Zoya recognized Roman DeRoux from the stack of pictures Miss Charamel kept in a leather box on the mantle. But he looked different in the flesh.

A little south of six feet, he wore faded jeans, topped with a fleece-lined jacket. Days worth of stubble surrounded full lips. Dark brown hair curled beneath the edge of a knit beanie while cold brown eyes stared back.

Zoya rose from the water, reached for the towel hanging on the rack next to him, and wrapped herself, tucking in the corner to secure it.

"Did you escape?"

He blinked like it was a stupid question, but it wasn't. Newspaper clippings she'd read said he'd been denied parole twice because he wouldn't admit guilt.

He clenched his teeth. "I'm asking the questions. Who are you?"

"Zoya Hart."

He half-grinned as if the name was a punchline, then snarled. "Zoya? I don't think so."

"Well, I don't care what you think. That's my name and I live here because Miss Charamel said I could."

"New owner. New rules. Get your shit and get out."

His lips barely moved, and she thought of all the villains she'd seen on The Catch, but despite his demeanor, he didn't scare her.

She dried off, folded the towel and laid it on the commode, then pushed past him into the bedroom where she took panties from the dresser and stepped into them. Next, she pulled a Madonna tee-shirt over her head. "No."

"This is my house and you're trespassing."

His voice was low-pitched, and when she faced him, his mouth clamped into a thin line. A muscle in his jaw worked. She reminded herself this was a man just out of prison, yet she still didn't feel threatened. She folded her arms under her breasts. "It's almost one o'clock. I have work tomorrow. We can talk about this in the morning."

At first, he said nothing, just scanned the full length of her body, sizing her up, and she felt more naked than she'd been minutes ago. He locked his eyes on hers, and his gaze darkened. "I'm twice your size. You know I can throw your scrawny ass out the front door and you won't be able to do anything about it."

"I know. But you won't." Turning back the covers, she crawled into bed.

Too road weary to deal with conflict, Roman cursed under his breath and slammed the bathroom door. Where did she get off telling him what to do? Stubborn as Charamel, and his lola didn't take shit from anyone. He couldn't help but admire that quality. Yet, this little wisp surprised him. He could chew her up and spit her out, but she hadn't flinched. Hell, she wasn't even embarrassed to be naked in front of him. She'd taken her own sweet time drying off, then when she'd pulled on those black bikinis, he had to force himself to look away.

He drained the tub, refilled it, and spied the bottle sitting on the sink. He brought it to his nose and inhaled. Squeezing two squirts into the water, bubbles began to form. Damn. He sank into the foam leaving nothing but head and knees above water. He was too big for the claw-foot, but it felt good to lie back and let the heat loosen his bones.

His eyelids weighed heavy and a vision of the stranger's curvy, naked body swam before his eyes. He dunked his head. Maybe the heat would melt the image away. A ridiculous name like Zoya didn't fit. There was something going on with her and he didn't need complications. She had to go. But this first encounter told him bullying wouldn't work, so he'd have to come up with a new tactic.

By the time Zoya left for work the next morning, Roman was snoring to high heaven. His arrival created a problem she'd have to face, but not yet. She had a year left in her plan and wasn't leaving without a fight.

He should still be locked up. If he escaped, he was crazy to come here. The Catch episodes 42, 73, and 87 proved cops checked with relatives first.

As she backed out of the drive, she noticed the faded bumper sticker on his motorcycle. She squinted to make out the words.

It only seems kinky the first time.

Something in her chest fluttered, and she reminded herself how Charamel described Roman. A good boy. Last night, he'd not followed through with his threat of throwing her out, so maybe that was still true. Once he saw what a helpful housemate she was, he'd want her to stay. She'd already started making herself indispensable.

Fifteen minutes later, she wheeled into the funeral home parking lot. Joshua's truck wasn't there, so that was a relief. Perhaps her refusal to his last invitation finally got through to him. She pulled her sweater tight around her to ward off the chill.

"Good morning, Mrs. Foster."

"Good morning, Zoya. Here are the details for Vesper, Moore, and Patel. I scheduled all of their services for tomorrow, with visitations this evening."

Zoya tucked the list in her jeans pocket. Since the only funeral home in the neighboring town of Breaux Bridge closed, business at Foster had picked up. She wouldn't complain. She liked the extra hours.

Grabbing her cosmetic bag, she headed to Room One where Riana Vesper waited. She glanced at the info sheet. Age thirty-six. Died during surgery. Her eyes widened. Riana used to be Reece. She strolled back to the office and poked her head inside. "Uh, Mrs. Foster. I just want to double check on the Vesper body. Am I supposed to do female makeup? I mean, Reece became Riana. Right?"

The secretary cupped her mouth and leaned forward. "Well, unfortunately he... she... didn't live long enough for the change to be made. They prepped him, but before they could remove the appendage, he suffered a massive heart attack. Physically, he's still male and must be listed that way on the paperwork, but his partner insisted he go out as a woman. Oh, and there shouldn't be a problem with facial hair. He'd been taking hormones for months."

"Okay."

Zoya remembered a television interview with Billy Graham, where he'd described Heaven. He'd said it would be whatever made us happy. For him, beautiful golf courses. She didn't know if that was true, but he knew more about the subject than she did, so she'd take his word. Since Riana's funeral would be her girly debut for a lot of folks, Zoya wanted to make her as beautiful as possible. She figured Riana deserved to look like the woman she wanted to be upon arrival at the Pearly Gates.

"Riana, I want to do something really special for you." Zoya chose two bottles of nail polish and shook them. "I'm going to tessellate your nails. That's my word of the day. It means to form or arrange in a checkered pattern." An hour later, with the manicure finished, Zoya applied the lipstick shade, Peach Petal, then highlighted it with Silver Lights. It always amazed her at what the finishing touch did for a woman. Adding the right lip color made all the difference. She rolled her chair away and swept her eyes over the final results. Platinum-tipped blond hair. Warm Umber blended with Golden Mink eyeshadow. Coral Tango blush. As Lemon would say, holy hell. Riana looked good.

Zoya tore a page from her notebook and slipped it inside the woman's camisole. "If you meet Miss Charamel, give her this. She needs to know her grandson showed up last night. I think he broke out of prison, but don't tell her that part. Anyway, you have a nice trip and I hope you like what I've done with your makeup."

Rain pounded on the tin roof and woke Roman. He stretched, then burrowed deep into the down mattress. It was the best night's sleep he'd had in nine years. Even without liquor or sex, he'd had no nightmares. Then he remembered the kid and his attitude flared. Swinging his feet to the floor, he grabbed his watch from the side table. He wanted to settle the squatter situation ASAP. He focused on the dial. Almost noon. Dammit. She'd said she had work, but that couldn't be right. She should be in school.

He hated that he had to pass through her bedroom to get to the bathroom. Her bedroom. Hell no. He couldn't think of it that way. When he got to the door, he stopped and peeked in. The bed was made.

After he relieved himself, he went back to look for his clothes from last night. Nowhere to be found, he pulled a clean shirt and jeans from his bag and put them on. She must have taken them. But why? Easy answer. From the looks of the house, she didn't want anything out of place. Good. His messiness alone should be enough incentive for her to leave.

He strolled to the kitchen to make coffee and hoped he remembered how. On the counter lay a note.

Do not let the cats out of the laundry room.

Do not feed them.

Pancakes on stove. Microwave for 55 seconds. Syrup and honey are on the table.

Coffee ready. Push the on button.

When finished, please rinse your dirty dishes and load them into the dishwasher.

Wipe table off. Be careful to not get crumbs on floor.

Drape the dishcloth over the faucet to dry.

I'll run the dishwasher and clean the coffee pot when I get home.

You're welcome.

Zoya

He stared at the instructions. You're welcome? He needed a cigarette. And something stronger than coffee. But first, he'd eat breakfast. No need to let it waste. He warmed up the stack of pancakes per her instructions, enough to feed a small army, and damn if they weren't as good as his lola's. He could almost see the Charamel from his youth in her housecoat and slippers at the stove, her hair just starting to salt and pepper.

Finishing his coffee, he pushed back from the table. Whoever she was, she could cook. But that still wasn't enough reason to let her stay. He should check her room. As owner, it was his right. He sprinted down the hallway and turned first to her closet.

Depressing. Six pairs of jeans. A dozen tee-shirts. Three sets of shoes. Hell, she barely had more clothes than he did. He moved to the bureau and opened a drawer. Dangling a pair of bikinis from his finger, heat crawled up his neck. He dropped them and turned his attention to the side table.

After digging through every drawer, careful not to mess anything up, he found nothing. He folded his arms and stared at the scenery painted on the wall. She'd captured the view from the window. Trees. Shed. Garden spot. Charamel standing between a row of pole beans and tomatoes. His throat tightened. She had on the pink bonnet and flowered apron he'd seen her wear a thousand times. Beside her, two cats circled her ankles.

He got down on all fours to look under furniture. There were paint cans behind the chair. He rose and lifted them out. One didn't have a speck of drips and wasn't heavy. He took the army knife from his pocket and pried off the lid. Fuck. It was stuffed with cash and a few pictures. He dumped it onto the spread. All hundred-dollar bills. Had to be thousands here.

His mind raced. Thief? Drug dealer? He picked up the stack of photos. A couple with a baby. On the back, something had been written, but marked out. He held it up to the light, but couldn't make out any words.

Dammit.

He stuffed it all back and replaced it. No reason to speculate. Didn't matter. As soon as she got home, she was leaving and taking the cats with her. Right now, he had errands. Leisure time was over and he was ready to get started on the house. Arcadia didn't offer much in the way of building supplies, but neighboring city, Breaux Bridge had plenty. Before heading there, he'd stop in town for some smokes and a bottle of whiskey.

He had a feeling he was going to need a drink.

Jeez. Zoya and Roman are definitely not getting off to a good start as housemates.  How do you think that will pan out?

TEASER:  "Something's not right about her, and when it all hits the fan, I don't need the grief."