What a Woman Wants (A Manley Maids Novel) (13 page)

Livvy lunged again, this time her palms smacking the floor when she landed. Sean winced, trying to make sure she was okay out of the corner of his eye while still trying to watch Liam.

Liam wasn’t giving anything away. He smashed the ball again. Sean had to make a quick half turn to get into position, losing the momentum behind his swing, but luckily managed to get it back to the wall for Cassidy’s turn.

She lobbed it beautifully. Classic swing . . .
if
she were playing golf, one leg on-point, knee turned in, back gracefully arched.

Poor Livvy reminded him of Reggie after that storm: soaked hair clinging to a face that was red with exhaustion, her nose even redder from where she must have smacked it on the floor on one of her lunges, her clothing askew and sticking to her in sweaty patches, the hem of that ridiculous skirt cockeyed, the beads clacking loudly.

She looked utterly beautiful to him.

And that’s when Sean missed the next rally.

“Winner!” Liam’s racket went clattering to the floor as he swept Cassidy up in his arms and twirled her around, their heads thrown back laughing. Gloating.

Sean rubbed his triceps. Damn ball hurt. He was going to have a bruise. Not that he was vain enough to care, but it’d linger—which meant Liam would draw out his crowing about the victory for at least that long, and the story he’d invent would become consecutively inversely proportional to the color of the bruising.

“Sorry.” Livvy brushed her shoulder against his other arm.

The sizzle that accompanied it hit him harder than the ball had. He ran his hand over her shoulder. “Hey, don’t take it so hard. It’s just a game.” If this had just been between him and Liam, he would have choked on those words.

“I know, but I wanted to win. You did, too.”

“We’ll get them the next time.” Oh, great. He’d just signed himself up for another round of torture.

Needing a distraction from that thought, Sean turned around. “So Lee, you and Cassidy want to—”

Sean shut up. Lee and Cassidy did
want to
if that long slow slide she did down his body was anything to go by. And Lee wasn’t letting go.

But then he was. Quickly. And so was Cassidy, practically stumbling to get away from Liam.

This wasn’t good. Liam had gotten burned once already by a woman like Cassidy Davenport.

“You guys want to go grab something to eat?” Sean asked. Forget the rematch; Liam driving Cassidy home alone right now was
not
in his brother’s best interests.

Surprisingly though, Liam did manage to tear his gaze away from the tall, sexy definition of a bad idea.

Good. Maybe he wasn’t as into her as it appeared.

“Thanks, but I have to go to the office.”

Lee did a hell of a good impersonation of someone not giving a damn—unless someone
knew
that someone. And Sean knew Liam.

Shit. This wasn’t good.

“Billing’s backing up with my assistant out on maternity leave, and if the bills don’t go out, money can’t come in.” Liam looked at Cassidy with more of the sneer that Sean was used to seeing. “That’s how businesses work.”

Pain slashed across Cassidy’s face for a second. “I’m well aware of how business works. I did work with my father you know.”

“How could I forget?”

“Okay, then.” Sean tossed Liam’s racket to him since the status quo had been reestablished. “Give me a call after you drop Cassidy off. I need to go over a few things with you.”

He’d come up with something—maybe get Lee’s perspective on where to start looking for odd-looking baby cradles so he could get the jump on Livvy—instead of jumping
on
Livvy—and to keep Lee from doing the same thing to Cassidy.

Yeah, it was going to be a long two weeks.

L
IVVY
stared at the baby cradle in the wing of the museum her grandmother had endowed. It was the same one as in the picture, and the plaque beside the cordon rope said that generations of Martinsons had used it.

Olivia Martinson was the last name on the list.

Olivia
Martinson
?

Livvy didn’t think so. That name wasn’t even on her birth certificate, and as for sleeping in that thing . . . When? As far as she knew, she hadn’t been under Martinson guardianship until she’d been five. Was this the old lady’s push for dynastic excellence?

Livvy stared at it, trying to imagine herself in that ridiculously overdone curlicue Victorian design. She’d probably had nightmares—nothing new when it came to her father’s family. Present scavenger hunt included.

Livvy shook off her bad mood. Water under the bridge, spilled milk, all the clichés. She was an adult, get over it already.

Right. So where was the next clue?

It had to be something on the plaque because the museum curator would surely have found any note or carving on the cradle itself, and her grandmother had to have known it’d be cordoned off from the public—including her.

Then again, why should she expect Merriweather to make this easy? She still didn’t get why the woman was making her jump through these hoops. Did she just want to be known for giving her prodigal granddaughter the opportunity? Or was it because she
knew
Livvy would fail and wanted to pay her back for having the audacity to be alive?

Livvy sat down on the bench beside the display.
Would
her grandmother have been so devious?

It was possible. Merriweather had certainly never made the effort to welcome her into the family while she’d been alive; why should she be any different in death?

Livvy stood up, ready to leave. She was not going to dance to her grandmother’s tune any longer. She didn’t care what the next clue was or where it was or what it led to or anything. Let the old woman roll over in her grave, agonizing that Livvy wasn’t following her orders. Livvy didn’t care. She’d done well enough without this place while the woman had been alive and she’d do just as well now with her gone.

She turned to leave and banged into one of the poles holding up the ropes designed to keep the public out. And her. They were keeping
her
out. Just like Merriweather wanted.

Livvy fought off the sting of tears. Why hadn’t she been good enough for the woman? How could Merriweather have visited the sins of the parents on her, an innocent child? All her life, she’d kept a low profile, trying to keep from ruining the Martinson name because she’d never wanted to feel the full wrath of Merriweather.

Why? What had she done? What was wrong with her that her own grandmother hadn’t even wanted to know her?

Tears blurring her vision, Livvy knocked the pole yet again, this time making a mad scramble to keep it from hitting the floor. That’s all she’d need: to bring attention to herself right now while she was an emotional mess.

But shame on her. Shame on her for letting Merriweather’s inattentiveness get to her. She wasn’t a kid anymore. She knew the ways of the world and the workings of a nasty old woman’s small mind.

A slow burn started in the pit of her stomach. The woman wanted her to fail? Well, hell no. She was going to find these clues and inherit the mansion and enjoy every moment of selling it off to the highest bidder. Let Merriweather roll for
that
.

Livvy righted the pole, swiped the corners of her eyes, and rolled her shoulders back. She wasn’t about to let the old battle-axe win.

She reread the plaque.
Generations of Martinson family members slept in this excellent representation of every child’s dream. The Victorian design was commissioned by Albert Martinson to coincide with several revisions he was having craftsmen make to the Martinson estate.

Every child’s dream? It hadn’t been hers. The thing looked more like a nightmare. She certainly hadn’t dared
to dream anything when it came to the Martinsons.

But now she was dreaming about the Martinson maid. Wouldn’t
that
get old Merriweather’s goat?

Goat. Oh, crud. She was supposed to stop at the feed store to pick up a special blend of grain products for Dodger and his brothers to counteract the wool fibers they’d recently added to their digestive tracts.

She reread the plaque once more, then took a picture to show it to Sean later to see what he made of it.

S
EAN
moved the sofa back into place in the third seating area on the upper floor in the west wing after vacuuming the rug beneath it. How many places had people needed to sit and chat in Merriweather’s day? And on the bedroom level? He shook his head. Who understood the super rich? But it was not his place to complain; he was just glad this little area and the others like it existed. His architect’s plans called for them to be converted into meeting rooms for another source of revenue.

Sean repositioned the coffee table in front of the sofa and replaced the ornate crystal knickknacks that’d taken him the better part of a half hour to dust. If he never saw another nook or cranny ever again it’d be too soon for him.

The grandfather clock in the niche behind him chimed. Noon. The dogs had woken him at five when Livvy had taken them out. So he’d gotten up and used the time to clean out the nursery on the third floor, though he’d really been searching for the next clue, even checking for loose floorboards for a hiding spot. If yesterday’s racquetball game had shown him anything, it was that Livvy didn’t give up and she hated to lose. They had that in common.

Among other things.

He shifted uncomfortably, remembering the torture that had been yesterday. Her silly froufrou skirt had kept him guessing what was beneath it; her shirt hadn’t—and those lips of hers had made him want to taste every curve of her smile. He really needed to keep his distance and stop kissing her.

The problem was he didn’t
want
to stop kissing her. Kissing Livvy was unlike kissing any other woman, and while he liked that—more
than liked it—it also bothered the hell out of him. Why her? What was so special about
her
? If anything, this whole nightmare with her and the house and the money ought to have him so put
off
her
that they could be naked in the same room and it wouldn’t have any effect on him.

Except that wasn’t happening. Just thinking about her naked got him as hard as this damn table and clouded his judgment, removing his focus from where it ought to be, making him rethink his investment. His business plan. Even his life.

Wait—his life? Was he out of his mind? His
business
was his life. This place.
This
was the dream. The one he’d decided on when Liam had made his first hundred K. When Bryan had gotten that big movie role while Sean was still cleaning out moldy old B&Bs to get them into “quaint” shape to build his company. He wasn’t about to give up on all his hard work. All his determination. Hell, he’d even put dating on hold, electing to end relationships before they’d gotten too serious so that he could achieve his professional aspirations. He wasn’t about to let some bohemian-clothing-wearing free spirit with a penchant for barnyard animals over regular social niceties tear down what he was working so hard to create. He needed this estate. It would make all the hard work, all the sacrifice, all his principle-compromising worth it.

He needed that damn clue.

Sean set the crystal pyramid down, taking care not to ding the mahogany table.
Baby cradle
. What in the hell could Merriweather have meant by that? He hadn’t found anything in the nursery, and if there was a playground on this property, he had yet to see it. All his internet surfing had gone nowhere. He was going to have to see what Livvy had come up with once she returned home.

Which she did while he was eating lunch, flouncing through the kitchen door with a flash of midriff that all but dried up his mouth and sucked every bit of breath from his lungs. The memories of her creamy, toned skin had kept him up—and hard—half the night. The woman was a menace on so many fronts.

“Hey, Sean! How are you?” she asked, her hair billowing out around her in the sunshine spilling in through the glass panes like a corkscrew halo. “Where are the dogs?”

He took a gulp of his iced tea. How
was
he? Hard as hell and frustrated to match.

Then there was the whole nightmare of this situation and what he was going to do about it, not to mention sounding like Merriweather’s stupid poems.

“Uh, good,” was the safer answer. “And I let them out. I’m surprised you didn’t see them. Ah, shit. Maybe they ran away?”

Livvy shook her head. “That’s the thing with rescues; they’re grateful for the home you give them. They won’t go anywhere. Probably just scoping out their new territory. They’ll be back.”

Good. He didn’t need to take her four-legged family
away from her, too. “So, any luck?”

She shrugged and there went that midriff peeking again. The woman needed new clothes. Preferably something drab like a burlap sack. Though she’d probably look gorgeous in that, too. Livvy
was
gorgeous, and her sunshine personality only made the outer packaging more appealing.

“I found the cradle. My grandmother claims I slept in it, but that’s not possible. I’m wondering if her mind was going at the end.”

Sean had his own reasons for questioning the workings of Livvy’s grandmother’s mind, but her having lost it wasn’t one of them. “Merriweather seemed pretty sharp to me.” And pretty
shark
, too. She was driving
him
out of his mind, but Mac was probably right. Having dealt with her one-on-one while making his plans, Sean could attest to Merriweather being a savvy businesswoman. He’d bet she’d known exactly what she was doing by changing her will yet still letting him believe the place was his.

Then again, betting hadn’t done him much good recently.

Livvy hiked herself up onto the countertop next to the barstool he was sitting on, smelling too damn good for his liking, and he rethought that bet thing.

“The cradle was cordoned off so I couldn’t get close, but I doubt there was anything in it or on it for me to see. My grandmother would have known how the museum would treat it, so she couldn’t have expected me to be able to inspect it all that closely.” She pulled a digital camera from the sack that functioned as her purse. He’d never seen such a sorry excuse for a bag, but then, things around Livvy were always skewed a little left of center. “Here, read this. Tell me what you think it means.” She zoomed in on a plaque.

Read it? He didn’t think so. Sean picked up his glass and stood. Trying to make sense of the letters was too humiliating to do around other people, even his own family. He hated showing that weakness, and he’d be dammed if he’d let Livvy see it. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to pull out his tablet to have it read to him. Over the years he’d learned tricks to keep people from learning about his “issue.” He’d had to; they’d look at him pityingly once they found out and it’d taint their opinion of him. If there was one thing Sean hated it was to be pitied. “Sometimes it makes more sense when you read it aloud.” He made a big production of getting more iced tea from the fridge. “Why don’t you read it to me?”

Livvy nibbled on her bottom lip—damn her—then cocked her head to the side, those gorgeous auburn curls cascading down her arm and over her breast, the ends almost reaching the countertop, and Sean had to swallow a groan trying
not
to imagine what they would feel like trailing across his skin.

Damn stupid pants.

He slid back onto the barstool before the thinness of the fabric became any
more
evident, but then he was treated to the site of Livvy’s perfectly shaped calf as she swung it over the other in a rhythm only she could hear, her silly combat boot making the slightest contact with his arm and Sean wasn’t about to move.

Pitiful. So damn pitiful that he had to struggle to focus on what she was telling him instead of the sexy way her lips moved
while
she was telling him.

“I think the clue has something to do with whoever made the cradle. The plaque mentions work a craftsman was doing around here.” She tucked the hair behind her ears, which made it swish against her breast again, and Sean’s cock jerked at the movement.

Really
damn stupid pants.

“With the size of this place, that could take a lot longer than two weeks to figure out.” She held out the camera again and the scent of her perfume or soap—or with his luck, her normal, everyday, drive-him-out-of-his-mind scent—circled around him like a net, reeling him in. “What do you think?”

He was thinking more about the act that
filled
cradles than the cradles themselves. “I think you might not want to sit so close.”

She cocked her head some more, looking way too cute. “I won’t? Why?”

She really had to ask? Sean’s confidence shrank a little at that—but that was the only thing that did. Man, she looked amazing with that wild hair and her bright eyes and those breasts that were straining against her top so much he could see the outline of her nipples.