Heather arched a sculpted brow. “Congratulations? Puh-leeze.”

“Your sister’s about to hit a bestseller list.”

“For pulp fiction.”

Joan flinched, and Anthony clenched his jaw. He didn’t care who Heather was, he wasn’t about to stand here and let her insult his client. If she were a man, he’d have her up against the wall for that.

Instead, he jerked open the door. “I think you should leave now.”

Heather’s jaw worked in silence for a moment.

“I mean it,” said Anthony.

“Why, you bloodsucking little upstart.”

“Stop,” begged Joan, putting her fingertips against her temples. “I don’t have time for this.”

“I should think not,” Heather huffed.

“I have tea invitations,” said Joan.

“You are not leaving this house,” said Anthony, snapping the door closed again.

Heather turned her attention back to Joan. “Just who the hell does he think he is?”

“My jailer, apparently,” said Joan.

“I’m the guy who’s turning this thing around.”

Heather didn’t even glance his way. “You want me to call the police? I could get Daddy-”

“Nobody’s calling the police,” said Joan. “Anthony’s okay.”

Okay? Well, wasn’t that just…adequate.

He took a deep breath and warned himself not to let his emotions get mixed up in business. Joan’s career was his priority, not his bruised ego. That meant he had to get this discussion back on an even keel.

“We need to sit down,” he said to her. “And we need to talk about managing this issue.”

“We need to talk about escaping to Europe,” said Heather. “Mom and Daddy are-”

“Mom and Dad know?”

“They are literate,” said Heather. “And even if they weren’t, several of their friends have called.”

Joan groaned and clutched at her stomach.

“You’re not helping,” Anthony said to Heather, moving toward Joan.

“I’m not helping? You’re the one who got her into this in the first place.”