Kate was so mesmerized by the sight that she nearly rear-ended the royal purple Cadillac Escalade parked square in the middle of the clearing, equidistant from the half dozen buildings that formed a semicircle around the edge. She slammed on the brakes and she, Mutt, and Johnny all pitched forward.
The view was not further improved by the sight of the woman sitting on the deck.
Johnny swore beneath his breath.
Kate swore out loud.
“Who is she?” Johnny said, sounding as surly as Kate felt.
“I don’t know,” she said, and slammed out of the truck.
“Kate Shugak?” the woman said, rising to her feet as Kate all but stamped up the stairs.
“Who’s asking?” Kate said, not caring how unfriendly she sounded.
“Charlotte Muravieff,” the woman said without a blink. “It’s nice to meet you, finally. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
She was a woman in her mid-forties and her face had that carefully tended look that only the rich can achieve. Her hair was as bright a gold as the sun setting on the windows behind her, and her eyebrows had been dyed to match. She was elegantly, almost painfully thin, and she wore what Nordstrom probably considered proper for one of the few outings that wouldn’t include a trip to the spa-khakis tailored to fit well, but not so tight as to be called vulgar, a hand-knit sweater of 100 percent cotton over a button-down shirt of the softest linen, the shirt one exquisite shade of blue darker than the sweater, and perfectly knotted brown leather half boots, polished until they reflected the setting sun as well as the house’s windows. The bootlaces might even have been ironed. Kate didn’t recognize the couturier, but the whole ensemble reeked of a platinum card with no credit limit and no expiration date.