“So you can report back to Mac? Forget it.”

His eyes seemed to melt into her, and she realized, with a pang, that he was just as confused as she was. He didn’t know whether to yell at her or charm her or be grave and distant with her. But nothing, she thought, would work. “Ashley—” He broke off, started again. “Ashley, I’m doing my damnedest to look at this objectively—”

“And failing.” She gave him an icy smile and tossed her head back, aware of every line in his face, every tensed muscle in the arm encircling her waist. “I know: I’m a pain in the ass. A rich bitch. Difficult. Judgmental. Rash.”

“Unforgiving,” he added with a small smile.

“I don’t trust you—and I won’t.”

“We don’t have to be enemies.”

“We don’t have to be friends, either.”

She jerked herself out of his hold and turned away.

Nelle was in the kitchen weaving an explanation of the goings-on out on the sun porch for her husband, a polished, fair-skinned man with horn-rimmed glasses and an easy drawl that belied his perpetual seriousness. Ashley had never pretended to understand or even like Oliver Milligan, Jr., but she thought she could rely on him now.

“I know I owe you both my thanks and an explanation,” she said, holding herself as regally as she could, refusing to think. “But right now I have to get out of here. You saw this week’s You? Well, Jeremy Carruthers is a sleazeball reporter who’s after the ‘real’ story behind my so-called mysterious fortune. He’s been harassing me since Friday. I’d appreciate it if you could get me to the airport—”

Oliver was already looking ominously toward the sun porch. “Nelle,” he said, “get the car.”

Nelle was looking dubious. “Ashley, are you sure there’s not more to this?”

“Nelle, please—I promise I’ll call you and tell you everything.”

“Nelle,” Oliver said imperiously. “I’ll keep Mr. Carruthers occupied while you get Miss Wakefield out of here. What publication does he work for?”

Ashley named a particularly disreputable tabloid.

Oliver winced: no doubt he was seeing his own name splashed across its front pages, his reputation sullied, his candidacy for the state senate derailed. “Be assured,” he said, “he won’t follow you.”

Ashley met Nelle out back in the family Mercedes station wagon. Nelle pursed her lips at her friend. “Honey, you are the worst liar.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t you dare be sorry. I’d like to be a fly on the wall when your Jeremy Carruthers tracks you down again. Sweet cheeks, I have a feeling he’s the man for you.”

Ashley twitched uncomfortably in her seat. “I have a feeling after this he won’t be.”

“Nonsense. A man like that loves a good chase. He wouldn’t want you if you weren’t your own woman. Trust me, Ashley. I understand these things.”

That certainly was true, Ashley thought. “I hope Oliver won’t be furious. If I cause another rift between you two—”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that.” Nelle laid on an exaggerated amount of Southern belle coy. “I’ve never seen Oliver so...so mean. I just love it. This senate candidacy could be more fun than I thought. If all that energy translates itself in bed, I’ll be all set.”