Unwrapping the Playboy by Marie Ferrarella

been told,” Jewel said just before she hung up.
    He replaced the receiver.
    Okay, he thought, everything was in motion and he was committed. No turning back now.
    Kullen rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

Chapter Eight
    T here was wealth and then there was wealth, Kullen decided as he caught his first glimpse of the thirty-room mansion where Elizabeth Dalton resided. It was one of five such houses, for lack of a better word, that she owned.
    He took it all in as he slowly drove up the winding, light blue-gray paved driveway. Comprised of carefully chosen pavers, the path appeared far more pristine than his own kitchen floor after his once-a-month cleaning service got through with it.
    Elizabeth Dalton could qualify as her own self-contained country, keeping an army of people employed. Some one not only maintained the vast grounds but obviously cleaned them as well. Diligently.
    He brought his sedan to a stop beside an impressive marble fountain. A sculpture of Neptune, water shooting from his trident, caught Kullen’s attention. The fountainstood several yards before a building that could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be referred to as a home. The word compound came to mind. Especially when a smartly uniformed young man unobtrusively emerged from the side to inform him that he would be parking the car. The apparition put his hand out for the keys.
    Getting out, Kullen eyed the man uncertainly. Apparently Elizabeth Dalton had her own valet. Nobody should be that rich.
    â€œIt’ll be waiting for you when you come out, sir,” the valet assured him as he continued holding his hand out, waiting for the keys.
    Kullen was neither accustomed to this kind of service when paying a courtesy call to an opposing client, nor to being addressed as “sir” by someone roughly his own age. Possibly older. There was something uncomfortable about both situations.
    But, in the interest of being cooperative, he nodded and surrendered his key.
    Getting in behind the wheel, the valet told him, “Terrence will take you to Mrs. Dalton.”
    â€œTerrence,” Kullen muttered under his breath, turning toward the mansion’s front door. “Who the hell is Terrence?”
    Terrence, it turned out, was the man who opened the door when Kullen rang the bell. Actually, he reconsidered as it continued pealing, bell was a paltry word in this case. Cathedral chimes was a more appropriate description of the sound that resulted from a simple press of his forefinger.
    The woman certainly knew how to be intimidating—too bad it was all lost on him, Kullen thought, lookingaround and taking it all in as he was led into the ornate foyer. He’d grown up living in the same house with his father who had, in his own way, turned intimidating into an art form. Anthony Manetti had done it out of love, his mother had maintained. Being so strict was just his way of getting the very best out of his people and his children.
    Kullen had never appreciated the lesson until just now. It prepared him for meeting the likes of Elizabeth Warfield Dalton.
    â€œMrs. Dalton is waiting for you in the library,” the tall, thin man who had introduced himself as Terrence informed him, leading the way to one side of the building.
    Kullen could have sworn that the hike from the door to the so-called library—did people actually have libraries these days?—was close to a half mile.
    He should have brought breadcrumbs. Either that, or a pocket GPS to help him find the front door when the time came.
    At the end of a journey filled with twists and turns was Elizabeth Dalton. She sat on a sofa, her face turned toward the door. A regal, attractive auburn-haired woman, she had the carriage of a queen. Kullen had a feeling that he was in danger of hearing her shout, “Off with his head!” if he displeased her.
    â€œMr. Manetti, you came,” Elizabeth said in a firm, confident voice.
    She Who Must Be Obeyed, he