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her.
    Grace Davingham.
    Which had ended on a definitively downward note.
    Unfortunately, now he couldn’t get the damned woman out of his mind.
    He remembered exactly how her hip had felt pressed against him, all gentle curves and soft sweetness. That sassy curl of her lips when she smiled. And her eyes. Those amazingly expressive eyes filled with humor and warmth…and deceit.
    She’d riled him up, and not just because she’d lied to him about who she was. It was because he’d wanted her, and that had destroyed his most valuable asset—his objectivity.
    Marc prided himself on his ability to remain calm in almost any circumstance. In a high-pressure negotiation with billions on the line. Holding his liquor while the other side got wasted after closing a deal. While his girlfriend of six months was grabbing her clothes and walking out the door after admitting to cheating on him….with his father.
    He couldn’t imagine Grace doing that, but then again, he didn’t know her. Nor did he want to. She’d been trouble from the first minute he found her in those woods, and being the daughter of one of rock and roll’s most infamous stars would only make things worse.
    Unfortunately, his body wouldn’t get on board with the plan to forget her.
    Maybe the whole thing really hadn’t been a setup. She was really hurt—after all, she couldn’t have faked that swollen knee—and in retrospect, she hadn’t seemed at all pleased about being found out, when if she’d planned the whole thing, she’d probably have been thrilled. He also hadn’t seen any video cameras, in either the restaurant or the woods. And for all the due diligence he’d done on Briarwood and Eastbridge before approaching Press with the proposal to buy into the golf club, not once had he heard about Ms. Davingham or any of her antics.
    No.
Women like her were dangerous. He had to forget her.
    His watch indicated that it was three p.m. on the nose. Time to get this show on the road.
    As if on cue, Randall Wren, the grandson of one of the original partners, entered the room and sat down at the conference table. He scanned the faces of the people seated there. With his large physique and his bald head, the man looked nothing like his brown-feathered namesake.
    “Thank you all for joining me here,” he said in a strong, clear voice that didn’t quite match his exterior. “We have all assembled for the reading of the will of Sarah Margaret Colby. Do you have any questions before I begin?”
    “Yes,” said Marc’s father. “How long do you think this will take? Bethamy and I are heading to Nantucket on the evening ferry.”
    Beside Marc, his mother tensed, but Wren simply looked at Norton evenly. “I’m not sure, Dr. Colby,” he said dispassionately, one of the few people who could get away with treating his father with anything less than sycophantic awe. “It will probably depend on how many questions you want to ask.”
    Alexa rolled her eyes at their father. “When was the will prepared? Who notarized it? And was Aunt Sarah in sound mind when the event took place?” As a corporate lawyer for a big Manhattan firm, she obviously knew the protocols and procedures, and Marc was only too happy to let her have at it.
    Wren nodded. “Ah, yes. I can assure you that your aunt was of sound mind and body when the will was executed five months ago. In fact, I had the pleasure of doing the work myself, Ms. Colby being such a longtime client. She personally entrusted me with its preparation. If you have any doubts at all, I am happy to show you the paperwork.”
    Alexa seemed satisfied. She gave a short nod to Wren, then whispered something to Ronald and sat back in her seat.
    “If there are no other questions, let us begin,” Wren said. He began to read the preamble, a long, droning piece of prose that included all the CYA stuff that lawyers wrote into almost every contract, and Marc would know, having read enough of them.
    After ten minutes of legal