Oh, and with her heavy Southern accent, all that had come out as “Ahhhhhm heeyr to rafrash ya bathrum.”

That stack of white towels in her arms was like a summer cloud captured on earth and she smelled amazing, some kind of girlie perfume crossing the distance and offering a caress as if she were stroking him. Her face was the sort that its youth was its most attractive attribute, but her eyes were an amazing cornflower blue—and her body turned that actual uniform into something that could have passed at Halloween for a naughty maid.

“You know where it is,” he murmured.

“Yes, I do.”

He watched the back view as she sauntered by as if she were naked—and she left the door wide open as she futzed around at his sink … then bent down low to search for something in the cabinet. That skirt of hers rode up so much, the lace tops on her thigh highs flashed.

Craning around, she looked at him. “My name’s Tiphanii. With a ph in the middle and two i’s on the end. Are you leaving?”

“What?”

She straightened and leaned back against the marble counter, bracing her hands on either side of her hips so that the top of her uniform stretched open. “Your bags are gettin’ all packed?”

Jeff glanced over at the bed. On it, the duffels he’d stuffed full of his things were wide open, clothes spilling out of them like soldiers with knife wounds to the gut. And the stuff was going to stay that way. His OCD stopped at spreadsheets and columns of numbers. He didn’t care what condition his shit was in when he got back home to Manhattan. That was what they made dry cleaners for.

Jeff refocused on the maid. “I have to go back to work.”

“Is it true you’re from Manhattan? New York City?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve never been.” She rubbed her legs together as if she had a need she wanted him to know about. “I’ve always wanted to go there.”

And then she just stared at him.

This was not a good idea, Jeff thought as he got up and walked across the Oriental carpet. This was really not a good idea.

Stepping into the bathroom, he shut the door behind himself. “I’m Jeff.”

“I know. We all know who you are. You’re that friend of Lane’s.”

He put his forefinger on the base of her throat. “Word travels fast.”

On a slow trail, he traced her soft skin down into the V that was made by the lapels of the uniform. In response, she started to breathe heavily, her breasts pumping.

“I’m here to take care of you,” she whispered.

“Are you.”

The uniform was gray with a white collar and white pearlescent buttons—and as he rested his fingertip on the top one, his erection throbbed behind his fly. It had been a brutal seventy-two hours, full of nothing but numbers crunching, headaches, and bad news. This very clear offer was like rain falling on parched earth, as far as he was concerned.

Jeff undid the first button. The second. The third. Her bra was black, just like the thigh highs.

Bending down, he kissed her neck, and as she arched back, he slipped his arm around her waist. Condom. He needed a condom—and knowing Lane’s old reputation, there had to be one around here …

As he pulled the top of the uniform wide and released the front clasp of her bra, her tight nipples were exposed and oh, yeah, they were perfect. And at the same time, he looked around her and opened the first of the drawers.

Good job, he thought as he found a three-pack of bright blue foiled Trojans.

Next thing he knew, he had the maid naked except for the thigh highs. She was magnificent, all real breasts and good hips, supple thighs and sweet flesh. He stayed clothed, and slipped one of those condoms on without losing a beat.

Tiphanii, with two i’s at the end, knew exactly how to wrap her legs around and lock her ankles behind his hips, and oh, yeah, the sound she made in his ear. Planting one palm next to the antique mirror on the wall and holding her waist with the other, he started thrusting. As she grabbed on to his shoulders, he closed his eyes.

It was so damned good. Even though this was anonymous, and obviously the result of his foreigner status making him seem exotic. Sometimes, though, you had to take advantage of what crossed your path.

She found her release before he did. Or at least she put a show on as if she did; he wasn’t sure and wasn’t bothered if it was an act.

His orgasm was for real, though, powerful and racking, a reminder that, at least for him, flesh and blood was better than the alternative every time.

When he was finished, Tiphanii snuggled up to his chest as he caught his breath.

“Mmm,” she whispered into his ear. “That was good.”

Yes, it was, he thought as he pulled out.

“Then let’s do it again,” he groaned as he picked her up and headed for the bed.

Downstairs in the parlor, Lane let Ricardo Monteverdi talk everything out even though Lane knew exactly how much was owed and how much of an emergency it was going to be for Monteverdi if those millions weren’t paid back.

A glass of Family Reserve helped pass the time—and cut the retinal burn from that photograph of Rosalinda’s son. The hair, the eyes, the shape of the face, the build of the body—

“And your brother was not helpful.”

Okay, so the speech was wrapping up. “Edward isn’t really involved in the family anymore.”

“And he calls himself a son—”

“Watch yourself,” Lane bit out. “Any insult against my brother is an offense to me.”

“Pride can be an expensive luxury.”

“So is professional integrity. Especially if it’s built on falsity.” Lane toasted the man with his bourbon. “But we digress. I haven’t been back here for two years, and there is a lot to wrestle with in light of my father’s unfortunate demise.”

There was a pause, during which Monteverdi was clearly calibrating his approach. When the man finally spoke again, his voice was both smooth and aggressive at the same time. “You must understand that this loan has to be paid back now.”

Funny, there had been two weeks only a week ago. Guess the Prospect Trust board had gotten wind of something, or somebody had caught the trail of the loan.

Lane had wondered how the guy had managed to make the deal without getting caught.

“The will is being probated,” Lane said, “and I don’t have access to any of the family accounts except for my own as I have no power of attorney for my mother, and my father named his personal attorney, Babcock Jefferson, as his executor. If you’re looking to be paid, you should be talking to Mr. Jefferson.”