by Willa Blair
“Wine, miss? It’s a local vintage from a north fork estate.”
“Thank you, I believe I will.” If Mr. Ridley intended to be a disagreeable dinner companion, maybe some wine would loosen him up enough for them to have a civil conversation. At the very least, a glass or two would make her feel better.
Farrell poured for them both then set the bottle in a crystal dish near Ridley and left the room.
After a moment, she realized Ridley was waiting for her to start. Decided to be polite, had he? She picked up her fork and sampled the fish, which melted in her mouth. A taste of the potato casserole and she forgot her dinner companion for as long as it took to savor the creamy, cheesy richness. She hoped her eyes hadn’t rolled back in her head. She hadn’t groaned in appreciation, had she? She snuck a glance Ridley’s way. His gaze was on the piece of bread he was using to sop up more of the melted butter, but a small smile played around his lips. Damn, she had.
“It’s rather good, aye?” she asked to cover her embarrassment.
“Indeed. Irish butter, I believe.”
“What?” She meant the fish and the potato casserole. “How would ye ken…I mean know…?”
“Oh, we’re quite civilized in California. All the latest food fads either start or end up there. Irish butter has been popular for months.”
“No’ in Scotland,” she muttered and tried a bite of the butter-soaked bread. She wouldn’t admit it tasted quite good.
“You’re Scottish, then?” He took a bite of casserole.
Caitlin grinned as his eyes closed with obvious pleasure. So he had a bit of a hedonistic streak, too, alongside that sarcastic wit he’d displayed since she first met him. You’d think a billionaire who could have anything he wanted any time he wanted it would have gotten blasé about such simple pleasures as a cheesy potato casserole or imported butter. Caitlin found herself wondering what else would make his dark eyes close in appreciation.
Nay! No sense wondering about that. She was here to do a job, then she’d return to Scotland. Ridley was here for a few days before he headed home to California, and she’d never see him again.
“Aye, I'm from Scotland,” she told him as his eyes opened. She dropped her gaze quickly to her plate, pretending she hadn’t noticed his lapse. She distracted herself by wondering if he knew her cousin’s wife’s family in California. That would be proof of a small world indeed.
“So the estate lawyer thought the things in this house are British. That is the reason you were hired?”
Caitlin took the question as a challenge. “Aye, and for the most part, they are. He has documentation on some of it, bills of lading and whatnot from when they were shipped from England. I’ve experience with many types of British antiques, most recently with pieces from the Jacobite period.”
“Which is…?”
“Eighteenth century. ’Tis a long, sad tale. I’d sooner no’ spoil our dinner in the telling. Some other time.”
A small frown drew his brows together, forming that crease she’d noticed earlier.
“And your recent expertise with Jaco…what did you call it?”
“Jacobite. Whether any of the pieces in this house are Jacobite remains to be seen.” Even if she knew, she didn’t see the sense in telling the man over dinner that his ancestors had stolen some of the contents of this house from her ancestors after they killed the men and babies, then raped and killed the women. He wouldn’t consider that proper dinner conversation.
“When do you think you’ll…see?”
“I’ve only started, really. This could take weeks more, perhaps months, to reliably determine the provenance of some furnishings.”
“Months…?” He set his fork aside. “I mean to sell this mausoleum as soon as possible. You’ll have to work faster than that.”
Sell this fabulous place? Was he out of his mind? “I’ll do the best I can, but research can take time. Perhaps after you have been here a few days, you’ll better appreciate what you have inherited.”
He set his jaw in a grim line. “Only for what it’s worth. I have no sentimental attachment to anything on this property. Quite the opposite.”
And didn’t that sound ominous? Caitlin returned her attention to her plate. Her dinner companion had nothing good to share. Her food, at least, she could enjoy.
****
Holt grimaced, certain that Caitlin, who had quickly dropped her gaze and failed to comment, had taken offense. She obviously loved old things or she wouldn’t do the work she did. No doubt she had already fallen in love with many things here. He glanced around the room and hid a smile. That could work to his advantage. She’d naturally assign greater monetary value to things she loved.
Still he pressed his lips together, fighting to keep from challenging her silence. It would do her no good to become attached to the house or anything in it. He intended to get rid of it all and never set foot on Long Island again, except as required to pass through JFK. The sooner she finished, the better.
Assuming, of course, that his lawyers could break his great-aunt’s will and eliminate the stipulation that he live here before selling the place. He could barely tolerate the idea of spending one night under this roof, much less ninety of them.
The thought crossed his mind that he could simply fire Ms. Paterson and get on with the sale. But no, he needed her to do her job. His company needed the infusion of cash, and if the contents were valuable in their own right, so much the better.
He took a sip of the wine Farrell poured and found it acceptable. Caitlin hadn’t touched hers yet. He tipped the bottle in her direction. “Would you prefer something else?”
Absently, Caitlin sipped her wine, then shook her head. “Nay, this will do nicely.”
He set the bottle aside. “I thought people mostly drank tea and whiskey in Scotland.”
She settled back in her chair and eyed him.
Though he found her quite attractive, he didn’t enjoy her scrutiny quite as much as he’d expected.
“We do,” she bit out, “but we also drink coffee and wine. And we have the best water in the world.” She took a larger sip from her glass then straightened. “I take it ye have never been to Scotland?”
“No, never needed to.” He took a bite of fish, his gaze meeting hers. She had a glint in her eye. Apparently he’d said something wrong—again.
“Never needed to? You don’t go on holiday?” Caitlin frowned.
Holt picked up his wine glass then set it aside. “I don’t have time. If I travel, it’s for work, though I conduct most of my business by teleconference. I’m here only because I’m legally required to be in order to settle the estate.”
She set her fork on her plate, her disbelieving gaze on him. “So to you this trip is nothing but business.”
“Yes. What else would it be?”
“A chance to reclaim part of your heritage? To meet long-lost relatives who might still live in the area?” She leaned forward and waved a hand. “To enjoy the holidays away from your all-consuming work? I can think of many reasons why you could enjoy this visit.” She raised her glass as if to say “cheers” and took a long drink.
“Then you’d be wrong.” He would not let himself focus on the way her lips pressed the rim of the glass in her hand or how her throat moved as she swallowed. She seemed bent on irritating him this evening. Rather than becoming consumed with that mouth, that throat, he would go with her attitude. He emptied his glass and poured another. The bottle was getting low. “More wine?” He tipped the bottle toward her glass.
Her shoulders tensed. “No, thank you. And while we’re on the subject of the reason for your visit, how can you call this estate a mausoleum? There’s much to appreciate here. The beautiful furnishings, the history of the house and property, the setting. Yet you just want to be rid of it. You Americans have no sense of history. Everything has to be clean and new, aye? I can imagine how your place in California is furnished—chrome and glass minimalism? Am I close?”
S
he frowned when he didn’t respond, but her comments hit too close to home. Not so much chrome and glass, but minimalism, certainly. He spent so much time at work, he’d done little to make a home for himself. His condo was a place to sleep and not much more.
“I hope I can open your eyes before you make a huge mistake here.” She gestured with her half-full glass.
Her assessment made him uncomfortable, and that made him fight back. “My eyes are as open as they need to be,” Holt replied, on the defensive and not liking it one bit. “I don’t need your help, except to do the job you’re being paid to do. That doesn’t include meddling in my personal life.”
“I see.” She laid her napkin by her plate and stood. “I’ve quite lost my appetite. I’ll bid you goodnight.”
Holt watched, frowning, as she left the dining room without another word. So she didn’t like being criticized, did she? Then she’d better stop trying to analyze him and do the job that the estate—his estate—was paying her to do.
Chapter Three
The next morning, Caitlin hurried down the village street, eager to reach the shelter of the shops in the blocks ahead. The estate’s housekeeper and cook, Mrs. Smith, had suggested having a look at the nearby village as a way to combat Caitlin’s lingering jet lag. Caitlin planned to get some shopping done for Hogmanay, which was the holiday when most Scots exchanged gifts, rather than Christmas.
She also thought some time away from the estate would make a great diversion from her annoyance with Holt Ridley. He hadn’t appeared before she left—still sleeping on California time, she supposed.
It was never a good idea to lash out at the person paying you. He clearly thought she’d overstepped last night. And truth be told, she had, though if she had to meddle to save the estate, she’d gladly do it again. But not if it meant losing this job. Getting out of his way for a few hours this morning seemed a brilliant idea.
But Caitlin hadn’t counted on the weather changing as fast as it did in Scotland. She’d left her coat at the estate, and the lightweight wool jumper she had on wasn’t quite up to the task. This morning the wind blowing down the Long Island Sound from the north was as damp and chill as the wind blown across a Highland loch in winter. It didn’t make her homesick—quite. She preferred lovely spring days, warm blue skies, and the scent of bluebells in the woods to this.
All the holiday decorations missing from the mansion must have been loaned to the village, she thought as she neared her objective. Shop windows were festooned with red and green garlands, bows, and wreaths. Pillar candles, mostly lit by tea lights, lent a warm glow to the shady side of the street. A large fir tree in the central square ahead was covered in lights she expected would be lovely after dark, along with more ornaments than she could count, garland, and more bows.
She spotted her first destination in the next block and picked up her pace, eager to get out of the wind. She wanted to find something from America her cousin’s twins would enjoy. She should have chosen a closer parking space on the street, but Farrell had warned she couldn’t count on those being available and had set the village car park a block behind the shops into the car’s GPS.
She passed a cluster of people who smiled, acknowledging her, then a few who ignored her except as an obstacle to be avoided. She supposed they were on their way to work. The sidewalk emptied after she passed them, and the scent of cinnamon and baking bread reached her. Tea and a scone suddenly sounded enticing. But did they have scones here?
Before she knew what was happening, a sharp tug on her shoulder strap spun her around. She held on as a young man tried to wrestle her purse away from her. “What do ye think ye’re doing? Let go of that,” she barked.
Despite using her elbows to defend herself, she was losing ground. Her attacker grabbed her wrist, trying to break her hold. He had almost gotten the strap away from her when suddenly a tall, dark-haired older man yanked the would-be thief aside. Her attacker let go of her purse strap and fell back swearing as the man spun him about, shoved him face-first against the bricks of a shop wall, and held him there with a solid grip on his neck and a well-muscled arm across his shoulders.
“Are you all right, miss?” the stranger asked, glancing with steel-blue eyes from Caitlin’s attacker to her and back again.
She took a quick inventory. She’d have a few bruises tomorrow along with a scrape on her hand from the buckle of the purse strap, but other than that, she was fine. “No permanent harm done,” she reported. “What are ye going to do with him?”
“Nothing.” The man tipped his head to indicate the police car rolling down the street in their direction. “I knew someone would call the cops. Your friend here obviously thought the street was empty.” He shifted his grip as the thief tried to break his hold. “Stand still. You seem to have forgotten in a small town like this, someone is always watching.”
After a few more minutes of standing in the cold while the deputy locked the thief in the back of his car then took their brief statements, Caitlin finally had the chance to thank her rescuer. “I’m Caitlin Paterson. That deputy called you Doc,” she continued as the car pulled away. “Are you a medical doctor?”
“Veterinarian,” he reported. “Jim Coats at your service. From your accent, I’d say you’re not from around here.”
She gave a rueful laugh. “I’m from Scotland. I arrived the day before yesterday.” With a glance toward the retreating car, she added, “No’ the welcome I expected.”
His gaze followed hers toward the police car as it pulled away. “Hell of an introduction to the village. Sorry about that.” He shook his head, then turned back to her. “I’ve been to Scotland. A few years ago. Beautiful place.”
“Thank you. Look, I owe you for today. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
“I’ll have to take a rain check. I’m late for my first appointment. But I’d enjoy talking to you about Scotland sometime.” His gaze dropped to her hand, and he frowned. “You might want to get that cut looked at.”
“Nay, ’tis just a scratch. But I’d love to hear about your trip. Of course, another time will do. I’m so sorry to have made ye late.”
Dr. Coats nodded what she took for his agreement. As she watched him turn at the first side street and disappear, a woman joined her on the sidewalk.
“Hello, I’m Alice. I saw the police car from my shop.” She gestured to the bakery Caitlin had scented just before she’d been accosted. “You must be shaken up. Why don’t you come with me? I’ll make you something hot to drink.”
Caitlin nodded, overwhelmed by the woman’s sympathetic tone. After the last half hour, Caitlin needed to sit and unwind. She’d thaw out for a few minutes, let her hands stop shaking, then return to her car and head back to the estate. Shopping could wait for another day.
A cheerful jingle from the brass doorbell announced their entry. Caitlin paused just inside the door for a moment to take a breath and let her face warm. Delightful scents of bread, sugar, and spices filled the air.
Alice kept going and leaned a hand on the counter. “Have a seat and get off your feet for a few minutes. What would you like? On the house.”
Caitlin judged Alice to be in her mid-forties, but she had a timeless motherly air, reinforced by her generous offer. “On the…oh, thank you. That’s no’ necessary.”
“Nonsense. My treat,” Alice insisted.
Caitlin relented. “Tea would be wonderful. Milk and sugar. And do ye have any scones?”
Alice grinned. “Probably not like you’re used to, but try one and tell me what you think.” She waved, indicating the bakery’s interior. “Sit anywhere. I’ll bring everything to you.”
Caitlin sank into a chair at the nearest cafe table and let herself breathe. Last evening’s argument with Holt Ridley and this morning’s events were not an auspicious start to her trip. She watched Alice bustle around behind the counter while telling herself to stop the nonsense. She sounded like her granny. The guy had only tried to grab her purse. She wasn’t hurt, s
he still had her belongings, and she’d met a knight in shining armor who might ease her homesickness when it hit. On balance, the morning was turning out more positive than negative. Jet lag had to be what was making her shaky.
In moments, Alice brought a tray with a proper teapot and all the trimmings, three small, triangular scones, jam, and whipped cream.
“I made an assumption from your accent,” she said with a nod toward the small bowl of cream. “I don’t have any clotted cream, so I hope this will do. With the strawberry jam, right? It’s all local from nearby farms.”
“It’s lovely. You’re too generous.”
“Nonsense. You’ve had a rough morning. Are you hurt?”
Caitlin stirred sugar into her tea, then added a splash of milk, keeping her scratched hand in her lap. “Nay.” She took a sip and let the warmth thaw her all the way down and steady her nerves. Then while she loaded one of the scones with cream and jam, she gave Alice the full story of the drama she’d just missed.
“Oh, no. How could something like that happen, right here on the square, and in broad daylight? I’m so sorry.” Alice glanced down at Caitlin’s hand. “And you are hurt.”
“Not much. A scratch.”
“Let me get my first-aid kit, and we’ll take care of it.”
Caitlin suspected she’d waste her breath if she tried to argue. Instead, while Alice fetched her supplies from behind her counter, she sampled the scone she’d prepared and groaned at the buttery goodness and the bright, sweet strawberry jam. “These are brilliant.” After another bite, she asked, “What do you know about the veterinarian who helped me? Jim Coats.”
