"It's right enough. Sometimes the right thing changes, so you have to do what's right for now."

She thought about that after she showed him where he could sleep, after digging up a spare toothbrush and making sure the towels were fresh and plentiful.

The right thing changed, that was true. And sometimes what you thought was right ended up being a wrong turn but a necessary one. She wasn't sure if Duncan was the right thing or a wrong turn, but she'd fallen in love with him.

Had probably stubbed her toe on that the first time she'd seen him, then tripped a little when she'd sat in the pub, laughing with him and enjoying the music. Another little stumble here, a loss of balance there, and the fall was inevitable.

Now, she supposed, she had to figure out what the right thing was, and how to do it. For now.

A big perk to waking up the lone guy in a household of women, Duncan decided, was the big, home-cooked breakfast. It didn't suck to be fussed over, either, like the newly crowned prince of Femaleland while he enjoyed coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice.

Ava managed the morning stove, and by his gauge that was the general routine. But due to manly company, Essie set out what he figured were the good dishes, with coordinating linen napkins.

Essie fussed, filling a fancy sugar bowl and creamer, pouring freshly squeezed juice into a sparkling pitcher, rounding up a little squat bottle of zinnias. He could only assume, as the tasks had her all but bouncing around the kitchen, she was having as good a time as he was.

"Now don't pester Duncan, Carly. He hasn't even finished his first cup of coffee yet."

"Great coffee," Duncan said.

"How come I'm not having cereal?" Carly wanted to know. "Because Ava's making omelets. But you can have cereal if that's what you want."

"I don't care."

Duncan gave Carly a poke in the ribs. Despite the pout, she looked pretty as a picture in a ruffly yellow shirt and blue pants. "Hard day at the office coming up?"

She rolled her eyes in his direction. "I go to school. And we have to take an arithmetic test today. I don't see why we have to multiply and divide all the time. It's just numbers. They don't do anything."

"You don't like numbers? I love numbers. Numbers are a thing of beauty."

Carly sniffed. "I don't need numbers. I'm going to be an actress. Or a personal shopper."

"Well, if you're an actress how are you going to count your lines?" Duncan considered earning a second eye roll a badge of honor. "Anybody can count."

"Only with the beauty of numbers. Then you have to figure out how much you're going to make-so you can buy that house in Malibuafter you pay your agent her percentage, and pay your bodyguards so the paparazzi don't hound you. You got to have yourself an entourage, kid, and do the math so you can call up that personal shopper when it's time for the Oscars."

Carly considered. "Maybe I'll just be the personal shopper. Then I only have to know about clothes. I know about clothes already."

"What's your commission?"

This time he got a frown instead of an eye roll. "I don't know what that is."

"It's how much you make when you sell Jennifer Aniston that vin tage Chanel gown. You get a cut of what it costs. So say it costs five thousand, and you get ten percent. Plus, she needs shoes, and a purse thing. So what's your commission? Gotta do the math."

Her eyes narrowed now. "I get something every time they buy something? I get money, every time?"

"Pretty sure that's how it works."

Interest lit her face and banished the pout. "I don't know how to do percent."

"I do. Got paper?"

When Phoebe walked in, her family was circled around the table. Creamy omelets, fancy strips of Ava's masterful French toast, crisp bacon invited healthy appetites to tuck right in.

Duncan ate with his left hand while Carly, her chair scooted up beside his, leaned over his rapidly scribbling right.

"She needs earrings! She has to have earrings, too."

"Okay. How much for the ear dangles?"

"A million dollars!"

"You're the Satan of personal shoppers." He flicked a glance up, smiled. "Morning."

"Mama! We're doing percent, so I can figure out how much I'll make when I'm a personal shopper. I already made six thousand dollars on commission."

"Jennifer Aniston's up for an Oscar," Ava explained. "She needs to be outfitted, of course."

"Of course."

"And needs ensembles for various appearances."

Phoebe walked around to read the list Duncan had going. "Jen's on quite the spree."

"Numbers are fun."

Phoebe gaped at her daughter. "I think I've walked into a parallel universe, one where numbers are fun and there's omelets on Tuesday mornings."

"Sit right down," Essie told her. "We've kept yours warm in the oven."

Phoebe checked her watch. "I guess I've got time to force down a few bites. Numbers are fun," she repeated as she sat on the other side of her daughter. "How come they weren't fun when I made little bunnies and kittens out of them to show you how they multiplied?"

"Numbers are more fun when they're money."

Phoebe picked up her coffee, shook her head. "Mind yourself with this one, Duncan. She's a gold digger."

"She picks up a couple more clients like Jen here, she's going to be supporting me. Look how pretty you are in the morning. Even prettier than Ava's omelets-which is going some. I expect there isn't a man in Savannah with a better view than I've got here in this kitchen." Phoebe's brows winged up. "What did you put in his omelet, Ava?"

"Whatever it was, I'll make sure it goes in every time."

He ate cold cereal straight out of the box and washed it down with bitter black coffee. He hadn't shaved that morning. He hadn't showered.

He knew he was standing on the slippery edge of a bout of depression. He wanted the anger back. The anger and the purpose. They could get lost in that blue pit of depression, he knew. He'd lost them before. There was medication, duly prescribed. But he preferred the speed he'd bought from a friend of a friend. Still, he knew the uppers were a bad choice. He could do the rash and the reckless with that heady juice rushing through him.

He'd already done the reckless, hadn't he? Plugging that idiot rabbit was one thing. But he should've saved it-a few days in the freezer, then he could've dumped it on Phoebe anytime in the dead of night. He'd nearly gotten caught by rushing it. But he'd been so pissed off! She wasn't taking the heat for Johnson. Not from the department, not from the press, not from the public. The stupid fucker's mother had made Phoebe her new best friend. And that maudlin, that pitiful statement outside the funeral home played over and over on the news, on the talk shows.

Made that fumbling bitch look like Mother fucking Teresa instead of the ambitious, grasping, stumbling cunt she was.

He'd let the anger take over-always a mistake. He'd let it rule so he'd driven straight to her house, tossed the corpse up. He'd meant it to land on the veranda but his hand had been shaking with rage, and his aim was short.

He'd nearly gone after it, had started to, when light spilled out of the house next door.

He could see himself-humiliated even now-hiding in the bushes while that crazy bitch walked out with her ugly excuse for a dog. And he knew, he knew she walked that dog right at dusk, every single night. He knew, but he hadn't used the knowledge. He'd only used the anger.

And what if that crazy woman or her ugly excuse for a dog had seen him? It wasn't time for that yet.

He'd actually imagined killing them both. Snapping necks like celery stalks and leaving them on Phoebe's front steps.

But it wasn't the time.

He had a plan. A plan and a purpose. An agenda.

Now the rage was gone, and the purpose was blurred with a damning sense of failure. He'd wasted his time on that Posse asshole. Taken a stupid risk and wasted bullets.