Chapter Five

      The next morning, Sasha put on a black pinstriped pantsuit, ankle-length chunky-heel boots and a brave face. After her breakdown last night, she felt ready to face the day. Being with Brady had helped.

      Not that he had treated her like a helpless little thing, which she would have hated. Nor had he been inappropriate in any way, which was kind of disappointing. He was sexy without meaning to be. She wouldn’t have objected to a kiss or two. Usually, she wasn’t the kind of woman who threw herself into the arms of the nearest willing male, in spite of what her obnoxious brother thought. But Brady brought out the Trashy Sasha in her.

      In the condo bathroom, she applied mascara to her pale lashes and told herself that she was glad that he hadn’t taken advantage. He was different. Brady believed her, and that made all the difference.

      She checked the time on her cell phone. In fifteen minutes, Brady would stop by to pick her up. He still had concerns about her safety and wanted to drive her to her meeting with the four investors, and she was excited to see him. As for the meeting? Not so much.

      It’d be great if the partners treated her the way they usually did, barely noticing her existence. But she feared they’d be critical about her behavior last night, accusing her of not acting in the best interests of the resort. Applying a smooth coat of lipstick, she stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and said, “I can handle this.”

      Her cell phone on the bathroom counter buzzed. She read a text message from Damien that instructed her to conference with him. In the kitchen, she opened her laptop and prepared for the worst.

      Damien Loughlin’s handsome face filled the screen. His raven-black hair was combed back from his forehead. He was clean-shaven and ready for work in a white shirt with a crisp collar and a silk necktie.

      “What the hell were you thinking?” he growled. It was so not what she wanted to hear.

      “I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”

      “Spying on the hotel through binoculars.” Unfortunately, he had it right. “Why would you do that?”

      She didn’t even try to explain. “I witnessed an assault, a possible murder.”

      “And then you traipsed over to the hotel and got everybody worked up.”

      “By everybody, I’m guessing you mean Mr. Reinhardt.”

      “Damn right, I mean Reinhardt. He’s one of my most important clients, and you brought a cop to his doorstep.”

      Damien hadn’t asked if she was all right or if she needed anything at the corporate condo, but then again, that really wasn’t his problem. She was his assistant, and her job was to fulfill his needs in the investors’ meeting.

      “Last night,” she said, “I was working with the police, following a lead.”

      “You’re not a cop, Sasha.” His dark eyes glared at her with such intensity that she thought his anger might melt the computer screen. “I expect more from you.”

      “You won’t be disappointed,” she said. “I’m prepared for the meeting today.”

      “If anyone asks about last night, I want you to tell them that it’s being handled by local law enforcement. You’re not to be involved in any way. Is that clear?”

      “I understand.” But she couldn’t promise not to be part of the investigation. Witnessing a crime meant she had an obligation to help in identifying the killer or, in this case, the victim.

      Hoping to avoid more instructions, she changed the topic. “How is Mr. Westfield’s family?”

      Damien leaned away from the computer screen and adjusted the Windsor knot on his necktie, a move that she’d come to recognize as a stalling technique. When he played with his tie, it meant he wasn’t telling the whole story. “The family is, of course, devastated by his unfortunate death. Virgil P. Westfield was in his nineties but relatively healthy. He had several good years left.”

      Sasha tried to guess what Damien wasn’t saying. “Are the police investigating his fall down the staircase?”

      “They are,” he admitted, “and you’re not to share that information with anyone, especially not the Arcadia investors.”

      She hadn’t been aware of a connection between Westfield and the people who founded the ski resort, but there were frequent crossovers among the wealthy clients of Samuels, Sorenson and Smith. Damien also represented Virgil’s primary heir, a nephew. “Are there any suspects?”

      “Let’s just say that we’re looking at the potential for many, many billable hours.”

      That was a juicy tidbit. Was the heir a suspect? For a minute, she wished she was back in Denver working on this case with Damien. If the nephew was charged with murder, the trial would turn into a three-ring circus, given that Westfield was a well-known eccentric and philanthropist who had left a substantial bequest to a feral-cat shelter. Criminal cases were much more interesting than property disputes and corporate law.

      “I’ll stay in touch today,” she said.

      “No more drama,” he said before he closed his window and disappeared from the screen.

      No more drama. The last thing she wanted was more trouble.

      * * *

      TUCKED INTO THE passenger seat of Brady’s SUV, she fastened her seat belt and watched as he took off his cowboy hat and placed it on the center console. He combed his fingers through his unruly dark brown hair. He looked good in the morning. Not all sleek and polished like Damien but healthy, with an outdoorsy tan and interesting crinkles at the corners of his greenish-brown eyes. She wondered how old he was. Maybe thirty? Maybe the perfect age for her.