Christy Chapman slid the deadbolt of her parents’ front door into place with shaking hands. She wouldn't need to turn off the alarm. Lester had done it for her. However, she would need to remember to set it again when she left. Standing on her tiptoes to look through the peephole, she was reminded that she'd never been tall enough to see through it. She turned and leaned with her back against the door and tried to catch her breath. She looked down at her hands and saw they were still shaking. Stop it, Christy! she mentally scolded herself.

She closed her eyes and willed herself to get her breathing under control. Who the heck was that? she wondered. Just imagining his cold dark eyes caused her pulse to quicken. And not in a good way.

Where had he come from? She hadn't noticed him when she drove up because she wasn't looking for him. She hadn't paid too much attention to the landscape crew. She'd tried to be nice and engage some of them the few times she showed up hoping to miss her parents, and they all ignored her—except for Lester. When she turned around and realized that she was face to chest with a massive-sized human she hadn’t met before, she quickly swallowed her surprise as she slowly raked her eyes over him. He was wearing a white tank top that contrasted sharply against his dark skin where tattoos were visible on every inch that was exposed. They weren't easy to see because the dark ink blended with his skin tone. He was wearing jeans and black boots. He had to be at least six foot five, six foot six inches tall. Probably taller. Craning her neck her eyes finally found his face, and she saw that he had a beautiful complexion. A smooth chin with very little hint of facial hair. His prominent cheekbones and jet-black hair told her he had to be Native American. He was handsome in a pretty way. She shook her head to clear it and thought, what does that even mean? He wasn't handsome or pretty. He was downright scary. He had black eyes that were cold. Eyes that seemed dead and at the same time exuded authority she immediately resented and possibly even feared.

Lester had referred to him as “boss” so he must have had some clout over the crew. She bit the inside of her cheek as she realized she might have gotten her new friend, Lester, in trouble. She seriously hoped not. She should've been nicer to his boss, but the man's cold stare angered and frightened her at the same time. She'd raised her chin not as an act of defiance, but to ward off the fit of shaking that was starting on the inside and was threatening to reveal itself. She hadn't been able to grab her bag from the car and get inside quick enough.

Ignoring the blasting headache she'd woken up with that morning, she raked her hand through her short blonde hair, blew out a long breath and walked to the front window, making sure she hid from sight. She didn't see either man out front and decided she was safe. Mr. Dark and Brooding had obviously walked away to some other part of the yard.

Her breathing back to normal, she scanned the large foyer and shifted her attention to the twin stairways that swept up each side of the room. The last two times she was here she spent most of her time in Van's home office, but to no avail. Other than a couple of receipts from an accountant in Miami, her search had gleaned nothing that she hadn’t already known about. The accountant was a surprise, and when she had more time, she would check into him and which accounts he was handling. But instinct told her he wasn’t important. That same instinct told her she needed to concentrate today's search in a not-so-obvious place. Possibly the master bedroom. Or what should've been the master bedroom. She was certain that Van and Vivian hadn't shared it in years.

Clutching her bag tightly, she made her way upstairs, purposely avoiding the portraits that graced the walls of the stately home. The air smelled like moth balls and alcohol. Her stomach lurched, and she felt an instant wave of dizziness. She leaned against the wall to steady herself until the feeling passed. The aspirin she'd taken that morning wasn't even putting a dent in her headache. She touched her forehead and realized she'd broken out in a cold sweat. She didn't know if it was from nerves or if she was coming down with something. Either way, it didn't matter. She was on a mission and time alone in the house was a precious commodity she didn’t plan to waste.

She could see the double doors at the end of the hallway that led to the master suite. They were partially ajar, and upon reaching them, she cautiously pushed them open.

The shades were drawn, and the room was almost pitch black except for a thin sliver of light that peeked through the master bathroom door. She flipped the light switch and was almost blinded by the chandelier that hung over Vivian's neatly made four poster bed, not an oversized ruffle out of place.

She slowly walked around the room dragging her fingers lightly over the furniture. She stopped and looked at her fingertips. They were dusty. This room hasn't been cleaned, she thought. She felt a stab of pain when she thought about Litzy, the part-time maid and Christy's childhood nanny, and the heartache the woman had endured because of the Chapmans.

She caught sight of a picture on Vivian's dressing table and picked it up. A twelve-year-old Christy, her older brother, Richard, Van, and Vivian all smiled at the camera from their seats at the Captain's table on a luxury cruise ship. She should've been able to conjure up warm memories of that cruise, but she couldn't. There was nothing happy about that trip, and she wished she could have warned the unsuspecting child who had her head leaned against her big brother's shoulder. The picture was taken eight years ago, but it might as well have been a lifetime.

Setting the photo back down, Christy smiled when she thought of how her brother’s life had recently turned around for the better thanks to a woman named Nadine. Nadine was the widowed mother of a toddler named Cody. Before Nadine came along, Richard had barely been able to hold a job and usually survived by hopping from bed to bed, imposing too long on the women that took him in. Women that naively assumed they could get their greedy hooks into the future heir of Bobbi Bowen's Luxury Autos of the Gulf Coast. Richard normally wore out his welcome at about the same time his girl-of-the-month realized he'd been disinherited. He'd also managed to find himself in minor scrapes with the law. Christy shuddered when she thought about Richard's past troubles, but she was grateful for Nadine's sake that Richard had turned his life around. He'd held a full-time job for almost a year now and Nadine had recently given birth to a baby boy. They’d named him Zachary. She owed them a visit and would stop in as soon as she was finished with her current task.

Realizing that she'd wasted a good ten minutes daydreaming, she let out an audible sigh. Time to get this show on the road, she thought to herself. Taking a deep breath and adjusting the bag on her arm, she decided that she would start with what used to be Van's walk-in closet. With renewed determination, she spun around and walked right into a wall of white. The walls in Vivian's bedroom were a deep peach.

It took her a split second to regain her composure. It wasn't a wall of white. It was a chest. A rock-hard, wide chest. He was in the house. He was in her mother's bedroom. She willed herself to replace the instant fear with another emotion. An emotion she knew all too well and normally regretted letting it rear its ugly head.

Straightening her shoulders, she slowly looked up. It seemed like it took forever before her bright blue eyes clashed with his dark, brooding ones. She would do her best to show no fear this time. There would be no shaking. Who did he think he was, letting himself into her family's home? She tried to take a calming breath. C'mon, Christy, she told herself. Don't let him know you're afraid. Get mad!

Who was she kidding? Her insides ignored her mental denial, and she felt her stomach roil as a rush of saliva flowed through her mouth. She was terrified. His eyes resembled hot coals as their intensity burned into her own.

"You're trespassing. Get out," she said in a low voice, praying he couldn't detect her false bravado. "Or else."

"Or else what?" Anthony asked, never breaking from her stare. If he wasn't so mad at her father for skipping out on paying him, he might've found her mildly amusing. Like a family pet.

She stepped back and took a more assertive stance. She didn't take her eyes off his face as her left hand slowly found its way to Vivian's sterling silver hair brush that was resting on the dresser beside her.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. Evidently, he wasn’t used to being challenged. Especially by a woman.

"You must not know who you're dealing with," she said in a haughty tone. She almost shrunk at her own words. Never once in her life had she used her family's wealth or status to intimidate people. If she had been stockpiling points for not doing so she sure hoped they were worth something now.

His expression remained unchanged. Not a lifted eyebrow or a questioning look. His lack of reaction unnerved her. Gripping the hairbrush tightly, she slowly moved her left arm behind her back. She was right-handed, and if she was going to clobber this guy, she would need to use her dominant one. After making the switch, she regained some of her composure and stated, "This is the home of Van and Vivian Chapman."

His face didn't change.

Is this guy hard of hearing or something? she wondered. "The owners of Bobbi Bowen's Luxury Autos. The largest dealership on the west coast of Florida," she said, her tone insolent.

Christy's grandmother, Roberta "Bobbi" Bowen, had accomplished something uncommon for a woman in the early 1950s. Almost thirty years ago, she'd opened the first Bobbi Bowen's Luxury Autos of the Gulf Coast. Her customers, along with her wealth, increased tremendously when Alligator Alley was completed in the late 1960s. The savvy businesswoman had died four years earlier and left her dealerships to her only daughter, Vivian Chapman, Christy's mother.

His expression finally changed, and she wasn't certain, but she thought she detected boredom. He did everything but stifle a yawn when he asked again, "Or else what?"

"Or else," she paused, and raised her chin, "I'll call the police." She nodded at the phone on Vivian's nightstand. She knew it was lame, but couldn't think of anything else to threaten him with.

Without saying anything, he walked to the phone, picked it up and yanked it out of the wall. Tossing it on the bed, he walked back toward Christy. He stood in front of her once again, this time folding his arms across his chest.

She swallowed and wondered if the air conditioner had been turned down low. Suddenly, she was cold, hit with a clamminess on her back beneath her shirt.

"I'll make this simple," he told her, looking down at her with a scowl. "This can go down easy, or it can go down not so easy. It's your choice, and either way I win."

Her eyes widened, and he saw an expression he recognized. She thought he was going to rape her. He almost scoffed out loud. For starters, he wasn't a rapist. He didn’t have to force himself on women. If anything, he had to swat them off like flies. Second, she was so far from his type, it was laughable. Of course this blonde bimbo would think he wanted to rape her. The only way the stupid savage would ever be able to have a spoiled, entitled white woman like her would be to take her by force. He instantly hated her.

"Don't worry, princess,” he said, his lip curling. “You and your store-bought boobs are safe. I can guarantee you have nothing I want. I wouldn't even fu..." He paused as if choosing his words. "I wouldn't even screw you with Lester's di..." The last word died on his tongue, and he quickly added, "So get that out of your empty head right now."

Satisfied with his insult, he gave her a smug look. His eyes bore into hers as he waited for her reaction. A few seconds ticked by and he wasn't sure, but he thought she looked almost amused.

She didn't say anything as she tried to mentally evaluate what he’d said. Or rather, what he hadn't said. She couldn't be certain, but it seemed as if he was making an effort not to cuss at her while letting her know that rape was not his intention. A polite Neanderthal. How endearing. Or was she imagining things? Was a combination of fear and her roaring headache playing tricks on her? Her next words were out before she could stop them.

"Aw...you poor thing." Her voice dripped with condescension. "You don't even have one of your own? You'd have to use Lester's?" Her eyes left his face and traveled to below his belt. Looking back up at him with mock pity, she continued, "You know, I think I might know a doctor that can help you with your...err...your problem." She batted her eyelashes at him.

Little witch! He didn't have time for this.

"Your father owes me money. And you're going to spend some time with a friend of mine until I get it. Do you understand?" he said in a low, menacing voice.

He'd expected a reaction, but not the one he got. She came at him with the hairbrush he'd seen her swipe from the table. Swinging high and aiming for the side of his head she shrieked, "He's not my father. Don't you ever refer to Van Chapman as my father!"

Anthony easily deflected the blow, and the silver hairbrush flew across the room. Of course Van Chapman was her father. He'd seen the family portraits as he made his way up the stairs and down the long hallway.

He grabbed her by both wrists and told her in a slow even voice, "Never do that again. Do you understand?"

Christy tried to shake him off. Her face was turning red as she did her best to twist out of his grasp.

"Let go of me!" she screamed.

Her wrists felt sweaty. Tightening his hold so he wouldn't lose his grip he said, "I saw the pictures. I know he's your father. Now stop squirming!"

"Step! He's my stepfather," she emphasized vehemently. She stopped trying to wrest away from Anthony's grip. Taking a big gulp of air, she said, "He married my mom when I was little. Legally adopted my brother and me, but I'd rather have the last name Manson than Chapman."

"I'm sure this is something that you can work out with your family shrink. And you can do that as soon as my business is settled with your fath—Van." She'd calmed down, and he didn't want to rile her up again by referring to Van as her father. He wasn't in the mood to put up with her screeching. And as far as blondie's hatred for her stepfather, it was probably because he took away a credit card or made her drive a Corvette instead of a Maserati. Either way, Anthony didn't care.

"I'm going to let go of you now, and you're going to walk down the stairs with me calmly. You're not going to give me any trouble. I have it all arranged for you to stay with a friend of mine." He'd called X from the phone in Van's office before making his way upstairs to find her in the master suite. "You'll be comfortable and safe. You don't seem to like Van anyway, so think of it as having a little time away at his expense."

"No!" she cried. "I'm not going anywhere with you. I don't care what kind of business you have with Van. I don't want to be involved. Now let go of me and get out!"

"I'll give you one last chance to make the right decision. The smart decision," he told her, letting go of her wrists and stepping back.

She rubbed her right wrist where he'd squeezed a little too hard. There was no way she was going to let this Frankenstein-size man ruin her plans. Raising her chin, she added, "Your plan is flawed. He'll never pay you. I'm not important to him. Van Chapman doesn't care about anybody but himself."

Anthony cocked his head to one side and considered her words. It was true that Van's life had obviously taken a nosedive in the last couple of months. Vivian may have given him control of the dealerships when Bobbi died four years ago, but he would bet that the business was still in Vivian's name, along with the bank accounts. Which was probably why Van was hitting up sharks for extra money. He was hiding his financial indiscretions from his wife. Van may not care about blondie, but Vivian would. He would take his chances.

"Last chance," he said.

"I told you no. You are going to have to drag me kicking and screaming. And I can take care of myself. I'm not afraid of you," she said through trembling lips, hoping he wouldn't notice.

"You're sure?" he asked her calmly.

"You heard me," she replied, taking a step back and crossing her arms. She was hit with an instant wave of nausea and willed herself to swallow back the fear that was causing her stomach to churn.

"Then kicking and screaming it is," he said evenly. "I'm sure I can find some rope and duct tape in the garage." He had no intention of tying her up while she was fighting him. He started to pull his fist back, mentally gauging how much of a blow would be needed to knock her out without killing her. But she was faster. Spinning around, she started running for Vivian's open bedroom door when Anthony managed to catch her by the arm.

She was pulling away from him with all her strength. Before he knew it or could prevent it, he realized he was losing his grip on her. She broke loose, and he heard the sickening crack of her forehead as it collided with the open edge of the bedroom door. He caught her before she hit the floor.

He looked at the thin red imprint the door left on her forehead and was relieved she wouldn't need stitches. It was a complication he wouldn't have wanted to deal with. She would, however, have a huge lump and possibly even two black eyes. Not to mention a whopper of a headache.

Cradling her to his chest while bending low, he easily snatched up the bag she dropped and turned off the light with his elbow as he left the master suite. He effortlessly carried her downstairs, shaking his head as he went.

Good thing you knocked yourself out, princess, he thought to himself. I take no pleasure in punching a woman. Even a sarcastic, spoiled brat like you.