Livvy pushed the door open the rest of the way.
Oh, hell. The kitchen had been updated.
She stepped onto the polished oak floor that was a couple hundred years old and covered now by what must be a dozen coats of polyurethane. Wax didn’t give off that shine. Wax also wouldn’t protect the floor from the thousands of pounds of stainless steel appliances now ringing the walls. Sub-Zero, Wolf, Bosch, Viking . . . The high-end products gleamed at her. Granite countertops, speckled black, with double ogee edges. A baking-level prep counter with a wagon wheel of copper pots hanging overhead. Mini fridges and ice maker. Sinks of all sizes, and two six-burner commercial-grade ranges.
The original room-sized fireplace still graced the back wall, and through the window on the back door she saw the herb garden was still thriving.
With all this new equipment and the best of the old kitchen, she could have the perfect place to make her breads and pies. It’d be heavenly to have this much workspace, and with the herb garden so well established, she’d have her own organically grown ingredients to be able to—
Livvy stopped mid-stride. She had to halt this train of thought before it left the station. The only thing she’d be able to do was sell the place. Period. She didn’t need a thing from her grandmother and the family that had all but disowned her the moment she’d been conceived, except the money the sale of their pride and joy would bring.
SEAN tried not to bump into her when she stopped, but his momentum carried him forward. He caught her as she stumbled. “Olivia? What’s wrong?”
Not a damn thing, his hormones answered. She smelled of lavender soap and apples and something way too feminine for his state of mind.
“Huh?” She swung around to look at him, a wine-colored curl catching on the tip of her nose, and Sean found himself drawn to her eyes.
Confused, vulnerable, a little lost . . . Then there was a sexy quirk to a kissable mouth that was entirely too close for his comfort—
Back away from the enemy, Manley.
His brain was on board with that, but the rest of him was staging a mutiny. Back away? Right.
“Sean?” Her voice was soft as she licked her lips, her slim hand gripping his arm.
If his name were whispered like that in the middle of the night, he’d have no defense.
“Did you want something?” She peered up into his eyes.
Oh, he wanted all right.
“Uh, lunch. You want lunch?” Damn these flimsy pants—his body’s reaction wasn’t easy to hide. Mac really needed to change the uniform. Jeans would be better.
Or that suit of armor.
He headed to the counter, hoping the granite would cool him down. But then he looked back at her, her hair fanning out as she spun around to follow him, her curls tumbling over one shoulder to drape across the prominent curve of her breast, and Sean found himself battling the granite for the title of Hardest Thing In The Kitchen.
He strode to the Sub-Zero fridge, turned his back to Olivia, and hoped an arctic blast would take care of the problem—but, of course, the problem followed him over.
“Is food shopping on your list of duties?” She peered around him.
The half-empty jar of ketchup, two eggs, and a hot dog mocked him. “I was planning to get to it,” he spat out. “No one sent a list of your likes and dislikes, Olivia, so I figured I’d wait for you to get here. I think there are a few frozen dinners in the freezer.”
“The name’s Livvy. Unless you want to go back to being Pool Boy.” Livvy opened the upright freezer beside the fridge. “A chicken pot pie?” She picked up the package. Perfectly arched eyebrows headed skyward as she looked at him. “This is what you’re subsisting on? Forty grams of fat, sodium tripolyphosphate, monosodium glutamate, liquid and partially hydrogenated soybean oil, mono and diglycerides, sodium benzoate . . . Do you want me to continue reading about the clogging of your arteries?”
“What are you, some kind of a health nut?”
“I find that term extremely offensive, you know.” She crossed her arms, making her curves all the more prominent. “Just because I’ve decided not to fill my body full of chemicals doesn’t mean I’m nuts. People who eat additives, preservatives, and whatever other poisons big-time corporations put into their food”—she punctuated the last word with air quotes—“are the crazy ones.”
“So what do you eat? Lettuce and tofu?”
“No. I eat normally. And so do my customers. All natural products with no hormones, no preservatives, no pesticides, just food as nature intended. Organic.”
Customers. Ah, yes. Princess Olivia Bombshell Carolla—Livvy—was a wannabe farmer. Sean had had a good laugh over that. A co-op living, organic baker-slash-farmer had inherited the Martinson fortune; a fortune made of and invested in any number of companies that’d have her running for the hills when she read their portfolio.
He pulled a carton off the shelf. “You’re welcome to the eggs.”
“Styrofoam? Why not just toss mercury into the ground while you’re at it?” She spun around, giving him a quick glimpse of sexy leg beneath the skirt. “Do you have any idea—oh! They’re here!”
Sean shook his head at the change of subject. It was like trying to follow a hummingbird as it darted from flower to flower. “Who’s here?”
“My babies!” She skipped over to the back door, flinging it open with no thought to the chink the brass handle would put in the countertop behind it.
Sean never moved so fast in his life. Mrs. Martinson had spent a small fortune—no, make that a large fortune—updating this kitchen. It was one room he wasn’t going to have to touch when he took over. As long as he could keep Livvy from destroying it until he got her out of here.
But . . . babies? She had kids?
Sean shook his head. That detective had a lot to answer for. Nowhere had the guy made mention of children. Christ. How the hell was he supposed to throw a woman with kids out of their ancestral home?
Millions of dollars, Manley.
Oh yeah. That’s how.
Chapter Three
ALMOST tripping on a brick that had unwedged itself in the winding pathway, Livvy reached the truck just as the driver climbed from the cab.
“Where do you want them, ma’am?” He handed her a clipboard.
Livvy ran down the list, making sure her neighbor Kerry hadn’t forgotten anyone. She signed the delivery slip and glanced at the ominously cloudy sky. “There’s a barn just down this lane. I’ll ride with you and we can unload there.” The barn had been the first thing to pop into her mind when Mr. Scanlon had called her out of the blue with the news of her grandmother’s passing and The Inheritance. How well she remembered escaping the gloomy Wuthering Heights-ness of the house all those years ago for the sweet-smelling barn with all those horses and cats.
She hopped into the cab and smoothed her skirt over her legs. The driver had made good time. She hadn’t expected him for another hour or she would have changed into jeans already.
She shrugged. If the “kids” ruined her skirt, she was finally in a position to afford a new one.
The barn, backlit by a gray sky, was just as she remembered, down to the hibiscus in the flower beds beside both doors. Who landscapes a barn?
The same people who had free-range peacocks.
Those free-range peacocks darted out from the back of the building and ran across the lawn.
Cedar shingles topped the stone building that, with the same arched mullioned windows as the house and dove gray shutters, could pass for a homey cottage. Her babies were going to get the star treatment.
The driver backed the truck up to the barn doors, then went around to the tailgate and pulled out the ramp. Livvy followed, remembering the last time she’d been here. The stalls, all ten of them, had been filled with hay, and the windows along the back let in lots of fresh air and sunshine. The Ma
rtinsons had dabbled in horse breeding, though those assets had been sold off before Merriweather had gotten ill. Pity. Livvy wouldn’t have minded horses, but since she wasn’t keeping the place, it was a moot point.
“Ya got leashes or anything, ma’am?” the driver asked.
She shook her head, smiling. “Just let them out. They’ll mind me.”
They’d heard her voice. The doors swung open to a chorus of grunts and brays and bleats as the mini farmyard version of Noah’s ark emptied into the yard. Kerry was sending the dogs later. They tended to nip the sheep’s heels when excited, and the trip here would most definitely excite them.
The ram and his ewes rumbled down the ramp, followed by their babies. Her own next generation. How she loved their soft wool coats that would eventually end up matted and dingy like their parents’. She hated that part, but their dingy wool kept them in hay.
She picked up Buttercup and rubbed the lamb’s cheek against her own. Three days between the trip to the law offices and their arrival here seemed like a lifetime to be apart from her little family. Buttercup bleated and stiffened her legs. Mama Daisy gently butted Livvy’s thigh. “Okay, Dais, here you go. I just missed you guys.”
The goats kicked out of the truck next, followed by the alpacas. Rhett spat at her, which was not unexpected. He usually spat at her. Scarlett followed right behind him. The hembra had become more subservient since Livvy had caught them “in the moment.” Hopefully there’d be baby alpacas this time next year, though with The Inheritance, the price their fleece would bring was no longer the big issue it had been.
The gaggle of geese and ducks waddled out behind to form their ritual circle around her for their feed. She had to shuffle through to the truck to grab one of the feed bags, but pretty quickly everyone was munching away happily, the squawks giving way to contented pecking. Well, okay, Calypso might have just taken a bite out of Calliope’s wing, but that wasn’t anything new.
Once the birds settled down, Livvy climbed into the back of the truck. Sure enough, there sat Reggie on his blanket in the crate, his black snout rooting around in the folds. She wondered how many dog biscuits Kerry had hidden there to keep him content for the ride.
“Come on, Reggie. Let’s get everyone settled.” The potbellied pig snorted at his name, then clambered to his feet, his harness jingling with the bells she’d hung there. Reggie thought he was a cat. And he’d actually learned the stealth of a feline, but, sadly, lacked the grace. The bells warned her before he pounced—on her, on the furniture, the lily pads in the pond back home . . .
She grabbed a pair of chicken pens, lifting the clucking birds out of the truck, and clicked her tongue to herd the menagerie into their new home before the storms that were predicted for today—and the gray sky attested to—hit.
The driver, a larger feed bag tossed over one shoulder, opened the barn door, and he and Livvy came to an abrupt halt.
Someone had filled the barn not with hay, but boxes. Stacks and stacks of cardboard boxes. Floor-to-ceiling, taped and labeled as if it were a warehouse. Wooden crates containing blanketed and shrink-wrapped lumps that looked like furniture filled every stall, and the aisle along the front was cluttered with lawn furniture. Mice would be hard-pressed to find a nesting spot, never mind the menagerie she’d brought.
“Uh, ma’am? Are there pens around here somewhere for whatever used to be in that barn? I have to get going. More deliveries to make.”
Pens. Of course. Around back were open-air pens. She’d have to find some tarps to construct a temporary shelter—or grab the bedspread from the Blue Room—but the pens would have to do in a pinch.
While the driver unloaded the rest of the feed bags onto a stack of benches just inside the barn door, she herded the animals around to the back. Pens wouldn’t be the Ritz, but then they hadn’t exactly been living like kings at the other place.
Except it didn’t look like they’d be living anywhere because there were no pens.
Her kids were going to have to go back home. Livvy closed her eyes and tried to come up with someone she could ask to take care of them for her while she was stuck at this place. But the list was the same as the one she’d come up with before arranging to bring them here: no one. Kerry helped some, but he and Sherwood had their own farm to run. Same with Sheila and Marci and Jenny. Richard had scooped up all the college kids for his vacation before she’d had the chance. Life was busy for their co-op community, and caring for her animals would only burden everyone else.
Watching the driver and his truck head back down the lane, Livvy plunked her butt on the manicured lawn, made springy by what she was sure was a zillion dollars’ worth of chemicals so that the darn thing looked like a golf course, crossed her legs beneath her, and rested her chin in her palm.
Green for acres. Artistically placed, white-shingled gazebos. An ornamental pond with gurgling waterfall. Pergolas covered in wisteria above wrought iron café sets. Topiaries in the shape of mythical creatures. All this land and not a useful thing to be found. All for show.
Why was she not surprised?
Reggie came over and snuffled in her ear, his usual greeting when they were at home on the sofa. She scratched him under his chin. Reggie closed his eyes, hunkered down, and stretched out his neck, grunting with pleasure.
The sheep started rooting around the grass, followed by the goats and the alpacas. Livvy jumped back to her feet, dislodging Reggie’s chin from her knee. She did not want the animals ingesting whatever poison had been spread on the lawn. She herded them back toward the front of the barn, trying to figure out her next move.
Maybe they could sleep in the chapel. After all, there was precedent. Two-thousand-plus years of precedent, so it wasn’t as if God had anything against sharing a place to sleep with a bunch of barnyard animals.
Then a black cloud edged over the top of the barn with a rumble of thunder. They wouldn’t make it to the chapel before the storm hit.
She had no other choice. Only one place left to go.
SEAN climbed off the ladder. No way was he taking those drapes down. They looked harder to put back up than an entire pallet of rafters on a hip roof.
He reached the bottom of the fourteen-foot ladder, then eased it down onto its side, careful to miss the loveseat he’d moved before setting it up. The magnificent dimensions of the room would allow for great entertaining opportunities once the renovations were complete. This space, with its French door access to the slate patio, would make the perfect reception room for an intimate wedding. The landscape designer he’d had look over the place had suggested moving one of the gazebos from the croquet lawn close to the patio so the ceremonies could be accommodated in the event of rain.
Sean retrieved the rolling cart and angled the ladder onto it. Even with his pickup truck just outside, he didn’t want to heft the awkward thing even a few feet and risk dropping the ladder or damaging any of the millwork. Now that he’d finished up with the ground floor rooms on this side of the house, he’d get this ladder back to his truck, then move upstairs where the ceilings were a little lower. With another whole half of a mansion to clean, he was going to need the entire month to finish this place.
He maneuvered the cart and ladder to the patio doors, thankful for the rain holding off—and for the twenty-foot- wide terrace. The slate out there needed some touch-up, but he knew just the guy for it. Provided, of course, he ended up with this place.
Jesus. How the hell was he going to get her out of here? The poor, discarded bastard child with a chip on her shoulder had just walked through the door of the family bastion, reclaiming it for herself. She wasn’t going to leave for just any reason. And he had to be careful he didn’t get himself fired before the rest of his time was up.
He had to become her new best friend. Charm her, befriend her, become her buddy. Play Working-Man to her Wronged-Heir. Us-Against-The-Family. Make them kindred spirits. Cajole
her into thinking he had her best interests at heart. None of which would be a problem. The problem would be when he found out what those damned stipulations were and had to beat her at them.
The idea hadn’t sounded bad about an hour ago. He wasn’t into losing his brothers’ money, but he hadn’t met her then. Now she was a living, breathing woman. With kids.
Damn it all. Who would’ve thought Merriweather Martinson had a heart buried somewhere beneath the layers of starched collars and fur stoles?
Sean unlocked the French doors and wheeled the ladder through. Maybe once he ran Livvy off and got this place up and profitable, he’d give her a monthly stipend. She’d have money to fix up that ramshackle farm she called home, and he’d feel less guilty for sending her and her kids away. A win-win for everyone.
The eruption of barnyard sounds should have warned him it wasn’t going to be that easy.
Chapter Four
SEAN spun around at the commotion, shocked to see an unruly crowd of birds and farm animals headed his way. With one boot-shod gypsy running alongside them.
He stood there, disbelieving—and appreciating—until something hit him in the shin. Sonofabitch!
Sean tore his gaze from the stampede to see a gray-horned head backing up for another shot at his leg. A goat?
Feeling like an inept matador, Sean sidestepped the annoyance, managing to keep from tripping over the large white duck on his right, but getting a shoulder clipped by a llama.
A llama.
A llama that was running into—
“No!” Sean twisted around and ran back into the room he’d just spent the better part of the last day and a half cleaning, only to find two goats on the white loveseat, another chewing the edge of the rug, and the stupid llama literally preening in front of the glass cabinet.
What a Woman Wants (A Manley Maids Novel) Page 3
