Wrong Place, Wrong Time (Pete 'Monty' Montgomery 1)

“Very well.” He disappeared.

A murmur of voices followed, after which Devon heard the click-click of high heels approaching. A minute later, a striking young woman of about Devon’s age appeared at the door. She was wearing a black Donna Karan suit, and her dark hair feathered the sides of her face, complementing her high cheekbones and fair complexion, before brushing the top of her shoulders in a blunt, silky cut.

“Hello—Devon, isn’t it?” Seeing Devon’s nod, she opened the door wider. “Won’t you come in?” She scrutinized Devon as she complied, her pale green gaze as sharp as chips of jade. Then she extended her hand. “I’m Cassidy Pierson. Frederick is…was…my uncle.”

Cassidy Pierson. Devon could see the page in her mind’s eye. VP of human resources. Twenty-eight years old. Daughter of Gregory. Sister of Blake.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Devon replied, shaking Cassidy’s hand. “Although I wish it were under different circumstances.”

“As do I.” Cassidy waved her arm toward the rear of the sprawling, dimly lit house. “Please join us.”

“I don’t want to intrude. I just…” Devon cleared her throat. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry. And maybe to be among others who understand. I didn’t know your uncle, but my mother held him in high regard.”

Cassidy’s probing gaze softened. “You’re scared. I don’t blame you. Whoever did this horrible thing is still out there.”

“And so’s my mother.”

“I know.” Cassidy turned as the pickle reappeared. “Albert, please take our guest’s coat.”

“Certainly.” He waited while Devon shrugged out of it, then draped it over his arm and walked away.

“Are you sure this isn’t a bad time?” Devon felt compelled to ask.

“Not yet. Right now it’s just family and a few close friends. Later, it’ll be a circus.” Cassidy’s reply was refreshingly and, surprisingly, honest. “Come on,” she urged. “I’ll introduce you.”

Devon followed her through the polished hardwood foyer. The house was imposing. Like the family.

The voices grew more distinct, and the foyer opened up into an expansive pillared living room with burgundy leather sofas, walnut chairs and end tables, and about a dozen chatting people.

The Pierson clan.

All eyes were on Devon as she stepped into the room. Her first thought was that she now understood what Cinderella must have felt like when she made an entrance into a royal ballroom. Her second thought was that she was glad she’d listened to her instincts and changed into a tailored pantsuit before heading over here from her mother’s. The jeans and sweater she’d had on before would have stuck out like a sore thumb.

“This is Devon Montgomery,” Cassidy announced—a mere formality, since everyone already knew who she was.

Actually, they weren’t at too much of an advantage. Devon had very little trouble figuring out who was who. She quickly put faces to the names and profiles Monty had gone over with her last night.

Anne Pierson was a matriarch if ever there was one. The grande dame of the family, she had silver white hair, piercing ice blue eyes, and a regal carriage that nearly made Devon curtsy instead of acknowledging Cassidy’s introduction with a handshake.

“I’m so terribly sorry about your loss,” Devon told her sincerely.

Those frosty eyes pinned her to the spot. “Thank you. Has there been any word on your mother?”

“None since yesterday. We’re trying to stay positive.”

“Of course you are.” It sounded more like an accusation than an acknowledgment.

“Grandmother, you should sit down,” Cassidy interceded to suggest. “You look exhausted.”

“You’re right. I am.” Anne lingered a moment longer, her gaze fixed on Devon. Abruptly, she turned away. “Please excuse me.” It sounded more like an order than a request.

Next, Cassidy introduced Devon to her uncle Niles and aunt Lynn, followed by her parents, Gregory and Natalie.

No surprises there, either. Niles and Lynn were the snobs; Gregory and Natalie were the free spirits.

Devon was just meeting Philip Rhodes when there was a commotion from the hall, and a golden retriever puppy exploded into the living room. He was about three or four months old, Devon surmised; still chubby, with paws too big for his legs—a furry, adorable, clumsy ball of energy.

Ignoring the exclamations, he shook off a layer of snow, then sprinted into the center of the room, stumbling, panting, and wagging his tail all at once. His warm brown gaze found Devon and he bounded over, sniffing as he did. He jumped up, yanking at Devon’s blazer with his teeth, and yipped excitedly. Just as swiftly, he was back on all fours, crouching down so he could sniff at the hem of her pants. He grabbed the material between his teeth and began to chew, just as a tall, dark-haired man strode over, snapping his fingers and commanding: “Chomper! Drop it!”