Not feelings strong enough to buy her an entire house.
Rosabel slapped her senses back into place and scurried to stand beside him as he reached for the heavy door knocker. “Why are you doing this?” she couldn’t help asking. “Is it really for your grandma, or …”
“Or what?” A line appeared between his brows.
She wasn’t about to say her suspicion out loud. She couldn’t let herself fall for his charms, not when he obviously thought affection could be bought. In spite of the connection they’d shared earlier, her guard wriggled back into place.
The door opened, and an elderly woman with a scarf wrapped around her head like a turban answered. She wore a purple dress beneath an orange vest the same length as the dress’s skirt. “Mr. Hawthorne?” she asked in a sweet but suspicious voice.
“Mrs. Simmons. Thank you for agreeing to this meeting. I’m Duncan Hawthorne, and this is my assistant, Rosabel Smith.”
Mrs. Simmons bobbed her head and invited them both inside. The first step was magical. Rosabel drank in every aspect she could, from the thick, carpeted, sweeping staircase that created a swirl of the ceiling in the entryway’s corner, to the paneled walls, the chandeliers, and especially the stained-glass mosaics marking the top of every door.
“Exquisite,” Rosabel said with a breath, turning in place. She considered what a place like this must cost, not to mention cleaning something like this. She imagined cobwebs in all these decorative crannies. Details like those would take some serious, meticulous cleaning.
She didn’t care. If Duncan was buying this place for her, she was tempted to accept—at least for the moment. Beauty and antiquity made her shallower than a kiddie pool.
But while she adored the Regency era, where a gesture like this was enough to convince a woman to marry a man she didn’t love just because he had money and pretty properties, such a notion wouldn’t fly for Rosabel Smith. She wanted love. The real thing, the deep end of the pool, where she could be completely drowned by a man’s affections, his kindness, his thoughtfulness and intriguing conversation. She needed to remember the kind of man she wanted. A man like her father. A better man than Duncan.
With her severe expression and refusal to smile, Mrs. Simmons was a tough nut to crack. Stoically, she guided them through a circular arch reminding Rosabel of Bilbo’s hobbit-hole and into the most extravagant room Rosabel had ever been in.
The room was formal and ornate, with something decorative on every surface—including motifs around built-in bookshelves.
“Please, sit,” Mrs. Simmons requested.
They did. Rosabel fought to keep her feet still. She waited for a maid to appear and offer them tea or something, but Mrs. Simmons placed herself in the upholstered chair across from Duncan and rested her hands on its wooden arms.
“Tell me about your proposal, Mr. Hawthorne. You knew I would be listing my home.”
“Yes,” he began, shifting. Rosabel saw it then, with him in his debonair suit, looking professional and confident. Power stance. “I’ve had my eye on the property for years now, since my grandfather sold the house to the state. This was his family home, and I’d like such a legacy to return to the family.”
“Do you intend on turning it into a tourist attraction, a bed and breakfast like so many other homes around here?”
“I don’t,” Duncan said. “My grandfather has passed, but his wife is turning ninety-five. I thought this would be … an appropriate gift for her.”
Rosabel couldn’t deny how genuine he sounded, but her skepticism matched the look on Mrs. Simmons’s face. His admission made the whole situation sound outrageous. A monstrous, antique house as a gift for a woman who had a handful of years left at best? It sounded like a cover. If Duncan hoped to appeal to her sensitive side, Rosabel guessed he was about to be shot down.
“Charming story, Mr. Hawthorne,” Mrs. Simmons said without the slightest hint of being charmed. “But I’m afraid my answer is no.”
Duncan sat straighter. “You have the house listed. I have the money to cover your asking price. I don’t see what the problem is.”
She picked at something on her orange vest. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hawthorne. I can’t continue.”
Any minute now, the rage would begin. He would rip into Mrs. Simmons, pointing out every reason she was a fool for denying such a life-changing opportunity. Rosabel had seen him play that card time and time again.
From the grip of Duncan’s hand on the chair’s ornamented armrest, he was doing his best to keep his temper in check. “What could I do to persuade you? I can offer more.”
Mrs. Simmons smiled at him as though he completely missed the point. “My concerns aren’t only about the money, Mr. Hawthorne. This house has a strong history. My family also lived here, and if your story rings true, which I suspect it doesn’t, that means we may be related. In any case, I can’t let such a place go to just anyone.”
Duncan guffawed at this. Rosabel lowered her chin. She’d seen many negotiations with Duncan, but nothing like this before. The claim to previous ownership was probably one Mrs. Simmons had heard multiple times.
“I’m not lying. My grandfather was Horace Hawthorne.”
Mrs. Simmons angled her head in recognition. “Horace?”
Rosabel’s brows drew together. Did that mean she knew Duncan’s grandfather after all?
Duncan went on. “And like his, my character is the utmost quality. Ask my assistant here. Rosabel will vouch for me.”
The elderly woman simpered with something like compassion. “Oh, but she already has. I get a sense about people, you know. Call it suspicion, call it intuition, but I don’t like the way she looks at you.”
“Excuse me?”
“There’s something between the two of you. I can sense as much. I was a palm-reader downtown for a long time, and many people thought I was out to make a buck. I read people, and I’m reading her, and she doesn’t trust you. If she’s as close as you say she is, that’s enough for me to know I don’t want to sell you the house. I’m sorry you came all this way. I trust you’ll see yourselves out.” She gave him a pleasant nod and stood from her seat, her shoes making the only sound between them as she left the room.
Rosabel’s throat was tight. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Duncan, but instead braced herself for the onslaught of his frustration. How could this house have belonged to his grandfather as well as Mrs. Simmons’s family? Maybe they were related somehow after all. Mrs. Simmons had seemed to recognize Horace’s name.
But Duncan didn’t speak. He didn’t yell or rage, the way she’d heard him do to so many others. He only stood, shoulders tense, and strode out of the house.
Rosabel wasn’t sure what to do. The right thing in this situation would be to correct the woman, to defend Duncan and insist Mrs. Simmons was wrong. To assert that Duncan had her full respect and that something else had been bothering her where Duncan was concerned. Not acting quickly enough, she hurried to follow him out into the sunshine.
She didn’t know why he wanted the house so badly. She didn’t know what expression had been on her face during Duncan’s typical spiel that she’d heard a hundred times before. But she knew the woman was right.
She didn’t trust Duncan. She didn’t respect him. She was here because of Dad, and the resentment she’d held toward Duncan for the last year and a half was still as fresh now as the first day it settled in. She’d started working for him as her chipper and determined self, but day after day, he’d taken her for granted. She’d tried to remain positive, tried to add some light to his exasperated life, but everything she did only brought more indignation.
Then the rumors about them had started, rumors she detested. The fact that people in their office could think she’d want any kind of relationship beyond what she already had with him was absurd.
Seeing him humiliated now should have been satisfying. Watching someone put him in his place should have brought her the utmost pleasure. Hadn’t this humility
been what Rosabel had wanted? She’d told him he had to do an act of service, to try to see things from another’s point of view the way he never seemed to be able to.
His current degradation had come from no act of service, but it had served the same purpose she’d intended. It had gotten him to see others differently—to see Rosabel differently. Only now, she wasn’t sure what to do about the change between them. He’d shown confidence in her opinion, and she hadn’t had to say a word in order to declare her dissatisfaction with him. Disapproval had been clear on her face.
Did she always direct such obvious spite toward him? If so, how could anyone they worked with believe the rumors that they were dating behind closed doors?
Rosabel had never put much stock in Duncan’s emotions before. From the way he behaved, she suspected he didn’t feel things the way other people did. But she couldn’t have invented the absolute shock in his expression when Mrs. Simmons had so adamantly denied him. There’d been a flash in his eyes, being on the receiving end of someone else’s well-placed verbal shutdown. Pain. Rosabel couldn’t stop seeing it, no matter how hard she tried.
He’d been hurt by Mrs. Simmons’s words, and by the fact that Rosabel hadn’t done a thing to contradict them. How could she, when Mrs. Simmons had hit the issue so precisely?
Rosabel hurried down the porch steps and out to the street, pausing at the weight bearing on Duncan’s shoulders. Downtrodden and dejected, his head hung low, and he glowered at a spot on the sidewalk as if condemning the concrete for being there.
Words fled, making speech impossible, but she approached him all the same. “Duncan, I—”
“Is she right?” he asked.
“What?”
“You have no respect for me? You don’t trust me.”
Rosabel’s mouth hung open. Had she not made as much clear time and time again? Then again, he listened to her about as well as to a silent radio. She attempted to keep him on the original subject. “Try again tomorrow. Maybe without me there.”
He let out a humorless scoff. “So it’s true.” He rubbed his forehead and then rested a hand on his hip and stared up at the large buttercream Victorian with its spires and buttresses.
“Duncan, I’m sorry. I know I should have spoken up—I wasn’t sure what to say.” Rosabel’s stomach tensed. Uncertainty warred with the worry inside of her. She should have refuted the woman. She should have done something.
“You know, I’ve been rejected dozens of times, but I’ve always been able to work my way through until I landed the deal or found a better one. This is the first time I’ve ever been left speechless while negotiating.”
Rosabel’s tongue thickened. She’d dreamed of this moment so many times—being able to lay out exactly what she thought of Duncan, right to his face. Slathering her grievances on as thickly as she could, to make the pill as hard for him to swallow as possible. Yet now that the moment was here, she couldn’t. At least, not as vindictively as she’d always imagined.
She remembered her earlier pact to help him. She hadn’t been sure how to, but now that he’d been humbled, now that he was vulnerable, maybe her words might make a difference. “You can figure this out,” she said. “I’ve never seen you take no for an answer. Heck, you got me here after I quit.”
He made another noise in his throat. There again was that pained look, like a puppy who’d just been kicked. Rosabel wished she could alleviate it. Was he so clueless about the way he treated others, about how selfish he behaved? What could she say that wouldn’t come out sounding heartless?
Duncan saved her the trouble. He rested a hand on the top of the car and stared up at the house. “This wasn’t one of my usual conquests, you know.”
“Oh?” She was grateful for the change in topic.
“I meant what I said in there. My grandfather wanted to clear his debt, since he was getting older and wanted to settle into his retirement. You should’ve heard Grandmother when we would drive past. She commented about this being her favorite house in Eureka Springs, how this house was the reason she married Grandfather in the first place. She hated him for selling it. I tried standing up to him about it. Tried defending her. Young and hotheaded as I was, I went too far in our argument. Grandfather had a heart attack right there as I yelled at him. He died the next day.”
Rosabel’s heart stung at the suddenness of his admission. “Oh, Duncan. I’m so sorry.”
He went on, still staring off, away from her. “My family blamed me for his death. I blamed myself. I couldn’t face them, so I left town—which apparently was even worse. They shut me out.”
Pieces began clicking into place. Why his family was so resentful toward him. Why they hadn’t spoken in three years. Why he wanted so badly to buy this particular house. Shame washed over her at the thought that she’d suspected it’d been to win her. Now who was being prideful?
He rested his weight against the car. “I carried on the best that I could, trying to cope and pretend like my loss of temper, like Grandfather’s resulting death, never happened, like the argument hadn’t ripped my still-beating heart from my chest. The email inviting me to my grandmother’s birthday was the first I’ve heard from any of them since the incident.”
Rosabel found her voice. “You hoped this house would be the peace offering you needed.” He’d mentioned as much before, but she hadn’t grasped what that really meant.
Duncan sniffed, warding off emotion. “What am I supposed to give her now?”
A thousand thoughts tumbled in Rosabel’s brain. She couldn’t believe he was opening to her like this, but everything made so much more sense. Why he was so snappish, so nasty all the time. Clearly, he wasn’t responsible for the heart attack. He might have been a contributing factor, but he couldn’t claim full responsibility for whatever his grandfather’s health had been before the argument.
But he’d believed he was at fault for years now. What a heavy burden to haul.
She wanted to lighten the mood. She wanted to help him smile. “How about a normal present like some flowers or a nice figurine for her mantel?”
He shook his head. “I wanted to do this for her.”
“For her? Or for you?”
“What does that mean?”
“I get that things are rocky between you and your family. All of your family. You’re a successful businessman, but your success doesn’t seem to be enough. They already have money. They want something different from you, don’t they? And your grandma … well, not to be rude, but she doesn’t have long to live. You think you can buy your way into her affections before she passes away.”
“That’s not true.”
“I think it is. Money is your solution to everything, but money can’t heal hearts. If you’ve let your family down in some way, you can’t buy your way out of it.”
“I haven’t let them down.” His tone rose. He attempted to curb it, for which she was relieved.
“You just said—”
“I’m done talking about this.”
“Fine. But don’t blame me if—”
“Of course not. My assistant, who should know me better than most people, can’t stand me.”
Her voice matched his. “What do you mean, ‘should’? I do know you better than most people, Duncan.”
“Okay, then. What about me is so repellant?” Glowering, he stared her down. It didn’t mask the pained gleam in his eyes.
Rosabel inhaled, taking in the passing cars and the spread of grass between them and the Painted Lady. A couple walking their dog strolled past, forcing Rosabel to retreat onto the street until they passed. “Maybe we should head back to the house,” she said.
“No. We’re doing this now,” he said, his bossy tone taking over.
She lost it. “That. That tone. I can’t stand that tone. I can’t stand that you see everyone as a rung on a ladder. You have no respect for others—how can I possibly think otherwise when I witness that fact every day?”
“I respect people,” he argue
d, sounding small and petulant and seeming to realize he had, because he turned away from her.
“Do you?” She came around and stood in front of him. “Most people like being told ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ Most people appreciate a polite response rather than a snap. Most people like being listened to and having their thoughts validated.”
“And you think I don’t listen to you.”
“You’re on your phone or tablet every time I try to talk to you. You say you want a relationship with me, but I’m not sure you know how to have one. I think you’ve been indulged all your life. I think your requests were granted because your parents were so busy working, and your grandma or whoever they hired to watch you just gave in rather than teaching you how to treat others.” She was going too far, but he’d asked for it.
“Why haven’t you said anything before now?” His voice was quiet.
“I have,” she said with a laugh. She couldn’t help it. “Remember the part where I said you don’t listen? That I quit? You take me for granted. You treat people like doormats—especially me. I’m tired of being unappreciated. I’m tired of being bossed around. I want to be noticed, to have your genuine thanks for what I do for you.”
She waited for his comeback, for him to sputter something about paying her to take his attitude, but the quip didn’t come.
He hung his head. “Okay, then.”
“Okay?” Not ready for the argument to end, she waited for the spar that had spiked her adrenaline.
He slid his eyes to hers. “I’m heading back to the lake house. Are you coming?”
“No.” She stood her ground. “You promised me a night on the town. I want to see Eureka Springs.”
“Fine,” he said, opening the car door before pausing. He dug a golden ticket from within his jacket and slammed the small rectangle into her palm. “Here. Your trolley pass. I’m sure you’ll find an Uber or something that can take you out to the lake house for your things when you’re done sightseeing.”
Rosabel And The Billionaire Beast (Billionaire Bachelor Mountain Cove Book 6) Page 8
