Читать книгу A Precious Inheritance - Paula Roe - Страница 13
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“Look, you’ve obviously been checking up on me, Mr. Harrington,” she began, arms crossed and eyes hard. “So you should know I was a legitimate bidder in that auction.”
“It’s Chase.”
Chase studied her as she stared at him expectantly, her legs planted wide and arms crossed in a classic defensive stance.
Chase tipped his head. “You’re swaying.”
Her cheeks flushed and she abruptly stilled. “Force of habit. So…you were telling me why you were here.”
Good question he’d yet to fully answer himself. Did rampant curiosity count or would that make him really sound like a stalker? “What you said at Waverly’s—the bit about you being Dunbar’s girlfriend. Was it true?”
She blinked, shock leaking out before she swiftly wiped her expression clean. “No. And anyway, what possible interest is my life to someone like—” she put her hand out, palm up, and swept him from head to toe “—you?”
That got his back up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What?”
“That little…” He mimicked her gesture with a lot less finesse.
She pulled her back straight, chin tipping up. “I mean, you are obviously a rich man. Someone with connections and power and influence…”—did she just curl her lip?—“And I, on the other hand, am not.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t sell yourself short, Miss Partridge.”
She frowned and there was that look again, that irritating-as-all-hell flash of arrogance. It was an expression so effortlessly executed he wondered if she’d spent hours practicing in the mirror.
Chase gritted his teeth. Yeah, this was such a great idea.
As they silently glared at each other, a baby’s muffled cry drifted down the stairs, cutting through the charged air. Vanessa’s gaze snapped away, then she put a foot on the first step. “If that’s all you came to say…?”
“There’s more.”
Irritation flared in those wide green eyes, but she reined it in with practiced ease.
“Go,” he said, nodding up the stairs. “I’ll wait.”
With a frown and a grudging “fine,” she turned away.
Chase’s gaze followed her jeans-clad bottom as it swayed upward, one mesmerizing step at a time. In fact, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Bare feet… Nicely filled pair of denims…
Wait, what?
He shook his head then dug fingernails into his clenched palm for good measure. Blood pounded in his ears, drowning out her rapid steps.
He’d managed to gain control when she returned fifteen minutes later, her hands brushing back a few stray hairs as she slowly descended.
“You have a baby,” he stated, feigning ignorance.
She crossed her arms. “Two girls. Twins. But considering you know where I live, I’m pretty sure you already know that.” When he slowly nodded, she narrowed her eyes. “Why the interest in me?”
“Why did you want Dunbar’s manuscript?”
“I told you why.” She cocked her hip, hands going to her waist as she effected a deliberately bored expression. “I hate waiting.”
Chase sighed. She was trying too hard and his patience was dwindling. But instead of plowing through her facade, he moved on. “So you’re a D. B. Dunbar fan.”
“Of his books, yes.”
He swiftly picked up on that correction with no outward indication. What did she think he’d meant?
Then she added, “So you must be quite a fan too.”
“Me? No.”
She frowned. “You’ve never read any of his books?” At his head shake, she said incredulously, “Charlie Jack? Calm Before the Storm? Justice Prevailed?”
“No.”
“You should. He is…was…” She paused, searching for the rights words before settling on, “Incredibly, amazingly talented. The world he painted just takes you to another place.” She smiled the smile of a true believer. “There are a finite number of words in the English language, yet when D. B. Dunbar arranged them he did it in such a way every page just sang. He was—” she hesitated a brief second, a flash of something behind her eyes “—a great writer.”
He’d bet a thousand bucks that wasn’t what she was originally going to say.
She brushed her hair back again, the other hand going to her back pocket. “So why did you buy the manuscript if you’re not a fan?”
“It’s a collector’s item,” he said neutrally. “A good investment that will only increase in value with the author dead.”
A flinch. Just a small one, barely noticeable. But he still caught it.
A thread of disquiet surged.
In New York she’d been as slick and icy as a January sidewalk. But here, on her own turf, not so Perfect. That is, if you didn’t count that haughty display earlier.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, recrossing her arms. “Why the interest in me?”
“Because I wanted to make sure you were on the level. And if you were, I owed you an apology.”
Her brow twisted into confusion. “A phone call would’ve sufficed.”
“Ah, but you could’ve hung up on me.”
“Most probably. So, Mr. Harrington—” she crossed her arms “—what did you find out about me?”
Oh, boy. Amazingly, he found himself tongue-tied, trapped beneath that challenging green gaze like a fifteen-year-old kid caught spying on the girls’ bathroom. He took a steadying breath, unable to shake the remnants of his past. “Your sister and Ann did go to college, your parents are hugely successful lawyers. You started out studying law but instead changed your major. But…”
“But what?” She lifted her brow questioningly. “You’ve come all this way, you might as well ask. Whether I’ll answer, though, is another thing.”
“You’re not exactly flush with cash, are you?”
“How could I afford to bid, you mean?” Her face tightened, shoulders straightening. “I have an inheritance from my maternal grandmother.”
Oh, this just gets better. Of course Vanessa Partridge has an inheritance. “But not enough to outbid me.”
Her mouth thinned. “No.”
Chase’s outward expression revealed nothing of the confusion warring inside. Her response didn’t feel rehearsed, and he’d seen some standout performances in his time. So, if he scratched shill bidder, what was left? She was more than just a rabid fan.
But how to approach it so she wouldn’t end up kicking him out?
Fresh out of inspiration, he glanced up at her brightly painted blue door. “So, what are your girls’ names?”
She hesitated then said slowly, “Erin and Heather.”
Chase’s eyebrows shot up. Score. “The characters in Dunbar’s manuscript.”
“What?”
She grabbed the stair railing, her eyes rounding.
He put out a steadying hand, but she waved it away with an “are you kidding me?” look. Suitably chastened, he watched her shake her head, her gaze on the floor.
“I skimmed through the manuscript,” he continued slowly. Her thick auburn ponytail slid over her shoulder as her chin dipped and she placed one hand on her hip. “About halfway in he introduces two characters called Megan and Tori. But in his notes, he renames them.”
Her head snapped up. “Did the notes explain why?”
“No.”
“So the published version will be—”
“Heather and Erin. Your daughters.” He paused, then added calmly, “And Dunbar’s.”
Silence fell, stretching interminably, punctuated only by the thick exhale of her breath. Shock? Anger? A prelude to tears? Whatever was going through her head, he knew one thing with unerring certainty: Vanessa Partridge wasn’t the type to cry in public. Her straightened shoulders and lifted chin just seconds later proved that thought.
“You’d better come up.”
His brow lifted. “You sure?”
With a swift nod, she turned and went back up the stairs.
Refusing to focus on her rear end, Chase finally reached the top and followed her inside. He took in the short horizontal hallway and a glimpse of a bedroom to the right before she pointed in the opposite direction and said, “Take a seat.”
He did as she asked and walked into her living room.
Stacks of books, their spines creased and worn, lined the far wall of the cozy room, spreading out under the large window to his left, before a small television and DVD player filled the remaining gap. A high shelf housed a multitude of keepsakes—a candle holder, an oddly-shaped clay sculpture and a dozen tiny origami figures. Magazines cluttered the coffee table, along with a stack of colored paper and a jar of chunky crayons. A playpen sat center, bracketed by a corner lounge chair.
So, was this the real Vanessa Partridge?
He gave her apartment another once-over. Why would someone with silver-spoon parents be living in a rental and working as an underpaid preschool teacher?
* * *
Vanessa closed the door behind them, her mind a whirling mass of chaos and confusion. Why? Why had Dylan…?
That phone call.
“I have to talk to you.” That was it. One scratchy, tinny message he’d left on her voice mail. She’d assumed he’d meant “right away” and gone from hopefully optimistic to raging fury after three hours and five messages and he still hadn’t shown up. Then she’d turned on the TV and discovered Dylan was not only half a world away, but he’d died in a plane crash.
She slowly walked into her living room. Never had she felt the sting of bewilderment so keenly than at this exact moment. Yes, she’d been dumb enough to get involved with a guy incapable of loving her the way she should be loved, and that awful, gut-gouging hope when she’d played his last message over and over had been her own personal torture device for days.
But this? This was off the charts.
She’d had no one to confide in after the accident, which had magnified her isolation a thousandfold. When the news had run the D.B. Dunbar stories 24/7 for weeks, interviewing his neighbors, his editor, his assistant, all she could do was stare at the screen with a mix of frustration and anger. Starting her new life and new job had been hard, but they’d been minor traumas compared to the ever-constant ripples that being D. B. Dunbar’s secret girlfriend had wrought.
And Chase Harrington was the only other person alive who knew the truth.
Well, more than most. She shot him a panicky glance.
“So what—” she began.
A soft muffle interrupted them and their eyes met. Vanessa turned and started down the hall until Chase’s hand on her wrist pulled her up short.
“Wait.” She stared at him, then at his warm fingers encircling her wrist. He let her go. “Just talk to her from outside the door. Don’t go in there and don’t turn on any lights.”
She frowned. “Why…”
The cries grew louder and Chase added, “Can you just try it?”
Vanessa glared at him then silently went down the hall to the door slightly ajar. “It’s okay, Heather,” she began softly.
“Higher. More singsongy.”
Of all the— She gritted her teeth and did as he instructed. “Mommy’s heeeere. Just go back to sleep, sweetie.”
She paused, letting Heather mutter again before adding gently, “Time for sleepy, sweetie. Baaaaaack tooooo sleeeeeep.”
She held her breath, waiting. After a second or two of baby mumbles, silence fell.
No. Way. She slowly turned to Chase, staring at him incredulously. “How did you know that?”
He shrugged. “I spent a lot of time with kids when I was younger. It seemed to work for them.”
When a sudden wail pierced the air, Chase added wryly, “But obviously not for Heather.”
Vanessa shot Chase a look then went swiftly into the girls’ room. The soft glow of the night-light spread across the walls and ceiling, highlighting Heather in the cot, flat on her back with eyes screwed up, ready to throw herself into her usual crying jag. Vanessa began the routine: a low gentle croon, slowly flipping her to her side, then rubbing her back, all the while scanning the mattress then the pillow.
Aha! She grabbed the pacifier and wrapped Heather’s fingers around the plastic handle. Almost instantly, Heather shoved the rubber nipple in her mouth and started to grumble, sucking furiously.
So very angry. Vanessa smiled. Erin couldn’t care less, she was so laid-back. But Heather—her fierce little warrior girl—couldn’t sleep without one.
With a quick check on the still-sound-asleep Erin, Vanessa made a silent exit, shaking her head as she padded back to the living room.
Chase was standing in the middle of her space, hands behind his back and legs apart. It was such a typically male stance, one that indicated control and command, that she felt her defenses go on full alert.
“Heather only wakes up when she loses her pacifier,” she said, trying to ignore the authority he radiated.
“Ahhh.”
“Erin could sleep through a bomb blast.”
He gave her a wry smile and for just one second, Vanessa wondered what it’d be like if he put everything into it. Devastating, most probably.
“You have kids?” she began.
“No. Look, I should apologize and—”
“Would you like a—” she said simultaneously. They both stopped, waited a second, then started again.
“…go.”
“…drink?”
Again, silence descended, but this time, Chase’s mouth curved and suddenly all Vanessa could hear was her heartbeat as it picked up the pace.
Mr. Million-Dollar Smile. Wow.
“I—I have coffee,” she said faintly, hating the way she stumbled over those three simple words. She quickly attempted to drag back the tattered remnants of composure, but his smile told her she was fooling no one with her straight back and square shoulders.
In fact, that smile only brought out a dimple. A dimple, for heaven’s sakes! As if he didn’t have enough money and looks in his corner already.
Well, deduct a few points for arrogance.
“Vanessa, let’s be honest here. I know why you were bidding on that manuscript.”
And a few more for impropriety.
He had no idea what the real story was and she had half a mind to tell him where to go. She even drew herself up, bolstering her mental strength while the cutting words formed on her tongue.
Yet as he silently stood there, waiting for her response with a look of—was that sympathy?—on his face, she chickened out at the last minute.
“Mr. Harrington—”
“Chase.”
“Chase,” she repeated, trying to ignore the intimacy of his name on her lips. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know you. I don’t discuss my personal life with complete strangers—even if that stranger probably hired someone to dig into my background.”
He blinked, scrutinizing her in a most disturbing way before he said, “I think I will have that coffee, thanks.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You did offer coffee, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“I can help if you show me where—”
“No! No,” she repeated more calmly. “How do you take it?”
“Black with one sugar.”
She nodded then whirled to the kitchen, her mind one big hot mess. Coffee. He wants coffee. She strode over to the cupboard below the sink, opened it to grab the box of Nespresso pods and began to prepare two cups.
The familiar task did nothing to settle her sudden disquiet. Cups from the stand… What was he up to now? Spoons from the drawer… Is he fishing for more information, maybe to go to the press with? Sugar from the cabinet…
You could try to convince him to sell you the manuscript.
She eyed his broad back through the archway as she warmed the first cup with hot water. Possible. She may not have Juliet’s stunning looks and killer negotiation skills but she was still a Partridge. Persuasion ran in her veins.
She dropped the coffee pod into the machine and pressed the button. Yeah, but how much “persuading” would he need?
The brief memory of their first meeting and that weird anticipatory…thing that had passed between them suddenly flared. The scent of his cologne. The sound of her heartbeat thudding in her head. The moment when he realized how close they were, the exact second his eyes had dropped to her lips…and lingered.
She sucked in a breath, held it for an eternity then exhaled with a snort. Her entire relationship with Dylan had been a secret, sordid affair designed to bolster his fragile ego. And prior to that, she’d been popular because of who her parents were. For once, it’d be nice if a man wanted her just for her.
So Chase Harrington thought he knew why she wanted that manuscript? He had no clue. He had no idea how Dylan’s rejection of her—of his children—had cut so deeply that it had only now just started to heal. No idea that she’d chosen this new life rather than spend a moment longer in her parents’ poisonous silent judgment. No idea how desperately she needed some kind of bond, some tangible proof that Erin and Heather’s father had been a living, breathing person to her.
As the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen, she took a second to think—really think—about her situation. One—she still wanted that manuscript and all it represented. Two—Chase was a businessman, and businessmen lived to make money, right? If she could make him the right offer—
Yeah, but with whose money?
She dropped sugar into his cup then started on hers. By the time she’d finished and returned to the living room, Chase had made himself comfortable.
He’d removed his coat, and it was now draped over the back of the couch. He sat, ankle crossed over knee, looking perfectly relaxed amongst the girls’ toys and her comfortable possessions, and her first thought was: he’d make a great portrait subject. Her second: that internet search had done nothing to appease her intense curiosity.
Hedge funder extraordinaire Chase Harrington was worth billions, which was not exactly a selling point given the current financial climate. Yet he was no high-profile Donald Trump: he didn’t spend money on expensive cars or private jets. And except for that one standout purchase of a beleaguered midtown office complex, no multibillion-dollar property deals either. For all his connections and wealth, her rudimentary search had come up with less than thirty accurate hits, and only after the usual ones featuring his recent purchase from Waverly’s. From those she quickly worked out that, while he owned a few properties around the world, he didn’t date supermodels, didn’t court the limelight and was intensely private.
Which meant a possibly interesting backstory in there somewhere.
“Tell me, what exactly do hedge fund managers do?”
He took the cup she proffered, palming it in one large hand.
“Well, in simplified terms, they manage a private pool of capital from investors and advise them on trading strategies.”
“And what do you get out of it?”
“I put in a percentage, so when the investors make money, I do, too. Plus, there’s the investment and management fees.”
“So it’s like playing the stock market?”
“Sort of.” He blew on the coffee before taking an experimental sip. “The term hedging means reducing risk, so it’s all about getting as much money as you can for as little risk as possible, then getting out. All funds aren’t the same, and returns, volatility and risk all vary. You can hedge anything, from stocks and bonds, to currency, to downturns in the market.”
“Like what happened in the financial crisis.”
She noted the way his shoulders stiffened, his brow creasing. “Yeah. But that…that was the result of a bunch of arrogant, irresponsible people who—” he took a breath and gave a tight smile “—who aren’t really fit to mention in polite conversation. And the only money I manage now is my own and a few select investors’.”
She shook her head. “I’m okay at math, but you must have some kind of superbrain to do what you do.”
He took another sip of coffee then said slowly, “It’s called an eidetic ability.”
Her eyes widened. “You have a photographic memory? You’re kidding me.”
“Oh, I’m not. I was the most frequently requested party trick at college when word got out.” His sardonic tone told her it wasn’t something he was particularly proud of, which was odd.
A college guy who didn’t want to impress everyone, be the life of the party and brag about himself? Intriguing.
“Your parents must be happy you’ve done so well,” she said now.
He made a noncommittal sound and shrugged, which was neither confirmation nor denial. There was a major story in his past, Vanessa surmised. One that probably didn’t end well, given his response.
So whose does?
In the awkward silence Vanessa sipped on her too-hot coffee, burning her tongue in the process.
“So how did you and Dunbar meet?” he finally asked.
Okay, moment over. “I think we established I’m not going to answer your personal questions.”
“I’m not about to go running to the press.”
“That’s not the impression I got in New York.”
He leaned back on the couch, those worry lines marring his forehead again, a sure sign he was uncomfortable. Uncomfortable with being rude? Or because she’d called him on it?
He sighed and suddenly his expression changed. “Vanessa.” His cup went down on the coffee table as he fixed her with his direct gaze. “I apologize for my behavior in New York. I was impolite and pushy and totally got the wrong end of the story. I’m sorry.” Oh. Those sincere blue eyes held hers and, after a few seconds, his singular attention started to make her giddy, the not-unpleasant feeling a little like a champagne buzz. “I must’ve come across as…”
She finally found her tongue. “Rude?”
He nodded, stunning her further. “Yeah. I tend to get steamed when people are trying to rip me off.”
“But I wasn’t.”
“I know. Look, this isn’t coming out right at all. I made an assumption about you and it turns out I was wrong. Normally I’m smarter than that.”
If that didn’t beat all. She sat there, unable to form a comeback. Truth be told, he was not at all what she’d first assumed, and she didn’t know what to think.
“What would it take for you to sell me that manuscript?” she blurted out.
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“You sure? Just about everything has a price.”
Was it her imagination, or did his expression turn bitter? “Not this thing. And anyway, I seem to recall you don’t have the money.”
“Not everything has to be about money.” At the look on Chase’s face, she added quickly, “Oh, wow, that came out so wrong. I didn’t mean… Did you think I…? Ewww.”
You weren’t thinking ewww two days ago, though, were you?
Obviously, he was disgusted by that thought too, because his expression tightened and he rose abruptly. “I’ve got to be going.”
She nodded, her face warm. “I’ll see you out.”
Vanessa honed in on his broad back as she followed down the stairs, gazing at the efficient haircut closely cropped at the nape. The skin was smooth and tanned beneath his collar—a jogger’s tan?
Great. Now she had an image of him running in a clingy, damp T-shirt, his pumped-up arms and legs gliding him effortlessly through Central Park.
Then he was at the last step and she was back in the real world.
Should she shake his hand? Thank him for coming? No, that wouldn’t be right. Say something, she urged herself as he reached the bottom then slowly turned back to her standing on the last step.
She was nearly eye to eye with him. A disconcerting thought.
“What are you doing Saturday night?”
She wrinkled her brow. “What’s on Saturday night?”
“The Library of Congress is having a thing and I’m on the guest list.”
“A thing?”
“A formal event. To celebrate some Egyptian display.”
“The Tombs of the Missing Pharaohs exhibit?” She crossed her arms, pulling her shirtsleeves over her hands as the cold began to seep in.
“That’s the one.”
“Aren’t you leaving your RSVP a bit late?”
“I’m a donor—I get a bit of leeway.”
“Right.”
After a moment’s silence, he said, “I’m asking you to be my plus one, Vanessa.”
She blinked. She had not seen that one coming.
“But…”
“But what?”
“Well…” She felt warmth heat her neck again. “I said ‘ewww.’”
One commanding eyebrow went up. “I’ve had much worse, believe me.”
“And honestly, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Okay.”
“Really. I mean, you’re an attractive guy. A very attractive guy and I’m…” She trailed off, swallowing thickly as Chase’s lips quirked. Okay. I should stop now.
“So,” he said, thankfully glossing over her uncharacteristic loss of control. “Saturday? Just think of it as an extended apology. There’ll be food, champagne, culture, adult conversation.” His mouth curved again, giving her a tempting sample of devastating charm. “Have I sold you yet?”
“I…” She glanced back down up the stairs, her mind spinning at the sudden turn of events. Her immediate response was to say no. She should say no. Her world and Chase’s were miles apart. She’d been a part of that world—albeit not at Chase’s high end—and had turned her back on it. But deep inside, a gentle insistent tug had started and just wouldn’t ease up.
“I’d have to get a sitter,” she warned, finally stepping down and walking over to the front door.
“Of course.”
She added, “Why are you asking me?”
“Why not?” He tempered that statement with a smile.
She swallowed. “What if I say no?”
He slid his hands into his coat pockets. “Do you want to say no?”
Maybe that manuscript wasn’t completely lost to her after all. And if one party invitation was all it took to definitively find out, then she’d consider it a good deal.
“Okay. Saturday night.”
“Great.” He reached past her for the door handle and suddenly her personal space became way too cramped. She took a step back just for the room and air to breathe easier.
Yet his perfectly handsome face, now flush with male satisfaction, made her heart pound against her ribs.
“Thanks for the coffee.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve just so she’d stop staring at him.
I blame you, Mrs. Knopf. Her ninth-grade art teacher had encouraged a healthy appreciation of a well-put-together face, of shadow, form and color and it had stuck, even though Vanessa had long since made peace with her basic art skills.
“I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”
“Oh.” She blinked. “I thought I could just meet you there.”
“You’re not out of my way.”
I doubt it was on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it back. It would save on gas. She shrugged. “Okay.” Then she glanced past his shoulder. “Is it raining?”
Chase turned, his profile in stark relief against the porch light and the dark night. “It is.” He turned up his collar, dug his hands in his pockets and gave her a small smile. “Sleep well, Vanessa.”
She nodded, ostensibly crossing her arms to ward off the chill. But her goosebumping skin had more to do with the way Chase’s mouth had formed that little farewell—soft, almost intimate—followed by a small grin that had her wishing for more.
