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from up close. And as she approached, she snatched up a beach bag and picked out a towel.
    He shielded his eyes from the sun to get a better look and saw that she was a natural blonde, her smile as dazzling as her dash from the surf.
    He reciprocated with a smile of his own. In fact, the crooked smile that he now shot at her was the smile that had made him a household name among every woman in the US of A, and his movies box-office hits every single time.
    “Aren’t you Chuck MacLachlan?” the young woman asked.
    His smile widened. “Yep, that’s me.”
    She gave a squeal of joy as she toweled off. “Hey, I love your movies!”
    “Thanks. That’s great to hear,” he said smoothly.
    “I’ve seen them all. Crunch Time, right? Hot Potato?”
    He grinned. She was gorgeous, with honey-toned skin and eyes the color of amber, an oval face and a pointy chin that gave her something piquant.
    “You’re a fan, I can tell.”
    “More than a fan—I love your work,” she gushed.
    He smiled again. He was used to the adulation—women walking up to him when he was having dinner and asking for a selfie. In fact, he was fully expecting this woman to whip out a smartphone from her bag when she whipped out a gun instead and pointed the barrel at his heart.
    “Do you mind?” she asked, her smile disappearing.
    He swallowed with difficulty. “Do I mind what?”
    “Do you mind doing me a favor?”
    He was still half expecting her to ask for a selfie or an autograph, though he vaguely realized the chances of that were pretty slim and growing slimmer.
    “What favor?”
    She narrowed her eyes, and her lips quirked up into a grin. “Drop dead.”
    And then she pulled the trigger.

Chapter 10
    B rian furiously paced the floor of his Fifth Avenue condo. He’d moved here after being appointed president of the Wardop Group, the place having previously belonged to Peverell himself. Just one of the perks that came with the job, along with the private jet, the house in Aspen, the mansions in Palm Beach and Beverly Hills, and the apartments in London, Paris and Tokyo. At first, he hadn’t wanted to move here from his Brooklyn walk-up, which was much closer to Mom. But then Peverell had convinced him that the president of Wardop couldn’t stay at some dingy flat and needed to live in style.
    The one thing that he disliked about it was that Pev had a habit of dropping in on him from time to time, usually when he was least expecting him to. Gradually he’d gotten used to the old ghost, however, he still found the man’s intensity and brusqueness still hard to bear.
    Over the course of their unusual cooperation, they’d managed to lay down some ground rules, one of which was that they never met in the presence of others—Peverell’s continuing leadership was a secret only known to Brian and Peverell’s loyal secretary—now Brian’s secretary, Rachel Fowley. The woman was probably Methuselah’s age and had the wrinkles and the wry sense of humor to prove it.
    One of the other ground rules was that Peverell respected Brian’s privacy, and stayed out of his personal life as much as possible—only meeting him at the office. Unfortunately, Pev had a habit of breaking his rules whenever he saw fit. Now that Brian needed him, he was nowhere to be found, though.
    “Pev—I mean Mr. Wardop—I need to talk to you,” he repeated, knowing that sooner or later his message would carry across the veil and summon his dead employer.
    Suddenly Peverell’s scratchy voice rang through the room. “What is it this time, Brian?” the old fossil asked. “Trouble with the board again? Mergers and acquisitions not going according to plan?”
    “Nothing of the kind,” he said gratefully. “I’m facing some issues of a more personal nature—issues that require your particular skill set.”
    His employer raised an eyebrow. “My skill set? My boy, whatever did you get yourself into now?”
    “It’s not as bad as you think,” he said, annoyed.