Читать книгу Savannah Secrets - Fiona Hood-Stewart - Страница 10

Glancing at his watch, Grant Gallagher pushed himself into the last stretch leading up to the lawn and the castle. He’d been running for an hour on the wet Scottish moor and he was now ready for breakfast. But this final effort justified the rest of a day often spent seated in boardrooms or behind his desk. Today, he reflected, wiping his rain-swept black hair from his face, would be spent with his laptop, tracing the outline of a deal that was shaping into a winner.

Moving round to the east side of the ancient stone castle walls, Grant stepped inside the cloakroom.

At last. The reward. He shook himself like a St. Bernard, his large, well-formed shoulders soaked, and made his way down the corridor to the main part of the castle.

“Good morning. Yer breakfast’s ready, sir,” Mrs. Duffy, the housekeeper, said as she crossed him in the hall just as he was about to climb the vast oak staircase.

“Thank you, Mrs. Duffy. I’ll take a quick shower and be down in a moment.” He smiled.

The housekeeper later described his smile to Mrs. Cullum, the baker’s wife, as a wicked yet wonderful one that lit up his fine features. Not that anyone, seeing her, would have guessed such a fanciful romantic lurked behind her severe expression. Two days later, Mrs. Cullum passed on the description to Mrs. Beatty at the butcher’s. They both agreed, shaking their permed gray heads, that Mrs. Duffy read far too many romance novels for her own good. In their opinion, any woman who raved about bright blue eyes that sparkled in a way that left a female, even one of Mrs. Duffy’s advanced years and station, with her heart fluttering definitely needed her head examined.

Unaware of the flattering descriptions being exchanged in the castle kitchen and elsewhere, Grant swung open the heavy glass door of the shower—the one area of the castle he’d agreed to modernize—and, after discarding his soaked attire on the marble floor, stood under the powerful hot-water jet. It felt like heaven after the rigors of the run he imposed on himself daily, rain or shine, wherever he was in the world.

Several minutes later he emerged, dried himself and, slicking his hair back, entered his dressing room where he donned a pair of navy sweats and the first high-necked cashmere sweater in the pile, which happened to be white. Next he slipped on his socks and sneakers and headed downstairs, humming a tune that for several days had been playing relentlessly in his head. That and the scent that Fernanda, his latest conquest, had worn on their last evening together in Paris. She was lovely, but far too young, of course. And she was beginning to cling.

He sighed. Time to bring that little interlude to an end before it became complicated and she turned on the waterworks.

Stepping into the breakfast room, he gazed satisfied at the round table covered with the usual white linen cloth, fine china and silverware. He lifted the cover of one of the Georgian silver dishes and sniffed. Mrs. Duffy’s breakfast made every drop of rain of his run worth it, he reflected, serving himself a large portion of scrambled eggs, bacon and ham onto a plate, and spreading a thick lashing of homemade butter onto a piece of local granary bread.

This was the life. For a few days a month, at any rate, he reckoned, glancing at his watch, calculating the time difference with Sydney.

After breakfast, he headed straight for the study, intent on making his calls. He was deeply entrenched in understanding the legal implications of the deal he was handling, a meat packer in Australia that, if everything went right, would be his for the picking before the end of the week. He sat down and dialed the number of his lawyer in Sydney, sifting through his mail as he waited for someone to pick up. Just invitations and bank statements. They could wait. Then he looked at the last letter in the pile and frowned. It bore an American stamp and was postmarked Savannah Georgia. He turned it over, curious. He didn’t know anyone in Savannah. Maybe it was another of those letters he received quantities of, people offering him deals right, left and center. Rita, his efficient secretary in London, must have forwarded it by mistake. The phone continued ringing just as he realized the letter was addressed to Strathcairn Castle, not to his office in Abemarle Street.

Odd, he reflected, hanging up when no one answered, noting the letterhead. Who the hell were Hunter & Maxwell, Attorneys at Law? Certainly he’d never dealt with them in the past.

Leaning across the desk piled high with scribbled notes, Grant reached for a letter opener. He pulled out a cover letter attached to a long white envelope with his name scrawled in large, spidery black ink.

He frowned, ignoring the uncanny frisson that gripped him. This must be a mistake, he reflected, ignoring a quickening of his pulse and a sudden need to swallow. Yet the letter was addressed to him, and now, as he quickly flipped through the rest of his mail a second time, he noted another missive from the same law firm. For a moment he hesitated, gripped by a sudden urge to bin the lot. For a moment he stared at them, then at the trash can, then back at the distinctive handwriting on the heavy white vellum envelope. But curiosity won, and with a shrug he slit the second envelope and pulled forth a single sheet of paper.

What he read made him sit up straighter. This had to be a joke, some crazy prankster playing tricks on him. But for some inexplicable reason, he couldn’t drag his eyes off the spindly scrawl, words leaping off the page in quick succession, their significance hitting him like an inside curve ball.

Then, grabbing the cover letter, he skimmed through it rapidly, his pulse racing. This couldn’t be real. It had to be a case of mistaken identity. There must be another James G. Gallagher somewhere, maybe even several, and they’d mixed them up.

But deep down, something told him it wasn’t a mistake. He’d always known he was adopted. His parents had certainly never bothered to hide that fact from him. But they’d never told him anything about his birth mother, and he sure as hell hadn’t wanted to ask. Surely it would be too much of a coincidence if…

Grant rose, still holding the letter, and gazed out of the window. Rain poured, causing rivulets to trickle down the old panes before disappearing into the flower beds. What should he do? He had no desire to be connected with his past. A memory flashed—that of himself as a turbulent teenager ravaged with doubt. It had taken him long enough to force the hot, turbulent rage to subside and now that it was way behind him, he had no desire to revisit his past.

Turning his back on the window, Grant crushed the letter in his fist and pitched the crumpled ball into the trash can. He had no intention of replying. Would simply pretend it never happened.

But minutes later, and against his better judgment, he stooped and retrieved the two scrunched-up sheets from the trash, smoothed them reluctantly and read the letter over.

“Shit,” he exclaimed, slamming his palms down on the desk. “Fuck Rowena Carstairs, whoever she is. And her damned attorneys.”

But despite his desire to forget, he could think of nothing but what the old lady had told him in her letter.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, glancing once more at the scrawled words. Why in hell’s name would this woman who claimed to be his grandmother want to leave him some estate he didn’t need? He could read some remorse between the lines, some desire to make up for a past mistake. But still, it made no sense.

He pushed the chair back abruptly, wishing he had time to take a trip, go scuba diving in Thailand or hiking in the Rockies. But he couldn’t leave right now. He had to be available to jump on a plane at a moment’s notice.

“Damn,” he muttered again.

Leaving the correspondence on his desk, he shoved his hands in his pockets and left, slamming the study door abruptly behind him.

“I don’t see what options are left,” Charles pointed out to a recalcitrant Joanna. He disapproved of his cousin’s house—wet bars did not belong in the home. Joanna was presently perched on a crimson leather bar stool, sipping a neon-colored cocktail at three o’clock in the afternoon. No wonder Rowena had entertained doubts about the woman’s capacity to manage a few million dollars. Still, she needed to be humored.

“There really is no way we can contest the damn will?” Joanna asked for the hundredth time.

“I’ve told you. It’s impossible. If we fail, we lose the trust income.”

“But there must be a way,” she said, twiddling the cocktail stick thoughtfully. “I mean, let’s think. For instance, what would happen if, say, this Grant guy weren’t in the picture?”

“What do you mean?” Charles looked at her and frowned.

“Let’s say, hypothetically, that something happened to him. Who would inherit his share?”

“I guess that would depend on whether he has a will,” Charles replied slowly. “In the event of his leaving no stipulated wishes, I guess the funds would revert to the next of kin.”

“Thank you. From all I’ve gathered over the past few days, that’s us.” She pointed a red-lacquered finger at her voluptuous breast.

“Actually, it’s Dallas. Joanna, you’re not suggesting—”

“I’m not suggesting anything,” she replied airily, waving the strawberry-blond mane from her face. “I’m merely trying to get a grasp on the situation.”

“I see.” Charles sat for a moment, elbows placed thoughtfully on his thighs. Joanna was a bloodthirsty sort, but at least she was being honest. Not like himself, he thought angrily, forced to pretend Rowena’s will hadn’t been a devastating blow. For three and a half years he’d been secretly nurturing a dream that would finally allow him to control his life and no longer depend on his marriage to Marcia for his status in society. He’d hoped to be able to afford an expensive yet discreet divorce, then marry his beloved Charlotte. Now, a few words from Meredith Hunter and all his hopes and expectations had flown summarily out the window.

It was a hard pill to swallow.

“Joanna, let’s stick with what’s real and not conjecture,” he said, letting out a tight sigh. “The fact is both Gallagher and Dallas are very much alive. We might as well get used to it.”

He felt suddenly old. The spring had gone out of his step. He’d told Charlotte the news yesterday. She’d taken it badly. The future struck him as incredibly gloomy.

“Don’t be such a party pooper, Charles,” Joanna countered with a moue. “Life is full of surprises. Tell me, have you seen Patricia? She looked as if she didn’t care a damn about Ward and Mary Chris being cut out of the will. But I wonder…” She took a speculative sip of her cocktail and frowned.

“Oh, she’s acting like a persecuted Christian, the usual pious dictums. God’s will and all that jazz. Ward doesn’t care. Rowena’s money wouldn’t make any difference to him. He has all the fishing rods he can use. As for Mary Chris, she probably would have given her share to the church, anyway. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of Rowena’s reasons for taking these measures was because of them,” he added bitterly.

“Bullshit.” Joanna set her cocktail down on the bar counter and came to sit next to her cousin on the sofa. “She did it to hurt us, to prove she could manipulate us from beyond the grave. The bitch. But don’t get down, Charlie boy. Things may still take a turn.”

“It’s hardly likely. I doubt Gallagher’s the kind of man to refuse a windfall.”

“Well, I don’t know. Sometimes the unexpected can occur. “Joanna patted his hand with a cryptic smile and thought about the appointment she’d finally managed to arrange with Miss Mabella. “Remember that voodoo priestess Rowena was as thick as thieves with?”

Charles shrugged. “Don’t tell me you’re messing about with that lot?”

“Why not? Rowena seemed to think the world of her.”

“I dare say.” Charles shrugged, unconvinced. “Truth is there’s nothing that can be done. And the sooner we get used to it, the better.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” she replied with a Mona Lisa smile gracing her lips. “Only time will tell. I’ll bet once Miss Mabella gets her spells moving along we may see some serious action. I’m going to visit her,” she added, her voice laced with expectation.

Charles rolled his eyes and let out a sigh.

“I prefer to deal in the real world,” he muttered caustically.

“I daresay you do,” she answered smugly, “but a little nudge from the other side can’t hurt. Not when you’re in it up to your neck like we are.”

After another week passed without a reply from Grant Gallagher, Meredith wasn’t inclined to make any more excuses for the man. Surely someone who’d just been informed he’d inherited a sizable estate would at least respond to the news. This wasn’t something to be ignored, she fumed.

“‘Morning, Trace. How was the date?” she asked, grinning.

“It sucked. He turned out to be a total male chauvinist who thinks career women should be abolished from our society, period.”

“I didn’t know guys like that still existed,” Meredith said with an expressive grimace, “but I’m beginning to think Gallagher may just be one of them. I’ve sent two letters via courier to his address at—” she squinted at her legal pad “—Strathcairn Castle. According to the detective, that’s a place Gallagher bought up in Scotland a few years back. It’s supposed to be a weekend home, but he spends a fair amount of time there. We know he received our correspondence because the housekeeper signed for it, but Gallagher hasn’t shown any sign of life.”

“Maybe he’s away,” Tracy murmured, scribbling.

“I guess.” Meredith glanced at her notes. “The detective mentioned that Gallagher moves around a lot. Comes and goes from London and Paris and New York. He’s not going to be easy to pin down.”

And pinning Gallagher down was becoming more important with each passing day. Time was of the essence if Dallas was going to rescue her property. And Lord only knew what sort of plans Joanna and the other relatives were fomenting during this frustrating delay.

“Maybe he’s left on a trip,” Tracy pointed out reasonably. “I have Mrs. Fairbairn coming in at ten so we’d better be quick,” she added. “I need Ali to print out those memos,” she added absently, glancing at the run forming in her panty hose. “Shit, I knew that would happen.”

“What?” Meredith glanced absently at the offending nylon, still absorbed in the report. “You know, according to the detective agency’s latest report, he was seen in Strathcairn village last week. Surely they’d know if he’d gone somewhere. Oh, Lord.” She eyed Tracy woefully, a new and horrifying possibility looming. “I’m sure he’s received the information. Any normal person would have contacted us right away, knowing it’s in his best interests to bring closure to everything. So is he trying to screw things up?”

“Maybe he thinks it’s a hoax. There’s no evidence to suggest he’s ever heard of Rowena Carstairs. Men like him probably get all sorts of weird mail, fan mail, hate mail, you name it. He’s somewhat of a swashbuckling figure in the corporate world.” She tucked her tongue in her cheek and waited for Meredith’s inevitable reaction.

“Swashbuck—are you nuts, Trace? The man’s a heartless piece of—”

“Hey, don’t go off at the deep end, girl. I was just reading some articles covering the Bronstern case. You know, if you analyze it from the shareholders’ standpoint, he was probably right to do what he did.” She twiddled her pen in her long, manicured fingers, a picture of sleek legal savvy.

“That doesn’t justify the fact that he left a number of hardworking American families unemployed,” Meredith dismissed her. “Now,” she said, sitting down at her desk and removing her gray tweed jacket, “we have to get the ball rolling on this.”

“We?” Tracy shook her head firmly.

“Okay, me.” Meredith rolled her eyes reluctantly and let out a huff.

“Good. At least we’ve established that correctly. Now, why do you think he hasn’t answered? Maybe he thinks we’re not legit.”

“But surely he could tell we’re a legitimate law firm? I wrote on our letterhead, I forwarded one of several personal letters from Rowena, which I imagine told him at least part of the story. She must have given him some explanation for the inheritance. And although I didn’t get into specifics, I made it clear I needed to communicate with him ASAP.”

“But the fact remains he’s chosen to ignore your correspondence.” Tracy looked across the desk at her thoughtfully, then hummed. “I think someone is going to have to take a trip.”

“Oh, no.” Meredith raised her palms protectively. “No way.”

“I’m afraid there’s only one way to deal with this, Mer, and that’s to contact him personally.”

“Darn it, Trace. I knew you were going to say that,” she muttered, shoulders drooping.

“Damn right. Start packing, partner.”

“You don’t think I could send someone from the detective agency to speak to him?” she asked, clinging to a last shred of hope that she wouldn’t have to handle this personally.

“Mer, get real.”

“But surely they could handle it.”

“It’s hardly a detective’s job to deliver important legal documents,” Tracy answered witheringly. “And might I remind you that this man is now your client?”

“Oh, God, stop sounding like old Saunders. Two years of him at Yale was bad enough without you coming down on me like a ton of bricks.” Her eyes closed as the truth and all its implications sank in. “Trace, I can’t go. I simply can’t.”

“Why on earth not? You’re the coexecutor. Now, stop whining and go find the guy.”

Meredith swung in her chair, agitated. “But I have two kids and responsibilities. I can’t just go to Europe at the drop of a hat because some moron doesn’t have the courtesy to answer my letters,” she wailed, knowing that Tracy was right and that it was useless to pretend otherwise.

“Should’ve thought of that before opening your own law firm,” Tracy remarked unsympathetically. She did not add that Gallagher’s silence had created the perfect opportunity to get Meredith out of the office and out of town for a much-needed break. She and Elm, Meredith’s oldest and dearest friend, had discussed it on the phone only the other day. It was high time Meredith stopped hiding behind her job and those kids, wallowing in the past and afraid to face the future. She needed a trip, some time away. Finding Grant Gallagher might be the perfect excuse.

Tracy watched her carefully. She and Meredith had been close friends since law school, and if anyone knew what she’d been through over the past year, it was Tracy. Not that she ever complained, poor kid. Meredith was made of sterner stuff than that. But she knew what went on behind the facade, the lonely nights, the impossibly packed days. After all, she’d been through it herself when her own boyfriend, Jim, had died of galloping leukemia at age twenty-five.

“Look, Meredith,” she said sternly, “get used to the idea and get out the luggage.”

“But what’ll I do with Mick and Zack?” Meredith murmured. She never let her personal problems interfere with work, but this was overwhelming.

“I’m sure Clarice and John will be only too glad to take ’em for you. If Carrie and Ralph Hunter hadn’t moved to Charleston I’m sure they’d have pitched in. And I can help out if you need me.”

“I know, all the grandparents love having them and spoiling them rotten,” she muttered darkly, a tiny smile quivering, for she knew how her and Tom’s parents doted on their two grandsons. “God only knows what I’d have to deal with once I got back.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Mer, John and Clarice adore those kids. You couldn’t leave them in better hands. Now, stop fussing and get on with it. It’s bad enough having to deal with Rowena’s relatives darkening our doorstep like a pack of vultures. And until you’ve definitively identified Grant Gallagher as Rowena’s heir, you can’t admit the will to probate.”

Just then the phone buzzed.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Gallagher on line one.”

“Oh, my God!” Meredith sat on the edge of her chair. “Pass him on through. It’s him,” she whispered, covering the mouthpiece. “Hello?”

“Good morning. Is that Ms. Hunter?”

“Speaking. I’m glad you finally called, Mr. Gallagher. I was getting worried you hadn’t received my correspondence.”

“Not only did I receive it, but I consider it a great piece of impertinence,” his deep, suave British voice replied.

“Excuse me?” Meredith swallowed, aghast. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Then let me explain. I have no interest in Mrs. Carstairs’s inheritance. I suggest you find yourself another heir as I will not be accepting the bequest.”

“But—”

“I also wish to make it abundantly clear that I do not want to be bothered with this matter now or at any time in the future. I expect you to take care of any details. Am I making myself perfectly clear?” His voice grated cold and unbending down the line.

“Mr. Gallagher, it isn’t quite as simple as that,” she said, bristling.

“I suggest you make it simple. I have no intention of cooperating, if that’s what you’re about to suggest. Good day, Ms. Hunter, I’m sure you will deal efficiently with any necessary details.”

“Wait,” she exclaimed, “you can’t just avoid the issue as if it didn’t exist. There are papers to sign, documents to be dealt with.”

“Then deal with them. It’s none of my damn business. Goodbye.”

The phone went dead in Meredith’s hand. “I don’t believe this,” she muttered, outraged. “The guy just brushed me off like a fly. I knew I was right about the kind of person he is. Jesus.”

“What did he say?” Tracy prodded. She’d followed the conversation closely, had seen Meredith change color, the embryonic glint in her eye.

“You know what? That’s it.” Meredith slapped her palms down on the desk, eyes blazing. “I’m going after the bastard. Thinks he can just walk, does he? Well, he’ll soon find out that ain’t happening. Not on my watch.”

“Go, girl, that’s the spirit,” Tracy encouraged, smothering a smile. There was nothing like a challenge to get Meredith off her butt.

“Fine,” Meredith muttered, slamming the Carstairs file down before her. “If I have to go, I’ll go. Even if it does mean sussing him out of his den. The nerve of it,” she added, smoldering, “the sheer rudeness of the man. I knew this was what he’d be like. Didn’t I tell you?” She whirled around in the chair, pointing her pen.

“Absolutely. The sooner you get going, the better. Well, since that takes care of that, I’ll be off,” Tracy answered, rising and straightening her skirt while hiding a smile. “It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

“Damn right it will,” Meredith answered, throwing her pen onto her desk.

She already detested Grant Gallagher.