Whiteout

Chapter Eleven

His hair was dark, a rich milk chocolate with some lighter strands and glints of red from time spent outdoors—judging by his suntanned skin. It wasn’t long, but it wasn’t short either, the ends barely touching his collar. Full and thick, it was probably wavy too, except she could tell he used plenty of products to tame it.

Brown eyes that were not the color of whiskey.

Short beard, neatly trimmed.

A pair of smart, plaid chinos, leather loafers—Prada or Gucci, no doubt—and a cashmere crewneck sweater that probably cost more than her monthly car payment. Derek St. John could be considered handsome, Breanna supposed, though not typically so.

Her palm sweating, she let go. “Breanna. Nice to meet you, Mr. St. John.”

“Breanna then.” He swept the hair back from her forehead. “Ouch. We’ve got someone coming to take a look at that.”

“Randall.”

“Yes, he’ll be by this evening.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “And we don’t have to be so formal, do we? Call me Derek.”

Okayyy.

“How did you ever make it to that cabin?”

“Blind faith.” And a dark savior. “Francie thinks I must have a guardian angel looking out for me.”

“I’m inclined to agree with her,” Derek said, rubbing a lock of her hair between his fingers. Taking a step back, he let it go. “Do you feel all right? Have everything you need?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” And with a nod, she smiled. “Except the charger for my phone is in my car. I don’t suppose there’s an extra one around here?”

“iPhone?”

“Yes.”

“I can get you one.”

“Thank you.” With a sigh of relief, Breanna fiddled with the cuff of her sweater. “Kayleigh, my roommate, will worry if she can’t get a hold of me, and I’m going to have to call my mom to tell her about my car.”

And that was not going to go over very well.

“She doesn’t even know I’m here.”

“No?” His brow lifted, and he smirked. “Why not?”

“Because I didn’t want to upset her.”

“Oh, I see.” The lawyer stepped inside and sat on the overstuffed sofa, patting the space beside him. “Just know cell service is unreliable up here. It comes and goes depending on the weather, even with a signal booster. Wi-Fi works most of the time, though.”

Great.

“She’s gonna kill me.”

“For wrecking the car?”

Breanna shot him a look. For starters.

Derek’s hand came down on her leg, patting her knee. “We can fix the car. I think she’ll be relieved you’re okay, so don’t worry.”

“How bad is it?” Biting her lip, Breanna turned in her seat, and his hand moved away.

“It’s going to be in the shop for a few weeks, but it’ll be as good as new,” he assured her.

A few weeks? Jesus, with school, she couldn’t possibly stay here that long. Well, technically she could. She did bring her Mac with her, but she only brought enough clothes for a few days, not a few weeks.

“Did they say how much it’s going to be to fix it?”

“You don’t have to worry about that, Breanna.” His hands gently settled on her shoulders.

“Yes, I do,” she insisted. “My credit card has a limit, you know, and it’s only five grand.”

Of which she’d already used a thousand, give or take, so make that four.

“You’re a Dalton.” He winked. “I already took care of it, so no, you don’t.”

Grandmama’s money.

“She’s got lots of it.”

Still, this man seemed so very kind, and for that she was grateful.

Nervously, Breanna licked her lips. “I don’t know what to call her.”

“Who?”

“Valerie…my grandmother.” A snigger escaped. “I mean, yes, she’s my father’s mother, but I don’t know her at all.”

“Who do you think of her as?”

Just a name.

“I call her Grandmama in my head,” Breanna admitted with a soft giggle. “Can’t say why.”

“She’d probably like that.”

“Don’t know if I can call her that to her face. It might feel weird.” She shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out at dinner.”

Rubbing his lips together, Derek looked down at his lap. “Your grandmother won’t be joining us.”

Brows pulling together, Breanna shook her head. Isn’t that why Derek summoned her here? Isn’t that why she drove almost six hundred goddamn miles? Because after twenty-one years, Valerie Dalton wanted to see her son’s only child. She didn’t get it. Did the old lady change her mind and not want to see her, after all?

“Oh.” Fighting the sting building in the back of her eyes, Breanna looked at the lawyer. “Why not?”

Taking her hands in his, Derek lifted his gaze. He opened his mouth to speak, then pursed his lips as if gathering his thoughts for a moment, and taking a breath he found his voice, “Because she can’t. Your grandmother passed away two months ago. That’s why I contacted you.”

“But why didn’t you just tell me then?”

“I couldn’t tell you in a letter, and as her only living relative…well, it’s left to you to settle her estate.”

“And here, after all this time, I thought she wanted to see me.” A lone tear made a trail down her face. Swiping it away, Breanna got up and stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling glass. She snickered. “Silly me. Guess not.”

Derek came to stand behind her. He massaged her shoulders, his front pressing into the small of her back. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Though he was only trying to comfort her, he was too close, too familiar, and it made her uncomfortable. Breanna turned around.

Looking down at her, he offered up a sympathetic smile. “Hungry?”

“Starving.” Literally. She hadn’t had an actual meal in days.

“Shall we then?” Derek gave her his arm. She took it. “Francie’s duck is out of this world.”

He didn’t lie.

Roasted to perfection and paired with a blackberry-orange sauce, the duck was surprisingly delicious. Ready and waiting for them when they got to the family dining room, they served it with a medley of roasted root vegetables and arugula salad. Heavenly fresh-baked bread and butter. It was like being in an exclusive restaurant instead of dinner at home, then again, this was no ordinary house.

“Do you always eat like this?”

“Francie loves to cook,” he said with a chuckle, pouring burgundy wine into her glass. “She wanted you to feel welcome, same as I do.”

“You’ve both been so kind.” Breanna sipped on her Pinot Noir, glancing out the window.

“If you’re feeling up to it, I can show you around the house after dinner.”

“That’d be great.” Her eyes flicked back to him. “What did you mean, it’s left to me to settle my grandmother’s estate?”

“Just formalities. Documents that require your signature.” Derek smirked and cut into his duck. “We can go over everything tomorrow.”

“Oh, okay.”

Using his fork, he pointed to her plate. “What are you doing?”

“Picking out the beets.”

Carrots, parsnips, and fingerling potatoes, she could do—even rutabagas. But not beets.

Gross.

“Why?”

“They’ve always tasted like dirt to me.”

“They’re good for you.” He speared one from her plate, popping it into his mouth. “And delicious.”

“You can have them.” She placed her napkin on the table. “I’m stuffed.”

“No room for dessert?” His napkin joined hers. “Chocolate mousse. Francie adds a touch of Grand Marnier—exquisite.”

“That sounds good.”

“Tell you what, let me show you around.” Derek stood. Extending his hand, he assisted Breanna up from her chair. “And afterward, we can have our dessert.”

Escorting her from the dining room, his arm came around her waist. She didn’t want it there, but didn’t particularly mind it either. Besides, it would come across as rude if she shrugged him off, wouldn’t it? His touch didn’t thrill her as Sinjin’s had. No sparks. Her pulse didn’t race. Her breath didn’t catch. Though surely that wasn’t his intention, anyway.

Or was it?

Derek St. John, with his posh GQ clothes and suave politesse, seemed to be the type of man who’d go for a sophisticated woman. Someone who could play hostess at his dinner parties and make him look good. Breanna envisioned a trophy wife in his future, but then perhaps he already had one.

Beyond the three-story foyer that really couldn’t be called a foyer, he led her through a media room, game room, library, and study. That’s what Derek called it anyway, but it looked like a home office to her. A sunroom, he referred to as the solarium. Fancy schmancy. An outdoor fireplace and kitchen on the terrace.

“Oh cool, a pool table,” she exclaimed, coming to yet another room.

He snickered. “Billiards.”

“Whatever.”

“Do you play?” Leaving her at the door, Derek walked toward a wall-mounted cue rack.

She sauntered up behind him. “I never miss a Thursday night at The Cheerful Tortoise.”

“The what?” he asked, turning around.

“Cheerful Tortoise. It’s a bar on campus.”

“I see.” Smirking, he gathered a lock of her hair between his fingers. “And what’s so special about Thursday?”

“Dollar beer night.”

He was kind of cute when he laughed, brown eyes crinkling at the corners.

“What? It’s two-dollar wing night too.” Cocking her head, Breanna grinned. “And I’m always down for a game of eightball.”

His eyes locked onto hers, and taking a step closer, Derek lowered his lips to her ear. “Are you any good?”

She took a step back, putting some space between them. “Maybe.”

“There you are.”

Francie stood in the open doorway, a man alongside her. Breanna presumed he was the paramedic who they summoned to check her head.

“I was just about to challenge Miss Dalton to a game,” Derek explained, a smug look on his face. He tipped his chin. “Randall.”

“Breanna.” She extended her hand to the somewhat bemused stranger.

“I think we’ll be more comfortable in the sitting room, yes?” Derek said, steering them toward the hall.

On the other side of the kitchen, which was also bigger than her entire apartment, pantry, and morning room—translation, breakfast room—and past the stairway that went down to the wine cellar, Breanna followed him into an inviting, cozy space.

Jesus Christ, this place is massive.

A fire burned in the hearth, photographs displayed on its mantel. Faux fur rugs on gleaming wood floors. She sat down on a cloud-soft sofa, styled with mounds of pillows and sumptuous throws, Derek close beside her.

“May I?”

Hunched in front of her, Randall pushed the hair from her brow, gently palpating the tender bump she fruitlessly tried to conceal. He shined a penlight in one eye, and then the other. “Did you blackout after the accident?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe for a moment.”

“You hit your head pretty hard, I’d say. Split the skin. That’s gonna leave you with a nice trophy.”

Huh?She shot him a puzzled look.

He smiled. “A little scar.”

Lovely.

“Any headaches?”

Slowly, Breanna shook her head. “At first, but none lately.”

“Nausea, vomiting, ringing in the ears, sensitivity to light?” Randall inquired, setting the hair he had disturbed back into place.

“No. I had a fever, though.”

“How did you ever find the cabin in that storm?”

Derek and Francie, their gazes homed in on her, looked at Breanna expectantly. She couldn’t tell them the truth, though, could she? “I don’t know.”

“Don’t you remember?” Randall appeared concerned.

“No.”

“Don’t worry. Memory loss, disorientation, and confusion are common after a head injury.” Patting her shoulder, he got up off his haunches. “What do you remember?”

“I went to Hank’s,” she recalled, gazing up at the medic. “They stopped me at the checkpoint and said I had to have chains on my tires. He put them on for me.”

“He’s been asking after you,” Randall said with a smile.

Hank could assure her Sinjin was real, now, couldn’t he? Tell her who he was, where she might find him. Breanna hadn’t dreamt him up. Unless she really was out of her mind.

She smiled back. “His wife makes the best banana cream pie.”

“That she does.” Randall chuckled. “He’ll be glad to know you’re okay.”

“Am I?” she wondered out loud.

Derek threw his arm around her shoulders, pulling her even closer against his side.

“I think you’re going to be just fine, but you have symptoms of a mild concussion, so you need to take it easy. If you get a headache that gets worse or won’t go away, experience any weakness, numbness, vomiting—things like that—we’re going to have to get you to the hospital over in Sacramento, okay?”

“Okay.”

The medic glanced over at Francie, then addressed Derek, “Call me right away if she seems confused or you can’t rouse her. Any unusual behavior.”

“We’ll be sure to keep a close eye on her. Thank you, Randall.”

“Would you like some coffee, honey?” Francie asked, holding onto his forearm.

“I’d love some, but my wife’s holding supper for me.” He patted her hand. “Another time.”

“I’ll see you out then.” Turning to leave with Randall, she glanced back at Derek. “Do you want your dessert in here?”

“Please.”

His arm remained around her shoulders even after they had gone. Shaking her foot, Breanna’s gaze shifted around the room, falling to the pictures on the mantel. She stood and went over to them. “Who are all these people?”

“Your family.” Derek came to stand at her side. He nodded toward an older photo of a striking couple. “Lawrence and Valerie Dalton.”

And the name had a face.

Her father’s parents.

She studied the image, looking for some resemblance to her own. It was hard to tell from the black-and-white photograph.

His fingertips brushed over the frame of a picture of two gentlemen in a boat, one of them proudly holding a prized catch. “My father, Raymond St. John, and your grandfather…I remember that day. They took me fishing with them.” His voice seemed strained. “Both of them are gone now.”

“I’m so sorry.” Her hand brushed over his forearm. “You’re related to the Daltons then.”

“Not exactly, no, but our families have been connected, so to speak, from the very beginning. It’s a long story. I wouldn’t want to bore you.” Returning the photo to the mantel, Derek turned to look at her. “My father was their attorney. His firm handled everything until he passed.”

“And now it’s up to you.”

“Yes, Mr. Maynard and myself.”

St. John, Maynard St. John. Of course.

Derek walked over to the other end of the mantel and handed Breanna a photograph. The man in it was young, around her age maybe. Handsome. Dark hair brushed his shoulders. Familiar blue eyes. He was smiling at the camera.

A feeling tugged at her chest. It looked like he was smiling right at her. Silly thought. Her eyes filling, she glanced at Derek.

His arm coming around her, he nodded. “Your dad. The last photo ever taken of him.”

A tear slid down her cheek. Breanna didn’t understand why she was crying for a man she never got to know, but then, maybe that was the very reason. She was robbed of the chance.

“Did you know him?”

“I did, though I was just eleven when Shane died.”

She nodded, doing the math in her head. That would make Derek around thirty-two.

Francie returned with the mousse and once Breanna swallowed the last bit, she rested the spoon on her plate, covering a yawn with her hand. “I’m sorry, it’s been a day.”

“You need your rest.” His fingertips grazed across her forehead. “Let’s get you back to your room.”

“Thanks. This house is a labyrinth, but I think I can manage.”

“Regardless, I’m taking you.” Derek rose, pulling her to stand with him. “What if you became dizzy on the stairs or something? I did say I’d keep a close eye on you, didn’t I?”

Good grief.

“You did.”

Breanna paused when they reached the second-floor landing. “I think I’ve got it from here.”

With a lift of his lips, his thumb hitched to the left. “I’m at the end of the hall should you need me.”

I won’t, but thanks.

She nodded. “See you in the morning.”

“I’ll come get you for breakfast.” Winding a blonde tendril around his finger, he murmured, “You intrigue me, Miss Dalton.”

Her head tilted to the side.

Derek leaned in closer.

“Danger, Will Robinson!” Kayleigh’s warning rang in her head.

Breanna stiffened.

Smoothing her hair over her shoulder, warm lips touched her cheek. “Sleep well. Goodnight.”

And he turned away, going left down the hall.

Goodnight.