they even reached the last of the wide stucco stairs that led to the entrance, the doors opened and Lisette Wilson, the real keeper of the Garrison house, appeared in her standard navy-and-white uniform, looking a bit older than her fifty-five years.
The loss of John Garrison had hit their longtime housekeeper hard, but Parker knew that something more than that was working on Lisette.
“Hello, Lisette,” he greeted her with a gentle hand to her shoulder, while she gave a nod to him and a peck on Brooke’s cheek. “How are you?” Parker asked.
She answered that with pursed lips feathered with a dozen tiny creases. “I’m fine, Mr. Parker, but I can’t say the same for your mother. The bottle has been open since eleven this morning.”
He felt his sister sink into him. “Oh,” Brooke said. “Thanks for the warning, Lisette.”
Behind the housekeeper, Adam strode into the oversize entryway, a frown on his angular face. “I’m leaving,” he said gruffly. “Sorry, but I’d rather be anywhere but here listening to her rant about Ava Sinclair.”
“Ava who?” Brooke asked. “Is that Cassie’s mother?”
“Yes,” Parker said. “Brandon Washington has been doing some digging. The woman, Dad’s, uh, friend, passed away about a month before he did.”
“And I’m supposed to feel bad about that?” Bonita ambled in and leaned shakily on a wide stone column that marked the entrance to a sprawling living room, a glass of something potent in her hand. She shook a strand of hair off her face, revealing some makeup streaked under her eyes. “Maybe your father died of a broken heart when his mistress croaked.”
Parker’s heart sank. Mother was loud, rough and blasted.
Lisette immediately stepped to her side. “Why don’t I take you upstairs to freshen up while the children gather, Mrs. Garrison,” she said, as gently as if she were talking to a petulant toddler. “Mr. Stephen should be here soon, and maybe Miss Brittany. I daresay we’ll have a full house tonight, and I made braised beef.”
“I don’t like braised beef,” his mother whined, but she allowed herself to be led up a winding staircase, mumbling under her breath as she clutched the wrought iron railing.
Adam blew out a disgusted breath and continued toward the front door. “I’m outta here.”
“Wait,” Brooke said, going after him. “Come on, Adam. We need to be a family.”
“You need to be a family,” he shot back. “I need to be somewhere else.” He opened the door to leave just as Stephen walked up the stairs. Wordlessly, Adam pushed past his brother with Brooke on his tail.
“Adam, please,” she called. “She’ll sober up.”
“Just enough to insult you, Brooke.”
“No, wait, Adam.”
Stephen stepped aside to let his siblings barrel by, a bemused smile aimed at Parker. “Another Sunday in paradise, I see.”
Parker shook his head. “For this, I gave up work.”
Stephen laughed lightly and gave his brother a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Spoken like a true Garrison, bro. But I bet the old man isn’t up in heaven saying, ‘I should have spent more days at the office.’ “
“What do you mean? You’re as much of a workaholic as I am,” Parker said as the two of them headed toward the back of the house, drawn by the scents of Lisette’s cooking and the possibility of a relaxing, private moment together.
Out of habit, they went straight through the bank of French doors to the veranda. A cool breeze blew the dozens of queen palms that lined the limestone patio, exotic scents of tropical flowers wafting from the planters that surrounded an Olympic-size pool that no one actually used.
Stephen ambled to the marble-topped wet bar and poured two fingers of Dad’s single malt into cut-crystal tumblers.
“In honor of the old man,” he said, giving one glass to Parker and holding the other in a mock toast.
“We’re as bad as mom,” Parker said drily.
“Nah. This is my first and it’s five o’clock.”
Parker acknowledged that with a nod. “Yeah, yeah.” But he barely sipped the hot, amber liquid, clunking the glass down on the bar. “It’s been a helluva week.”
Stephen pulled out a leather bar stool and settled next to his brother. “Tell me about it. The bastards are up to no good again.”
“Jefferies? What happened?”
“Remember that photo spread in Luxury Traveler I negotiated for the hotel?” Stephen said. “Fourteen pages of priceless coverage in one of the top travel magazines in the world?
I worked with the editorial director, schmoozed him, wined him, dined him, let him stay in the penthouse with a young woman who was definitely not his wife. Remember?”
“Of course,” Parker said. “That editorial coverage will be equivalent to a hundred thousand worth of ad dollars for the Grand.”
Stephen snorted. “Not anymore. He’s changed his mind and is waiting for Hotel Victoria to open. He’s using that as the background for the photo shoot and story about the latest hip and hot hotels in South Beach.”
“What?” Parker slammed his hand on the counter. “How did the Jefferieses swing that? No one even knew that story was in the works.”
No one, he thought as the whiskey turned bitter in his mouth, but the woman who sat outside his office. Maybe some others, but he distinctly remembered Anna knew about the deal because the editorial director of Luxury Travel had called him on more than one occasion.
“I’m royally ticked,” Stephen said. “But since it’s not paid advertising, my hands are tied. He said it was strictly an ‘editorial’ decision.”
Parker swore softly.
“We got a hole in the dam,” Stephen said. “And we can’t ignore it any longer.”
Parker took a deep drink of the scotch. “I think I know who it is.”
“You do? Who?”
He hesitated, but only for a moment. This was Stephen, and they had no secrets. “Anna.”
“Anna Cross? Your secretary?” Stephen stabbed his fingers through his hair in disbelief. “Is that why you’re dating her?”
“It didn’t start out that way, but then she said and did a few things that made me suspicious. Anyway, I’m not dating her. She wants to keep it all business.”
“Sure, so she doesn’t get fired and can keep her hands in your files.” Stephen sounded disgusted. “What are you doing about it?”
“I’ve tried a misinformation campaign, but that isn’t working. They didn’t bite on anything this week.”
“Then you’ll have to use a James Bond technique,” Stephen said, a half smile threatening. “Screw the truth out of her.”
A tremor of heat warred with distaste. Not screwing, not with Anna.
“She’s keeping me at arm’s length,” Parker said.
Stephen looked unconvinced. “Come on, ace. You can do this. You’re a master.”
“I really like her.” The admission sounded a little lame, but felt amazingly good. He did like her. Wasn’t that at the bottom of all his angst? It certainly explained the sudden desire to listen to the overture from Camelot.
“She’s using you.”
Was that even possible? She was so guileless. “I don’t know that for a fact.”
“Then