“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 about this already—”

“I rarely read my correspondence.”

“Well, that’s just too bad.” She flung out the words, throwing down the file. “Maybe when you’ve come to your senses, you’ll read that through properly.”

“What for?” he goaded her, crossing his arms, looking her arrogantly 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.”

“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 those 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 interest. I need you to cooperate. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very busy this morning. Goodbye, Miss 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.

“An enthralling page-turner—not to be missed!”

—New York Times bestselling author

Joan Johnston on Southern Belle

Also by FIONA HOOD-STEWART

SOUTHERN BELLE

SILENT WISHES

THE LOST DREAMS

THE STOLEN YEARS

THE JOURNEY HOME

SOMEDAY SOON

Savannah Secrets
Fiona Hood-Stewart

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To my goddaughter

Annabel Freya

with love

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Prologue

“So. This is finally it, Bill?” Rowena Carstairs murmured in her deep, tobacco-riddled voice, her eyes never leaving the doctor’s face.

The gray-haired, athletic-looking Bill Maguire let go of her pulse and straightened next to the large four-poster. “I’m afraid so,” he said, looking at her with a wry, sad smile. He knew it would be futile to pretend.

“That’s all right,” she said, her creased features breaking into a smile that still sparkled with mischief. “I’ve had a good inning. Better than most.”

“You’re sure you won’t consider the treatment? There’s a small chance it would buy you another year or two.”

“Ha! You have to be joking! I’m ninety-three, Bill. If I don’t die of one thing, it’ll be of another. And to tell you the truth, maybe it’s time.”

She lay back in the huge canopied bed and closed her eyes, her head propped against a sea of white lace pillows.

“All right, then. I’d best be off now,” the doctor murmured with a touch of regret, patting her wrinkled, veined hand, as it lay so motionless on the coverlet it could already be lifeless. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

“You come,” Rowena said, opening her eyes and winking, “but I don’t guarantee I’ll be here. Depends on how the mood strikes me. So I’ll say goodbye just in case. You’re a good man, Bill. Thanks for everything.”

“Don’t talk rubbish,” he replied, his tone bracing. “You’ll be here harassing the hell out of everyone for a while yet.” He laughed and their hands met once more.

Rowena nodded, then suddenly looking very tired, she waved him away. “You be off now. I need a rest. Tell Miss Mabella to come in, will you? She may have some good advice for the upcoming journey.” She let out a low, husky cackle that ended in a hacking cough.

“Okay.” The doctor smiled and nodded. “Good night, Rowena. Sleep well.”

“You bet I will.”

Once she was sure she was entirely alone, Rowena sagged against the pillows and sighed. So this was the end. She accepted it philosophically as she did most things. Part of her regretted leaving. But, as she’d remarked to Bill, she’d had one hell of a good run. It was time to go. All that increasingly mattered now were the regrets, those niggling mistakes made years ago that couldn’t be changed but might, if things went according to plan, be set on track.

Shifting her position to accommodate her stiff back, Rowena heaved another sigh. She should have listened to her daughter all those years ago. Isabel had tried to tell her the truth, but she hadn’t wanted to believe her child’s claims. Allowing pride and her own agenda to get in the way, she had paid the price.

“Miss Rowena?”

Opening her eyes, she turned her head on the pillow. “Miss Mabella, you sit yourself down on that chair right here next to me.” The formidable figure of Miss Mabella was clad in her usual long white dress under a purple silk cape with rows of beads and amulets hanging loosely around her neck. She swayed as she lowered her bulk onto the proffered chair. The pupils of her eyes shone in sharp contrast to the whites, illuminating her black face. Her complexion looked surprisingly young for a woman her age. On her head she wore an extravagant turban tied in the fashion of the African tribe she descended from and whose language she still favored over the English she spoke only when necessary.

“Time’s a gettin’ close,” she murmured, placing her hand on Rowena’s withered forehead. “But I know you’re ready to go, Miss Rowena. Ain’t nothin’ left you can do on this side no more. Gotta leave it up to the boy now.”

“You’re sure I’ve made the right decision?” Rowena’s eyes closed as she drifted. Already the room and the earthly space around her seemed distant.

“Ain’t no saying for sure. The boy, he’s a son of Ogun, a strong God. Ogun, he likes justice. The gods is on his side, all right. Ain’t no doubt about that.” Miss Mabella nodded wisely.

“God bless him,” Rowena whispered. “He’s my only hope.”

“Now don’t you worry nomore, Miss Ro. You travel easy. I’m watchin’ out for you and yours. Just you let go and let Miss Mabella take care of things.” She placed both her hands inches from Rowena’s head and began a low incantation in her native Gullah dialect.

“You always have been a good friend, Miss Mabella,” Rowena managed with considerable effort. She felt tired. Exceedingly tired. She could sense the end of her earthly journey closing upon her, yet she didn’t repine.

As the sun set over the trees in her beloved garden, Rowena thought one last time of the sealed envelopes lying in wait in Meredith Hunter’s office. She’d cast her bets and had set the dice rolling in an attempt to salvage the situation. She’d set up the rules by which the game would be played as she thought best. The future lay in the hands of others.

A crumpled, enigmatic smile hovered on Rowena’s thin, cracked lips as Miss Mabella chanted softly. She’d be willing to wager that once she was gone, all hell would break loose, big time. Would things sort themselves out as she hoped? It was a wild hope and perhaps a vain one, but it was her best try.

As she sank back and allowed her mind to drift to the gentle sound of Miss Mabella’s voice, weariness overwhelmed her. Her eyes closed for the last time. She had only one final regret.

What a pity she wouldn’t be here to see who would walk with the winnings.

1

Meredith Hunter skimmed through the thick sheaf of legal documents and, for the second time that day, exclaimed, “This can’t be real. Surely Rowena must have been mad to leave such a will!”

She was bewildered. Rowena Carstairs, her favorite client, had been one of the savviest people she’d ever met—and also one of the most loyal. When more than a year ago, after some serious soul-searching, Meredith had decided to leave Rollins, Hunter & Mills, the famous Savannah law firm where she’d gotten her start, in order to launch her own firm, Rowena had insisted on transferring her business. Even when Meredith had advised against it, admitting that her firm would never be able to match the resources of the firm that had ably served Rowena’s interests for more than fifty years, the old lady hadn’t balked. “After all,” Meredith recalled her saying imperiously, “if you don’t trust those old windbags anymore, why the hell should I?”

She smiled at the memory, suspecting Rowena knew that her new firm, Hunter & Maxwell, would never have gotten off the ground without her support. Ro had always looked after those she cared about. And that, Meredith admitted with a sigh, is what made her will all the more incomprehensible.

Slipping her reading glasses down her small, straight nose, Meredith gazed at the piles of legal files strewn around the small office. The Carstairs relations would be furious—probably go straight over to Ross Rollins and hire him to contest. And there was Dallas Thornton, Rowena’s estranged granddaughter. The girl would not be a problem in that she’d already stated clearly she wanted nothing to do with her late grandmother’s estate. But telling these people that they would receive nothing of the inheritance they’d long expected and that everything—including Rowena’s dyed poodles—had been left to a complete stranger would be a daunting task indeed.

Until now Meredith had managed to avoid a confrontation with her old senior partner. But if the Carstairs hired Ross as they inevitably would, she was sure he would take pleasure in trying to bring her down to size. Oh, well. It had to happen some day, she figured. The hard part was she liked him. A lot. An old friend of her dad’s, he had written her a glowing recommendation for Yale, hired her and then had been implicated—even if it hadn’t been proved—in a political scandal that had brought down Congressman Harlan MacBride, the now former husband of her best friend, Elm Hathaway. Although Elm had never blamed her, and was now happily married to Johnny Graney, she’d felt ashamed to be a part of a firm that valued the old-boy network above its own ethics. And so, with Rowena’s help, she’d set out on her own.

Meredith laid the documents back on her desk and tweaked her thick pageboy-style chestnut hair behind her ears. She would first contact James G. Gallagher, Rowena’s presumptive heir, whom Rowena’s detectives had tracked to London. She’d never even heard of the man—and doubted any of the Carstairs had, either. Did he even know that he was adopted? “None of this makes any sense,” she murmured. “Why would Rowena settle a one-hundred-million-dollar estate on a complete stranger?”

“Because it appears he’s her grandson.”

Meredith turned abruptly and sat up. “Tracy. I didn’t hear you come in.” She twiddled her pen thoughtfully. “I’m still reeling in shock.” Her partner, Tracy Maxwell, stepped farther into the office. “As far as we know, Rowena never even met this guy. She seems to have made a conscious decision to exclude this supposed grandson from her life, but now has left him everything. I just don’t get it.”

Tracy shrugged, setting her coffee mug down on Meredith’s teak desk. “I know about as much as you do, Mer,” she replied, leaning back in the creaking leather chair. “But I guess it all boils down to this—blood’s thicker than water. By the way—” she grimaced as she glanced down doubtfully “—couldn’t we at least afford a new chair? This one’s going to collapse any day now, and probably with some valued client in it. We’ll be sued for negligence.” She crossed her well-shaped legs under her pencil-gray skirt and eyed Meredith. “So?” she queried. “What do you think made the old bird do it? Weird that she never asked you to look over her will or that she never disclosed the extent of her holdings.”

Meredith shrugged, shook her head. “I once asked her about it but she clammed up. Said she had it all sorted out years ago. I figured it was none of my business, that she’d used other counsel for her own reasons, but that doesn’t explain why she left her fortune to a stranger. Could it be out of remorse?”

“Perhaps.”

“Maybe she wanted to make up for the past. She obviously felt a duty to her bloodline despite the child being given up for adoption.” Meredith knew she was desperately seeking a rational motive for her late client’s actions, since she was now left to deal with the outcome. “It just seems totally unlike Ro to react like this. I mean, she was one tough cookie and not one given to sentiment, or to mishandling her affairs.”

“All I can figure is that certain things come back to haunt you when you know the end is nigh,” Tracy answered. “And who would have thought Rowena could be worth so much? All those relatives will be positively nauseous when they realize exactly how much they’ve lost—and to whom. Which reminds me,” she added, a mischievous smile dawning on her dimpled cheeks, “I was talking to Uncle Fairfax this morning and guess what he told me?”

“What?” Meredith’s large gray eyes filled with new interest. Tracy was an expert at wheedling casual bits of information out of people.

“We had a most enlightening conversation.”

She rolled her eyes. “Tracy, spill it. I’m not in the mood to mess around. I have to take immediate action. I’m already dreading Joanna Carstairs’s face when she learns the news.”

“Rather you than me, babe,” Tracy admitted. “Anyway, Uncle Fairfax remembers Isabel, Rowena’s daughter, well. Said they hung out in the same crowd, and that she was very pretty and vivacious, always flirting and acting much older than her age. She also used to hang around with older men, some of them Rowena’s own friends.”

“That must have been almost forty years ago. And?”

“According to Uncle Fairfax, there was talk about whether she might have let things go a little too far.”

“Oh, you mean she had an affair?”

“Nobody seems to know and, as she’s dead, no one ever will.”

“I guess not. What else did he say?”

“Only that the summer after her sixteenth birthday, Isabel suddenly disappeared for a year or so—supposedly to a finishing school in Europe. She was a bright girl with career ambitions, so everyone was surprised. People naturally assumed she’d gotten pregnant, though it was never mentioned outright. Such things were never discussed in those days.”

“Had he heard that she’d given birth to a son?” Meredith asked, attentive.

“No. Like everyone else, he assumed that she’d had an abortion.”

“Ethics aside, that certainly would have been the easiest route,” Meredith said, brow furrowed, “but she didn’t take that course. Instead, she gave the baby up for adoption.”

“Right.”

“But why give the baby away? She could easily afford to keep it,” Meredith argued.

“You talk as if you don’t know Savannah, Mer.” Tracy laughed, a thin, ironic smile touching her full lips. “If things are bad now, imagine what it must have been like thirty-eight years ago! I doubt Rowena would have tolerated her daughter keeping an illegitimate baby. It just wasn’t done. Particularly if the father wasn’t suitable husband material, which I presume must have been the case.”

“How absurd,” Meredith exclaimed, disgusted by such hypocrisy and wondering what sort of woman would have let society and a strong-willed mother force her to give up a child if she’d wanted to keep it.

“Absurd maybe, but let’s face it, that’s the way it was. Young society ladies who found themselves in a fix went abroad, had an abortion somewhere discreet or gave the child up for adoption. They spent the year away and then returned home with no one the wiser.” Tracy raised an elegantly etched brow and reached for the coffee mug.

“Carrying the child for nine months, giving birth to it at this Swiss convent,” Meredith said, pointing to a file, “and then simply leaving it behind so she could head back home and party seems so cruel, so unfeeling.”

Tracy shrugged. “I doubt Rowena gave Isabel much choice. If it makes you feel any better, Uncle Fairfax did say that Isabel was different when she returned, much more subdued. Nobody talked about it. But obviously,” she added, gesturing to the paperwork lying on the desk between them, “there was a child. As for the father’s identity, well, presumably Isabel took that secret with her to the grave. And now Rowena—for whatever weird reason—has named the child her heir.”

“But doesn’t it all seem too simple? I mean, think about it, Trace.” Meredith tapped her fingers on the serviceable teak desk, then leaned back and swung in the sagging office chair, crumpling her suit jacket. “Rowena had a complex personality. We know she liked to control things. She didn’t leave anything to chance. So why fork over a fortune to a total stranger? And then there are the Carstairs relations to consider, not to mention Dallas. I can’t believe Rowena left her at nineteen without a dime when she knows all the problems the poor kid is going through with that property of hers up in Beaufort. The bank’s about to foreclose.”

“I didn’t realize it was that bad. Is there nothing we can do?” Tracy asked anxiously, horrified by the thought of Dallas Thornton, whom she’d known since she was a kid, being thrown out of Providence, the beautiful stud farm that for years had been in her family.

“I don’t know yet.” Meredith sat straighter. “I’ll take all this home tonight and dig my teeth into it once the boys are in bed.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, Lord, it’s almost five. Mick’s ball game is this afternoon.” When she dragged her fingers through her hair and took off her glasses she suddenly looked much younger and more vulnerable and very pretty. She stared at her partner. “You realize what’s going to happen, right?”

“Yep. Pretty much. It seems a given that Rowena’s relatives will contest the will.”

“And guess who they’ll hire—if they haven’t already?”

The two women’s eyes locked. “Ross.”

“Right. You know I loved Ro dearly, but I wish she hadn’t left me with such a mess.” She groaned, “Even if it does make for a dramatic parting gesture. She never liked all her greedy Carstairs relatives, said they reminded her of buzzards at the roadside, waiting ravenously for the morsels her eventual death would bring.”

“Looks like she’s had the last word. We’ll miss her, you know,” Tracy said as she got up to leave.

“Yeah, we will. See you tomorrow,” Meredith said, a soft smile touching her lips as the door closed behind Tracy.

As she gathered the files she’d sort through later that evening, Meredith recalled that stormy afternoon twelve years earlier when she’d first met Rowena Carstairs. She had been a summer intern at Rollins, Hunter & Mills and Rowena had been holding court in the firm’s walnut-paneled lobby, dressed in a flowing purple caftan and a remarkable jeweled pink turban. Her legendary toy poodles—always dyed to match Rowena’s headdress of the day—were yapping hysterically at her heels and gnawing on the knotted fringe of the floor’s antique Oriental carpet.

The poodles, Meredith recalled, were noted for their ill humor. Neither of the junior partners hovering anxiously beside one of the firm’s most prestigious clients had dared to censure the dogs, which by this time were happily chewing their way through a delicately carved chair leg.

Raised to respect the value of things, and too new to the firm to know whom she was messing with, Meredith marched right up to Rowena’s dogs and told them firmly to heel. To everyone’s astonishment the dogs stopped their destructive activity and settled obediently at Meredith’s feet, giving her patent pumps a cautiously friendly lick.

And to everyone’s equally stunned amazement, Rowena had burst out laughing and grasped Meredith’s hand. “About time someone had the guts to stand up to these little pests,” she barked. “Beastly little dogs, aren’t they? Touched in the head, I think.”

“Must be all that hair dye,” Meredith noted wryly.

After an audible gasp, one of the junior partners, clearly bent on damage control, stepped forward and, muttering apologies, grabbed Meredith by the arm, intent on propelling her back to the copy room. But Rowena stayed his hand. “You know, I bet you’re right. That dye probably makes ’em antsy,” she said, addressing Meredith, her keen bright eyes narrowing. “Damn, why didn’t I think of that? What’s your name, gal? It’s good to see that someone around this mausoleum has some spunk.”

Before she’d left the firm that summer, Ross Rollins had told her there’d be a position waiting for her as soon as she finished law school. Surprised, she’d thanked him profusely, but he told her to save her thanks for Rowena Carstairs. “Claimed you’re the only one with any sense around here, and threatened to take her business to another law firm unless we hired you. As you’ve probably gathered,” he’d added dryly, “she’s one of our biggest clients.”

Without a doubt, Rowena Carstairs had been one of Savannah’s most flamboyant and original characters. She’d also been a true friend. It was no exaggeration to say that without Rowena’s patronage, Meredith would never have been able to start her own small independent practice. So no matter how mysterious and convoluted the will—or how many of her own questions went unanswered—she must do her best to see that Rowena’s wishes were fulfilled.

Meredith shoved the documents in her briefcase and, grabbing her coat, moved toward the door. She’d think about all this later tonight, once homework was done and the boys were fast asleep.

Opening the door of her office, she smiled at Ali, her faithful secretary who’d taken a substantial pay cut to follow her on her path of independence. That was loyalty, Meredith realized. “Have to get to the game but I’ll be in early tomorrow. I’m taking the Carstairs files with me, Ali.”

“Don’t worry, Meredith, I’ll be here awhile. Tracy’s up to her eyeballs in the Martin v. Fairbairn case so we’ll be busy. I just put on a new pot of coffee.” Ali’s slim figure and good posture made her seem always ready for action.

“I don’t know how you guys survive. You know, I read somewhere that women can get depressed from too much caffeine. You and Trace should seriously consider cutting down on—”

“You have precisely ten minutes to get to the game and traffic’s bad,” Ali said, dismissing her. “So long. See you in the morning.” She waved her thin fingers and grinned before heading into the tiny kitchen.

Stepping out onto the street, Meredith glanced back fondly at the small redbrick house she’d leased for the office. It wasn’t pretentious, but it served its purpose. During the past most difficult months of her life, she and Tracy had built up a growing practice by accepting lower fees than most firms of their caliber. Some simply didn’t want to pay the horrendously costly fees of the better-known firms. Other, more humble clients had heard through the grapevine that Meredith Hunter had left a junior partnership at Rollins, Hunter & Mills to begin her own practice because she’d become disenchanted with the way her former firm did business. This, and the fact that she always had time to spare for a lost or ailing cause, was beginning to pay off.

Getting into her old Jeep Cherokee, Meredith prepared to go into Mom mode. It wasn’t easy juggling home and the office, especially now that Tom was gone.

She swallowed and gunned the engine, reminding herself that her ten- and eight-year-old sons, Mick and Zack, were her priority. This was no time for tears. The kids needed her. And she needed them.

It was all they had left.

After she’d read the boys a good-night story, turned off the lights and walked down the staircase of the lovely antebellum home she and Tom had dreamed of, saved for, then bought, depression set in. During the day Meredith had so much to do that she barely allowed herself time to think. Work at the office was all-consuming and the kids’ schedule was packed with extracurricular activities that had her running from Little League practices to soccer games. She always had dinner to prepare and homework to finish, and although she’d never thought she’d enjoy math, she’d found herself delving into the intricacies of multiplication and long division with zeal, dreading the moment when it would be time to say “bedtime,” and she’d find herself wandering around the house alone with only her memories for company.

Turning on the TV in the den, she glanced absently at the time. Nine-thirty. It was still too early to sleep. Maybe she should call her mother. But then she remembered it was bridge night and Clarice and John Rowland would be out. It was too late to call Elm in Ireland and everyone else was busy, watching TV with their husbands, discussing the day’s activities. They didn’t need to listen to her whining on the phone, or worse, weeping.

She flopped onto the aged moss-green sofa next to Macbeth, the family’s golden Lab. Actually he’d been Tom’s. Swallowing the knot in her throat again, Meredith stroked the dog between its ears, determined to keep her emotions under control. Faithful old Mac was getting really ancient now. She simply couldn’t bear it if he went, too.

Meredith flipped the channels on the remote, unable to concentrate on any of the programs. She’d always followed current affairs and both local and international politics, but now she didn’t care what was happening in the Middle East or in Washington, or even here in Savannah. All she now knew was the loneliness of the empty space on the couch next to her.

For the thousandth time since learning of the freak boating accident off the coast of Georgia the year before, Meredith railed at the injustice of his death. Why him? Why them? With so many unhappy people about, why did such tragedy have to befall her Tom?

She took a deep breath and willed herself to stop this railing at fate that served no purpose.

After several more minutes she switched off the television impatiently and went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of herbal tea. Maybe she should go over Rowena’s will again and compile some notes for her conference call tomorrow with the New York detective agency so she’d be sure to gather all the information she could on James G. Gallagher, presumptive heir.

Taking a sip of the hot brew, she sat at the old pine table she and Tom had picked up by chance at a yard sale. However hard she tried, it was impossible not to feel his presence everywhere, to make believe that if she closed her eyes then opened them she’d find that it was all a bad dream, that Tom was right here, calling to her from the top of the stairs for something he’d forgotten.

A slim, sad, yet determined figure in her ancient sweats and Tom’s old sweatshirt, she opened her briefcase and donned her glasses. Handling Rowena’s bequests would help fill some of the emptiness.

An hour later, she closed the file and stretched. Then, after thoroughly checking all the doors and windows and switching off the downstairs lights, she made her way up to check on the kids. She scooped up a fallen duvet, and tucked Zack’s dangling leg back under the covers. Then she entered her bedroom and undressed, catching a glimpse of herself in the long cheval mirror that had belonged to her grandmother.

Looking thin and tired, her eyes stared dully back at her. Her skin needed a treatment and her hair looked terrible. She dragged her fingers through it and grimaced, realizing she must make time to go to the salon. She had to appear presentable at the office and for the kids, even if she really didn’t give a damn.

Pulling on a pair of Tom’s old pajamas, Meredith got into bed and huddled under the covers. Maybe she’d try to read awhile. She flipped through the Savannah News, but after ten minutes she gave up and, turning off the bedside lamp, sank wearily into the pillows. And then, despite every effort not to, she did what she did every night and gave way to the unshed tears that had haunted her all day.

A few minutes later she fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Thank God she was too tired to dream.

So Rowena Carstairs was finally dead.

On the one hand, the news filled him with relief. On the other, her passing encapsulated the passage of time, a reminder of just how many years had gone by since that long-ago night when…

Better not remember that.

The problem was, he’d never known if Rowena knew or had guessed what had happened. Had Isabel kept quiet all those years? Rowena had never asked him about it. Not in so many words. But sometimes he’d wondered. Rowena had been a strange old woman. There was no telling what she knew. One thing was certain, though. She’d always made him feel uncomfortable.

It wasn’t anything she did or said, rather an indefinable uneasiness that crept over him whenever she was present. Then again, that might just be his conscience pricking him. At least now he could finally breathe easy, knowing she was six feet under. Well, would be in a few days, he corrected.

Somehow the idea that Rowena still lay in the morgue sent shivers down his back. All at once he thought of Miss Mabella, the famous voodoo priestess whom Rowena made no secret of visiting.

He shifted in the deck chair, telling himself not to be ridiculous, then deliberately turned the page of the Savannah News where they’d dedicated two full pages to her obituary.

Instead, he chose to read the sports page.

2

“So what do we know about our heir?” Meredith asked Detective Garcia on the other end of the line.

“Actually, quite a lot. The guy’s in all the papers.”

“Oh?” She tilted her head curiously.

“Yeah, he’s Grant Gallagher.”

“I thought his name was James,” she answered impatiently.

“James Grant. He goes by his second name. And what I meant, ma’am, is that he is the Grant Gallagher, you know, the corporate raider who took over Bronstern’s last year? Remember all that fuss in the news? From what I read, he made a killing.”

“Good Lord.” Meredith’s brows flew up. “But the man’s a thief and a bloodhound.” She sat up straighter and, in her usual fashion, tipped her glasses.

“Well, I guess that’s one way of looking at it. Others might say he’s a mighty smart businessman who knows how to make a buck.”

“With absolutely no regard for those he bulldozes along the way,” Meredith replied witheringly. “Somebody should haul him to jail for what he does. Now, you’re absolutely certain you’ve got the right man?”

“Yes, ma’am. No doubt at all.”

“I’ll want DNA samples.”

“We already got ’em. Our fellow in London got a hair off Gallagher’s coat when he was dining in some fancy restaurant. Slipped some dough to the coat-check gal.”

“Oh.” Meredith blinked, taken aback. By any measure, without the man’s consent, that constituted a major invasion of privacy. “I see. Well, maybe we should have a second authorized sample. Anyway, send me the complete file and I’ll deal with contacting him.”

“Sure will. Anything else we can do, just give me a call.”

“Thanks, Detective, I will.”

Meredith hung up, dazed by this latest news. Grant Gallagher. The press usually fawned over him, writing about his meteoric rise to fame and fortune, skipping over the fact that he’d damaged the lives of countless employees. He was the worst sort of corporate raider, buying up companies only to destroy them as he sold off their parts for a profit. And now one hundred million dollars was about to fall into his sleazy, undeserving lap.

“I can’t let this happen,” she muttered, a picture of Dallas biting her nails over the foreclosure papers forming in her mind. “It’s just not fair.”

She reread a letter from the convent in Switzerland where the adoption had taken place thirty-eight years earlier. It was dated about ten years ago, which must have been about the time Rowena had hired the detective agency to track down her grandson. She had no doubt of the letter’s authenticity. Now, as she perused it again, she wondered why it had taken Rowena so long to initiate the search.

Even as she asked herself the question, she realized it wasn’t her place to query her client’s motives. But what about Dallas? Somehow she had to do something for the girl. She would come up with a plan, she vowed. But first, despite her natural reluctance, she must follow the will’s directives, contact Gallagher and inform him of this windfall. She shuddered.

The next morning, after shuttling the kids off to school, Meredith got to the office as early as possible, hoping something in the files on her desk would present a solution for Dallas.

“Good morning.” Tracy poked her head around the door and smiled. “May I?”

“Please, come on in. You’ll never believe who the Carstairs heir is,” she said with a huff.

“You told me. James G. Gallagher, whoever he is.” Tracy sat down opposite. “Coffee?”

“No, thanks. And by the way, he goes by the name of Grant Gallagher. Mean anything?”

“Sounds familiar.” Tracy’s brow creased.

“Of course it does. Remember at the beginning of last year, that Bronstern takeover up east? All those families put out of work?” she inquired, brows drawn together in a distressed frown. “It was Grant Gallagher who put the whole thing together. Just marched in there, cleaned shop and sent all the jobs overseas. Claimed outsourcing was in the shareholders’ best interests. He couldn’t have cared less about the people who’d given their lives to the company. He just wanted to fill his goddamn pocketbook. It made me sick.”

“Wow! And you mean to tell me that he’s the heir to Rowena’s hundred million?” Tracy’s eyes popped and she let out a huff. “Jeez, it’s not like he even needs the money.”

“Exactly. Now you understand why I’m not too thrilled at having to contact the guy about his windfall. Which, by the way, brings me to what I wanted to ask you. I really can’t leave town right now. The kids are involved in so many activities. Zack has that dental treatment coming up. I was wondering whether you wouldn’t—”

“Don’t even think about it.” Tracy raised her hand like a vigilant traffic cop. “I’m tied up to the gills in the Fairbairn affair.”

Meredith was about to protest, then let out a sigh. It was true that Tracy was carrying an impossibly heavy load. Plus, deep down, she knew the duty was hers. “Okay,” she said, a sigh escaping her as she scooped up the papers. “I guess I’ll have to get on with it. Maybe I can avoid a trip. I’ll write him first and pave the way. There are a couple addresses in the file.”

“That’s a good start. Send Mr. Gallagher a registered letter requesting a conference call. Don’t go into too much detail in writing.” Tracy rose and paused at the door. “By the way, have you told the others?”

“Not yet,” Meredith answered in a hollow voice.

“And what about Dallas? She still refusing to leave Providence?”

“Yep. She’s refusing to come to the reading of the will. She’s playing the proud princess, saying she doesn’t care. She’s already told me that she wouldn’t touch Rowena’s money, anyway—not that she knows what kind of money we’re talking about, of course. It’s unfair that she stands to lose so much and that such a creature will inherit what he can’t possibly need. I can’t fathom why Rowena would do this, I really can’t,” she insisted, shaking her head. “I just wish I wasn’t the executor of the will and could advise Dallas to contest.”

“Hardly appropriate,” Tracy murmured, sucking in her cheeks, as she was prone to do. “Dallas is a strong-willed young woman. She’ll live. It’s a pity her father left quite a bit of debt when he died several months ago. Or so I’ve heard.”

“Doug Thornton did indeed leave her that,” Meredith said, nodding. “Which makes this decision of Rowena’s even more unacceptable.”

“Honey, I haven’t the faintest idea why she did this, but knowing your client I’d bet big money there’s a good reason. Maybe you should visit Dallas and see Doug’s stud farm in the process. Beautiful place, apparently,” she added. Then, glancing at the file in her hand, she murmured, “Thought at all about what approach you’ll take with Gallagher?”

“No, I have not.” Meredith bristled. “I’ll wait for him to reply to my letter first. Until then I’ll concentrate on the Carstairs gang.” She grimaced. “The meeting’s set up for this afternoon.”

“Good luck.”

“I’ll need it. Don’t be surprised if I end up in Intensive Care.”

“Because of Joanna, you mean?” Tracy wiggled a brow expressively. “Don’t worry. If Rowena’s niece acts up, I’ll be down the hallway.”

“Nice thought, old buddy,” Meredith grinned, “but you don’t really believe the Carstairs crowd would lower themselves to coming to this modest office, do you?”

“No, probably not.” She chuckled. “So where is the meeting?”

“Rowena’s town house. She wanted it that way.”

“Jesus. Talk about turning the knife in the wound,” Tracy exclaimed. “Hasn’t Joanna believed for years that she was going to inherit that place?”

“Don’t remind me.” Meredith gave a hollow laugh.

“Well, call if you need me to send in the National Guard.”

“I’ll be fine.” Meredith gave a thumbs-up. Trace really could be counted on. But right now what she needed was someone to take Zack to the dentist later today. First braces, she thought with a sigh, lifting the phone and dialing her mother in the hopes that Clarice Rowland would be able to help her out. Only God knew how long the meeting might last.

“What do you mean we’re to get nothing?!” Joanna Carstairs Lamont blanched, her surgically lifted features tightening with rage. “We are the rightful heirs. Each and every one of us is owed a share of that money,” she insisted, waving her index finger wildly. “Surely you’ve got it wrong, Meredith.”

“Look, I had nothing to do with this, okay? I’m sorry you’re all disappointed. I really can’t tell you why Rowena structured her will as she has, since I didn’t draft it. But it’s all here, and her wishes are quite clear.”

She glanced round the exquisitely appointed drawing room, knowing as she glimpsed at their pale, stunned faces what a blow this must be.

“But we have rights,” Joanna spluttered. “Charles, say something, for Christ’s sake, don’t just sit there like a beached whale. My God. This is a disaster.” She sank heavily into a deep chintz armchair and muttered under her breath.

“I’m sure something can be done about it.” Charles, a middle-aged well-to-do doctor, swallowed uneasily. He hoped he sounded convincing—he was still absorbing the shock of the announcement and its implications. In a few short sentences Meredith had blighted his most cherished dream.

“Surely the will could be contested?” Patricia, Rowena’s youngest half sister, a pious, soberly attired widow of seventy, replied, eyeing her son Ward, who was humming quietly to himself, oblivious to the tension in the room.

“That’s certainly within your rights,” Meredith responded carefully, “but I must caution you that there would be serious consequences if your challenge failed. There is a clause here to the effect that anyone who sees fit to contest the will loses his or her right to the income of the trust she set up for you a few years ago.”

“The bitch!” Joanna screeched. “The goddamn bitch! I should have guessed that she would double-cross us and done something about it while she was still alive.”

“You certainly tried.” Charles eyed her coldly. “In fact, I distinctly remember you asking me to be part of the team that would certify her insanity.”

“You did what?” Meredith asked, looking from one to the other. It was her turn to be shocked. “Rowena may have been eccentric but she was anything but crazy. Anyway,” she continued, flipping through the paperwork and pointing to several documents, “she seems to have planned for that contingency. She had several medical examinations certifying the state of her health before she wrote this final will.”

“But it’s outrageous.” Joanna rounded on Charles, her chin jutting out defiantly. “And so what if I did try to have her certified? I’ll bet in view of this you all wish you’d agreed to it instead of being so fucking squeamish. My God, if we’d had her locked up, it sure as hell would have solved our present little problem, wouldn’t it?”

Controlling her temper, Meredith realized it was probably better to let Joanna have her say. As the woman continued her rant, Meredith took stock of the other members of the family. Ward, Rowena’s half nephew, looked vacant as usual. Mary Chris, his sister, had her hands clasped piously in her lap and wore her customary saintly expression. Their mother’s face was blank. Charles had gone gray at the gills. The only missing relative was Craig, Rowena’s third nephew, who still had to fly in from London.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Joanna was saying. “What the hell did she plan to do with the money, then?” She turned to glare at Meredith. “If we’re not going to get it, who is? Surely Dallas doesn’t get it all?”

“I’m afraid Dallas doesn’t get anything, either,” Meredith said slowly, pausing to take a deep breath. She looked up. All eyes were upon her. The room seethed with pressure, as though each and every one there guessed there was more bad news to come. And boy, was there, Meredith thought grimly. Straightening her shoulders, she said quietly, her tone neutral, “The sole heir to Rowena’s estate, excepting some personal bequests, is her grandson.”

“What?” Joanna exclaimed in a high-pitched squeak.

“Her grandson?” Charles exclaimed, frowning, his jaw tense. “There must be some mistake. She had no grandson.”

“Actually, she did,” Meredith countered, outwardly calm. “Isabel, Rowena’s daughter, had a child out of wedlock.”

A general gasp echoed throughout the drawing room. Charles’s pallor increased. Joanna sat dumbstruck. Mary Chris blushed and murmured something incomprehensible under her breath, while her mother’s set features took on an inscrutable cold expression. Ward just sat there, smiling politely, quite unaware of the true meaning of Meredith’s words.

“This grandson,” Meredith continued warily, “was given up for adoption at birth. But it appears Rowena tracked him down some ten years ago and made him the sole beneficiary of the bulk of her will.”

“Good God,” Charles exclaimed, dabbing a white handkerchief to his lips.

“But if he was legally adopted, then he has no rights,” Joanna interrupted, her eyes narrowed in bitter anger as she tossed her perfectly colored strawberry-blond hair back.

“He’s still her lineal descendent. Rowena established his birth connection. Anyway, the point’s moot, because she made him her heir. She had the legal right to leave her fortune to anyone she chose.”

“You said everything?” Charles interrupted, his voice strained. “You mean the properties, the furniture, all her personal assets?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“How much money are we talking about?” Joanna asked, her voice shaking with loathing.

“One hundred million dollars, give or take.”

Gasps erupted from all corners of the room.

“A hundred million dollars? But we never knew Rowena had that kind of money.” Joanna’s manicured hands were shaking now. “How is this possible? How could she have done this? It’s not fair.”

“I understand how upset you are,” Meredith countered, shifting her legs under the desk and wishing that the meeting were over, “but actually it’s even more unfair for Dallas. After all, she’s a grandchild, too. And Rowena has left her nothing. Except for a string of pearls.”

“Not her black pearls?” Joanna hissed.

“Uh, yes. I believe those are the ones.” Meredith quickly checked the file.

“But she promised those to me. Why, the old bitch has done nothing but lie and pretend all these years! When I think of the time and attention I lavished on her,” Joanna screeched, rising abruptly and turning on Meredith. “It was all a waste!”

“Well,” Meredith countered, “you aren’t without resources. You will, of course, continue to receive the income from the trust she established for you. Subject to certain conditions.”

“The income,” she threw scathingly. “As if I cared about the goddamn income. It’s the capital I’m interested in—that’s what I’ve been waiting for all these years.”

“Naturally,” Meredith said dryly, discomfort fast changing to disdain as Joanna’s performance evolved, “you will have to continue fulfilling the requirements—”

“Requirements,” Joanna spat, prowling the Aubusson carpet of Rowena’s stately drawing room, hands clenched. “How dare she do this to us? How dare she?”

“As I was saying,” Meredith continued, ignoring the outburst, “the trust’s requirements will still need to be met.” She swallowed, knowing what would come next. “As the heir to her affairs, Rowena’s grandson, Mr. Grant Gallagher, has been named cotrustee with me. We will be the ones to determine if the requirements are met.”

Joanna erupted. “You mean to tell me that not only has she named some godforsaken bastard of Isabel’s her heir, but that she’s made him a trustee to what’s rightfully ours?”

“Oh, Joanna, shut up,” Charles said tightly. “Meredith, what do we know about this Gallagher person?”

“Well, it’s not the best news, I’m afraid. Grant Gallagher is a well-known corporate raider. Remember the Bronstern affair last year?” She glanced up.

“Of course. What has that got to do with it?”

“Everything,” she replied, trying to keep the bitterness from her tone. “He was responsible for breaking up the company. I don’t know how many people lost their jobs.”

“My God,” he muttered, “then there’s no hope of his declining the inheritance, I guess.” His hands fell in his lap and he looked suddenly years older. And very sad, Meredith realized, feeling rather sorry for him, but also wondering why he seemed so devastated. Married to a wealthy Bostonian wife, Marcia, he was probably in a far better position financially than the rest of them.

“This is just so unfair,” Joanna continued, her voice shaking as she paced the room.

“Hardly unfair, Joanna. She didn’t need to make that trust in the first place. Basically, it all goes on the same,” she pointed out reasonably.

“You actually expect me to go groveling to some bastard child of Isabel’s for my share?” Joanna stared at Meredith, shocked.

“I’m afraid you won’t have a choice. Mr. Gallagher and I will have sole discretion as to the disbursement of funds. In other words, you will have to receive our approval.”

“The bitch,” Joanna whispered again hoarsely, staring out of the bay window onto the luscious garden she’d been so certain would one day be hers. “The fucking hypocrite.”

“Joanna,” Charles reprimanded, “this is hardly the time to be criticizing our benefactress.”

“Benefactress my ass,” she hissed, her mouth twisting hideously. “She’s manipulated us, forced us to kowtow to Isabel’s droppings. It’s disgusting. Don’t you see, Charles? She did it on purpose to humiliate us. God, I hate her,” she exclaimed again, clenching her fists.

“Joanna, this is no time for tantrums,” Charles admonished.

“Charles is right. There’s little use getting upset,” Meredith countered in the vain hope that the meeting would not deteriorate further. She glanced at the other relations, who had remained silent. Ward was picking at a thread on the sleeve of his old tweed jacket. He had no real understanding of what was going on around him, but from time to time he pretended to listen. “I see no reason why Gallagher or I should refuse any reasonable requests.”

“You don’t understand,” Joanna threw back bitterly. “She’s humiliating us before this bastard, making us, her legitimate heirs, beg. It’s disgraceful.”

“I think you’re becoming unnecessarily dramatic,” Meredith answered quietly. “Soon we’ll have more information on Gallagher and get a better idea of where matters stand. But for now, I’m afraid you’ll just have to be patient.”

It took Meredith another twenty minutes to calm Joanna down and bring the meeting to a close, but finally she was seated in her Jeep heading home, returning the calls she’d been unable to take during the afternoon and looking forward to another lonely evening.

That night, after the kids were in bed, Meredith sipped a mug of hot chocolate and tucked her slippered feet under the old cashmere throw, thankful the day was behind her. It was always hard to be the bearer of bad tidings. In a way she sympathized with the Carstairs relatives. After all, Rowena had always implied they’d share her estate once she was gone. But what surprised her most, what she couldn’t fathom, was why Dallas had been so summarily cut out of the will. She and her grandmother hadn’t seen eye to eye, but surely that didn’t merit abandoning her?

Meredith leaned into the cushions and cupped the mug thoughtfully. She’d arranged for a phone conference with Dallas for the following morning, and was dreading telling her the news. Dallas had gotten a rotten deal all round. The property in Beaufort where Doug Thornton had raised thoroughbreds and where Dallas had spent the better part of her youth was mortgaged to the hilt. Presumably the only reason the bank hadn’t foreclosed was because they knew of Dallas’s expectations. Now that those were dashed, what would the girl’s options be?

Taking a sip of piping hot chocolate, Meredith pondered whether Dallas could contest.

Analyzing the case from a legal standpoint, she realized probably not. The will was tight as a drum. Although it was her duty to see that the wishes expressed in the will were carried out, her sense of justice revolted. Somebody, she realized, pulling the file toward her, had to help Dallas. The girl couldn’t be allowed to flounder out there on her own.

Should she appeal to Gallagher? No, a man with his track record would hardly have an ounce of compassion. And he certainly wouldn’t feel any sense of loyalty to a family he hadn’t even known existed. To him, Rowena’s estate would be nothing but another windfall that some crazy old lady had seen fit to bequeath him.

And all at once she wondered if Rowena had known Gallagher, if they’d met. Somehow she didn’t think so. Surely if Rowena had been aware of who Gallagher really was, she wouldn’t have structured things as she had. On the other hand, Rowena was too smart to have made such a decision without a great deal of thought.

After flipping through several paragraphs of the long, detailed document, Meredith decided to go to bed. Tomorrow she would take steps to contact Grant Gallagher, and she would find some way to help Dallas.

Her determination to go to bat for Dallas increased as she remembered all the times over the past few years that she’d tried to ease the strained relationship between grandmother and granddaughter, and how Dallas had come to confide in her. She felt she couldn’t betray that trust, couldn’t let Dallas down, even though the girl refused to admit that she needed help.

By the time she turned out the lights, she’d sketched out the beginnings of a game plan. The first step was getting through to Gallagher.

Dabbing another lotion-bathed cotton pad over her cheeks, Joanna peered at her reflection and sighed. She must calm her frenzied mind. She must think straight. Act. But how? Of course she would be in touch with Ross Rollins to see what could be done from a legal standpoint, but surely there must be something else she could do to sway things her way?

Rising from the dressing table and heading toward her lace-canopied bed, Joanna took off her peach-colored silk dressing gown and feathered mules, then climbed wearily into bed.

What a day. She’d woken up so happy, so certain that finally she’d hit the jackpot.

And now this.

She slumped against the pillows and wondered if she should visit her fortune-teller to see what she had to say. Oh, what the hell. That was just another expense. And God knows she had enough of those with a drawer full of bills sitting in her desk waiting to be taken care of.

But remembering the fortune-teller made her sit up straighter, brow creased as another thought crossed her mind. What was the name of that famous voodoo priestess Rowena had frequented? Miss Mabella. That was it. But now she also recalled that Miss Mabella was not easily available. There were times when she disappeared to the bayou, wouldn’t speak English, would only communicate in Gullah with her close entourage.

She shivered, pulled the coverlet up to her chin, both encouraged yet scared that she’d remembered the woman’s name. She knew it was dangerous to dabble. But still, Joanna wondered whether she was worth investing in. After several moments’ reflection, she decided in favor. After all, things couldn’t get much worse. She must use some kind of intervention if she wasn’t going to be screwed. And from all she’d heard, Miss Mabella had a trick or two up her sleeve.

The question was how to contact her? Perhaps she would ask Josie, her cleaning lady, tomorrow. Josie had an aunt who lived in what she believed was the same neighborhood as Miss Mabella. Maybe she could make contact for her.

With a sigh Joanna turned off the light. Grant Gallagher, indeed. Fuck him. She was damned if she’d allow anybody, much less some illegitimate son of Isabel’s—whom she’d never liked, anyway—to take what should be hers.

No siree!

Despite her laudable resolve of having a quiet morning, Meredith found it impossible to relax. Tweaking her hair back and donning her glasses, she rummaged for the Carstairs file. Sitting at her highly polished mahogany desk, an heirloom from her great-grandmother Rowland, Meredith admitted ruefully that relaxing was not her forte. Plus the task ahead of her was no light challenge. Setting the thick manila folder next to her laptop, she got online, determined to find as much information as she could about the man she already considered her adversary. All her legal training taught her never to get emotional about a case. Ross would have told her it was none of her business, that technically the man was her client now, and that her only agenda should be to defend his interests.

But how could she when so much was at stake for Dallas?

Typing his name into Google, Meredith learned it was distressingly easy to acquire information on Grant Gallagher—the man was probably a publicity hound. There were newspaper headings, articles and pictures of him at nightclubs with beautiful blondes hanging on to his arm. The fact that he appeared to be outrageously handsome only made her glare more coldly at his wolfish smile. No doubt his behavior in the bedroom matched his ruthless actions in the boardroom.

Logging off, she pulled out a thick sheaf of papers, realizing that even if the man willingly lived his life in the public eye, there were details in this folder that were intensely private. Details that he wouldn’t want to share; information about himself that even he didn’t know. Despite her contempt for him, she felt as if she were committing a violation. Rowena’s detectives had been nothing if not thorough, she reflected, her lips curling cynically.

She skimmed once more over his case history. He didn’t have much of a childhood, she admitted grudgingly, her brow knit. Grant had been adopted at birth by a wealthy couple unable to have children, who then divorced when he was four. Both parents had subsequently remarried several times. Judging by the frequent changes in address and the different schools he’d attended throughout Europe, it was obvious the man had lived an erratic youth in which his adoptive parents had figured little. They probably cared even less.

She studied a glamorous photo of Raymond and Gina Gallagher, clipped from some sixties-era society page. Although a handsome couple, they looked more impressed with themselves than with each other. Grant had probably been adopted to serve as a plug in a leaking tub. When the plug failed, the tub had drained and the child was left to fend for himself. Well, not entirely. There seemed to be some serious financial security. But that kind of life couldn’t have been easy.

His experiences hadn’t impeded his getting ahead at the expense of others, she recognized, reaching for the bottle of Evian that she’d carried in from the kitchen. She would have imagined that someone who’d had an emotionally deprived childhood, albeit a financially secure one, would be sensitive to the needs of others. But apparently empathy wasn’t a word in Gallagher’s lexicon.

Meredith sighed, remembering her own happy childhood, her loving parents and sibling. Even when she’d been at her most rebellious—like the time she’d led a third-grade boycott of the Webelos for not admitting girls into their organization—her family had been there for her, offering their love and support. She’d been one of the lucky ones.

Slipping the documents back into the envelope, Meredith rose from the desk and headed upstairs for a shower, trying not to think about her upcoming phone appointment with Dallas. She had all of fifteen minutes to get herself cleaned up and dressed before she had to head to the office. Time to get the show on the road, she realized with a grimace, yanking off her tracksuit and heading for the shower.

“It doesn’t matter, I wouldn’t have taken a penny of her money, anyway.”

Dallas’s voice sounded harsh and determined, and Meredith sighed. She’d just pointed out a minor loophole in the will that she thought might give Dallas grounds to contest, but the girl wouldn’t listen, despite the dire situation she was facing. Rarely had Meredith met anyone more stubborn and unyielding.

“Dallas, please, you need to think this over carefully. Let me give you the name of an estate attorney I admire. She can at least help you figure out where you stand.”

“Nope. I don’t care. I’ll just let it go.”

“But that’s ridiculous. I know the mortgage company is breathing down your neck. At least let me talk to them, explain how things are, tell them there’s still a chance you’ll recover something, or at least enough to pay off a large chunk of the debt. That should keep them at bay for a while.”

“Meredith, why won’t you understand? I hated Grandma Rowena. She fucked up all our lives. I don’t want any of her money. It’s tainted. This guy Gallagher’s welcome to it.”

“You know, technically he’s your half brother,” Meredith said thoughtfully. She didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to her before, but of course these two shared the same mother. They were siblings. Surely that had to count for something?

A short silence ensued. “So? What if he is my half brother? I don’t know him, he doesn’t know me. Just because we were born of the same mother doesn’t mean we signify anything to each other. Why should I care about him? Or he about my problems, for that matter?”

“You’re right, I guess,” Meredith responded sadly. “Look, I’ve already sent him a letter to advise him of the inheritance, and I presume I’ll be hearing from him shortly. I’ll keep you informed.”

“Fine. In the meantime I’ll take that modeling job I was offered for that Australian magazine. At least that’ll keep food on the table.”

“Good. Go ahead.”

Meredith was glad that Dallas was busy finding solutions to her plight. Although most people would assume she was a spoiled brat, given the way she spoke and reacted, she possessed the tough, determined streak of a survivor.

From all accounts, the girl had lived a solitary childhood. Apparently Isabel had shown little interest in her daughter, preferring her social life to motherhood. After Isabel’s suicide, Dallas had lived alone with a father whose obsession with raising horses probably left little time or inclination to nurture the needs of a teenager. Lord only knew what kind of emotional baggage the poor kid carried.

Dallas wasn’t precisely a child anymore, of course, but she was only nineteen. Such an age seemed a long way off from Meredith’s own thirty-three. She thought of what that twelve-year difference amounted to in her own life. She had already experienced a wonderful marriage, two great kids and now widowhood.

Brushing the thoughts aside, Meredith turned to her computer screen and decided she’d better draft a follow-up letter to Grant Gallagher. She was surprised she hadn’t heard anything from him yet, but she decided that he probably was having his lawyers look over everything before he took the next step.

3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Damn,” he muttered again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a hard pill to swallow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charles rolled his eyes and let out a sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We?” Tracy shook her head firmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Damn right. Start packing, partner.”

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

“Mer, get real.”

“But surely they could handle it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just then the phone buzzed.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Gallagher on line one.”

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

“Good morning. Is that Ms. Hunter?”

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

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

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

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

“But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She already detested Grant Gallagher.

4

After realizing that her kids weren’t in the least bit upset over her departure—indeed, they were clearly relishing the chance of being thoroughly indulged by their grandparents—Meredith spent the better part of the nine-hour flight from Newark to Glasgow figuring out her approach. She was still steaming at how rude Gallagher had been on the phone. The man was totally irrational! She’d tried to call him back and make him see reason, but all she’d reached was the robotic voice of his answering machine. Now she was obliged to land on the man’s doorstep and be civil, when what she really wanted to do was tell him in no uncertain terms what she thought of his manners and attitude. She sent up a silent prayer that the detective’s reports reflecting he’d been sighted only two days earlier in the village were correct and that she wasn’t off on a wild-goose chase.

Adjusting the airline pillow, Meredith pondered the best way to handle the situation. Perhaps she should suggest a meeting at her hotel. She didn’t suppose the Strathcairn Arms would have anything as grand as a conference room, but as it boasted to be the only hotel in the Highland village of Strathcairn she had little choice in the matter. Since she was planning on a one-, maybe two-night stay at most, the hotel’s lack of facilities were not a priority as long as it had a half-decent bed and hot water.

Abandoning the morsel of cold chicken that she’d been shoving aimlessly around her plate, Meredith reclined farther into her seat and stared out the window. Stars dotted the horizon like Christmas lights. A full moon hovered illusively among the clouds. Without warning her eyes filled and she closed them tight. How ironic it was that after all the times she and Tom had talked about visiting Scotland she should be going there alone, and under such inauspicious circumstances.

She swallowed hard. Tom’s family’s roots were in Scotland, and traveling to the land of his forefathers had always been one of his dreams. Working in a side trip to St. Andrews or Troon—Tom had been an avid golfer—had held its own allure. They’d planned to make their way up the west coast and then travel to the Isle of Skye. Just wait until the kids are old enough to appreciate it, she’d always said.

Now she wished she’d shut up.

With a muffled sigh, she shifted the pillow farther into the crook of her neck and attempted to sleep. Regret wasn’t going to change a thing, she reminded herself sternly. The reality was that she was traveling to Scotland on her own, in mid-November, and the bleak weather forecast predicted rain, snow and subzero temperatures. A freak cold spell, they’d called it. Meredith shuddered, opened her eyes once more, grimaced at the chicken and the files in the neighboring seat and hoped the well-advertised central heating at the Strathcairn Arms really worked.

But after ten minutes it became obvious sleep was not on the agenda. Fiddling in her pocket for her Palm Pilot, Meredith turned on the overhead light and checked the weather report again, praying it wouldn’t interfere with the tight schedule she’d set herself. With any luck she’d be back home in time to make Mick’s baseball game on Saturday.

Closing her eyes once more, she tried to stop her thoughts from drifting to Tom and then back to Rowena, wondering what her client’s letter to her grandson contained. Had it been a sentimental soul cleansing, an expiation of her sins or merely a history of past events? Perhaps it was a justification of her actions.

But somehow, knowing Rowena, Meredith didn’t think the latter was the case. Accepting a bottle of water from the flight attendant hovering in the darkened aisle, she turned her thoughts to Dallas, who was still being thoroughly obtuse. The girl was obviously angry and confused by Rowena’s rejection, even though she’d had every intention of refusing the money she’d expected Ro would leave her. The real question, though, was why the relationship between grandmother and grandchild had deteriorated so badly in the first place.

From comments Dallas had made, it had become clear that Rowena and Isabel had been forever at odds. Was that why Dallas professed so little love for her grandmother? It would be natural that she’d side with Isabel, however inadequate a mother she might have been. Or maybe Rowena had created a barrier between them—perhaps when she lost Isabel, she simply turned her back on Dallas, unable to accept her daughter’s death.

Recalling the numerous conversations she’d had with Rowena, Meredith knew she’d loved Dallas deeply and that she’d spent many hours trying to breach the rift between them. It was therefore shocking that the granddaughter she clearly cared about was so summarily cut out of the will.

When Meredith last spoke with Dallas before boarding, she’d noticed something in the girl’s voice—a note of near-hysterical despair—that made her determined to try to secure some kind of financial benefit for her. Perhaps she should hint to Gallagher that he might be sued if he didn’t make a settlement with Dallas, although that was hardly ethical. Besides, something as trivial as a lawsuit would hardly faze a man used to taking on unions. He probably got sued so often he had a bevy of lawyers at his disposal to swat down anyone impertinent enough to assert he’d done anything wrong.

As dawn broke, Meredith watched the misty, translucent glimmer on the distant horizon turn into soft gray. It was only another couple hours before they landed. Changing positions, she rolled her shoulders and decided this whole situation had an air of the absurd. What must it be like to be left a large fortune? What would she do if Great-Aunt Agatha left her one hundred million dollars? The thought lightened her mood considerably. Aunt Agatha was the meanest old scrooge. She’d probably leave whatever she had to the cat-and-dog home. Yet she liked Mick. Imagine if her aunt died and suddenly left her son a fortune?

Meredith would not want that kind of responsibility for herself nor her kids. They were doing okay as they were. Of course, since she’d taken on the new responsibility of her own law practice, she exercised caution where spending was concerned. But she’d received a comfortable sum from Tom’s life insurance, her client list was growing and she had a paid roof over her head. What more could she ask for?

Tom.

She would give it all up in a heartbeat if only she could have him back, at her side, laughing that rich, deep laugh, teasing her. Oh, for the warmth and security of his strong arms enveloping her. What wouldn’t she do, Meredith asked herself, for just one more night curled up against him in their big, soft bed, cuddled under the goose-down duvet?

She must have dozed awhile for she jolted from a strange dream as the flight attendant’s voice came on the loudspeaker, announcing they were about to land.

Fastening her seat belt, Meredith dragged her fingers through her hair, then gathered her thoughts and her papers. She must stop feeling sorry for herself and concentrate on her client. For even though she despised everything Grant Gallagher represented, like it or not, he was now her responsibility.

He woke up stiff and bad-tempered.

It did not take long for him to remember why.

Now, as he walked along the bluff, doing battle with a sharp east wind and driving rain, Grant muttered a string of oaths. He’d been doing a lot of that over the past couple days, he realized, as anger coursed through him as furiously as the bleak waves pounding the jagged rocks below.

“Damn Rowena Carstairs,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the two pointers, Monarch and Emperor, scampering at his heels. Stopping at the edge of the cliff, his black hair whipping across his face, Grant gazed out at the water. Somehow she’d managed to resurrect the niggling demons he’d believed long put to rest. Questions about who his real parents were had haunted his childhood. His endless wishful thinking had always entailed the secret hope that someday, by some miraculous act of God, he’d wake up to discover that the handsome jet-setting pair of Raymond and Gina Gallagher, who, for some incomprehensible reason, had adopted him, would return him to two mythical figures he envisioned as his birth parents.

Of course, at this point in his life, he couldn’t give a damn about the past. He’d emerged unscathed and had built a life that suited him fine—no long-term attachments, no personal commitments except to himself. That some unknown woman should claim to be his grandmother and unearth his past was nothing more than a practical joke—and a poor one at that.

Except that he wasn’t laughing. Because, he admitted as he breathed in the salty, damp November air, he’d never doubted the letter told the truth. Had it been sentimental or soppy he might have been suspicious. But Rowena Carstairs offered no mushy regrets, no pleas for forgiveness. Just the bare facts. And to his annoyance, he couldn’t get it out of his mind.

Moving forward in long strides, Grant wished now that he’d followed his first instinct and thrown the bloody thing into the fire. He wanted to distance himself from all its implications. But even as he resolutely ignored the couriered packages from the lawyer’s office in Savannah, he found himself hypnotically drawn to all that they represented. For in Rowena Carstairs’s letter lay the embryos of answers to the mystery of his past.

Now, if he wanted, those answers could be his.

Grant threw a stick idly across the weather-beaten grass and watched the dogs hurl themselves at it.

“Hell,” he exclaimed, turning quickly about, his Wellington boots squelching in the mud as he marched back toward Strathcairn Castle, hands stuffed in the deep pockets of his Barbour jacket, each word of Rowena’s spidery black writing stamped in his psyche forever. It was an undeniable reminder that the world he’d created was an illusion.

With the wind to his back, Grant climbed the last few hundred yards to the castle. The black mood that had settled over him for the past few days was affecting his work. The deal in Sydney was full of loopholes. There was a possibility the principals might pull out. He couldn’t stand failure, yet here he was obsessing about ancient history. He better damn well get his act together, he reminded himself grimly, or the Sydney deal would evaporate.

He recognized, too, that his refusal to talk to the Savannah lawyer was his way of avoiding reality. By the time Grant discarded his Barbour and rubber boots in the cloakroom and reached the warmth of the library, he’d decided he had to tackle the Carstairs problem head-on, defuse its mystery and then put it back in the past where it belonged. Only then could he return all his attention to his present obligations.

Flopping onto the sofa, he analyzed the facts coldly. His birth family obviously had some degree of stature. After all, the tone of Rowena’s letter resonated power and wealth. Wouldn’t it be ironic if it was from her that he’d inherited his domineering nature? His mother had presumably been a more malleable sort—likely a society teenager who got pregnant, regretted her mistake and wanted her little problem to just go away.

Then why an adoption? Why not arrange for a quick abortion? Surely that would have simplified matters?

He sucked in his cheeks and viewed the facts through a distant lens: the pregnant young girl, the boyfriend who perhaps refused to marry her and a dictatorial mother accustomed to being obeyed. He wondered if his mother had wanted to keep—He stopped that thought in its tracks, brushed it off with a nonchalant shrug. What did he care?

The dogs, who’d followed him inside, now lay stretched out before the fire, the scent of their damp coats blending with fresh baking. Grant sniffed and glanced down at the tea tray set on the ottoman before him, realizing he hadn’t eaten all day.

Absently he picked up a flaky scone and spread it with a thick layer of creamy yellow butter and homemade strawberry jam. It was only late afternoon, but already the lamps were lit, their gentle glow illuminating the mellow hue of the ancient oak-paneled walls. For no specific reason, he recalled the feeling of pride and possession that had swept over him when he’d acquired Strathcairn Castle. It had been more than just an acquisition, more important, somehow, than his London flat or his New York pied-à-terre. It had solidity, a sense of history—something he’d never had. Maybe that’s why he’d refused to take out a mortgage and had paid the full five million gladly. By owning the castle outright, he immediately became a part of its legacy. Its history became his own.

Except now, thanks to Rowena Carstairs, he was reminded that the history he’d created for himself was a lie.

He pictured again his mother, a petrified young woman, betrayed by a man whom she’d once fancied but now abhorred, and bit into the scone, feeling almost sorry for the woman he’d created in his own mind. He was good at imagining deals. Now he imagined Rowena, the willful mother rushing to her flailing daughter’s rescue, like a battleship headed to war, determined to protect her child regardless of the consequences.

In the distance the phone rang, but he ignored it and poured himself anther cup of tea. He had no desire to talk to anyone.

The phone persisted.

Defying it afforded him a degree of satisfaction. He supposed it was that lawyer from Savannah again—the self-righteous one. Well, it suited his mood not to answer it, even though he realized that at some point he’d have to deal with her. Letting out a low laugh, Grant flung his feet up on the ottoman and crossed his ankles. Rowena Carstairs obviously hadn’t the first inkling as to what kind of a man he’d become. If she had, she wouldn’t have wasted her time trying to dump her estate on him.

Staring at the crackling logs, Grant listened to the continuous drone of the phone. “Bloody nuisance,” he muttered as it rang on persistently.

Then, rubbing the sticky jam from his fingers on one of Mrs. Duffy’s carefully ironed linen napkins, he hauled himself out of the armchair. The Australians and his assistant all communicated on his mobile. Whoever was calling the castle could stay on the line until the cows came home.

No one—and that included Rowena Carstairs—was going to make him do anything he didn’t want to do.

What on earth was Joanna doing coming out of Old Miss Mabella’s place looking anything but delighted? he wondered. Following her a few blocks, he watched her hurry down the street and cross into the park. He must definitely arrange another one of their little “get-togethers” and learn more. Why did the woman look ready to murder when he’d supposed she would be crowing? It was well known that the Carstairs family had lived for a while in the expectation of all Rowena would leave them. Had things taken a different turn? He doffed his hat to Miss Biggles, who was taking her pooch for its afternoon stroll. Perhaps he’d drop in on Ross Rollins. If anyone had the scoop, it was usually him.

The thought that the Carstairs estate might hold surprises left him strangely uneasy. Not that there was anything to worry about. After all, as he reminded himself several times a day, Rowena was dead and buried. She could harm no one now.

Or could she?

5

Meredith landed at Glasgow Airport remarkably refreshed, even hopeful, assuring herself that although she didn’t approve of Grant Gallagher, he was, after all, a highly efficient businessman. No doubt he’d come to his senses and realize it was in his best interests to address the questions pertaining to the will and settle matters quickly.

But four hours later, as she drove deep into the Scottish Highlands through torrential rain, Meredith’s enthusiasm had waned considerably. The rental vehicle didn’t have a global positioning system. There was a map in the glove box, but half the roads weren’t even marked. There were no signs indicating Strathcairn, though she supposed she must be somewhere close. And there was no one to ask on this dreary, gray, foggy afternoon except a few motley sheep, huddled near a barbed wire fence, that looked about as happy to be there as she was.

Tired and hungry, Meredith pulled onto the side of the bumpy road and, switching on the overhead light, studied the map. With any luck, Strathcairn should be only a few miles away. Refolding the map, she let out a huff, started the engine and drove back onto the road. At last, she caught sight of the sea, a churning gray mass in the distance. Her hopes soared. Switching on the bright headlights, Meredith peered through the veil of mist, relieved when at last she noticed some cottages up ahead and a dilapidated, weather-beaten sign that read Strathcairn, Sister Town to Mondreux, Belgium.

Crawling at a snail’s pace down the main street, she searched wearily for the Strathcairn Arms. What wouldn’t she do for a hot bath and a hot meal.

Just as she was sure she’d taken a wrong turn, she saw it, a stark white edifice lit up by a blue neon sign. Relieved, Meredith parked, grabbed her luggage and hastened to the front door.

She was met by a dizzying vision of bright red-and-gold carpet and blue velvet sofas dotted around what must be the lobby. Meredith blinked. But despite the garish decor, the place seemed warm and bright, and she could smell something cooking in the distance, a reminder of how hungry she was.

Moving toward the front desk, she put down her bags and pressed her palm on the bell. Hearing sounds from behind a glass door, she looked up hopefully. The door burst open and a large woman with vivid red hair, dressed in fuchsia leggings and a heavy Shetland sweater, appeared.

“Hello,” she said, a smile reaching from ear to ear on her freckled face. “You must be the American lady.”

“That’s right.” Meredith smiled back, thankful that she was expected.

“We’d begun to think you’d got stuck on the moors,” the woman said with a kind laugh and outstretched hand. “I’m Moira MacPhee, the owner. Now, if you’ll just fill in this wee form, I’ll take ye up to yer room. Och, ye must be freezing to death. Drove all the way from Glasgow, did ye? My, my. That’s a long trip, is it not? Now, let me take yer bags for ye, dearie. What ye’ll need is a hot bath and a bit of tea, nae doubt.”

Meredith filled in the short registration card and followed her talkative hostess up the brightly carpeted stairs and down the corridor.

“It’s our best room,” Moira announced proudly. “We had it redecorated last year,” she added, unlocking the door and showing Meredith inside.

“Lovely,” Meredith said weakly, staring at the boldly patterned purple curtains and matching bedcover, the plush orange armchair and Formica closet.

“Yes, well, Jim and I decided to go the whole hog and do it right,” Moira replied complacently. “Now, if you get yersel’ sorted out, dearie, I’ll be getting yer high tea ready for ye.”

“Thank you. Uh, what’s high tea?” she asked, curious.

“Oh, that would be somewhere between tea and supper.”

“Ah. That would be wonderful,” Meredith responded, laying her briefcase down on the table, trying not to blink at the color scheme. As the landlady closed the door, she sank into the orange chair and let out a sigh. At least the central heating worked. It was almost too hot. Well, she reasoned, if all went according to plan, she wouldn’t be here long.

After phoning her parents to tell them she’d arrived safely and a quick word with the kids, Meredith slipped into the bathroom, glad to see that Moira and Jim’s improvements had included functional plumbing. The shower worked fine and she relaxed under the hot-water jet.

She must, Meredith reflected as she dried herself, try to reach her quarry before nightfall. Who knows, with a bit of luck he might even receive her this evening. Not that she held much hope of that, Meredith conceded, brushing her hair back. After all, if the man hadn’t had the courtesy to answer her mail, it was doubtful he’d be willing to see her outside of business hours. Still, it was worth giving him a call before going down to what Moira had described as “high tea.”

She checked her notes for the number, then dialed and waited, listening impatiently to the double-burr ring and drumming her foot on the colorful carpet. After several rings a female voice answered.

“No, I’m afraid Mr. Gallagher isn’t available,” the woman responded to her inquiry.

“Could you leave him a message?” Meredith asked.

“Aye, I could,” the dour voice on the other end replied.

“Tell him that Meredith Hunter called. I’m in Strathcairn. I need to see him as soon as possible.”

Silence followed.

“Did you hear me?”

“Aye, a heard ye. But a doubt it’ll do much good. He’s been in a terrible mood the past few days.”

“Oh. Well, could you try, anyway?” Meredith insisted, hope plummeting as she tried to shake the nasty feeling that her trip might well prove to be a waste of time. Surely he would have to see her now that she’d made the flight from so far away?

With a shrug Meredith donned a warm sweater and made her way downstairs, hungrily following the scent of freshly baked scones that led her directly from the lobby through an adjoining door into the pub. Right now she was ready for anything they were prepared to offer. And as she followed Moira’s waving arm to a table in the corner, the noisy, welcoming atmosphere of the pub made her forget that tomorrow morning she must hunt the lion in his lair.

For now, she’d content herself by indulging in what was certainly the best meal she’d had in a while.

“A lady called, sir.” Mrs. Duffy stood in the doorway wrapped in her heavy blue coat.

“What lady?” Grant dragged his eyes away from the computer screen, annoyed at the interruption. The deal was still in jeopardy. He did not need a disturbance.

“An American lady, sir. A Miss Meredith Hunter. She’s at the Strathcairn Arms,” Mrs. Duffy added, pursing her lips, as though staying at the hotel implied bad news. “And,” she added, “she wants to see you as soon as possible.”

“Damn her,” Grant muttered, swiveling his office chair and facing Mrs. Duffy. She looked almost triumphant standing there in her old head scarf, coat and gum boots, rather like the prophet Jeremiah on a bad day, he reflected gloomily. Mrs. Duffy had little sense of humor and fewer words. He’d noted that her general outlook on life was negative. On the rare days when the sun had dared peek from beyond the heavy expanse of cloud hovering overhead, she’d assured him it would undoubtedly rain later in the day.

“Thanks, Mrs. Duffy, that’s fine. I’ll deal with it.” He smiled with an effort.

“Very well. Good night, sir. I left a pot of Scotch broth on the stove for ye.”

“Thanks. Great. Good night.” Grant nodded automatically, then swiveled back toward the computer screen. What the hell did this American lawyer think she was doing pursuing him when he’d already made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing to do with Rowena Carstairs or her goddamn estate? When he talked to her it would be in his own good time and on his terms. Not at her behest.

For a few seconds Grant tried to recapture the possible solution to the standoff he’d been working on before he was interrupted, but it was no good. He rose crossly and, glancing at his watch, decided it was time to pour himself a whisky.

Meredith Hunter.

She was like a dog after a bone, refusing to let go. Well, he was damned if he was going to make her task any easier. Why should he? Didn’t she represent the people who’d cast him out of their lives?

He’d thought quite a bit about his life during the past few days, and not by choice. An irritating series of memories flashed when he least expected them, taking him down distant paths he’d no intention of traveling again. Now as he poured the amber liquid into the crystal tumbler, the questions he’d ignored for years resurfaced. Why had the Gallaghers bothered to adopt him? That had been puzzling him for as long as he was old enough to analyze.

Telling himself for the umpteenth time that it didn’t matter, Grant took a long sip. Cold logic told him there were probably a million valid reasons for what had taken place in his life. He of all people should know that. Weren’t there a million valid reasons why he’d closed down the factory in Illinois last year? It simply wasn’t productive. The fact that fifty or so families had ended up jobless was irrelevant. What mattered was the outcome. Life moved on. Results had to be achieved.

Maybe Rowena and her daughter had thought the same way about him. He was an inconvenience that needed to be eliminated for the show to go on. Despite this logical reasoning, he found it surprisingly hurtful.

All at once he wondered what those Illinois families were doing today. They were probably fine, he justified, draining his glass. After all, they’d received appropriate compensation and the job market was improving. The latest economical statistics for the third quarter had shown that the recession was on the mend.

After pouring himself another whisky, Grant threw himself into the armchair by the fire—his favorite spot in the castle—hating himself for allowing any sentimentality to surface. It was all this Meredith Hunter’s fault, he reflected bitterly.

If she hadn’t stirred up the dust like this, his life would have continued on the even keel he’d set, rather like a tightrope walker who’s finally found his balance but must look straight ahead in order to reach the end of the rope. Now, thanks to her interference, he’d realized just how brittle his well-constructed world was. Why, he’d even called his adoptive mother Gina Gallagher at her luxurious old people’s home in Surrey, thinking he’d finally ask her the question that had been on his lips for as long as he could remember.

But when it came to the crunch he hadn’t asked, merely murmured the same old platitudes, then hung up none the wiser.

He passed a hand through his thick black hair, always a tad too long at the collar, and took another gulp of whisky. Of course, he hadn’t asked his mother why she had adopted him. Gina probably didn’t even know. Just as she didn’t really know why she’d married the other two husbands that had followed his adoptive father. And he couldn’t ask Raymond Gallagher, as he was long since dead.

It was just as well, he decided, thinking of how little he recalled of his father—of both parents, actually. There wasn’t much to remember but occasional visits from boarding school where he’d been shipped off at five, the sporadic perfumed kiss, the new husbands and wives to whom he was expected to be polite and charming and whom he didn’t give a shit about except that they were the momentary cause for his parents’ absence and therefore deserved blame. The only remarkable incident had been with Emily, the luscious blonde his father had married when Grant was sixteen. They’d gone on a trip on his father’s yacht in the south of France. Raymond Gallagher had been called away on urgent business, and Emily had wasted no time in expertly seducing her stepson.

Grant smiled at the memory. At least he’d lost his virginity in style.

But all that was history. At least the Gallaghers had never rejected him outright. Quite the opposite. On those rare visits home during his school years, they’d always been pleasant and generous. Too generous, he realized now, remembering the never-ending flow of checks that substituted for affection.

And now Meredith Hunter had pursued him to Strathcairn.

Grant got up and moved impatiently across the room to the window and stared out through the dusk across the lawn to the tossing sea beyond. Ignoring Meredith Hunter was probably childish, obtuse and unbusinesslike. But he really didn’t care. She could stake out at the Strathcairn Arms for as long as she liked. He was damned if he was meeting any lawyer until he felt ready; he didn’t care how far she’d traveled. After a while she’d get the message and leave.

Ignoring his earlier reasoning—that the issue needed to be faced—he ran his fingers through his hair. He was prone to willing problems away. It was a strategy that worked nine times out of ten. After all, it was much easier to forget the whole thing, decline the inheritance and the hassles it surely entailed. He’d let them give it to the next in line. That was fine by him.

Turning his back on the fading Scottish scenery, he marched into the study and without more ado sat down at the computer. If there was one guaranteed way to avoid reality, it was wheeling deals, and as luck would have it a new one had come onto his radar screen this very morning: an old-world resort hotel sitting on a huge chunk of valuable land in the Adirondacks. Definitely a good time to tap into his creative juices and work the magic he was renowned for, Grant decided, skimming through his latest e-mails. Of course, if he carried out the plan at present burgeoning in his mind, he would close down the resort, he realized, eyes focusing on the potential offer. But hey, that was par for the course. Win a few, lose a few. That was his life philosophy.

And he planned for it to stay that way.

6

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.

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