Winning Back His Runaway Bride

by Jessica Gilmore

  It was his turn to pause, overcome by her words. ‘I almost got buried again in responsibilities,’ he confessed. ‘I was so close to not fulfilling my promise to you. But I also had to figure out what I want from life. My role, the legacy my grandfather wants to give me is important, but so are you. I need to make some changes, persuade my grandfather to take a step back, bring in people I can trust so I don’t feel the need to manage everything myself, give my father a chance now he claims to be a reformed character, get to know my mother...’ He laughed shakily. ‘It’s quite a list but I can only do it with you by my side. You asked me a few days ago what kind of person you were. The kind of person who gives up her holiday to make a child’s dream come true, the kind of person who tries to solve every problem she sees, the kind of person who embraces life. The person I want by my side every step I take, the person I want to support in everything that makes her happy.’

  ‘Oh, Matteo. That’s where I want to be too. Wherever that is, London, here, Kent, it doesn’t matter.’ She laughed then. ‘Although let’s make sure it’s here often. Natalia offered me a job, well, half offered, and I was so tempted to say yes. I love it here.’

  ‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘I am planning to work from home a lot more so we could have a home in Kent, or maybe here. I am willing to see where the adventure takes us.’

  She softly pinched his cheek. ‘Is this really you? I don’t think I have ever been happier.’

  ‘Maybe save some of that happiness for tomorrow because I have one more surprise for you. Tomorrow we’re coming back to these gardens for a small party, one where we get to say our vows in front of our families. I promised you we would have a proper celebration with our parents and it’s shameful I never found the time. Your parents arrive in the morning.’ He paused, trying to read the slightly stunned look on her face. ‘I hope that’s okay. It will be pretty embarrassing if you think it’s too soon to make that kind of commitment. I have just realised how stressful being impulsive can be.’

  Charlie just stared at him. ‘My parents are coming here?’

  ‘They wanted to be here tonight but it wasn’t possible, but they arrive in Rome tomorrow morning and should be here mid-afternoon.’

  ‘You organised all this for me?’ She stepped closer, running her hand softly down his cheek.

  ‘For us,’ he said, dipping his head and kissing her at last, the way he’d wanted to do since he’d seen her. She kissed him back ardently and sweetly, her body entwined around his. He pulled back to study her face. ‘I love you, Charlie. I don’t think I’ve ever said that enough. I certainly haven’t shown it enough, but I do. I love you. My heart is yours always.’

  ‘And I love you, Matteo. I’d much rather be with you and see what adventures life brings us than anything else in the world.’ She reached for him again and he swept her into his arms. His wife once again. This time, he vowed, he would do everything to make sure she stayed that way. For ever.

  * * *

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  CHAPTER ONE

  OWEN PERRY GLANCED at the clock on the wall of the lawyer’s office and then at the lawyer.

  Mr Dunkley cleared his throat and adjusted his tie before shuffling the papers on his desk. ‘Ms Nicholls only arrived in New York yesterday. It’s a long flight from Sydney. She’s probably jet-lagged and still finding her feet.’

  Owen ground back his impatience. He had no idea why Mr Dunkley was determined to make allowances for Callie Nicholls. He knew as well as Owen did how many letters Frances had sent to Australia. And they both knew exactly how many letters she’d received back in return.

  None.

  Not one.

  With a deep breath Owen forced his jaw to relax and glanced at the envelope on top of the folder in front of him—his godmother’s final message to him. He’d brought it along as a reminder, to help him keep his resentment in check and to honour Frances’s memory. Frances wouldn’t want him telling Callie Nicholls exactly what he thought of her. She wouldn’t want him to feel resentful or bitter on her behalf. She’d want him to be professional...and kind.

  Unbidden, grief smothered his heart like a pillow pressed to his face, making it hard to breathe. His name, written in Frances’s familiar looping handwriting—in fountain pen rather than ballpoint, because she’d had a thing for fountain pens and coloured inks—made him ache.

  He wished he could sit in her living room just one last time to argue politics over a game of chess. That, of course, could never happen, and that letter addressed to him had been written in black ink, rather than a whimsical aqua or tangerine, as if to signify the formality of its contents. As if to symbolise death.

  Stop being maudlin.

  She’d give him a stinging set-down if she could see him now and be privy to his thoughts. But she couldn’t and she wasn’t. All that was left was her letter.

  Darling Owen, you owe me nothing...

  He owed her everything! Which was why he’d do what she’d asked rather than give Callie Nicholls a piece of his mind. He’d help this rotten woman however he could, keep an eye on her for as long as she was in New York—which he hoped to God wasn’t going to be too long—and he’d be neighbourly. Just as Frances had requested.

  He might have more enthusiasm for a root canal treatment, but he’d do it anyway. For Frances.

  The intercom on Mr Dunkley’s desk buzzed. ‘Ms Nicholls for her ten o’clock appointment.’

  Owen’s gaze flicked to the clock. Ten twenty-five.

  ‘Send her in,’ the lawyer responded.

  The door opened and a young woman burst into the room in a flurry of coat-shaking and swift gestures, and for a moment Owen had an impression of colour and sunshine and spring breezes.

  ‘I’m so sorry I’m late!’ She unwound a startlingly pink scarf from around her throat. ‘New York is insane!’

  The lawyer immediately leapt to his feet. Owen did the same, doing all he could to squash the defiance rising through him.

  ‘Does it ever get quiet here?’

  He couldn’t help himself. ‘You’re late because of the noise?’

  Blue eyes swung to him, a keen intelligence brightening them to the colour of a cobalt glass marble he’d once treasured as a kid.

  The corners of a mobile mouth twitched. ‘My hotel is right next door to a fire station, and either there are a lot of fires in New York or there’s something wrong with their alarm. But, even given my disrupted sleep, I was awake nice and early—bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.’

  Bright-eyed? Tick. Bushy-tailed...? He refused to let his gaze drop.

  ‘The taxi driver I thought I’d been so lucky to hail dropped me three blocks away, swearing black and blue that your offices, Mr Dunkley, were just “right there”—he even pointed to a door—and then charged me twenty dollars for the privilege...which seemed a lot.’ She rolled her eyes and set her raspberry-coloured coat on the back of a chair. For the briefest moment her lips tightened. ‘I have a feeling I was just taken for a ride—literally.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’ he asked.

  She named a nearby hotel—budget and far from fancy. Not the kind of hotel Owen would want his sister staying at.

  ‘It would’ve been quicker to walk.’

  Her brows rose at his tone and his shoulders knotted. He’d promised to be helpful. Sniping at her wasn’t helpful.

  Pulling in a breath, he did what he could to temper his tone. ‘Your hotel doesn’t
have the best of reputations. Other arrangements will have to be made for you.’

  Those blue eyes narrowed. ‘We haven’t been introduced.’ A small pointed chin lifted—a very determined chin—and a hand was thrust towards him. ‘Callie Nicholls.’

  He clasped it. ‘Owen Perry.’ He released it again immediately, his hand burning.

  ‘The executor of my grandmother’s will?’

  ‘That’s right.’ His hands clenched. Why hadn’t she written Frances just one letter? Had it really been too much to ask?

  ‘Well, Mr Perry, let me assure you that I’m perfectly capable of making my own arrangements in regard to my accommodation. And whatever else I choose to do while I’m in New York.’

  He’d just bet she was.

  ‘So, please, don’t trouble yourself on my account.’

  She was welcome to stay in a dumpster for all he cared. Still...

  ‘Your grandmother would want you to be comfortable and safe for the duration of your stay.’

  ‘That can be solved easily enough,’ Mr Dunkley inserted hastily. ‘Ms Nicholls, please have a seat.’

  They all sat.

  ‘I think it would be prudent for Ms Nicholls to stay in her grandmother’s apartment,’ said the lawyer.

  ‘No!’ Owen’s denial was instant, automatic and involuntary.

  Both Mr Dunkley and Callie Nicholls stared at him. The non-existent collar of his woollen sweater tightened about his throat. It was just... He couldn’t imagine anyone else living upstairs. Didn’t want to imagine it.

  Callie glanced at the lawyer, who swallowed and leaned towards Owen a fraction. ‘Why on earth not?’

  If Callie moved in he’d no longer be able to go upstairs and sit in the half-dark to breathe in Frances’s familiar scent and just...remember her.

  ‘Well...?’ Callie prompted now, not unkindly, but with a perplexed furrow ruffling the skin between her eyes.

  Damn it all to hell! This woman didn’t deserve to profit from Frances in death when she’d refused to come near her in life. He closed his eyes and bit back the howl that pressed against his throat.

  This is what Frances wants.

  That was what he needed to focus on. Not on how Callie had done Frances wrong.

  ‘The apartment hasn’t been touched in over eight weeks. It’ll need a thorough airing and cleaning before anyone can move in, and—’

  ‘All taken care of,’ Mr Dunkley said with forced cheer. ‘I took the liberty of hiring cleaners yesterday. The apartment is ready—’ he shrugged ‘—for whatever Ms Nicholls wishes to do with it.’

  Owen ruthlessly pushed all sentimentality away. He couldn’t afford it at the moment. ‘How forward-thinking of you, Mr Dunkley.’

  The salient fact was that as soon as Frances’s granddaughter signed the paperwork a significant portion of her grandmother’s estate would pass to her—including the apartment block her grandmother had lived in. It was a modest complex by New York standards—only eight apartments in total—but it was located in the heart of Greenwich Village, one of the most exclusive neighbourhoods in New York, and worth millions of dollars.

  As soon as she put it on the market, he planned to buy it.

  They got down to business.

  ‘Your letter informs me that I have inherited a small legacy from my grandmother, Mr Dunkley, which I’ll confess was unexpected.’

  Owen only just managed to contain a snort.

  ‘But it’s terribly exciting. What can you tell me about Frances?’

  ‘She was born Frances Victoria Allbright and grew up in Maine. At the age of nineteen she married Thomas Nicholls, an up-and-coming stockbroker. Thomas tragically drowned over forty years ago, leaving Frances and your mother reasonably well off. Frances, however, never one to rest on her laurels, began playing the stock market. Thomas had apparently taught her everything he knew, and she did rather well for herself.’

  As the lawyer spoke Callie moved closer and closer to the edge of her seat, her face glued to Mr Dunkley’s.

  Avaricious. That was the word that stuck in Owen’s mind. It made him sick to the stomach. Frances had deserved so much better.

  ‘She remarried when she was forty-six, but it only lasted four years before ending in an acrimonious divorce.’

  ‘Who did she marry?’

  ‘Richard Bateman...’ Mr Dunkley paused, as if waiting for more questions, but when they didn’t come he continued. ‘A year or so after the divorce she moved from her apartment on the Upper East Side to Greenwich Village, which is where she lived for the last twenty years.’

  Which was how Owen had met her. His mother had been Frances’s cleaning woman.

  Callie leaned forward again. ‘Mr Dunkley, these are all interesting facts, but you say you’ve been my grandmother’s lawyer for over thirty years?’

  Mr Dunkley removed his glasses. ‘What is it you want to know?’

  ‘I want to know what my grandmother was like. What sort of person was she? Did she have a quick temper? Was she fond of cats? Did she have any hobbies? Who were her friends?’

  ‘Your grandmother could be brusque to the point of rudeness, but underneath she had a kind heart,’ Owen found himself saying. ‘She was fond of neither cats nor small children. She could play a mean game of chess, and she continued to follow the stock market until the day she died. She didn’t have many friends—probably because she was insanely private—but those she did have she cherished. She was a philanthropist; she gave generously to a range of charities. And she spent every Christmas alone.’

  Callie turned to him, eyes wide and lips parted, as if hungry for his every word. Things inside him tightened. Things he didn’t want to tighten. Or clench. Or burn. She looked the epitome of wholesome small-town goodness—the quintessential girl next door—with her shiny chestnut hair, her wide smile and glowing skin. She looked like the kind of woman who hid nothing—what you saw was what you got.

  In other words: trouble.

  Owen knew better than to accept anyone at face value. Fiona had taught him that lesson in the most ruthless way possible. He’d base his opinion of Callie on her actions, not what she looked like. And, based on her actions so far, she was only out for what she could get.

  It took all his strength not to drop his head to his hands. Frances deserved so much better...

  * * *

  The longer Callie stared at the enigmatic and utterly perplexing Owen Perry, the more the breath jammed in her throat. Instinct told her he was the key to everything. This man had known her grandmother. If anyone could tell her everything she needed to know, it would be him.

  Which was going to be interesting, because every instinct she had told her he didn’t like her. How odd... He didn’t even know her! Still, in her experience men didn’t need an excuse to act either illogically or belligerently, and there was no way on God’s green earth she was kow-towing to another privileged male, securely entrenched in his sense of entitlement, so help her God.

  She’d find out everything she needed to without his help. She knew how to follow a trail of breadcrumbs to put the past back together. It was what she did. She was a trained historian, for heaven’s sake. She didn’t need Owen Perry.

  ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

  While polite, she couldn’t help feeling his words were a taunt she didn’t understand.

  ‘I’m just envious, that’s all. Until recently, I didn’t know Frances existed.’

  He’d known her grandmother. He sounded fond of her.

  ‘But you knew her—you liked her, I think. What was your relationship to Frances?’

  ‘She was my godmother.’

  Godmother? Owen was Frances’s godson? Her heart, her spine and everything inside her softened. What she’d taken as aversion was grief.

  ‘Oh, Owen, I’m so sorry for your loss. You must miss her
a great deal.’

  He didn’t answer, just glanced away.

  Mr Dunkley cleared his throat. ‘Let’s move on to the legacy, shall we?’

  She immediately straightened and turned back to the lawyer, gripping her hands in her lap.

  Please, please, please let Frances have left her a letter, explaining why she’d never contacted her. Please, please, please let her have left her a family tree she could finally start to trace.

  ‘Your grandmother was a wealthy woman...’

  Automatically she nodded, waiting for the lawyer to present her with the yearned-for letter.

  ‘Your grandmother owned the apartment block she lived in, and she’s left that to you—along with a trust fund she started for you when you were born.’

  Her pulse quickened. When she was born? Had she met her grandmother as a baby?

  Both men stared at her expectantly as she shuffled to the very edge of her seat. ‘And...?’

  The knuckles on Owen’s hands turned white. ‘You want more?’

  ‘Yes!’ Her heart hammered so hard she could barely breathe. ‘Didn’t she leave me a letter, explaining why she never contacted me? Why would she leave me anything when she never tried to pursue any kind of relationship with me? Why start a trust fund for me?’

  None of it made any sense.

  Owen leapt to his feet and started pacing. As if... She frowned. As if he were furious and needed an outlet. His actions made no sense either.

  The man’s grieving, she told herself.

  ‘Your grandmother didn’t leave you a letter,’ the lawyer said.

  Her heart shrank. No letter? Then—

  ‘But she has left you a comfortable nest egg. The trust fund totals five million dollars.’