Savannah Secrets

“Jesus! You have nerve,” Meredith burst out, finally losing her cool and jumping out of the chair. “If you’d bothered to read all the letters I sent, you’d know all about this already—”

“I rarely read my correspondence.”

“Well, that’s just too goddamn bad,” she flung, throwing down the file. “Maybe when you’ve come to your senses, you’ll read that through properly. I’m going back to the Strathcairn Arms.”

“What for?” he goaded, crossing his arms, arrogantly looking her up and down. “I have no intention of changing my mind. I plan on ignoring the whole thing.”

“Mr. Gallagher,” Meredith said through gritted teeth, “I am not to blame for the manner in which your grandmother chose to bequeath her fortune. I’m merely an emissary. I have no pleasure in being here, I assure you. But I have a fiduciary responsibility to act on behalf of the beneficiary, and a legal duty to act in managing and administering the estate,” she continued bitingly. “The law requires a high standard of ethical and moral conduct of fiduciaries. There are many specific duties. Some are imposed by statute, some by case law and some by the will itself. But none of them can be ignored.”

“Bravo. An impressive speech.” He clapped his hands and looked her over, amused. “I guess law school is good for something after all.”

Mastering the urge to knock his well-aligned teeth down his throat, Meredith took a deep breath. “In case I used too many big words,” she said sweetly, “it means that, like it or not, I now represent your best interests. I need you to cooperate. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very busy this morning. Goodbye, Ms. Hunter.” With a sharp nod he rose, turned on his heel and marched out of the room the same way he’d entered. The door snapped shut behind him, leaving Meredith openmouthed in the middle of the room.

“Well, that does it,” she muttered, angrily clamping down the lid of her briefcase and leaving the file where he’d abandoned it on the side table. She crossed the room, then marched into the great hall. The man’s obtuseness—not to mention his incredibly rude behavior—was intolerable. How could she be expected to deal with such a creature? There was no sign of Mrs. Duffy. In fact, the place seemed deserted. Reaching the huge front door, Meredith dragged it open and headed down the steps.

So much for wrapping this up in forty-eight hours, she reflected bitterly. She had to get back to the Strathcairn Arms and think out a new strategy, one that did not involve her personally, she vowed. As soon as the office opened in Savannah, she would phone Tracy and brainstorm with her. Surely she couldn’t be expected to stick around while Grant Gallagher decided whether he could be bothered to accept a hundred million bucks?

Or, like it or not, would she have to?

With a sinking heart, she drove down the hill. It was her case, her responsibility. There was no senior partner to run to with complaints any longer. She was the senior partner. It was her show.

Realizing she must cool down, Meredith made her way along the seafront. She’d come across difficult clients before, but none as handsome, arrogant, offensive and irritating as Grant Gallagher. He obviously had a very high opinion of himself.

“Aargh!” Meredith let out a low growl and, spying a convenient parking spot, decided to take a walk. Some fresh air would help clear her brain. She would not allow this man to throw her out of kilter, which was his obvious intention. She must remain cool, think of how she should deal with him. After all, there was Dallas to consider. Heck, if he really didn’t want the money, then she had to find a way to get him to follow the conditions of the will and still cede some to his sister.

Surely he had some shred of humanity under that tough facade? However deeply hidden.

The wind whipped her hair as she pulled on the beige cashmere coat she’d retrieved from the back seat. Whatever happened, she was not about to give up.

As Grant Gallagher would learn shortly, she had not yet begun to fight.

From behind the mullioned window, Grant watched her cross the gravel in her high heels and climb into her car. She had good legs, he reflected. Then, as the vehicle headed down the drive, he shrugged, shook his head and, crossing the study, headed back into the living room.

The file lay where she’d discarded it. He stared at it with mixed feelings. If Rowena Carstairs were still alive he would have had the immense satisfaction of shoving her damn money in her face. But now that was denied him. The clever old witch had seen to that, hadn’t she?

He remembered each word of her letter and ground his teeth. She’d guessed exactly how he’d react—and then had pulled the rug from under his feet by calling his bluff. Poodle society, indeed. She’d known the notion of so much money going to something so ridiculous would give him pause. A cunning smile hovered as he shoved his hands deep in his pockets and his creative mind went to work. He wasn’t going to be bested. Rowena would not win this battle of wills. Of that he was increasingly determined.

Still, like it or not, he was intrigued. At what point, he wondered suddenly, had the question of Rowena’s estate gone from being an annoying interruption to becoming a challenge? He glanced down at the file once more, a half smile hovering. So she thought she’d get to him with the poodle bit, did she? Well, she was wrong. He didn’t give a damn who her money went to. The poodles were welcome to it. Though Meredith Hunter was unlikely to give him any peace until he’d taken an ultimate decision in writing, based on legal argument.

Flinging himself down once more in the chair, he gave the material his full attention, still torn between a desire to consign it to the flames and a growing need to get the better of Rowena Carstairs, dead or alive. As he studied the specifics of the bequest—the various estates, the museum-quality artwork, the extraordinary stock-and-bond portfolio—he let out a low whistle. By any standard, this was a hell of a lot of money to leave to one person, let alone an unknown illegitimate grandson. What, he wondered, stretching his long legs toward the fire, had she meant to achieve by it?

In all these years—at least not since adolescence—he’d never allowed himself to wonder about the man and woman who had sired him. That they hadn’t wanted him was all he really knew. And so he’d simply expelled them from his mind, concentrating on himself and the present, discovering early in life that self-preservation was the safest route to avoiding pain. Now, for some reason he could not explain, this whole thing got his back up. What, he wondered, would his reaction have been if he didn’t own all he had today? Would he have accepted gladly? Been thankful to Rowena for remembering him?

He didn’t think so.

Still, it was a tidy sum that, well invested, could be put to good use. The rational thing, of course, would be to forget any personal issues and take the money, assuming it didn’t inconvenience him to do so. But the fact of the matter was that Rowena seemed to have set out to inconvenience him, to capture his curiosity and force him to reconnect with his birth family. Why? he asked himself again. Why bother? What could the woman have wanted from him? For all at once, he was certain the bequest was not an outright gift—Rowena definitely wanted something in return. But at this point he just couldn’t figure out what.

Rising, he returned to the cluttered study and sat down at his desk, determined to forget. Work was an infallible antidote.

But after several minutes spent trying to concentrate on the zoning restrictions on undeveloped parkland, he gave up, threw his hands in the air and groaned.

“Damn the lot of them,” he growled. Rowena, Meredith Hunter, this unknown half sister—they’d all slipped through his well-honed defenses.

Leaving the study, he headed into the hall and placed the file on top of his jacket on the chair where he’d left it lying earlier in the day. He’d never had any brothers or sisters. Hadn’t wanted any. Could do without any now, thank you very much.

And that’s exactly what he planned on telling the lovely Ms. Meredith Hunter, he decided as he headed upstairs to change.

7

Back at the Strathcairn Arms, Meredith lay down on the purple bedspread and closed her eyes. The brisk walk along the seafront had done little to calm her irritation. Here she was, stuck in the boondocks, thwarted by the selfish whims of an insufferable man she thoroughly despised. She could barely recall the last time she’d experienced such total frustration. Hadn’t she come here for his benefit? Perhaps digging up his past wasn’t the easiest thing to accept, even for a man like him. But still. He was an adult, a man of the world—supposedly—who could at least act with common courtesy. Glancing at her watch, Meredith let out an impatient huff and drummed her foot rhythmically against the side of the bed. It would still be several hours before she could reach Tracy and discuss this latest development. She had a feeling that although Gallagher was determined to be recalcitrant, his curiosity was whetted all the same. What, she wondered, dropping her chin on her palm, would it take to persuade him that coming to the States was a good idea?

Slipping on a pair of jeans and a thick sweater, she went downstairs for a drink in the pub, grateful for its cheery warmth after such a dreary morning.

“Hi, Jim,” she called to the landlord, who was cheerfully chatting to several customers. Then she sat down at what she was fast coming to consider “her” table, the cozy nook in the corner under the beams, with the sagging bench heaped with tartan cushions.

Determined not to dwell on Gallagher’s insufferable behavior, Meredith ordered a gin and tonic and began thinking of persuasive arguments to lure Grant Gallagher to the U.S. Unless he came to Miami, there was little that could legally be done for Dallas. And if he insisted on ignoring the bequest, well, she sighed, there were going to be some pretty pampered poodles in the state of Georgia. What an awful waste, she decided, watching Jim as he stood behind the bar carefully pouring a pint for an elderly white-haired man seated on a stool at the bar.

It was barely twelve o’clock, but as she took the first sip of her drink Meredith felt that after her morning’s travails she deserved every last drop. Once she’d convinced Jim to load her drink with ice—an unknown concept, apparently—she listened as he and the two white-haired kilted customers exchanged views on the weather and local politics.

Meredith listened, amused, thinking how similar life was around the world: the same complaints, the same worries and exigencies. Then Moira came in and assured her that it was close to lunchtime and that today there was excellent steak-and-kidney pie on the menu.

Feeling more relaxed, Meredith pulled a road map from her purse, determined to make sure she got on the right road back to Glasgow. As soon as this matter with Gallagher was settled, she was heading straight back to Savannah. She was just seeking Jim’s advice on the quickest route when the door to the street opened. Poring over the map, she didn’t notice a shadow standing next to the table until it was on top of her.

“Ms. Hunter?”

“Oh!” Meredith jumped and looked up with a start, astonished to see Grant Gallagher’s tall figure looming over the table.

“May I?” He didn’t wait for an answer but pulled off his Barbour jacket and slid down opposite her onto the bench. Recovering from her amazement, she watched warily as he retrieved the file from his capacious pocket and placed it on the table. He looked different. He’d showered and shaved, and Meredith caught a whiff of cologne. He might have a number of defects, she admitted, but she’d have to be blind not to recognize what an extremely attractive man he was.

“You left this behind,” he said, indicating the file.

“Right.” Meredith regrouped and, adopting a professional attitude, smiled briefly. “I presume you’ve read it?”

“Yes.”

“So you’ve seen the provisos?”

“Yes. I did.” He leaned back against the cushions, his eyes hooded.

“Good,” she replied briskly, “then you realize something needs to be done.”

“No. I haven’t changed my mind. I just came to give you your file back.” He pushed the manila envelope across the table.

“I wish you—”

“She and her daughter had a choice,” he interrupted, the trace of the bitterness she’d heard earlier entering his voice. “They made their decision. They probably had a number of perfectly good reasons for doing so. It doesn’t matter anymore.” He gave a shrug. “But I have my life, and I’m not going to let Rowena or anyone else foist their bad conscience on me. It’s too easy.”