“No, I’m fine.” He offered her his elbow. “Come on. Let’s do this.”

He led her out of his bedroom and into the corridor. As they came up to his mother’s suite of rooms, he slowed. Then stopped.

“Do you want to go in?” she asked. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

“No, I’ll leave her be.”

As they continued on to the grand staircase and began their descent, she felt like an imposter—until she sensed the tension in his arm and realized he was leaning on her.

“I couldn’t do this without you,” he whispered when they got to the bottom.

“You won’t have to,” she said quietly as they stepped off onto the marble floor. “I’m not going to leave your side.”

All around, waiters in black ties and jackets stood at the ready with silver trays, prepared to take drink orders. There were two bars set up, one in the dining room to the left, another in the front parlor to the right, with only Bradford Family Reserve, white wine, and soda available. Flowers that she had ordered and arranged were displayed prominently in each room, and there was an antique circular table centered in the entryway with a condolences book and a silver plate for receiving cards.

Gin and Richard were the next of the family to arrive, the pair of them coming down the stairs with the distance of a football field between them.

“Sister,” Lane said as he kissed her cheek. “Richard.”

The pair of them sauntered off without acknowledging Lizzie, but in her mind, it was a case of sometimes you lucked out. Anything they would say or do was likely to come across as condescending anyway.

“That is not okay,” Lane muttered at the slight. “I’m going to have to—”

“Do nothing.” Lizzie squeezed his hand to get his attention. “Listen to me when I say this. It doesn’t bother me. At all. I know where I stand, and whether your sister approves or disapproves of me? Doesn’t change my zip code in the slightest.”

“It’s disrespectful.”

“It’s high school mean girls. And I got over that fifteen years ago. Besides, she’s like that because she’s miserable. You could be standing next to Jesus Christ, son of God, and she’d hate the fact that he was in a robe and sandals.”

Lane laughed and kissed her on the temple. “And once again, you remind me of exactly why I’m with you.”

“Wait. Your tie is crooked.”

Mack twisted around. His office came with a shower, sink, and loo set-up, and he hadn’t bothered to shut the door when he’d gone in to … well, screw up getting this silk noose around his throat.

Beth put some papers on his desk and came over.

The cramped space got even tighter as she stepped in with him, and God, her perfume as she reached up and slid the knot off.

“I don’t think this even matches,” he said as he tried not to focus on her lips. “The shirt, I mean.”

Man, they looked soft.

“It doesn’t.” She smiled. “But it’s okay. You’re not judged on your fashion sense.”

For a split second, he imagined putting his hands on her waist and pulling her against the front of his hips. Then he would dip his head and find out what she tasted like. Maybe get her up on the lip of the sink and—

“Well?” she prompted as she threw one end of the length over the other at his heart.

“What?”

“Where are you going all dressed up?”

“William Baldwine’s visitation at Easterly. I’m late. It starts at four.”

The tugging at his throat was erotic, even though it was taking him in the wrong direction: If Beth was messing with his clothes, he wanted her to be taking them off of him.

“Oh. Wow.” More tugging. Then she stepped back. “Better.”

He leaned to one side and checked himself in the mirror. The damn thing lay straight as a line on a highway, and the knot was right at the collar—and not all wonked one way or the other, either. “Very impressive.”

Beth stepped out, and he watched her walk away before he kicked his own ass. By the time he was ready to refocus, she was over at his desk, motioning at things, talking.

She was in red again, and the dress was over the knee, but not too far, and down at the neck, but not too much. Sleeves were short. Stockings? No, he didn’t think so—and damn, those were good legs. Flat shoes.

“Well?” she said again.

Okay, he needed to cut the crap before she picked up on this hostile-work-environment vibe he was throwing around.

“I’m sorry?” he asked as he came out of the loo.

“Do you think I could join you? I mean, I didn’t work for the man, but I am with the company now.”

This was not a date, he told himself as he nodded. Absolutely not. “Sure.” He cleared his throat. “It’s an open event. I imagine there’ll be a lot of people from the BBC. We should probably go in your car, though. My pick-up truck is not a place for a lady.”

Beth smiled. “I’ll get my purse. Happy to drive.”

Mack stayed behind for a second as she went out to her desk. Forcing himself to look at all the labels on the walls, he reminded his partial erection that she was his executive assistant. And yes, she was beautiful, but there were more important things to worry about than his currently non-existent love life.

Time to go get laid somewhere, he thought. He’d been too damn busy with work lately, and this was what happened: You got a desperate guy around a so much more than halfway decent woman and their dumb handle took over.

“Mack?” she called out.

“Coming—” Stop. It. “No, I mean … I’m, ah …”

Oh, for godsakes.

TWENTY-NINE

No one showed.

About an hour and twenty minutes into the visitation, when there should have been a line out the front door and a carousel of buses going up and down the mountain, there had been only a few stragglers, all of whom had taken one look at the dearth of a crowd and beaten a hasty exit out Easterly’s door.

As if they had worn Halloween costumes to a ball. Or white after Labor Day.

Or been seated at the children’s table during some big event.

Guess he’d been wrong about people wanting to see the mighty fallen up close and in person.