SEAL the Deal

CHAPTER ONE




Today

Annapolis, Maryland



Not another open casket.

Stepping through an arched doorway and into a sea of gray hair and solemn faces, Lacey quietly groaned at the sight of Dr. Donald Baker at the other end of the room. Through the hushed crowd, she waded toward the casket that rested in front of a stunning wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Chesapeake Bay. The well-appointed funeral home was easily the most expensive place to mourn on the Eastern Seaboard.

Death, Lacey had discovered recently, came with a hefty price tag.

Holding her breath apprehensively, she gazed down at Dr. Baker as he lay in an impressive mahogany casket. He looked just like the photo that had caught her eye in the obituary section of the newspaper three days ago. Even stone cold, his face had a kindness that brought tears to her eyes. Absurd, of course, since she didn’t even know the man.

After so many funerals, she should be callous to this part of her job.

With a little digging online, Lacey had learned that the late Dr. Baker owned a chunk of waterfront property crowned with a stately Colonial. For a real estate agent just starting out, selling a listing like that would upgrade her life from ramen noodles to Chinese take-out for at least a year.

She bolstered her determination, recalling the image of Vi gracing the cover of BusinessWeek. Lacey doubted she’d ever climb to such lofty heights of success as her adopted sister, but it would be nice to have something to boast about.

Besides, she had rent to pay. So she dabbed her tear-moistened eyes and scanned the room.

Lacey had memorized the face of Dr. Baker’s widow from a photograph online. Spotting her immediately, she felt a small surge of excitement. Too easy. She might even get out in time for the next funeral on her schedule.

Taking no more than three brisk strides toward the widow, she slammed into something as unyielding as a six-foot-three slab of concrete. Two jarring steps backward and she slipped, suddenly seeing nothing but a blur of vertical motion.

It was an out-of-body experience, as though she could actually see her own mortified expression as her head made its rapid descent toward the floor. She vaguely heard a few foul words strung together, which was likely her own voice cursing her friend Maeve for convincing her to wear stiletto heels to a funeral.

Completely inappropriate—both the stilettos and the curse.

In a flash, she saw her life rush past her, an unimpressive sequence of failed careers and failed relationships. She could see her parents and sister standing over her casket, shaking their heads and muttering, “You just couldn’t get it together, could you, Lacey?” Then her head smacked against the marble slab floor, the impact thankfully softened by the updo in her hair.

Opening her eyes, she thought she must be looking at the face of God, or maybe St. Peter ready to usher her through the pearly gates. Whoever he was, the man hovering over her was sex in a suit.

“Are you all right?” the Vision said.

Lacey just stared. His image was decadent—piercing blue eyes, classically chiseled features, and skin that begged to be touched. His short, military-style haircut seemed to accentuate his broad shoulders subtly bulging with muscles beneath his tailored suit.

Mercy.

Definitely not God, or she wouldn’t feel this surge of desire burning just below her stomach. At least she hoped not.

“Wow,” she said in quiet admiration.

“You fell and hit your head. Do you remember where you are?”

A flurry of other heads, mostly topped with silver hair or half bald, invaded her vision.

“Yes, I’m at the funeral of…” Donald, was it? Or was that last week’s corpse?

“Donald Baker.” The man kneeling beside her said and called out over his shoulder with fierce authority, “I need some ice right now. And this woman needs an ambulance. Call 911.”

“No, no. I’m really fine. I just bumped my head.” Despite the dull ache at her temple, Lacey struggled to get up and the room swayed in response. His firm yet gentle grip held her still. Another fluttering below her stomach, and she wondered if it was sheer lust or nausea from a mild concussion.

Or maybe both.

“It would be better if you didn’t move.”

“I’m really fine.” She pressed her palm against his chest to nudge him aside and felt a hint of the rock-hard pecs beneath his neatly pressed shirt. Involuntarily, her hand strayed an inch or two to savor the feel of a tempting ripple. She couldn’t resist; men who looked like this didn’t grow on trees. If they did, women would never get any work done.

Feeling his chest rise as he took in a breath, the alluring warmth of his skin seeped through the smooth cotton to her hand. She could swear she heard her body sizzle in response, and pulled away as though she had touched the burner on Maeve’s new industrial gas range. “I’ll just sit down somewhere and catch my breath.”