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been a tough fight, but the past few years had been fruitful and keeping things on the upswing took managing.
    He sat back, took in the shiny chrome of his office, and let out a long breath. He’d paid that thief of a decorator a small fortune to do her magic and she’d achieved the right balance of functionality and form. He did have to replace the all glass desk that lasted one day before he sent it back for one with drawers. Who the hell could run a company without drawers? And he wasn’t talking about pants. The new desk, an inky, glass-topped, six drawer unit served him better.
    A sleek leather sofa sat against the far wall with two bright red armchairs anchoring the sides. The decorator said the blast of color, in an otherwise black and chrome setting, fit his temperament. He tried to be insulted, but what was the point, considering he agreed with her.
    Michael glanced at the neat stacks of files sitting on the desk. Nice and tidy. Security people needed to be tidy. If you couldn’t keep your workspace organized, how could you get some VIP from point A to point B without them getting shot?
    The speakerphone came to life, tearing him from his thoughts.
    “Roxann Thorgesson for you on line one,” his secretary—uh, assistant—said.
    “Who?” Michael asked, not believing what he’d heard.
    “ROX-ANN THOR-GES-SON,” the secretary repeated as if he’d suddenly gone deaf. He figured he deserved it, but still found it irritating.
    “Put her through.”
    The phone rang. What if it wasn’t good news? He snatched the handset before the call went to voice mail.
    “Michael Taylor.”
    “It’s Roxann. We should talk.”
    The business voice. The voice that told him anything else would be off limits. Too bad.
    Michael stared at his office door and realized she was about to agree to work with him. Why else would she want to talk?
    “I’m all yours,” he said, keeping his tone casual.
    “The police aren’t looking at anyone else for your wife’s murder.”
    Michael collapsed back into his chair and a sharp, no nonsense throbbing began behind his right eye. He pressed the palm of his hand against the pain and wondered if he’d ever be free of Alicia. Or her death.
    “She was not my wife.”
    There was a brief pause and Michael imagined the famous eye roll. Roxann could roll her eyes so far up she nearly tipped herself backward.
    “Regardless, I think there’s a story here.”
    “You’ll give me access to your reporters?”
    A long sigh came through the phone line.
    “You’ve got Phil Dawson—as long as newspapers fly off the racks. I’ll pull him the minute I see fit though.”
    “What about you?” he asked, hoping to throw her off-balance for even a second.
    “What about me?”
    “Do I get access to you?”
    She laughed the sarcastic laugh of a woman only mildly amused. “Not on your life. And before I turn you over to Phil, I want to set some ground rules.”
    He hated rules.
    “Okay,” Michael said. “But you have to let me buy you dinner.”
    “Why would I do that?”
    “If we’re working together, we should be civil. Simple logic.”
    “Nothing is ever simple in this business.”
    Tough cookie.
    “You used to be fun, Roxann.”
    “I used to be a lot of things. You can buy me dinner only because I want to hear what you have on this story before I get anyone else involved.”
    Okay then. A start. Michael reached for his cell phone. “How’s tomorrow night?”
    “I can make it work. Seven o’clock at Cassatta’s. See you then.”
    He hung up, punched her name into his phone along with Cassatta’s. Figures she’d pick the restaurant owned by her closest friend’s father. She’d feel comfortable there. Safe maybe? He didn’t want to think Roxann could be afraid of him, not after what they’d had together, but with his current status of murder suspect, he wouldn’t blame her.
    He propped his feet on the desk and focused on working with Roxann. She loved a challenge and her