Her Three Entrepreneurs [The Hot Millionaires #8] (2 page)

The Americans had increased their offer, and Gramps had turned that down, too. That was a couple of weeks ago, and they’d heard nothing more since then. She’d assumed that they’d given up. Surely Americans, however wealthy and influential, couldn’t control the lending policies of British banks, could they? She shook her head. Of course not, she was just tired and emotional, inventing impossible scenarios to make sense of a crazy situation.

Athena braced herself for the usual jolting as she drove down the rutted driveway to the isolated farm she loved so much. It was five miles outside the sleepy village she’d just visited, buried deep in the Hampshire countryside. She’d driven down this road so often that she steered round the worst of the potholes on autopilot, still fuming about the bank’s inexplicable about-face.

“We really need to think about having this road paved,” she said aloud, aware that it was wishful thinking. If the bank had their way, they would lose the farm pretty damned soon and the driveway would be the least of her problems. There was absolutely no way they could repay the capital they owed, unless they sold up. “Over my dead body,” she seethed.

She pulled up outside the rambling old house. As always, the sight of the three-hundred-year-old building, leaky roof notwithstanding, soothed her. An ancient wisteria wound its way lazily across the façade, and rambling roses…well, rambled there, too, competing with the wisteria for the sunniest spots. A gnarled old honeysuckle had been there for as long as Athena could remember, its sweet perfume as familiar and welcoming as the house itself.

She pushed the confrontation with the bank to the back of her mind, mentally cataloguing all the things she needed to get done before she could call it a day.

“Hey, boy,” she said as she jumped from the driver’s seat, her feet sinking into the mud that had resulted from the previous night’s rain. She hoped that rain hadn’t affected the haymaking. “What’s the matter?” Gramps’s collie dog, usually so pleased to see her, slinked toward her with his belly almost dragging in the mud. “Rowan, what’s wrong?”

She touched the dog’s head. He flinched, and her fingers came away covered in blood.

“What happened?” she asked, stroking his back until he stopped quivering. “Have you been getting into scrapes again? Did something fall on you?”

The dog whined. She checked him over, but apart from the cut on his head, now crusted with congealed blood, he seemed to be none the worse for wear.

“Come on, babe, we’ll get that cleaned up, shall we?”

The dog followed her toward the side door, still very subdued. Athena understood why when she stepped into the kitchen, the lifeblood of the house, and found it looking as though a bomb had hit it. Pots and pans had been thrown on the floor, cupboard doors swung open, and drawers had been upturned.

“Shit, we’ve been burgled. That’s all we need.”

Athena recovered quickly from the shock, wondering what opportunistic burglars could hope to find in the kitchen, of all places. Presumably, if they wanted jewellery or valuables, they wouldn’t look here. Not that they’d find much of anything worthwhile in this house. The family heirlooms, such as they were, had long since been sold.

“Gramps, are you here?”

She didn’t receive a reply, nor did she expect one. It was late summer, and Gramps and his two faithful employees would be making hay in the lower meadow. So why was Rowan here, interceding in burglaries? Alarm bells rang inside Athena’s head. Rowan was always with her grandfather—they were inseparable. Something definitely wasn’t right.

Rowan had recovered some energy and kept dashing through to the lounge, which they seldom used. It was too big, the ceiling too high, to make it a viable room to heat during the winter. Athena followed the dog, gasping at the devastation that was even worse in this room. The furniture had been overturned, the desk drawers rifled, books pulled from shelves, and pictures hung at crooked angles, as though the thieves hoped to find a safe.
They’ll be lucky!

Athena was so outraged that it took her a moment to realize that Rowan was now snuffling behind the overturned sofa. She followed him to see what he’d found, and her heart stalled.

Her grandfather lay on the floor, covered in blood, and he wasn’t moving.

“Gramps!”

She crouched beside him and felt for a pulse. Thankfully, she found one, but he was unconscious, his skin cold to the touch even though it was a warm day. Just like Rowan, he appeared to have been struck over the head, and a worrying amount of blood had pooled beneath his scalp. Athena didn’t know much about first aid, but she did know how to call the emergency services, which she lost no time in doing.

“Police and ambulance,” she told the operator briskly. “Get the ambulance here as quickly as you can.”

The wait for help seemed interminable. By the time it arrived her grandfather had regained consciousness, but Athena refused to let him move.

“Stay where you are, Gramps. An ambulance will be here soon.” Rowan snuffled round, wagging halfheartedly as he pushed his damp snout beneath Gramps’s hand. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been hit over the head by a sledgehammer,” he said, groaning.

“Which is pretty much what happened, as far as I can tell. Can you remember anything about it?”

“Not much.” He stared at her, his eyes unfocused. “I came back to the yard for something, heard the phone ringing, came in to answer it, and then, nothing.”

The cavalry arrived at that moment, and Athena gratefully ceded her place at her grandfather’s side.

“We need to get you to the hospital, Mr. Lloyd,” a paramedic told him. “That cut needs to be stitched, and you’ve probably got a concussion at the very least.”

“Can’t spare the time.”

“Yes you can,” Athena said firmly, holding his hand as they placed him on a stretcher and were about to load him into the ambulance. “I’ll follow on behind you.”

“No need, darling. You’ll be better off staying here and keeping an eye on things.”

“I can’t leave you by yourself.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“All right.” Athena capitulated, not wishing to put further stress on him by arguing. “I’ll organize things here, then phone the hospital to see what the prognosis is. Are George and Max still haymaking?”

“Yes, you need to work something out with them to keep the place going until I’m on my feet again.” Her grandfather’s voice was weak, causing Athena considerable concern. He was no longer a young man but wouldn’t thank her for reminding him of that. “Sorry to put all this on you, sweetheart.”

“Don’t be so silly, Gramps,” she said, kissing his brow, fighting back tears for the second time in one day, but for a very different reason. “I’ll make sure things are organized, and I’ll be down to see you later.”

“I’ll be home by then. No time to idle the day away in bed.”

“We’ll need to have a few words with you, miss,” a young policeman said as Athena waved her grandfather off, biting her lip to keep her emotions under control. “Need to catch whoever did this.”

Athena told the police what little she could. At their request, she took them on a tour of the house, but she couldn’t see that anything was missing. Most of the rooms were shut off anyway. Hers had been trashed, along with all the others, but if they were looking for jewellery, they’d gone away disappointed. She didn’t own any, apart from the gold watch that had been her grandmothers and which never left her wrist.

“No sign of a break-in,” the policeman said astutely, examining the kitchen door.

“There wouldn’t be. We never lock our doors.”

“That’s not sensible. Times have changed, and you countryfolk have to adapt with them just like everyone else.”

If one more person told her that times had changed, she’d be tempted to inflict a few injuries of her own.

“If they wanted to get in, and came out of their way to do so,” she pointed out, “the odd lock wouldn’t have stopped them for long.”

“Yes, but even so.”

Athena showed the policeman the rest of the house, meekly accepting his lecture on domestic security. Seeing her personal space so rudely invaded brought on a fresh bout of anger, so, when a van from a local television station pulled up outside, Athena didn’t hesitate. She needed an outlet for all the anger, pain, and frustration bubbling away inside her, and this could just be it.

“They listen to the police radio,” the policeman told her, seeming to think she wouldn’t appreciate the intrusion. “It’s summer, so there’s not much real news about.”

Athena didn’t know if he realized how crass that sounded. Their break-in might be nothing to this bored copper, but her beloved grandfather could have been killed in the brutal attack and no one seemed to give a shit, except her. The police left, the reporter asked her what had happened, and she let him have it, chapter and verse.

* * * *

“Hey, Bay, take a look at this,” Dexter called from the sitting room.

Bay stuck his head round the door from his adjacent study. “What is it?” he asked.

“This woman on television. She’s talking about us.”

“In your dreams, buddy,” Marty said, joining them from the lower floor and grinning at the sight of the redheaded woman filling the television screen.

“No really, she is. She lives somewhere called Blackridge Farm, and—”

“Why does that sound familiar?” Marty asked, his eyes still following the woman’s every move on the television screen.

“It was recommended to us as a possible purchase,” Bay said, taking an interest in the interview, “but they wouldn’t sell.”

“Oh yeah, I remember now.”

“Shush.” Bay waved a hand. “I want to hear this.”

“Us country dwellers are being forced out by corporate types who wouldn’t know a style from a stinging nettle, just because they want to turn our homes into fancy country clubs.”

The woman spoke with controlled anger as the camera panned to the façade of an attractive old building that looked in urgent need of modernization. It then moved on to take in the wider scene—green pastures dotted with sheep, a run full of chickens, a huge patch of vegetables that could have been organic, a couple of decent-looking horses. It looked idyllic.

“This is how the English countryside should look.” The woman’s pretty face, with eyes a compellingly deep violet blue, was flushed with anger. When the camera showed the devastation wreaked in her kitchen, Bay felt a deep rage on her behalf. “This is the way it’s been for centuries,” she said, still standing outside and pointing to the open landscape. “We’re adapting to change, or would, but obstacles are being placed in our way all the time.”

“Why do you say that?” the interviewer asked.

“Because rich people want to seize what’s ours just so they can get a little richer.” She expelled a deep breath, and Bay’s attention was drawn to firm breasts swelling with indignation. As the camera panned away from her, he saw that she was tall, and even through her uniform of jeans and old shirt he could see that she had decent curves. Her legs were long, and when she turned to wave a hand in the direction of the chicken run, he got a good view of a neat butt.

“Nice,” Marty said, voicing Bay’s own thoughts.

“When these rich jerks don’t get what they want through fair means, they don’t hesitate to play dirty tricks.”

“Athena Lloyd. Nice name,” Dex remarked when it was flashed up on the screen.

“They influence the banks against us and even break into our homes to attack helpless old men.”

“Do you have proof of this?” the interviewer asked.

“What proof do I need? We’ve lived here for years without any problems. And yet within a couple of weeks of turning down an offer from American entrepreneurs, our loans get called in by the bank, our house gets burgled, and my grandfather is brutally attacked.” Athena tilted her head to one side, a profusion of red hair falling across one side of her face, partially concealing a combative expression. “Coincidence? I don’t think so.”

“She’s lethal when she gets mad,” Marty said admiringly.

“Do you have any idea who’s behind the campaign you allege is being waged against your grandfather?” the interviewer asked.

“Sure I do.” She held up a very familiar letterhead—their letterhead. “These people, BDM Enterprises, don’t seem to be able to take
no
for an answer.”

“Fucking hell!” Bay’s eyebrows shot skyward. “She
is
talking about us.”

By the time the news moved to another story, the phone was already ringing. Bay let the machine pick up. It was one newshound after another looking for a quote.

“That was just local television,” Bay said, grinding his jaw. “But the nationals will have recognized our name and picked up the story.”

“What will we do about it?” Marty asked. “We haven’t threatened or attacked anyone. How could she think that we had?”

“Yeah, she has no evidence,” Dex agreed. “Why would she do that?”

“She’s upset, I guess,” Bay said, “and needs to blame someone.”

The phone rang again. “We can’t keep ignoring them,” Marty said. “That’ll just make it seem true.”