Fiona Hood-Stewart – Savannah Secrets (страница 11)

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.