The Prince I Love to Hate: A Steamy Romantic Comedy (The Heir Affair Book 1)

by Iris Morland

  She didn’t give me a chance to respond. Feeling a frisson of ice slither down my spine, I rubbed at the goosebumps springing up on my arms.

  Geez, what the hell had that advice meant? Now I was half-wondering if there was a dead body under the floorboards like that Edgar Allen Poe story. Please, no dead bodies whispering to me. I really don’t have time for that.

  But if Mrs. Walsh had known my da, then maybe she had information that could help me find him. I was about to follow her and badger her, but a young woman with red hair came around the corner, nearly hitting me in the chest with a cookie sheet with freshly baked buns.

  “Oh, fuck!” The girl nearly lost her hold of the sheet in her hand. I grabbed the end closest to me, and luckily only one bun slid off of it onto the floor.

  “Sorry, sorry.” I reached down to pick up the bun. I brushed it off. “Five-second rule?”

  The girl’s face turned as red as her hair. “Oh, you’re the American! Mr. Gallagher’s granddaughter! I’m so sorry for cursing, miss—”

  Good lord, I’d fallen into some kind of Downton Abbey RPG, hadn’t I? If she called me “milady,” I’d throw myself off of the nearest high cliff.

  “Don’t apologize. I was the one who nearly made you drop all of these buns.” I peered more closely at the one in my hand. “What are these?”

  “Bannock buns with currants, miss.”

  The one I was holding was still warm. Definitely better than just a banana. “Oh, excellent.” I was about to take a bite, but the girl let out a squawk.

  “Don’t eat that! It fell on the floor.” She set the sheet pan down, shaking her head, and went to get a plate. She plucked the contaminated bun from my hand and tossed it into the trash before giving me a fresh one on a plate. “Do you want butter with it, miss? And perhaps some tea or coffee?”

  “Coffee, please. And please: call me Niamh. What’s your name?”

  The girl dimpled as she hurried to get me my order. “I’m Cara.” She soon handed me a cup of steaming coffee and placed some pats of butter and a knife on my plate. “Lovely to meet you.”

  Cara had light freckles all over her nose, and a rosebud mouth with reddish eyebrows. She looked like she’d stepped out of a storybook, her skin creamy and fair.

  “Is there anything I can get you?” she said.

  “No, thank you.” I collected my plate and coffee. “I’m glad somebody around here is nice,” I said offhandedly.

  “Oh?”

  “I ran into Mrs. Walsh.” I made sure to pitch my voice into a low whisper. “She’s terrifying.”

  Cara’s lips twitched. “Is she?”

  “Um, yes? I think she would’ve loved to have put a curse on me, if she were into that sort of thing.”

  “I’m pretty certain she’s a devoted Catholic.” Cara’s tone sounded strangled.

  “She’s got witchy vibes. I’m telling you. Probably rides here on a broomstick.”

  “I think she prefers to take the tram. Much more comfortable, especially when it rains.”

  I shrugged. “That’s just what she tells people, I’m sure.”

  Cara giggled then covered her mouth. “I need to return to my work. It was nice meeting you, miss—I mean, Niamh.”

  She hurried off. I’d probably gone too far with the joke about Mrs. Walsh being a witch. Maybe I’d offended Cara. Great job, Niamh. Let’s not alienate the one nice person you’ve met here.

  Thinking about not-nice people, I thought of the golden-haired man I’d met yesterday. That had been a strange encounter, to say the least. I just hoped I wouldn’t keep running into him. I didn’t have time for obnoxious men who thought way too highly of themselves.

  You don’t have time for men in general. Fair enough. My dating life was hardly interesting lately. What with attending Harvard and working my ass off to keep my grades up, graduating, and then moving back to Seattle, I’d been busy the past few years. I’d dated a few different guys while in college, the longest relationship lasting a year. Noah had been my first—first love, first time having sex. We’d met in a chemistry class and had been paired up as lab partners.

  Noah had been sweet—too sweet. He’d been too easy to run roughshod over. It wasn’t that I wanted to boss people around, but I had what my best friend Rachel said was a commanding presence. “Guys think you’re intimidating,” she’d said when I’d been frustrated with how wishy washy Noah had acted. “He probably doesn’t know what to do with you.”

  She’d been right. I’d eventually broken things off with Noah because he’d gotten, well, boring. When I’d wanted to have long conversations into the night, he’d wanted to play video games for hours instead. When I’d known I’d always wanted to major in political science, he’d switched majors every semester. And when he’d teared up when I broke up with him, I felt like I’d literally kicked a puppy.

  I’d had two other shorter relationships that had amounted mostly to a friends-with-benefits type of situation. But none of them had held my attention. The sex had been decent and was nice to scratch that itch. Yet after a few sex sessions, I’d feel kind of…empty. Not that I’d regretted sleeping with them, just that I wanted more than something surface-level.

  So, I hadn’t dated much in the past year. I was only twenty-two, of course, but sometimes I felt like I’d never find a guy who was worth my time. And I struggled not to dumb myself down, to make myself less intimidating, whatever that actually meant.

  The rest of the day, I wandered the estate. I got lost more than once, and I had to ask staff to point me in the right direction. Multiple times I’d tried to open doors that were locked, so I contented myself with looking at all of the artwork and sculptures throughout the house.

  I didn’t run into Golden Man again. By the end of the day, I almost wished I had. I’d only had interactions with people who treated me like their mistress, and it had made me feel weird.

  I finally just returned to my room and read until it was late enough to go to bed, all the while telling myself I hadn’t made a mistake in coming here.

  Chapter Three

  I shifted in bed, trying to find a comfortable position, but despite the silky sheets and a mattress that could’ve easily fit four adults, I couldn’t fall asleep. Sighing, I sat up in bed and rubbed my temples.

  “Stupid jet lag,” I muttered to myself. I’d even taken a Benadryl, but all it had done was make me feel fuzzy-headed. Gulping down a glass of water, I went to sit in front of the fireplace—no fire, it was the middle of summer, after all—and after turning on a light, tried to read a book.

  But my brain kept bouncing from subject to subject. After I’d encountered Golden Man, I’d met with Mr. McDonnell.

  Months ago, Mr. McDonnell had written me a letter to inform me that Grandda had left me more than just the inheritance that had paid for my college education. When I’d written back via email, because this was the twenty-first century after all, Mr. McDonnell had sent his reply once again on actual paper.

  I didn’t understand his drive to waste money on postage, but perhaps he had more trust for the postal systems of Ireland and the United States than he did his internet provider.

  At any rate, he’d told me that if I were to receive this inheritance, I’d have to come to Ireland myself to claim it. It had been your grandfather’s wish for you to do so, Mr. McDonnell had written in curling script.

  Oh, had I mentioned he’d handwritten those letters? I was half-convinced he’d walked straight out of an Austen novel.

  Apparently, according to Mr. McDonnell, my grandda had been an odd sort, and this had been his last demand before he’d died. Considering that he’d died four years ago, it had seemed odd to me that I’d only gotten this missive earlier this year.

  I closed the book I was failing to read. Even the smuttiest of smut couldn’t hold my attention tonight. Getting up, I went to the window of my expansive bedroom. The window overlooked the stairs and, just on the horizon, the black waters of the Irish Sea. The moon wa
s silvery white, full and shining on the waters like a beacon.

  The meeting with Mr. McDonnell had been short. He’d only needed to inform me that my additional inheritance was, in fact, the entire estate. Yes, really.

  “Are you serious?” I’d stared at the lawyer in confusion, hardly believing his last words.

  “Yes, miss.” Mr. McDonnell had cleared his throat. “But there’s a complication, you see.”

  “Oh, lovely.”

  He’d ignored my sarcasm. “You see, your grandfather was…an interesting sort of man.” He pulled out an envelope, much like the one I’d received from Mr. McDonnell all those months ago. “Well, he can explain himself better than I can.”

  Frowning, I ripped open the envelope, unfolding the thick parchment.

  To my granddaughter,

  By now, you must’ve met with Mr. McDonnell in person. He most likely has now given you this letter because he’s incapable of explaining things himself. He’s a useful sort but not clever.

  Let’s not waste time. I hardly have any left, to be sure.

  Your father is alive, and before you ask, I’ve always known he was alive. I didn’t inform you of this fact because, quite frankly, I doubted that it mattered. A more useless, moronic individual than your father I’ve never known. He threw away everything to marry your mother and then decided he’d had enough and abandoned his entire family. Why, you may ask? I don’t know, nor do I particularly care, either.

  This letter is to tell you that, as my only heir that is worth a bloody damn (your fool brother squandered the opportunity to inherit years ago, as you’re well aware), you can inherit this estate and everything inside of it if you find your father and give him a letter Mr. McDonnell will provide to you after you read this one.

  I’m sure you’re wondering: where is my godforsaken son? I don’t know. I wasn’t able to discover his location before my illness made me unable to do anything but pray to God that I wouldn’t spend all eternity in Purgatory. Now it’s up to you, Granddaughter. If you’re at all clever and capable, you can find your father. If you cannot find him, then suffice to say this estate will go up for auction and most likely bought by some English arsehole looking for a summer home for his sallow-faced children.

  Yours,

  Sean Gallagher

  If the ground had dropped out from under me before, I was now hurtling into a black hole into space. Hope, along with dismay, made it impossible to speak.

  Da was alive. He was alive, and Grandda had known.

  I wish I could strangle you myself, I thought bitterly. No wonder Liam hated your guts. You wily old asshole. Even from beyond the grave, you’re trying to mess with us.

  I stared dumbly down at the paper in my hand for such a long time that Mr. McDonnell finally cleared his throat to get my attention.

  “Are you quite well, Miss Gallagher?”

  “My da is alive?” was all that I could say.

  “Indeed. You haven’t been in contact with him in a number of years. Is that correct?”

  I shook my head. “He left us before I was even born.”

  Mr. McDonnell shuffled some papers, looking extremely uncomfortable.

  I barely registered his discomfort. My heart was clamoring in my chest. I wanted to ask every question under the sun, all the while knowing that it was unlikely this lawyer would have the answers. I doubted Mr. McDonnell could tell me why my da had abandoned his family and had never tried to contact us again.

  While Liam had been content to believe our da was six feet under, I’d never stopped wondering about him. We only had a handful of photos of him; Liam had torn up a bunch of them when he’d been an angry teenager, never thinking that his little sister might have an interest in our deadbeat father.

  Since Mam had died when I’d been so young, I’d always longed to know about Da. The thought that I still had one parent alive was strangely comforting. And, in that hope that only a child could have, maybe he’d have a reason as to why he’d had to stay away from us.

  Now as an adult, I knew very well that it was pretty unlikely that he’d gone into hiding because he was a spy or because the mafia was out to kill him. I couldn’t blame some shadowy villain for my da being a deadbeat, yet that still didn’t stop the need to ask him in person the question: why did you leave and never come back?

  “So how exactly am I supposed to find my da?”

  “I have some information that we were able to gather regarding his whereabouts.” Mr. McDonnell handed me another envelope, painfully slim. “Your father has not wanted to be found. I will say that.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.” Frustration tinged my voice. I’d already Googled my da multiple times, but his name was a common one in Ireland. Even if I’d found records of him, it didn’t mean I could discover his latest address without a lot of digging.

  “We received this about two years ago. As you can see, it was addressed to your grandfather, but of course, he was no longer with us to open it.”

  In the corner of the manila envelope was the name of some appraisal company here in Ireland. Confused, I opened the envelope to find a few documents that contained something about an antique clock that had been appraised two years ago by Sean Gallagher, my dead grandda.

  The clock was made of porcelain and covered in ormolu. At the top was a painting of a cherub with a laurel wreath adorning the miniature; below was another cherub, an acorn adorning it at the bottom. A sky was painted in the center of the clock face.

  Most tellingly, the appraisal price of this clock was listed at a staggering €25,000. My eyes nearly bugged out of my head seeing that.

  “Okay, somebody has a freaking expensive clock somewhere. What does this have to do with my da?”

  “The signature on the last page,” said Mr. McDonnell, not the least bit fazed by my confusion. He pushed another document toward me across the desk. “It matches your father’s.”

  “But the name listed is for Sean, not Connor,” I countered.

  “Your father’s full name is Sean Connor Gallagher. And if you notice the first name of the signature on that document…”

  I peered more closely at the scribble. It looked like someone had begun to write a C but had awkwardly changed it to an S, as if remembering what his name really was.

  “I realize this is extremely strange and not absolute proof that your father is alive, but considering your grandfather had had located him five years ago in Spain, it doesn’t seem impossible he’d still be alive just three years later.”

  I placed the appraisal documents back inside the envelope. Okay, so my da was most likely alive. “But no one knows where he is now? Or within the last year?”

  “I’m afraid not, miss.”

  Of course not. That’d be too easy. “Why would these documents be sent here and not to my da’s address?”

  Mr. McDonnell shrugged. “I’m not certain why he’d forge his signature, but from the bit of research I was able to do, the clock itself is an antique once owned by Mr. Connor Gallagher’s mother. Perhaps he wanted to send a message to Mr. Sean Gallagher that he’d acquired it.”

  “But my grandda was dead by then.”

  “Yes, but perhaps your father did not know that.”

  It seemed as plausible a theory as any. None of the men in my family had been fond of my grandda, it seemed. Sean Gallagher had hated that his only son and heir had married beneath him, and then he’d apparently hated his son even more for leaving the wife he’d never approved of.

  Talk about complicated family history. It made my head hurt to think about it.

  “Although I have not been able to locate your father,” said Mr. McDonnell, “logic seems to point in the direction that if you can locate this antique clock, you most likely can locate Mr. Connor.”

  I let out a sigh. “I never knew my da, but given how my brother always talked about him, I have a feeling he’d enjoy making us go on a wild goose chase to find him.” Holding my grandda’s letter and the appra
isal documents, I asked, “May I keep these?”

  “Of course, miss.”

  Now, staring at the fireplace sans fire, I shook my head. I’d nearly choked on my own spit when Mr. McDonnell had told me that. Me, the owner of all of this? It made zero sense.

  Grandda hadn’t known me. He’d disliked Liam simply because Liam had never been a good, submissive Catholic who’d cater to Grandda’s every demand. When Liam had taken me from Ireland when I was six and he was twenty-three, apparently Grandda had been livid. When he’d told us about our inheritances when we came of age, he’d punished Liam by giving him a piddly amount while giving me ten times that when I’d turned eighteen.

  It was strange, being beholden to a man I’d not really known and who was now, even from the grave, pulling the strings in my own family. I was sure wherever he was, he was enjoying making us squirm.

  As far as our father, Connor Gallagher, he’d been disinherited and disowned after he’d married our mother without Grandda’s permission. So even if he were still alive, he wouldn’t have gotten a penny from Grandda anyway. He really loved disinheriting people, I thought wryly.

  Looking at my phone, I considered calling my brother for advice. It was only six in the evening in Seattle. But Liam would be worried if I called him in the middle of the night, and he and his wife Mari would be busy with getting the girls dinner and then to bed. I didn’t want to add to their stress.

  I sighed. I wrapped myself in a robe and put on some slippers, wondering if a late-night stroll would calm my mind. Although part of me felt weird about wandering around a house that wasn’t mine, I reasoned that it was almost mine. Besides, everyone was asleep, and I was just going to wander the hallways.

  Dim lights turned on as I walked. I stopped a few times to admire artwork hanging on the walls. Some were more traditional paintings of what I guessed were Irish landscapes. Others were more avant garde, splotches of color that weren’t depicting anything except maybe chaos. Looking at one that could’ve been painted by my four-year-old niece Fiona, I had a distinct feeling that Grandda wasn’t the one buying these pieces. He would’ve hated this one.