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expanses. Too many storm fronts, coming too close together, and usually at odd times. Interesting. And – not so coincidentally – it looked like he had some property up there in that area.
    The valet knocked on my window. I looked up,smiled at him, and hit the power switch to roll down the glass.
    ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Changed my mind.’
    I drove through and checked the courtesy map that came with the Jag, eased back in the blood-warm leather seats, and decided to take a road trip.
    The epicentre of the trouble was a place named White Ridge, which was a dot on the map so small that it looked more like a printing error than a population centre.
    I headed for it without delay.
    It was a four-hour drive through hard, bright, merciless country, and at the end of it I found a town that had a Wal-Mart, a deserted downtown, one decrepit diner, and – just at the edge of it – a small Holiday Inn. I parked in the lot, pulled my cell phone from my purse, and consulted the file for a phone number. I dialled and got voicemail, and Charles Spenser Ashworth III’s smooth, radio-announcer voice. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you. If you’re a single lady, I’ll get back to you sooner . Oh, he just oozed charm. Or maybe just oozed. I left him a businesslike message that said I’d arrived, where I was, and that I expected him to meet me as soon as possible.
    It was white-hot outside when I walked in through those automatic doors at the Holiday Inn. I was wearing a white pantsuit, and a neon-yellow halter top under the jacket. Kicky yellow shoes. Theoutfit was disappointingly pedigree-free, but then I was on a budget, saving up for couture in the future. It was still big-city enough to draw looks.
    I trundled my sturdy wheeled travel case up to the counter and booked a room. Cooled my heels in my new temporary home, flipping TV channels and trying to figure out why all hotel pillows are either too hard or too soft. Two hours later, the hotel phone rang.
    Chaz was in the lobby.
    I descended the somewhat rickety steps, past the fountain, and there he was. Unmistakably a Chaz, not a Charles. Tall, solidly muscular, deeply tanned, with wavy dark hair and sparkling blue eyes. An artificially white smile, perfect teeth. He looked like he belonged out in Hollywood, hanging poolside, especially considering the casual Polo shirt and Dockers, loafers without socks. Altogether too preppy, but I wasn’t going to hold that against him.
    Much.
    He looked me up and down in blatant appraisal – not the usual fast I-shouldn’t-be-doing-this-but-I-can’t-help-it appraisal that polite men tend to give, but the kind that ought to be reserved for Friday nights around closing time at the strip club. His stare centred on my breasts. OK, I know, don’t wear the halter top if you don’t want the attention, but jeez, it was 120 in the shade. Bulky turtlenecks were right out.
    ‘Joanne? I was expecting you to wait for me in Las Vegas. I was coming into town later.’ He didn’t wait for my response. He captured my hand and gave me an extravagant kiss on the back of it, staring deep into my eyes the whole time. ‘Charmed.’
    ‘Mr Ashworth—’
    ‘Chaz, please. Really, you wasted a trip; this is just where I have my country house.’ He made it sound like he was a landowner back in the old country, titled and bursting with noblesse oblige . ‘Honey—’
    ‘Joanne.’ Two could play the interrupting game, and I’d already had it up to here with Mr Charm. ‘Please refer to me by name, if you don’t mind.’
    He flashed me a smile that was too toothy to be apologetic. ‘Joanne, yes, of course. Sorry. Look, there’s just no reason for the Wardens to send somebody all the way out here. No deep, dark secrets in the attic. Not that I’m not thrilled to have your company.’
    I reclaimed my hand. ‘I’ll be needing your records.’
    ‘Certainly.’ Another toothpaste-ad smile. ‘But they’re back in the city.’
    ‘You