It was boxy and officious-looking, with a flat roofline and dark-tinted windows. A short barbered hedge bordered the brick front pathway bisecting the small patch of grass meticulously cut by the housing association’s gardeners to her father’s exacting standards. There was a groundskeeper sweeping the bricks at this very moment—Corbett Pearson didn’t allow the whine of leaf blowers within the range of his hearing. She smiled at the gardener in passing, then reached the front door and pressed the bell. There was a house key back at her apartment, but even if she’d had it with her, she wouldn’t have used it. Her father didn’t appreciate such liberties. He opened the door, and his chilly gaze swept over her. “Jane,” he said. “You look a bit…feverish.” Oh, damn. She thought she’d managed to counteract her flushed state with the air-conditioning set on High during the entire ride over. Damn Griffin!
