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twenty-first century. Claire Fairchild’s words and attitude lowered her score on my estimation-o-meter. I worked at keeping my expression neutral, but I felt sorry for that sweet-faced woman in her deliberately Romantic clothing. She’d so obviously wanted to please.
    “I know what you think.” Ordinary words, but she made them so forceful, I almost believed those icy eyes had, in fact, penetrated 33
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    my skull and seen my guilty ideas. “You think I’m a snob.” Pause to breathe. “That I’m talking about social status.”
    “I wasn’t—I didn’t—” But of course, I was. I did.
    “Understandable. I might have taken it that way myself.”
    I am a talkative woman, often too much so, and seldom tongue-tied, but the nearly palpable force field surrounding this woman had the power to freeze my lips together and to turn off the pilot light in my brain. I waited for her to clarify what she meant.
    “I might have,” she repeated, “but it would be ridiculous. I’m not that sort of woman.”
    When I didn’t respond, she sighed. “I’ve never wanted for comfort,” she said. “Not socialites, however. Not from a famous family. No pedigree. Leo made the real money.”
    I avoided her laser stare and kept my gaze on an invisible spot between her head and the wall behind her.
    “You’re surprised.”
    I was going to deny that, but then I wondered why I should.
    “This place? It would have been beyond my means, but Leo bought it for me. Always kind to me, Leo. He takes good care of me.” She sat regarding her patrician hands and long fingers before she spoke again. “Not good to leap to conclusions. I’m not the stereotype you’ve decided I am.” She looked at me, the eyes still frostbitten, but a small, nontaxing smile on her face as well.
    “I assure you—” I began.
    She shook her head slightly and wagged her index finger, dismissing whatever protests I contemplated.
    So she was a smart woman and she’d read my mind, and I’d been wrong. But in that case, I had a new and equally nasty motive for investigating that young woman. Claire Fairchild’s son had made the big time, and the only woman in his life till now had been Mama, who wasn’t ready to become the second-best woman in his life.
    She sighed, as if she’d again read my mind. Time, then, to switch gears. Tackling straight-on questions and answers might dispel 34
    CLAIRE AND PRESENT DANGER
    some of the tension. The room had become as charged as the storm-awaiting air outside. “Why don’t we—”
    “Are you clear on my motives?”
    I looked at her directly. “To be honest, not at all. You told me what wasn’t your reason for calling me in, but you haven’t said what was, or what you do want.”
    “Because you jump to conclusions. Make assumptions.” She lifted a hand and indicated the room, the world in which she lived.
    “It’s not about money, either. . . . I have everything . . . more than I need.”
    “Good, then. But . . .” And I waited, finishing off the coffee.
    She seemed hellbent on outlasting my silence, and she won.
    “Why don’t you tell me what this is about,” I finally said. “Unless you really want me to read you a book.”
    “Seems nice, doesn’t she?”
    “Emmie? Very much so.”
    She nodded. “She is nice . . . always. . . . Leo’s a brilliant mathematician and electrical engineer. Socially?” She shook her head.
    Her physical motions were minimal, energy saving, but her concern for her son was nonetheless clear. “Naïve . . . gullible . . . late-bloomer . . . an innocent in many ways.”
    I already knew that, simply by meeting them for a few minutes. I wanted her to get to the point. I had seen that Leo Fairchild wasn’t Mr. Sophistication. What I hadn’t seen was what was wrong with beautiful Emmie—or why Claire Fairchild was on the warpath.
    But people reveal themselves when they ramble, even when they require frequent pit stops for ingathering breath, so I stayed silent,