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sure you get the
house.”
    So cocky, so sure he’d get his way. She ought
to decline his offer but she wouldn’t achieve her goals by being
bull-headed. What if she waited for his mother to come back? Would
that hurt her chances of getting the house?
    She stole a glance at him through lowered
lids. Ron gave the illusion of being relaxed, yet there was
edginess in him that was part exciting and part unsettling. Despite
his casual attire and relaxed manners, he projected an air of
authority and self-confidence few men possessed. She didn’t know
how old he was, but she’d bet he was only a couple of years older
than she. The polished veneer of sophistication was probably due to
growing up among showy jetsetters. And the way he carried himself
and the calm in which he spoke exuded a rare sensuality that was
hypnotic.
    His head lifted and their gazes locked. Raw
desire sizzled between them, and for a moment, Ashley couldn’t
think or breathe. When he arched an eyebrow, annoyance coursed
through her. He was enjoying toying with her.
    “Well? Do you want my help in getting the
house?” he asked.
    Her eyes narrowed. “Of course, I do. But
first, I’d like to know what you’d want in return.”
    He touched his chest. “A selfless offer and
you think I have an ulterior motive?”
    “Don’t you?” she challenged.
    A smile tugged the corners of his mouth. “Of
course.”
    How predictable. She hated predictable men.
“Okay, out with it.”
    He leaned forward, his movements languid and
graceful, like a timber wolf on the prowl.
    Ashley swallowed. “Tell me what you want,
Ronald Noble.”
    “The satisfaction of knowing I’ve helped a
friend.”
    What kind of a half-baked answer was that?
What about his investigation? Ashley studied his expression. He was
plotting something. It was a good thing she had no intention of
asking him for help. She’d rather take her chances with his mother.
Still, it never hurt to have all her bases covered.
    “A friend, huh?” she said slowly.
    He leaned back and gave her a slow perusal.
“Haven’t you ever had a male friend before?”
    Ashley laughed. “I did. A long time ago. His
name was Silas Hendricks. He broke my heart.”
    Ron scowled. “You must have cared about
him.”
    “I adored him. It was the first time my
parents put roots anywhere long enough for me to make friends. When
he caught chicken pox, I swore to never touch chicken again, and it
was my favorite dish.”
    Ron’s expression grew suspicious. “Exactly
how old were you when you and Silas were friends?”
    “Four.”
    He chuckled, cobalt blue eyes flashing.
Laughter softened the chiseled planes of his face. She grinned back
at him. “He was five, dumped me when he started kindergarten. Said
he was a big boy and couldn’t hang out with a preschooler.”
    “So how long has it been since Silas?”
    “Twenty-one years.”
    “Well, I most certainly won’t give you
chicken pox. And I promise not to break your heart.” Before she
could comment on his outrageous statement, his gaze shifted to
something behind her. “Excuse me.” He uncrossed his legs and
stood.
    Ashley followed his gaze to find Connie
Wilkins standing behind her.
    “Pardon the interruption, Ms. Fitzgerald,”
the woman said. “Just want to borrow Ron for a few seconds.”
    “Excuse us, Ashley,” Ron said again,
following the woman out of the room.
    Left on her own, Ashley studied her
surroundings. Glamorous green velvet damask on the over-stuffed
sofa, a tuft ottoman and the subtle, neutral wool upholstery used
on three comfortable armchairs complemented the green and gold silk
draperies. An eighteenth century English writing desk occupied a
wall, right below a carved giltwood mirror. Combined with Persian
rugs on parquet floor and strategically placed collectibles, the
effect was an understated elegance that was pleasant and
comfortable.
    Then she heard Nina Noble say, “Did I hear
you promise Carlyle House to that girl? I’d rather give