Fiona Murphy glared at the mass of papers on her desk and the files stacked in her overflowing in-box. She had cleaned it out on Thursday. When she left that evening for a three-day weekend, the box had been empty and her desk neat and organized…

She’d only been gone for a day. One day, to visit her brother Ethan in Chicago.

One fricking day. And it was like File-Mageddon on her desk.

This was exactly the reason she hated office jobs—other than the eight-to-five, sit-at-a-desk part.

Pushing a corkscrew of auburn hair out of her eyes, she girded her loins and reached for the top file.

The mobile phone on her desk buzzed. Caller ID said Nath, Nath & Powell.

She frowned. A CPA firm? An agency? Maybe it was Winona calling from her office—she’d started a new job last week.

Well, whatever. Anything instead of digging through files and bills or assessing purchase orders.

She answered the call. “This is Fiona Murphy.” She shoved her reading glasses back onto the bridge of her nose. It was vanity that made her squint most of the time when she looked at menus or the newspaper—whoever heard of a thirty-year-old needing reading glasses at a +2.5 magnification?—but when she was at work, and actually needed to see, she had no choice but to wear them.

“Ms. Murphy, this is Gideon Nath,” came a smooth, professional male voice. “Legal counsel for the late Nevio Valente.”

Legal counsel. Not an accountant after all. Then the last part of his introduction clicked in her mind.

“The late Nevio Valente?” Fiona put down the order for office supplies she’d picked up to peruse and potentially approve, giving the caller her full attention.

“I’m sorry if his death is a shock to you,” the voice went on crisply, “but—”

“I probably would be shocked if I knew who Nevio Valente is—er, was,” Fiona admitted wryly, pushing up her slipping glasses again. “But since I don’t—”

“You don’t know Nevio Valente?” For the first time, the inflection of the voice changed from unruffled professionalism to show a hint of surprise.

“No, I’m afraid I have no idea who that is.”

“Nevio Valente,” he said, enunciating slowly and clearly this time, as if she were a child trying to learn a foreign phrase. “You’re certain you don’t know him?”

“I believe I’ve said that twice already, Mr.—is it Nath?” Fiona frowned. That name actually sounded more familiar than Nevio Valente.

“This is Fiona Murphy, of 355 35th Avenue Southwest, Wyoming, Michigan?”

By now she was beginning to giggle. She’d leaned back in her desk chair and was twirling her reading glasses. “Yes indeed—this is Fiona Murphy and that is my address. I believe you were the one who called me.”

Mr. Nath continued in his cool voice, which no longer sounded ruffled but mildly offended. “Yes, well, it’s odd that you don’t know one of the wealthiest men in Grand Rapids. Especially since he happened to name you in his will.”

“Shut the front door. Seriously?” The brightly patterned glasses squirted from her fingers and clattered onto the desk. “I’m named in his will?”

There was a sigh on the other end of the line that implied this phone call was taking too much of his time. “Ms. Murphy, perhaps you’d better come around to my office so we can discuss this in detail. I—”

Then it hit her. “Wait—this is a joke, isn’t it?” She started laughing. “Are you punking me? Is this the radio?”

“Ms. Murphy, much as I wish it were, believe me, it is not a joke.” The voice became even chillier and more pompous—which had the opposite effect on Fiona as he no doubt intended. She tried to suppress her laughter, but the man sounded like one of those automatons on Westworld whose program had gone awry.

She could picture him: the industrious and oh-so-pompous Mr. Nath, sitting at a massive oaken desk in his tight-collared suit with wispy, thinning hair combed neatly in place. His wire-rimmed glasses would be firmly entrenched on the bridge of his nose just beneath thick, hairy brows with a few wiry grey hairs springing out like little spider legs. His glasses wouldn’t dare slip, as they’d be wedged into soft, pink skin.

“I think it would be best for you to come to my office—that’s Nath, Nath, and Powell—so that we can discuss this in a more…succinct manner. Tomorrow at eleven?”

She almost said yes, but the imp that always got her into trouble decided to be contrary. “No, I’m so very sorry, but tomorrow won’t work for my schedule.” She made her voice match his in coolness. As if she were very, very busy.

“Very well. Does Thursday at three-thirty work better for you?” His voice was uber-polite and calm, and she could almost imagine him clenching his teeth.

She bit back on a giggle.

“Yes, I do believe that would work for me. See you then,” she said gaily, and disconnected the call—without getting the address.

Damn.

* * *

Rather than phoning back and asking the pompous Gideon Nath for the information, Fiona had looked up the address, then casually phoned the receptionist the next day to confirm that was, indeed, the location of her meeting.

Fiona parked her VW bug, which looked like a sassy lemon, on the street about three blocks from Nath, Nath & Powell.

The day was warm, as was to be expected in Grand Rapids in early September, but a cool breeze from the Grand River lifted the leaves that were just turning gold and red.

The receptionist at the law firm, a youngish woman with bleached blond hair cut in a pixie style, looked up with a smile when Fiona walked in. “Good afternoon. May I help you?”

“Yes, I’m Fiona Murphy to see Gideon Nath.”

“Yes, one moment.” As she picked up the telephone, she asked, “Could I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Soda?”

“No thanks…unless you have herbal tea?” Fiona took a seat on a large chair in a swirl of her long, flowing skirt. The office was, as she’d expected, sleek and modern, furnished so as to display the wealth—and by extension, the expertise—of its firm.

“Ms. Murphy is here for Mr. Nath,” the receptionist was explaining into the phone. When she hung up, she rose. “Herbal tea? Of course. Any sweetener?”

“No thank you.”

Another blond woman appeared, this one in her late forties. She had an abundance of hair coiled neatly at the back of her head and a very efficient way about her. “Ms. Murphy, if you’ll follow me.”

She gestured Fiona into a large corner office, and just as she’d expected, the attorney’s desk was large, oaken, and forbidding. Probably weighed two hundred pounds. Near the front edge was a wood and brass nameplate that said H. Gideon Nath, III.

The man himself rose from behind the desk as she came into the room, then gestured to a chair placed in front of it. “Have a seat, please, Ms. Murphy.”

Fiona had to readjust herself, for her mental picture from their telephone call couldn’t have been further from reality. Instead of a fiftyish-year-old man with soft pink skin and wire-rimmed glasses, she was facing a man in his mid-thirties with thick, dark hair—and no glasses in sight. Not even a pair of reading glasses on the desk.

His eyes were piercing grey, cool and reserved, and his shoulders broad and well-proportioned inside his expensive suit. He would probably be attractive if he’d smile—or at least not frown—but at the moment, Fiona couldn’t picture it. The man held himself stiffly, as though controlling the barest urge to relax, and his mouth was set in a firm, business-like line.

As she settled in the chair, shoving her bulky leather bag to the side, she once again looked at the nameplate. H. Gideon Nath, III.

She immediately needed to know what the H stood for.

Henry? Herbert? Harry?

Yet again, the name Nath stuck in her head…it sounded so familiar. But Fiona knew she would definitely have remembered meeting H. Gideon Nath, the Third—if only because of that bothersome H.

On his desk, which seemed to be an extension of his controlled, organized self, there were neat stacks of paper lined up to one side of the huge space, and three fountain pens in three ornate holders off to one corner. A powerful-looking laptop sat on a credenza behind him, along with a stack of files, two flash drives, and a dual charger for cell phone and, she assumed, computer tablet. For someone like her, who left her mobile phone in the depths of her bag half the time, the slew of electronics seemed like major overkill.

The young blond brought Fiona her herbal tea—which smelled of fresh orange and lemon—then left her alone with the attorney.

“What does the H stand for?” she blurted out.

H. Gideon’s eyebrows drew together in a dark line. “The H?”

“On your nameplate. What’s the H?”

He looked at her coolly. “That’s not exactly germane to our meeting today, Ms. Murphy.”

Fiona stifled a grin. Struck a wrong chord, had she? Before she could decide how to proceed, he continued in that formal lawyerly voice. “And speaking of which—before we proceed, may I see some identification?”

“Of course.” Fiona gave him a bright smile that seemed to surprise him and flipped out her wallet to show her driver license. “Not the greatest picture, but it’s me.”

He took it with large, interesting hands and examined the small plastic card before returning it to her. “Thank you. Now,” he said, opening a manila folder on his desk, “let’s talk about this. You’ve been named in the will of Nevio Valente, and although there will be a formal reading in short order, I thought that under the circumstances, we should meet prior to that meeting.”

“Circumstances?” She couldn’t help looking at his hands again. They were beautiful—elegant and tanned, not too big and bulky, but still appeared masculine and powerful.

Now she knew what her mother meant when she said there were some hands that she couldn’t resist reading.

He cleared his throat. “Er—yes. You being the only non-family member—other than a few charities—to be named in the will, and secondly, because you claim not to know who Mr. Valente was.” His gray gaze probed her face as if to reaffirm her claim.

“I did a little research after you called, but I was hoping you might be able to clear up some more details for me. I still don’t know why he would have left me anything in his will. I’m sure I’ve never even met the man.”

H. Gideon cleared his throat again and turned to a different folder—this one green—and sifted through its contents. He pulled a photo from within and placed it on the desk in front of Fiona.

It was a better picture than the blurry images she’d seen online. The lack of good photos was surprising for a man who was supposedly one of the wealthiest men in the city; apparently, he was very nearly a hermit.

“Wait,” she said, looking at it as something niggled in the back of her mind. She narrowed her eyes. “Wait a minute. I think I have seen him before.” But when?

“He owns—owned—quite a few pieces of property in and around greater Grand Rapids. As you are employed by a commercial real estate firm, one might surmise that you interacted with him in a business transaction and perhaps met him that way.”

She looked up at him, fighting back a grin at his formal, precise speech. “One might indeed surmise.”

He cleared his throat as if aware that he was causing her internal hysterics, then continued, “Perhaps you took some paperwork from him at some point in time when he came into your office. You’re the office manager at Thurston & Mills, as I understand it.”

“Yes, I think that must have been it. Though, thankfully, I rarely have occasion to interact with our clients,” she said, matching her tone and formality to his, “there are times when it is necessary to do so. If I recall correctly, Mr. Valente was a very pleasant man. It seems we had an extended conversation about the weather, and he was quite charming.” Fiona still couldn’t quite remember meeting him, but if she had, it was safe to say they’d discussed the weather.

H. Gideon’s lips twisted into something that may have passed for a wry smile, but looked more like he was swallowing his tongue. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard Mr. Valente described in such complimentary terms. Even by myself. He was generally considered a…difficult man.”

Fiona smiled. “Perhaps his demeanor was merely a reflection of whatever people were around him at the time.”

The little dart struck home, and his lips tightened. She couldn’t suppress a smile, seeing his smooth, arrogant facade crack. The imp had hold of her now. For some reason, it had become a personal challenge for her to work the stick out from under the behind of H. Gideon Nath, the Third.

At the same moment, Gideon himself was wondering just what he had done to deserve getting saddled with such a flighty, unapologetic female in the midst of this mess Valente had left his firm—and, by extension, Gideon himself.

If his grandfather hadn’t decided to embark on a month-long vacation with his current lady love, leaving Gideon as the only Nath available for the clients of Nath, Nath & Powell, he’d be the one dealing with this will. Which would likely be contested by the family once the terms came out.

But Gideon Senior could have had no inkling that the wealthiest—and most eccentric, rather sketchy—of his clients would drop dead at an age just shy of a hundred and one during the “Fall Color Tour” the elder attorney had decided to take through Lower Michigan with his girlfriend.

Not that Valente’s demise hadn’t been long overdue, Gideon thought ruefully, remembering his impression of the stooped, incredibly rude and unpleasant man he’d met only twice.

And not that Gideon actually minded that his grandfather was off with Iva Bergstrom, gallivanting around the state. She’d put a gleam in his eye and had eased the stiff, reserved edges of the elder Nath since they’d met last April. And Gideon absolutely did not begrudge his grandfather the happiness he clearly had found. He deserved it.

He just hoped Iva Bergstrom wasn’t a gold-digger. Partly because she made his grandfather—who’d been married thrice before; and for very short stints—so happy, but partly because Gideon himself had come to love her too.

And now here he was with this Fiona Murphy, who’d appeared from nowhere in the old man’s will. It had taken him some effort, including combing through social media (which he loathed) and other assistance from his admin Claire to locate the woman named in the will. Because, of course, Valente hadn’t made an attempt to identify her other than her name and a basic description. He didn’t even indicate how or when he’d met her.

From his phone conversation with Ms. Murphy, Gideon had expected someone younger—in her late teens or early twenties at most. And with a name like Fiona Murphy, she should have been a leprechaun-like creature with springy carrot-colored hair and thousands of freckles.

Instead, according to her driver’s license, she was twenty-seven. And she had disconcerted him by being strikingly beautiful, with fair, translucent skin, a faint dust of freckles over high, well-defined cheekbones, and dark, whiskey eyes. And her hair…it was long and lush and curled in large spirals that tumbled everywhere.

Somehow her personality—flighty and giddy—didn’t fit with the sensual, flower-child figure sitting across from him, but no matter. He had to deal with her in whatever form she appeared, as per the last will and testament of Nevio Valente.

“So,” she was asking with a faint smile that implied a joke he had missed, “do I get to find out what he left me, or do I have to wait until the public reading of the will?”

The way she said “public reading of the will” with a hint of condescension in her voice made it sound like she was making fun of him, and Gideon tightened his jaw. He wished there wasn’t going to be a formal reading, just so he could so inform her, and wipe that sassy smirk off her face. And then he pulled his thoughts back, disconcerted by such a rash, emotional reaction.

“In fact,” he replied smoothly, “Mr. Valente did request that you attend the reading of the will. It won’t, however, be public, per se. Just for the family. He also left this for you.” He slid a heavy cream-colored envelope across the table.

She hesitated, then reached for the packet. Her fingers were long and slim, with smooth pink nails and a minimum of one ring on every finger—many had three or four of hammered or twisted metal stacked all the way to the first knuckle. Her fingers were trembling a bit, and when she looked up at him with an awkward smile, his suspicions were confirmed.

She was nervous. The beringed airy-fairy sprite was nervous.

“It’s odd to get a letter from someone who is dead.” Her dark-lashed eyes had lost that giddy spark and were now soft; even reverent.

A curious woman: one moment, carefree and flighty, the next subdued and thoughtful. Gideon didn’t know how to respond, so he silently offered her the gold-plated letter opener from his desk.

Ms. Murphy took the opener and slipped it under the envelope’s flap. He watched as she pulled out a single sheet of matching cream paper—he recognized Nevio Valente’s personal stationery; God knew he’d seen enough memoranda and letters on it—and looked down at the spidery writing. She stared at it for a moment, peering, squinting, and then finally, with a rueful smile, began to dig in her huge leather bag.

Gideon found himself suppressing his own smile when she pulled a pair of brightly patterned cheaters from the depths of her bag and slipped them apologetically onto her nose. “Much better,” she murmured, looking back down at the letter.

There was silence for a moment as she read the letter, and Gideon directed his attention to the rest of the file on Fiona Murphy. He still didn’t understand why Valente would make such a significant bequest to a woman he might have met once. And there was nothing in the will to indicate the old man’s reasoning. Not that it was any of his business anyway.

He could only assume the missive Valente left for Ms. Murphy at least gave her some explanation.

Fiona looked up from the letter at last, and he saw that her eyes glistened. “Thank you. When is the reading scheduled? I’ll certainly plan to be there.” To his surprise, her tone was modulated and almost businesslike.

“Next Tuesday, at four o’clock. It will be here. I do hope your schedule can accommodate that time slot. Is…there anything I can get for you?” he felt compelled to ask in light of her obvious emotion.

“No thank you. Well, Mr. Nath, if there’s nothing else?” She gathered up her bag as if preparing to rise.

“No, no there isn’t, Ms. Murphy.” Gideon stood and extended his hand to shake hers. “I’ll see you next week. Have a nice evening.”

She clasped his hand with a firmness that surprised him, and held it for a moment, looking down as though examining something fascinating.

“Such long fingers,” she murmured, then, as though remembering where she was, looked up at him, smiled. “Henry?”

“Pardon me?” She was still holding his hand, and he was very aware of how…interesting it was to have that connection.

“The H. Is it for Henry?”

Gideon withdrew his hand, feeling even more unsettled. “No.” He couldn’t help that his voice was clipped; he simply didn’t know what to make of this woman.

“Howard?”

“No. Ms. Murphy, I—” He stopped himself from commenting that it was none of her business what awful name with which he’d been saddled. “I do hope you have a good evening.”

She grinned up at him, and he saw something in her eyes that glinted like a sassy sprite. “Have a nice evening yourself.”

He stared after her when she left, flowing skirts and gypsy hair, suddenly feeling like he’d been blindsided by the sun.