Win nodded. “But it doesn’t call to you?”
“No, not really. I think part of it is that I never really had anything to do there, nothing but live up to the expectations that everyone else had formed. Now that I’ve seen a little of the world, I want to see more of it. Not to simply travel the way Caroline wants, but to live in different places, work in different places.” She shot him a wry glance. “Keep alert, Mr. Masters. If you aren’t careful, I really will hit you up for a job.”
“You’d be well qualified for one,” Win said, speaking past the lump in his throat. Yet another reason to stop this—whatever he was doing—with Marguerite Saleri. By her own admission, she wanted to travel the world, which meant nowhere in the world was safe for him. Inevitably, she’d move in the same circles as him. Her royal standing would give her the notoriety to get a plum position, and her skills and network would see her move up the ranks quickly. And if, somewhere years down the road, he saw her again—happy, fulfilled, and worst of all in the arms of another man…he didn’t know what he’d do.
“It’s so beautiful,” she sighed beside him, and he glanced down to see where she was looking. But it wasn’t out at the river, as he’d expected. Instead, she was looking back toward the Grand.
Grudgingly, he turned to look as well, barely avoiding the wince as she settled against him more firmly, his arms going naturally around her shoulders despite his best intentions.
From this perspective, the house did look like something out of a fairytale—or at least an architectural magazine, as his father would insist. Rose brick and white trim, all of its elegant balconies and screened porches primed and ready for whatever the next day brought. The lights that highlighted its walls now made it seem like a beacon of joy in an otherwise cheerless night, and standing here, with this woman in his arms, on the property of generations of Masters, Win felt rooted to the world in a way he never had before. In a way that was dangerous, too.
Standing here with Marguerite…this is what is right, he thought. This is what I want.
This is what I can never have. He’d tried loving someone once. It had ended in terror and pain. He couldn’t…wouldn’t, risk that again.
Chapter Sixteen
Two more days passed and Marguerite would have sworn the universe was deliberately playing games with her.
Her research remained a dead end. Kit Wellingford, the only other local contact she thought might still have useful information, refused to answer her calls. Win had made good on his promise and taken her back to Sea Haven Island the night of their last dinner together—without even a murmur of a request that she spend the night. He’d stayed in almost constant contact with her, but it had all been distant—by phone, by text. He’d even asked her to stay away from Holt House, in part because he wanted to surprise her, in part because…honestly, she had no idea why. There was no way she’d imagined his interest in her, yet he’d seemed to be able to turn his back on her every bit as quickly…while she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Unbidden, Juliet Graham’s waspish comments about Win causing someone emotional trauma came back to her, along with the fortune teller’s admonition to help a man get over his past. And Win himself had seemed on the verge of saying something at least a half a dozen times already, only to stop himself. It all had to be related…but what could it be?
And how could she help him if she didn’t know what was wrong?
Well, Win couldn’t avoid her today. The county exchange agent had results on the soil samples they’d tested, and was meeting Win at Holt House, only Win wouldn’t be there in time. He’d asked her—reluctantly, she thought—to be here to greet the man until Win could arrive.
“I’ve never been this far out this way, and that’s the truth,” Cindy said as she sped along the pavement, closing in on Holt House with remarkable speed. “The intel on Win’s house didn’t stretch this far past it.”
Marguerite eyed her with surprise. “You’ve lived in Charleston your whole life, and you never traveled inland?”
“Inland sure,” Cindy shrugged. “But Charleston is inland enough, thank you, and Columbia is accessible by main roads. Back off the beaten path like this, you have to have a reason to be here. Never had one.”
“Not even to sight see?”
“When you have the ocean to look at?”
Marguerite laughed. Cindy had a point.
“Besides,” the bodyguard continued. “Once you have a family, you find your life takes on a different shape. Now that Rob and I have the kids, any free time is spent taking care of them or traveling with them somewhere interesting. Winding back country roads doesn’t rate as high as the beach, or even some of the towns down to the south. “
Her comment redirected Marguerite. “Have you ever been down to Savannah?”
“Oh! Well, sure. Now that’s a good time. You can get all the history you ever wanted down that way. Anything from Civil War memorials—and more Civil War memorials—to haunted houses to southern restaurants that might possibly kill you with the amount of butter and cream they put into everything. But oh, honey, is it worth it.”
“Haunted houses…” Marguerite hadn’t told Cindy, exactly, what the situation was at Holt House, so she needed to be careful here. “What about fortune tellers? You ever visited those in Savannah?”
“Are you kidding?” Cindy snorted. “The town’s full of them. There’s something about the place that plays to the sense of supernatural in people. I’m telling you, while you’re here, you really should go check it out.”
While she was here. And that was the crux of it, Marguerite knew. She wouldn’t be here for very much longer. There was nothing to keep her here, really—her work for Mr. Holt was going to be resolved within the next few days, one way or another, and Win… Win seemed determined to push her away. Which wouldn’t be a problem except…except she didn’t want him to push her away. For the first time in her life, she’d found someone she actually cared about more than as a passing fling or a casual friend, someone who made her laugh and want to see places and do things with him, just because there would be more pleasure in experiencing those things together. No other man she’d dated had ever felt so…right before. And yes, she was young, there was absolutely no reason she couldn’t find another man who’d be such a good match…
She simply couldn’t imagine wanting anyone else.
“You okay?” Cindy was giving her the side-eye from the driver’s seat.
Marguerite turned toward her. “How did you meet Rob?”
The question clearly startled Cindy, but she gave Marguerite a wide smile. “Well, that’s not nearly the fantastic story it should be, given how long we’ve been together and how much I love that man.” She shook her head. “We met in school—and by school I mean high school. I was practicing for the girls’ basketball team, and I was a junior transfer. He played on the boys’ team. It wasn’t a big school, so if you had any remote ability, you were recruited like it was a war effort. We saw each other, and after eyeballing for a few weeks, talked.” She lifted one shoulder. “We’ve pretty much been together since. Rob was best friend to Vince Rallis, and when Vince decided to open up his security business, we both came on board.”
“So you knew right away. With Rob, I mean. You knew you were right for each other.”
Cindy snorted. “Well, we were idiot kids, so I wouldn’t put too much weight on our abilities of discernment, but yeah. Sometimes, you just know.”
She looked over again at Marguerite. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not asking this for theoretical reasons? Are things getting serious with Win?”
“Serious? No. I don’t know. We’ve been so caught up with the Holt House project that it’s become all we talk about.”
“Well, you’ve talked about his work too, right? Especially given your interest in hotel management, I’d think that would be easy.”
“We have, I guess. And we talk about real estate, and building, and Charleston society.”
<
br /> “So that’s something. What about his family or yours?”
Marguerite felt a tightening in her gut. She dropped her head back on the headrest, and stared out the window. “That’s exactly it. We don’t talk about anything personal. I mean, immediately personal, yes. But not about Win’s parents, his extended family. I know he doesn’t have siblings but only because of the dossier you ran on him. He hasn’t volunteered any of that himself. That’s bad, isn’t it? That has to be bad.”
“Not bad, necessarily,” Cindy offered, but her voice had become a little less emphatic.
Marguerite didn’t need the independent validation—she knew it was bad.
Cindy turned the car off the main road and down the lane toward Holt House. The gate was no longer cordoned off with bailing wire, but there were still two men standing there, dressed in khakis and tidy work shirts. Marguerite rolled down her window and waved, but rather than gesturing her on through, one of the men stepped up to the car.
“There’s a car ahead of you, thought I’d give you fair warning.”
Marguerite groaned and fumbled for her phone. “The agent isn’t supposed to be here for another thirty minutes! Did you let Win know?”
“It’s not the county agent,” the man said. “We had them on the list. These folks weren’t on the list. But they were the Holts, they said, and had ID to prove it.”
“Holts.” Plural? “Marguerite frowned. “Dawson Holt, you mean?”
“No, ma’am.” The guard consulted his clipboard, and read off the names. “Mr. Neil Holt, Mrs. Francesca Holt Martin, both in their late fifties. There was another woman in the car, but they said they were family, so…”
Marguerite stared at him. “How long have they been here?”
“Not more than a few minutes, tops. I told them to stay in their car ‘til the foreman could come out, show them around.” He frowned at Marguerite’s expression. “Ah…Holt was on the approved list, ma’am. Is there a problem?”
“Not at all. But radio ahead, keep them stalled,” Marguerite said urgently, tapping out a quick text to Win. “I’ll think of something.”
Cindy gunned the car then, and she and Marguerite burst past the guards and down the lane. It didn’t take them long to see the car ahead of them, a rental sedan. Standing outside them, clearly arguing with the foreman, were two older adults, maybe in their fifties. Beside them, was Constance Gibbs. None of them looked happy.
“Oh, great,” muttered Marguerite. “Pull over and wait in the car, do you mind?”
“I’ll be here to haul out the bodies,” Cindy said cheerfully.
The lot of them turned as Cindy’s car approached, Constance Gibbs striding forward with a look of keen interest on her face. When Marguerite stepped out, her shoulders dropped slightly, even as her chin came up. She was clearly relieved that it was Marguerite she’d have to face, not Win.
A metallic ping sounded from inside the car, then Cindy’s voice came through the window. “Win’s on his way, and he has Holt. Says to improvise.” Cindy hesitated. “That seems a little vague.”
Marguerite smiled. “Not at all. You go talk to the foreman, and tell him this.”
When she’d finished with her instructions, Marguerite plastered a bright smile on her face and stepped toward the knot of family.
Win floored it all the way from Charleston, grateful that the county cops had decided to give their speed traps a rest today. He hadn’t heard from Marguerite since he’d texted her, then Cindy, but it’d been a full forty-five minutes since he’d gotten word of the Holt children’s unexpected arrival at that house. Beside him in the car, Dawson Holt fidgeted, growing markedly more nervous as they neared the house. Win hated having to bring the man out here when things were in such disarray—especially since he didn’t seem too keen on confronting his children. But there was nothing for it.
At least he’d contacted the exchange agent, got him to delay an hour. That should allow him time to clean up whatever mess was still happening on the property. He had security headed their way in trucks emblazed with Holt Real Estate, but he didn’t want to use them, if he didn’t have to. Not until he understood what was going on with the children—an odd way to think of them, since they were older than him by twenty years or more.
He suspected he wouldn’t have as much trouble with the Holts, though, as with Constance Gibbs.
He blew past the guards at the gate with barely a nod, and a minute later was at the pair of cars. They were pulled over on the side of the old, still dilapidated lane, and both of them were empty.
“Should I look at the house?” Holt asked querulously beside him. “Why do I get the feeling I shouldn’t look?” Despite his words, the man peered forward, squinting toward the house. “Might as well be a dust storm.”
“Wear this,” Win said, handing Holt his hard hat. “Keep your eyes down though, I don’t have safety glasses.”
With Holt complaining in his high, reedy voice, Win helped the old man out of the car, allowing him to hobble toward the building at his own pace. The sounds of construction continued at full tilt, with saws cutting the beams for the arbors and trellises, and Win grinned as he took in the main house. Marguerite had worked fast. The front door had an enormous swath of plastic covering it, with posted hazard signs in bold relief. Clearly, the younger Holts weren’t in there. He headed around the corner.
It was absolute madness in the back yard, dust flying everywhere. There were saws blazing in every corner of the property, most of them not cutting anything meaningful, he could tell at a glance. But they sure were making a hell of a lot of noise, as well as kicking up enough wood chips to create a flurry even he had to squint to see through. There was no one standing on the beautiful gazebo, which was half hidden in a haze of smoke, and no one on any of the partially constructed pathways. That left only the river walk, and he headed there now, Holt still at his side. The roar of machines cut down markedly here, and he emerged from the small thicket of trees to find Marguerite holding court on the wide wooden dock, gesturing broadly at the river.
“You want to wait here?” he asked Holt. To his surprise, the old man chuckled grimly.
“For…just a minute, if you don’t mind,” he said. “I’ll let you blunt their initial outrage, then I’ll shut the rest of it down.”
Win glanced at him hard, but nodded, then set off toward the others.
“The work here is going along much more slowly,” Marguerite was saying. “As you can imagine. It’s a very, very expensive proposition to put in more than a dock of this size.”
Win’s brows lifted. She was talking about money?
“It’s not going to be enough!” exclaimed Constance, but Win could tell from the desperate sound of her voice that she didn’t believe her own words. “The hearing is in a few short days.”
“That’s so beyond the point now, it’s laughable. You said that nothing had been done on this property, Constance.” It was the man who spoke, his expression beyond dismayed and well into miserable. “This doesn’t look like nothing. This looks like easily twenty thousand dollars of something.”
“Try fifty,” groaned the woman beside him. “I didn’t realize it had become this bad. You didn’t tell us that it’d become this bad.”
“Mrs. Gibbs!” Win strode up to the dock, his smile wide and expansive. “You should have warned me you were coming, I would have ensured our workers were better prepared. And these are?”
Gibbs turned and stared at him, her eyes narrowing as he positioned himself past them on the dock, further toward the river. Anything to keep their gazes away from the small, hunch-shouldered man making his way down the path. “What are you doing here?” she snipped. “Where’s Dawson?”
Win affected surprise. “You didn’t come all this way to see me?”
That seemed to rouse all of them. “And just who the hell are you?” demanded the man.
“Wyndham Masters, owner of Masters Real Estate Holdings, general foreman on this job, among
other titles. And you are?” He held out a hand.
“Neil Holt,” the man snapped. He reached for Win’s hand and shook it, hard. Win let him. “As in the rightful owner of this house you’re apparently remodeling without permission.”
“Without…” he frowned and turned to Constance, half watching as Dawson made his slow way toward them. “Permission?” Win asked, pasting a look of patent confusion on his face. “I don’t need anyone’s permission. I own the house.”
“You what? Impossible.” It was the woman who spoke now. She stared at the man who was apparently her brother, then back to Win. “If you coerced a doddering old man to selling you property that was to be willed to us upon his death, that has to be illegal. It has to be!”
Behind them, Dawson Holt straightened, his stride growing steadier. He’d heard his daughter’s words, clearly.
Marguerite spoke next. “I tried explaining to them that the renovations were all in accordance with your agreement with Mr. Holt, but there does seem to be some confusion as to the right for Mr. Holt to determine what he does with his own property. Or did, actually.”
“But it’s not his house to sell!” The brother echoed. “It’s a part of his estate, willed to us for years. Willed to us…” he turned to his sister, then Constance. “For years.”
Win shrugged. “It would appear he changed his mind.”
The daughter rubbed her brow with her hand. “It’s the curse, isn’t it? You lied to him, made him believe you could remove it.”
“He most assuredly did not lie!”
Marguerite jumped with surprise, and the others spun. Win had never heard Holt so emphatic. The little man stood beneath the oversized hard hat, his hands balled into fists, his entire body shaking with intensity.
Chosen: Gowns & Crowns, Book 7 Page 16
