Ophelia,” the butler announced. “I showed him into the parlor.” “Thank you, Bernard.” Ophelia glanced at her bodyguard, mildly surprised that he made no move to accompany the butler. Andrew Whitaker had said fewer than twenty words since his arrival three weeks ago—scarcely enough to identify himself and say that David had asked him to fill in until further notice. “Finish your breakfast. Mr. Osborn is waiting.” She flushed when she realized that Andrew had caught her staring. The fact that he usually stonewalled her made Ophelia long for the days she had spent with David. ~*~ For once, Harry was glad that Ophelia was related to him. From the way her gown of amethyst velvet fell across her curves, to the way her eyes alternately sparkled and snapped; Harry suspected that his sister was a danger to any man that met her. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” The amethyst and silver slave bracelet on Ophelia’s left hand momentarily distracted him. “That’s not your engagement ring,”
