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every intention of getting to know Zoe a little better. Instead, he had lit the fuse of her temper in record time.
    Was it the spark of attraction between them that made things so touchy? Or was Zoe right? Were the two of them oil and water?
    Grumbling beneath his breath, he finished his coffee and stood up, ruefully aware that some of the luncheon guests had watched his encounter with interest. Schooling his face to a calm expression, he made his way across the room and exited to the hallway.
    Pierre caught up with him en route to the lobby. The longtime employee’s face was creased with worry. “There was a man here, Mr. Kavanagh. Asking about Ms. Chamberlain. I got a bad feeling about the guy. Looked like he might be law enforcement or a P.I.”
    Liam’s senses went on high alert. “But he didn’t identify himself as such?”
    “No, sir. Didn’t say much of anything at all except that he was inquiring as to Ms. Chamberlain’s whereabouts. At least I think that’s what he wanted. He called her Zoe Henshaw, though.”
    “What did you tell him?”
    The concierge’s expression was awash with guilt. “I told him we had no guest by that name. He left, but I wondered if I should let Mrs. Kavanagh know.”
    “I’ll handle it,” Liam said. “You did the right thing. Our guests expect and deserve their privacy. Keep an eye out for him and let me know if he shows up again.”
    Liam returned to his office, his gut clenched with worry. Who was Zoe Chamberlain? And why did he feel the need to protect her? Hadn’t he learned his lesson long ago? Women were resilient creatures. His need to play Galahad was misplaced at best.
    His jaw set, he picked up the phone and dialed the credit card company. After twenty minutes on hold listening to a watered-down version of Frank Sinatra tunes, he was finally connected to a customer service representative who was polite but not at all forthcoming. The woman cited privacy laws, but assured him that the card was not stolen and that the line of credit was unlimited.
    Liam hung up and drummed the fingers of one hand on the blotter, no less agitated than he had been before. There was no reason to suppose that Zoe was anything other than an extremely wealthy woman who wanted to spend some time in the mountains.
    But somehow, that explanation didn’t satisfy him.
    Forcing himself to slog through a backlog of work, he made it an hour and a half before he conceded defeat and admitted that the Zoe situation was occupying his attention to the exclusion of all else. Though he would like to think he could let things play out in due time, he knew himself well enough to realize that he wasn’t going to be able to let it drop. He had to know more about Zoe. Both for personal and professional reasons. Where was she from? Did she have a job of any kind? Who was the man looking for her? Why did she drive an ancient van, and why was there evidence that at least some of the time, she wasn’t sleeping in four-star hotels?
    Telling himself that he might be imagining trouble where none existed, he typed the name Zoe Chamberlain into Google’s search box, hit a key, and waited. To his consternation, the only match from this region of the country was an African-American woman in south Georgia who produced some kind of folk art out of old silverware.
    Trying Zoe Henshaw produced little else of note. The entries he found contained mostly generic information that could have pertained to any one of a number of people.
    Of the Zoe Chamberlain with the golden hair, blue eyes and sunny disposition, there was no mention. Which meant that his oh-so-beautiful hotel guest was probably lying to him. Anger, disappointment, and an amorphous anxiety threatened to choke him.
    The Silver Beeches was his turf. Everything that happened beneath this roof was under his domain. Even so, did he have the right to dig into the puzzle that was Zoe? Was he out of line in wanting to find answers?
    Six weeks was a long time to