What a Woman Wants (A Manley Maids Novel) (8 page)

If he could figure out how that document related to the next clue, it might be the
unmaking
of the dynasty, because he’d be one step ahead of Livvy and could get to that last clue before her. If he kept that up, he’d prevent her from fulfilling the will’s stipulations.

Granted, it wasn’t the most honest method, but all was fair when it came to business. Especially when he’d banked everything he had on this venture. He’d done the research, contracted the preliminary planning, and planned a tournament-sized fairway on the surrounding properties. Plus, he wasn’t about to let his brothers down. This property would make his reputation. His company. His future.

Or break it.

S
TILL
planning on tripolyphosphates for dinner?” Livvy entered the kitchen an hour later, nice and dry from her shower—both from the rain and the one in her Roman bath—in a new outfit with Orwell perched on her shoulder. He’d buried his head beneath her hair and was snoring softly into her neck. Stress always tired him out.

“Actually, I was going for scrambled eggs with hot dogs. Want some?” Sean held up the pan of food that, by rights, shouldn’t be as appetizing as it was, but that apple from earlier hadn’t lasted very long.

“Is there ketchup?”

“You like bloody eggs?” He smiled, and when he did,
whoa,
baby
. His eyes sparkled like sunshine, deep creases bracketed his mouth in a set of sexy dimples, and his lips formed the most perfect smile she’d ever seen.

Then there were the most perfect
lips
she’d ever seen—and kissed.

Well, technically, he’d kissed her, but she wasn’t going to blame that on a technicality ’cause,
day-um
, she wouldn’t mind getting technical all over again.

“Livvy?”

She shook her head. “What?”

“Are you okay? I asked if you liked bloody eggs and you zoned out on me.”

She wouldn’t mind doing a lot of things on him, but zoning out wasn’t one of them. “Um, sorry. Hungry.” She stroked Orwell’s head, making sure he was still asleep. “Bloody eggs would be great,” she whispered. The parrot didn’t actually understand what she was saying—at least, that’s what all the experts said—but she wasn’t taking any chances that he’d take issue with her meal. She did try not to eat eggs or meat in front of the animals.

Sean served her half a plateful while she grabbed the ketchup from the refrigerator—the one healthy thing in it. And then she read the label. Okay, not quite up on the healthy scale; too much high-fructose corn syrup. That was why she made her own. Still, a little wouldn’t hurt. But, boy, she couldn’t wait to get to a grocery store and get some real food. Then Sean would see what he was missing.

“So you’re heading to the library tomorrow?” Sean set a bowl of canned peaches in syrup and two disposable water bottles on the table, then headed back for his plate.

Livvy just shook her head at the plastic that would end up in a landfill and the processed sugars that would end up in him. “Yeah. First thing. Then I thought I’d head over to the grocery store. Are there any foods I should avoid?”

Sean straddled the chair at the end of the table and set his plate catty-corner to hers. “No. I eat just about anything.”

Sadly, she saw that to be true. She picked up the rolled napkin he handed her and withdrew the fork from inside it. “So, do you live around here?” She took a bite. Not bad, actually. Although her arteries were probably going to start protesting any minute.

“You could say that.” Sean shoveled it in as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

By the looks of the empty fridge, that might be a good guess.

“What does that mean?” She declined the bowl of sugar that was supposed to pass for fruit.

“I have a room in the servants’ quarters.”

And just like that, Livvy was thrust into the past again.
The servants’ quarters
her grandmother had actually called them.
In front of
the servants. Livvy had been mortified on their behalf, though Jeeves had seemed to take it in stride. Mrs. Tildwell’s left eyebrow, however, had twitched.

Livvy speared a hunk of eggs so fiercely that if they weren’t already “bloody” from the ketchup, they would have been from her viciousness. “Sean, I think you should move.”

Sean’s fork clattered onto his plate. “What?”

Livvy set down her own fork. “I think you should move.”

“Look, Livvy, I know I complained about the animals, but, you’re right. Why shouldn’t you keep them in the living room? It is, after all, your house. I promise not to say another word about them.”

“What are you talking about? What do my animals have to do with where you sleep? The only place I’m planning to move them to after the living room is the barn. I’m certainly not going to toss you out just because you have your own opinion.”

A muscle in Sean’s cheek ticked. “Then why are you?”

“Why am I what?”

“Kicking me out?”

“What? Where did you get that idea? I’m not kicking you out.”

“But you said you wanted me to move.”

The light bulb went on in her brain. “Ah . . . You thought I meant to move off the estate. I didn’t. I meant that you should move out of the,” she gulped, “servants’ quarters. There are a hundred bedrooms upstairs. One of them has to be better than where you are now.”

S
EAN
hid a huge sigh. For a minute there, he’d thought she’d figured him out. But she’d been taking a shower when he’d snuck back into the library and grabbed a few pictures of that Latin-filled paper to decipher later.

“I don’t mind where I sleep, Livvy. The room’s fine.” And far enough from hers that she wouldn’t find his laptop.

“I don’t care if the room’s
fine
.” She finger-quoted it. “You need to move into this part of the house. I insist.”

It would look suspicious if he kept fighting her, but Sean couldn’t say he was exactly overjoyed. He still had a company to run, smaller though it was. Still had calls to make, plans to follow through with. Being within earshot could put a wrench in his plans.

Although . . . by being closer to her, he’d be able to intercept or overhear any clues she came across.

“Okay. I’ll move. It’s your house after all.”

“Not for long.”

She took the words right out of his head.

“Ah, right. But why not stay? That’d keep your grandmother turning for eternity.” Not that he wanted to encourage her, but he needed every bit of ammo he could get, and if there was a chink in her armor, Sean needed to know about it.

Livvy scooped a forkful of eggs into her mouth, the time it took her to chew and swallow ramping up his tension, though that could also have something to do with the way her tongue slicked over her bottom lip, catching the tiniest bit of egg there.

What
had he been thinking when he’d kissed her earlier? Talk about a bone-headed move—on so many levels that his bank account was cringing.

His libido, on the other hand, was pleading for a repeat.

“True, but this place is a monstrosity. And obscene. It ought to be a museum or a university or something. It’ll do more good for people that way than as a private residence. It should have been done years ago. What was my grandmother thinking, living here in this resource-hog all by herself?”

She’d been thinking that she had a legacy to pass on
, but Sean wasn’t about to share that since it ran counterproductive to his plans. But he understood Merriweather’s reasoning. What was the use of building something with your life if there was no one to leave it to? He sure as hell wasn’t building an empire to see it torn apart after his death. And Merriweather knew it. That’s why she’d given him first dibs. He even planned to name the formal living room after her. The Merriweather Martinson Salon. After he’d had it fumigated now, thanks to the animals. The old woman definitely wouldn’t appreciate alpaca sperm as a floor wax in her signature room.

“So do you have any offers yet?” Sean went for nonchalant, covering the urgency in his voice with the hot dog he stuffed into his mouth.

Livvy shook her head. “First I have to earn it, then I’ll put it up for sale.”

“Earn it?”

Her sigh was more expressive than words could ever be, and if Sean hadn’t known the true situation, he would have been able to figure it out from that alone.

She explained about the stipulations, guilt shriveling his spine a little at the unsuspecting truthfulness in her answer.

“So, since it looks like I’m going to be exploring the house, I guess you’re going to come in handy,” Livvy said, finishing off her food.

Sean almost choked on his. “Handy?”

“Sure. You’ve probably been in every nook and cranny in this place. Who better to help me find what Merriweather has hidden than you? You
will
help me, right? I’ll make sure Mr. Scanlon pays you extra.”

Hopefully, she’d put the sick smile on his face down to the preservatives in the food. What could he say but yes? A guy in his supposed position would be all about the extra cash.

“Sure.” He wiped his mouth with the napkin after he coughed out the hot dog that was blocking his airway.

“Great.” She sat back and threaded her fingers through her hair, the resulting fan around her shoulders not helping the events in his pants any. The woman was going to kill him. Either with frustrated passion or frustrated dreams. “So you want to come?”

. . . So not responding to that.

Sean covered his mouth again with the napkin. “I, um, was planning to start working on the barn.”

“Oh. Right. I guess that should be first on your list.” She gathered her plate and utensils and took them to the sink. The
clink
when they hit the granite woke the parrot, who decided to imitate David Lee Roth.

Sean arched an eyebrow. “‘
Just a Gigolo
?’”

The blush on Livvy’s cheeks was too cute for words. Just like her. Which was becoming a huge problem.

“Orwell, like most of my animals, was a rescue. He’d lived in a fraternity house for years until one of the pledges realized that nachos and cheese weren’t exactly the best diet. The story goes that he was ‘stolen’ during Hell Week. Poor thing lived Hell
Years
until that kid did the right thing. I’ve almost cured him of the foul language, but the song has stuck.”

“
Orwell wants a chip
,” the bird said in the middle of the melody in a totally different voice.

Livvy smoothed a finger over the bird’s gray crown. “Okay, Orwell, I’ll get you dinner.”

“Chips?” She complained about what
he
was putting in his
body? He’d like to know in what jungle chips were native fare for birds.

She shook her head and some of her curls swept over her breast—not that Sean was noticing or anything. “The song stuck and so did his dinner vocabulary. I’ve got the perfect diet for him upstairs in his cage. I guess I’ll head up. Don’t forget to pick out a new bedroom for yourself.”

“I’ll do that.” Right before he got to work on that document.

S
URE
you don’t want to come with me?” Livvy asked as she tugged the giant front door open the next morning in another gypsy skirt that brushed the tops of her combat boots.

At least today she wore a baggy sweater instead of a camisole. He couldn’t have stood another day of her body-hugging wear and maintained his sanity.

“I thought you wanted your animals in the barn tonight?” He sure as hell did. The mess they’d left in the living room this morning had put finding the next clue on the back burner.

“Good point.” She swirled around, giving him another inadvertent glimpse at those shapely legs. “Okay, then, I’ll see you after the library and food shopping. Make sure the animals don’t get too rowdy. The fleece, you know.”

Fleece was not uppermost on his mind this morning.

Because you’re fleecing her?

He turned away to hide his guilt. “Good luck with the research.”

He’d had a hell of a time figuring out what the damn document had said, which explained some of his mood this morning. His dyslexia was severe enough that he’d known he’d had his work cut out for him. If only he weren’t dyslexic, he’d be able to read the clues and be off and running, far ahead of Livvy. But no. He was stuck with plodding through various online translation programs and the text-to-voice feature on his tablet that had saved his sanity and his business many times. Thank God technology had caught up with his “issue.”

He’d gotten a crude double translation from all the programs, showing that the document had something to do with a gift from Queen Elizabeth I for service from her “most loyal knight.”

There was one thing in this house that was owned by a knight and was a “reward still standing.”

Twenty seconds after Livvy clicked the front door behind her, Sean was staring at the suit of armor. He ought to be making some business calls, but this was the most pressing matter in his business at the moment.

Where would Merriweather have hidden the clue?

He cautiously slid a finger beneath the opening at the elbow. Nothing.

He tried the other elbow.

Nothing there, either.

A sound came from outside, and Sean jumped back. He didn’t need Livvy to walk in and find him with his hands in the guy’s pants or whatever they called that part of the armor.

He counted to twenty, then went searching again. He wasn’t cut out for this subterfuge. Site plans and financial documents, yes. This? No wonder Bond needed a martini.

And a beautiful woman.

Sean shook his head, clearing the image of Livvy’s legs from his mind. He had to hurry up. He still had to move the rest of his stuff from his old room, check in with his permit clerk to confirm everything was still moving forward on that end, touch base with the architect who’d been out last week to take measurements, make sure none of Livvy’s animals had gone for a walk, and get enough work done on the barn that she wouldn’t suspect him of doing what he was about to do.

Sean shoved the guilt behind a steel door in his mind and put a metaphorical lock on it. He couldn’t let it get to him. Business was business.

Where would Merriweather have put the next clue? She certainly wouldn’t want anyone taking the suit apart; the woman loved the trappings of the family name too much to destroy something so vital to it.

Sean tried the suit’s neckline.

Bingo. There was a piece of paper wedged there.

Ignoring the bleats from the lambs outside the French doors in the makeshift pen on the patio, Sean slid the paper out and unfolded it.

More Latin graced the top of the letter and Sean groaned. English was bad enough. If Latin weren’t already dead, he might just try to kill it himself.

Thankfully, it was only one line of Latin in scrollwork at the header of the page, then Merriweather’s precise handwriting.

A half hour later, he listened to his tablet read it for the third time.

Brava, Olivia, for following the clues to this, the suit of armor worn by Henry Martinson III, gifted to him by Queen Elizabeth I for his service. It was from this man that the Martinson estates became a force to be reckoned with. He played the political games of the times, kept his head, and set this family on the road to greatness.

Now, in continuing your search, the next clue:

His father founded the family’s fame

’Twas up to Henry III to secure their name.

It took two wives for the deed to be done

And bring forth that all-important son

When at last the heir was born,

The lord had it proclaimed that very morn

For such joy could not be denied

And he told all he spied.

Any way that he could.

I
have preserved the deed in wood.

Sean stared at the screen, the letters making as much sense as the clue. Wood? He had to find a piece of
wood
? Like there wasn’t enough of it in this place. Where the
hell
was he supposed to start looking?

The crash that came from the animals’ holding cell might be a good place.

I
HOPE
I’m not intruding, but you’re Merriweather’s granddaughter, aren’t you?” The older woman standing across from Livvy’s table in the library had a halo of silver curls framing her head, and the smile on her face lit up her sparkling blue eyes in a way that gave Livvy every reason to believe the woman was a friend of Dragonlady’s, but not the reasons why. Livvy would have bet Merriweather had never looked so carefree and happy in her life.

“Um, yes. I’m Olivia—Livvy. You knew her?” She couldn’t actually call Merriweather her grandmother, not when this woman looked exactly like what Livvy had always wanted her grandmother to look like. Soft, smiling, and approachable.

“Oh, Merri and I, we go way back.” The woman’s blue-veined hands rested on the back of the chair across from Livvy. “May I?”

Livvy cleared the stack of books she’d been looking through. “Please.”

The woman sat down. “I’m Dafna Fine. Your grandmother and I played backgammon a few times a month.” She interlaced her fingers and rested them on the tabletop. “Well, we liked to say we did, but actually, we just liked to get together to chat.”

“Merri—my grandmother?” The woman played games? And chatted? Funny, the image Livvy had always had of her was either prune-lipped or barking orders.

“Oh, my, yes. Your grandmother was a fine card player, too.”

Cardsharp if Livvy had to guess, but she wouldn’t say it. Actually, she didn’t have a clue what to say. She hadn’t really known Merriweather. Not this side of her. “I, uh, guess you miss her.”

Dafna’s smile faltered. “I do. There are so few of us left.”

“Us?”

“The girls. Surely she mentioned us?”

Was this where Livvy poked a stick in the inflated image Dafna had of Merriweather’s largesse as a grandmother?

She couldn’t. Not to those kind blue eyes. “I didn’t see my grandmother all that much.” That, at least, was the truth and surely something “the girls” would know.

“Yes, I know. Pity, but then, she wasn’t the most flexible of people. She’d been incredibly hurt by your father. We told her not to take it out on you, but Merri did have her pride.”

Merri
? There was a misnomer if Livvy ever heard one. And she was glad “Merri” had had her pride. Livvy hadn’t—nor much else either, but as long as Merri had hers . . .

“Who are the other girls?” Livvy stacked the papers. She’d found what she needed and there was no sense wallowing in bitterness; that would let “Merri” win, and Livvy wasn’t about to allow that in any aspect of her life. With the information she’d collected over the last few hours, she was one step closer to beating Merriweather at this game.

“Just Hetta and I are left. Hetta Rothenberger. She lives in The Palisades, you know. Merri had the suite custom-painted to match her home because Hetta hadn’t wanted to move. But when her husband passed, well, the house was too much for her. So Merri made a game of it. To see how much we could make the place look like Hetta’s old rooms. We still smile about it today, Hetta and I.”

Dafna blinked and looked away, brushing the corner of her eye with her pinky finger while Livvy tried to figure out what to say. What to think.

Her grandmother would do something like that?
Merriweather Martinson
?

Livvy shook her head. It was as if she’d just discovered that the woman she’d known all along was a figment of her imagination.

But those lonely years at boarding school weren’t her imagination, and neither was that forbidding trip to the estate as a child. Or the utter lack of contact, warmth, and acknowledgment.

“Look at me.” Dafna laughed. “Going all maudlin. I’m sure that’s the last thing you want.” She stood. “I just wanted to meet you. Merri rarely spoke of you, but when we found out she’d left you the estate, well, Hetta and I knew she wouldn’t mind if we touched base. She was a proud woman, your grandmother. But she was loyal.”

To whom?

Livvy didn’t ask. It wasn’t fair to this kind woman.
Merri
was in the past and it couldn’t hurt to accept the olive branch Dafna was extending.

And maybe she’d know something about one of the clues.

Livvy shook the selfish thought from her head. She wasn’t like her grandmother, using people for what they could do for her.

“Would you—and Hetta, of course—would you like to come out to the house for lunch some day? Say, next Wednesday? See if there’s anything of my grandmother’s you’d like to have.”

Dafna’s eyes sparkled even more, if that were possible. “Oh, my, that’s so sweet. How thoughtful of you. Hetta doesn’t get out like she used to.” Dafna swiped at the corner of her eye again. “But thank you, Olivia. We’d love to come.” She tucked the chair beneath the table. “It’s been a pleasure. Your grandmother would think so, too.”

Livvy didn’t, but she smiled anyway and waved when Dafna turned back at the sign-out desk.

Livvy sat back.
Merri
? Backgammon? Cards? Decorating rooms for a . . .
friend
? Poems and hunky cleaning guys? There was a whole other side to the woman she’d never known.

Had never been
allowed
to know.

Livvy tossed her pencil onto the table. That’s right. Merriweather had made it more than clear who was important to her. Livvy wasn’t going to begrudge Hetta Rothenberger her painted rooms, but it stood as one more reason to find the clues and get away from this place and the memories she should have had but didn’t.

She gathered her paperwork and books and stuffed them into her satchel. Enough dwelling. It was time to move on. Her dogs would be here soon.

That
was her life. The dogs, the animals, and her bakery. This little sojourn at the family homestead was simply a means to an end, and no trip down Memory Lane was going to derail her from her goals.

Not Merriweather’s goals, not Mr. Scanlon’s advice, not even Dafna Fine’s well-intentioned suggestions.

And no matter how much she hated to say it, not the hunky housekeeper, either.