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And then what? He’d be alerted to her suspicions. Right now he suspected her only of nosing around his finances, and she wanted to keep it that way. Mike had been right to stop her.
But did he have to stop her by kissing her silly? She traced her mouth with her fingertips. Not that she’d minded.
Her son fluttered his long lashes and yawned.
Typically, Ethan woke up with the early birds, but last night’s commotion had him sleeping late. Commotion? Was that what you called the murder of a CIA director by the man who would replace him? She had no doubt that was what had gone down. Now she just had to convince Mike Becker.
She hadn’t trusted Spencer Correll since the fourth or fifth year of his marriage to her mother. She’d been in college at Stanford when her mother married Spencer. Claire hadn’t given him much thought. He was the type of man her mother had dated since Dad’s death—charming, a few years younger, in need of some financing.
Despite her wariness, nothing set off any alarm bells until that phone call and then her mother’s accident.
“Mommy?”
“Good morning, sleepyhead.” She skimmed her fingers through Ethan’s curly brown hair. “It’s late.”
His eyes grew round. “Can I look at the accident now?”
“I think that’s been all cleaned up.” At least she hoped to God it had been. “Let’s have some breakfast. Are you hungry?”
“Uh-huh.” He smacked his lips. “Is Mr. Brown eating breakfast, too?”
“You remember Mr. Brown from last night?” She tilted her head, wrinkling her nose. Mike must’ve made quite an impression on Ethan, which meant she couldn’t get her son out of here and with his grandparents fast enough. She didn’t want to confuse him or get his hopes up.
“Mr. Brown was giant, like Hercules.” Ethan raised his hand over his head as far as he could.
“Yeah, he’s tall.” She grabbed him under the arms and tickled. “Now let’s go eat.”
The smells of bacon and coffee coming from the kitchen lent an air of normalcy to the house after Claire had made her way through the cleaning crews in the great room. The giant Christmas tree she’d lit up with a thousand bulbs last night had shed its gold ornaments in the blast and now stood in the corner, a forlorn reminder of the Christmas spirit.
Ethan had shoved through the dining room doors first and came to a halt in front of Mike, his plate piled high with eggs, bacon and Jerome’s flaky biscuits.
Mike eyed Ethan over the rim of his coffee cup. “Who are you, the cook?”
Crossing his arms, Ethan stamped his foot. “I’m Ethan. I saw you last night.”
“Oh.” Mike snapped his fingers. “You looked a lot smaller in bed. I thought you were a little boy, but you’re not. You’re a big boy.”
Claire pulled out a chair with a smile on her face. Mike must have kids of his own, and if he wasn’t divorced, he should be after the way he’d kissed her last night. No happily married man would be kissing a woman he’d just met like that—assignment or no assignment.
Ethan climbed into the chair next to Mike’s, studied his plate and proceeded to ask Liz, the maid, for the same food Mike had.
Claire tilted her head at her son. “Are you sure you can eat that much?”
“I’m hungry.” Ethan patted his tummy.
“How’s your nose? Any sniffles or coughing?”
“Nope.”
She turned to Mike. “Ethan’s been having some problems with allergies, and the doctor is thinking it might be asthma.”
“He looks good to me.” Mike winked at Ethan.
“Ms. Chadwick, do you want anything besides coffee this morning?” Liz poured a stream of brown liquid into her cup.
“Just some orange juice.” When Liz finished pouring the coffee, Claire tipped some cream into her cup and dipped a spoon into the white swirl.
“Did you get a good night’s sleep despite everything?” Mike broke open a biscuit, and steam rose from the center.
Did he mean despite the murder of the director, or the kiss? She watched his strong hands as he buttered one half of the biscuit, then tore off a piece and popped it into his mouth.
