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.

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