Only on His Terms. Elizabeth Bevarly

were the only things a person could count on. Or, at least, they had been, before everything went to hell, thanks to this, this...

      Harrison took a step backward, and met Grace Sumner’s gaze coolly. “You’re the trashy, scheming, manipulative gold digger?” he asked. Then, because something in her expression looked genuinely wounded by the comment—wow, she really was good—he tempered it by adding, “I thought you’d be taller.”

      She mustered a smile he would have sworn was filled with anxiety if he hadn’t known she was a woman who made her way in the world by conning people. “Well, I guess zero out of five isn’t bad.”

      Harrison opened his mouth to say something else, but Bennett Tarrant—another thorn in the Sage family’s side for the last two years—appeared next to Gracie, as if conjured by one of her magic spells.

      “I see you’ve met Mr. Sage,” he said unnecessarily.

      “Yep,” Grace said, her gaze never leaving Harrison’s.

      Tarrant turned to Harrison. “And I see you’ve met Miss Sumner.”

      “Yep,” Harrison said, his gaze never leaving Grace’s.

      The silence that ensued was thick enough to hack with a meat cleaver. Until Tarrant said, “We should head for our seats. We’ll be starting shortly.”

      Instead of doing as Tarrant instructed, Harrison found it impossible to move his feet—or remove his gaze from Grace Sumner. Damn. She really was some kind of enchantress.

      In an effort to make himself move away, he reminded himself of everything he and his mother had been through since his father’s disappearance fifteen years ago. And he reminded himself how his mother would be left with nothing, thanks to this woman who had, by sheer, dumb luck, stumbled onto an opportunity to bleed the last drop out of a rich, feeble-minded old man.

      Fifteen years ago—half a lifetime—Harrison had gone down to breakfast to find his parents seated, as they always were, at a dining-room table capable of seating twenty-two people. But instead of sitting side by side, they sat at each end, as far apart as possible. As usual, his father had had his nose buried in the Wall Street Journal while his mother had been flipping through the pages of a program for Milan Fashion Week. Or maybe Paris Fashion Week. Or London Fashion Week. Or, hell, Lickspittle, Idaho, Fashion Week for all he knew. So he’d taken his regular place at the table midway between them, ensuring that none of them was close enough to speak to the others. It was, after all, a Sage family tradition to not speak to each other.

      They’d eaten in silence until their butler entered with his daily reminder that his father’s car had arrived to take him to work, his mother’s car had arrived to take her shopping and Harrison’s car had arrived to take him to school. All three Sages had then risen and made their way to their destinations, none saying a word of farewell—just as they had every morning. Had Harrison realized then that that would be the last time he ever saw his father, he might have...

      What? he asked himself. Told him to have a nice day? Given him a hug? Said, “I love you”? He wasn’t sure he’d even known how to do any of those things when he was fifteen. He wasn’t sure he knew how to do any of them now. But he might at least have told his father...something.

      He tamped down a wave of irritation. He just wished he and his father had talked more. Or at all. But that was kind of hard to do when the father spent 90 percent of his time at work and the son spent 90 percent of his time in trouble. Because Harrison remembered something else about that day. The night before his father took off, Harrison had come home in the backseat of a squad car, because he’d been caught helping himself to a couple of porno magazines and a bottle of malt liquor at a midtown bodega.

      Five months after his father’s disappearance had come the news from one of the family’s attorneys that he had been found, but that he had no intention of coming home just yet. Oh, he would stay in touch with one of his attorneys and a couple of business associates, to make sure the running of Sage Holdings, Inc. continued at its usual pace and to keep himself from being declared legally dead. But he wouldn’t return to his work life—or his home life—anytime soon. To those few with whom he stayed in contact he paid a bundle to never reveal his whereabouts. He’d come back when he felt like it, he said. And then he never came back at all.

      Harrison looked at Grace Sumner again, at the deceptively beautiful face and the limitless dark eyes. Maybe two judges had decided she was entitled to the personal fortune his father had left behind. But there was no way Harrison was going down without a fight. He would prove once and for all, unequivocally, that she wasn’t entitled to a cent. He’d been so sure the appeals court would side with the family that he hadn’t felt it necessary to play his full hand. Until now. And now...

      Soon everyone would know that the last thing Grace Sumner was was a fey, unearthly creature. In fact, she was right at home in this den of trolls.

      * * *

      Gracie wanted very much to say something to Harry’s son before leaving with Mr. Tarrant. But his expression had gone so chilly, she feared anything she offered by way of an explanation or condolences would go unheard. Still, she couldn’t just walk away. The man had lost his father—twice—and had no chance to make amends at this point. His family’s life had been turned upside down because of Harry’s last wishes and what he’d asked her to do with his fortune. She supposed she couldn’t blame Harrison III for the cool reception.

      Nevertheless, she braved a small smile and told him, “I doubt you’ll believe me, but it was nice to meet you, Mr. Sage. I’m so sorry about your father. He was the kindest, most decent man I ever met.”

      Without giving him a chance to respond, she turned to follow Mr. Tarrant to the other side of the room, where chairs had been set up for everyone affected by Harry’s will. They were arranged in two arcs that faced each other, with a big-screen TV on one side. She seated herself between Mr. Tarrant and two attorneys from his firm, almost as if the three of them were circling the wagons to protect her.

      Gus Fiver, the second in command at Tarrant, Fiver & Twigg, looked to be in his midthirties and was as fair and amiable as Harrison Sage was dark and moody—though Gus’s pinstripes looked to be every bit as expensive. Renny Twigg, whom Mr. Tarrant had introduced as one of their associates—her father was the Twigg in the company’s name—was closer in age to Gracie’s twenty-six. Renny was a petite brunette who didn’t seem quite as comfortable in her own pinstripes. Even with her tidy chignon and perfectly manicured hands, she looked like the kind of woman who would be happier working outdoors, preferably at a job that involved wearing flannel.

      Everyone else in the room was either connected to Harry in some way or an attorney representing someone’s interests. Seated directly across from Gracie—naturally—were Harry’s surviving family members and their attorneys. In addition to Harrison Sage III, there was his mother and Harry’s widow, Vivian Sage, not to mention a veritable stable of ex-wives and mistresses and a half-dozen additional children—three of whom were even legitimate. As far as professional interests went, Harry had had conglomerates and corporations by the boatload. Add them together, and it totaled a financial legacy of epic proportion. Nearly all of what hadn’t gone back to the businesses was now legally Gracie’s. Harry had left a little to a handful of other people, but the rest of his fortune—every brick, byte and buck—had gone to her.

      Oh, where was a paper bag for hyperventilating into when she needed it?

      Once everyone was seated and silent, Bennett Tarrant rose to address the crowd. “Thank you all for coming. This meeting is just a formality, since Mr. Sage’s estate has been settled by the court, and—”

      “Settled doesn’t mean the ruling can’t be appealed,” Harrison Sage interrupted, his voice booming enough to make Gracie flinch. “And we plan to file within the next two weeks.”

      “I can’t imagine how that’s necessary,” Mr. Tarrant said. “An appeal has already supported the court’s initial ruling in Miss Sumner’s favor. Unless some new information comes to light, any additional appeal will