Her Montana Millionaire. Crystal Green

grief in his life.

      After parking the Benz in his spacious garage between the Rolls-Royce and the Hummer, Max headed into his mansion through the massive, echoing kitchen.

      “Hello, sir,” said Bently. His right-hand man—one of the reasons Max had become a multimillionaire by the age of thirty—was garbed in a full-length apron, slicing vegetables at the enormous cutting block in the room’s center. “No steaks tonight?”

      “Bently, I am not a sir. Not even when I’m seventy will I be a sir. What’s cooking?”

      “Vegetables julienne, sir.” The elderly man’s mustache, which he’d spent years growing, was waxed up into slim handlebars, defying the laws of gravity. “MonMart is rarely out of meat, so I assume something hindered your steak hunt?”

      Talking about that woman was out of the question. He wouldn’t do it. “Where’s Michael?”

      “In the driving simulator room.” Chop, chop, chop. “I suppose we shall merely pretend to eat a good portion of beef tonight, then?”

      “How clever you are, Bently, especially in light of my brother’s invisibility rumors.”

      “An old man knows when you’re distracted. Even when you were a young boy I could determine your moods. For example, when that reporter—Brittney Anthony, I believe it was—wrote about you in Time, hailing you as a child prodigy, it bothered you. Sullen for weeks, you were, sitting in your room, staring at the blank walls. When I asked, you told me you didn’t like to be labeled. You only wanted to go about your business and solve the world’s overpopulation problems using that special form of calculus I taught you. Noble child, if I do say so myself.”

      Bently went back to his culinary tasks. “It never hurts to ask if something’s eating at my employer.”

      Uh-uh. He wasn’t going to say a word about legs or sultry voices or…

      “I got tangled up with this woman today at MonMart’s parking lot.” Max grabbed a shred of carrot from Bently’s growing pile.

      “That’s all?”

      “Hey,” Max said, putting back the vegetable after absently inspecting it, “don’t take that tone.”

      “What tone, sir?”

      “That yippee-he’s-interested-in-a-woman tone. Because it’s no big deal. Is that clear?”

      Bently tightened his lips, his mustache quivering. “Sharply.”

      “It’s just…” Max walked by the island, lightly slapping at the tiles with a fist. “It’s just that she screeched into the parking place I wanted and acted like it was no big to-do.”

      “Shocking times in Rumor.”

      “Tell me about it. A stranger, taking over the town. Next thing you know, she’ll be nosing in on Guy and making things worse than they already are. She was asking questions about him, you know, wondering about the so-called murders, digging into my business. I don’t take kindly to being inspected and analyzed.”

      “Everyone has questions.”

      From above their heads, a thump sounded, just as if a heavy weight had been dropped on the floor.

      Bently clicked his tongue. “Raccoons?”

      “Please, not another thing to deal with. If it’s not my software company, it’s Michael. If it’s not Guy and his disappearing act, it’s—” He cut himself off before he could say something stupid like, “beautiful strangers in movie-star dress suits and pumps.”

      As Bently crossed to the stove, he said, “Don’t concern yourself. Those sounds have been escalating for the past couple of weeks. I’ll get to it.”

      Oil sizzled in a sautée pan, sending the aroma of garlic through the room.

      “Thanks, Bently.” Max started to leave. “Sorry about the steaks.”

      “We’ve got red snapper waiting in the wings.”

      Max grinned at the older man, then left, knowing he’d lucked out when his parents had hired Bently to tutor him as a five-year-old. Regular schooling hadn’t been challenging enough for Max and Guy, so with Bently’s guidance, they’d explored new academic territories, conquered new ideas. Even when he’d reached the age of twenty, riding the beginning wave of software companies, Bently had advised him, encouraged him.

      Damn, he only wished the old man had all the answers. When it came to Michael, Max had no clue how to handle matters.

      He passed through the parlor, passed a couple of game rooms with different virtual reality set-ups housed in them, passed his in-home movie theater, passed his train room, with old memorabilia and photos of railway wrecks.

      Finally, he reached the driving simulator, where the teenage Michael sat behind the wheel of a car shell, driving over a computer-generated road.

      Max switched off the mechanism, a prototype his company was developing to train drivers. The censure earned one of his son’s practiced glowers.

      “I was almost done with this scenario, Dad.”

      “When did I say you were allowed back on any of the games?”

      Michael hefted out a dramatic sigh. “In another two weeks.”

      “And why?”

      “God, like we need to go through this again?”

      Max’s temper crept over his sight, straining it. “Evidently, we do.”

      “Jeez.” The teenager paused, probably knowing that he was singeing his father’s nerves. “Strike one—I sneaked into Uncle Guy’s house even though it’s been taped off by the police and off-limits. Strike two—I sneaked in said house because I wanted to catch a smoke.”

      “Even though Rumor came this close to being wiped out by a wildfire.” Max quelled his nerves, telling himself that his son’s close relationship with Guy didn’t factor into his frustration. Just because Max and Michael had nothing in common and were constantly at each other’s throats didn’t mean Guy had stolen Michael’s affection.

      The teen rolled his eyes. “And strike three—I’m your victim of the week and have to suffer the consequences.”

      “That’s enough.” He hoped he didn’t sound too weary. He really wasn’t up for another confrontation today. “I don’t want to catch you playing around with the simulators.”

      Michael got out of the device, tugging a baseball cap backward over his dark hair. “The simulator’s gonna make me a kickin’ driver when I take my test. It gives me practice. I don’t see why you won’t let me use it.”

      “You’re so deprived, Michael. Deal with it.”

      Michael’s black hair—so much like his own—escaped the hat and flopped over one blue eye. His baggy jeans and flannel shirt hung from a lanky frame, making Max think that the boy hadn’t reached his full height—or temperament—yet.

      The teenager said, “You’re right. This punishment stinks up the ying yang. Ever since Mom left—”

      “You were four, Michael. Don’t bring this up again—”

      “—you’ve been in a bad mood.”

      Neither of them said a word for a second.

      Max ran a hand through his hair, thinking that there was a good reason it’d sprouted more gray this past year. He couldn’t do anything right by Michael, especially when it came to women. Whenever he brought one home, his son inevitably found a way to alienate her and Max.

      No wonder he hadn’t gone on a date in months. Who needed the grief?

      “You’re right,” said Max, bitterness getting the best of him. “Maybe you know what’s best.”

      The