Scarlet Woman. Gwynne Forster

of Muhammad Ali smelling victory, but he refused to be roped in.

      “I’m longing to see you,” she whispered.

      He wished she wouldn’t beg. Three dates didn’t amount to a commitment. “Yeah, right! I’ll…uh. Look, Lacy, I wish you well. I’ll see you around.”

      He hung up, but he doubted that ended it. Any other woman would know that he’d just broken ties with her, such as they were, but not Lacy Morgan. He’d never seen a human being with thicker skin.

      He walked over to the window and looked down at the flowering trees, but they didn’t engage his thoughts. What would happen to Melinda if she couldn’t do as Prescott’s will required? His long, tapered fingers rubbed his jaw, and he shook his head as if to clear it. The Rodgers account was but one in his portfolio, and several others required his attention. He pushed the intercom button.

      “Irene, could you come in and take a letter to Folson?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Now here was a woman he admired: always professional, and she expected him to be the same. So he wasn’t prepared for her comment.

      “Blake, I don’t see how Melinda is going to set up that foundation. People here don’t think highly of her since she married Mr. Rodgers. And to make things worse, she never once went anyplace with him from the time they married till he died. Some say they weren’t really married, that she just lived with the old man.”

      His jaw twitched, and he knew he grimaced, for her blood reddened her light skin and she lowered her eyelids. So much for her unfailing professionalism. He looked over a few notes and dictated the letter.

      “Anything else, sir?”

      With his elbows propped on the desk, he made a pyramid of his ten fingers and looked her in the eye. “Yes. There is. I was Prescott Rodgers’s witness when he married Melinda Jones in this office in the presence of her parents. That’s all.”

      He didn’t care for character assassins any more than he liked gold diggers, and he hated feeling protective toward Melinda, but he did. Feeling a flush of guilt, he tapped his Mont Blanc pen on his desk. If she couldn’t establish that foundation, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with himself. He’d insisted that Prescott include that provision in the will and had worded it himself. If she ever found out…

      Melinda dressed carefully that morning, choosing a white linen suit—she wasn’t going to mourn in black; Prescott had made her promise she wouldn’t—a blue-and-white striped linen blouse and navy accessories. She wanted to look great, but she didn’t want Blake to think he’d ever entered her mind.

      “Come in, Melinda, and have a seat,” Irene said, when she opened the door. “He’ll be with you in a second.”

      Looking around the reception room, she marveled at its decorations, carpets, paintings, and live green plants—elegance without ostentation.

      “Good morning, Melinda. Nothing pleases me like promptness.”

      She stood, accepted his extended hand and wished she hadn’t, as her heart lurched, and fiery ripples spiraled up her arms. His gaze seemed more piercing than ever, or had he noticed what that physical contact with him had done to her?

      “Hello, Blake. I’ve thought this over and figured that I can either try to comply with this strange bequest or walk away from the entire thing.” At his quick frown, she added, “Neither one of those provisions is easy to comply with, but I’ve made up my mind to do all I can to get that foundation up and operating. Reading is what brought Prescott and me together, and I know how dear this project would be to him.”

      His frown deepened. “What do you mean by that?”

      So Prescott hadn’t confided that problem! She lifted her left shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “Long story. Let’s get started on this.” Something flickered in his gaze, but she discounted it as being impossible. Blake Hunter had no feelings for her.

      She made notes as he talked, suggesting names of people she should contact, and providing her with tips about their personalities and attitudes. Once, when she glanced up at him and saw the softness in his fawnlike, brown eyes, she had to stifle a gasp and quickly turned her attention to the tablet in her lap.

      “Your father wants to be on the board,” he said. “I can’t advise you about that, but I’m sure you’ll want board members who can get along with each other.”

      Laughter flowed out of her at the thought of her father cooperating with any group of eleven people anywhere in the world. She looked at Blake. “Do you know anybody in this town who can swear to having had a gratifying conversation with my father?” She’d often thought the problem with her father was his longing for acceptance, but she would never allow herself to say that.

      What was certainly mischief gleamed in his eyes. “I didn’t know you knew that. What he’s like, I mean.”

      “Blake, I lived in the house with him until I went away to college.”

      His big body settled itself in his desk chair, relaxed, and he twirled a pencil, the only playful thing she’d ever seen him do. “I’ll bet you thanked God for college.”

      She leaned toward him, enjoying this unfamiliar side of him. “Did I ever! I put on some lipstick before the train left the station.”

      A smile played around his lips, mesmerizing her. “What about your soul? Weren’t you afraid you’d burn in hell for that worldly deed?”

      “Tell you the truth, it didn’t cross my mind. Do you think a bird worries about the cage after it flies out? Not for a second. I thought, ‘Free at last!’”

      Suddenly, his demeanor changed, and she supposed he’d only temporarily forgotten himself, that it was back to business.

      “I’ll ask Irene to type out this list of prospective board members along with their street and e-mail addresses and their phone numbers. This will take time, so the sooner you get on it, the better.”

      “Yes, sir!”

      His eyebrow went up sharply, but she didn’t care if he recognized her insolence. He couldn’t change faces with her like a chameleon and expect her to accept it.

      “You’re not as easygoing as you appear to be, are you?”

      She put the tablet in her pocketbook and stood, preparing to leave. “I didn’t know anybody thought me easygoing. That is a surprise.”

      “Real little tiger, eh?” he said, walking with her to the door.

      She whirled around and he towered over her, inches from her body. Get a grip on it, girl. “Tiger, lion, or leopard. Cross me, and I claw. But unless you step out of line, you’ll never get so much as a hint of my feline side.”

      She wanted to back away from him, but the door trapped her. She didn’t like the feeling that pervaded her body, a strange hunger that she suspected had nothing to do with food. He didn’t move, and she didn’t want him to know what his nearness did to her. Then his pupils seemed to dilate, and his nostrils flared. Oh, Lord, please let me get away from here without making a fool of myself.

      Summoning all the strength she could muster, she whispered, “Would you please open the door?”

      He reached around her in what felt like a half caress, though she knew it wasn’t, and turned the knob. She stepped backward and nearly lost her footing, but he grabbed her and pulled her toward him.

      “What…?”

      She glanced over her shoulder as Judd Folson walked in for his eleven o’clock appointment. And from the man’s knowing expression, she didn’t doubt that he assumed he’d caught her in Blake Hunter’s arms a week after she buried her husband.

      She raised herself to her full height—nearly six feet if you took into account her three-inch heels—and looked him straight in the eye. “Good