Unwritten Rules (Phoenix, Ltd. Book 1) Page 29

  Last night she’d Googled Lyman Prescott and learned he was the grandson of notorious Prohibition-era Chicago bootlegger, Frankie “No Nose” Prescott. According to the articles, Lyman was some sort of inventor. Apparently, he was also a bit of a recluse, since none of the articles included a photo. She pictured a short, bald man with thick, round glasses, rattling around in a laboratory full of mysterious gadgets. This could be a fun assignment…if only it didn’t involve cooking.

  She wasn’t as hopeless in the kitchen as her mother claimed—she had, in fact, never burned water—but what were the chances the Prescotts would be satisfied with scrambled eggs and BLTs?

  The thick gray drizzle enveloped her the rest of the way to Lake Forest. Roadside landmarks disappeared in the mist, but every couple of miles a green and white highway sign leapt from the fog like a Halloween goblin. Once she reached the tony suburb, finding Strathmoor became an even greater challenge. Along the lake, mansions hid behind ivy-covered walls and massive iron gates. The roads were poorly marked—probably to keep the riffraff out. If you didn’t know where you were going, you probably didn’t belong in Lake Forest in the first place. By the time she’d driven down the wrong lane three times, Zoë was cursing her GPS in language that would have given her grandma hives.

  On the fourth try, she spotted a gate with an elaborate “P” worked into the black wrought iron. She checked the address number on the stone wall and released a pent-up breath.

  Finally.

  She pulled into the driveway in front of the gate and rolled down her window. But when she reached for the button on the intercom, her finger fell several inches short. Rats. Lack of height was one of the few disadvantages of her precious car.

  She cut the engine then swiveled in her seat and unfolded her legs. If there was a graceful way to exit the Mini in a skirt, she had yet to discover it. That was a minor annoyance since she rarely wore skirts, but she’d dressed up today, wanting to make a good impression on her new client.

  As she stepped out, a high-pitched buzz caught her attention. She glanced down the street and spied a pair of black-clad motorcyclists, side by side, approaching rapidly. It couldn’t be coincidence. They had to be the same idiots who’d tried to play chicken with her earlier, but why would they follow her here?

  As they neared, they slowed their bikes and gunned the engines. The dark shields of their helmets obscured their faces, lending an air of menace to their solid black figures, like a pair of ninjas preparing to strike. Zoë shot a quick glance over her shoulder at her bag still on the passenger seat of the car. Her weapon was inside. Could she reach it in time, if necessary?

  Before she could act, the cyclists cruised by, moving just fast enough to stay upright. As they passed, one raised two fingers to his helmet in a parody of a salute. Then they revved their motors and roared off down the street.

  Adrenaline zipped through Zoë’s veins. Air filled her lungs in short, sharp pants.

  What the hell?

  She glanced around, allowing the solidity of iron and stone to bring her back to the present situation. She was here to do a job, which was starting off a lot less routine than she’d anticipated. She stepped up to the two-way speaker next to the gate, took a deep breath, and pushed the button. “Zoë Hargrove to see Mr. Prescott.”

  A male voice crackled in response. “Miss Hargrove, please come in.”

  When the gates parted silently, Zoë climbed back in her car and drove through. A subtle shiver slithered through her body. The grounds of Strathmoor had probably been lovely once, but now dark, tangled woods surrounded the broad swath of weedy lawn. The woods would be an excellent hiding place for a pair of deadly ninjas.

  For the love of Pete, Hargrove, pull yourself together. This is a job, not some C-grade graphic novel.

  She slowed the car, grabbed the bottle of water for a quick swig, and surveyed the house at the end of the drive. The sprawling stone mansion was an early twentieth century version of an English country manor, complete with parapets and numerous fancifully-shaped chimneys. It was the perfect place for a rum-running gangster and his machine gun-toting cohorts. Zoë pictured a string of long black Packards delivering bleached blonde flappers in fringed dresses for a night of hot jazz and cool hooch. At the moment, however, only a non-descript brown Ford sedan sat parked at the base of the stone steps.

  Not wanting to box in the other car, she eased forward and followed the driveway along the side of the house. Behind the house, she found a wide, cobblestone courtyard in front of a turreted, two-story structure that looked more like a mini-castle than a place to park cars. Only the array of garage doors revealed its true purpose. She flipped up the visor mirror to smooth her short, dark brown bob and refresh her lipstick. No point in looking as ruffled as she felt. Then she retrieved her rolling suitcase, locked the car, and headed around the house to the front door.

  Mr. Prescott had been as vague about the duration of the assignment as he had about the other details. “Until everything’s sorted out,” he’d said. Whatever that meant. When she glanced up at the imposing stone façade before climbing the steps, a sharp pang poked her chest. What had she been thinking when she’d accepted this assignment? She probably should have called Madelyn first, even in the Bahamas. No one would believe Zoë was a chef. Not only could she barely cook, but she hadn’t even had time to find a proper white coat to help look the part.

  Then her old drill instructor’s harsh bark rang in her ears. Suck it up, Hargrove! You got yourself into this. Make it work. She shoved her doubts aside, squared her shoulders, and pressed the antique brass doorbell.

  A moment later, the wooden plank door swung open to reveal a tall, thin, middle-aged man wearing brown corduroy trousers and a tweed jacket. Wispy curls of indeterminate color topped a high forehead above bemused brown eyes. “Welcome to Strathmoor, Ms. Hargove. Come in, come in.”

  When he shook her hand, the strength of his grip surprised her. His appearance suggested a man more at home with mental than physical labor.

  “I’m Lyman Prescott.”

  Her eyes adjusted to the lower light as she stepped through the doorway into a dark-paneled, baronial foyer with black and white checkerboard floor tiles. A pair of gilt bronze wall sconces in the form of Greek maidens holding torches lit the heavily carved oak staircase. They looked as though they’d been converted from gas to electricity at some point during the life of the house. The aura of a bygone age was so strong Zoë half-expected Frankie “No Nose” himself to appear at any moment.

  She glanced further into the foyer and realized she’d interrupted a meeting of some kind. Behind Lyman Prescott stood two men and a petite, very pregnant blonde with her right arm in a cast. The thin man on the left could only be a cop. His small notebook, pencil, and matter-of-fact expression gave him away. Besides, no one but a cop would wear that rumpled brown suit, sad green tie, and industrial-grade orthopedic shoes.

  Zoë glanced from him to the other man and took a quick half-step back. She was tall, especially in the burgundy stilettos she’d chosen that morning to compliment her charcoal suit, but this man was several inches taller and heavily built, like a professional athlete just past his prime. He wore a black suit with a white shirt and black tie, and a black-brimmed cap dangled from the fingers of one hand. Black hair curled above a strong, square forehead and prominent nose that listed to the right, as if it had been broken a time or two. But it was the intense expression in his dark eyes that made her stomach clench. She was used to masculine appreciation, but this was different. This man wasn’t undressing her with his eyes; he meant to flay her open to discover her secrets. And the lines between his brows suggested he didn’t like what he saw.

  Lyman followed her gaze with a small, confused frown then waved his right hand in the general direction of the blonde. “Oh...yes...ah...allow me to introduce my wife. Marian, dear, this is Ms. Hargrove, the personal chef I told you about.”

  Zoë turned and smiled. “Please call me Zoë.�
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  “Of course, of course.” Lyman’s voice had an edge of strain. “We don’t stand on ceremony here, do we, my dear?”

  “We certainly don’t. You’ll have to bear with us. We’re not used to having household staff. I’m Marian. I’d shake your hand, but…” She tipped her cast with a rueful twist of her lips.

  Marian Prescott was a lovely woman, especially when she smiled, and the tiny crinkles fanning out from her cornflower blue eyes suggested she smiled often. Golden hair tumbled casually from a big clip high on the back of her head. She appeared to be at least fifteen years younger than her husband, but the warm affection in her gaze suggested she was no trophy wife. Between her advanced pregnancy and broken arm, Marian’s need for assistance in the kitchen was obvious, but that didn’t explain her husband’s decision to hire a bodyguard.

  “I’m pleased to meet you. I’ll try to be as much help as possible.” Zoë glanced at the cast. “I’m so sorry about your arm. That can’t be easy, especially now.”

  Marian shook her head and patted her tummy with her left hand. “Between my arm and my belly, I’m pathetically helpless for the next month. Thank heaven the doctor says the cast can come off before the baby’s born.”

  Zoë turned back to Lyman. Phoenix, Ltd.’s personal protection business placed the highest priority on client confidentiality, so she didn’t want to ask questions in front of the other men, but she needed more information. The presence of the police detective troubled her. And who was the big guy in the suit? He looked like a nightclub bouncer who was looking for an excuse to toss her out on her rear.

  Lyman glanced at the two men. “This is Sergeant Lewis of the Lake Forest Police, and this is our chauffeur Dominic Rosetti.”

  Both men nodded in acknowledgement, but neither smiled. Maybe the sergeant was here to arrest the chauffeur for stealing the silver.

  To order your own copy of Boiling Point, click here.

  Acknowledgements

  To my sisters Cathy and Eileen, whose generous input and advice helped bring out the best in this story.

  And to my editor Jannine. Any remaining errors are entirely my own and the result of ignoring her sage advice.

  About The Author

  I haven't always been a writer, but I have always embraced creativity and relished new experiences. Seeking to expand my horizons beyond Kansas City, I chose a college in upstate New York. By the time I was twenty-one I had traveled the world from Tunisia to Japan. Little did I suspect I was collecting material for future characters and stories along the way.

  I began writing when my daughter entered preschool (she's now a full-fledged adult) and became addicted to the challenge of translating the living, breathing images in my mind into words. I write romance because that's what I like to read. The world provides more than enough drama and tragedy. I want to give my readers the happily-ever-after we all crave.

  I've been married to my personal hero for more than thirty years. After decades of living in the Midwest, we've recently heeded the siren call of sun and sea and moved to the most breathtakingly beautiful place imaginable - the gorgeous central coast of California. I look forward to bringing you all the new stories this place inspires.

  Alison

  I invite you to visit me at my web site and my blog!

  Other Books by Alison Henderson

  Harvest of Dreams

  A Man Like That

  The Treasure of Como Bluff