Читать книгу The Billionaire Bid - Leigh Michaels, Leigh Michaels - Страница 6

WHEN Gina reached the restaurant, she was relieved to see that she was a few minutes early. Not only would it be bad manners to keep a guest waiting, but in this case it would be purely stupid. She had one shot at this presentation. If she couldn’t pull it off today, the plan wouldn’t fly at all. So she’d take advantage of the extra few minutes to go over her mental notes once more.

The maître d’ looked her over doubtfully. “Would you like to wait in the bar, Ms. Haskell? Or at your table?”

“The table, I believe. My companion will be arriving within a few minutes. You do know Mrs. Garrett, don’t you? Anne Garrett?”

The man’s expression didn’t so much as flicker, but his voice was cool. “Certainly I know the publisher of the local newspaper, Ms. Haskell.” He didn’t show her to the table; he snapped his fingers and a subordinate arrived to escort her instead.

Dumb question, Gina thought philosophically. If she’d tried, she couldn’t have made it clearer that she was moving outside her normal circles. Next time, why don’t you just ask him if the fish is fresh? He couldn’t be any more insulted by that.

If there ever was a next time, of course. There weren’t many occasions for Gina to go to a really first-class restaurant.

In fact, though she’d lived in Lakemont much of her life, Gina had never been inside The Maple Tree before. As the waiter seated her, she took a quick—and, she hoped, unobtrusive—glance at her surroundings. The dining room was large, but because the tables were set far apart there weren’t as many of them as she would have expected. Though she could hear the murmur of voices from the ones nearest to hers, she couldn’t have eavesdropped even if she’d tried. Not only the distance between tables but the soft tinkle of ragtime music in the background prevented it.

The decorating scheme seemed to have been adopted from the restaurant’s name; as if to make the point, on one wall was a grouping of arty photographs of trees and individual leaves. The walls and carpet were the soft green of new leaves, while the table linens were a splash of autumn colors—red napkins against pale gold tablecloths. Unusual though it was, Gina thought the effect was stunning.

At the far end of the room sat a glossy grand piano next to a small dance floor, and along one side of the dining room was a bar. Its wood surface—no doubt it was maple to fit the theme, Gina thought—was so highly polished that it gleamed nearly as brightly as the brass that accented it.

For an upscale restaurant at lunchtime, she thought, the bar seemed strangely quiet. In fact, there was only one man sitting there, occupying the tall stool at the end nearest to Gina’s table. He thumped his index finger against his glass, and the bartender moved toward him and picked up the glass. The man turned toward the room and with no warning whatsoever looked directly into Gina’s eyes.

She felt herself turning pink. It was one of the hazards of being a redhead—though in this case it was perfectly ridiculous to feel the slightest embarrassment. It wasn’t as if she’d been watching him—it was pure coincidence that she had happened to be facing his direction when he’d turned.

No matter what he might think, he hadn’t caught her doing anything rude—which was more than she could say for him at the moment. A gentleman would have made momentary eye contact and then looked away. But this man…

He tipped his head back a fraction of an inch. His eyes narrowed. He settled an elbow on the bar as if to brace himself while he looked her over to his satisfaction.

Gina felt like walking over to him and making it absolutely clear that she hadn’t been staring at him—or indeed at anything. But to do that would only call more attention to an episode which had already gotten far bigger than it had any reason to. She’d merely been looking around the room, appreciating the ambience and the decor. It certainly wasn’t her fault he’d happened to be in the way, blocking her view.

She opened the menu the waiter had left. But the words inside looked strangely blurry, as if once she’d focused her gaze on the man at the bar she couldn’t get her eyes to adjust to a different distance. She unfolded her napkin and fussed with laying it out just right on her lap. She reminded herself that these last few minutes of quiet would be better used to review the presentation she would be making over lunch.

None of it worked. Her senses were still on high alert, because he was still watching her. Even without looking up, she knew it.

Fine, Gina told herself irritably. Two can play that game. What’s good for the goose…

She pushed the menu aside. This time she didn’t bother with a survey of the room; he’d only interpret that as coyness anyway. She put both elbows on the edge of the table, rested her chin on her fingertips, and stared back at him.

Actually, she had to admit, he wasn’t a bad addition to either the ambience or the decor. He was tall; she could tell that much from the way he was half sitting on the high stool with one foot hooked easily onto the rung and the other still planted on the floor. And he was good-looking in a hard-edged fashion, with blue-black hair, a strong jaw, and a proud nose. Of course, she’d never been much interested in the dark, predatory type.

What, she wondered, had made him bore in on her? Surely he didn’t stare at every woman who glanced at him as Gina had done—or even every woman who took a long hard second look. For one thing, if he did he’d have no time left to do anything else, because there must be plenty of women who—unlike Gina—would find that package attractive enough to inspect at length.

Without taking his gaze off Gina, the man at the bar stretched out a hand unerringly for his replenished glass and held it up, as if offering a toast to her.

Well, Haskell, that didn’t exactly turn out the way you planned. Now what?

The man shifted on the bar stool as if he was about to rise. Gina tensed. If he comes over here…

Beside her, the maître d’ cleared his throat loudly.

Startled, Gina jumped up. Her chair rocked, coming dangerously close to upsetting. Her napkin trailed off her lap onto the floor, and the edge of her suit jacket snagged on the corner of the menu and flipped it off the table. Gina felt color flood her face. The man at the bar, she thought, must be enjoying this show immensely. Fortunately, because of the way the table was angled, he couldn’t see her face now. Even better, she couldn’t see him anymore.

The maître d’, looking as if he were suffering from a sudden cramp, waved a busboy over to retrieve the menu and bring a fresh napkin while he pulled out a chair for her guest. “Mrs. Garrett,” he said, enunciating very carefully.

As if he felt it necessary to introduce us, Gina thought irritably.

Anne Garrett stretched a hand across the table. “Hello, Gina. It’s nice to see you again.” She glanced up at the maître d’ and added dryly, “Thank you, Bruce. I believe I can handle it from here.”

The maître d’ looked skeptical, but he retreated.

“Sorry,” Gina said, feeling breathless. “I’m not usually quite so clumsy.” I will not look at the bar, she told herself. Seeing amusement in those deep-set eyes would not help matters.

I wonder what color his eyes are, anyway.

“Bruce’s evil stare would make Saint Peter feel guilty,” Anne murmured. “I’ve always wondered how many of the waiters he hires last a full week without having a nervous breakdown.” She opened her menu. “I’m sorry to say I only have an hour before I have to be back at the newspaper for one of those ghastly endless meetings. So let’s order first, if you don’t mind, and then you can tell me what’s going on.”

Gina’s throat tightened as time seemed to compress around her. An hour wasn’t nearly long enough…Though, on the other hand, if she couldn’t convince Anne Garrett of the value of her plan in an hour, then she probably couldn’t do it in a week either. And if she couldn’t convince Anne Garrett…

What a cheerful thought that is.

Gina ordered a salad almost at random, sipped her iced tea, and began. “First I want to thank you for meeting with me. I appreciate being able to get your advice, since where Lakemont is concerned, you’re an expert.”

Anne paused with the cream pitcher suspended above her coffee cup. “I wouldn’t go quite that far. I’m a native, but so are you—aren’t you?”

“Not quite. And I don’t have nearly the contacts you do.”

Anne set the cream down and picked up her spoon. “So tell me what it is you want from my contacts.”

Gina wanted to choke herself. That hadn’t been very neatly done at all. “It’s the museum,” she said, and sighed. “Oh, that sounded foolish, didn’t it? Of course it’s the museum. You were gracious enough to show an interest in it when you visited a couple of weeks ago.”

“Of course I’m interested. It’s a nice little museum, full of history.”

“And that’s the point.” Gina ran a hand over the nape of her neck. It felt just a little itchy; the man at the bar must still be watching her. “Lakemont and Kerrigan County deserve more than just a nice little museum, one that’s so short of space it’s crammed full with no place to turn around. Just last week we were offered the stained-glass windows from St. Francis Church. It’s probably going to be torn down before long, you know. But we don’t have a shed big enough to store the windows in, much less a place to display them.”

The waiter returned with their salads. When he was finished arranging the table, Anne drizzled dressing over the crabmeat which topped her salad and said, “So you’re asking for a donation for…what? To remodel a room for the windows?”

“Not exactly.” Gina took a deep breath and plunged. “That would be a start, but I want to reconstruct the entire museum.”

Anne Garrett’s eyebrows climbed. “Put up a new building, you mean?”

“No—oh, no.” The thought was like a knife to Gina’s heart. “A new building for a museum of history? It would be anachronous.”

“The house you’re in now must be a hundred and fifty years old.”

Gina nodded. “And the museum has been there from its beginning. You see, there wouldn’t be a museum at all if it hadn’t been for Essie Kerrigan. She not only started the Kerrigan County Historical Society, but she kept it going almost single-handed for years. Her possessions formed the nucleus of the collection, her money filled the gaps whenever there was a shortfall in the budget, and her house has provided a roof to shelter it. She devoted her entire life to creating and nurturing it.”

“But Essie’s gone now, and you’re the director. So you can do whatever you think best.”

Gina smiled wryly. “I still wouldn’t consider a modern building. For one thing, Essie would haunt it—and if she were to be surrounded by wallboard and cheap pine moldings, she would not be a happy ghost. Besides, there’s the problem of where to put a new building. A museum of history needs to be in the historical area, not the suburbs—and that means near downtown.”

“Near the lakefront, where land is scarce and expensive.”

“Exactly.”

“So if it’s not a new building you want, what do you have in mind? My kids and I had a very pleasant afternoon at the museum, you know—so I’m having trouble seeing what could possibly need to be changed.”

“A pleasant afternoon.” Gina put down her fork and leaned forward. “I’m glad you enjoyed your visit, but would you come back again? No, don’t answer right away—that’s a serious question. In a couple of hours you saw everything we have room to display. Unless we can create more space, room for changing exhibits, there’s no reason for anyone to visit more than once. And unless we have repeat traffic—regular visitors—then the museum can’t possibly support itself. So let me ask again. Would you come back for another visit?”

Anne sighed. “Probably not anytime soon.”

“That’s precisely my point. The museum is now at the stage where it needs to grow, or else it’s going to die.” Gina stabbed a tomato chunk.

“What sort of growth are you talking about?” Anne Garrett sounded doubtful.

Gina felt herself wavering. Maybe it would be wise to pull back a bit? Sometimes people who asked for the moon ended by getting nothing at all.

No, she thought. It was true, of course, that if she aimed too high, she might miss altogether. But if she aimed too low, she’d always wonder if she could have done better. And it would be the museum that would suffer. Essie Kerrigan’s precious museum. Gina couldn’t let that happen.

“I want to renovate the entire building,” she said firmly. “It’s been years since there has been any more than make-do maintenance—for instance, we’ve patched the roof, but it really needs to be replaced. Then I want to restructure the interior to provide real galleries instead of cramped spaces that will hardly hold a display cabinet.”

“I can’t imagine Essie would like seeing you do that to her house.”

“She wouldn’t be thrilled,” Gina admitted. “But she understood the need. She said herself that it was a shame we couldn’t have more wide-open space, and better lighting. And security, of course—you have no idea how difficult it is now to keep an eye on every visitor.”

Anne smiled wryly. “I thought it was lovely to have a private tour guide showing us around. Eleanor—was that her name? I never considered that she was really a guard, making sure we didn’t walk off with anything.”

Gina winced at her own lack of tact. “We don’t like to think of our volunteers as guards. But security is a problem, because we never have enough people on hand. I’d also like to build a couple of new wings for additional gallery space.”

“Where?” Anne sounded incredulous. “You don’t have room to build on wings.”

“Well, we don’t need a backyard. Or a driveway, for that matter.” Gina moved a slice of black olive to the side of her salad. “I want to make it clear, by the way, that I’m not asking you for the money.”

“That’s a relief,” Anne murmured.

“But it’s going to take some major fund-raising, and I hoped you might have some ideas.”

“And you’d like the support of the newspaper when you start your campaign, I suppose.”

Gina admitted, “That, too.” If the Chronicle were to endorse the idea of a museum expansion, the publicity would make raising the money much easier.

Anne stirred her lettuce with an abstracted air. “And I thought perhaps you’d asked me to lunch merely to invite me to join the board,” she mused.

Gina sat still, almost afraid to breathe. Afraid to interrupt.

As the silence drew out, her neck started to feel itchy again. The sensation of being watched had never quite gone away, though she’d tried her best to suppress the feeling so she could concentrate on the museum. She’d caught herself several times running a hand over the nape of her neck, as if to brush away an insect—or a bothersome stare.

She couldn’t stand it anymore. She had to look. If he was still sitting there staring at her…

But the stool at the end of the bar was empty. He was gone. Her feeling of being watched must have been merely a shadow, an impression which had lingered on because of the intensity of his gaze.

How foolish, she told herself, to feel just a little let down. She’d wanted him to stop looking and go away. Hadn’t she?

She gave up on her unfinished salad—the lettuce seemed to have kept growing even after it was arranged on her plate—and glanced around the room while she waited for Anne to gather her thoughts. Her gaze came to rest on a pair of men at a nearby table.

He hadn’t left after all. He’d only moved.

And of course, the instant she spotted him, he turned his head and looked directly at her, as if her gaze had acted like a magnet.

She couldn’t stand it an instant longer. Gina said abruptly, “The man at the third table over. In front of the fireplace. Who is he?”

Anne looked puzzled. “There are two men at that table,” she pointed out. “Which one are you asking about?”

“The one who looks like an eagle.”

“Looks like a what?”

“You know,” Gina said impatiently. “Proud and stern and looking for prey.”

Anne’s eyebrows lifted. “Well, that’s not a bad description. Especially the part about prey. I thought you’d know him, since he’s some kind of cousin or nephew of Essie’s. His name’s Dez Kerrigan.”

Gina knew the name, of course. Essie had been just as devoted to genealogy as to every other sort of history, and so Gina had heard a lot about the various branches of the Kerrigans. But she’d never met him; he obviously hadn’t been as interested in the family as Essie had been, or he’d have come ’round once in a while to visit his aunt or cousin or whatever Essie was to him.

And there was something else she should remember about him—something Essie had said. The memory nagged at the back of Gina’s brain, but it wouldn’t come out in the open. She clearly remembered Essie making the comment, because it had verged on sounding catty, and that wasn’t like Essie. But she couldn’t remember for the life of her what Essie had said.

“Now that’s interesting,” Anne murmured. “Why do you want to know?”

Sanity returned just in time. You’re an idiot, Gina thought, to call attention to yourself like that. Making a journalist wonder why you’re fascinated by a particular man…

“Just wondering.” Gina tried to keep her voice casual. “And what’s so interesting? That Essie’s nephew is having lunch here?”

“No. Who he’s having lunch with.” Anne put her napkin down. “I’m sorry, Gina. I must get back to the office.”

Gina put out a hand. “I understand that you may not want to commit yourself in any way just now. But—”

“But you want to hear my instant opinion anyway. All right. For what it’s worth, I believe you’re thinking on much too small a scale.”

“Too small?” Gina asked blankly.

Anne nodded. She pulled out a business card and scrawled something on the back of it. “By the way, I’m having a cocktail party Sunday night. You can meet some of your potential donors on neutral territory and size them up before you officially start asking for money. Here’s the address. And now I really need to run—but be sure you read the newspaper in the morning.”

Before Gina could ask what tomorrow’s Lakemont Chronicle could possibly have to do with anything, she was gone.

Gina was habitually an early riser, a habit ingrained from her upbringing. But on the following morning she was awake well before dawn, waiting to hear the distinctive off-key whine of the newspaper carrier’s car engine idling down the street while he tossed bundles onto front porches.

She’d never felt anything but safe here, even though the neighborhood, once an exclusive enclave, was now hemmed in on all sides by commercial and industrial development. She’d lived in a lot of places that were worse. Still, she couldn’t blame a parent for not allowing a kid on a bike to deliver the morning newspaper.

Which brought her squarely back to the question of what was supposed to be so special about this morning’s newspaper. Or was that simply Anne Garrett’s way of saying goodbye—taking every opportunity to promote the newspaper she published? Surely not.

Gina made herself a cup of instant coffee and sat down by the window in her living room, which overlooked the front door of the brown-brick row house. Once the building had housed a single family, along with their servants, but years ago it had been split into rental units. Gina’s apartment had originally been the family’s bedrooms.

She liked being up high, even though hauling everything upstairs got to be a pain after a while. And she liked the feeling of space that the tall ceilings of an old house offered. Besides, her apartment was close to work; the Kerrigan County Historical Museum was only three blocks down the street and around a corner, so Gina didn’t need to keep a car. A good thing, too, since there was no place for her to park it except in the museum’s driveway—a driveway that, with any luck, would soon disappear under a new gallery.

You’re thinking on much too small a scale, Anne Garrett had told her. Well, that was easy for Anne to say, with the resources of the Chronicle behind her.

It was true, Gina admitted, that the long, narrow strip of concrete next to Essie Kerrigan’s house was not large enough for the spacious, airy galleries she’d like to have. But if they pushed out the back of the house as well, essentially roofing in the entire garden…

There still wouldn’t be room for things like the windows from St. Francis Church, regrettable though the loss would be. But Gina had to work with the raw material she’d been given, as sensitively as it was possible to do.

Of course, they’d leave the front facade just as it had been constructed by Essie’s grandfather Desmond Kerrigan—at least as far as they could. It would be criminal to destroy that wide, spacious open porch and corner tower. So long as the addition on the driveway side was stepped back so it didn’t overwhelm the front of the building, it would still look all right.

Desmond Kerrigan hadn’t been the first of his name to come to Lakemont, and he wasn’t the Kerrigan that the county had been named for. But he had been the first of the family to consistently turn small investments into large ones, so when he’d built his home in what was then the most exclusive section of Lakemont, he hadn’t pinched pennies. He’d built solid and strong—but even so, a century and a half had taken a toll on the house as well as on the neighborhood. The red brick had long ago been darkened by city smoke and fumes. Hailstorms through the years had left behind cracked and broken roof slates.

In the last years of her life, Essie Kerrigan had not had energy to take care of those things, and so delayed building maintenance was one of the jobs that had fallen to Gina when she’d assumed Essie’s title as head of the museum.

And as long as they would have to raise money for restoration, why not go the whole way and expand at the same time?

Essie had understood the need to expand the museum, though she had sighed over the idea of adding modern wings to her beloved old house. Gina wondered what Dez Kerrigan would think of the plan.

Not that he would have any say in what the museum board did, of course. The house had been Essie’s, and the will she had written couldn’t have made her intentions any clearer. Still, Gina supposed that the other branches of the family might have feelings about the matter. And one who had apparently been named after the distant ancestor who had built the house in the first place might have strong sentiments indeed.

Gina wondered if Dez Kerrigan had known who she was yesterday. Was that why he’d been staring—looking at her not as a woman, but as the person who had—in a manner of speaking—ended up in possession of Desmond Kerrigan’s house?

It couldn’t be any more than that, she was certain. If he’d known about her plans for expansion, he might well object—even though he had no real right to an opinion. But the fact was he couldn’t possibly know about that. The plans were still so tentative that the only people she’d discussed them with were the members of the museum’s board and Anne Garrett. They hadn’t even hired an architect yet.

On the other hand, Gina thought, his reaction yesterday probably had nothing at all to do with the museum. Her first assessment of Dez Kerrigan had probably been the correct one—the man was simply rude. He thought he’d caught her staring at him, and he’d taken it as license to stare back.

What was it about the man that she ought to remember, but couldn’t? She was certain Essie had said something about him. Not that it was important—but if she had time today when she got to work, she’d dig out Essie’s family history files. Essie had noted down every jot of information she’d dug out, every source and reference, even her every suspicion. Somewhere in there should be the clue to Dez Kerrigan.

Gina heard three distinct thumps on the front porch—her newspaper, along with those of her upstairs and downstairs neighbors. As quietly as she could, watching out for the creaky stair, Gina went down to retrieve her copy. She spread it carefully on the old trunk which doubled as a coffee table, flipped through the pages once to see if anything leaped out at her, and then refilled her coffee cup and settled down to look at each individual story.

Million-dollar verdict in civil suit—but it was unlikely the winner was the type to donate money to a historical museum. City councilman challenges mayor—nothing unusual about that. Tyler-Royale expected to close downtown store—five hundred jobs at stake—formal announcement expected today…That kind of blow to the community’s economy wouldn’t make raising money for a museum expansion any easier.

Gina turned the page, then turned it back and sat staring at the picture of the Tyler-Royale department store building. There were two pictures, in fact—one of a group of clerks beside an old-fashioned cash register, taken when the store was brand new nearly a century before, and a shot from just yesterday of shoppers at the front entrance.

You’re thinking too small, Anne Garrett had said. And then Be sure you read the newspaper.

Had she…could she have been…thinking about the Tyler-Royale building as a home for the historical museum? It seemed the only explanation of that cryptic comment. But why hadn’t she just come straight out and said it?

Because if the announcement wasn’t going to be made until today, not just everybody had known about the store closing—and the last thing the publisher of the Chronicle would do would be to take a chance of the local television station beating her newspaper to the story.

Gina closed her eyes and tried to picture the department store. It had been a while since she’d shopped there, but if her memory was accurate, the space could hardly be better suited to house a museum. Areas which had been designed for the display of merchandise would be just as good for showing off exhibits, and a soaring atrium in the center of the building brought natural but indirect light to the interior of every floor. The store was big enough to house not only every exhibit the museum currently displayed but every item currently in storage as well. The stained-glass windows from St. Francis Church would be no problem; they could have a gallery to themselves.

In addition, the building sat squarely in the middle of the downtown area—an even better location for a museum than Essie Kerrigan’s house was. There was even a parking ramp right next door.

But best of all, in Gina’s opinion, was the fact that nobody in their right minds would pay good money for that building. If Tyler-Royale couldn’t run a profitable store in the center of downtown Lakemont, then it was dead certain nobody else could. No, Tyler-Royale couldn’t sell it—but they could donate it to a good cause and save themselves a wad in taxes.

And why shouldn’t that good cause be the Kerrigan County Historical Society?

The newspaper said that the CEO of Tyler-Royale had come up from Chicago to make the announcement at a press conference scheduled for ten o’clock that morning. Since she didn’t know how long Ross Clayton would be in town, Gina figured that would be her best opportunity to talk to him. All she needed, after all, was a few minutes of his time.

Not that she expected the man to make a spur-of-the-moment decision. This was hardly like making a contribution to the United Way; he couldn’t donate company property without the approval of his board of directors. And even if he was in the mood to give away a building at the drop of a hat, Gina couldn’t exactly take it. She didn’t even want to think about the fuss it would create if she were to call a meeting of the museum’s board of directors and announce that—without permission or consultation with any of them—she’d gone and acquired a new building.

But a few minutes with the CEO would be enough to set the process in motion. To give the man something to think about. And to give her a hint about whether he might act on the suggestion.

Her path toward downtown took her past Essie Kerrigan’s house. Gina paused on the sidewalk in front of the museum and looked up at the three-story red brick Victorian. The building looked almost abandoned, its facade oddly blank because most of the windows had been covered from the inside to provide more room for displays.

Gina had spent the best hours of her life inside that house. As a teenager, she had visited Essie Kerrigan and listened to the old woman’s tales of early life in Kerrigan County. As a college student, she’d spent weeks in the museum library doing research. As a new graduate, her first job had been as Essie’s assistant—and then, eventually, her successor.

In a way, she felt like a traitor—to the house and to Essie—even to consider moving the museum away from its first and only home. The building was a part of the museum; it always had been.

But in her heart, she knew Anne Garrett had been right. She had been thinking too small. She simply hadn’t wanted to let herself look too closely at the whole problem, because she had thought there was no viable alternative.

Putting a roof over the garden and the driveway would be a temporary solution for the cramped conditions, but if the plan was successful and the museum grew, in a few years they would find themselves stuck once more in exactly the same dilemma. And then they’d have nowhere to go, because the building was already landlocked, hemmed in by houses and commercial buildings.

If the museum was ever going to move, now was the time. Before they had invested hundreds of thousands of dollars in new construction. Before they tore up Essie Kerrigan’s house. The house was salvageable now—a restorer would have no trouble reversing the few changes which had been made to accommodate the museum. But as soon as the work started, knocking out walls and adding a couple of wings, the house would be even more of a white elephant than the Tyler-Royale store was.

“It’s all right,” she whispered, as if the house were listening. “It’ll be better this way. You won’t be carved up after all, because a family will buy you and make you truly beautiful again.”

Why the CEO had chosen to hold his press conference at the city’s premiere hotel instead of in the store was beyond Gina’s understanding, until she walked into the main ballroom and saw the final preparations under way. Cables and power cords snaked underfoot; lights and cameras formed a semicircle around the lectern set on a low stage at one side of the room, and people were milling everywhere. No wonder he’d wanted to keep this circus out of the store. Even though it would be closing soon, there was no sense in driving the last customers away with all the noise and confusion.

It was not exactly the place for a confidential chat, of course. But she didn’t have much choice about the place or the time, so she edged into the crowd, watching intently.

Almost beside Gina, a reporter from one of the Lakemont television stations was tapping her foot as she waited for her cameraman to finish setting up. “Will you hurry up? He’ll be coming in the door to the left of the podium—make sure you get that shot. And don’t forget to check the microphone feed.”

Gina, hoping the woman knew what she was talking about, edged toward the left side of the podium. She was standing next to the door when it opened, and she took a deep breath and stepped forward, business card in hand, to confront the man who came out onto the little stage. “Sir, I realize this is neither the time nor the place,” she said, “but I’m with the Kerrigan County Historical Society, and when you have a minute I’d like to talk to you about your building. I think it would make a wonderful museum.”

The man looked at her business card and shook his head. “If you mean the Tyler-Royale store, you’ve got the wrong man, I’m afraid.”

“But you—aren’t you Ross Clayton? Your picture was in the Chronicle this morning.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But I don’t exactly own the building anymore.”

Gina felt her jaw go slack with shock. “You’ve sold it? Already?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Gina looked more closely at him and felt a trickle of apprehension run through her as she recognized him. The photo of him in this morning’s paper hadn’t been a particularly good one, and she only now made the connection. This was the man who’d been having lunch with Dez Kerrigan yesterday at The Maple Tree.

At that instant a tape recorder seemed to switch on inside her brain, and Gina heard in her memory what Essie had said about Dez Kerrigan.

He has no sense of history, Essie had said with a dismissive wave of her hand. In fact, the older the building is, the better he likes knocking it down so he can replace it with some glass and steel monster.

Dez Kerrigan was a property developer—that was what Gina should have remembered as soon as she heard his name.

A familiar and uncomfortable prickle ran up the side of her neck, and she turned her head to see exactly what she was expecting to see. Dez Kerrigan had followed Tyler-Royale’s CEO onto the little stage.

“I own the building,” Dez said. “Or, to be perfectly precise, what I own is the option to buy it. But I’m always ready to listen to an offer. Your place or mine?”