The Ashtons: Walker, Ford & Mercedes. Emilie Rose

      She gave her bracelet another tight squeeze. “And you’re going to accept the position?”

      “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I?”

      She shrugged off his question, as well as the intensity in his eyes. She had no right to challenge his choices. He’d already warned her that happily-everafter wasn’t in the cards.

      Then why did she feel so dejected? So fearful of losing him?

      “I’m going to check on your mom,” she said.

      “Dinner isn’t for another hour.”

      “I know, but I want to see how she’s settling in.”

      Tamra put on her shoes and ventured down the hall, leaving Walker alone in his apartment. She didn’t worry about getting lost since Mary’s room was located in the west wing, near the upper foyer. She knocked on the door and received an instant welcome.

      The older woman smiled, admiring Tamra’s ensemble. “You look pretty.”

      “Thank you.” She noticed Mary was dressed in her ratty bathrobe, with hot curlers in her hair, looking as nervous as Tamra felt. “What are you going to wear?”

      “I don’t know. This place is so doggone fancy.” Walker’s mother pursed her lips. “What do you think of my wake dress?”

      “I didn’t know you brought it.”

      “I figured I should.”

      “In case someone died?”

      “Goodness, no.” Mary looked at her, and they both laughed. “In case I needed a simple black dress.”

      “I think it’s perfect.”

      Mary breathed a sigh of relief, and Tamra helped her get ready, hoping the Ashton dinner didn’t feel like a wake.

      An hour later they were seated in the formal dining room. The table was graced with fresh-cut flowers, elegant china and pristine linens.

      Walker and Trace, the cousin he’d complained about, had acknowledged each other brusquely, but Trace had greeted Tamra and Mary in a muchwarmer tone. Tamra thought he was handsome with his athletic build and stunning green eyes. She also sensed that his passions ran deep, that there was more to him than Walker was willing to admit.

      Paige, the other cousin who lived at the estate, seemed like a peacemaker, quiet and unassuming yet keenly aware of her surroundings. Her almond-shaped eyes darted between the two men. Was she hoping they would quit giving each other the cold shoulder? Come to their senses and behave like family?

      Lilah, on the other hand, pretended not to notice. She dined on the first course, a silver fork in her hand and a row of pearls looped around her neck.

      Tamra wished someone would say something. That a conversation would flow. She glanced at Paige, who gave her a comforting smile. Blond highlights dazzled her light-brown hair, framing her face in soft layers. She was, Tamra thought, a breath of fresh air in an otherwise tense situation.

      Lilah finally broke the silence. “Do you like your room?” she asked Mary.

      “Oh, yes. It’s lovely,” Walker’s mother responded.

      “It’s been redecorated since Charlotte was a child.” Lilah took a bite of her watercress salad, chewed, swallowed, then continued speaking. “I had no idea that you were alive. Spencer told everyone, including me, that you’d died with your husband.”

      Mary looked at her son, then returned her gaze to Lilah. “I appreciate you taking care of my children.”

      “Well, yes, of course.” The redhead almost fumbled with her fork, proving that she hadn’t been happy about Spencer bringing home two half-breed kids. “Charlotte was so shy. I never knew what she was thinking. Now Walker—” she paused to nod her head at him “—he’s a bit more predictable.”

      “Stubborn?” Mary asked.

      “Precisely.” Lilah sighed. “At least with me. He behaved wonderfully for Spencer.”

      “Hey.” The man in question shifted in his seat, then winked at Mary, teasing her with his “stubborn” charm. “That’s not fair. You two can’t gang up on me.”

      His mother smiled at him. “I think we just did.”

      When Lilah agreed, everyone at the table relaxed. A moment later Irena entered the dining room, informing Lilah that there was an important phone call for her.

      Lilah thanked the head housekeeper and excused herself. But when she returned after a short absence, she gripped the back of her chair.

      “It was Stephen Cassidy,” she announced.

      Walker looked up. “Spencer’s attorney? Is there news about the will?”

      She shook her head. “Stephen heard some rumors about the murder investigation.”

      Spencer’s murder, Tamra thought, as Lilah’s knuckles turned white.

      “The police are building a case against Grant.” She all but spat the suspect’s name. “They’re going to put that traitor behind bars.”

      “Are you sure?” This came from Paige, who blew out an anxious breath. Trace was on edge, as well, waiting to hear what else his mother had to say.

      She continued in a tight voice. “Supposedly the authorities uncovered something that could be highly damaging, something that goes beyond circumstantial evidence.”

      “What is it?” Trace asked. “What did they find out?”

      “Stephen wasn’t able to secure the details.” Lilah resumed her seat and reached for her wine, downing the contents much too quickly. “I just wish this nightmare would end. That I could stop envisioning my husband with a bullet in his heart.”

      “Who’s Grant?” Tamra asked.

      “Spencer’s son by his first wife,” Walker responded.

      “The one in Nebraska?”

      “Yes, but she’s been gone a long time. She died when Grant and his twin sister were about twelve.” Walker picked up his knife and stabbed his roll. “Grant doesn’t have an alibi for the night Spencer was shot, and he was at my uncle’s office earlier that day, arguing with Spencer. If what Stephen heard is true, then it’s only a matter of time before the police arrest him.” He cut the roll into several jagged pieces. “I hope that bastard goes to hell for what he did to my uncle.”

      Tamra studied the darkness in her lover’s eyes, the pain of losing his mentor.

      Dinner had, indeed, turned into a wake.

      Even if no one eulogized Spencer, he was there.

      The murder victim. The man someone, possibly Grant Ashton, hated enough to kill.

      As the morning sun shone in the sky, Walker sat beneath a veranda located behind the house. Lost in thought, he scanned the gardens, the plants and flowers that flourished in the dew-misted air.

      Tamra sat next to him at a glass-topped table. Charlotte, Alexandre and Mary were there, too. Walker had watched his mother and his sister embrace. He’d seen Charlotte cry in Mary’s arms.

      Even Alexandre had hugged Mary with ease. And he’d called her Maman, French for Mother. It had flowed from his lips naturally, and he was only the prospective son-in-law.

      Walker had never seen Mary so happy. She and Charlotte paged through the photo albums Mary had brought, the family pictures that had yet to jar Walker’s memories.

      Why couldn’t he remember his parents?

      “Look how handsome Daddy was,” Charlotte said. She leaned toward Mary, studying David’s image.

      “And look how beautiful you are.” Mary touched