LITMIR.BIZ

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apartment, Stacey was abysmally clearheaded, and was already vowing to never again use alcohol to escape her problems. All it had done was make them worse, though something told her that her notion of worse was about to be revised downward.

      That little inkling seemed downright prophetic by the time they reached her door and she tried to tell Oren McClain good-night.

      “I’d like to see you inside,” he said. “Make sure you’re all right.”

      The genuineness in his tone told her he wasn’t angling for more than that, though she couldn’t actually be sure. He’d been completely trustworthy before, but people were rarely what they seemed on short acquaintance.

      And, it was kinder to him to stop things before she gave him any false hopes. Not that she assumed that every man who came in range was instantly lovesick, but because she couldn’t overlook that he’d said he was here to see if she’d changed her mind about him. He’d have to be more than a little smitten to do that.

      Besides, she didn’t want to give herself the opportunity to grab whatever rescue he could provide. It would be wrong to use him, and she wasn’t sure how long she could be noble if she spent even a few more minutes with him. And it was a disturbing fact that her body was still reacting to the masculine pull of his, and she still tingled everywhere they’d touched on the walk home.

      She made herself say, “I’m all right. Really. I’m just tired now…and embarrassed that I made a fool of myself.”

      One side of his stern mouth curved slightly. “You didn’t make a fool of yourself, Miss Stacey. You’re the same proper lady you always are. Just a little thirsty.”

      Stacey so liked the gently scolding tone in his gravely voice—as if he thought she was too hard on herself—but his kind words hurt. He was so gallant.

      Too gallant to string along or exploit.

      “Thank you,” she said quietly. “Good night, Mr. McClain.” She turned toward the door.

      “You might need this,” he said, and she glanced back. Seeing the tiny handbag, she took it, fumbled with the catch, then got out her key. Her hand was steady enough to unlock the door.

      She felt her body tingle again as he reached past her to push open the door, so she stepped quickly inside and turned.

      “I’d like to see you tomorrow,” he said. “Take you to lunch somewhere.”

      Stacey knew he meant to try to court her again, and she couldn’t allow that. It took almost more will than she had to tell him so.

      “I’m…sorry. I’m truly sorry, Oren. It wouldn’t be…right.” She almost bit her lip again for calling him Oren. Using his first name after she’d called him Mr. McClain seemed far too personal, and maybe even a little inviting.

      As if he hadn’t noticed anything but her refusal, a stoniness came over him. Had she hurt his feelings or merely made him angry?

      Though he couldn’t know she no longer had a house staff, she was very aware that they were the only two people here. If he was a threat to her at all, she might be in trouble more serious than losing her fortune.

      She was afraid of him—he was so big and tough that he could hurt her with very little effort—and yet she wasn’t afraid of him at all. He might not pass muster with the etiquette police, or know which fork to use, or how to properly greet royalty and important guests in a receiving line, but he was a complete gentleman.

      “All right then, Miss Stacey,” he said, and his rugged face seemed merely solemn. He lifted his hand to an inside pocket and withdrew a business card. He held it out to her.

      “I wrote the name of my hotel there, and the room number. I’m stayin’ till Thursday. After Thursday, you can get hold of me at any of those numbers.”

      Stacey made herself take the card because he didn’t deserve rudeness, and he was perceptive enough not to need a strong rebuff. Proof of that was when he turned and crossed the short distance to the elevator.

      Stacey literally had to press her fingers over her lips to keep from calling him back. She managed to step farther into her apartment to let her door go shut before he could get into the elevator and turn so she could see his face. Stacey listened to the latch on her door catch securely, then heard the elevator doors close.

      Had she just done Oren McClain a kindness, or had she just cut off her last chance for an easy rescue?

      CHAPTER TWO

      THERE was nothing noble about the ghostly pale face in the mirror late that next morning or the self-pitying thoughts she was wallowing in. Stacey forced herself through the motions of a hot shower and the numbing discipline of doing her makeup and hair before she wandered into one of her closets to decide what to wear for the day.

      The almost military precision of the spacing between the hangers of clothes on one side of the huge closet mocked her. Angelique had taken meticulous care of her clothes, hanging them just so and stuffing them here and there with rumpled tissue paper to prevent wrinkling. Every shoe and boot had been placed with equal precision in their slots according to color in one of the sections, and Stacey knew her underthings were laid away with the same obsessive neatness and attention to color that had made Angelique a neurotic’s dream.

      But the simple fact was that in less than a week Stacey had already proven a failure at maintaining the rigid order that had come so effortlessly to her maid. The left side of the closet was a mess, with wads of tissue here and there on the carpet. Her inability to maintain order, like her every other little incompetence over trivial things, had further undermined Stacey’s secret lack of self-confidence and left her feeling increasingly inept and adrift.

      Though she’d been raised by an elderly grandfather who’d seen women as social ornaments whose chief aims should be to marry well and be an asset to a wealthy husband, there was really no excuse in this day and age to not have pursued some kind of career that could at least support her.

      But the truth was, she’d been petted and cosseted and spoiled until she was fairly useless. Yes, she’d filled up her time with charities and social activities and a political cause or two, but not much of that could be converted into the kind of cold cash that might keep her in her wealthy lifestyle of ease.

      She really would make a good wife to some hard-driven millionaire who was looking for a trophy with a pedigreed background, but she’d be a zero at going it alone. Anything in life that hadn’t come easy or she’d not enjoyed, she’d been free to walk away from. And had.

      But there was no walking away from the fact that in a few days, most of her beautiful things would be hauled off to storage in a warehouse somewhere, and she’d be living in a less exclusive section of the city. She’d be learning how to make her way around on buses and subways while she continued to search for a job she could do that would pay enough to keep a roof over her head. It would also have to pay the storage bill until she could bear to part with her things.

      If she’d taken over her own finances three years ago when her grandfather had passed away instead of blithely continuing with the latent crook who’d slowly embezzled her money to invest in several risky financial schemes, she wouldn’t be in this mess.

      Her only hope was that investigators could locate both him and what might be left of her money, and somehow get it back. The thief had fled to South America somewhere, so the hunt was not only complicated by distance but by the difficulties of cooperation between law enforcement agencies that often had more pressing crimes to solve than embezzled funds.

      Her brain made another edgy circuit around every problem and frustration, and when it had replayed each one, a mental review of possible catastrophes began their inevitable parade through her thoughts. Her head had been pounding before she’d gotten out of bed that morning just after eleven, but even after a hefty dose of aspirin, it continued to thump. Whether the thumping was solely from the headache or merely the punishment of tortured thoughts, the pain was

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