What a Woman Wants (A Manley Maids Novel)

by Fennell, Judi

  “Well, perhaps your housekeeper”—the old guy just loved calling him that—“could check it out while you and I get down to business, Ms. Carolla?”

  She looked at Sean. “If you wouldn’t mind, Se—?”

  “No, not at all.” Sean cut her off yet again and took the bird. Mind? Yes, he minded. He wasn’t a glorified pet sitter.

  But he also had no legitimate reason to stay. So, with the two of them looking at him very pointedly, he took the damn bird and went back to work, trying to come up with some way to find out what they were talking about.

  And then he did find a way. Looked like his principles were about to be compromised again.

  SO, Mr. Scanlon, what are you doing here?” Livvy reluctantly took the seat across from the attorney, reminded too much of the last time she’d been here and Grandmama had given her the “this is what is expected of you” speech on her first day. That had set quite the tone for the rest of the visit. “I thought I signed all the papers I needed to in your office.”

  “You did. I’m just acting in accordance with your grandmother’s wishes.”

  Ah ha. Wishes. The oblique term for legal servitude had a nice ring to it. Too bad it still stuck in her craw. “Okay. So what are they? Do I have to not step out of the magic Martinson bubble beyond the front gates for the rest of my mortal life or something? Sacrifice my firstborn on the altar of Martinson to then become worthy? Lay prostrate in the hall of ancestral paintings until I atone for the sin of being born a bastard? What does dear Grandmother have planned now?”

  The lawyer sat back, looking a little put out. Not that she could blame him, since she’d laid it on pretty thick, but come on already. An inheritance was an inheritance. What gave her grandmother the right to pull puppet strings from the grave?

  And who’d know if she didn’t follow the letter of the law? Mr. Scanlon? She’d just pay him off. Rich people did that all the time. You could get away with anything for the right amount of money. The girls in her dormitory at school had proved it time and again.

  “Actually, Ms. Carolla, I do believe there is mention made of the gallery, but Mrs. Martinson left specific instructions.”

  “I’ll bet she did,” Livvy muttered.

  “Sorry?”

  Livvy shook her head. It wasn’t the old guy’s fault that her grandmother had had a God complex. She just hoped he was getting paid well. “Okay, fine. Whatever. Just lay it on me so I can get to it.”

  Mr. Scanlon arched his eyebrows, which, with the way they moved halfway up his receding hairline, made him look like Mr. Potato Head of the interchangeable facial parts.

  She coughed into her fist to cover the giggle. He really did look like Mr. Potato Head.

  “I can’t just give them to you, Ms. Carolla. Mrs. Martinson left specific instructions, and the first is that I record the precise time when I give you the first document.”

  “First document?” Livvy leaned forward, her hands clasped in her lap. “There are more?”

  Exactly how long did she have to jump to Merriweather’s tune? The house was losing more of its appeal every moment.

  And when a crash sounded in the next room, the appeal only lessened.

  Although it did tick up a notch when she heard a muffled male curse that she was pretty sure was Sean’s—she’d worked very hard to make sure Orwell’s vocabulary was PG-rated at worst.

  Mr. Scanlon unlocked the brass latches of his briefcase with a very loud and authoritative click. On purpose, she was sure. He’d hung around Merriweather too long.

  Of course, given the fact that she sat up straight, crossed her ankles, and clasped her hands in her lap showed just what conditioning could do. Boarding school had been great—if that’s what she could call it—at conditioning.

  Except, hey, she was in her own house and didn’t have to do what anyone told her.

  Livvy lounged back in the chair, crossed one leg over the other, and put a little swing action into it, enjoying the fact that she didn’t have to toe anyone’s line anymore.

  Mr. Scanlon handed her the first document. “If you’ll read that, please.” Then he wrote something down in the journal he also removed from the briefcase.

  Livvy gnawed on the inside of her cheek and lifted the paper. It was her grandmother’s handwriting. Livvy had seen the imperial scrawl often enough on the checks the headmistress made sure she saw. All part of that gratitude thing everyone thought she ought to feel.

  She flicked the paper and the first word jumped out at her. Olivia.

  Well, that covered it in a nutshell. No messy emotions like, “My Dear Granddaughter,” or “Darling Olivia.” As if that’d ever happen.

  Livvy cleared her throat.

  Olivia.

  My attorney has all the pertinent documents making what I’m about to explain legal and binding, but I’m sure you can’t be bothered by all the legalese, so I’ll get to the point.

  The Martinson name has been revered for centuries. Not just anyone should claim it, and those who do should know its history. Since studying history was not one of your strong suits at the Academy, I have created a series of clues for you to follow. The first will lead you to the next, and so on, until you reach the last.

  You have two weeks to the minute from now to find the clues and present the last to my attorney’s firm, whereupon you shall claim your inheritance, or the estate will be sold in accordance with terms I’ve specified to Mr. Scanlon.

  I am aware, Olivia, of your hatred for this family. Of your desire to remove yourself from it, so I expect your first instinct to be to throw this away. But consider what turning your back on this home and our vast fortune means. Are you willing to give it all up? Willing to deny all the good your bleeding heart could do with it? The choice is yours.

  The clock is ticking.

  Don’t fail me, Olivia.

  Don’t fail me. No signature because one wasn’t necessary. Just the directive. Had Merriweather Knightsbridge Martinson ever asked for a thing in her life? Livvy doubted it.

  She set the paper on the desk. Typical battle-axe self-centeredness. Livvy hadn’t really expected anything else.

  She would so love to tell the old woman to shove it, but that’s exactly what Merriweather had expected. The woman had never had anything good to say to or about her. She was Larry’s Indiscretion. Larry’s Mistake. Larry’s Unfortunate Accident. All in capital letters.

  Well now she was Larry’s Heir. Or, more specifically, Merriweather’s Heir. Wasn’t the irony delicious?

  She wasn’t about to blow this. Not when Merriweather had hit her at her weak spot. The money would enable her to do what she wanted: grow her business and help out the co-op. Take care of her animals and never have to worry about paying the rent again. She’d even be able to afford to donate to causes she felt worthwhile. It was her ticket to making her life everything she wanted it to be. “Okay, Mr. Scanlon. How do I do this?”

  The lawyer removed his glasses and folded them carefully, then tucked them into the breast pocket of his jacket. “When I give you this paper, the clock will start.”

  Livvy contained herself. Such drama. “Okay then. Let’s have it. Let the games begin.”

  Chapter Eight

  SEAN really hated poker. If not for that stupid game, he wouldn’t be in this predicament.

  The damn bird was worse than the goats, sheep, pig, and that pain-in-the-ass alpaca all put together.

  Sean almost lost a finger trying to get the parrot to shut up, and the feathers the damn thing was molting all over the place were merely the tip of the iceberg.

  Parrots needed diapers. Big time.

  Actually, he realized as he surveyed the ruined Aubusson when he returned Orwell to the room, all of the animals needed diapers. Thank God the floor was marble; the mess would clean up easy, but he’d be the one doing it unless he could appeal t
o Livvy’s sense of fair play.

  If she was anything like her grandmother, Sean wasn’t holding out much hope.

  Dammit. He didn’t need this nightmare. At this point, the room was a write-off anyway, and if he didn’t find out what was happening in the study, he could write the rest off, too.

  Checking to make sure the French doors to the outside were closed, Sean tossed Orwell into the air, where the bird swooped onto one of the curtain rods—that would no doubt soon be covered in bird droppings—then he left the menagerie alone and closed the doors to the foyer.

  He walked to the study door, listening at the opening he’d deliberately left.

  “So, what? Do I have to swear to name my firstborn after the old battle-axe, I mean, my grandmother, or something?” Livvy shook a piece of paper, then switched on the desk lamp.

  “‘This is the first clue for the first item you must find,’” she read. “Great. A scavenger hunt. Wasn’t she a little old for games?” Livvy lifted the paper closer. “‘You’ll forgive an old woman an indulgence in rhyme. It seems the game calls for that and I find, at the end of my life, I like humoring my whims.’” Livvy snorted. “Now she wants to get a sense of humor. Her timing sucks.”

  “Please read on,” Scanlon said with a sniff.

  Sean liked the fact that he and Livvy were on the same side in their opinion of Merriweather—the old battle-axe. Yeah, he could see how the name fit.

  He could also see Livvy’s butt wiggle slightly in the chair. Sean rolled his eyes. Mind back on the problem, Manley.

  One of Livvy’s combat boots rocked erratically. She tossed her hair back. “Okay, then. So, clue number one.”

  Livvy’s back went a little straighter, her chin dipped, and her voice lowered an octave. She might have even put a slight British accent to the words, which Sean also got. Merriweather Martinson did seem like the upper-crust old paragon of British aristocracy. An image, he was sure, she’d purposely cultivated.

  The pages are old, hundreds of years,

  To when its benefactor instilled many fears,

  In clergy and nobles, and even the peasants,

  Though a loyal few did earn some presents:

  Like the first Martinson, who hadn’t fled

  When a queen’s mother lost her head.

  Livvy set both feet on the floor and placed the paper on Scanlon’s desk—her desk, actually. She tapped the letter. “What’s that supposed to mean? Where’s the clue in there?”

  Riddles. Sean cursed under his breath. He’d never had a problem with numbers, but letters had always been a challenge for him. Dyslexia had tormented him through school, and though he’d come up with coping strategies, things like homonyms and homophones—and riddles—had made his life hell. It figured that his future would come down to riddles.

  “So what is this supposed to mean? I have to find some old documents?”

  The lawyer cleared his throat. “The only clarification I can make is that should you elect to pass on this opportunity or fail to complete it, you will be entitled to a small stipend from the estate. Beyond that, Mrs. Martinson’s directions were clear.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Follow the yellow brick road and I end up in Oz. Scarecrow included. Question is, does Grandmama see herself as Glinda or the Wicked Witch of the West?”

  Sean knew which one he’d pick right now. Dammit. That old woman was playing both of them.

  “Maybe it’s a book.” Livvy stood up and kicked the Louis XIV chair with the heel of that ridiculous boot.

  Sean cringed. He hoped to God she hadn’t put a dent in that chair or she’d just devalued it by several hundred dollars.

  And then she stood just as more lightning flashed through the front window, streaming through her skirt, reminding him exactly what those legs had looked like draped over the banister, all smooth, creamy skin.

  His damn pants were constricting him again. Sean bit back a curse. When was the last time he’d gotten laid? That had to be the explanation for this because frizzy-headed munchkins, with an attitude—and potential fortune—bigger than his, were not his cup of tea.

  Tea. Oh, hell. He’d left the kettle on when he’d boiled the water for the coffee.

  Great. Burning the place down would only make his problems worse.

  Chapter Nine

  I’LL look forward to seeing you in two weeks, Ms. Carolla.”

  Sooner, if Livvy had her way.

  “Drive carefully, Mr. Scanlon.” She closed the massive front door. Two weeks and this would all be over. For better or worse, she’d be finished.

  Why did she have the nasty suspicion that it’d be worse?

  Sean materialized from behind one of the giant columns near the living room. She hadn’t decided where he fell on the good-to-bad scale.

  “Meeting go okay?” he asked, one eyebrow higher than the other. Oh, sure. He could do the eyebrow trick. Was there anything not perfect on this guy?

  With the way those pants hugged his thighs (and butt, she reminded herself; let us not forget how they hugged his butt), the way the shirt rippled over the contours of that six pack . . . He was in the Better column.

  No. Worse.

  No. Better.

  Ah, hell. He could be the Sexiest Man Alive according to whatever magazine was running the poll that week, but it didn’t change anything. She was here to earn this inheritance so she could sell it and pocket the change, and he wasn’t going to be very happy with her for doing him out of a job.

  How about just doing him?

  Now there was a thought. She already knew the guy was a world-class kisser, she’d bet he’d be a world-class lov—

  “Hello? Livvy?”

  A big, tanned hand waved in front of her face, cutting off that delicious image. Which was probably just as well because she could feel a blush starting and she didn’t want to have to go explaining that. “Oh. What? Is Orwell all right?”

  Sean winced. “Well, he’s certainly a healthy eater. All your animals are.”

  Of course they were; that’s what the organic food was all about.

  “Did things go okay?” He motioned to the paper she’d dragged off her grandmother’s desk as if it were a loan being called due.

  And, yes, she did realize how appropriate that analogy was.

  “Do you know if there’s an old book around here anywhere? Something really ancient about a queen losing her head? Marie Antoinette, maybe.” She couldn’t name that many queens who had famously lost their heads.

  “French Revolution?” Sean rubbed his jaw. “There’s a library in the west wing if you want to check that out.”

  “That’s right. I’d forgotten about the library. Good idea.” She should have remembered. It was one of the off-limits-to-a-seven-year-old-with-sticky-fingers rooms. In the years since her one and only command performance with Merriweather, she’d never figured out if Rupert had meant sticky, as in the peanut butter she’d loved at the time, or, well, something else. Good thing that, at seven, she hadn’t known that other meaning. “I’ll just get out of these clothes”—she almost asked if he wanted to help—“and head there.”

  “Want me to come with you?” he asked as they headed for the front staircase. “I could help you look.”

  “Not liking my animals, are you?”

  “It’s not the animals I object to. It’s their eating and sanitary habits.”

  “At least you’re honest.”

  “Uh, yeah.” He looked away and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry, but not everyone’s an animal person.”

  “True. My grandmother, for one.” Livvy took the first step. “She did have horses in the barn for a while, but I’m sure dear Grandmama would have a conniption if she knew goats were jumping all over her furniture. Could be why it doesn’t bother me in the least.”

  “I take it you didn’t
like your grandmother.”

  She stopped mid-step and looked at Sean. “I didn’t know my grandmother. She never gave me that chance. I did, however, know of her. Her reputation was revered at my school. Could be because she’d donated a few of the wings, but the woman herself? I don’t know if anyone ever knew my grandmother. She was one tough cookie.”

  “When you have the kind of responsibility she had, you have to be.”

  Livvy shrugged. “In business, yes. But with your only grandchild?” She shrugged again. That hurt was so old it was forgotten, the wounds scabbed over and covered in new flesh. The tough, calloused kind. “Look, I’m soaked. If you do want to help, I’ll meet you in the library, ’kay?”

  Sean wrung the bottom of his shirt. “Yeah, I could use a change, too. See you in a few.”

  LIVVY yanked the handles on the library’s mammoth oak doors that she hadn’t been allowed to touch twenty years ago. Getting caught with peanut-buttery hands on the brass handles had been a memorable event—so was the hour she’d spent cleaning them afterwards under the stern eye of Mrs. Tidwell.

  “So why are we looking up a book about a beheaded queen?” Sean reached over her and helped her open the door, his biceps flexing. Livvy caught a whiff of man as she passed him. Funny, she’d often thought of sweaty guys with an ick factor, but the faint hint of perspiration that lingered on him beneath the smell of the rain was definitely not ick.

  And she shouldn’t be noticing. She had a job to do, not a housekeeper to do. “In a full shocker to me, it turns out my grandmother has a sense of humor. And likes poems. Go figure. Anyhow, she said that I have to find something specific in this book or I don’t get the castle.”

  “I thought the castle, er, the house, wasn’t important to you.” Sean ran a finger along the brass plates on the edge of a shelf above her head.

  “That’s one way of putting it.” She checked the date on the one in front of her: 1100. She was pretty sure Marie Antoinette was after that date. “No, it’s not the house itself. I mean, this place is too big for one person.”