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Only on His Terms
Elizabeth Bevarly
He's a rich bachelor. She's inherited his fortune. Let the fun begin! Only from New York Times bestselling author Elizabeth Bevarly!Meet Gracie Sumner, reluctant Cinderella. When the down-to-earth Midwesterner learns her deceptively humble neighbor left her fourteen billion-with-a-b dollars, she doesn't know what to do. Especially when said neighbor's shunned heir, Harrison Sage III, stakes his claim.Harrison is not amused, especially when the quirky gold digger gets under his skin. How can the sophisticated New Yorker let himself be attracted to the woman who stole his father's fortune? Soon a contested will turns into a contest of wills–one whose outcome could very well be determined in the bedroom!


She closed her eyes, and for the merest, most exquisite millisecond, she thought she felt the brush of his lips over hers.
But she told herself she’d only imagined it.
The crowd had dispersed, caught up in another song, another dance, another moment. But Gracie couldn’t quite let this moment go. And neither, it seemed, could he. When he began to lower his head toward hers—there was no mistaking his intention this time—she didn’t know how to react. Not until his mouth covered hers completely. After that, she knew exactly what to do.
She kissed him back.
The feel of his mouth was extraordinary, at once entreating and demanding, tender and rough, soft and firm. By the time he pulled back, her brain was so rattled all she could do was say the first thing that popped into her head. “I thought you didn’t like me.”
He nuzzled the curve where her neck joined her shoulder. “Oh, I like you very much.”
“You think I took advantage of your father.”
“I don’t think that at all.”
“Since when?”
* * *
Only on His Terms is part of The Accidental Heirs duet: First they find their fortunes, then they find love.
Only on His Terms
Elizabeth Bevarly


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ELIZABETH BEVARLY is a New York Times bestselling and award-winning author of more than seventy novels and novellas. Her books have been translated into two dozen languages and published in three dozen countries, and she hopes to some-day be as well traveled herself. An honors graduate of the University of Louisville, she has called home places as diverse as San Juan, Puerto Rico and Haddonfield, New Jersey, but now writes full-time in her native Kentucky, usually on a futon between two cats. She loves reading, movies, British and Canadian TV shows, and fiddling with soup recipes. Visit her on the web at www.elizabethbevarly.com (http://www.elizabethbevarly.com), follow her on Twitter or send her a friend request on Facebook.
For Wanda Ottewell
With many, many thanks
and even more fond memories.
Contents
Cover (#ub859e781-59bb-5ad3-af4e-d9ee09adfaa3)
Introduction (#udab27001-ec01-5c6b-bf1b-23ccc0d4c7ea)
Title Page (#ube103679-ca48-52cd-93fd-5f1b3ecc6b19)
About the Author (#ud53d4419-8c58-52b7-b447-2ebb71ee9b82)
Dedication (#uf926e760-1db6-5fd4-b805-dae6d9cc78e5)
Prologue (#ulink_a4542fd9-6bc7-5df3-afa3-3a44a4710f84)
One (#ulink_331cfff3-4a49-5d49-b8c9-3acb0339b438)
Two (#ulink_2c67fe57-1ca7-54af-a9b1-457789cc26b3)
Three (#ulink_70e44b31-2002-51b8-8fae-2d3adb4edf76)
Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ulink_e0f3a02b-618c-543a-b835-7ca29c81184d)
Gracie Sumner came from a long line of waitresses. Her mother worked for a popular chain restaurant for three decades, and her grandmother manned the counter of a gleaming silver diner on the Great White Way. The tradition went all the way back to her great-great-great-grandmother, in fact, who welcomed westward-ho train passengers to a Denver saloon. Gracie may have brought a bit more prestige to the family trade by finding work in a four-star, Zagat-approved bistro, but the instinct and artistry of waitressing was pretty much encoded on her DNA, the same way her tawny hair and brown eyes were.
And that instinct was how she knew there was something more to the silver-haired gentleman seated at table fifteen of Seattle’s Café Destiné than a desire to sample the pot-au-feu.
He had come in at the end of the lunch shift and asked specifically to be seated in her area, then engaged her in conversation in a way that made her feel as if he already knew her. But neither he nor the name on the credit card he placed atop his check—Bennett Tarrant—was familiar. That wasn’t surprising, however, since judging by his bespoke suit and platinum card, he was clearly a man of means. Unlike Gracie, who was struggling to pay her way through college, and who, at twenty-six, still had three semesters left before earning her BA in early childhood education.
“Here you go, Mr. Tarrant,” she said as she placed the server book back on the table. “I hope you’ll visit Café Destiné again soon.”
“Actually, Miss Sumner, there’s a reason why I came here today.”
Her gaze flew to his. Although she always introduced herself as Gracie to her customers, she never gave out her last name. Warily, she replied, “The pot-au-feu. Yes, it’s the most popular item on our menu.”
“And it was delicious,” Mr. Tarrant assured her. “But I really came in to see you on behalf of a client. I inquired for you at your apartment first, and your landlady told me where you work.”
Good old Mrs. Mancini. Gracie could always count on her to guard absolutely no one’s privacy.
Mr. Tarrant withdrew a silver case from inside his suit jacket and handed her a business card. Tarrant, Fiver & Twigg, it read, and there was a New York City address. Bennett Tarrant’s title was President and Senior Probate Researcher. Which told Gracie all of nothing.
She looked at him again. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. What’s a probate researcher?”
“I’m an attorney. My firm is one of several appointed by the State of New York when someone passes away without a will, or when a beneficiary named in someone’s will can’t be found. In such circumstances, we locate the rightful heirs.”
Gracie’s confusion deepened. “I still don’t understand. My mother died in Cincinnati, and her estate was settled years ago.”
Not that there had been much to settle. Marian Sumner had left Gracie just enough to cover four months’ rent and modestly furnish a one-bedroom apartment. Still, she had been grateful for even that.
“It’s not your mother’s estate my firm was appointed to research,” Mr. Tarrant said. “Did you know a man by the name of Harrison Sage?”
Gracie shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
“How about Harry Sagalowsky?”
“Oh, sure, I knew Harry. His apartment was across from mine when I lived in Cincinnati. He was such a nice man.”
For a moment, she was overrun by warm memories. Harry had been living in the other apartment on the top floor of the renovated Victorian when Gracie moved in after her mother’s death. They had become instant friends—he filled the role of the grandfather she never had, and she was the granddaughter he never had. She introduced him to J. K. Rowling and Bruno Mars and taught him how to crush the competition in Call of Duty. He turned her on to Patricia Highsmith and Miles Davis and taught her how to fox-trot at the Moondrop Ballroom.
She sobered. “He died two years ago. Even though I haven’t lived in Cincinnati for a while now, when I come home from work, I still halfway expect him to open his front door and tell me how he just got The African Queen from Netflix or how he made too much chili for one person.” Her voice trailed off. “I just miss him. A lot.”
Mr. Tarrant smiled gently. “Mr. Sagalowsky thought very highly of you, too. He remembered you in his will, which was just recently settled.”
Gracie smiled at that. Although Harry’s apartment had been crowded with stuff that was both eclectic and eccentric, nothing could have been worth much. After his death, she helped their landlord pack it all up, but no one ever came to claim it—Harry had never spoken of any family, so she’d had no idea whom to contact. Their landlord finally decided to toss it all, but Gracie offered to rent a storage unit for it instead. It had meant tightening her belt even more, but she hadn’t been able to stand the thought of Harry’s things rotting in a dump. She was still paying for the unit back in Cincinnati. She brightened. Maybe Mr. Tarrant could help her get it all into the hands of Harry’s next of kin.
“I’m afraid it took me a while to find you,” he continued.
She stiffened. “Yeah, I kind of left Cincinnati on a whim about a year and a half ago.”
“Without leaving a forwarding address?”
“I, um, had a bad breakup with a guy. It seemed like a good time to start fresh. My mom and Harry were gone, and most of my friends from high school moved after graduation. I didn’t really have many ties there anymore.”
Mr. Tarrant nodded, but she got the feeling he wasn’t too familiar with bad romance. “If you have some time today,” he said, “we can discuss Mr. Sagalowsky’s estate and the changes it will mean for you.”
Gracie almost laughed at that. He made Harry sound like some batty Howard Hughes, squirreling away a fortune while he wore tissue boxes for shoes.
“There’s a coffee shop up the street,” she said. “Mimi’s Mocha Java. I can meet you there in about twenty minutes.”
“Perfect,” Mr. Tarrant told her. “We have a lot to talk about.”
One (#ulink_a66ab0d9-8145-579d-8bee-11f0fa558884)
As Gracie climbed out of Mr. Tarrant’s Jaguar coupe in the driveway of the house Harry had abandoned fifteen years ago—the house that now belonged to her—she told herself not to worry, that the place couldn’t possibly be as bad as it seemed. Why, the weathered clapboard was actually kind of quaint. And the scattered pea-gravel drive was kind of adorable. So what if the size of the place wasn’t what she’d been expecting? So what if the, ah, overabundant landscaping was going to require a massive amount of work? The house was fine. Just fine. She had no reason to feel apprehensive about being its new owner. The place was...charming. Yeah, that was it. Absolutely...charming.
In a waterfront, Long Island, multi-multi-multi-million-dollar kind of way. Holy cow, Harry’s old house could host the United Arab Emirates and still have room left over for Luxembourg.
In spite of the serene ocean that sparkled beyond the house and the salty June breeze that caressed her face, she felt herself growing light-headed again—a not unfamiliar sensation since meeting Mr. Tarrant last week. After all, their encounter at Mimi’s Mocha Java had culminated in Gracie sitting with her head between her knees, breathing in and out of a paper bag with the phrase Coffee, Chocolate, Men—Some Things are Better Rich printed on it. To his credit, Mr. Tarrant hadn’t batted an eye. He’d just patted her gently on the back and told her everything was going to be fine, and the fact that she’d just inherited fourteen billion—yes, billion, with a b—dollars was nothing to have a panic attack about.
Hah. Easy for him to say. He probably knew what to do with fourteen billion dollars. Other than have a panic attack over it.
Now that they were here, he seemed to sense her trepidation—probably because of the way her breathing was starting to turn into hyperventilation again—because he looped his arm gently through hers. “We shouldn’t keep Mrs. Sage and her son and their attorneys—or Mr. Sage’s colleagues and their attorneys—waiting. I’m sure they’re all as anxious to get the formalities out of the way as you are.”
Anxious. Right. That was one word for it, Gracie thought. Had the situation been reversed, had she been the one to discover that her long-estranged husband or father, a titan of twentieth-century commerce, had spent his final years posing as a retired TV repairman in the blue-collar Cincinnati neighborhood where he grew up, then befriended a stranger to whom he had left nearly everything, she supposed she’d be a tad anxious, too. She just hoped there weren’t other words for what Vivian Sage and her son, Harrison III, might be. Like furious. Or vindictive. Or homicidal.
At least she was dressed for the occasion. Not homicide, of course, but for the formal reading of Harry’s will. Even though Harry’s will had already been read a few times, mostly in court, because it had been contested and appealed by just about everyone he’d known in life. This time would be the last, Mr. Tarrant had promised, and this time it was for Gracie. She looked her very best, if she did say so herself, wearing the nicest of the vintage outfits that she loved—a beige, sixties-era suit with pencil skirt and cropped jacket that would have looked right at home on Jackie Kennedy. She’d even taken care to put on some makeup and fix her hair, managing a fairly convincing French twist from which just a few errant strands had escaped.
She and Mr. Tarrant moved forward, toward a surprisingly modest front porch. As he rapped the worn knocker, Gracie could almost convince herself she was visiting any number of normal suburban homes. But the humbleness ended once the door was opened by a liveried butler, and she looked beyond him into the house. The entryway alone was larger than her apartment back in Seattle, and it was crowded with period antiques, authentic hand-knotted Persian rugs and original works of art.
She began to take a step backward, but Mr. Tarrant nudged her forward again. He announced their names to the butler, who led them through the foyer and down a hall to the left, then another hall to the right, until they were standing in the entryway of a cavernous library. Gracie knew it was a library because three walls were virtually covered by floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with exquisite leather-bound collectors’ editions. They matched nicely the exquisite leather-bound furnishings. And there were floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the gleaming water. She might as well have fallen through the looking glass, so grand and foreign was this world to her.
Her breathing settled some when she realized the room was full of people, since that would make it easier for her to be invisible. Mr. Tarrant had cautioned her that there would be a veritable army of attorneys present, along with their clients—Harry’s former business associates and family members. It had come as no small surprise to hear that Harry had left behind a widow and two ex-wives, along with three daughters by the exes and a solitary son by his last wife. Gracie had no idea how to tell one person from another, though, since everyone was dressed alike—the men in suits and the women in more suits and a couple of sedate dresses—and they represented a variety of age groups.
One of those suited men hailed Mr. Tarrant from the other side of the room, and after ensuring that Gracie would be all right for a few minutes without him, he strode in that direction. So she took a few steps into the fray, relieved to be able to do it on her own.
See? she said to herself. This wasn’t so bad. It was just like working a wedding-rehearsal dinner at Café Destiné for some wealthy Seattle bride and groom. Except that she would be in the background at one of those events, not front and center, which would be happening here all too soon. Not to mention that, at a rehearsal dinner, she’d be sharing 18 percent of a final tab worth a couple of thousand dollars with two or three other waiters, and here, she would be receiving 100 percent of almost everything.
Fourteen billion—yes, billion with a b—dollars.
She felt her panic advancing again, until a gentle voice murmured from behind her, “How can you tell the difference between a bunch of high-powered suits and a pack of bloodthirsty jackals?”
She spun around to find herself gazing up—and up and up some more—into a pair of the most beautiful blue eyes she had ever seen. The rest of the man’s face was every bit as appealing, with straight ebony brows, an aristocratic nose, a sculpted jaw and lips that were just this side of full. Not to mention a strand of black hair that tumbled rebelliously over his forehead in a way that made him look as if he’d just sauntered out of a fabulous forties film.
She took a quick inventory of the rest of him, pretending she didn’t notice how he was doing the same to her. He had broad shoulders, a slim waist and the merest scent of something smoky and vaguely indecent. Gracie couldn’t have identified a current fashion label if her life depended on it, but it was a safe bet that his charcoal pinstripes had been designed by whoever had the most expensive one. He looked like one of the high-powered suits in the riddle he’d just posed and nothing like a bloodthirsty jackal. She couldn’t wait to hear the answer.
“I don’t know,” she said. “How can you tell the difference?”
He grinned, something that made him downright dazzling. Gracie did her best not to swoon.
In a voice tinted with merriment, he said, “You can’t.”
She chuckled, and the tension that had wrapped her so tightly for the last week began to ease for the first time. For that, more than anything, she was grateful to the man. Not that she didn’t appreciate his other, ah, attributes, too. A lot.
“But you’re one of those suits,” she objected.
“Only because professional dictates say I have to be.”
As if to illustrate his reluctance, he tugged his necktie loose enough to unbutton the top button of his shirt. In a way, he reminded her of Harry, someone who knew there was more to life than appearances, and there were better ways to spend time than currying the favor of others.
“Would you like some coffee?” he asked. “There’s an urn in the corner. And some cookies or something, too, I think.”
She shook her head. “No, thanks. I’m good.” She didn’t add that the addition of even a drop of caffeine or a grain of sugar to her system would turn her jitters into a seismic event. “But if you’d like some—” She started to tell him she’d be right back with a cup and a plate, so automatically did her waitress response come out.
But he offered no indication that he expected her to get it for him. “No, I’ve had my quota for the day, too.”
The conversation seemed ready to stall, and Gracie was desperate to hold on to the only friend she was likely to make today. As a result, she blurted out the first thing that popped into her head. “So...this house. This room. This view. Is this place gorgeous or what?”
Her question seemed to stump him. He glanced around the library as if he were seeing it for the first time, but he didn’t seem nearly as impressed as she. “It’s all right, I guess. The room’s a little formal for my taste, and the view’s a little boring, but...”
It was a rare individual who wouldn’t covet a house as grand as this, Gracie thought. Although she had no intention of keeping it or much of anything else Harry had left her, since fourteen billion—yes, billion with a b—dollars was way too much money for a single individual to have, she still felt a keen appreciation for its beauty.
“Well, what kind of place do you call home?” she asked.
Without hesitation, he told her, “Bright lights, big city. I’ve lived in Manhattan since I started college, and I’m never leaving.”
His enthusiasm for the fast-paced setting didn’t seem to fit with how he’d reminded her of Harry earlier. But she tried to sound convincing when she said, “Oh. Okay.”
She must not have done a very good job, though, because he said, “You sound surprised.”
“I guess I am, kind of.”
“Why?” He suddenly seemed a little defensive.
She shrugged. “Maybe because I was just thinking how you remind me of someone I used to know, and he wasn’t a bright-lights, big-city kind of guy at all.”
At least, he hadn’t been when Gracie knew him. But Harry’s life before that? Who knew? Nothing she’d discovered about him in the past week had seemed true to the man she’d called her friend for years.
Her new friend’s wariness seemed to increase. “Old boyfriend?”
“Well, old, anyway,” Gracie said with a smile. “More like a grandfather, though.”
He relaxed visibly, but still looked sweetly abashed. “You know, the last thing a guy wants to hear when he’s trying to impress a beautiful woman he’s just met is how he reminds her of her grandfather.”
He thought she was beautiful? Was he trying to impress her? And was he actually admitting it? Did he know how one of her turn-ons, coming in second after a bewitching smile, was men who spoke frankly and honestly? Especially because she’d known so few of them. Really, none other than Harry.
“I, uh...” she stammered. “I mean, um, ah...”
He seemed to take great pleasure in having rendered her speechless. Not arrogantly so, but as if he were simply delighted by his success. “So you’re not a big-city type yourself?”
Grateful for the change of subject—and something she could respond to with actual words—she shook her head. “Not at all. I mean, I’ve lived in big cities all my life, but never in the city proper. I’ve always been a suburban girl.”
Even though she’d never known her father and had lived in an apartment growing up, her life had been no different from her friends’ who’d lived in houses with yards and a two-parents-and-siblings family unit. Her mother had been active at her school and the leader of her Brownie troop. And even with her meager income, Marian Sumner had somehow always had enough for summer vacations and piano and gymnastics lessons. As a girl, Gracie had spent summers playing in the park, autumns jumping into leaf piles, winters building snowmen and springs riding her bike. Completely unremarkable. Totally suburban.
Her new friend considered her again, but this time, he seemed to be taking in something other than her physical appearance. “At first, I was thinking you seem like the city type, too. The suit is a little retro, but you’d still be right at home in the East Village or Williamsburg. Now, though...”
His voice trailed off before he completed his analysis, and he studied Gracie in the most interesting—and interested—way. Heat pooled in her midsection, spiraling outward, until every cell she possessed felt as if it was going to catch fire. The entire room seemed to go silent for an interminable moment, as if everyone else had disappeared, and it was just the two of them alone in the universe. She’d never experienced anything like it before. It was...unsettling. But nice.
“Now?” she echoed, hoping to spur his response and end the curious spell. The word came out so quietly, however, and he still seemed so lost in thought, that she wondered if he’d even heard her.
He shook his head almost imperceptibly, as if he were trying to physically dispel the thoughts from his brain. “Now I think maybe you do seem like the wholesome girl next door.”
This time, it was Gracie’s turn to look abashed. “You know, the last thing a girl wants to hear when she’s trying to impress a beautiful man she’s just met is how she reminds him of a glass of milk.”
That, finally, seemed to break the weird enchantment. Both of them laughed lightly, but she suspected it was as much due to relief that the tension had evaporated as it was to finding humor in the remark.
“Do you have to go back to work after this thing?” he asked. “Or would you maybe be free for a late lunch?”
In spite of the banter they’d been sharing, the invitation came out of nowhere and caught Gracie off-guard. A million questions cartwheeled through her brain, and she had no idea how to respond to any of them. How had her morning gone from foreboding to flirtatious? Where had this guy come from? How could she like him so much after only knowing him a matter of moments? And how on earth was she supposed to accept an invitation to lunch with him when her entire life was about to explode in a way that was nothing short of atomic?
She tried to reply with something that made sense, but all that came out was “Lunch...? I...? Work...?”
He was clearly enjoying how much he continued to keep her off-kilter. “Yeah, lunch. Yeah, you. As for your work, which firm do you work for?” He glanced around the room. “Maybe I can pull some strings for you. I’ve known most of these people all my life. A couple of them owe me favors.”
“Firm?” she echoed, the single word all she could manage in her growing confusion.
“Which law firm, representing which one of my father’s interests?” For the first time since they began chatting, he sobered. “Not that they’re my father’s interests anymore. Not since that trashy, scheming, manipulative gold digger got her hooks into him. Not that my mother and I are going down without a fight.”
It dawned on Gracie then—dawned like a two-by-four to the back of her head—that the man to whom she had been speaking so warmly wasn’t one of the many attorneys who were here representing Harry’s former colleagues. Nor was he one of those colleagues. It was Harry’s son, Harrison Sage III. The man who had assumed he would, along with his mother, inherit the bulk of his father’s fortune. The one whom Gracie had prevented from doing just that. The one she had earlier been thinking might be furious, vindictive and homicidal.
Then his other remark hit her. The part about the trashy, scheming, manipulative gold digger. That was what he thought she was? Her? The woman whose idea of stilettos was a kitten heel? The woman who preferred her hemlines below the knee? The woman who’d nearly blinded herself that morning with a mascara wand? The woman who intended to give away nearly every nickel of the fourteen billion—yes billion with a b—dollars with which Harry had entrusted her?
Because even without Mr. Tarrant’s having told her about Harry’s wish that she give away the bulk of his fortune to make the world a better place, Gracie would have done just that. She didn’t want the responsibility that came with so much money. She didn’t want the notoriety. She didn’t want the pandemonium. She didn’t want the terror.
Maybe she’d been struggling to make ends meet before last week, but she had been making them meet. And she’d been happy with her life in Seattle. She had fun friends. She had a cute apartment. She was gainfully employed. She was working toward her degree. She’d had hope for the future in general and a sunny outlook for any given day. Since finding out about her inheritance, however, she’d awoken every morning with a nervous stomach, and had only been able to sleep every night with a pill. In between those times, she’d been jumpy, withdrawn and scared.
Most people would probably think she was nuts, but Gracie didn’t want to be a billionaire. She didn’t even want to be a millionaire. She wanted to have enough so that she could make it through life without worrying, but not so much that she spent the rest of her life worrying. Did that make sense? To her, it did. To Harry’s son, however...
She searched for words that would explain everything to Harrison Sage III quickly enough that he wouldn’t have time to believe she was any of the things he’d just called her. But there was still so much of it she didn’t understand herself. How could she explain it to him when even she couldn’t make sense of it?
“I, um, that is...” she began. She inhaled a deep breath and released it, and then shifted her weight nervously from one foot to the other. She forced a smile she was sure looked as contrived as it felt and tried again. “Actually, I mean... The thing is...”
Gah. At this rate, she would be seeing Harry in the afterlife before she was able to make a complete sentence. Just spit it out, she told herself. But all she finally ended up saying was “Um, actually, I don’t have to go back to work after this.”
Well, it was a start. Not to mention the truth. Go, Gracie!
Immediately, Harrison Sage’s expression cleared. “Excellent,” he said. “Do you like Thai? Because there’s this great place on West Forty-Sixth that just opened. You’ll love it.”
“I do like Thai,” she said. Still being honest. Forward, Gracie, she told herself. Move forward.
“Excellent,” he said, treating her again to that bewitching smile. “I’m Harrison, by the way,” he added. “Harrison Sage. If you hadn’t already figured that out.”
Gracie bit back a strangled sound. “Yeah, I kinda did.”
“And you are?”
It was all she could do not to reply, “I’m the trashy, scheming, manipulative gold digger. Nice to meet you.”
“I’m—I’m Gracie,” she said instead.
She was hoping the name was common enough that he wouldn’t make the connection to the woman he probably hated with the burning passion of a thousand fiery suns. But she was pretty sure he did make the connection. She could tell by the way his expression went stony, by the way his eyes went flinty, by the way his jaw went clinchy...
And by the way the temperature in the room seemed to drop about fourteen billion—yes billion with a b—degrees.
Two (#ulink_83137d8b-cc1a-5104-a52f-b98ca7f4f992)
Harrison Sage told himself he must have misheard her. Maybe she hadn’t said her name was Gracie. Maybe she’d said her name was Stacy. Or Tracy. Or even Maisey. Because Gracie was a nickname for Grace. And Grace was the name of the woman who had used her sexual wiles to seduce and manipulate a fragile old man into changing his will to leave her with nearly every nickel he had.
This was that woman? he thought, taking her in again. He’d been expecting a loudmouthed, garishly painted, platinum blonde in a short skirt, tight sweater and mile-high heels. One who had big hair, long legs and absolutely enormous—
Well. He just hadn’t expected her to look like something out of a fairy tale. But that was exactly the impression he’d formed of this woman when she first walked into the room. That she was some fey, otherworldly sylph completely out of her element in this den of trolls. She was slight and wispy, and if she was wearing any makeup, he sure couldn’t see it. Stray tendrils of hair, the color of a golden autumn sunset, had escaped their twist, as if all it would take was a breath of sorcery to make the entire mass tumble free.
And when had he become such a raging poet? he asked himself. Golden autumn sunset? Breath of sorcery? What the hell kind of thoughts were those to have about a woman who had robbed his family of their rightful legacy? What the hell kind of thoughts were those for a man to have, period? Where the hell had his testosterone got to?
On the other hand, he was beginning to see how his father had been taken in by her. Obviously, she was the kind of grifter who got better results as a vestal virgin than a blonde bombshell. Harrison had almost fallen into her trap himself.
It didn’t matter how she’d conned his father. What mattered was that she’d swindled one of the last century’s most savvy businessmen and convinced him to turn his back on everyone and everything he’d loved in life. Well, as far as his father could have loved anyone or anything—other than his fortune, his commercial holdings and his social standing. But then, what else was there to love? Money, power and position were the only things a person could count on. Or, at least, they had been, before everything went to hell, thanks to this, this...
Harrison took a step backward, and met Grace Sumner’s gaze coolly. “You’re the trashy, scheming, manipulative gold digger?” he asked. Then, because something in her expression looked genuinely wounded by the comment—wow, she really was good—he tempered it by adding, “I thought you’d be taller.”
She mustered a smile he would have sworn was filled with anxiety if he hadn’t known she was a woman who made her way in the world by conning people. “Well, I guess zero out of five isn’t bad.”
Harrison opened his mouth to say something else, but Bennett Tarrant—another thorn in the Sage family’s side for the last two years—appeared next to Gracie, as if conjured by one of her magic spells.
“I see you’ve met Mr. Sage,” he said unnecessarily.
“Yep,” Grace said, her gaze never leaving Harrison’s.
Tarrant turned to Harrison. “And I see you’ve met Miss Sumner.”
“Yep,” Harrison said, his gaze never leaving Grace’s.
The silence that ensued was thick enough to hack with a meat cleaver. Until Tarrant said, “We should head for our seats. We’ll be starting shortly.”
Instead of doing as Tarrant instructed, Harrison found it impossible to move his feet—or remove his gaze from Grace Sumner. Damn. She really was some kind of enchantress.
In an effort to make himself move away, he reminded himself of everything he and his mother had been through since his father’s disappearance fifteen years ago. And he reminded himself how his mother would be left with nothing, thanks to this woman who had, by sheer, dumb luck, stumbled onto an opportunity to bleed the last drop out of a rich, feeble-minded old man.
Fifteen years ago—half a lifetime—Harrison had gone down to breakfast to find his parents seated, as they always were, at a dining-room table capable of seating twenty-two people. But instead of sitting side by side, they sat at each end, as far apart as possible. As usual, his father had had his nose buried in the Wall Street Journal while his mother had been flipping through the pages of a program for Milan Fashion Week. Or maybe Paris Fashion Week. Or London Fashion Week. Or, hell, Lickspittle, Idaho, Fashion Week for all he knew. So he’d taken his regular place at the table midway between them, ensuring that none of them was close enough to speak to the others. It was, after all, a Sage family tradition to not speak to each other.
They’d eaten in silence until their butler entered with his daily reminder that his father’s car had arrived to take him to work, his mother’s car had arrived to take her shopping and Harrison’s car had arrived to take him to school. All three Sages had then risen and made their way to their destinations, none saying a word of farewell—just as they had every morning. Had Harrison realized then that that would be the last time he ever saw his father, he might have...
What? he asked himself. Told him to have a nice day? Given him a hug? Said, “I love you”? He wasn’t sure he’d even known how to do any of those things when he was fifteen. He wasn’t sure he knew how to do any of them now. But he might at least have told his father...something.
He tamped down a wave of irritation. He just wished he and his father had talked more. Or at all. But that was kind of hard to do when the father spent 90 percent of his time at work and the son spent 90 percent of his time in trouble. Because Harrison remembered something else about that day. The night before his father took off, Harrison had come home in the backseat of a squad car, because he’d been caught helping himself to a couple of porno magazines and a bottle of malt liquor at a midtown bodega.
Five months after his father’s disappearance had come the news from one of the family’s attorneys that he had been found, but that he had no intention of coming home just yet. Oh, he would stay in touch with one of his attorneys and a couple of business associates, to make sure the running of Sage Holdings, Inc. continued at its usual pace and to keep himself from being declared legally dead. But he wouldn’t return to his work life—or his home life—anytime soon. To those few with whom he stayed in contact he paid a bundle to never reveal his whereabouts. He’d come back when he felt like it, he said. And then he never came back at all.
Harrison looked at Grace Sumner again, at the deceptively beautiful face and the limitless dark eyes. Maybe two judges had decided she was entitled to the personal fortune his father had left behind. But there was no way Harrison was going down without a fight. He would prove once and for all, unequivocally, that she wasn’t entitled to a cent. He’d been so sure the appeals court would side with the family that he hadn’t felt it necessary to play his full hand. Until now. And now...
Soon everyone would know that the last thing Grace Sumner was was a fey, unearthly creature. In fact, she was right at home in this den of trolls.
* * *
Gracie wanted very much to say something to Harry’s son before leaving with Mr. Tarrant. But his expression had gone so chilly, she feared anything she offered by way of an explanation or condolences would go unheard. Still, she couldn’t just walk away. The man had lost his father—twice—and had no chance to make amends at this point. His family’s life had been turned upside down because of Harry’s last wishes and what he’d asked her to do with his fortune. She supposed she couldn’t blame Harrison III for the cool reception.
Nevertheless, she braved a small smile and told him, “I doubt you’ll believe me, but it was nice to meet you, Mr. Sage. I’m so sorry about your father. He was the kindest, most decent man I ever met.”
Without giving him a chance to respond, she turned to follow Mr. Tarrant to the other side of the room, where chairs had been set up for everyone affected by Harry’s will. They were arranged in two arcs that faced each other, with a big-screen TV on one side. She seated herself between Mr. Tarrant and two attorneys from his firm, almost as if the three of them were circling the wagons to protect her.
Gus Fiver, the second in command at Tarrant, Fiver & Twigg, looked to be in his midthirties and was as fair and amiable as Harrison Sage was dark and moody—though Gus’s pinstripes looked to be every bit as expensive. Renny Twigg, whom Mr. Tarrant had introduced as one of their associates—her father was the Twigg in the company’s name—was closer in age to Gracie’s twenty-six. Renny was a petite brunette who didn’t seem quite as comfortable in her own pinstripes. Even with her tidy chignon and perfectly manicured hands, she looked like the kind of woman who would be happier working outdoors, preferably at a job that involved wearing flannel.
Everyone else in the room was either connected to Harry in some way or an attorney representing someone’s interests. Seated directly across from Gracie—naturally—were Harry’s surviving family members and their attorneys. In addition to Harrison Sage III, there was his mother and Harry’s widow, Vivian Sage, not to mention a veritable stable of ex-wives and mistresses and a half-dozen additional children—three of whom were even legitimate. As far as professional interests went, Harry had had conglomerates and corporations by the boatload. Add them together, and it totaled a financial legacy of epic proportion. Nearly all of what hadn’t gone back to the businesses was now legally Gracie’s. Harry had left a little to a handful of other people, but the rest of his fortune—every brick, byte and buck—had gone to her.
Oh, where was a paper bag for hyperventilating into when she needed it?
Once everyone was seated and silent, Bennett Tarrant rose to address the crowd. “Thank you all for coming. This meeting is just a formality, since Mr. Sage’s estate has been settled by the court, and—”
“Settled doesn’t mean the ruling can’t be appealed,” Harrison Sage interrupted, his voice booming enough to make Gracie flinch. “And we plan to file within the next two weeks.”
“I can’t imagine how that’s necessary,” Mr. Tarrant said. “An appeal has already supported the court’s initial ruling in Miss Sumner’s favor. Unless some new information comes to light, any additional appeal will only uphold those rulings.”
Harrison opened his mouth to say more, but his attorney, a man of Mr. Tarrant’s age and demeanor, placed a hand lightly on his arm to halt him. “New information will come to light,” the man said.
Mr. Tarrant looked in no way concerned. “Mr. Landis, it has been twice determined that Harrison Sage, Jr., was of sound mind and body when he left the bulk of his personal estate to Grace Sumner. Another appeal would be—”
“Actually, we’ll disprove that this time,” Mr. Landis stated unequivocally. “And we will prove that not only did Grace Sumner exert undue influence over Mr. Sage of a sexual nature, but that—”
“What?” This time Gracie was the one to interrupt.
Mr. Landis ignored her, but she could practically feel the heat of Harrison Sage’s gaze.
Mr. Landis continued, “We’ll prove that not only did Grace Sumner exert undue influence over Mr. Sage of a sexual nature, but that he contracted a sexually transmitted disease from her which rendered him mentally incapacitated.”
“What?” Gracie erupted even more loudly.
She started to rise from her chair, but Gus Fiver gently covered her shoulder with his hand, willing her to ignore the allegation. With much reluctance, Gracie made herself relax. But if looks could kill, the one she shot Harrison Sage would have rendered him a pile of ash.
Especially after his attorney concluded, “She used sex to seduce and further incapacitate an already fragile old man, and then took advantage of his diminished state to convince him to leave his money and assets to her. We’re hiring a private investigator to gather the necessary evidence, since this is something that has only recently come to light.”
“I see,” Mr. Tarrant replied. “Or perhaps it’s something you’ve pulled out of thin air in a vain last-ditch effort.”
Unbelievable, Gracie thought. Even if she’d known Harry was worth a bundle, she never would have taken advantage of him. And she certainly wouldn’t have used her alleged sexual wiles, since she didn’t even have a sexual wile, never mind sexual wiles, plural. True friendship was worth way more than money and was a lot harder to find. And incapacitated? Diminished? Harry? Please. He’d been full of piss and vinegar until the minute that damned aneurysm brought him down.
Mr. Tarrant met the other attorney’s gaze levelly. “Harrison Sage, Jr. changed his will in person, in the office of his attorneys, two of whom are seated in this room. And he presented to them not only a document from his physician stating his excellent health, both mental and physical, but his physician was also present to bear witness in that office. Your father’s intent was crystal clear. He wished for Grace Sumner to inherit the bulk of his personal estate. Two judges have agreed. Therefore Miss Sumner does inherit the bulk of his personal estate.
“Now then,” he continued, “on the day he amended his will for the last time, Mr. Sage also made a video at his attorneys’ office that he wanted Miss Sumner and his family and associates, along with their representatives, to view. Renny, do you mind?”
Renny Twigg aimed a remote at the TV. A second later, Harry’s face appeared on the screen, and Gracie’s stomach dropped. He looked nothing like the Harry she remembered. He was wearing a suit and tie not unlike the other power suits in the room, a garment completely at odds with the wrinkled khakis and sweatshirts he’d always worn in Cincinnati. His normally untidy hair had been cut and styled by a pro. His expression was stern, and his eyes were flinty. He looked like a billionaire corporate mogul—humorless, ruthless and mean. Then he smiled his Santa Claus smile and winked, and she knew this was indeed the Harry she had known and loved. Suddenly, she felt much better.
“Hey there, Gracie,” he said in the same playful voice with which he’d always greeted her. “I’m sorry we’re meeting like this, kiddo, because it means I’m dead.”
Unbidden tears pricked Gracie’s eyes. She really did miss Harry. He was the best friend she’d ever had. Without thinking, she murmured, “Hi, Harry.”
Every eye in the room fell upon her, but Gracie didn’t care. Let them think she was a lunatic, talking to someone on a TV screen. In that moment, it felt as if Harry were right there with her. And it had been a long time since she’d been able to talk to him.
“And if you’re watching this,” he continued, “it also means you know the truth about who I really am, and that you’re having to share a room with members of my original tribe. I know from experience what a pain in the ass that can be, so I’ll keep this as brief as I can. Here’s the deal, kiddo. I hope it didn’t scare the hell out of you when you heard how much I left you. I’m sorry I never told you the truth about myself when I was alive. But by the time I met you, I was way more Harry Sagalowsky than I was Harrison Sage, so I wasn’t really lying. You wouldn’t have liked Harrison, anyway. He was a prick.”
At this, Gracie laughed out loud. It was just such a Harry thing to say. When she felt eyes on her again, she bit her lip to stifle any further inappropriate outbursts. Inappropriate to those in the room, anyway. Harry wouldn’t have minded her reaction at all.
He continued, “That’s why I wanted to stop being Harrison. One day, I realized just how far I’d gotten from my roots, and how much of myself I’d lost along the way. People love rags-to-riches stories like mine, but those stories never mention all the sacrifices you have to make while you’re clawing for those riches, and how a lot of those sacrifices are of your morals, your ethics and your character.”
Gracie sobered at that. She’d never heard Harry sound so serious. He grew more so as he described how, by the time he’d left his old life, he’d become little more than a figurehead for his companies, and how unhappy his home life had become, and how all he’d wanted was to escape. So he left his work, his family and his “big-ass Long Island estate,” returned to the surname his ancestors had changed generations ago and moved back to the blue-collar neighborhood in Cincinnati where he grew up.
At this, Gracie glanced across the room at Vivian and Harrison and saw them looking at the television with identical expressions—a mixture of annoyance, confusion and something else she couldn’t identify. She tried to be sympathetic. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like for them, being ignored by their husband and father for fifteen years, and then being disinherited by him. She supposed they were justified in some of their feelings toward Harry.
But maybe they should take a minute to wonder why Harry had done this. He hadn’t been the kind of man to turn his back on people, unless those people had given him a reason to do it.
Harry spoke from the video again, bringing Gracie’s attention back around. “Vivian and Harrison, this part is for you. Billions of dollars is way too much for anyone to have. Gracie Sumner is the kind of person who will understand what an awesome responsibility that much money is, and she’ll do the right thing by it. She won’t keep it for herself. I know her. She’ll get rid of it as quickly as she can, and she’ll make sure it gets into the hands of people who need it.”
At this, Gracie braved another look across the room. Vivian Sage, her hair silver, her suit gold, her fingers and wrists bedecked in gemstones of every color, looked like she wanted to cry. Harrison, however, was staring right at Gracie. But his expression was unreadable. He could have been wondering where to eat lunch later or pondering where to hide her body. She hadn’t a clue.
Thankfully, Harry’s mention of her name gave her a reason to look back at the TV. “Gracie, this part’s for you. I could have given my money to worthy causes myself and saved you a lot of trouble. But being a better person than I am, you’ll know better than I would what to do with all my filthy lucre. But listen, kiddo. This last part is really important. Keep some of the money for yourself. I mean it. Buy yourself one of those ridiculous little cars you like. Or a house on the water. Go to Spain like you said you wanted to. Something. You promise?”
Again, Gracie felt every gaze in the room arc toward her. She had no idea what to say. It just felt wrong to take Harry’s money, even a modest sum. After that first meeting with Mr. Tarrant, Gracie had gone home and headed straight for Google. In every article she’d read about Harrison Sage, Jr., he’d been defined by his wealth. “Billionaire Harrison Sage, Jr.,” he’d invariably been called. Even after his disappearance, when the word recluse had been added to his descriptions, it had still always been preceded by the word billionaire. In his old life, Harry had been, first and foremost, rich. Anything else had been incidental. Gracie didn’t want to be one of the people who saw only dollar signs in conjunction with his name, and she didn’t want to be one of the ones who took from him. Especially after he’d given so much to her.
“Promise me, Gracie,” he said again from the big screen, obviously having known she would hesitate.
“Okay, Harry,” she replied softly. “I promise.”
“That’s my girl,” Harry said with another wink.
He said his farewells, and then the TV screen went dark. Again, Gracie felt tears threatening. Hastily, she fished a handkerchief out of her purse and pressed it first to one eye, then the other.
Across the room, Harrison Sage began a slow clap. “Oh, well done, Ms. Sumner,” he said. “Definitely an award-worthy performance. I can see how my father was so taken in by you.”
“Were I you, Mr. Sage,” Bennett Tarrant interjected, “I would be careful what I said to the woman who owns the Long Island mansion my mother calls home.”
It hit Gracie then, finally, just how much power she wielded at the moment. Legally, she could indeed toss Vivian Sage into the street and move into the Long Island house herself. That was what a trashy, scheming, manipulative gold digger who’d used her sexual wiles to take advantage of a fragile old man would do.
So she said, “Mr. Tarrant, what do I have to do to deed the Long Island house and everything in it to Mrs. Sage? This is her home. She should own it, not me.”
Harrison Sage eyed Gracie warily at the comment, but he said nothing. Something in Vivian’s expression, though, softened a bit.
“It’s just a matter of drawing up the paperwork,” Mr. Tarrant said. “Today being Wednesday, we could have everything ready by the end of next week. If you don’t mind staying in the city for a little while longer.”
Gracie expelled a soft sigh. Harry’s Long Island estate had to be worth tens of millions of dollars, and its contents worth even more. Just shedding that small portion of his wealth made her feel better.
“I don’t mind staying in the city awhile longer,” Gracie said. “It’ll be fun. I’ve never been to New York before. Could you recommend a hotel? One that’s not too expensive? The one I’m in now is pretty steep, but I hadn’t planned to stay more than a couple of nights.”
“It’s New York City, Gracie,” Mr. Tarrant said with a smile. “There’s no such thing as not too expensive.”
“Oh, you don’t want to stay in the city,” Vivian said. “Darling, it’s so crowded and noisy. Spend the time with us here in the Hamptons. It’s beautiful in June. We’ve been having such lovely evenings.”
Harrison looked at his mother as if she’d grown a second head. “You can’t be serious.”
Gracie, too, thought Vivian must be joking. A minute ago, she’d looked as if she wanted Gracie to spontaneously combust. Now she was inviting her to stay at the house? Why? So she could suffocate Gracie in her sleep?
“Of course I’m serious,” Vivian said. “If Grace—you don’t mind if I call you Grace, do you, darling?—is kind enough to give me the house, the least I can do is make her comfortable here instead of having her stay in a stuffy old hotel in the city. Don’t you think so, Harrison?”
What Harrison was thinking, Gracie probably didn’t want to know. Not if the look on his face was any indication.
“Please, Grace?” Vivian urged. “We’ve all gotten off on the wrong foot. This just came as such a shock, that’s all. Let us make amends for behaving badly. You can tell us all about how you met my husband and what he was like in Cincinnati, and we can tell you about his life here before you met him.”
Gracie wasn’t sure how to respond. Was Vivian really being as nice as she seemed? Did she really want to mend fences? Or was there still some potential for the suffocation thing?
Gracie gave herself a good mental shake. She’d been a billionaire for barely a week, and already she was seeing the worst in people. This was exactly why she didn’t want to be rich—she didn’t want to be suspicious of everyone she met.
Of course Vivian was being nice. Of course she wanted to make amends. And it would be nice to hear about Harry’s life before Gracie met him. She’d always thought the reason he didn’t talk about himself was because he thought she’d be bored. His life must have been fascinating.
For some reason, that made Gracie look at Harrison again. He was no longer glowering at her, and in that moment, she could see some resemblance between him and his father. They had the same blue eyes and square jaw, but Harrison was a good three inches taller and considerably broader in the shoulders than Harry had been. She wondered if he had other things in common with his father. Did he share Harry’s love of baseball or his irreverent sense of humor? Did he prefer pie to cake, the way his father had? Could he cook chili and fox-trot with the best of them?
And why did she suddenly kind of want to find out?
“All right,” she said before realizing she’d made the decision. “It’s nice of you to open your home to me, Mrs. Sage. Thank you.”
“Call me Vivian, darling,” the older woman replied with a smile. “I’m sure we’re all going to be very good friends before the week is through.”
Gracie wasn’t so sure about that. But Vivian seemed sincere. She, at least, might turn out to be a friend. But Harrison? Well. With Harrison, Gracie would just hope for the best.
And, of course, prepare for the worst.
Three (#ulink_483ff978-7a02-54ad-b69b-2dccf9629a55)
Gracie awoke her second day on Long Island feeling only marginally less uncomfortable than she had on her first. Dinner with Vivian last night—Harrison was, not surprisingly, absent—had been reasonably polite, if not particularly chatty on Gracie’s part. But she still felt out of place this morning. Probably because she was out of place. The bedroom in which Vivian had settled her was practically the size of her entire apartment back in Seattle. Jeez, the bed was practically the size of her apartment back in Seattle. The ceiling was pale blue with wisps of white clouds painted on one side that gradually faded into a star-spattered twilight sky on the other. The satiny hardwood floor was scattered with fringed flowered rugs, and the furniture and curtains could have come from the Palace at Versailles.
How could Harry have lived in a house like this? It was nothing like him. His apartment had been furnished with scarred castoffs, and the rugs had been threadbare. His walls had been decorated with Cincinnati Reds memorabilia, some vintage posters advertising jazz in Greenwich Village and a couple of paint-by-number cocker spaniels. And Harry had loved that apartment.
There had been no ocean whispers drifting through the windows in the old neighborhood. No warm, salt-laden breezes. No deserted beaches. No palatial homes. There had been tired, well-loved old houses crowded together. There had been broken sidewalks with violets growing out of the cracks. There had been rooms crammed with remnants of lives worked hard, but well spent, too. Life. That was what had been in her and Harry’s old neighborhood. Real life. The sort of life she’d always lived. The sort of life she’d assumed Harry had lived, too.
Why had a man who could have had and done anything he wanted abandoned it all to live in a tiny apartment in a working-class neighborhood six hundred miles away? Harry Sagalowsky, alleged retired TV repairman, had turned out to be quite the mystery man.
For some reason, that thought segued to others about Harry’s son. Harrison Sage was kind of a mystery, too. Was he the charming flirt she’d first met in the library yesterday? Or was he the angry young man who was convinced she had taken advantage of his father? And why was it so important that she convince him she wasn’t like that at all?
Today would be better, she told herself as she padded to the guest bathroom to shower. Because today she and Harrison—and Vivian, too—would have a chance to get to know each other under better circumstances. They would get to know each other period. It was a new day. A day to start over. Surely, Harrison Sage would feel that way, too. Surely, he would give her a chance to prove she was nothing like the person he thought she was.
Surely, he would.
* * *
Harrison was deliberately late for breakfast, hoping that by the time he showed up, Grace Sumner would have left, miffed to be shown so little regard now that she was richer and more important than 99 percent of the world. Instead, when he ambled out to the patio, freshly showered and wearing a navy blue polo and khakis more suitable for playing golf than for being intimidating, he found her sitting poolside with his mother. Even worse, the two women were laughing the way women did when they realized they had some shared experience that had gone awry.
And damned if Grace Sumner didn’t have a really nice laugh, genuine and uninhibited, as if she laughed a lot.
His mother sat on one side of the table, still in her pajamas and robe. Grace sat on the other, looking nothing like a gold digger and very much like a girl next door. At least, she looked like what Harrison figured a girl next door was supposed to look like. It was the way girls next door always looked in movies, all fresh and sweet and innocent. He’d never seen an actual girl next door who looked like that, since the girls he’d grown up with who lived next door—a half mile down the beach—had always looked...well, kind of like gold diggers, truth be told.
But not Grace Sumner. Her burnished hair was in a ponytail today, the breeze buffeting a few loose strands around her nape and temple in a way that made Harrison itch to tuck them back into place, just so he could watch the wind dance with them again. Her flawless face was bathed in late morning sunlight, making her skin rosy. The retro suit of the day before had been replaced by retro casual clothes today—a sleeveless white button-up shirt and those pants things that weren’t actually pants, but weren’t shorts, either, and came to about midcalf. Hers were spattered with big, round flowers in yellow and pink. Her only jewelry was a pink plastic bracelet that had probably set her back at least two dollars. Maybe as much as three.
Had he not known better, he could almost believe she was as innocent of conning his father as she claimed. He would have to stay on guard around her. Would that his father had been as cautious, none of this would be happening.
“Oh, Harrison, there you are!” his mother called out when she saw him. “Come join us. We saved you some caviar—mostly because Gracie doesn’t like caviar. Can you imagine?”
No, Harrison couldn’t imagine a woman who had just swindled herself billions of dollars not liking caviar. But it was an acquired taste for some people. She’d get the hang of it once she was firmly entrenched in the new life she’d buy with his family’s money.
“And there’s still some champagne, too,” his mother continued. “Gracie doesn’t like mimosas, either.”
Neither did Harrison. Still, he would have expected someone like Grace to lap up champagne in any form from her stiletto. The thought made his gaze fall to her feet. She wore plain flat shoes—pink, to match the flowers on her pants.
Okay, that did it. No woman could be as adorable and unsullied as Grace Sumner portrayed herself. It just wasn’t possible in a world as corrupt and tainted as this one. He stowed what little sentimentality he had—which, thankfully, wasn’t much—and armed himself with the cynicism that was so much more comfortable.
Yeah. That felt better.
“Good morning,” he said as he took his seat between the women.
“It is a good morning,” his mother replied. “I slept so much better last night, thanks to Gracie.”
Gracie, Harrison repeated to himself. His mother had tossed out the diminutive three times now. It was the sort of nickname any self-respecting girl next door would invite her new best friends to use. Great. His mother had fallen under her spell, too.
“You missed a wonderful dinner last night,” she added. “Gracie is giving us the Park Avenue penthouse and everything in it, too. She’s already called Mr. Tarrant about it. Isn’t that nice of her?”
Harrison’s gaze flew to Grace, who was gazing back at him uncomfortably.
“Really,” he said flatly.
His tone must have illustrated his skepticism, because Grace dropped her gaze to the fingers she’d tangled nervously atop the table. The plate beside them held the remnants of a nearly untouched breakfast. In spite of her having looked like she was enjoying herself with his mother, she was clearly uneasy.
“It’s the right thing to do,” she said, still avoiding his gaze. “Harry would have wanted his family to keep the places they call home.”
“The right thing to do,” Harrison told her, “would be to return everything my father left you to the family who should have inherited it in the first place.”
That comment, finally, made Grace look up. “Harry wanted me to give his money to worthy causes,” she said. “And that’s what I’m going to do.”
“When?” Harrison asked.
“As soon as I get back to Seattle. I want to meet with a financial consultant first. I have no idea what to do at this point.”
Of course she wanted to meet with a financial consultant. She needed to find out how to bury that much money so deep in numbered and offshore accounts that no one would be able to find it after the new appeal ruled in the Sages’ favor. Which reminded him...
Harrison turned to his mother. “I spoke with our attorney this morning. He’s hired the private detective we talked about, to explore this new...avenue.”
Vivian said nothing, only lifted the coffeepot to pour Harrison a cup. Grace, however, did reply.
“You’re wasting your money,” she said. “Not only is this...new avenue...pointless, but I’ll be happy to tell you anything you want to know about me.”
He studied her again—the dark, candid eyes, the bloom of color on her cheeks, the softly parted lips. She looked the same way she had yesterday when she first caught his eye, the moment she walked into the library. He couldn’t remember ever reacting to a woman with the immediacy and intensity he had when he’d met her. He had no idea why. There had just been...something...about her. Something that set her apart from everyone else in the room.
At the time, he’d told himself it was because she wasn’t like anyone else in the room. His joke about the pack of bloodthirsty jackals hadn’t really been much of a joke. That room had been filled with predators yesterday, which anyone who’d spent time with Park Avenue lawyers and socialites could attest to. And Grace Sumner had walked right into them like a dreamy-eyed gazelle who hadn’t a clue how rapacious they could be. It was that trusting aspect that had gotten to him, he realized now. Something in that first moment he saw her had made him feel as if he could trust her, too.
And trust was something Harrison hadn’t felt for a very long time. Maybe he never had. Yet there she had been, making him feel that way without ever saying a word. Now that he knew who she really was...
Well, that was where things got even weirder. Because even knowing who Grace Sumner really was, he still found himself wishing he could trust her.
He quickly reviewed what he’d discovered about her on his own by typing her name into a search engine. Although she had accounts at the usual social networking sites, she kept her settings on private. He’d been able to glean a few facts, though. That she lived in Seattle and had for a year and a half. That before that, she’d lived in Cincinnati, where she grew up. He knew she’d been working as a waitress for some time, that she was attending college with an early childhood education major—always good to have a fallback in case conning old men didn’t work out—and that she never commented publicly or posted duck-face selfies.
It bothered him that her behavior, both online and now in person, didn’t jibe with any of his preconceived ideas about her. An opportunistic gold digger would be a braying attention-grabber, too, wouldn’t she? Then he reminded himself she was a con artist. Right? Of course she was. Naturally, she would keep her true self under wraps. That way, she could turn herself into whatever she needed to be for any given mark. Like, say, a dreamy-eyed gazelle who made a mistrustful person feel as if he could trust her.

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