Savannah Secrets
Still, like it or not, he was intrigued. At what point, he wondered suddenly, had the question of Rowena’s estate gone from being an annoying interruption to becoming a challenge? He glanced down at the file once more, a half smile hovering. So she thought she’d get to him with the poodle bit, did she? Well, she was wrong. He didn’t give a damn who her money went to. The poodles were welcome to it. Though Meredith Hunter was unlikely to give him any peace until he’d taken an ultimate decision in writing, based on legal argument.
Flinging himself down once more in the chair, he gave the material his full attention, still torn between a desire to consign it to the flames and a growing need to get the better of Rowena Carstairs, dead or alive. As he studied the specifics of the bequest—the various estates, the museum-quality artwork, the extraordinary stock-and-bond portfolio—he let out a low whistle. By any standard, this was a hell of a lot of money to leave to one person, let alone an unknown illegitimate grandson. What, he wondered, stretching his long legs toward the fire, had she meant to achieve by it?
In all these years—at least not since adolescence—he’d never allowed himself to wonder about the man and woman who had sired him. That they hadn’t wanted him was all he really knew. And so he’d simply expelled them from his mind, concentrating on himself and the present, discovering early in life that self-preservation was the safest route to avoiding pain. Now, for some reason he could not explain, this whole thing got his back up. What, he wondered, would his reaction have been if he didn’t own all he had today? Would he have accepted gladly? Been thankful to Rowena for remembering him?
He didn’t think so.
Still, it was a tidy sum that, well invested, could be put to good use. The rational thing, of course, would be to forget any personal issues and take the money, assuming it didn’t inconvenience him to do so. But the fact of the matter was that Rowena seemed to have set out to inconvenience him, to capture his curiosity and force him to reconnect with his birth family. Why? he asked himself again. Why bother? What could the woman have wanted from him? For all at once, he was certain the bequest was not an outright gift—Rowena definitely wanted something in return. But at this point he just couldn’t figure out what.
Rising, he returned to the cluttered study and sat down at his desk, determined to forget. Work was an infallible antidote.
But after several minutes spent trying to concentrate on the zoning restrictions on undeveloped parkland, he gave up, threw his hands in the air and groaned.
“Damn the lot of them,” he growled. Rowena, Meredith Hunter, this unknown half sister—they’d all slipped through his well-honed defenses.
Leaving the study, he headed into the hall and placed the file on top of his jacket on the chair where he’d left it lying earlier in the day. He’d never had any brothers or sisters. Hadn’t wanted any. Could do without any now, thank you very much.
And that’s exactly what he planned on telling the lovely Ms. Meredith Hunter, he decided as he headed upstairs to change.
7
Back at the Strathcairn Arms, Meredith lay down on the purple bedspread and closed her eyes. The brisk walk along the seafront had done little to calm her irritation. Here she was, stuck in the boondocks, thwarted by the selfish whims of an insufferable man she thoroughly despised. She could barely recall the last time she’d experienced such total frustration. Hadn’t she come here for his benefit? Perhaps digging up his past wasn’t the easiest thing to accept, even for a man like him. But still. He was an adult, a man of the world—supposedly—who could at least act with common courtesy. Glancing at her watch, Meredith let out an impatient huff and drummed her foot rhythmically against the side of the bed. It would still be several hours before she could reach Tracy and discuss this latest development. She had a feeling that although Gallagher was determined to be recalcitrant, his curiosity was whetted all the same. What, she wondered, dropping her chin on her palm, would it take to persuade him that coming to the States was a good idea?
Slipping on a pair of jeans and a thick sweater, she went downstairs for a drink in the pub, grateful for its cheery warmth after such a dreary morning.
“Hi, Jim,” she called to the landlord, who was cheerfully chatting to several customers. Then she sat down at what she was fast coming to consider “her” table, the cozy nook in the corner under the beams, with the sagging bench heaped with tartan cushions.
Determined not to dwell on Gallagher’s insufferable behavior, Meredith ordered a gin and tonic and began thinking of persuasive arguments to lure Grant Gallagher to the U.S. Unless he came to Miami, there was little that could legally be done for Dallas. And if he insisted on ignoring the bequest, well, she sighed, there were going to be some pretty pampered poodles in the state of Georgia. What an awful waste, she decided, watching Jim as he stood behind the bar carefully pouring a pint for an elderly white-haired man seated on a stool at the bar.
It was barely twelve o’clock, but as she took the first sip of her drink Meredith felt that after her morning’s travails she deserved every last drop. Once she’d convinced Jim to load her drink with ice—an unknown concept, apparently—she listened as he and the two white-haired kilted customers exchanged views on the weather and local politics.
Meredith listened, amused, thinking how similar life was around the world: the same complaints, the same worries and exigencies. Then Moira came in and assured her that it was close to lunchtime and that today there was excellent steak-and-kidney pie on the menu.
Feeling more relaxed, Meredith pulled a road map from her purse, determined to make sure she got on the right road back to Glasgow. As soon as this matter with Gallagher was settled, she was heading straight back to Savannah. She was just seeking Jim’s advice on the quickest route when the door to the street opened. Poring over the map, she didn’t notice a shadow standing next to the table until it was on top of her.
“Ms. Hunter?”
“Oh!” Meredith jumped and looked up with a start, astonished to see Grant Gallagher’s tall figure looming over the table.
“May I?” He didn’t wait for an answer but pulled off his Barbour jacket and slid down opposite her onto the bench. Recovering from her amazement, she watched warily as he retrieved the file from his capacious pocket and placed it on the table. He looked different. He’d showered and shaved, and Meredith caught a whiff of cologne. He might have a number of defects, she admitted, but she’d have to be blind not to recognize what an extremely attractive man he was.
“You left this behind,” he said, indicating the file.
“Right.” Meredith regrouped and, adopting a professional attitude, smiled briefly. “I presume you’ve read it?”
“Yes.”
“So you’ve seen the provisos?”
“Yes. I did.” He leaned back against the cushions, his eyes hooded.
“Good,” she replied briskly, “then you realize something needs to be done.”
“No. I haven’t changed my mind. I just came to give you your file back.” He pushed the manila envelope across the table.
“I wish you—”
“She and her daughter had a choice,” he interrupted, the trace of the bitterness she’d heard earlier entering his voice. “They made their decision. They probably had a number of perfectly good reasons for doing so. It doesn’t matter anymore.” He gave a shrug. “But I have my life, and I’m not going to let Rowena or anyone else foist their bad conscience on me. It’s too easy.”
Meredith watched an angry, cynical expression cover his handsome features, amazed when she experienced a flash of pity. She shoved it aside. Winning this battle had become a personal challenge. Never mind that she was embroiled up to the neck in Rowena’s affairs or that she wanted to do right by Dallas. The truth was that this was starting to mean something to her personally. She wanted to sort this mess out properly. For a moment she recalled Professor Morecombe’s advice when he’d told his students never, ever to become emotionally involved with their clients. They were a case. That was all.
She certainly hadn’t succeeded this time.
“I don’t need Granny’s charity,” he continued in the same ironical tone.
“Nobody thinks you do, Mr. Gallagher.”
“Grant,” he answered, looking straight at her, his inscrutable blue eyes gazing directly at her.
Meredith hesitated. “Okay, then, Grant,” she answered, surprised.
“At least Rowena was right about one thing,” he said, raising his brows. “I’ve made my own packet and don’t need anyone else’s. Perhaps I do have some of her in me after all.” He let out a dry, low laugh. “I don’t suppose my moth—Isabel—is pleased with all this, is she?” he asked, his voice dark and cynical. “I mean, she must have done something pretty terrible—besides getting pregnant with me, of course—to get on old Rowena’s bad side, because she’s been cut out of the will, too, right? You haven’t mentioned much about her,” he said, barely masking his hostility.
“I’m afraid she’s dead.”
He looked at her, completely expressionless, then rose quickly to his feet and moved toward the bar. After exchanging a few words with Jim, he returned with a pint of Guinness and a fresh gin and tonic. Placing them on the wooden surface, he sat down again. “Dead,” he commented, as though the conversation had not been abruptly interrupted. “How old was she when she had me?” He tipped back his glass.
“About seventeen, I guess.”
“Exactly what I thought.” He sounded satisfied.
“Maybe your grandmother was trying to make it up to you in some way,” she murmured, trying a new approach.
“With a payoff, you mean? Like they did the first time around? Paid to have her ‘little mistake’ taken care of?”
“Maybe.” Meredith shifted uncomfortably. “Or maybe Isabel wasn’t able to care for you herself and they wanted to find you a good home,” she said, keeping her voice neutral.
He let out another bark of humorless laughter, took another sip and eyed her cynically. “Don’t try to sugarcoat this, gorgeous. I’m a big boy. I can take it.”
“My name is Meredith Hunter, not ‘gorgeous,’” she bit back. “And I’d appreciate it if we could keep this conversation professional. I’m not interested in your dysfunctional psychological issues.”
“Dysfunc—what the hell are you talking about?” He slammed the tankard down abruptly.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
Вы ознакомились с фрагментом книги.
Для бесплатного чтения открыта только часть текста.
Приобретайте полный текст книги у нашего партнера:
Полная версия книги