“Call me Alex,” he grumbled, glancing up from the financial section.

Mrs. Nash squared her shoulders in the doorway. “Mr. Garrison.” Her faint British accent grew more pronounced when she was annoyed. “A Ms. McKinley has arrived to see you.”

Alex flipped his newspaper down at the fold, his senses coming on alert. “Which one?”

Mrs. Nash’s formidable brow went up. “Ms. Emma McKinley, sir.”

“Okay, now you’re just trying annoy me.”

“Sir?” There was an undeniable twinkle behind her blue-gray eyes.

“It’s Alex. Alex. You changed my diapers and smacked my butt.”

She sniffed. “And I dare say, it didn’t help much, did it now?”

Alex set the newspaper on his spotless, mahogany desktop and stood from the tufted leather wing chair. “Can we at least dispense with the sir?”

“Yes, Mr. Garrison.”

He drew closer to her as he headed for the door. “You’re fired.”

Her expression remained impassive. “I think not.”

“Because you know where the bodies are buried?”

“Because you’ve never memorized the combination to the wine cellar.”

He paused. “Excellent point.”

“Very good then…sir.”

“Insubordinate,” he muttered as he passed her.

“Will Ms. McKinley be staying to lunch?”

Good question. Was Emma going to say yes and make both their lives easier? Or was she going to stay up there on her high horse and cause him no end of trouble? Alex gave it a fifty-fifty chance.

He drew a bracing breath. “I have no idea.”

Mrs. Nash nodded and carried on into the study, where she’d straighten the newspaper and erase any lingering trace of his presence. It was eerie, living in a house that forgot about you every time you left the room. Sometimes he’d leave subtle traces, a book out of place on a bookshelf, a sculpture slightly to the left on the mantel. But he hadn’t tripped her up yet.