Secret Billionaire on Her Doorstep

by Michelle Douglas

  ‘You managed to put the worst possible interpretation on those words, didn’t you?’

  Her chin lowered a notch. ‘What did you mean, then?’

  He drained the rest of his coffee and then strode across to the sofa and sat. In Frances’s seat. Because he couldn’t bear the thought of seeing anyone else in it—especially if that someone was her undutiful granddaughter. She hesitated and then took a seat too, at the other end of the sofa, curled up against its arm in a spot where he couldn’t remember anyone ever sitting.

  ‘My mother was Frances’s cleaning woman. I was four when Mom starting cleaning for her—not at school yet—so my mother often had to bring me to work with her. The first time I came here, Frances taught me to play checkers.’

  Callie smoothed her hands across her skirt and for a moment all he could see were her knees—really pretty knees. He shook himself. Pretty knees? Was he losing the plot?

  ‘I thought you said she didn’t like small children?’

  ‘For some reason she made an exception for me.’ For which he’d always considered himself blessed. ‘My father was an alcoholic, and sometimes violent.’

  Callie’s gaze speared his and he found himself shrugging.

  ‘He never hit my mother or me, but he punched holes in walls, broke dinner plates, threw things. We knew it was only a matter of time.’

  As a little kid, he’d lived in fear of his father. It wasn’t something he liked to dwell on.

  ‘Frances helped my mother leave him—gave her cheap accommodation here in this apartment block. She took an interest in us—in me.’ Loss hollowed out his stomach. ‘She was the grandmother I never had.’

  Callie sucked her bottom lip into her mouth. When she released it, it was plump and red from where she’d worried at it...and disturbingly fascinating.

  ‘Where’s your father now?’ she asked.

  ‘As soon as he realised he couldn’t force my mother to come back, he told us we were dead to him. We haven’t seen him since.’

  ‘So... Frances, your mother and you were a family of sorts?’

  They had been, and he didn’t have enough family to be blasé about losing any of their number.

  He refused to allow his attention to fix on her lips.

  ‘She paid my college tuition fees. Without the benefit of that education I’d be pulling beers in some bar or lugging bricks around a building site. And, while there’s absolutely nothing wrong with either of those things, she gave me the opportunity to find my place in the world. That education opened doors that had been previously shut to me.’

  Her brow cleared. ‘That’s what you meant when you said she’d given you everything you needed while she was alive?’

  Exactly.

  ‘I’m glad.’ But she didn’t smile. She stared across the room, her brow once again furrowed.

  Owen... Frances’s voice sounded a warning through his mind.

  He ground his teeth together. ‘What’s wrong? You don’t look pleased?’

  Her gaze swung back to his. ‘You and your mother looked after Frances?’

  ‘We all looked after each other.’

  She made a noise of frustration, lifting her hands. ‘So why didn’t she leave her money—her estate—to the two of you, instead of me and my mother?’

  ‘We didn’t want her money!’ His throat burned. ‘That’s not what our relationship was based on.’ He leaned towards her. ‘But, speaking of despicable...’ He was incapable of keeping the edge from his voice.

  Their gazes clashed and she raised an eyebrow in exactly the same way Frances used to do, and for a moment he couldn’t speak.

  ‘What have I done that’s despicable?’ she asked. ‘Besides being late for this morning’s meeting and choosing the wrong hotel?’

  Don’t raise your voice. Don’t yell. Don’t roar at her that Frances deserved better.

  ‘You said you wanted revenge on Frances.’

  Her jaw dropped. ‘I said no such thing!’

  She wanted to deny it? He’d been there!

  ‘Just after Mr Dunkley told you about the inheritance.’ He dragged in a breath. ‘You were smiling, and I asked you if you were already spending the money.’

  She stared back, and then her face cleared. ‘I wasn’t referring to my grandmother when I said I wanted revenge.’

  ‘Who were you referring to?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  Bizarrely, he had to fight a smile.

  ‘Until a couple of weeks ago I didn’t even know my grandmother existed. Why on earth would I want revenge on her?’ She slumped back. ‘She’s given me all this money. What I don’t understand is why she never tried to contact me when she was alive.’

  He shot to his feet. ‘Can we just cut that pretence? I know the truth.’

  She stared at him and rose too. Something had changed in the depths of her eyes—the blue was neither so brilliant now, nor so clear.

  ‘Would you care to explain that? Are you saying Frances did try to contact me?’

  He’d just told her how close he and Frances had been. Did she honestly think him ignorant of the letters? Hell, he’d posted an awful lot of them himself.

  He strode across to the antique dresser on the far wall and pulled open the top drawer, gesturing for Callie to come and take a look. The moment she drew near, the scent of spring flowers filled his senses. He backed up a step. Callie might look pretty, and she might smell pretty, but her heart was as black as pitch.

  He kept his face trained on hers as she drew out the letters—hundreds of them—some of them addressed to Callie and others to her mother. She took them back to the sofa and stared at them. With her lower lip caught between her teeth, she sorted through them, checking the dates on the postmarks and collating them into two piles—hers and Donna’s.

  Eventually she glanced up at him, her eyes suspiciously bright. ‘She wrote to me...’

  He didn’t bother dignifying that with an answer.

  Her lips twisted. ‘Oh, that’s right. You’re being a typical discerning male. I suppose it’s logical to think that because they were returned I was the one who returned them.’

  He blinked, felt something scratching through his chest. Was it possible he’d read her wrong? She didn’t look guilty. Unlike Fiona when he’d caught her out in her lies. Of course that could simply mean she was a better actress than Fiona.

  Or it could mean you have this wrong.

  Facts. He needed to focus on facts.

  She drew a pen and a scrap of paper from her handbag, scrawled something on it and then held it out to him. Forcing his frozen legs to move, he took it. She’d written Return to Sender. Then she handed him one of the letters addressed to her.

  He studied the handwriting. With a mouth that had gone as dry as the Arizona desert, he reached for one of the letters addressed to Donna. The instruction on both letters was written in the same hand, but it was different from the sample that Callie had written on the scrap of paper.

  He lowered himself back down to the sofa. ‘Your mother returned all of these?’

  He didn’t know why he asked the question when the evidence in front of him provided the answer.

  ‘So it would seem.’

  ‘So when you said you weren’t aware of your grandmother’s existence...’

  ‘I wasn’t lying.’

  He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I didn’t believe you.’

  She shrugged, gesturing at the letters. ‘I can see why you came to the conclusion you did.’

  They were both quiet for several long moments. Eventually she glanced up. ‘You thought that of me—’ she pointed to the letters ‘—and yet you still came to my rescue at the hotel today. Why?’

  He hesitated, reluctant to tell her the truth, but suspecting he owed it to her. ‘I promised Frances I w
ould provide you with every assistance if you should ever come to New York.’

  ‘And, despite how you felt about me, you were determined to carry out her wishes.’ She tapped a finger against her lips. ‘Which turned out lucky for me.’

  ‘Callie, I’m sorry. I—’

  She waved his apology away. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Her accompanying smile was strained. ‘It at least explains why I sensed you didn’t like me.’

  Her eyes clouded as they travelled back to the letters and Owen’s temples throbbed. Her mother had deliberately kept them from her. Why would she do that? There must have been seriously bad blood between the two women. It was beyond him to understand why Donna had refused to patch things up when Frances had proffered an olive branch, though. They were family! Family should mean something.

  ‘Did Frances ever speak about my mother and me?’

  He shook his head. And he’d never asked. He’d known that Frances had been married twice, and that she had a daughter, but his mother had warned him never to pry into Frances’s affairs. They’d been so grateful to her, and neither of them had wanted to cause her pain or discomfort. It had been unspoken, but they’d both known that Frances’s family was the one topic that was off-limits.

  He’d respected her privacy. Wishing he’d done otherwise now was pointless. She’d never have told him anything anyway, and he’d have only vexed her.

  ‘I guess these now belong to me.’ Callie gathered her letters into a pile. ‘Which means I’m free to read them.’

  He gestured at Donna’s letters as Callie collected them up and returned them to the drawer. ‘What are you going to do with those?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. I’ve a feeling my mother should read them.’

  ‘But...?’

  She swung round and the light from the windows caught the auburn highlights in her hair. ‘My mother isn’t an unreasonable woman, Owen. She’s...lovely. She’s smart and fun and I respect her. We’re close.’ She moved back to trace a finger across the letters. ‘I’m beyond shocked to find she’s kept these from me. It goes against everything I know about her.’

  He rested his elbows on his knees, searching her face. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying she must have a very good reason for not wanting me ever to meet or even know about Frances.’

  He stiffened. ‘Then she’d be wrong.’

  They were both suddenly on their feet, eyes flashing and breathing hard.

  ‘Of course that’s what you’d say. You only knew the best of her.’

  ‘In the same way you only know the best of your mother.’

  She wheeled away. ‘The fact is neither of us knows what happened between them.’

  That was true enough. He’d loved Frances, but she’d been far from perfect. Still, she hadn’t been imperfect enough to not be forgiven by her own flesh and blood.

  Callie folded her arms. ‘I have a feeling I’m not going to like Frances.’

  He scowled back. What right did she think she had to judge her grandmother?

  ‘That’s right. Keep an open mind. Doesn’t the fact that she’s left you ridiculously wealthy mean anything?’

  ‘I’m not keeping the inheritance if I don’t like her!’

  What?

  ‘You signed the paperwork!’

  ‘If I hadn’t, what would’ve happened to the money, huh? Would it have gone to a cats’ home?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t have anything against cats, but I can direct that money into better channels.’

  ‘Like...?’

  ‘Amnesty and the Red Cross...and that charity that distributes mosquito nets—it’s a far from sexy one, but it’s rated as getting great results.’

  ‘The Against Malaria Foundation?’

  ‘Yes! That one.’

  They stared at each other, a little nonplussed. He shook himself. While Callie might’ve named three of his personal favourite charities, it was not what Frances had wanted her to do with the money.

  ‘You’d really give the money away? The amount Frances has given you is life-changing.’

  ‘Maybe I don’t want my life changed.’

  Something hard settled in the pit of his stomach. Frances would hate this outcome, and he was going to do everything he could to prevent it. By the time he was through with her, Callie Nicholls was going to acknowledge that her grandmother was a saint. Okay, maybe not a saint, but—

  ‘Do you want it?’ she asked.

  He recoiled. ‘No!’

  She spread her hands as if that explained it all.

  The reasons behind her initially tepid reaction to her inheritance hit him then. He’d thought she’d been hoping for more—for everything. He’d thought she’d been disappointed in the legacy Frances had left her. Instead, she’d been interested in Frances herself.

  He dragged in a breath. While he already had his own twenty million dollars—and the rest—would he be able to just walk away from that sum, as Callie was threatening to do?

  ‘The money doesn’t have to be life-changing. It doesn’t have to mean anything,’ Callie said. ‘Signing Mr Dunkley’s paperwork will simply make accessing information easier. And frankly, Owen, that’s all I’m interested in.’

  ‘What kind of information are you after?’ he asked.

  While he might have been wrong about her returning Frances’s letters, that didn’t mean Callie Nicholls wasn’t still trouble with a capital T.

  CHAPTER THREE

  EVER SINCE CALLIE had entered Frances’s apartment, she’d grown more and more aware of Owen. Maybe it was because the apartment was an undeniably feminine space. Not in a pink and frilly way, but there were vases dotted about, waiting for flowers, scented candles lined the windowsills, and a plethora of cushions covered the sofas—more cushions than a man would ever put up with. Furthermore, the bookcase overflowed with novels—most of them romance and women’s fiction.

  The apartment was a feminine space, and Owen was undeniably masculine.

  Or maybe it was the fact that she now understood why he’d been so angry, even though he’d tried to hide it. He’d thought she’d callously shunned a woman he’d cared about deeply. She didn’t blame him for feeling the way he had.

  What on earth had happened between her mother and Frances?

  A chill chased across her scalp. Maybe she should leave the past where it was and not disturb it. Except...

  She wanted to know, ached to learn all she could.

  Here was a chance to discover where she came from, to find out if she had any other family and fill in all the blanks she’d been hungry to fill as a child. Here was a chance to finally get to the bottom of a mystery that had chafed at her for her entire childhood.

  For as long as she could recall it had only been her and her mother. But they hadn’t been alone in the world, as her mother had always claimed. She’d had a grandmother.

  Her hands clenched and unclenched. She couldn’t lie to herself. Her mother would have a good reason for keeping it from her. She suspected there’d be a price to pay for sating her curiosity. But also a prize to be won! And she couldn’t forget that tracing her family tree would give her the chance to win an amazing job—one that would have Dominic grinding his teeth in envy and frustration.

  She thrust out her jaw, resolve setting like concrete in her chest. Getting a new job, getting her life back on track and feeling in control again was her number one priority. She wasn’t walking away now.

  As for her inheritance and the money—she could make a decision about that at a later date.

  She blinked herself back into the present to find herself staring at broad shoulders, lean hips and grey eyes that had turned as bleak as the mist her plane had flown through on its descent into New York.

  In spite of what Frances had or hadn’t done to Callie’s mother, Owen had loved the older w
oman and he missed her. Her chest burned. She was intruding on that grief and taking away his sole source of comfort. She wanted to get to the bottom of this mystery, but not at the expense of other people.

  ‘You know what, Owen? I really appreciate everything you’ve done, but I think I should find a nearby B&B. Maybe you’d be kind enough to suggest somewhere suitable and—?’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  She planted her hands on her hips. She stared at his strong thighs and her mouth went dry. Don’t stare.

  ‘And...uh...maybe you could hold the key for me until I’m ready to go through Frances’s things?’ His eyes narrowed, and she swallowed. ‘Also, while I think of it, maybe there are a couple of Frances’s things you’d like for yourself—for sentimental reasons. You should give it some thought and—’

  ‘No, Callie.’

  His face had cleared and he shook his head, his tone a strange combination of gentleness and implacability.

  She blinked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’m not letting you do that.’

  She puffed herself up, doing her best to feign offence. ‘What do you mean letting me? It’s my decision. The thing is, I’m sure I’ll be much happier in a B&B.’

  Beneath the soft wool of his jumper, his shoulders flexed. ‘I know what you’re doing, and I’d rather you didn’t. Your grandmother would wish you to stay here. She certainly wouldn’t want me coming here to wallow and be morose.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘It’s time for me to move on. Now that you’re in New York, I won’t be coming here again without an invitation.’

  ‘Fine! But you don’t have to move on right this minute, you know? You can take your time and—’

  He took her hands and squeezed, his smile warming his eyes. Her heart pressed hard against her lungs, making it difficult to catch her breath.

  ‘Callie, I appreciate the thought. I really do. But it’s totally unnecessary. This is just a place, and these are just things. I have my memories. That’s enough.’

  Her shoulders sagged, but some of the guilt lifted. ‘If you’re sure...?’