by Willa Blair
“The estate has provided an allowance, should you require any new clothing, coats, or shoes. You may not be prepared for the change of seasons here on the water.”
“I come from Scotland. Yer weather canna be any worse than a Scottish winter.”
Farrell cleared his throat, apparently too polite to disagree directly.
“As you wish, miss. Dinner will be served in the small dining room at seven o’clock. If you would like something before then, you have only to ask.”
Caitlin’s stomach picked that moment to rumble. “I believe I would—just something light to hold me over for a couple of hours. It is five?”
“Five o’clock, yes. I’ll have Mrs. Smith bring a tray straight up. Wine, cheese, fruit, paté, and crackers? Or would you prefer something hot? Soup, perhaps?”
“The cheese tray sounds lovely. Thank you. Will Mr. Ridley be joining me for dinner?”
“I’m sorry, but no. He is, at this moment, in California. He’s expected in a few days. By then, perhaps you will have a completed a preliminary survey and developed a sense of the furnishings contained in the house. An estimate of the time you will need to complete your assessment and catalog will, no doubt, be useful.”
Caitlin suspected that was more than a suggestion. Rather, he’d just given her fair warning. The boss would want information when he arrived. “Perhaps after dinner, you will give me the tour you mentioned.”
“I’d be honored.” He didn’t quite bow, but inclined his head. “I’ll leave you to relax.” He glanced toward the door to the Roman spa attached to her suite. “Mrs. Smith will be up with a tray in a few minutes and will leave it on the writing table, there.”
He indicated the surface with a nod in its direction, just in case she decided to take advantage of the sybaritic pleasures of that bath. He didn’t have to say it. The implication was clear. And with a glance over her shoulder, Caitlin agreed. It was a damn good idea.
Farrell excused himself and left her to unpack and settle in. Her tray arrived ten minutes later, just as Caitlin had begun to hang the clothes she’d brought in the cavernous closet.
Caitlin finished stowing her things and nibbled on the contents of the tray then headed for the Roman bath. She might as well enjoy herself if she was going to be working and eating alone until her employer showed up demanding a progress report.
****
Holt knew better than to take the commercial redeye to JFK. That overnight flight always put him in a bad mood, but his jet was in for maintenance. Tired and hungry after finding nothing decent to eat in his arrival terminal, he stared out the window on the short hop out to Islip, wondering how long it would take to hook up with a ride-share driver. Instead a well-dressed older man in the arrivals lounge held a sign with his name on it.
“I’m Farrell, your great-aunt Amelia’s assistant. Luggage, sir?”
Holt glanced at his briefcase. He’d put the lawyer’s paperwork there, so he’d hang onto it. He handed over his go-bag, something he took whenever he traveled. One never knew when a flight, even his private plane, would be delayed or canceled by weather or mechanical failure. “I plan to catch a return flight as soon as possible. Let’s go.” The ride out to Hampton Dales would give him time to get his equilibrium back. He squinted in the morning sunshine as Farrell led him to a black limo.
As he'd hoped, at the end of the hour and a half drive, Holt felt much better. The limo pulled through the gate that broke the line of the high, dense hedges lining the lane and made its way up the long drive to the main house. Farrell opened the back seat door and stood aside.
Holt swung out of the car and then turned to regard the house. Still an overblown, overlarge tribute to the nineteenth century, with newer wings added to blend with the style but always looking oddly out of place.
The whole sordid mess was his now, evil spirits and all. He’d do what he could to exorcise the bad feelings he retained and then sell the damned lot. Let them become someone else’s problem.
He started for the steps leading to the double front doors, then paused and turned back to Farrell. “Is the appraiser still here?”
Farrell glanced toward the house. “Yes, sir. She arrived the day before yesterday and went immediately to work.”
“She? I assumed the appraiser was a man.”
Farrell’s upper lip quirked. “Not in the least, Mr. Ridley.”
Whatever that meant. At the moment, Holt didn’t care. He wanted this visit finished, his business concluded, and himself on the first available flight west. He shook his head and mounted the stone steps, Farrell on his heels. On the porch, he paused, allowing Farrell to open the door. “Not locked?”
“Not when the staff is in residence—we’re well away from the village. The rare visitor tends to be from the waterside.” At Holt’s frown, he added, “From the occasional boat run aground. The point is wreathed in shifting sands, sir.”
“Indeed. I’d forgotten.” He’d beached a small rowboat here during a summer squall when he was fourteen but had not dared approach the house. What would he say to the people who’d turned out his mother? Hello, I’m the grandnephew you’ve never welcomed…I need your help? He could imagine how that appeal would have been greeted—with a slammed door. Instead he’d rescued himself, walking a mile in driving rain and wind along the beach. Thankfully he’d reached another estate before the coastline rose too high or steep for him to climb. The staff there had let him call his mother for a ride home. She hadn’t been happy to hear where he’d landed and warned him never to go near the estate again. He’d defended himself, determined to retrieve his boat, blaming the storm, and they’d argued. He still regretted some of the things he’d said.
He wondered if the remains of his little boat still littered the sand. Likely not, after years of tides and storms. Too bad he hadn’t been able to retrieve it. He had a sudden fit of nostalgia, sadness that struck him unexpectedly now and again. Grimly he shook it off and entered the grand foyer.
The first thing he noticed was the height of the ceiling. It soared twenty feet, the cavernous space filled with a large, sparkling crystal chandelier. Ostentatious, he thought, especially for a place referred to as a beach cottage. Smooth black and white tiles laid on the diagonal drew the eye down a long hallway to large windows, or perhaps French doors, leading to the back garden, lush mounds of green punctuated by bright pops of color. The blues of water and sky peeked through gaps in the landscaping. Pocket doors lined the hallway left and right, open and giving glimpses of the rooms within, except for one set. Walnut, he surmised, the closed doors dark and rich against pale walls.
“This way, sir,” Farrell announced.
Holt tensed, startled as Farrell’s voice intruded on his inspection of their surroundings. “Is there an office?”
“There is, but perhaps you’d like a chance to rest, have a meal?”
“No, thank you. I’m only here to inspect the property. I’ll leave my case in the office, then you can show me around.”
Farrell’s mask of noble servitude cracked for just an instant, the line of a frown appearing between his brows, quickly smoothed away. Holt wondered what about his request disturbed the man.
“Very well,” Farrell replied evenly and then gestured toward the closed pocket doors. “In there.”
The doors glided open soundlessly. Farrell waved him forward with an open hand. Holt let his gaze rove over the space before he entered. Sheer curtains softened the shaft of sunlight piercing a part of the gloom. A heavy desk centered on an ornate oriental rug dominated the side of the room nearest the window. Dark paneled walls and velvet drapery on the large single window created a deep sense of quiet.
Opposite the window, a large wall unit stood, doors open. Snug, black pants-clad legs extended from inside onto the floor, then to crossed ankles, and the soles of narrow shoes. The rest of her, for Holt was certain only a woman could boast those delicate ankles, was on hands and knees inspecting something inside the cabinet. He clear
ed his throat.
The woman’s torso jerked upward. A thunk, followed by a mostly unintelligible string of grumbles in an otherwise charming accent, filled the air. She backed out of the cabinet, pert rear then curved hips to a tiny waist, on knees and one hand, the other hand rubbing the back of her head.
“Your pardon, miss,” Farrell intoned from behind him.
“Farrell, how many times do I have to tell ye, dinna sneak up on a lass like that?” she complained as she turned, saw Holt and dropped her hand from the back of her head to her mouth. “Oops, sorry.”
Her comment to Farrell and her position in the cabinet suggested to Holt she was from a cleaning service the estate used. “And you are?” Holt kept his expression neutral, but it took effort. The view from the front was enticing. Large dark brown eyes in a perfect oval face, fair skin, dark auburn hair in a disarrayed pixie cut and a chest designed to counterbalance her nicely curved bottom half. But her expression was so chagrined, he had to stifle a laugh. He saw no reason to embarrass her further.
“Caitlin Paterson,” she replied from behind her hand then dropped it to her side. “And ye are?”
“This is Mr. Holt Ridley,” Farrell announced over Holt’s shoulder. “The heir. Mr. Ridley, your appraiser.”
“Ach, I thought I’d have more time,” Ms. Paterson muttered under her breath, half turning to glance back toward the wall unit she’d just exited, then casting a narrow gaze on Farrell.
Holt was certain she hadn’t meant for that comment to be overheard because she colored when her gaze moved from Farrell to him, and she saw the quirk of his lips. “Interesting to meet you,” he chided with a glance toward the floor of the open cabinet, then back to the roses staining Ms. Paterson’s ivory skin.
This was the expert antique appraiser the lawyer had promised would make a full and complete assessment of the contents of this overblown mausoleum?
“Sorry. I was looking for a maker’s mark in…well, I have no’ found it yet.”
“You will have to continue your search later, Miss Caitlin,” Farrell interjected. “Mr. Ridley has need of the office.”
She huffed and planted her fists on her hips, then, with the heir in the room, must have thought better of arguing. She turned and closed the cabinet door. “Let me know when ye are done, if ye will,” she requested and with a nod to each, strode past them and out the door.
“Young, isn’t she? Yet she’s the appraiser?” Holt couldn’t wait to hear how Miss Caitlin had developed her expertise.
“The very same,” Farrell replied. “She comes highly recommended.”
Holt thought about the view he’d gotten when he first saw the room and decided highly recommended didn’t begin to describe her.
Chapter Two
Long before the end of the day, Holt became convinced his notion of a quick return to California was a lost cause. The house was too big, contained too many valuable things mixed with utter beachy kitch, and needed too much work for him to be able to manage the estate contents and real estate sale from a distance. And if he didn’t stay, he’d have to return next week anyway to answer the damned summons. He texted his assistant to pack a week’s worth of clothing in two suitcases and overnight them to him. He always slept raw, so the lack of anything to wear tonight didn’t bother him. He could live in what he had on his back and in his go-bag long enough for his clothes to arrive. He’d managed with less.
He leaned back from the desk where he’d settled after touring the house to study the papers the lawyer had left with him. The room had darkened around the pool of lamplight while he read. Days were short this far north this time of year. He rang for Farrell, who appeared so quickly, Holt figured he’d been hovering outside the office door. “I’ll be here for a week—possibly as much as ten days. Which room should I use?”
“For the holiday, sir? Would you like us to decorate the house, then?”
Holt snorted. “Not on my account.”
Farrell nodded. “Follow me if you’re ready. I’ve had the master suite prepared in the event you’d remain with us overnight.”
He should have expected that. “Not there. Is my mother’s old room available?”
“Apologies, sir, but Miss Caitlin is currently using it.”
He didn’t bother to ask what was behind Farrell’s hesitation. Miss Caitlin had quickly made herself at home, it seemed.
The master suite loomed large in his imagination. If Holt were a superstitious man, the idea of sleeping in his evil great-aunt’s bed would give him nightmares. He shook off the feeling. He wasn’t a child. “Very well, lead the way.”
The master suite was as ostentatious as the rest of the house. The heavy furniture and heavy draperies didn’t surprise him. Nor did the plumbing in the master bath, barely modernized to early twentieth-century standards. It had the look of old-fashioned luxury but lacked twenty-first-century amenities. Still it was better than what he’d grown up with. It would have to do.
“Your great-aunt had many of the rooms updated, baths included, but preferred her own as you find it,” Farrell told him. “The bedding, of course, has been changed, and we will acquire any toiletries you prefer. I hope you will be comfortable here.” He put Holt’s go-bag on the brocade-covered padded bench at the end of the bed.
Holt had slept in worse. “Thank you.”
Farrell went to the door, then paused. “Make yourself at home. Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes. I’ll escort you—”
“I can find my way to the dining room.”
“The small dining room, if you please, sir.” Farrell nodded and left him alone.
Holt unpacked his go-bag and hung up his spare pants and shirt, then wandered around the room, picking up and replacing objects without really seeing them. He tried to recall details of the house Farrell had shown him, but they blurred together into a montage of walnut paneling, colorful carpets, and beveled glass. The master bedroom windows looked out over the back garden to the ocean, but night had fallen quickly, hiding the view. He stared out into the darkness for a moment, then checked his watch and realized he was going to be late. It was dinnertime here, but his stomach was still on California time, where it was mid-afternoon. He supposed a meal would help him adjust to the local time. He pictured the route to the small dining room as he headed out the door, then his mind turned to a potentially more pleasant matter. Would Caitlin Paterson be at dinner, too?
****
Caitlin entered the dining room. Candlelight replaced the expected glow of the overhead chandelier. She noticed the second place setting at the head of the table and supposed that was the reason for the mood lighting. The new master was on the premises. No doubt, the staff wanted to make a good first impression. Not that she thought of Farrell and Mrs. Smith as mere staff. They’d been kind to her and they cared for this place as if it was their own. They were special people. She hoped Ridley came to see them the way she did and took care of them, whatever he decided to do with the estate.
She took her usual seat at the side of the long table which, over her objections, Farrell had insisted she use for her meals. She would’ve been more comfortable eating in the kitchen than out here by herself. Well, she wouldn’t be eating by herself tonight, though. Would she? The laird of the manor had arrived.
She’d been so embarrassed by the way he’d found her, she’d kept her gaze down and barely recalled what he’d looked like. Tall, dark hair, athletic build, that was the sum of the impression she’d gotten as she hastened out of the office. She never had looked at his face. What must he think of her?
Mr. Holt Ridley, billionaire heir to all of this, must have had quite a view—her with her head in the cabinet and her arse in the air. The thought made her blush, even now. She’d closed those pocket doors for a reason, damn it. But she couldn’t fault Farrell, not with the laird demanding entrance.
She dreaded their second meeting. What would she say to the man? Worse, what would he say to her? As far as he knew, she was just part of
the hired help. Would he object to sharing the table with her? That thought didn’t bother her as much as she knew it should. If she could escape to the kitchen or her chamber, she’d be relieved.
She didn’t have to wait long to find out. Holt Ridley strode in as if he owned the place—in fact, he did—shoulders back, step assured, and not the least bit hesitant. Caitlin envied his confidence. Good looking, even more so now that he’d abandoned his suit jacket. Even features, chiseled jaw, his chin was neither too strong nor too weak. Holt Ridley’s looks appealed to her.
And that was a problem. She knew better than to get involved with the boss. Yet the white shirt he wore stretched over impressively broad shoulders. He’d also rolled the sleeves up his forearms since she’d seen him last, drawing her attention to his broad, tanned hands. Nice. Did he do any real work with them or just buy and sell and count his money?
“Good evening.” She took the initiative rather than let him control their conversation from the start. She wouldn’t let him put her on the spot like he had in the office.
His stride broke ever so slightly. Had she glanced away, she never would have seen it. So he could be put off-kilter, eh?
“Good evening.” He met her gaze with eyes the color of stone, gray and hard, and took his seat. He frowned at the serviette on his plate, picked it up and shook it out, then draped it across his lap. “Is this usual?” He waved a hand.
Caitlin had no difficulty taking his meaning. He’d indicated the table setting and the small but formal dining room around them. “Somewhat.” She shrugged. “I’ve been eating alone in here the past three days. Though usually by the light of the chandelier,” she told him and gestured toward it. “The candlelight is a bit…spooky, actually.”
His gaze dropped from the light fixture to her. “Not the romantic sort, then, are you?”
Sarcasm seemed to be his weapon of choice. Interesting to meet her—her arse. Caitlin opened her mouth, intending to return fire. Fortunately Farrell and Mrs. Smith came in bearing silver-domed plates, set them down in perfect synchrony, and lifted the domes away. The scent of their dinner wafting past her nose made Caitlin’s mouth water. No matter what else might aggravate her while staying here, she could not complain about the food. Tonight’s menu included poached salmon with dill, a potato casserole of some sort, and bright green peas. Melted butter drenched a split roll, soft and still steaming from the oven. She smiled her thanks to Mrs. Smith as Farrell approached with a bottle.
