Even though her heart was pounding so hard she was afraid he’d see, she tried to look as if this was the thrill of her lifetime. “Brilliant! I say, I’m quite gobsmacked.”

His eyes, a shade darker than his burnt-toast hair, swept over her, taking in her long wig, pushed-up breasts, and okay legs. She wasn’t a beauty, but she wasn’t a dog, either, and if she had a shred of vanity, she would have been demoralized by his obvious disdain. But she didn’t, and she wasn’t.

She dug her toe-numbing heels into the carpet as he came farther into the office. His thick brown hair was a little disheveled. Not fashionably rumpled—more the dishevelment of a man who couldn’t be bothered with bimonthly haircuts or a shelf full of grooming products.

Stay calm. Keep your focus.

Without warning, he snatched her clutch away, and she gave a little hiss of dismay. “Bugger!” she cried, a few beats too late.

She stared at his oversize hands—ten inches from thumb to little finger. She knew this because she did her homework. Just as she knew those big hands had thrown more than three hundred touchdowns. The same hands digging in her clutch and pulling out her fake green card.

“Esmerelda Crocker?”

A good investigator had to improvise, and the more detail she could give, the more convincing she’d be. “I go by Esme. Lady Esme, actually. Esmerelda is a family name.”

“Is that so.” His voice rolled from his lips like deep water over a parched Oklahoma prairie.

She gave a shaky nod. “Passed down through the generations to honor the second wife of the fifth Earl of Conundrum. Died in childbirth, the poor cow.”

“My condolences.” He looked inside again. “No credit cards?”

“They’re so vulgar, don’t you think?”

“Money’s never vulgar,” the cowboy drawled.

“How very American of you.”

He began rummaging in her clutch again, something that didn’t take long, since she’d left her wallet safely stashed in her car—a wallet that held her fresh new private investigator’s license as well as half a dozen business cards.

DOVE INVESTIGATIONS

Est. 1958

Truth Brings Peace

The original business cards had read: “Truth Brings Piece.” Her grandfather had been a brilliant investigator, but a lousy speller.

Graham smelled like money and fame, not that she could exactly describe what either one smelled like, but she knew it when she sniffed it, the same way she knew that the future of her business depended on what happened next. She pulled in the few molecules of air his presence hadn’t already burned up. “I don’t really mind you mucking about in there like that, but I am curious what you’re looking for.”

He shoved the clutch back at her. “Something that’ll explain why you’ve been following me.”