“Yes, I should have.” Scanlon pulled a file from his top desk drawer and adjusted his glasses as he read the paper inside. “Hmmm, it does appear that Mrs. Martinson didn’t spell it out to that degree in her instructions, though that was her intent.”
“If it’s not in writing, Livvy can fight you for it. Do you really want that kind of battle on your hands? She found the clue and if it weren’t for her broken down old car that she can’t afford to fix until she gets her inheritance, she’d be here in my place.” Sean crossed his fingers behind his back, praying his nose wasn’t growing. He’d been doing a hell of a lot of lying recently and it bothered him how naturally it was coming to him. But this was for a good cause. The right cause. Livvy deserved her inheritance and he wasn’t leaving here until she got it.
“If she’ll just confirm it—”
“She’ll be in. I’ll bring her in, but we wanted the clue to get here first.”
Mr. Scanlon peered over his glasses. “I’m surprised you brought this in. Quite surprised.”
“Livvy deserves her inheritance.” Shit, the guy did know who he was. What he’d been after. “Why didn’t you tell her?”
“It wasn’t my place. Unless and until she inherits, I work for the estate. I have my instructions.” He tapped the file, then closed it on his desk blotter. “I’ll need to speak to Ms. Carolla as soon as possible.”
“Will you tell her?” Sean didn’t want to have given up the estate only to lose her. Not that that was why he’d done it, because turning in the clue was the right thing to do, but if Scanlon told her, she’d question everything that’d happened between them.
Sean didn’t want her to do that because what was between them was real. Regardless of the estate situation, he’d meant everything he’d said to her and more. And he needed to say more to her. Needed to tell her how he was feeling. What he wanted.
“I see no reason to tell her, since there will be no challenge to the will, is that correct?”
The man could convey a lot with a glance over the top of his glasses. Sean felt as if he were in the principal’s office. “Correct.”
“Very good.” Scanlon slid the file into his top drawer. “I look forward to speaking with Ms. Carolla.”
Summarily dismissed, Sean headed back to his truck. It was out of his hands now. He’d done what he’d had to do; now it was time to deal with the consequences.
LIVVY stared at the computer screen in Sean’s room.
He had a computer.
More importantly, he had the clue.
He also had plans for the estate. Her estate.
She swiped the touchpad to scroll down. Blueprints. Estimates. Numbers. Dollar signs. Projections.
A letter from her grandmother.
If the computer and ledger sheets hadn’t pulled the rug out from under her, this letter could do it all by itself. As it was, Livvy had to sit down.
She sank onto his mattress in his room, trying not to remember the last time she’d been in here. What they’d done in here. Together. On this bed.
Where his betrayal now mocked her.
She scrolled through the numbers. New carpeting, staffing, linens, housekeeping, a chef, golf pro, maintenance crew, concierge . . .
There were plans for a golf course. An infinity swimming pool with a pool house-slash-outdoor dining area.
He was planning to turn this place into a hotel.
She looked at the expenditures column. Architectural, engineering, permitting, land . . . The amount in that column was staggering. Amounts already spent.
What the hell was this? Where did Sean come up with these numbers? Why did he come up with these numbers? How did he go from flipping houses to . . . to this?
She opened a search window and typed in his name and hotels.
What came up was as staggering as the numbers.
Sean owned bed and breakfasts. Quite a few of them.
He was planning to add this house to his list of properties. And Merriweather, according to her letter, was practically giving it to him at a price well below market value. It even stated that it was below market in the letter. What the hell?
Livvy clicked back to the projections sheet and did some quick math. He needed that price. Based on projected revenue, his ROI would be significantly lower if he paid more for the estate than what Merriweather had promised him.
Had he been working here all along—sleeping with her all along—expecting her to go along with this? And when was he planning to tell her, before or after she inherited—
Oh, God, she was going to be sick.
Livvy felt the room spin and she gripped the footboard to steady herself. Had everything been a sham? Had he been lying to her all along and she, poor, pathetic, lonely fool that she was, had fallen right in with his plans?
And the clue . . . If he had the clue, that meant . . . that meant that he’d kept it from her. Was that why she hadn’t been able to find it? Had he been the one to send her on a wild goose chase instead of Merriweather? Had she been blaming the wrong person this whole time?
Livvy clicked back to the clue.
I congratulate you. You have now become one of the Martinsons—a fine, illustrious family.
~Merriweather Knightsbridge Martinson
Congratulate her? Seriously? The woman thought this was such a prize? How about the money it would bring? That was the prize, not some antiquated, outdated feudal knighthood that meant nothing in the twenty-first century.
Especially when her knight-in-shining-mint-green had betrayed her.
He wanted the estate.
She ought to feel some sort of satisfaction that Merriweather had betrayed him, too, but right now all she could feel was hurt.
He’d used her. That was worse than being ignored and unclaimed by her family. He’d taken her feelings, her generosity, her trust, and used them for his own gain.
He had the clue.
She couldn’t get that out of her head. He’d kept it from her. He’d made sure she wouldn’t win. Wouldn’t be able to claim her inheritance.
If she weren’t already sitting, that realization would have pulled her legs out from under her. Who was he? He wasn’t the guy she’d thought she’d known. The one who wanted her and cared for her and liked being with her. He’d used her for his own purposes.
Seems she was like her mom after all.
Livvy shook off that depressing thought. No. She wasn’t like her mother. She wasn’t going to beg and plead with the guy to want her. She wasn’t going to wait around for him to “come to his senses.” And she also wasn’t going to sit here and wait for him to throw her out.
Oh, God, here she’d been thinking of how to keep him around forever, and he’d been wanting her gone all along.
No wonder he’d pitched such a fit over the rug and furniture. No wonder he’d been tagging along on every clue hunt. She’d thought he’d been so helpful, so generous with his time. That he cared about her enough to want her to succeed, when, all the while, she’d been doing his dirty work for him. She’d led him right to the way to ensure her failure.
For once she was grateful for the without-a-purpose chairs lining the hallway; she didn’t get far before her legs got shaky. She sat down and dropped her chin into her palm.
Was he there right now? In Mr. Scanlon’s office, crowing about how he’d beaten her? Was he writing the check at this very moment to buy the place out from under her as she sat here powerless to change the outcome? Was she going to be out on the street before dark?
What was she going to do about the animals? The dogs she could probably get in her car. They weren’t going to be thrilled about it, but she could get all of them in there if she had to. But the ones in the barn . . . She’d need at least a day to rent a truck. Surely Sean wouldn’t toss them out? He’d bonded with them; he couldn’t fake that. Animal
s would know. They’d all accepted him, coming when he called, greeting him when he entered the barn. Even Rhett had let him near Scarlett. Animals could spot a phony a mile away. Why hadn’t they this time?
Why hadn’t she? Was she so hard up for affection that she’d jumped at the first chance that came along? Was she as needy as her mother?
That got her to her feet. No. She was not her mother. Or her father or her grandmother. She was Livvy Carolla. Her own person. And she was in charge of her future. Not fate, not Merriweather, and definitely not Sean.
“Sonofabitch!” Orwell said when she stormed into her room. For once, she didn’t mind his potty mouth. Yes, Sean was a sonofabitch and it was only fitting that he’d been the one to teach Orwell that word.
She tossed Orwell’s cage cover over him. While she agreed Sean was a sonofabitch, she didn’t need Orwell reminding her like a broken record.
She threw her clothes into a duffel bag, scooped her toiletries into another, and dashed off a note to the son of a bitch telling him exactly what she thought of him and that she’d be back for the rest of her animals tomorrow. Ten minutes and she’d erased her existence from this room.
It was too sad to contemplate. Besides, she didn’t have time for contemplation. She needed to get out of here pronto so she wouldn’t have to face him when he came back. Gloating.
Chapter Forty
LIVVY’S phone rang for the sixth time in as many minutes. She didn’t need to look at it to know it was Sean. He could keep calling for all she cared; she wasn’t going to answer it.
It rang again. Georgia started to whine.
Oh, God no. Livvy grabbed the phone. She’d rather talk to Sean than have Georgia set off the rest of the dogs.
“Look, Sean, I don’t want to—”
“This is Mr. Scanlon, Ms. Carolla.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I—”
“I was wondering when you would be coming in. There are matters we need to discuss.”
“Look, Mr. Scanlon, I know all about what Sean did. What more is there to talk about?”
“The disposition of the estate.”
She almost laughed at the estate’s “disposition,” but her disposition wasn’t in the mood to find any of this funny. “Do I really need to do this now?”
“I’m afraid so. There are certain guidelines to be met and this is one of them.”
Her grandmother must really be gloating from beyond the grave: She’d been proven right and she still had Livvy jumping to her tune.
“I’ll be here for another half hour but then I’m meeting my wife—er, another client and will be unavailable.”
Crud. He was giving up time with his wife for her and there wasn’t enough of it to go back to the house and get the dogs situated there—not to mention running the risk of seeing Sean.
Call her a sucker for true love, but she wasn’t going to make Mr. Scanlon or his wife wait on her or the son of a bitch. The dogs would just have to stay in the car. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
SEAN kept hitting “redial” on his phone, trying to catch Livvy, but her calls were going straight to voicemail. After leaving a third message, he gave up. She must not have her phone on her.
He hoped to hell she wasn’t flopped on her bed crying because she’d lost it all. He had to tell her she hadn’t. Had to tell her she’d won.
Now to tell his brothers that they’d lost.
Well, they’d been prepped for it. They’d both tried to talk him out of it, warning him against giving up his life for a woman. Liam had been burned like that and Bry had taken the lesson to heart. Sean was the only romantic left in the bunch, but it hadn’t clouded his vision. Livvy was a great person. A good human being. An amazing woman. And she’d make an incredible wife and mother. His wife and mother of his children. He wanted her for forever and he was going to do his damndest to get her. Her and her crazy menagerie and her eight dogs and profanity-spouting, song-lyric-mangling parrot.
Her car wasn’t in the driveway when he pulled up. Maybe she’d gone to the lawyer’s office?
He called there, but the call went to after-hours voicemail.
So where was she?
He headed to the kitchen door. Where were the dogs?
He tried her phone again, but again got voicemail.
“Livvy?” he called when he went in.
Nothing.
“Ringo?” He figured the big dog would come bounding through the doorway when he heard his voice, and Sean didn’t have to worry about what the husky’s claws would do to the floor. It was Livvy’s headache now.
“John?”
Nothing.
“Davy?”
Double nothing.
“Anybody home?” Where could Livvy have gone with the dogs? And in what? Her POS car wasn’t big enough to handle even Ringo, let alone seven others.
He didn’t find them in any of the downstairs rooms, so he headed upstairs. She wouldn’t have put them in the bathroom again, would she? She’d been so annoyed when he had.
Sean smiled at the memory. She’d been so indignant, with her hands on her hips and her hair wild around her shoulders. He’d had to concentrate to contribute to the conversation because all he’d wanted to do was haul her up against him and kiss her senseless.
Which, he thought as he headed toward her room, was what he was going to do just as soon as he found her.
The first thing he noticed was that Orwell was gone. Good riddance crossed his mind, but then he realized her closet was empty. And that there was a note on the bed.
It wasn’t a clue.
Sean picked it up. It was one big mess of swirls. Of course Livvy would have swirly handwriting; it went with the pink toes.
Too bad he didn’t understand a word of it, and his computer program didn’t do well with swirly writing. Still, he had to give it a try.
He headed across the hall to his room to scan it into his laptop and—
His laptop was out.
It was open.
It was on.
He toggled the touchpad and the screen came to life.
Holy hell. Merriweather’s letter.
He sank onto the mattress. Livvy couldn’t have seen this.
He looked across the hall at her empty room, praying it didn’t mean what he was coming to suspect it did.
He clicked on another open document.
The clue.
A spreadsheet was open, too, and Sean didn’t really need to click on it to know what it was, but he did anyway in the vain hope that his world wasn’t crashing down around him.
The projections. And there was a search window open.
He clicked on it.
She knew. Or at least, she thought she knew.
Sonofabitch. Here, he’d gone and done the right thing and it’d blown up in his face. He shouldn’t have done it. He should have just kept the clue quiet and stayed here and—
No. No, he shouldn’t have. He’d done what was right and could look himself in the mirror knowing that he had. Whether Livvy would ever look at him again or not, he’d done the right thing.
He picked up his phone and dialed her one more time. Voicemail again. This time he did leave a message.
“Livvy, it’s not what you think. Let me explain. Please.”
He stopped because what more could he say? Either she wanted him or she didn’t.
But then he said the one thing he had to tell her. The one thing he’d regret for the rest of his life if he didn’t.
“Livvy . . . I love you. It has nothing to do with the house. Nothing to do with what I thought I’d wanted when I started working here, but everything to do with you. You’ve made me realize what’s really important in this world and I hope you’ll give me the chance to tell you in person. I love you, Livvy. Whether you’re living on the farm or in
the estate, or in a tiny little apartment with the animals sleeping on the furniture, it doesn’t matter to me. Anywhere you are is home and that’s where I want to be. Please give me a chance. Give us a chance.”
He ended the call before he started pleading, though if that’s what it took to get her to listen, he’d do it. He couldn’t lose her, too. Because, ultimately, she was the only thing that mattered.
Chapter Forty-one
MAY I be the first to offer you my best wishes.” Mr. Scanlon extended his hand, completely unfazed by the eight dogs she’d had to bring in with her. Georgia had started whining when Livvy had parked the car and the others had started in. She hadn’t wanted the interior shredded when she returned, so she’d brought them with her. Thankfully, they were on their best behavior.
Unlike a certain son of a bitch she knew.
“Don’t you mean condolences?” She jostled the leashes to shake his hand. She didn’t know why she bothered, but it wasn’t his fault that she’d failed. What was the poor guy supposed to say when he told her she just lost out on more than a few million dollars?
“Well, I suppose you might look at it that way, but it was your grandmother’s sincere wish that you would come to love the place. Or, at the very least, feel enough for the family history to keep it in the family. But if not, I can tell you that I have been fielding several offers should you wish to sell.” He handed her a piece of paper. “Here are the larger amounts, and I dare say you could go higher. You, young lady, are set for life should you wish to sell.”
He was speaking English, but it wasn’t computing. Sell what?
She took the paper and sat in a chair facing his desk. The dogs settled at her feet.
Whoa. Those were some big numbers. Lots of zeroes.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”
“The Martinson estate is a highly prized piece of real estate. As I said, those are preliminary numbers. Once it’s actually up for sale, I expect them to increase.”
What a Woman Wants (A Manley Maids Novel) Page 30
