“Two hours to go.” Larkin closed out her email and stared at her desk. Staying busy was easy with Reagan still MIA. At least it had been. She’d burned through her to-do list and needed her assistant to line out the next things to tackle. The big one—the decision that would change the course of her business and career—was too daunting to deal with today.

The intercom beeped. “Miss Ashford?” Darren, Reagan’s assistant and the guy who filled in for her when she needed time off, was almost too chipper for her to handle. Well, on any other day. Today, a smile stretched her face into a cartoonish feature.

“Yes, Darren?”

“There’s still no answer at Reagan’s apartment.”

“Thank you for letting me know. Any word from security?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s why I was calling. Mr. Backstrom is here to see you.”

Why the man couldn’t pick up a damn phone was beyond her. She didn’t want to fire him, but if he insisted on these face-to-face meetings, he’d, in essence, fire himself.

“Send him in. Thank you.”

“Right away.” The buoyancy in Darren’s voice reminded Larkin of her own excitement.

“Calder Beckett,” she mused like a schoolgirl. Why’d she have to wear pants? Oh. Make that two hours, one and a half. She had to change clothes.

“Miss Ashford.” Lucas bowed upon entrance.

What the hell? He hadn’t done that on the first day of the job, but hey, he didn’t call her Larkin. It was a start. Weird, though it was.

“I reviewed our tapes from Tuesday—”

“Yesterday,” she offered.

“Yes. As I suspected, there was no footage of Reagan leaving.”

“How does maintenance of a security system keep it from working? Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?”

“All security staff was on duty yesterday to secure the building. If anything untoward happened, we would have been alerted to it and handled the situation immediately.” Lucas’s shoulders stiffened. “I went by Miss Walstead’s apartment. Her car was not there, and there was no answer at the door.”

“Now what? It’s not like her to blow off anything. She’s even remembered my anniversary for the past six years, for goodness sake.” Larkin sat back in her seat.

“Anniversary?” Lucas shifted back a step.

“The day I started Duo and Ditto ten years ago.” Larkin gestured to the building. “Since she’s been with me, she celebrated the day when I would otherwise work through it.”

“I’ll look through her calendar. Maybe she had a trip that she was so excited about she forgot to tell you.” He gestured widely. “Or maybe she told you, and with everything going on, you forgot.”

“I thought about that.” Larkin shook her head. “I checked this morning. There wasn’t anything.”

“I’ll look.” His shiny wingtips headed for the door. “Maybe you missed something.”

“If it’s on her calendar or her desk, I didn’t miss it.” Larkin was busy, yes, but not incompetent.

He stopped at the door and looked back. “It won’t hurt to have another set of eyes on it. That’s all I’m saying.”

“I’m going to call her mother and see if she’s heard anything. They’re close.”

“Are you trying to worry the woman?” His tone was almost shrill.

“No. I’m trying to find her daughter.” Larkin placed both hands on the cold glass. “If her mother doesn’t know where she is, she’d know who to call from there to find her. And she’ll call the police, if she needs to.”

“The police?”

“Yes, if she’s missing …” She thought about the haunting cards she’d received over the last week. They had nothing to do with Reagan’s disappearing act. They couldn’t. Because if they did, she’d never forgive herself for not saying something to Lucas or even the police about them sooner.

“She’s not missing. You’re overreacting. She’s a grown woman who took a day and forgot to call in.”

“You’re right.” It was what she wanted to hear even if it came from Lucas’s mouth.

“Just give me more time to dig before you upset her mother for no reason.” He gave her the sit, stay hands.

“All right.” Larkin watched him go and then looked at the clock. “One hour and twenty minutes.” She massaged the bridge of her nose and waggled her jaw.

Once she made this major decision, the tension constantly tightening her facial muscles would fade. Once she found Reagan, her nagging mind would stop worrying her with dark thoughts, thoughts too ugly to give credence to. She picked up her phone and messaged Genevieve. Her assistant and Reagan had fostered a working friendship over the years. Maybe she knew what was going on.

Genevieve: No, I asked her about Reagan when you said she didn’t show this morning. How are you?

Larkin: Worried about her.

Genevieve: I meant about the news.

A cold chill ran through her arms and seeped into her fingers.

Larkin: What news?

Genevieve: Shit! Reagan’s not there to keep you posted. I was waiting for your rage to die down before I asked. You don’t know?

Larkin: Tell me already!!!

Genevieve: Do you have a copy of the Times?

Larkin yanked the folded paper from the bottom of a tall stack of mail she’d yet to go through. Reagan usually pared down the pile, tossing anything that wasn’t pertinent and seeing to half of the things that were. Gosh, where was she? What was the news? Why was she going to be in a rage about it? The thick pages crinkled under her hands. She straightened the fold and …

Nothing she saw raised red flags except the sweeping tax bill, which she could do nothing about. Well, there was Larry Vincent’s name in bold black lettering. The guy was bad news. His daughters, who Bronson had been courting the other night at the same time, had to be too.

Larkin: In my hands. Where?!

Genevieve: Business

Genevieve: Then Fashion & Style, Weddings

Genevieve: I can come over after court.

She ignored the three consecutive bursts from her phone and stared at the business headline. “Multimedia Giant set to go Public if …”

“Please no.” Larkin’s hands sweated. Her heart dropped, sending waves of bile into her throat. She gagged.

Her phone rang so loudly she dropped the paper and watched the device dance across the glass tabletop. The readout announced the call was Marlis McCain. She pressed answer and placed the phone against her ear.

“Have you read it yet?” Mar asked.

“No.”

“You read me the asshole’s baby announcement.” The asshole being the married guy Mar had been dating but didn’t know he was married. “It’s only fair that I return the favor.”

“Hurry before I throw up.” Larkin leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling.

“Larkin Ashford, heir of the Ashford fortune—”

“Which her father squandered before she hit puberty,” she amended.

“I know,” Mar said.

“They don’t.”

“Screw them. They need to fact check. Okay, let’s see. Blah, blah, blah. Successful businesswoman, blah, blah, blah. Gathered a board of seasoned business men and women to aid in the largest decision the business has yet faced; whether or not to go public.”

“Have you already read it, Marlis?”

“Yes.”

“Then get to the point. I can’t take any more bullshit,” she pled.

“You just want the bullet with none of the accolades?” Marlis whined.

“Please.”

“It’s a quite complimentary article.”

“Marlis McCain, don’t make me order you two shots of tequila at dinner.”

“Fine,” her friend huffed. “It ends in a cliffhanger that leads to the marriage section that says you’re looking for an eligible bachelor to marry to shore up your business before taking it public. It says it nicer than that, but …”

“Screw nice and screw them,” Larkin snapped.

“The story started circulating on the internet last night. Per usual, the papers were late to the party and are citing online sources, who are citing no sources at all.”

Larkin tore into the paper, scouring line after line of false claims. Three pictures accompanied the article. One of her, one of Bronson Beauregard, and one of Gregory Evangeline. “Eligible bachelors for one of New York’s most eligible bachelorettes?”

“Just throw it away. It doesn’t matter. They’re just words. The people who know you will know this is a bunch of baloney.”

“The problem isn’t that people will think I’m looking for a husband. The problem is I have a leak on my board. The information in these articles was privileged, and someone sold it with a slant that makes me and my company a target.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie. Do you want me to come over?”

“No.” She cradled her head in her hand and exhaled. “I have to start putting out this fire before it engulfs everything.”

“Talk to you later?”

“Sure thing.” Larkin ended the call and scrolled through her contacts for her publicist.

If only she had Calder’s number, she’d call him and postpone their date, if that’s what it was. There was so much to do before she was overrun with inquests about her marital status. As a single woman of a certain age, she faced that quite enough already.

Her phone beeped with a text.

Libby: I don’t have evidence to back it up, but you know which person on your board is the former media mogul and still has friends in those outlets …

She’d been trying not to jump to the Cornish Gleeson conclusion, but who was she kidding? The man was as old school as they came and in the misogynistic, non-nostalgic way. He wasn’t the only one who wanted her saddled, though.

Larkin: Fair point.

After sending her publicist a message to work up a rebuttal to the Times articles and find out who was responsible for the pieces, she tossed her phone down and stared at the stack of mail she’d inadvertently strewn across her desk. Ten … no, more like twenty were messages. The thin slip of paper felt like tissue under her finger.

A guy she attended graduate school with online too many years ago had sent her well wishes and would like to get together at her earliest convenience.

She glared at the other messages. “No.”

But yes. Note after note were men from her past, begging an audience with her as soon as possible. They spoke of connections felt long ago but never acted upon for some reason or another.

Beside those notes, the damn paper sat mocking her with its black and white letters. As though the simplicity in the color scheme made them true. She flipped the front page facedown and found the extension on the Larry Vincent piece. The man was in custody due to an ongoing investigation by the FBI for his illegal gaming activities and a suspected hit hired on his competitor.

Her fist smacked the intercom. “Darren?”

“Yes, Miss Ashford?”

“I’m going out for lunch.”

“Yes, ma’am. Um …”

“What, Darren? Have you found Reagan?”

“No, ma’am. I wasn’t going to bother you until you took your lunch break, but I …” He squealed. “May I just come and show you?”

“Sure.”

Larkin braced both hands on her chair and breathed, trying to prepare herself for Darren’s news. She wouldn’t be surprised if any number of bridal shows had called with a special offer/show just for her.

“Look.” He waltzed into her office. His partner was the largest bouquet of blood-red roses she’d ever seen. They made the ones in her apartment look measly. Darren’s wide smile gleamed as did his flawless deep-brown skin. “Four dozen, long-stemmed, thornless, gorgeous roses. And that’s just one of probably ten bouquets. They’re littering the reception area and making it smell absolutely heavenly.”

The large vase clacked into her glass desk. Its large card stared her down, threatening in its gold-trimmed beauty.

“Is it your birthday?” He grasped his chest. Good Lord, he spoke fast. “I mean, if it is, let me say, I’m sorry for not turning up this morning with balloons and a song. How old are you?”

“It’s not my birthday.” Her fingers shook. She squeezed them into a fist and reached for the card.

“Oh. What’s the occasion? Anniversary? New boyfriend? You probably don’t know yet. You haven’t read the card. I’ll be quiet. Read away.” He clapped.

The paper tore as though in slow motion. She pulled out the card stock and read. Roses are red. Violets are blue. Sugar is sweet, and so is your mouth. I’d love to kiss it again. Call me any time! Yours, David.

Relief drained the tension clamping her muscles.

“So?” Darren dragged out the word to four syllables.

“Admirers who want to marry me,” she groaned, thankful CUNT hadn’t been written on the card.

“How romantic.” He fanned himself.

“Not at all, Darren. They think I’m looking for a husband to firm up the legs of my business.”

“You’d never do that.” His thin, dark-chocolate lips pursed.

“Thank you.” She lifted a hand to the sky. He gave her an excited high-five. “I wouldn’t. So let’s null any messages from men looking for a sugar-momma.”

“I’m on it.” He started sifting through the mess on her desk.

“Then what do you say we donate any arrangements to a local hospital?”

“Ah.” His shoulders bobbed and long lashes flapped. “Perfect.”

“Not perfect, but it’s a start.” She grabbed her bag and phone and headed for her staircase. “I’ll have my cell if you find Reagan or have an emergency.”

“Yes, ma’am. Have a good lunch.”

His words drifted off in the cacophony of her heels in the confined space of steel stairs and glass. They echoed off the corridor and into the foyer of her apartment where she came face to face with the flowers she hadn’t acknowledged the night before. Now that Calder Beckett wasn’t inside her apartment and the feel of his hands on her skin had faded, the black petals and thick metal vase menaced.

She dumped her bag on the sofa and confronted the bouquet. Five minutes ago, she’d read a card. Here, in her home surrounded by silence, she stepped up to the haunting display and grabbed the black envelope. It ripped easily enough. She grabbed the edge and pulled.

“Ugh!” Larkin tossed the card onto the counter. “You’re a cunt. Fucking cunt.”

Her heels tore down the hallway. The outrageous stomping couldn’t pound out the image of the single offending word written as large as the card would allow. The top curve of the C nearly dipped off the paper, as did the lower curve and the side, and each following letter.

Why didn’t she have Calder’s number? She wasn’t fit for company right now. Especially not with a man she knew little to nothing about. What, was she asking to get murdered?

Larkin screamed in the safe confines of her closet. Her fingers gripped hangers. She tossed them across the small room and kicked the hamper. Why was all the good mixing with all the bad in her life? Nothing was in her control, not anymore, it seemed. Maybe it never was in her control. If it were, her mother would still be alive.