Beckett's Cinderella by Dixie Browning

brilliant idea and not bothered to work out all the kinks before barging into action.
    â€œKeep thinking about Camshaw and Camshaw, Private Investigations at Bargain Prices,” Cam called. “Hey, you want in here before I grab a shower?”
    â€œUh-uh, I’m going to sleep.” She fumbled with the controls to tune out a noisy commercial. “Rambo Camshaw, Harebrained Ideas, Two For a Nickel,” she muttered under her breath.
    Â 
    After a brief argument—brief because neither he nor Liza had the energy to do more—Beckett ended up spending the night on Fred Grant’s sofa. Lumpy didn’t begin to describe the cushions. Now he knew where Liza stored her stock of root vegetables.
    Still, it was better than trying to drive after about forty hours of sleep deprivation. He’d left a message, letting Pete know where he was in case anything came up at the office. Not that he expected anything to crop up over a holiday weekend. His partner was good at dealing with rules, regulations and red tape—better than Beckett was, at any rate. Which was whyhe’d hired him. As a negotiator, the guy had all the skills of a disgruntled cottonmouth, but he was a wizard with paperwork.
    Good thing he’d driven instead of flying this time, he thought the next morning, yawning. Looked like they might be in for some heavy-duty weather. Lying on his back, Beckett squinted up at the ceiling for several minutes, trying to focus on how much more he needed to explain before he handed over the money, got a signed receipt and headed back to Charleston. He made a mental note to check on the storm situation. The last thing he needed was to get caught in an evacuation situation. Everything up and down the Eastern Seaboard was subject to that, if Tropical Storm Greta took a notion to upgrade and move inshore.
    He yawned again as his eyes gradually shifted to the front windows. When the view registered on his brain, he sat up abruptly, grabbed the small of his back and groaned, staring at a pair of women’s shoes planted on the top visible rung of the ladder.
    What in God’s name was that crazy fool trying to do? Avoid confrontation by breaking her neck? That ladder was a homemade job, the rungs roughly eighteen inches apart. It hadn’t been designed for a woman, even a long-stemmed woman like Liza.
    Beckett had slept in his clothes, removing only his belt, his shoes and his socks. He had about a two-days’ growth of beard on his face, and his back felt as if it were broken in at least three places.
    And now he had to go drag a crazy woman down from a roof?
    Yeah, now he had to do that.
    Barefoot, he let himself out the front door, wondering how he could get her attention without startling her into losing her balance.
    She was humming. Either that or she’d disturbed a nest of yellow jackets. With his luck, it would be the latter. “Liza?” he called softly, trying to sound as nonthreatening as possible when what he wanted to do was grab her, haul her down and shake some sense into her stubborn head.
    She stopped humming.
    â€œWhat are you doing up there? If the eaves are rotten that ladder could shift any minute. Dammit, woman, it’s dangerous!”
    â€œShall I rent a helicopter to check out the roof? Sorry, my budget doesn’t run to aerial inspections.” She started down, first one foot then the other, feeling for the rungs while he held his breath and stared up at her long white thighs. She was wearing shorts today. Not the kind cut up to the creases, thank God. His heart couldn’t have survived that.
    â€œEasy, easy—just two more rungs,” he cautioned, moving into position to catch her if she stumbled.
    â€œGet out of the way, in case I fall. I don’t want to mash you.”
    â€œGo ahead, mash me,” he said with a shaky laugh. By the time she was one rung off the ground, his arms were around her. Breathless, she turned, placed her