Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
L ong before the end of the day, Holt became convinced his notion of a quick return to California was a lost cause. The house was too big, contained too many valuable things mixed with utter beachy kitsch , and needed too much work for him to be able to manage the estate contents and real estate sale from a distance. And if he didn’t stay, he’d have to return next week anyway to answer the damned summons. He texted his assistant to pack a week’s worth of cold weather clothing in two suitcases and overnight them to him. He always slept raw, so the lack of anything to wear tonight didn’t bother him. He could live in what he had on his back and in his go-bag long enough for two boxes to arrive. He’d managed with less.
He leaned back from the desk where he’d settled after touring the house to study the papers the lawyer had left with him. The room had darkened around the pool of lamplight while he read. Days were short this far north this time of year. He rang for Farrell, who appeared so quickly, Holt figured he’d been hovering outside the office door. “I’ll be here for a week— possibly as much as ten days. Which room should I use?”
“For the holiday, sir, would you like us to decorate the house, then?”
Holt snorted. “Not on my account.”
Farrell nodded. “Follow me if you’re ready. I’ve had the master suite prepared in the event you’d remain with us overnight.”
He should have expected that. “Not there. Are my mother’s old rooms available?”
“Apologies, sir, but Miss Caitlin is currently using that suite.”
He didn’t bother to ask what was behind Farrell’s hesitation. Miss Caitlin had quickly made herself at home, it seemed.
The master suite loomed large in his imagination. If Holt were a superstitious man, the idea of sleeping in his evil great-aunt’s bed would give him nightmares. He shook off the feeling. He wasn’t a child. “Very well, lead the way.”
The master suite was as ostentatious as the rest of the house. The heavy furniture and draperies didn’t surprise him. Nor did the plumbing in the master bath, barely modernized to early twentieth-century standards. It had the look of old-fashioned luxury but lacked twenty-first-century amenities. Still, it was better than what he’d grown up with. It would have to do.
“Your great-aunt had many of the rooms updated, baths included, but preferred her own as you find it,” Farrell told him. “The bedding, of course, has been changed, and we will acquire any toiletries you prefer. I hope you will be comfortable here.” He put Holt’s go-bag on the brocade-covered padded bench at the end of the bed.
Holt had slept in worse surroundings. “Thank you.”
Farrell went to the door, then paused. “Make yourself at home. Dinner will be ready in thirty minutes. I’ll escort you?—”
“I can find my way to the dining room.”
“The small dining room, if you please, sir.” Farrell nodded and left him alone.
Holt unpacked his go-bag and hung up his spare pants and shirt, then wandered around the room, picking up and replacing objects without really seeing them. He tried to recall details of the house’s main floor Farrell had shown him, but they blurred together into a montage of walnut paneling, colorful carpets, and beveled glass.
The master bedroom windows looked out over the back garden to the ocean, but night had fallen quickly, hiding the view. He stared out into the darkness for a moment, then checked his watch and realized he was going to be late. His stomach should still be on California time, where it was mid-afternoon, but perhaps refusing the meal and taking the tour immediately after a sleepless night coming cross-country had not been his best idea. Now that he was alone, he realized he was hungry as well as tired. He supposed a meal would help him adjust to the local time. He pictured the route to the small dining room as he headed out the door, then his mind turned to a potentially more pleasant matter. Would Caitlin Paterson be at dinner, too?
* * *
C aitlin entered the small dining room. Candlelight replaced the expected glow of the overhead chandelier. She noticed the second place setting at the head of the table and supposed that was the reason for the mood lighting. The new master was on the premises. No doubt, the staff wanted to make a good first impression. Not that she thought of Farrell and Mrs. Smith as mere staff. They’d been kind to her, and they cared for this place as if it was their own. They were special people. She hoped Ridley came to see them the way she did and took care of them, whatever he decided to do with the estate.
She took her usual seat at the side of the long table which, over her objections, Farrell had insisted she use for her meals. At least they hadn’t insisted on using the formal dining room, easily three times the size of this one. She should count her blessings, but she would’ve been more comfortable eating in the kitchen than out here by herself. Well, she wouldn’t be eating by herself tonight, would she? The laird of the manor had arrived.
She’d been so embarrassed by the way he’d found her, she’d kept her gaze down and barely recalled what he’d looked like. Tall, dark hair, athletic build, that was the sum of the impression she’d gotten as she hastened out of the office. She never looked at his face. What must he think of her?
Mr. Holt Ridley, billionaire heir to all of this, must have had quite a view— her with her head in the cabinet and her arse in the air. The thought made her blush, even now. She’d closed those pocket doors for a reason, damn it. But she couldn’t fault Farrell, not with the laird demanding entrance.
She dreaded their second meeting. What would she say to the man? Worse, what would he say to her? As far as he knew, she was just part of the hired help. Would he object to sharing the table with her? That thought didn’t bother her as much as she knew it should. Still, she would happily escape to the kitchen or her chamber, if she could.
She didn’t have to wait long to find out. Holt Ridley strode in as if he owned the place— in fact, he did— shoulders back, step assured, and not the least bit hesitant. Caitlin envied him that. Good looking, even more so now that he’d abandoned his suit jacket. Even features, chiseled jaw, his chin was neither too strong nor too weak; Holt Ridley’s looks appealed to her.
And that was a problem. She knew better than to get involved with the boss. Yet the white shirt he wore stretched over impressively broad shoulders. He’d also rolled the sleeves up his forearms since she’d seen him last, drawing her attention to his broad, tanned hands. Nice. Did he do any real work with them or just buy and sell, and count his money?
“Good evening.” She took the initiative rather than let him control their conversation from the start. She wouldn’t let him put her on the spot like he had in the office.
His stride broke ever so slightly. Had she glanced away, she never would have seen it. So he could be put off-kilter, eh?
“Good evening.” He met her gaze with eyes the color of stone, gray and hard, and took his seat. He frowned at the serviette on his plate, picked it up and shook it out, then draped it across his lap. “Is this usual?” He waved a hand.
Caitlin had no difficulty taking his meaning. He’d indicated the table setting and the small but formal dining room around them. “Somewhat.” She shrugged. “I’ve been eating alone in here the past two days. Though usually by the light of the chandelier,” she told him and gestured toward it. “The candlelight is a bit…spooky, actually.”
His gaze dropped from the light fixture to her. “Not the romantic sort, then, are you?”
Sarcasm seemed to be his weapon of choice. Interesting to meet her — her arse. Caitlin opened her mouth, intending to return fire. Fortunately, Farrell and Mrs. Smith came in bearing silver-domed plates, set them down in perfect synchrony, and lifted the domes away. The scent of their dinner wafting past her nose made Caitlin’s mouth water. No matter what else might aggravate her while staying here, she could not complain about the food. Tonight’s menu included poached salmon with dill, a potato casserole of some sort and bright green peas. Melted butter drenched a split roll, soft and still steaming from the oven. She smiled her thanks to Mrs. Smith as Farrell approached with a bottle.
“Wine, miss? It’s a local vintage, from a north fork estate.”
“Thank you, I believe I will.” If Mr. Ridley intended to be a disagreeable dinner companion, maybe some wine would loosen him up enough for them to have a civil conversation. At the very least, a glass or two would make her feel better about it if he didn’t.
Farrell poured for them both, then set the bottle in a crystal dish near Ridley, and left the room.
After a moment, she realized Ridley was waiting for her to start. Decided to be polite, had he? She picked up her fork and sampled the fish, which melted in her mouth. A taste of the potato casserole and she forgot her dinner companion for as long as it took to savor the creamy, cheesy richness. She hoped her eyes hadn’t rolled back in her head. She hadn’t groaned in appreciation, had she? She snuck a glance Ridley’s way. His gaze was on the piece of bread he was using to sop up more of the melted butter, but a small smile played around his lips. Damn, she had.
“It’s rather good, aye?” she asked, to cover her embarrassment.
“Indeed. Irish butter, I believe.”
“What?” She meant the fish and the potato casserole. “How would ye ken…I mean know …?”
“Oh, we’re quite civilized in California. All the latest food fads either start or end up there. Irish butter has been popular for months.”
“No’ in Scotland,” she muttered and tried a bite of the butter-soaked bread. She wouldn’t admit it tasted quite good.
“You’re Scottish, then?” He took a bite of potato casserole.
Caitlin grinned as his eyes closed with obvious pleasure. So, he had a bit of a hedonistic streak, too, alongside that sarcastic wit he’d displayed since she first met him. You’d think a billionaire who could have anything he wanted any time he wanted it would have gotten blasé about such simple pleasures as a cheesy potato casserole or imported butter. Caitlin found herself wondering what else would make his dark eyes close in appreciation.
Nay! No sense wondering about that. She was here to do a job, then return to Scotland. Ridley was here for a few days before he headed home to California, and she’d never see him again.
“Aye, I’m from Scotland,” she told him as his eyes opened. She dropped her gaze quickly to her plate, pretending she hadn’t noticed his lapse, though she couldn’t say why she did him that favor. She distracted herself by wondering if he knew her cousin’s wife’s family in California. That would be proof of a small world indeed.
“So, the estate lawyer thought the things in this house were British imports. That is the reason you were hired?”
Caitlin took the question as a challenge. “Aye, and for the most part, they are. He has documentation on some of it, bills of lading and whatnot, from when they were shipped from England, some recent, some going back many decades or longer. I’ve experience with many types of British antiques, most recently with pieces from the Jacobite period.”
“Which is…?”
“Eighteenth-century. ’Tis a long, sad tale. I’d sooner no’ spoil our dinner in the telling. Some other time.”
A small frown drew his brows together, forming that crease she’d noticed earlier.
“And your recent expertise with Jaco…what did you call it?”
“Jacobite. Whether any of the pieces in this house are Jacobite remains to be seen.” Even if she knew, she didn’t see the sense in telling the man over dinner that his ancestors had stolen some of the contents of this house from her ancestors, at best after forcing them from their homes and land. At worst, they had killed the men and bairns, then raped and killed the women. He wouldn’t consider that proper dinner conversation.
“When do you think you’ll…see?”
“I’ve only started, really. This could take weeks, perhaps months, to reliably determine the provenance of some furnishings.”
“Months…?” He set his fork aside. “I mean to sell this mausoleum as soon as possible. You’ll have to work faster than that.”
Sell this fabulous place? Was he out of his mind? “I’ll do the best I can, but research can take time. Perhaps after you have been here a few days, you’ll better appreciate what you have inherited.”
He set his jaw in a grim line. “Only for what it’s worth. I have no sentimental attachment to anything on this property. Quite the opposite.”
And didn’t that sound ominous? Caitlin returned her attention to her plate. Her dinner companion had nothing good to share. Her food, at least, she could enjoy.
* * *
H olt grimaced, certain that Caitlin, who had quickly dropped her gaze and failed to comment, had taken offense. She obviously loved old things, or she wouldn’t do the work she did. No doubt she had already fallen in love with many things here. He glanced around the room and hid a smile. That could work to his advantage. She’d naturally assign greater monetary value to things she admired.
Still, he pressed his lips together, fighting to keep from challenging her silence. It would do her no good to become attached to the house or anything in it. He intended to get rid of it all and never set foot on Long Island again, except as required to pass through JFK. The sooner she finished the job she’d been hired to do, the better.
Assuming, of course, that his lawyers could break his great-aunt’s will and eliminate the stipulation that he live here before selling the place. He could barely tolerate the idea of spending one night under this roof, much less ninety of them.
The thought crossed his mind that he could simply fire Ms. Paterson and get on with the sale. But no, he needed her to do her job. His company could use the infusion of cash, and if the contents were valuable in their own right, so much the better.
He took a sip of the wine Farrell poured and found it acceptable. Caitlin hadn’t touched hers yet. He tipped the bottle in her direction. “Would you prefer something else?”
Absently, Caitlin sipped her wine, then shook her head. “Nay, this will do nicely.”
He set the bottle aside. “I thought people mostly drank tea and whisky in Scotland.”
She settled back in her chair and eyed him.
Though he found her quite attractive, he didn’t enjoy her scrutiny quite as much as he’d expected.
“We do,” she bit out, “but we also drink coffee and wine. And we have the best water in the world.” She took a larger sip from her glass, then straightened. “I take it ye have never been to Scotland?”
“No, never needed to.” He took a bite of fish, his gaze meeting hers as he chewed. She had a glint in her eye. Apparently, he’d said something wrong— again.
“Never needed to? You don’t go on holiday?” Caitlin frowned.
Holt picked up his wine glass, then set it aside. “Vacation? I don’t have time. If I travel, it’s for work, though I conduct most of my meetings by teleconference. I’m here only because I’m legally required to be in order to settle the estate.”
She set her fork on her plate, her disbelieving gaze on him. “So to you, this trip is nothing but business.”
“Yes. What else would it be?”
“A chance to reclaim part of your heritage? To meet long-lost relatives who might still live in the area?” She leaned forward and waved a hand. “To enjoy the holidays away from your all-consuming work? I can think of many reasons why you could enjoy this visit.” She raised her glass as if in salute, or to punctuate her point, and took a long drink.
“Then you’d be wrong.” He would not let himself focus on the way her lips pressed the rim of the glass in her hand or how her throat moved as she swallowed. She seemed bent on irritating him this evening. Rather than becoming consumed with that mouth, that throat, he would go with her attitude. He emptied his glass and poured another. The bottle was getting low. “More wine?” He tipped the bottle toward her glass.
Her shoulders tensed. “No, thank you. And while we’re on the subject of the reason for your visit, how can you call this estate a mausoleum? There’s much to appreciate here. The beautiful furnishings, the history of the house and property, the setting. Yet, you just want to be rid of it. You Americans have no sense of history. Everything has to be clean and new, aye? I can imagine how your place in California is furnished— chrome and glass minimalism? Am I close?”
She frowned when he didn’t respond, but her comments hit too close to home. Not so much chrome and glass, but minimalism, certainly. He spent so much time at work, he’d done little to make a home for himself. His condo was a place to sleep and not much more until Helen Conroe threw herself at him. Now, he was back to sleeping alone, and let that be a lesson to him.
“I hope I can open your eyes before you make a huge mistake here.” Caitlin gestured with her half-full glass.
Her assessment made him uncomfortable, and that made him fight back. How much did she know about his family history? And him? He kept his hands on the table, one by his plate and one toying with the wine glass’s stem. Snapping it would show her that her analysis hit close to the bone, so he set it aside. “My eyes are as open as they need to be,” Holt replied, on the defensive and not liking it one bit. “I don’t need your help, except to do the job you’re being paid to do. That doesn’t include meddling in my personal life.”
“I see.” She laid her napkin by her plate and stood. “I think I’ve quite lost my appetite. I’ll bid you goodnight.”
Holt watched, frowning, as she left the dining room without another word. So, she didn’t like being criticized, did she? Then she’d better stop trying to analyze him and do the job that the estate— his estate— was paying her to do.