The Man Behind the Pinstripes. Melissa Mcclone

A man who’d died in a fiery speedboat crash off the Cote d’Azur with his girlfriend du jour.

      Grams’ gaze ran the length of Caleb. She clucked her tongue. “But you’ve got to stop dressing like a high-class mortician.”

      “Not this again.” Caleb raised his chin, undaunted, and followed her out of the foyer. “You’d have me dress like a rugged, action-adventure movie star. A shirtless one, given the pictures you share on Facebook.”

      They walked by the dining room where two elaborate chandeliers hung above a hand-carved mahogany table that sat twenty.

      “You’re a handsome man,” Grams said. “Show off your assets.”

      “I’m the CEO. I have a professional image to maintain.”

      “There’s no corporate policy that says your hair can’t touch your collar.”

      “The cut suits my position.”

      “Your suits are a whole other matter.” She pointed at his chest. “Your tie is too understated. Red screams power. We’ll go shopping. Girls these days are looking for the whole package. That includes having stylish hair and being a snazzy dresser.”

      And not taking your grandmother’s fashion advice.

      They walked into the kitchen. A basket of fruit and a covered cake stand sat on the marble counter. Something simmered on the stove. The scent of basil filled the air. Normal, everyday things, but this visit home felt anything but normal.

      “Women only care about the balance in my bank account,” he said.

      “Some. Not all.” She stopped, squeezed his hand, the way she’d done for as long as Caleb remembered. Her tender touch and her warm hugs had seen him through death, heartbreak and everyday life. “You’ll find a woman who cares only about you.”

      Difficult to do when he wasn’t looking, but he wasn’t telling Grams that today. One piece of bad news a day met her quota. “I like being single.”

      “You must have one-night stands or friends with benefits.”

      He flinched. “You’re spending too much time on Facebook.”

      A disturbing realization formed in his mind. Discussing sex might be easier than talking to Grams about her dog skin care products.

      She placed her hands on her hips. “I would like great grandchildren one of these years while I can still get on the floor and play with them. Why do you think I created that line of organic baby products?”

      “Everyone at the company knows you want great grandchildren.”

      “What’s a woman to do?” She put her palms up. Gold bracelets clinked against each other. “You and your sister are in no rush to give me grandbabies while I’m still breathing.”

      “Can you imagine Courtney as a mom?”

      “She has some growing up to do,” Grams admitted, but without any accusation or disappointment. She walked into the family room with its leather couches, huge television and enough books on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves to start a library. “Though I give you credit for at least proposing to that money-grubbing floozy, Cash-andra.”

      Unwelcome memories flooded him. His heart cried foul. Cheat. Sucker. “Cassandra.”

      The woman had introduced herself to him at a benefit dinner. Smart and sexy as hell, Cassandra knew what buttons to push to become the center of his universe. She’d made him feel more like a warrior than a businessman. Marriage hadn’t been on his radar screen, but when she gave him an ultimatum, he’d played right into her hand with a romantic proposal and a stunning three-carat engagement ring only to find out everything about her and their relationship had been a scam, a ruse, a lie.

      “Cash-andra fits.” Grams held up three fingers. “Refusing to sign the agreed-upon prenup. Two-timing you. Hiring a divorce attorney before saying I do. No wonder you’re afraid to date.” He squared his shoulders. “I’m not afraid.”

      Not afraid of Cassandra.

      Not afraid of any woman.

      But he was … cautious.

      After Cassandra wouldn’t sign the prenup, he’d called off the wedding and broken up with her. She’d begged him for a second chance, and he’d been tempted to reconcile, until a private investigator proved the woman was a gold digger in the same league as his own mother.

      Grams waved a hand in the air, as if she could brush aside bad things in the world. Light reflected off her three diamond rings, anniversary presents from his grandfather. “I shouldn’t have mentioned the Jezebel.”

      At least Caleb had gotten away relatively unscathed except for a bruised ego and broken heart. Unlike his father who’d wound up with two kids he’d never wanted.

      She exited the house through the family room’s French doors.

      Caleb followed her outside to see new furniture—a large gleaming, teak table surrounded matching wood chairs, a hammock and padded loungers.

      The sun beat down. He pulled out a chair for his grandmother, who sat. “It’s hot. Let me put up the umbrella.”

      Grams picked up a black rectangular remote from the table. “I’ve got it.”

      She pressed a button.

      A cantilevered umbrella opened, covering them in shade.

      He joined her at the table.

      “What do you think about the dog products?” Gertie asked.

      No birds chirped. Even the crickets seemed to be napping. The only thing he heard was an occasional bark and his grandfather’s voice.

      Do what must be done. For Fair Face. For your grandmother.

      Caleb would rather be back in his office dealing with end-of-quarter results. Who was he kidding? He’d rather be anywhere else right now.

      “Interesting prototypes,” he said. “Appealing fragrance and texture.”

      Gertie whistled. “Wait until you see them in action.”

      Dogs ran full speed from around the corner. A blur of gray, brown and black. The three animals stopped at Grams’s feet, mouths panting and tails wagging.

      “Feel how soft they are.” Pride filled her voice as if the dogs were as much a part of her gene pool as Caleb was.

      He rested his hands on the table, not about to touch one of her animals. “Most fur is soft if a dog is clean.”

      “Not Dozer’s.” She scooped up the little brown dog, whose right eye had been sewn shut. Not one of her expensive show dogs. A rescue or foster. “His hair was bristly and dry withflakes.”

      “Doggy dandruff?”

      “Allergies. Animals have sensitivities like humans. That’s why companies need to use natural and organic ingredients. No nasty chemicals or additives. Look at Dozer now.” She stared at the dog with the same love and acceptance she’d always given Courtney and him. Even before their father had dumped them here after their mother ran off with her personal trainer. “That’s why I developed Fair Face’s new line of animal products.”

      Ignoring the gray dog brushing against his leg, Caleb held up his hands to stop her. “Fair Face doesn’t manufacture animal products.”

      Grams’s grin didn’t falter. “Not yet, but you will. I’ve tested the formulas on my consultant and myself. We’ve used them on my dogs.”

      “I didn’t know you hired a consultant.”

      “Her name is Becca. You’ll love her.”

      Caleb doubted that. Most consultants were only looking for a big payday. He’d have to check this Becca’s qualifications. “You realize Fair