The Owner's Secret (A Secret Billionaire Romance Book 4)

by Kimberley Montpetit

  Carrying a lamp to the night table, she couldn’t wait to crawl into bed, but at that moment, a strange light flickered across the balcony windows.

  A flashlight scanned the yard and Melody recognized Britt hauling a large limb off a small shack-like building that had obviously fallen during the hurricane.

  Britt suddenly glanced up at her windows, as though he could sense her standing there. Melody’s face flushed and she whirled around to jump into bed. Quickly, she blew out the lamp and snuggled under the thick satin comforter.

  Staring up at the ceiling in the darkened Victorian guest room, she wondered once again why her grandmother had insisted she come to White Castle.

  Britt Mandeville was an enigma and her brain spilled over with questions about the man, but her grandmother’s almost desperate plea for her presence at this strange Southern mansion was the biggest mystery of all.

  Chapter 9

  When Melody woke the next morning, the house was as silent as a tomb. Rolling over, she glanced at the bedside clock. It was nearly eight thirty.

  She’d slept about seven hours, but was still exhausted from the previous day’s trauma. Even so, this was her opportunity to explore the house while the mansion was closed to the public for the next week or so.

  Strange dreams had invaded her sleep all night. In one, Melody had been endlessly rowing in a dinghy, flood waters surrounding her, with no sign of another living soul while Mirry lay lifeless on the bottom of the boat.

  Shivering, Melody had tried to shake off the feeling of doom, burrowing deeper into the blankets.

  After staggering to the bathroom at about 5:00 a.m., she’d fallen back into a fitful doze and a second weird dream found her treading water in her flooded bookstore, soggy, swollen books floating by while water lapped about her head and threatened to drown her.

  Melody dreaded going back into town to clean up and see what she could salvage. Were all her personal belongings in the upstairs apartment also ruined?

  At least she had insurance. Even so, the loss of all those book treasures, especially the section of rare books and first editions, made her want to weep.

  She stared at the ceiling, visions of looting in downtown New Orleans, store windows smashed, desperate people walking through chest-high, filthy water, just like the aftermath of Katrina’s horrible storm.

  Melody had worked hard to buy the bookstore, pouring her life savings into it, as well as maxing herself out on banks loans. It was no use worrying about it. She couldn’t do anything about ruined stock at the moment.

  Burying her head into the downy pillow, her eyes burned with exhaustion, but she had to call the hospital. That was top priority.

  She was relieved to see that the power had remained on all night and charged her phone; she had a single bar of service. Praying it was enough, Melody dialed the hospital and spoke with the head nurse who put her through immediately.

  Only two rings sounded before an unknown woman answered.

  “This is Melody de Lyon and I’m looking for my grandmother, Mirella de Lyon. The switchboard connected me to this room.”

  “You have the correct room,” the woman said. “I’m her nurse, Angela, and was just checking on her so I picked up the phone. She had a restless night and is sleeping now so I hate to disturb her.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but please tell me how she’s doing. I brought her in last night.”

  There was a pause as though Angela was checking her charts to see Melody’s name on the authorization. “Her fever spiked last night. You brought her in just in time. Chest x-ray shows a bad case of pneumonia, but you probably already know that. She’s on some heavy-duty antibiotics, as well as high blood pressure meds and sedatives. Perhaps you can try again later this afternoon.”

  “But she’s going to be all right, correct?” Melody asked, desperate to know.

  “She’s very sick, honey, but she’s in good hands and responding to the medicines. Try not to worry about her, but you can come in later today if you can make it through town. I wouldn’t advise it just yet though. I’d give it a couple of days; crews are barely out clearing downed trees and power lines. There’s still way too much flooding, too.”

  “Can anybody get back to their homes?”

  “The hospital staff is working round the clock, sleeping in shifts. We had a lot of injuries brought in last night, but at least the cafeteria stocked up when they knew the storm was coming.”

  The nurse’s voice was light and pleasant, as if she was trying to ease Melody’s mind.

  “Guess I’ll have to wait. I’m over an hour away in White Castle outside of Donaldson and I have no transportation at the moment.”

  “Call any time you’d like, honey, but I wouldn’t try to travel into town yet. It’s still very dangerous out there.” The nurse paused. “It’s funny you mention White Castle. Is that your home?”

  “Oh, no. I’m—” Melody paused, not sure how to explain how she’d ended up here. “I don’t live here. I—”

  “Your grandmother was mumbling something about White Castle in the middle of the night when I was checking on her and taking her vitals.”

  “She was? That’s all she could talk about yesterday when her fever was spiking.”

  “You take care now, Miss Melody. Call later this afternoon and your grandmother may be up to talking for a minute or two.”

  Melody finally sat back with a sigh. It was a relief to know Mirry was in good hands, but frustrating to be so far away, and not see her in person for herself.

  How strange that her grandmother was still muttering about White Castle. Why, why, why? Was her grandmother having sudden dementia? The idea was both disturbing and frightening.

  Staggering to her feet, Melody sorted through her backpack, dressing in her only set of fresh clothes, and brushed out her hair that was weirdly sticking up after going to bed while it was still damp.

  A blow dryer and curling iron in the guest bathroom helped—and she marveled that the power was still on. That was a very good sign.

  After applying a bit of makeup that she had stashed in her hand bag, Melody felt a little more like herself. The scent of bacon drifted underneath her bedroom door.

  Then a whisper of footsteps stopped just outside the guest room.

  Melody froze, knowing it was him—Britt. He didn’t knock, and after a moment she heard his soft footfalls walking away again.

  She took a final glance at herself, wanting to primp some more when she thought about seeing that devastatingly handsome caretaker, but that was silly. After today, she wouldn’t see him again. Somehow, she’d find a way home. Although, there was no taxi or bus service to New Orleans. And the nurse had warned her to stay away.

  But Mirry was her responsibility. She was the only one of her sisters able to help. Avery was too far away and Crissy was trying to get her modeling career off the ground, flying between the coasts every other month on shoots.

  “I’m a bad granddaughter complaining like this,” she chided herself while puttering about the lovely suite admiring the Victorian wing chairs and Tiffany lamps, the carved plush rugs on the floor, the lace curtains at the window—and the balcony!

  “This is gorgeous,” she exclaimed, unlocking the french doors to a stunning view of the towering oak trees, flowers as far as she could see along brick pavings where cute wrought-iron benches sat. This morning the fountains sprayed clouds of water. The power was definitely back on.

  Leaning her elbows on the balcony railing, Melody dreamily stared across the beauty of the property, shading her eyes as she tried to spot the banks of the Mississippi on the far side of the massive lawns.

  She also couldn’t help remembering Britt in the yard below her room last night and the shivers his presence had given her before running back to bed. The attraction she’d felt for him had been instant and powerful, but she needed to shake it off and forget about him. After today, she would probably never see him again.

  The gash on her leg barely stung
this morning, but she needed to check the bandage and change it out. Returning to the suite, she closed the balcony doors, and strode toward the door leading to the hallway.

  Breakfast sat on a side table just outside the door, a silver platter with a domed lid. She lifted it, and the enticing smell of perfectly scrambled eggs and bacon, a cinnamon roll, juice, and a plate of perfectly grilled pancakes with dollops of whipped cream and strawberries greeted her.

  “Wow,” she said, overwhelmed at the sight.

  Her stomach rumbled. When was the last time she’d eaten a regular meal? She couldn’t even remember at the moment.

  Taking the tray into her room, she curled up on one of the lounge chairs and downed most of the delicious food in fifteen minutes flat. Closing her eyes in ecstasy, she reluctantly ate the final strawberry and bite of pancake, feeling contented and energized.

  “If that was breakfast, what’s for lunch?” she marveled, depositing the tray on the side table again.

  Time to explore this plantation mansion while she had the chance. She figured Britt was puttering outside somewhere. He probably had a lengthy list of chores the day after a hurricane, although the sky threatened to rain again, moist with thick humidity and very warm, even though it wasn’t quite noon.

  Most of the upstairs rooms were guest rooms, done in various colors and bed sizes. There was a shadowy sitting room with aged furniture and draperies. Portraits and paintings hung on the walls, likely of long past occupants of Nottingham.

  Melody found herself itching to go to a local library and find out what the history of this place was. Maybe Britt would know more about its past. Had her grandmother visited the house once upon a time and those memories rattled around in her brain, getting mixed up with the fear of the storm? Had it been a place of refuge once long ago?

  It was all so confusing!

  Melody ran a hand along the polished banister on her way to explore the downstairs rooms. Peeking in one at a time, she carefully stepped around the ropes that kept tourists at bay.

  Each room boasted sixteen foot high ceilings with medallion-based chandeliers and crown molding and was furnished with settees and arm chairs, glass knickknacks and cut-glass blue lamps.

  There was a library, a study, a music room, and at the very end of the grand hallway, a stunning oval ballroom with a glossy white floor, white walls, white damask curtains and several teardrop chandeliers hanging from the detailed plaster frieze moldings.

  The unique white ballroom took Melody’s breath away. Gorgeous white columns and a hand-carved Italian marble fireplace, including white and gold velvet couches and chairs placed under the windows.

  She stood in the doorway, imagining a string quartet, candles glowing softly, couples dressed in ball gowns dancing the waltz and light reflecting from the chandelier’s prisms.

  Stepping inside, she circled the room, feeling underdressed and much too modern. Four tall windows graced two sides of the room, and muted sunlight spilled across the white floor in a golden haze.

  Small tables sat in each corner and pictures in gilt frames adorned the satin-finished cherry wood.

  Melody peered into the pictures to catch a glimpse of the people who used to live here. Most were from the era of the Civil War. Men in Confederate uniform, women wearing hoop skirts and coiffed hair, shawls around their shoulders.

  A few pictures from the late Victorian Era and then the Roaring Twenties. Some of the last photographs appeared to be from the 1940s, just after the war were of women who wore fur coats and gloves, pencil skirts and high-heeled shoes with softly waved hairstyles.

  One of the young women especially caught her eye. She was smiling broadly, eyes glancing up from under mischievous brows, looking slightly over her shoulder at a young man who leaned casually against the fireplace mantle in this very room.

  Something about her smile, that coy glance, reminded Melody of something—or someone. Perhaps she’d seen the picture in the many history books of World War II that she had read or flipped through. Or perhaps there was a duplicate in some other old plantation house she had toured at some point in the past. Some of the old mansions did that when trying to furnish a place for historic tours.

  “She’s very pretty,” Melody murmured, hearing a door close somewhere in the house.

  She was still trying to get her bearings. All the large rooms were off the main wide hallway, the curving staircase rising toward the ceiling. Beyond the staircase were double doors that led outside.

  Gingerly, she left the ballroom and took the stairs going down—back to the kitchen and restaurant Britt had shown her last night.

  When she entered the large, industrial-sized kitchen again, she realized that she had forgotten her breakfast tray, but made a mental note to fetch it later.

  Despite the modernity of it, the old stone fireplace gave it an old-fashioned appearance. Once again, she pictured herself sitting in that chair before the fire last night, while Britt tended to her injury. A warm feeling surged in her chest, and swept up her neck. She was acting like a teenager, blushing over a member of the male species.

  Venturing into the lovely dining room, she found the place empty, although breakfast dishes and a frying pan sat in a sink of sudsy water in the kitchen.

  That sound of a door closing—must have been the caretaker going outside. Trying to think of him as the caretaker would help Melody distance herself from the emotions she kept feeling every time she thought about Britt.

  She found the french doors in the wall of curving glass and pushed against it. Suddenly, she was outside, a chilly breeze rattling the oak trees overhead.

  A faint drizzle of rain fell, but she wasn’t getting wet, at least not more than an occasional drop, so Melody kept walking. It didn’t take long before she discovered just how muddy and squishy the lawns were, along with divots of muddy spots she had to jump over.

  Where was Britt? She didn’t spot him anywhere and she couldn’t see a vehicle anywhere either. Perhaps he’d taken off into town.

  Finally she saw him at the far end of the property, at least two acres away from the mansion, near the Mississippi. He was digging or raking something, his back to her so he hadn’t seen her yet.

  Curious about the river, Melody walked toward the banks—a man-made levee actually, higher than the ground level of White Castle plantation. The plantation was lower in elevation than the river by at least ten feet. Good for irrigation, a little scary during hurricanes due to the flood risk.

  When she climbed up the steep berm of the levee, it was apparent that the Mississippi was in danger of overflowing its banks—but it hadn’t yet, thank goodness because that meant that the house was still safe.

  The water swept to the south in a torrent, dangerously deep, dangerously fast.

  Leaning over the edge, Melody grew mesmerized by the roaring water. It was so powerful, so dark, the ferocious river spraying a fine mist across her face. Kneeling on the ground, Melody felt like a kid, a dopey grin on her face.

  She wanted to grab a handful of rocks and try to skitter them across the surface.

  How powerful nature was! How fierce and savage, the roar drowning out any sound.

  Her thoughts relived yesterday’s nightmare, that horrible fear over Mirry, the frantic departure at her house, the race to the hospital. Her stomach churned just like the river. What if she hadn’t been able to get Mirry out of the house in time, what would she have done? Carried her up through the attic to the roof?

  Melody shuddered, rising to her shaky feet again. Arms outstretched, she staggered a little, buoyed up by the wind that was trying to knock her over. It was a peculiar feeling, almost like flying.

  What would it be like to jump into the Mississippi and let the current carry her all the way to New Orleans? She shook her head, knowing that was crazy thinking. She needed to get to the house before she was drenched again—her only other set of clothes was still muddy and needing washing.

  Chapter 10

  Britt caugh
t sight of his new guest after he threw the last of the downed branches into the wood pile. One of these days they’d dry out and he’d have a rip-roaring bonfire. “Marshmallows and s’mores, here we come,” he predicted. Maybe an evening with the intriguing woman who had shown up last night.

  It was starting to rain again, the drizzle increasing. He wiped a drop from his cheek while he watched Melody stride to the Mississippi dike and stare down into the mighty roar.

  He’d gone out himself earlier, after he’d left the tray of breakfast at her door, hoping she was still sleeping.

  Obviously, she had eaten and gone exploring. It had been a busy morning already. He’d finally managed to get the generator gassed up and running because the electric power was spotty. Then he cleared the rotten leaves clogging the filter of the swimming pool.

  Britt had spent the rest of the morning clearing stripped or fallen branches. He was only halfway done, and would have to finish later. Might take him all week.

  Leaning against his rake, he studied Melody de Lyon from a distance. She had an athletic, slender figure, but with beautiful curves in all the right places.

  He loved her thick dark hair, the swirls it made across her back, and it had taken all his willpower last night not to reach out and touch it. The glossy sheen and the tendrils that curled around her face were mesmerizing.

  This woman had the perfect combination of fair skin, black hair, and big blue eyes that looked like cut glass, all inside an oval face with the most kissable lips he’d ever seen in his life.

  He muttered a curse, remembering the restless night when his thoughts kept turning to this angel girl that had appeared on his doorstep out of nowhere.

  What kind of girl showed up at White Castle during a hurricane? It was crazy.

  Actually, she hadn’t shown up on his doorstep—she was inside the house at midnight, having fallen to her knees in the great hall. Like a ghostly apparition.