Holt McClellan, Jr. folded himself into the big, executive chair behind his big, executive desk and gazed morosely at the big, executive pile of papers that required his immediate attention. Another day, another thousand dollars, he thought blandly. In base pay, anyway. All in all, life didn’t get much better than this, right?

Of course, if Kit stayed in a snit, Hensley’s Distilleries, Inc. and the rest of the McClellan legacy would be nothing but a sweet memory in a couple of months, and then he’d be lucky to pull in a thousand a month in salary. But hey, he reminded himself halfheartedly, they still had two whole months to find Mr. Right for his kid sister, and then they could marry her off like a good little heiress, right under the wire, and still be solvent. Otherwise…

He let the thought go. He couldn’t even imagine his life otherwise. Holt braced his elbows on his desk and knifed his fingers restlessly through his dark blond hair. Hell, you’d think Kit would have been grateful to have Michael Derringer—her intended husband, for God’s sake—exposed for the money-grubbing, gold-digging sonofabitch that he was. But no. Not Kit. No way. She would have been perfectly content to live the rest of her life as a lie, as long as it meant she didn’t have to be alone.

Just as Holt began to reach for the collection of pink telephone memos fanned out across his blotter, the intercom on his desk beeped discreetly. “Yes, Jeanette?” he responded absently, already feeling weary in spite of the early hour.

“Mr. McClellan, a woman who says she’s a representative from the Louisville Temperance League is here to see you.” After a slight, but significant, pause, she added, “Again.”

Oh, great, he thought. Just what he needed to make a cold, rainy morning even more frigid and forbidding. “Does she have an appointment?” he asked, even though he was already certain of the answer.

“No, she doesn’t. Again.”

Of course she didn’t have an appointment. What distiller in his right mind would make an appointment with someone whose single-minded goal in life was to put him out of business? For months now, the Louisville Temperance League had been after all the area manufacturers of spirits, hammering them mercilessly—however ineffectually—with petitions, surveys, press releases, flyers, and other various and sundry promotional materials. They’d hosted everything from bonfires to prayer vigils to walk-a-thons, had done everything within their power to raise money, hackles, and public awareness. All in the name of sobriety.

Like any normal person would want that.

Nevertheless, representatives from the organization had been turning up at all the local distillers’ doors, pretty much weekly, since well before the holidays. They never had an appointment, but they always had an agenda. Holt supposed his father was right. Sooner or later, they were going to have to let the group’s members vent their respective spleens—spleens untouched by the poisonous presence of liquor, he was sure. He might as well get it over with.

“Her name?” he asked his secretary with a sigh of resignation. “It’s a Ms. Ivory,” Jeanette replied.

Naturally, he thought. Naturally such a woman would have a wholesome, uncorrupted name like Ivory.

“Ms. Faith Ivory,” his secretary elaborated further.

Naturally. “Faith Ivory,” he repeated, the woman’s moniker feeling stiff and unpleasant on his tongue. Relenting some, he asked, “Do I have any other appointments this morning?”

“Not until ten,” Jeanette told him.

He sighed again. “All right. I suppose it’s inevitable. Show her in.”

Expecting a hatchet-wielding grandma trussed up in black like Carrie Nation, Holt was almost pleasantly surprised by the woman Jeanette led into his office. Instead of black, she wore a suit the color of champagne—good, pale golden champagne, not the cheap, yellowy stuff. What didn’t surprise him, though, was the fact that the hem of her skirt fell modestly below her knees, and that her snowy shirt was buttoned to the neck, then pinned closed even more tightly by what appeared to be an antique brooch.

Even from the other side of the room, he could see that her creamy complexion was flawless, touched by a blush of peach riding high on each cheek. Her hair, almost the same pale gold color as her suit, was also bound up snugly. Her eyes were green, clear, almost bottomless, and framed by lush, dark lashes. And her mouth… Good God. Holt swallowed hard, feeling a part of himself swell and grow warm that had no business swelling or warming in public. Her mouth, that generous, erotic mouth, made it impossible for Faith Ivory to ever appear temperate.

Clearly nervous about their meeting, she transferred the coat folded neatly over one arm to the other, then back to its original position, then back over the other arm again, all the while looking at him as if she wished he were someone else.

“Ms. Ivory,” he greeted her, tamping down his irritation. He rose to his full six-foot-four, rebuttoning his dark suit jacket as he went, then moved easily around to the front of his desk.

“Mrs. Ivory,” she corrected him immediately, taking a step backward for each one he took forward.

At her designation of her title, he quickly dropped his gaze to her left hand, but he saw no sign of a ring on its fourth finger. Strange, that. Stranger still was the little twist of disappointment that wound through him at the recognition of her married state.

What difference did it make? he asked himself. The last thing he needed to do was involve himself with the Louisville Temperance League in any way, shape or form. Even if Mrs. Ivory’s shape and form were too tempting to pass up.

“Mrs. Ivory,” he conceded reluctantly, emphasizing her title more for his own benefit than for hers. He swept his hand toward a chair that sat vacant opposite his desk. “Can I offer you a seat?”

She nodded, the motion jerky and anxious. Then she fled for the chair he indicated and fairly collapsed into it, her entire body seeming to shrink into the upholstery the moment she was settled. She clutched her coat and purse on her lap as if she might need them later, to use them as a shield to ward him off. And it hit him then that she was genuinely frightened of him.

With no small amount of discomfort, Holt shrugged off her reaction, chalking it up to another extremist behaving extremely. He returned to his chair and sat forward, steepling his fingers on his desk. With the big piece of furniture between them, the delectable Mrs. Ivory seemed to relax some.

“Now then,” he tried again. “How can I help you?”

She inhaled deeply, her gaze darting everywhere in the room except to him. “As your secretary told you, Mr. McClellan,” she began, her voice soft, well modulated, and a bit huskier than he would have expected, “I’m here as a representative of the Louisville Temperance League.”

He nodded. “I’m aware of your position. But I can’t imagine how Hensley’s could possibly be of service to you.”

“Well, you can’t be of service to us,” she told him frankly, her gaze finally skidding toward his for a moment before ricocheting away again. “That’s the point. Your company, and the product you manufacture, aren’t of service to anyone.”

He hoped his smile wasn’t as brittle as it felt. “On that matter, Mrs. Ivory, I beg to differ with you. As would millions of Bourbon drinkers worldwide. Hensley’s is one of the best, if not the best Bourbon available. Our product—and our service—are of impeccable quality and have been for generations. We take great pride in that.”

At his pronouncement, she fixed her gaze levelly on his without flinching. “Your product,” she said, virtually spitting out the word, “has been responsible for the suffering, the sickness the deaths of millions of people over the years. I don’t know how you can possibly take pride in something like that. In fact, I don’t know how you can sleep at night.”

This time Holt didn’t even bother to fake a smile. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, all pretense of civility gone. “Cutting right to the chase, are we, Mrs. Ivory?”

“Well, I know you’re a busy man, Mr. McClellan.”

Her outburst had clearly provided her with the needed boost for battle, because she suddenly didn’t seem to be at all intimidated by him. Ignoring her remark about him not sleeping at night—frankly, it was none of her damned business why he had trouble sleeping—he backpedaled to address her other remarks instead.

“It isn’t Bourbon that’s been responsible for the things you like to blame it for,” he said. “It’s irresponsible people who have caused those things.”

“The old ‘Guns don’t kill people’ line, Mr. McClellan? I’m disappointed. I would have thought you could be more creative than that when making excuses for your role in ruining countless lives.”

He frowned. “As much as I abhor the presence of handguns in our society, and regardless of the cliché, the reasoning is appropriate. It’s not the product that the Louisville Temperance League should be going after, Mrs. Ivory. It’s the people who misuse it that you should be directing your attentions to.” He sat forward now, linking his fingers loosely on his desk. “Will you be going after Hillerich and Bradsby when you’re finished with Hensley’s?”

She looked a bit puzzled but only said, “The baseball bat manufacturers? Why on earth would we do that?”

He shrugged. “Hey, one good blow to the head with a Louisville Slugger could kill someone.”

“Mr. McClellan,” Faith Ivory interjected mildly, “I don’t think—”

“And don’t forget the Ford plant,” he continued, ignoring her as he warmed to his argument. “Automobile accidents have maimed and killed a lot more people than Bourbon has.”

“Mr. McClellan, you’re being—”

“And General Electric. My God. I don’t think I need to remind you that one fork in a toaster and you’re…” He shrugged again, philosophically this time. “Well, you’re toast.”

She gazed at him in silence for a moment before asking, “Are you finished?”

“I don’t know. Have I made my point?”

“Repeatedly.”

“Then I guess I’m finished.”

She hesitated, not seeming to know exactly how to proceed. Finally, she began again, “Few people can dispute the fact that drinking alcohol is dangerous. Drunk drivers have killed thousands of innocent people. And alcoholism is responsible for everything from domestic violence to birth defects to heart disease to—”

Beautiful mouth or no, Holt was losing patience with Faith Ivory. Her arguments were the same ones he’d been hearing for years, and frankly, he didn’t want to hear them again. “Alcoholism and the enjoyment of spirits,” he interrupted her, “are two entirely unrelated things, Mrs. Ivory.”

“They’re not at all unrelated,” she countered.

“They are completely unrelated,” Holt insisted. He inhaled a deep breath to clear his thoughts, then continued, as levelly as he could manage, “Alcoholism is a serious illness. The enjoyment of a cocktail after work or a glass of wine with dinner isn’t.”

“One leads directly to the other,” she retorted.

“Not necessarily, though irresponsible behavior can contribute to it,” he volleyed.

Faith Ivory studied him in silence, as if she’d known they would reach such an impasse, and she was just gearing up to drive home her next point. Oddly, Holt found himself looking forward to her argument. Somewhere along the line, this little sparring match had become diverting. Almost enjoyable. So he waited. But, surprisingly, Faith Ivory’s luscious mouth remained firmly shut on the subject.

“Mrs. Ivory?” he finally spurred her, still unsure why he would try to prolong such a dialogue.

With some distraction, she answered, “Yes?”

“Aren’t you going to respond to my comment that alcoholism is a serious illness?”

Very quietly, she said, “Alcoholism is a serious illness.”

He nodded. “Well, my goodness. We actually agree on something.” When she still offered no comment to set them off again, he continued, “How about the irresponsible behavior part? Don’t you want to say something about that?”

She shook her head slowly, her mind obviously still elsewhere. “No. Irresponsible behavior definitely contributes to alcoholism. I’ll grant you that, too.”

Well, hell, Holt thought. If she kept this up, she was going to take all the fun out of it. “So your point would be…?”he tried again.

The steam she had been gathering evaporated, and whatever argument Faith Ivory had been about to make evidently disappeared with it, because she simply sat there and said nothing.

“Mrs. Ivory?” he tried again.

“My point, Mr. McClellan, would be…” Abruptly, she stood, slinging the strap of her purse tightly over her shoulder, folding her coat back over her arm. “I have no point, Mr. McClellan. Obviously, it was a mistake for me to come here. I apologize for taking up so much of your time.”

Holt jerked to attention. Suddenly, he was desperate to do something to keep her from going. What had begun as an odious task to deal with as quickly as possible had turned into a strangely enjoyable little interlude with a woman full of mysteries he somehow wanted to solve. It had been a long time since Holt was so drawn to a woman, especially with the immediacy and ferocity for which he’d become ensnared by Faith Ivory. Of all the women he could find himself attracted to, she was the last type he needed. Yet somehow he got the feeling there were layers under her brittleness she didn’t allow others to see. He found himself wanting to flake away that thin shell of her exterior and find out what kind of motor was revving up beneath.

Because Faith Ivory was definitely revving up. Holt wasn’t sure where she intended to go once her motor was at full throttle—he wasn’t even sure she knew where she wanted to go—but there was definitely some destination on her horizon. And just what made him so philosophical on a rainy Friday morning, he couldn’t possibly have said. Unless maybe it was a beautiful woman with hair the color of champagne and eyes as deep as the ocean. A woman of mystery. A woman of intrigue. A woman who was bolting for his office door like the place had just caught fire.

A woman, he had no choice but to remind himself, who called herself Mrs.

Faith didn’t dare stop running until she made it through the Humana Building’s Main Street entrance and stood in front of the fountain outside. Only with the knowledge that fourteen floors and countless feet of pink marble and steel I-beams separated her from Holt McClellan could she even begin to breathe again. And only out in the frigid air, with the cold rain pelting her, surrounded by strangers, could she at last feel safe.

Safe, she thought hollowly. Like she would ever feel that again in this lifetime.

In no way could she have anticipated Holt McClellan. He was just so… Her breath caught in her throat at the memory of him rising from behind his desk. And rising, and rising, and rising. She’d been afraid he would keep rising until his head brushed the ceiling, and he reached across his desk to pluck her off the carpet and consume her whole. She squeezed her eyes shut at the recollection, pressed her hands to her cheeks and tried to steady her breathing. Holt McClellan was, in a word… Well, in a word, he was awesome.

She opened her eyes and spun away from the passing throngs of people to face the fountain, focusing her attention on the gentle stream of water that rippled poetically down the flat black marble.

Best not to think about it, she, told herself. Unfortunately, she knew that wasn’t likely. Because now she was going to have to face the members of the Louisville Temperance League and tell them what a miserable failure she was.

She’d been so sure her contribution to the cause would be her superior debating and argumentative skills. Under other circumstances, she knew she would have made a difference. She’d been an incredible criminal justice attorney once, had brought juries and judges to their knees. Of course, it had been years since she performed in the courtroom, but… Some things never left you, in spite of the tests and obstacles you put them through. Some things were just inbred. Some things…

She cut off her own little pep talk, knowing it was pointless. She failed at her task today—just as she’d failed at so many other things in her life—and now, as always, she was going to have to make reparations. The Temperance League could let someone else take over the Hensley’s maneuvers. Maybe they could give her Maker’s Mark or Brown-Forman or Heaven Hill instead. That way, she wouldn’t have to deal with Holt McClellan again. There was no question in her mind he was the reason she hadn’t been able to continue with her duties that morning. He was just too big, too handsome, too blond, too self-assured. Just like Stephen.

Don’t think about him, Faith commanded herself. Don’t even think about Stephen Ivory.

The admonishment was as ineffective as always. Nothing would ever be able to make her stop thinking about her late, but hardly lamented, husband.

Forcing the thoughts away before they could turn into memories, she shrugged into her coat. Miriam was going to be disappointed that Faith had finally managed to breach the fortress of Hensley’s Distilleries, Inc. only to surrender at the first sign of combat. What a coward she was.

Faith shoved her hand into her coat pocket to retrieve her car keys, only to find herself grasping a fingerful of lint where her keys should have been. She tried the other pocket, but it, too, was empty, save for a stray gum wrapper. Her purse provided her with little more than the basic paraphernalia necessary for feminine upkeep—hairbrush, lipstick, compact, a ball-point pen of questionable effectiveness, a half-full box of Tic-Tacs. But no keys.

When she realized what she’d done, she dropped her hands to her sides and threw back her head in defeat. Considering the way she manhandled her coat in Holt McClellan’s office—not to mention the velocity of her flight—it was a good bet she dropped her keys in there on his lush-pile carpet. Great. Now she was going to have to walk back to the Temperance League offices. There was no way she would go back into Holt McClellan’s lair. Now she’d have to take a bus all the way to her sister’s house in Fern Creek, for the spare set of keys Ellen kept in case of emergency.

Faith eyed the slate sky overhead and felt the sting of ice-cold rain patter against her face. The Temperance League offices were on Chestnut Street and down some, a walk of nearly a dozen blocks from her present position. No way could she afford a taxi, and she had no idea which bus to take, or the time to figure it out. And her umbrella was in the backseat of her car. Her locked car.

Just as the realization materialized, the rain began to fall more resolutely. Faith sighed as she stepped from beneath the meager protection of the Humana Building’s generous overhang. Was there anything that could possibly make this day worse?

It was only a matter of hours until Faith had the answer to that question. Yes. As a matter of fact, the day could get worse. Much, much worse. Not because Miriam Anderson, the director of the Louisville Temperance League, had pontificated with even more vigor than usual about Faith’s inability to achieve her goal where Hensley’s Distilleries was concerned. Not because Faith’s car dealer told her that it would be at least twenty-four hours before he could get her a new set of keys. Nor was it because she was notified that her car was towed away, due to its being parked illegally during rush hour. It wasn’t even because she had to sit on her sister’s back porch for forty-five minutes—in the pouring, icy rain—waiting for Ellen to arrive home from work.

No, Faith’s day didn’t really get much, much worse until after Ellen drove her back to her Highlands apartment. Until after she was safe and sound at home, had towel-dried her hair and slipped into her favorite flannel pajamas and brewed a cup of hot chamomile tea, Not until she was settling down to enjoy a rented copy of My Man Godfrey. Right around the time the credits for the film began to roll, when there was a soft knock at her front door.

That was a sound Faith seldom heard. Although she had plenty of acquaintances, people with whom she could pass the time pleasantly enough, there really wasn’t anyone she considered a friend. Certainly there was no one who would pop in for an impromptu visit. She’d gradually abandoned all her friends after she married Stephen, and she was too embarrassed to look up any of them again after his death. She didn’t want to have to explain things. It was just easier to be alone.

Carefully, she set her mug of tea on the coffee table and rose from the sofa. Quietly, she padded in her stocking feet to the front door. Cautiously, she peeked through the peephole. And crestfallen, she saw Holt McClellan standing on the other side.

She should have just gone back for her keys when she had the chance, she thought. Gee, hindsight really was twenty-twenty.

“Yes?” she called through the door, keeping her eye pressed to the peephole.

“Mrs. Ivory?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“It’s Holt McClellan. Of Hensley’s Distilleries?”

“What do you want?”

Belatedly, she realized how rude the question sounded. But really, what difference did it make? She had no reason to be polite to the man. Their exchange earlier in the day made clear their feelings for each other’s outlooks on life—and for each other—and they were scarcely on the same side when it came to their personal and professional philosophies. What did Faith care if she offended the man? Strangely, however, she found that she did care.

“You, uh, you left something in my office this morning,” he told her. “But I imagine you’ve already discovered that.”

“My keys,” she said unnecessarily.

“Your keys,” he concurred.

As was always the case when Faith was home, the chain was in place on the door. So she braved twisted the key in the lock, braved loosing the deadbolt, and even braved edging the door open a scant few inches to look beyond it.

The peephole had distorted him more than she realized. Only when she saw Holt McClellan standing there in the flesh did she recall how handsome he was, how blond, how large. How much like Stephen. Faith swallowed hard and tried not to panic. But when he began to lift his hand, her fear—her irrational, irrepressible fear—betrayed her. Automatically, she closed her eyes and waited in arrested silence for him to—

“Mrs. Ivory?”

She snapped her eyes open again. Holt McClellan stood exactly as he had before, except that now, he was extending a ring of keys toward her and he was looking at her as if she’d lost her mind. Who could blame him? There were times when she looked at herself in the mirror in exactly that same way.

Pushing the sensation away, she reached beyond the door for her keys, only to watch them be withdrawn again. When she glanced up at Holt McClellan’s face, he was smiling. Softly, sweetly, seductively.

Oh, my.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

Oh, no, no, no, no, no, she, thought. Absolutely not. But her voice betrayed her conviction when she stammered, “Wh-what for?”

“Because our conversation today was interrupted before we could finish it,” he said easily.

“I know,” she replied. “I was the one who interrupted it.”

“So you were. I can only wonder why you did.”

“I… I just didn’t see any reason to continue our discussion.”

“Why not? Things were just starting to heat up.”

That was the problem. Faith bit her lip to keep the rash words from spilling out of her mouth “It’s just that… We didn’t seem to be…I mean, the whole conversation was just…”

“What?”

She licked her lips against the dryness that had overtaken her mouth and forced herself to look away from his eyes. His beautiful midnight-blue eyes. The eyes that had created no small amount of turbulence in her midsection the moment she entered his office. The eyes that continued to dazzle her now.

“We both, um…" she tried again. “We both seem to be pretty strong in our convictions, that’s all.”

“Is that surprising?”

“Well, no, but…”

“But what?”

She raked a hand restlessly through her unbound, still-damp hair and pretended she knew where she was going with her thoughts. “Look, if we’re going to start this thing up again, can I at least change out of my pajamas?”

He arched his eyebrows in surprise. “You’re already in your pajamas? But it’s barely seven-thirty.”

“Yeah, well…somewhere in the world, it’s bedtime.”

He quirked a smile at that. “Somewhere in the world it’s mambo time, too, but you don’t see me putting on my ruffled shirt, do you?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you.”

He chuckled, a sound that was more nervous than humorous, and she was amazed to witness the blush that crept over his features. “I’m sorry. I guess that didn’t make much sense, did it? You make me say dumb things, that’s all.”

“I make you say dumb things?” Oh, now that was an interesting development, seeing as she’d been thinking the same thing about herself. “But I hardly know you.”

“That’s the problem,” he responded. “Beautiful women always make me nervous until I get to know them better.” He paused a brief, but telling, moment before adding, “And even then, I tend to make a mess of things.”

A little burst of heat exploded in Faith’s belly and quickly spread outward to warm the rest of her. “M-Mr. McClellan,” she stammered. “I-I’m not sure it’s appropriate for us to—”

“You’re absolutely right,” he interjected, taking a step backward, clearly knowing he’d overstepped the bounds of…of whatever it was that had them bound. “I apologize,” he continued hastily. “Like I said, beautiful women make me say dumb things. And you’re just very—” He halted abruptly, then cleared his throat with some difficulty. “Here—” He extended the keys out to her again. “I’m sorry I bothered you. I’ll go.”

Faith reached for her keys, but no sooner had she closed her fingers over them than she discovered she didn’t really want Holt McClellan to leave. Yet she had no idea what to say to make him stay, now that she’d made him feel uncomfortable. So she only retrieved her keys and thanked him quietly and began to close her front door. Almost as if they had a mind of their own, though, her fingers, instead of turning the deadbolt and key in the lock, unhooked the chain and opened the door wider.

“You didn’t have to come all this way to bring them back,” she said. “You could have just mailed them to me.”

He had turned around to make his way toward the stairs, but at her quietly uttered statement, he spun around again. His wool, charcoal-colored overcoat swung open with the action, to reveal an obviously expensive suit of the same hue beneath. He was very, very handsome. And he was clearly surprised that she was continuing their interaction. Perhaps as surprised as Faith was herself.

“No, I couldn’t,” he told her.

“Why not?”

“You’re not in the phone book. I couldn’t find your address.”

Oh, yeah. She’d forgotten about that. So if that was the case, then— “Then how did you find out where I live?” she asked him.

He smiled apologetically. “I, uh, I have a friend who’s highly placed at the phone company. He owed me a favor. Actually, it was more like I blackmailed him,” he confided. “He gave me your address.”

She wasn’t sure if she should be angry about that or not. Strangely, she found that she wasn’t. “Then, once you got my address, you could have mailed my keys to me,” she pointed out.

He met her gaze levelly. “No, I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because then I wouldn’t have been able to see you.”

“Oh.”

The soft, single syllable was all she could manage, because the fire in her midsection began to burn hotter. It nearly exploded when she glanced down and remembered she was standing there in her pajamas. She felt heat seep into her face as she fingered the collar of her shirt ineffectually. “I, um…” she said eloquently. “Uh…”

He laughed when he understood her train of thought. “I guess I should have phoned you before I came over. But your apartment was on my way home, so it just seemed easier. But now that I’m here, it’s not easy at all to... What I mean is…” He laughed again. “We both seem to be having a little trouble with the English language tonight, don’t we? Funny. It wasn’t a problem this morning.”

Faith gripped the door harder and forced herself not to invite him inside. Their encounter this morning was entirely different from the one they were having now. For one thing, they both had their guards up then. Now, however…

“Yeah, about that,” she said. “I’m sorry I left so abruptly.”

“So am I,” he murmured. “Why did you?”

“You … you weren’t what I was expecting.”

“That makes two of us,” he said. “You weren’t what I was expecting, either.”

She told herself not to ask, but heard herself say anyway, “Is that good?”

The smile he gave her this time was cryptic. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Oh.”

“What were you expecting?” he asked, deftly turning the tables.

“I’m not sure. Just not… you.”

“Is that good?” he echoed her earlier question. Faith bit her lip, wondering just how honest she should be. Then she decided there was no harm in speaking the truth. Not anymore. “Not really,” she said softly.

Her response seemed to surprise him. “Why not?”

“You remind me of someone. Someone I’d rather not be reminded of. Seeing you this morning… It kind of knocked me off-kilter, that’s all.”

“I’d apologize, but there’s not much I can do about the way I look.”

And Faith wouldn’t ask him to change his appearance if he could. Even if he did evoke way too many memories of Stephen, there was no reason in the world to alter Holt McClellan’s looks. Why mess with perfection, after all?

“No, there’s no need for you to apologize,” she said softly. “No harm done.” Not yet. anyway. “Well, thank you for bringing my keys,” she hurried on. “It was nice of you to come all this way.”

“Like I said. It was on my way home.”

Everyone in Louisville knew the McClellan family lived in Glenview. As Faith knew, Holt worked downtown on Main Street. It was one block north, then a straight shot out River Road for him to drive home at night. Faith, on the other hand, lived south of downtown, in the Highlands. Deep in thHeighlands, in the gridwork of Cherokee Triangle, a few blocks off notoriously congested Bardstown Road, right by the difficult-to-navigate circle surrounding the statue of Daniel Boone. Her apartment wasn’t anywhere near his way home. Holt went to a lot of trouble to bring her keys to her. Why? She had no idea. Although he told her he thought she was a beautiful woman, she had little reason to believe he meant anything by the comment. Men said things. Women knew that. It was all part of the game, the one rule with which Faith was definitely familiar. But Holt McClellan seemed to be using a playbook she’d never glimpsed before.

Rich, handsome, successful distiller, versus woman of meager means whose professional and personal goal is to put him out of business. The odds on that one were simply too weird for her to fathom, the outcome too shadowy to ponder.

“Well, thanks again, Mr. McClellan,” she said, forcing her hand to start pushing the door closed, as much as she hated to do it. “Good night.”

He lifted a hand in silent farewell, but didn’t turn away. She watched the space between her front door and the doorjamb grow smaller and smaller, watched as Holt McClellan disappeared bit by handsome bit. She had just about matched bolt to latch when he called out her name again from the other side. “Mrs. Ivory?”

Slowly, she opened the door again.

“I, um, I couldn’t help but notice that Mr. Ivory doesn’t seem to be home.”

She supposed she should have expected his observation. It never worked for long when she identified herself as a married woman. Not having a husband around rather ruined the image.

“No, he’s not home. He’s…” She took a deep breath and concluded quickly, “He’s dead.”

Something darkened in Holt McClellan’s eyes as he took a step forward, then stopped. “Oh. I’m sorry. I…I didn’t know.”

“It happened about six months ago.”

“I see. I’m sorry,” he repeated.

“Thank you.” It was all she could manage. She never knew what to say when people spoke of Stephen. So she simply said nothing at all. “Good night, Mr. McClellan. And thanks again.”

He dipped his head in farewell. “Good night, Mrs. Ivory. And you’re welcome.”

Once more, as she closed the front door, Holt McClellan only stood there and watched her do it, something that made it nearly impossible for Faith to complete the action. When she heard the click of the latch catching, she quickly spun the deadbolt to a locked position and hooked the chain into place. Then she pressed her eye against the peephole to watch him leave.

But he didn’t leave. Not right away. He stared at her front door, as if he were lost in thought. At one point, she thought he was about to lift his hand to knock again, but he only shoved it deep into his coat pocket. Then, slowly, he spun around and began to make his way up the hall, toward the stairway at the end. Twice he halted and turned around, and twice she thought he would come back. But he didn’t come back. At the end of the hall, he turned left, and exited into the stairwell.

Even after he was gone, Faith continued to gaze through the peephole, staring at her empty hallway. For fifteen full minutes, she watched. For fifteen full minutes, she waited. For fifteen full minutes, she wished.

And for fifteen full minutes, she somehow managed to keep her tears from falling.