Читать книгу Savannah Secrets - Fiona Hood-Stewart - Страница 13

The next day dawned cold and dreary as the previous one. Meredith peeked out the window and sighed. A native Savannahian, she was used to sweltering summers and mild winters, not this persistent bleak chill. How on earth did people keep their spirits up around here?

Slipping on a smart gray gabardine business suit and high-heeled shoes, she made her way downstairs for breakfast, her briefcase tucked under her arm. She was not going to be put off by last night’s reception. She had every intention of pursuing Grant Gallagher as soon as she’d had a large cup of coffee. She’d ask Moira how to get to the castle and be on her way. In fact, she’d be willing to bet that Moira might prove to be a good source of information. No doubt Grant Gallagher’s presence in Strathcairn had set tongues wagging.

Meredith settled at the same table she had the night before, and gave Jim, the landlord, who was busily polishing glasses behind the bar, a cheery good-morning.

“Morning to ye.” Moira came bustling in with a bright smile and a pot of steaming tea, which she placed on the table in front of Meredith. “What’ll ye have for breakfast, dearie, porridge? Black pudding? Scrambled eggs and sausage?”

“Oh, no, thanks, I really couldn’t. I’m still digesting last night’s meal. Just a piece of toast would be great.” So much for coffee. She hardly dared refuse the tea when it was so graciously offered.

Moira looked disappointed but soon produced the toast.

“Tell me, do you know the owner of the castle?”

“You mean Mr. Gallagher?” Moira cocked a sandy brow.

“Yes. That’s right. I wondered if you knew anything about him?”

“Not much.” Moira shook her head and wiped her hands on her apron. “He comes in here once in a while for a dram, and although he’s pleasant enough, he keeps himsel’ to himsel’, if ye know what I mean. Not one for conversation by the looks of it. Mrs. Duffy—she’s the lady who manages things up at the castle—says he’s always polite and nice to her, but never gets into a chat. Just closets himself up in the study and talks on the phone when he’s not working on his wee machine, she says.” Moira pursed her lips and leaned forward confidingly, her red curls bobbing. “It takes all sorts to make a world, but can ye imagine staying cooped up there in that pile o’ stone all day? It’s not healthy if ye ask me.” She shook her head once more.

Meredith nodded in compliant agreement and sighed. “I have some business to conduct with him. I have to go up there this morning. I hope I’ll get a decent reception.”

“Well, I wouldna count on it if I were you.” Moira sniffed and placed the marmalade on the table. “The last person that went to visit left with a flea in his ear, according to Mrs. Duffy. Still, I wish ye luck.” She smiled and returned to the kitchen.

The pub was empty except for Meredith and the big sheep dog lying before the open fire. Although the establishment could hardly be five-star rated, it was warm, welcoming and cheery. Her host’s extravagant taste in color schemes hadn’t extended to the pub, which boasted traditional paneled walls, muted green and tartan cushions on the chairs and benches and a mellowed oak bar counter. And her host and hostess couldn’t have been kinder, she reflected with a smile. The pub was the gathering place for the locals, and last night a man in a tartan tam had played Scottish tunes on an ancient squeeze box. Very picturesque. A pity she didn’t have more time to appreciate it.

As she sat and sipped her tea, Meredith weighed her options. She’d wait until ten o’clock and then make her way up the hill to the ancient Highland keep just visible through the rising mist. She peeked gloomily at the stark, forbidding structure through the net curtains. It looked about as welcoming as its tenant. When she bit into a piece of warm raisin toast spread with butter and delicious homemade marmalade, she wished she could sit here all day and soak in the atmosphere, but she had a job to do.

Taking another sip of strong black tea, grateful for its reassuring warmth and smothering an inner hankering for espresso, Meredith thought about her boys, asleep now at Ranelagh, their grandparents’ home, the family plantation that they loved dearly. She glanced at her watch and calculated the time difference between Scotland and Savannah with a sigh. Not a good time to call. In a few hours her father, John Rowland, would drive them to school in the new four-wheel drive he’d acquired last week and the kids would love it. Would her mother remember to tell Nan, the maid who’d been with her family forever, to send Mick’s soccer shoes along for his afternoon practice? Perhaps she’d better leave a text message on her mom’s mobile just in case.

Searching her purse for her cell phone, Meredith suddenly stopped herself. She was being ridiculous. She would only risk waking the household, and there was little use worrying about matters over which she had no control. She’d do better to apply her thoughts and energy to the upcoming meeting.

At ten o’clock precisely, Meredith left the Strathcairn Arms, and after a deep breath of damp, misty morning air got into her rental car and drove through the tiny village of Strathcairn. Now that she could see it properly, she realized it was quaint. Little whitewashed cottages bordered each side of the street, lending the impression of a Grimm’s fairy tale. She saw the butcher, the baker. She grinned. All that was missing was the candlestick maker.

What, she wondered, could have induced a man like Grant Gallagher, a man who moved in pretty sophisticated circles, to come to an out-of-the-way spot like this?

Not that it was any of her business, she reminded herself as the car wound up the bumpy narrow road toward the castle. Her only interest was the execution of Rowena’s will and perhaps to persuade him to do something for Dallas. In fact, all she really needed to extract from Gallagher was a commitment to come to the U.S. sometime in the next three months so they could have the meeting Rowena had insisted on and go ahead with probate. She also would require some material for an extra DNA test that would shut up the Carstairs relatives if they made a nuisance of themselves, an increasingly likely contingency. She sighed heavily, wondering why her gut was telling her it wasn’t going to be that easy.

The mist had lifted as she reached the top of the steep hill where the castle loomed, severe and uninviting. Slowing the car, Meredith glanced at the huge wrought-iron gates, surprised to see them open. Raising her brows, she drove on through, past a couple ancient oak trees, tended grass and onto the gravel drive, wheels crunching loudly as she came to a smooth stop in front of the massive front door.

Picking up her briefcase, she checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror, then stepped out of the car, almost tripping on a large jutting root. Recovering her balance, she straightened her skirt and, securing the briefcase firmly under her arm, walked up the wide, well-trodden shallow stone steps that led to the front door. There she tugged a rusty iron wire to her right, presuming it must be the doorbell. Sure enough, a distant clanging somewhere in the castle’s nether regions confirmed she was right. Taking a deep breath, Meredith stood straighter and braced herself. Then she heard a cough and a shuffle of feet and slowly the ancient door creaked open.

“Good morning,” she said brightly, smiling professionally at the stooped elderly woman in a flowered, pale blue, mid-calf overall. She presumed this must be Mrs. Duffy. Her hair was scooped up in a tight bun secured by a net. A pair of clear blue eyes stared inquiringly at her. “I’ve come to see Mr. Gallagher. Is he in?”

“And who might ye be?” the woman asked warily, looking her up and down.

Undeterred, Meredith kept the smile in place. “I’m Meredith Hunter. I’m an attorney from the United States. I believe we may have spoken yesterday. I’ve come to see Mr. Gallagher on important business.” She shifted her weight to the other foot while the woman continued to eye her with misgiving. “Well,” she asked, trying not to sound rude or impatient, “is he in?”

“A couldna say.”

“Look, either he’s here or he isn’t,” Meredith responded, her patience withering, wondering if Gallagher had instructed his housekeeper to be unwelcoming only to her, or if the frosty reception applied to all visitors. “I’ve come all the way from Georgia to see him,” she pleaded. “At least you might let me in.”

The woman’s expression unbent slightly and her blue eyes softened a tad. “Well, he won’t be pleased, but I suppose there’s nae use ye standing out there in the drizzle. Come in. You can wait in the living room,” she offered, then shaking her head and muttering under her breath, she turned and led the way. Meredith followed her inside.

The hall was vast and drafty. Agaping medieval stone fireplace large enough to roast an ox stood against the far wall. It looked as if it hadn’t been lit in a while. A threadbare Oriental rug covered the floor and a wide oak staircase led up to a Gothic-arched gallery above. The owner of Strathcairn Castle hadn’t done much to modernize the place, she noted. It also felt distinctly chilly, and she shivered as Mrs. Duffy showed her grudgingly into the parlor. She wished she’d brought her coat.

“I’ll go and tell Mr. Gallagher you’re here,” she said as they entered the oak-paneled living room.

“Thanks,” Meredith murmured, stepping closer to the fireplace, glad of the warmth of the crackling logs. Placing her briefcase on a tapestry chair, she took a look about. There were portraits—under the circumstances, they could hardly be Grant Gallagher’s ancestors—hanging on the walls, as well as miscellaneous ornaments, some ugly, large, empty porcelain vases and an expanse of draughty French windows framed with faded chintz drapes that looked out over a lawn. Meredith stepped over and looked out at the view. The lawn was pristine and stretched toward the edge of the cliff. Beyond that she spied a fishing boat bobbing back and forth, tossed by the strong wind as it ploughed the leaden waves. She could hear the squawk of gulls in the distance and the windows shook in their casements when a strong gust of wind hit.

She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, wondering whether to sit or remain standing. Gallagher had certainly chosen an eerie spot to work. She wondered if it was here he planned his Machiavellian takeovers. The venue certainly lent itself.

After a ten-minute wait, Meredith’s mood had deteriorated significantly. Surely the man must realize that she wasn’t here by choice but that she was merely doing her job. She wondered again if Gallagher had read Rowena’s letter and whether she had revealed the truth. What if he hadn’t known he was adopted? It was a definite possibility. Some adoptive parents never disclosed the truth to their child. How, she wondered uneasily, was she going to tell him the tangled story if that proved to be the case? Meredith shifted nervously before the fire, tweaked her chestnut hair behind her ear and wished it were all over.

Then, just as she was about to go and seek out Mrs. Duffy, the noise of a squeaking door handle from an adjoining room had her spinning on her heel and a tall, remarkably handsome, dark-haired man in old jeans, a baggy gray sweater and a day’s growth of beard appeared. In the pictures she’d seen of him, he’d always been immaculately dressed. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t this George Clooney look-alike who was taller than she’d imagined. For a second Meredith caught her breath as his eyes bored angrily into hers.

“What the hell do you want? I made it clear, didn’t I, that you and I have nothing to say to each other?” he growled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants and eyeing her malevolently. “My advice to you is to get out. I hate being disturbed.”

Meredith gasped and squared her shoulders. “You know perfectly well why I’m here.”

“Oh?” A thick dark brow shot up.

“I’m here because I have important business to discuss with you. You cannot simply ignore my correspondence, Mr. Gallagher,” she added in a clipped tone. “Presumably you have questions about what the letters contained.”

“I’m not interested in the damn letters,” he muttered, casting her another blazing glare from under thick, dark brows. That and the day’s growth of beard gave him a rugged, devilish look. As he approached her, Meredith felt as though the large reception room had suddenly shrunk. She drew in her breath, then pulled herself together.

“There are matters to discuss that will significantly impact your future,” she insisted, determined to stay the course.

“Ha!” He let out a harsh laugh. “My life is just fine as it is, thank you very much.”

“Fine. Once we’ve gone over things, I promise you’ll be left in peace and your life can go on,” she said, standing her ground.

Gallagher gave her a thoughtful look. “I suppose I’m not going to be rid of you until you’ve had your say,” he muttered. “You’d better sit down.”

“Thank you,” Meredith retorted sweetly, pleased her veneer of professional patience had at least got her through stage one. “As you rightly pointed out, I’m not leaving here until I’ve dealt with business. But neither am I here by choice.”

His brows shot up. “Well, as I’ve already made it plain to you I’m not interested in what you have on offer, unless…?” He eyed her up and down, then met her eyes with a speculative look.

Meredith gasped, wondering briefly if he was mad and whether it was against the Georgia bar’s code of conduct to kick a client in the balls. Clearly he was trying to needle her into losing her composure. Well, she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

Seeing that he’d dropped into a wing chair opposite, she sat down on the couch and carefully removed the file from her briefcase. She should have expected a man of his ilk to lack gentlemanly courtesy, she reminded herself as she put on her reading glasses. Still, despite her growing anger, Meredith couldn’t help noticing how sharp the contrast of his blue eyes was to his dark hair and tanned skin.

“As you know, I’m here at the behest of your American grandmother,” she began in a crisp, nonemotional tone.

“Ah, yes. The prodigal grandmother,” he murmured ironically in a pronounced British accent, “the famous Rowena Carstairs.” He let out another cynical laugh.

Meredith eyed him over the rim of her glasses, glad that at least he seemed to be au fait with the facts. “So you’re aware of the circumstances of your adoption?” she said, relieved.

“Aware? I’m not bloody aware of anything,” he scoffed, eyes piercing hers. “Until the momentous revelation in your client’s letter, I only knew that Raymond and Gina Gallagher had adopted me in a moment of misguided altruism that I’m sure they afterward came to regret.”

“I realize this must all have come as something of a shock to you—”

“What? That some crazy old bat wanted to salvage her conscience before she moved on to a better world?”

“Something like that. I guess—”

“Ms. Hunter,” he said, “nothing surprises me. In my line of business I’ve seen it all. Now, do me a favor, cut the formalities and let’s get to the point, shall we?” He glanced at his watch. “I have work to do.”

“Fine,” Meredith snapped, pushing her glasses farther up her nose. She’d rarely come across anyone quite so uncivil. “You were adopted at birth, as you know. Your birth mother, Rowena’s daughter, was Isabel Carstairs.”

“Ah, the delightful Isabel,” he drawled, crossing his ankles and clasping his hands behind his neck. “Go on. It makes a good story. Perhaps I should pitch it to Hollywood and pick up a few bucks along the way.”

Paying no attention, Meredith continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “As you know, Rowena, your grandmother, has named you in her will as her sole beneficiary.”

His eyes shifted and settled on her. “Odd, isn’t it? I can’t think why she’d do a thing like that.”

“Whatever her reasons, it’s a huge bequest.”

“I’m not interested in her money. You can give it all to charity as far as I’m concerned.”

Meredith tipped her glasses and stared at him over the rims. “Perhaps you’d like to know what kind of inheritance we’re talking about before making that decision.”

“I couldn’t give a damn.” He shrugged and rotated his neck, his expression challenging.

Meredith stifled a desire to snap closed the file and tell him to go to hell. Instead, she gripped it and controlled her temper, knowing she had Dallas to think of. Maybe if he really didn’t want the money, he could be persuaded to give his half sister a portion of the estate.

Pushing her glasses back up her nose, she focused. “Most people wouldn’t be quite so cavalier about inheriting a hundred million dollars,” she observed casually.

“A hundred million dollars? That’s what the old bat was worth?” he asked, sitting up straighter and letting out a long, low whistle. “Well, well. Grandma must have been one smart cookie, as you Americans would say. I hadn’t realized the estate was so huge.”

“Something worth thinking about,” Meredith pointed out, eyeing him closely.

“Certainly. If one was interested or needed the money,” he replied, a scathing note entering his voice. “It so happens I’m not in either of those positions.”

“I see. I must say, I hadn’t anticipated this.”

“No? Well, I made it plain to you over the phone. You should listen more carefully.”

“Excuse me for asking,” Meredith said, genuinely curious, “but why aren’t you interested? You have to admit this is rather an extraordinary circumstance. Surely you must be curious to find out more.”

“Why should I be? I make a very good living doing what I do, and I’ve already got more money than I could ever spend,” he said conversationally, studying her from his wing chair, enjoying her discomfort. “As for the so-called family connection—” he shrugged “—why should I want to know anything about Rowena Carstairs?”

“I thought perhaps you might be eager to learn more about your past.”

“Ha! Not in the least. I don’t need any more skeletons in my closet.”

“Look, I’m aware that you find all this very amusing. But there are some serious issues to be dealt with. Whether you accept the money is your call, but you need to be aware of all the facts before you make a final decision. Surely you can see that? I need you to attend a meeting in the United States so that we can process the appropriate paperwork.”

Grant snorted. “You have to be joking? First you have the gall to come wasting my time when I’ve already told you I want nothing to do with your client’s estate, then you expect me to cross the pond because of this nonsense? Look, Ms. Hunter, I haven’t got time for any meetings except those of my choosing. And for the record, I don’t consider this amusing. Quite the opposite,” he bit back icily. “She can stuff her money where the sergeant stuffed the pudding.”

“Excuse me?”

“An old British expression, which I believe speaks for itself.”

Meredith remained silent, looking at him as she might a recalcitrant teenager who sat sulking and scowling into the flames.

“Well, Rowena had a great sense of humor,” she remarked finally, “and she probably would have found that funny. As for me—” she sat up straighter “—I just keep wondering how a savvy businessman like you could be so foolish.” Gallagher sent her a sharp look, but she plowed on. “Surely you didn’t get where you are today by making final decisions without deliberating. That’s a recipe for disaster, as you well know. I can inform you of all the facts, then leave you to make up your mind.”

Letting out a huff, Grant turned and looked at her with a new, arrested expression. His chin went up and his eyes pierced hers, as though seeing her for the first time. “You really aren’t going to leave me alone until you’ve hashed this damn thing out, are you?” he challenged.

“No, I’m not,” she agreed, a smile twitching her lips.

He rolled his eyes. “Well, get on with it, give me the scoop. Then you can legitimately go home and tell your boss that you did all you could to get me to accept the inheritance and that I refused. There, satisfied?” He quirked a cynical brow at her, his eyes never leaving her face.

“As I’m the boss, that won’t be necessary,” she retorted, eyeing the documents before her. “Now, as things stand at present, you have been declared undisputed heir to the Carstairs holdings. One of the provisos of the bequest is that you attend a meeting at Rowena’s house in Miami.”

“Which, since I’m refusing the lot, won’t be necessary,” he responded smoothly, leaning farther back in the armchair.

“Would you mind not interrupting until I’ve finished?” she shot back.

“Excuse me,” he said with exaggerated politeness.

“As I was saying, there are documents that must be signed and lodged in court. Then there’s the question of your sibling.”

“Sibling?” His hooded eyes shot up and he straightened. “What sibling?”

“You have a half sister.”

“Where in hell’s name did she come from?”

“Her name is Dallas Thornton. She’s nineteen years old and is the issue of your mother’s marriage to a man named Doug Thornton.”

“I see. Why didn’t the money go to her?”

“That, I’m afraid, is a mystery that has been bothering me ever since Rowena’s death. There seems to be no specific reason why Dallas should have been cut out of her will, but she was,” Meredith said, lifting the file. “Here, it might be easier if you took a look for yourself.”

Grant stayed quiet for a moment, then he leaned forward and reached for the file, taking it from her outstretched hand. His eyes skimmed rapidly over the contents.

“How can you be certain that I’m the rightful heir?” he asked finally. “There must be a number of Grant Gallaghers running about the world.”

“Because I’ve had it thoroughly checked out. About ten years ago, Rowena hired a private detective agency that traced all your adoption records. It’s all in there. There is no doubt. Of course, another DNA test would determine undisputable proof.”

“Another DNA test?” His eyes narrowed and Meredith felt her cheeks warming, cursing herself for the blunder. She’d found the detective’s idea of taking a hair off the shoulder of his jacket invasive, and had said so at the time.

“Do you mean to tell me that, unbeknownst to me, someone has tampered with my private effects and taken material with which to do a DNA test?” he asked in a menacing tone.

“Well, not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?” He rose and paced the room, body tense and taut. “Ms. Hunter, how dare anybody invade my privacy and mess with my stuff? Or didn’t you think I knew how a DNA test works?” He stopped next to the couch and loomed over her. “Next you’ll be saying you know what my damn blood type is. Or when I lost my virginity.”

“According to your birth records, it’s AB negative—just like your mother’s. Quite rare,” she observed mildly.

“My moth—God, that beats the lot. I suppose I’m meant to be grateful that I have that in common with her,” he added bitterly before glaring down at her. “You know you’ve got some nerve coming here, disrupting my life. As for Rowena, I don’t want her damn money and neither do I wish to acquire a herd of bloody relations.”

“But Dallas is your sister.”

“Good for her. I’ll bet she has as much desire to meet me as I do her. That is, if you’ve told her about me?” he asked shrewdly.

“I have. Dallas is expected to be present at the Miami meeting.”

“I thought I’d already made it clear that I’ve no intention of attending any meeting,” he said harshly. “Who does that woman think she is—was, rather, manipulating people like pawns on a chessboard? She must have been raving mad to want to leave her money to me. She had no idea who I was or what I’d turned into. And she obviously cared even less.”

“She clearly had some notion of who you were, since she compiled a file with ten years of data about you,” Meredith reminded him bluntly, thinking privately that had Rowena actually met this boor, she might very well have made other provisions.

Scowling, he handed her back the file. “This is like a bad B movie.” He sat down again. Then, mercurial as ever, his expression changed and he proceeded in a conversational manner, “By the way, just out of interest, why was I put up for adoption? Did my mother get knocked up by some worthless boyfriend?” The tone was blasé but Meredith caught the edge in his voice. Although he put on a good show, it was just possible that beneath his harsh front, Grant Gallagher was coping with deeper emotions he was determined to conceal.

“I don’t know, I’m afraid.”

“Well, neither do I, and, frankly, I don’t care. I had parents—for what they were worth. And now I’m my own man. So let’s forget the whole thing. You pack your papers up, go back to Savannah, and I’ll get on with my life. If you need a release, send me the documents and I’ll return them to you duly signed and sealed.”

“It’s not quite as simple as that,” she demurred, standing her ground.

“Why not? I don’t want her money. Give it to somebody who does, for Christ’s sake. I’ll bet there are dozens of relatives lining up for that kind of dough.”

Meredith hesitated. She sensed it was too soon to place the chips on the table.

“Mr. Gallagher, any decision you make will directly impact a number of people. Should you continue to not wish to accept the inheritance and instead choose to hand it over to another party, it will still require going through the legal formalities.”

“Well, you’re the lawyer, you find solutions. What ‘other party’ were you thinking of?” His eyes met hers head-on, his hypnotic gaze impossible to ignore.

Meredith took a deep breath and hoped she wasn’t jumping the gun. “If you don’t want it, your sister, Dallas, could use it,” she said at last.

“Great. Tell her she can have the lot.”

“Unfortunately, the will has certain stipulations.”

His eyes narrowed. “What stipulations?”

“I guess Rowena may have anticipated that you might refuse the inheritance, and established a provision that will take effect if you fail to undertake certain actions. For you to alter this provision, you have thirty days, as of now, to take the necessary legal steps. Included in those steps, as specified in the will, is your attendance at a meeting with Dallas in Miami. If you don’t come to the meeting and sign the proper paperwork, then the money goes to a foundation set up by Rowena, the, um—” she paused “—the Society for the Advancement and Protection of Poodles.”

He laughed now, a rich, deep laugh, and his eyes rested on her with the first glimpse of real feeling she’d recognized in him yet. “Very savvy,” he exclaimed. “You sure this is for real? You’re not making it up to try to persuade me to go to this famous meeting you seem so determined about?”

“Jesus! You have nerve,” Meredith burst out, finally losing her cool and jumping out of the chair. “If you’d bothered to read all the letters I sent, you’d know all about this already—”

“I rarely read my correspondence.”

“Well, that’s just too goddamn bad,” she flung, throwing down the file. “Maybe when you’ve come to your senses, you’ll read that through properly. I’m going back to the Strathcairn Arms.”

“What for?” he goaded, crossing his arms, arrogantly looking her up and down. “I have no intention of changing my mind. I plan on ignoring the whole thing.”

“Mr. Gallagher,” Meredith said through gritted teeth, “I am not to blame for the manner in which your grandmother chose to bequeath her fortune. I’m merely an emissary. I have no pleasure in being here, I assure you. But I have a fiduciary responsibility to act on behalf of the beneficiary, and a legal duty to act in managing and administering the estate,” she continued bitingly. “The law requires a high standard of ethical and moral conduct of fiduciaries. There are many specific duties. Some are imposed by statute, some by case law and some by the will itself. But none of them can be ignored.”

“Bravo. An impressive speech.” He clapped his hands and looked her over, amused. “I guess law school is good for something after all.”

Mastering the urge to knock his well-aligned teeth down his throat, Meredith took a deep breath. “In case I used too many big words,” she said sweetly, “it means that, like it or not, I now represent your best interests. I need you to cooperate. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very busy this morning. Goodbye, Ms. Hunter.” With a sharp nod he rose, turned on his heel and marched out of the room the same way he’d entered. The door snapped shut behind him, leaving Meredith openmouthed in the middle of the room.

“Well, that does it,” she muttered, angrily clamping down the lid of her briefcase and leaving the file where he’d abandoned it on the side table. She crossed the room, then marched into the great hall. The man’s obtuseness—not to mention his incredibly rude behavior—was intolerable. How could she be expected to deal with such a creature? There was no sign of Mrs. Duffy. In fact, the place seemed deserted. Reaching the huge front door, Meredith dragged it open and headed down the steps.

So much for wrapping this up in forty-eight hours, she reflected bitterly. She had to get back to the Strathcairn Arms and think out a new strategy, one that did not involve her personally, she vowed. As soon as the office opened in Savannah, she would phone Tracy and brainstorm with her. Surely she couldn’t be expected to stick around while Grant Gallagher decided whether he could be bothered to accept a hundred million bucks?

Or, like it or not, would she have to?

With a sinking heart, she drove down the hill. It was her case, her responsibility. There was no senior partner to run to with complaints any longer. She was the senior partner. It was her show.

Realizing she must cool down, Meredith made her way along the seafront. She’d come across difficult clients before, but none as handsome, arrogant, offensive and irritating as Grant Gallagher. He obviously had a very high opinion of himself.

“Aargh!” Meredith let out a low growl and, spying a convenient parking spot, decided to take a walk. Some fresh air would help clear her brain. She would not allow this man to throw her out of kilter, which was his obvious intention. She must remain cool, think of how she should deal with him. After all, there was Dallas to consider. Heck, if he really didn’t want the money, then she had to find a way to get him to follow the conditions of the will and still cede some to his sister.

Surely he had some shred of humanity under that tough facade? However deeply hidden.

The wind whipped her hair as she pulled on the beige cashmere coat she’d retrieved from the back seat. Whatever happened, she was not about to give up.

As Grant Gallagher would learn shortly, she had not yet begun to fight.

From behind the mullioned window, Grant watched her cross the gravel in her high heels and climb into her car. She had good legs, he reflected. Then, as the vehicle headed down the drive, he shrugged, shook his head and, crossing the study, headed back into the living room.

The file lay where she’d discarded it. He stared at it with mixed feelings. If Rowena Carstairs were still alive he would have had the immense satisfaction of shoving her damn money in her face. But now that was denied him. The clever old witch had seen to that, hadn’t she?

He remembered each word of her letter and ground his teeth. She’d guessed exactly how he’d react—and then had pulled the rug from under his feet by calling his bluff. Poodle society, indeed. She’d known the notion of so much money going to something so ridiculous would give him pause. A cunning smile hovered as he shoved his hands deep in his pockets and his creative mind went to work. He wasn’t going to be bested. Rowena would not win this battle of wills. Of that he was increasingly determined.

Still, like it or not, he was intrigued. At what point, he wondered suddenly, had the question of Rowena’s estate gone from being an annoying interruption to becoming a challenge? He glanced down at the file once more, a half smile hovering. So she thought she’d get to him with the poodle bit, did she? Well, she was wrong. He didn’t give a damn who her money went to. The poodles were welcome to it. Though Meredith Hunter was unlikely to give him any peace until he’d taken an ultimate decision in writing, based on legal argument.

Flinging himself down once more in the chair, he gave the material his full attention, still torn between a desire to consign it to the flames and a growing need to get the better of Rowena Carstairs, dead or alive. As he studied the specifics of the bequest—the various estates, the museum-quality artwork, the extraordinary stock-and-bond portfolio—he let out a low whistle. By any standard, this was a hell of a lot of money to leave to one person, let alone an unknown illegitimate grandson. What, he wondered, stretching his long legs toward the fire, had she meant to achieve by it?

In all these years—at least not since adolescence—he’d never allowed himself to wonder about the man and woman who had sired him. That they hadn’t wanted him was all he really knew. And so he’d simply expelled them from his mind, concentrating on himself and the present, discovering early in life that self-preservation was the safest route to avoiding pain. Now, for some reason he could not explain, this whole thing got his back up. What, he wondered, would his reaction have been if he didn’t own all he had today? Would he have accepted gladly? Been thankful to Rowena for remembering him?

He didn’t think so.

Still, it was a tidy sum that, well invested, could be put to good use. The rational thing, of course, would be to forget any personal issues and take the money, assuming it didn’t inconvenience him to do so. But the fact of the matter was that Rowena seemed to have set out to inconvenience him, to capture his curiosity and force him to reconnect with his birth family. Why? he asked himself again. Why bother? What could the woman have wanted from him? For all at once, he was certain the bequest was not an outright gift—Rowena definitely wanted something in return. But at this point he just couldn’t figure out what.

Rising, he returned to the cluttered study and sat down at his desk, determined to forget. Work was an infallible antidote.

But after several minutes spent trying to concentrate on the zoning restrictions on undeveloped parkland, he gave up, threw his hands in the air and groaned.

“Damn the lot of them,” he growled. Rowena, Meredith Hunter, this unknown half sister—they’d all slipped through his well-honed defenses.

Leaving the study, he headed into the hall and placed the file on top of his jacket on the chair where he’d left it lying earlier in the day. He’d never had any brothers or sisters. Hadn’t wanted any. Could do without any now, thank you very much.

And that’s exactly what he planned on telling the lovely Ms. Meredith Hunter, he decided as he headed upstairs to change.