painting she’d finished the night before. “I used several pictures of both the young man and the horse.”

“May I?” Ron asked.

“Go ahead.” She filled two mugs of coffee and added hazelnut creamer to hers. From the corner of her eye, she watched Ron study the painting, his smile quick and appreciative.

A quirky smile. She was a sucker for anything unusual. Her gaze followed his jaw-line to his ear, the hollow beneath his jutting cheekbone and the arched eyebrows above an arrogant nose. She’d painted her share of beautiful men, but there was something about Ron that made her want to pick up a sketchpad, a paintbrush and palette.

“This is amazing…so real,” Ron said, making her realize she was staring. “The pony looks as though it might step out of the painting and prance around.” He laughed, and she smiled. “I can almost hear the boy yell, ‘giddy up.’  He must love horses.”

“Yes, he did.” Sadness crept through her voice and her throat closed so she had to swallow hard to clear it. “He died two months ago in a road accident.” She heard him swear softly under his breath as she carried the mugs to the island counter and sat down on a stool.

“It must be hard to work on a piece like that.” Ron’s gaze locked on her face when he joined her.

He didn’t know the half of it. “Yes it is. But I understood the love that prompted his mother to want to do something special in her son’s memory. Here you go.” She placed the second coffee in front of him.

“Thanks.” He sat down opposite her, took a sip of his drink and cradled the cup in his large palms. “Ashley, I want your help with something very important to me.”

“I know…your grandmother’s portrait. I need to know how soon you want it. I can work from a few recent pictures, unless you’d prefer when she was younger and….” Her voice trailed off when she saw the bleak look on his face. “What is it?”

He hesitated before saying, “I want to talk to you about Carlyle House.”

Ashley bit her bottom lip, her insides tightening. Had Toni given out her name despite their earlier conversation? “Are you Nina Noble’s agent?”

“No, I’m her son.”

“But you said your name was Ronald Douglass.” Her voice was accusatory, but she didn’t care.

“Both are my names, I just omitted my surname. Every time I give out my full name, doors get slammed in my face.”

“Excuse me?”

His gaze shifted to the painting on the easel, then back to her face. “I’m investigating the fire at the house ten years ago.”

A chill snaked up her spine. She opened her mouth to ask him why, thought better of it and decided she didn’t want to know. Instead she pushed her stool back and stood. “Sorry, I can’t help you. You need to leave.”

Ron scrubbed his face and let out a deep breath. His gaze, when he looked up, was direct, almost pleading, but she wasn’t completely sure about that. Still, she could not take any more craziness, not on top of the nightmares and everything else.

“I really need your help,” he added softly.

She stepped back from the counter and away from him, her insides churning. “No.”

He scowled. “I’ve been receiving anonymous letters with a list of names. One has firefighters, all friends of my father, all retired after the fire. I was curious enough to get in touch with them. Yet as soon as I mention the fire, they don’t want to talk. It’s almost as if they know something, as if they’re afraid. What if the fire was deliberately set and someone wants me to find out the truth? The people responsible could still be out there. That would mean your parents—”

“No.” She flung her arms as though to stop his words from reaching her ears. Not that it mattered. She already knew what he was going to say. “I don’t want to hear it. My parents’ death was accidental, I’ve accepted that. The Fire Marshal said it was faulty wiring.” She swallowed, refusing to entertain the possibility that someone had started the fire, that her parents had been murdered. She’d mourned and accepted her loss. All she needed to move on was to get rid of Carlyle House, not relive that horrific night.

“I want you to leave now, Ron.”

“Ashley—”

“Please, just go.” She wrapped her arms around her body and refused to meet his gaze, but she could still feel it on her. After a moment, he got up.

Her head pounded with tension and her teeth hurt from too much clenching, but Ashley held it in. She followed Ron’s lean, muscular frame to the door. A few days ago, she’d been ecstatic to see the house on a listing, and her decision to buy and demolish it had seemed so feasible. Now this.

Ron opened the front door, stepped out into the hallway and turned to face her. Before she could speak, he reached out and touched her arm.

“Think about it,” he said.

“There’s nothing to think about.”

“I’ll be in touch about my grandmother’s painting.” He turned and sauntered away.

Ashley stared after him, unwanted images from the past flashing in her head. When he entered the elevator and the door closed on his unsmiling face, she sagged against her door frame. Her body was shaking. She no longer wanted to do his grandmother’s portrait. He’d only used it as a ruse to get inside her home, she was sure. And for what? To fill her heart with dread, to dare ask her to relive her worst night. The man was out of his mind.


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