Savannah Secrets

“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?”