Waiting for a Forever Love (Lost Love #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

LONG ISLAND, NY, EARLY DECEMBER, PRESENT DAY

A fter the long flight from Scotland, Caitlin Paterson couldn’t use either of her favorite sources of caffeine to help her combat jet lag. She’d been hired to research and catalog the contents of a private estate seaside cottage in the Hamptons recently inherited by a Holt Ridley from California. With so much at stake, she had to make a good first impression, which ruled out coffee or tea spills on her clothes.

She hoped her contact at the National Museum who’d recommended her for the job was right about its scope and potential value to her career. Added to Caitlin’s recent work assessing a hidden cache of Jacobite treasures, this trip across the pond could cement her professional reputation. And that should guarantee her selection for her dream position in Inverness at the Highland Museum, which would make the uncomfortable trip worthwhile.

She shifted on the taxi’s sprung seat, trying for the hundredth time to find a position even slightly more comfortable than the one in the airplane’s economy cabin that she’d recently vacated. Giving up, she let herself dream of a leisurely sail across the Atlantic, complete with one’s own stateroom, gourmet meals, interesting dinner companions and, when one desired, glorious solitude.

And icebergs, rough seas, and motion sickness for a week, she consoled herself.

Still, she couldn’t complain. The advance from the Ridley estate’s solicitor, rather lawyer as they were called here, would have allowed her to fly business class. She hadn’t because she hated to waste so much money on the elevated fare. Stifling a yawn, she vowed it was a mistake she wouldn’t repeat.

A sudden slowdown and turn pulled Caitlin back to her present circumstance. The driver spoke into a box outside a large gate, which opened smoothly once he said her name. They had arrived.

As the taxi pulled up the long tree-lined approach, Caitlin’s stomach sank. The lawyer’s description had not done this place justice. She had done her research, she had. But the family was either social-media ignorant or exceedingly private. Or both. Nothing she’d learned about the resident family or this estate in the little she could find online prepared her for its sheer size. She’d never heard a pile like the one before her now called a cottage. It might be as big as her cousin Ian and his wife Lara’s estate, Cairn Dubh, in the Highlands of Scotland. Depending on what she found inside, she could be here for months rather than the two weeks she’d anticipated.

The taxi stopped at the front portico, a massive, white semicircle that fronted the stone and stucco edifice. “That’ll be two hundred and eighty-five dollars, miss,” the driver told her as he opened his door.

He got out, opened the trunk, and began unloading her bags while Caitlin dug through her purse for a credit card, mentally subtracting the fare from the advance she’d been given to make the trip. The fare seemed quite high, even discounting the conversion rate from Scottish pounds to dollars. And she couldn’t forget the tip. Americans expected a tip, right?

The front door to the estate opened, and a dapper older gentleman dressed in a dark suit and bow tie approached. He had a word with the driver, picked up Caitlin’s bags, and turned.

“Sir, where are ye going with those?”

The driver opened her door and stepped back. “He took care of everything. Just follow him inside.”

“Aye? Very good.” Caitlin stuffed her wallet back in her purse, and after looking around to make sure she wasn’t going to leave something behind, she got out. “Thank you,” she mumbled and headed up the steps, barely aware when the taxi pulled away.

The gentleman waited for her at the front door, a confection in beveled glass set in wood painted white to match the portico’s trim. “Welcome to Hampton Dales,” he announced without offering his hand. “I am Mr. Farrell, in charge of this property for the Ridley family. You may dispense with the title and call me Farrell.” He opened the front door, gestured her inside, and again, picked up her bags. “If you’ll allow me, I will show you to your rooms, and later, give you a tour of the house.”

He sounded like a bloody English butler minus the accent. She heard some New York in his speech, calling on her recollection of American cop shows she’d seen. He didn’t sound like Ian’s wife, Lara, so he was not from California like the heir to this great pile. Caitlin managed a polite nod before she responded. “Thank you, Farrell, I’d appreciate that.”

She entered the house but had to pause in the high-ceilinged foyer to admire a sparkling chandelier. “Waterford?”

“Baccarat, miss. I apologize for the lack of seasonal decorations, but given the circumstance this year…”

“Of course. Such a celebration would seem out of place.”

“Thank you for understanding. Now, you must be tired from your trip. Follow me.”

Farrell led her to a suite of rooms larger than her flat at home, including a sitting room, a bedroom and a privy that reminded her of the huge Roman baths in the English city of Bath, complete with luxurious towels, scented soaps and a plush robe. If it included a stocked kitchen and a telly so she could watch her favorite TV shows, she would never have to leave it.

“I trust this will be suitable, miss.”

“Of course,” Caitlin replied, still intent on studying every aspect of her new surroundings.

The sitting room included a wood-burning fireplace, now cheerfully warming and illuminating two facing wing-back chairs upholstered in what looked to be butter-soft suede the color of cream. They were anchored by a navy-blue leather sofa, broad and deep enough for her and at least two other people to relax comfortably.

An ornately carved four-poster large enough to accommodate a caber toss, with a mountain of pillows at its head, dominated the bedroom. Farrell then showed her a walk-in closet that included a built-in chest of drawers, a wealth of shelves, and its own time zone.

“I believe this will do nicely,” Caitlin managed to say. “I didn’t bring enough with me to use a fraction of this space.”

“The estate has provided an allowance, should you require any new clothing, coats or shoes. You may not be prepared for the change of seasons here on the water.”

“I come from Scotland. Yer weather canna be any worse than a Scottish winter.”

Farrell cleared his throat, apparently too polite to disagree directly.

“As you wish, miss. Dinner will be served in the small dining room at seven o’clock. If you would like something before then, you have only to ask.”

Caitlin’s stomach picked that moment to rumble. “I believe I would— just something light to hold me over for a couple of hours. It is five?”

“Five o’clock, yes. I’ll have Mrs. Smith bring a tray straight up. Wine, cheese, fruit, paté, and crackers? Or would you prefer something hot? Soup, perhaps?”

“The cheese tray sounds lovely. Thank you. Will Mr. Ridley be joining me for dinner?”

“I’m sorry, but no. He is, at this moment, still in California. He’s expected in a few days. By then, perhaps you will have a completed a preliminary survey and developed a sense of the furnishings contained in the house. An estimate of the time you will need to complete your assessment and catalog will, no doubt, be useful.”

Caitlin suspected that was more than a suggestion. Rather, he’d just given her fair warning. The boss would want information when he arrived. “Perhaps after dinner, you will give me the tour you mentioned.”

“I’d be honored.” He didn’t quite bow but inclined his head. “I’ll leave you to relax.” He glanced toward the door to the Roman spa attached to her suite. “Mrs. Smith will be up with a tray in a few minutes and will leave it on the writing-table, there.”

He indicated the surface with a nod in its direction, just in case she decided to take advantage of the sybaritic pleasures of that bath. He didn’t have to say it. The implication was clear. And, with a glance over her shoulder, Caitlin agreed. It was a damn good idea.

Farrell excused himself and left her to unpack and settle in. Her tray arrived ten minutes later, just as Caitlin had begun to hang the clothes she’d brought in the cavernous closet. She missed meeting the Mrs. Smith delivering it. By the time she noticed a slight noise in the outer room and went to investigate, the woman was gone.

Caitlin finished stowing her things and nibbled on the contents of the tray, then headed for the Roman bath. She might as well enjoy herself if she was going to be working and eating alone until her employer showed up demanding a progress report.

* * *

SILICON VALLEY

Holt Ridley frowned at his executive assistant as she placed a stack of correspondence on the exact center of his desk, a certified letter displayed prominently on top.

“Another one?” He stood and flipped quickly through the rest of the stack while he told her. “Send it back, marked Refused . Do the same with any others that arrive from this law firm.” He proffered the letter.

When she didn’t take it from him, he looked up, surprised.

She shook her head. “Sir, I’m afraid that won’t stop the inquiries.”

Holt shrugged. “They can send all they like. I’m not interested in what they’re offering.” He tossed the registered letter into the trash receptacle next to his desk.

“That’s not going to work, either…”

Holt sighed. The doggedness that made her an excellent executive assistant did have its drawbacks. She wouldn’t stop until she said what was on her mind.

“Why not?”

“A Mr. Thornton is waiting for you in the outer office.”

“Thornton as in?—”

“Barclay, Thornton, and Barclay, yes.” She held out a heavily embossed business card.

Holt took it and gave it a glance, then added it to the trash, along with the registered letter from the man’s firm. “Send him away.”

“I tried, but he won’t budge. He threatened to camp out in the reception area ,” she said and added air quotes, “if that’s what it takes to get a few moments of your time.”

Holt glared at the coffered ceiling above him in frustration. “That bad, huh?”

“He won’t leave until he sees you.”

She was very good at reading people— another reason she’d been with him for years— so if she thought Mr. Thornton was prepared to wait him out, Holt could be certain the man would not relent. Too bad she hadn’t told him what she thought about Helen Conroe. He sighed and fought back a curse. “Send him in, then. We can’t have a squatter in our outer office.”

Not wanting to give this Mr. Thornton the opportunity to sit down and thereby prolong their meeting, Holt stayed on his feet.

The lawyer, when he entered, was not the bulldog in a thousand-dollar suit Holt expected. He was slight and graying, wearing something off-the-rack and entirely too warm for the local climate.

“Mr. Ridley.” He glanced aside at the visitor’s chair and straightened his thin shoulders. “You’re a hard man to reach.” Thornton plowed on before Holt had the chance to ask him what the hell he was doing in California after sending interminable official correspondence that Holt ignored. “Since I’m certain your assistant gave you my card, I’ll get straight to the point. Your lack of response these past five months has forced me to come to you directly. Your great-aunt’s estate cannot sit unclaimed forever.”

Holt wondered how Thornton wound up a partner in a Long Island law firm. He was certain he detected a hint of a cultured British accent, but even without it, Thornton’s obsequious phrasing gave away his homeland, as did his carefully neutral expression. Holt was having none of it. “As far as I’m concerned, it can. You’ve made a long trip for nothing.”

The man had to be exasperated, but his face remained calm, his demeanor unruffled.

“On the contrary, Mr. Ridley. I’ve brought your great-aunt’s last will and testament, along with papers for you to sign. I hope we can conclude our business amicably, sir, because I also have with me a summons from the district court of Suffolk County, New York that I have been authorized and directed to serve should we fail in our discussion.”

Holt frowned. “On what grounds?”

Thornton’s expression didn’t change. “Abandonment of historic property. The house known as Hampton Dales is on the register of historical places in the county. I understand from your great-aunt that the contents, family heirlooms and such, are even more valuable than the house and property overlooking the Sound.” He cleared his throat and continued, “Which are quite valuable themselves. She left it all to you, sir.”

“I don’t want it.” He had made his own money. He didn’t need hers. His great-aunt had treated his mother so badly, that even after she escaped the old woman’s abuse, his mother remained certain the estate must also be infected with the curse on the family she claimed was passed through her uncle’s line. Holt had never taken seriously the idea of a family curse, much less that it could infest a structure they inhabited. But he had enough of his own bad memories about that place to keep him on a therapist’s couch for the rest of his life.

“Nonetheless,” Thornton said, “the will is binding on you.”

Holt heard a trace of irritation creep into Thornton’s voice, which suited him. He had heard quite enough, and often enough, from Thornton and his law firm partners to harbor more than a hint of irritation of his own. He’d begun to fear they would never quit but use some nefarious automation to keep sending letter after letter and make phone call after phone call. Irritation in Thornton’s tone told Holt there were people behind this and people could be manipulated. “Then I’ll sell it.” And good riddance.

“You may do that, sir, after ninety day’s residency.”

“What?” The. Hell? The sudden urge to sit down swamped Holt, weakening his knees. He fought it.

“Your great-aunt stipulates in her will that you occupy the property for three months before selling it, interrupted only by necessary and reasonable— short— periods which I must approve. She anticipated your antipathy and took measures to ensure you did not reject her bequest without due consideration.”

Holt’s hands balled into fists. He flexed them open at his sides and forced himself to leave them there. He refused to cross his arms protectively over his chest. He would not betray how his memories unsettled him to this…this— he took a breath. Person. His great-aunt’s solicitor, he told himself, was only doing his job. Holt didn’t have to like it, but he would not get his way by further antagonizing the man. What had seemed a game, stymying a law firm a moment ago, had taken a sudden and very inconvenient turn.

“That’s impossible. My home and my business are here. I cannot spend months on the opposite coast, no matter what my great-aunt’s will demands.”

Thornton set his battered briefcase on the visitor chair, opened it, then pulled out three folded documents covered in craft paper. “Her last will and testament and transfer document for your signature as heir,” he said, ignoring Holt’s objections and placing it on his desk. “A copy of tax assessments, surveys, blueprints of the house, and a preliminary inventory of its contents— with no valuation applied to said inventory,” he continued as he added a thicker bundle beside the first. “Per your great-aunt’s instructions, I have retained an expert in British antiques and antiquities to do a thorough assessment and valuation of the contents. Said expert has arrived and is being cared for by the estate’s staff, a Mr. Farrell and Mrs. Smith.” The last bundle he retained. “This is the summons with which I hesitate to burden you.” He gestured at the documents he’d placed on the desk. “Dealing with those would be simpler.”

Like anyone, Holt hated his wishes being ignored, but he held onto his shredding temper. The man had come a long way to give him something valuable, even if it held no value for Holt. “You can take them all with you when you leave,” he said as politely as he could manage.

Perversely, Thornton laid the summons on Holts’ desk, alongside the other packets. “I regret the necessity,” he said quietly, then straightened and spoke up. “Mr. Holt Ridley, you are hereby served and required by Suffolk County to appear in court to determine the disposition of your great-aunt’s bequest.”

Cold fury shot ice down Holt’s spine. He gestured toward the door, a clear invitation to vacate his office. “My lawyers will see about that,” he responded in as even a tone as he could manage.

Once Thornton closed his now-empty brief case, nodded and left, Holt dropped into his plush leather swivel chair and leaned back. He glared at the pile of documents on his desk, the summons on top. His great-aunt had caught him neatly in the sticky strands of her web. After the way she’d treated his mother, he couldn’t imagine why she was giving him the estate, and it was too late to ask her. Guilt, perhaps? Or was he her only living relative? He’d been too irritated at the intrusion and the reason for Thornton’s visit to think to ask. But his lawyers could find out easily enough.

If he didn’t sort this out, he was headed for weeks of legal proceedings about his aunt’s estate. After dealing with Helen Conroe and her lawyers for the last six months, the idea made his belly ache. He’d recently learned an expensive lesson when Helen tried to seduce him into a partnership with her. It didn’t take long before he realized she wanted Ridley Communications’ proprietary algorithms more than him. When he ended their relationship, he never imagined she’d sink to industrial theft, but she wasted no time infiltrating his company. When her man got caught leaving with Ridley company secrets, Holt had the employee arrested and took Helen to court.

Holt knew Helen would keep coming after his company. She’d made it personal. He wasn’t ready to sell. He’d turned down friendly offers in the past. Still, a white knight with deep pockets could help him fight off any attempt at a hostile takeover.

He eyed the documents that Thornton left.

Perhaps he’d been too hasty in tossing the lawyer out of his office. Thornton had mentioned cash reserves and investments, available only when Holt took possession of his great-aunt’s estate. The amount of those funds had not been specified, but even so, selling the English antiques from the old place seemed a sure-fire way to raise a lot of capital. The house and property were worth millions according to Mr. Thornton and to Holt’s mother before she died, but adding the contents could be worth enough to improve his cash flow and attract a trustworthy — and temporary— investor. He hoped they were right about the value of the estate.

The documents were precisely where Thornton had placed them on the visitor side of Holt’s desk. He regarded them as one might regard a toxic spill, with reluctance to approach or touch them. Yet, he couldn’t let his antipathy for his mother’s relative override his good business sense. Those documents led to a resource only he could use, even if it meant spending three months across the country on Long Island. It might be worth it.

Holt hadn’t thought to ask, and Thornton hadn’t mentioned what happened to the estate in the event Holt answered the summons and outright refused the bequest. Well, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to refuse it. He was going to use it.

He picked up the phone on his desk and told his assistant to book a flight.

* * *

H olt knew better than to take the commercial redeye to JFK. That overnight flight always put him in a bad mood, but his jet was in for maintenance scheduled long before the need for this trip came up. Tired and hungry after finding nothing decent to eat in his arrival terminal, he stared out the window on the short hop out to Islip, wondering how long it would take to hook up with a ride-share driver. Instead, a well-dressed older man in the arrivals lounge held a sign with his name on it.

“I’m Farrell, your great-aunt Amelia’s assistant. Luggage, sir?”

Holt glanced at his briefcase. He’d put the lawyer’s paperwork there, so he’d hang onto it. He handed over his go-bag, something he took whenever he traveled. One never knew when a flight, even his private plane, would be delayed or canceled by weather or mechanical failure. “I plan to catch a return flight as soon as possible. Let’s go.” The ride out to Hampton Dales would give him time to get his equilibrium back. He squinted in the morning sunshine as Farrell led him to a black limo and indicated a thermos full of hot coffee.

As he’d hoped, at the end of the hour and a half drive, Holt felt much better. The limo pulled through the gate that broke the line of the high, dense hedges lining the lane and made its way up the long drive to the main house. Farrell opened the back seat door and stood aside.

Holt swung out of the car and then turned to regard the house. Still, an overblown, overlarge tribute to the 19th century, with newer wings added to blend with the style but always looking oddly out of place.

The whole sordid mess was his now, evil spirits and all. If he was truly stuck here for three months, he’d spend the time doing what he could to exorcise the bad feelings he retained, and then sell the damned lot. Let them become someone else’s problem.

He started for the steps leading to the double front doors, then paused and turned back to Farrell. “Is the appraiser still here?”

Farrell glanced toward the house. “Yes, sir. She arrived the day before yesterday and went immediately to work.”

“She? I assumed the appraiser was a man.”

Farrell’s upper lip quirked. “Not in the least, Mr. Ridley.”

Whatever that meant. At the moment, Holt didn’t care. He wanted this visit finished, his business concluded, and himself on the first available flight west. He shook his head and mounted the stone steps, Farrell on his heels. On the porch, he paused, allowing Farrell to open the door. “Not locked?”

“Not when the staff is in residence— we’re well away from the village. The rare visitor tends to be from the waterside.” At Holt’s frown, he added, “From the occasional boat run aground. The point is wreathed in shifting sands, sir.”

“Indeed. I’d forgotten.” He’d beached a small rowboat here during a summer squall when he was fourteen but had not dared approach the house. What would he say to the people who’d turned out his mother? Hello, I’m the grandnephew you’ve never welcomed…I need your help? He could imagine how that appeal would have been greeted— with a slammed door. Instead, he’d rescued himself, walking a mile in driving rain and wind along the beach. Thankfully, he’d reached another estate before the coastline rose too high or steep for him to climb. The staff there had let him call his mother for a ride home. She hadn’t been happy to hear where he’d landed and warned him never to go near the estate again. He’d defended himself, determined to retrieve his boat, blaming the storm, and they’d argued. He still regretted some of the things he’d said.

He wondered if the remains of his little boat still littered the sand. Likely not, after years of tides and storms. Too bad he hadn’t been able to retrieve it. He had a sudden fit of nostalgia, sadness that struck him unexpectedly now and again. Grimly, he shook it off and entered the grand foyer.

The first thing he noticed was the height of the ceiling. It soared 20 feet, the cavernous space filled with a large, sparkling crystal chandelier. Ostentatious, he thought, especially for a place referred to as a beach cottage. Glossy black and white tiles laid on the diagonal drew the eye down a long hallway to large windows, or perhaps french doors, leading to the back garden, lush mounds of green punctuated by bright pops of colorful flowers. The blues of water and sky peeked through gaps in the landscaping. Doors lined the hallway left and right, open and giving glimpses of the rooms within, except for one set. Walnut, he surmised, the closed doors dark and rich against pale walls.

“This way, sir,” Farrell announced.

Holt tensed, startled as Farrell’s voice intruded on his inspection of their surroundings. “Is there an office?”

“There is, but perhaps you’d like a chance to rest and have a meal?”

“No, thank you. I’m only here to inspect the property. I’ll leave my case in the office, then you can show me around.”

Farrell’s mask of noble servitude cracked for just an instant, the line of a frown appearing between his brows, just as quickly smoothed away. Holt wondered what about his request disturbed the man.

“Very well,” Farrell replied evenly and then gestured toward the closed doors. “In there.” The doors glided open soundlessly at Farrell’s touch. He waved Holt forward with an open hand.

Holt let his gaze rove over the space before he entered. Sheer curtains softened the shaft of sunlight piercing a part of the gloom. A heavy desk centered on an ornate oriental rug in shades of red and gold dominated the side of the room nearest the window. Dark paneled walls and heavy green velvet drapery on the large, single window created a deep sense of quiet.

Opposite the window, a wide wall unit stood, doors open. Snug black pants-clad legs extended from inside onto the floor, then to crossed ankles and the soles of narrow shoes. The rest of her, for Holt was certain only a woman could boast those delicate ankles, was on hands and knees inspecting something inside the cabinet. He cleared his throat.

The woman’s torso jerked upward. A thunk, followed by a mostly unintelligible string of epithets in an otherwise charming accent, filled the air. She backed out of the cabinet, pert rear then curved hips, a tiny waist, and finally the rest of her on knees and one hand gripping a small flashlight, the other hand rubbing the back of her head. The gloom left Holt wondering if her hair was brown or auburn. As pale as her skin appeared, he decided it must be auburn.

“Your pardon, miss,” Farrell intoned from behind him.

“Farrell, how many times do I have to tell ye, dinna sneak up on a lass like that?” she complained as she turned, saw Holt and shifted her hand from the back of her head to her mouth. “Oops, sorry.”

Her comment to Farrell and her position in the cabinet suggested to Holt she was from a cleaning service the estate used. “And you are?” Holt kept his expression neutral, but it took effort. The view from the front was enticing, too. Large dark brown eyes in a perfect oval face, fair skin, dark auburn hair in a disarrayed pixie cut, and a chest designed to counterbalance her nicely curved bottom half. But her expression was so chagrined, he had to stifle a laugh. He saw no reason to embarrass her further.

“Caitlin Paterson,” she replied from behind her hand then dropped it to her side. “And ye are?”

“This is Mr. Holt Ridley,” Farrell announced from behind Holt’s shoulder. “The heir. Mr. Ridley, your appraiser.”

“Ach, I thought I’d have more time,” Ms. Paterson muttered under her breath, half turning to glance back toward the wall unit she’d just exited, then casting a narrow gaze on Farrell.

Holt was certain she hadn’t meant for that comment to be overheard either because she colored when her gaze moved from Farrell to him, and she saw the quirk of his lips. “Interesting to meet you,” he chided with a glance toward the floor of the open cabinet, then back to the roses staining Ms. Paterson’s ivory skin.

This was the expert antique appraiser the lawyer had promised to make a full and complete assessment of the contents of this overblown mausoleum?

“Sorry. I was looking for a maker’s mark in…well, I have no’ found it yet.” She shoved the small flashlight into a back pocket.

Holt’s body reacted to the idea of that pert rear under his own hand.

“You will have to continue your search later, Miss Caitlin,” Farrell interjected. “Mr. Ridley has need of the office.”

She huffed and planted her fists on her hips, then, with the heir in the room, must have thought better of arguing. She turned and closed the cabinet door. “Let me know when ye are done if ye will,” she requested and with a nod to each, strode past them and out the door.

“Young, isn’t she? Yet she’s the appraiser?” Holt couldn’t wait to hear how Miss Caitlin had developed her expertise.

“The very same,” Farrell replied. “She comes highly recommended.”

Holt thought about the view he’d gotten when he first saw the room and decided highly recommended didn’t begin to describe her.