Instructing an Heiress (2 page)

He had a bad feeling that today's pain was only just getting warmed up.
 

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Wayland covertly watched his grown son, Steve, daintily apply margarine to his bran muffin and tried not to feel depressed. He loved his son. He did. Even though he'd raised the boy since he was five when his mother left them, he sure didn't understand him. Probably never would.

The breeze ruffled his hair and he stared out at the edge of the forest just beyond the pool. He liked eating on the patio. Being outdoors suited him. He was a simple man—old school Texas through and through. Despite being so rich that his net worth increased by the minute, he preferred straight-forward, down-to-earth things like the hearty bacon and egg breakfast in front of him, a cold beer, a loud band, and a good woman.
 

That's all he really needed to be happy. Striking it rich and moving to a New Jersey estate so the wife could enjoy her uppity lifestyle hadn't done a thing to add to his joy except give him Steve. And now look at him. Dark hair perfect, shirt and tie matching, not a spot on him.

Maybe he was gay, Wayland speculated. That would be fine if his son would go and find himself someone to settle down with instead of wasting his time working day and night. With adoption the way it was these days, he'd still get the grandchildren he wanted out of the boy.
 

He chewed thoughtfully. Who was he fooling? All Steve thought about was work. That's partly what had forced him and old Josh to drastic measures in the first place—plots and convolutions that had a snowball's chance in hell of working.

Wayland plunged a big forkful of salty eggs into his mouth. Maybe he could remarry and make a new kid. He shivered. At his age, that was a mighty grim thought.

He eyed his son, again. "There's something I want to talk to you about."

Steve glanced up from his blasted girly breakfast. "Of course, Dad."

"I'm worried about you. For one thing, you work too hard. For another thing—"
 

"You know you should not be eating that." His son scrutinized Wayland's plate of food, his expression fluttering between appalled and disgusted. "You might as well put rat poison in your coffee. It would be more efficient."
 

Wayland scowled at him. "Better than that cattle fodder you call food."

"I love you, Dad. I hate to think that some morning, I'll come out here and find you face down in your grease-laden, cholesterol-saturated extravaganza."

"This was good enough for my Daddy—who lived to be ninety-eight—and it's good enough for me. And for you," he said, pointing his fork at Steve.

His son dropped his napkin onto his plate and flipped the cover closed on his iPad. "Nevertheless, I can't sit here and watch you slowly kill yourself. I'm going in to work."

"Look here, youngun', I have something I want to say and I'll dang well say it whether you—"
 

But Steve had already walked out the French doors and was on his way through the summer kitchen.
 

Sputtering to a stop, Wayland stared after his son. If he didn't know better, he'd say he'd just been outmaneuvered. Fairly neatly, too.

Wayland shrugged and poured himself another cup of coffee. Didn't matter, anyway. He had nothing but time. He'd wear the boy down, eventually.

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CK stabbed at the doorbell of her grandfather's palatial New Jersey mansion and stepped back from the ornate door.
 

Ryan rested his shoulders against the stone of the arched portico. "You dragged me away from Melissa for this?"
 

"What happened to Carol?"

"Don't be fresh."

He sounded put out and CK didn't blame him. She wasn't too happy to be here herself. "If I could have avoided bringing you into this, I would have."
 

"Liar."

"Okay. I wanted backup." She glanced at Ryan who stood quietly, hands loosely at his side—the picture of relaxed confidence, as always. At least to those who didn't know him as well as she did.

"You're sweating," she observed.

"It's hot out here."

"We're in the shade and it's cloudy."
 

He watched her steadily, at least she thought he did. Behind those dark sunglasses, he could be asleep for all she knew.

"It's normal to be nervous," she finally conceded. "My family's unusual, at best, and weird more often than not. Why do you think I never dated? The first boy I brought home threw up and ran away the minute he heard the Captain bellowing inside the house."

"Good thing my hangover's better, then."
 

"Somehow he's gotten wind of the merger," she said, turning the conversation back to their real problem. "We have to make him understand how good it will be for Kazners."

"And how much you need me working there?"

"That's not his decision." Which was a lie. As the owner of Kazners, The Captain could legally do anything he wanted with the company. As the last living member on her grandfather's side of the family, she was safe from getting the boot. But not Ryan.

The thought of her grandfather firing him sent uneasiness curling around in her stomach like a snake. She pushed the feeling aside. They had to focus on how much he'd improved the company since she'd hired him. Even The Captain could appreciate higher profit margins.

"You spearheaded the merger and a dozen other improvements," she said as she attacked the doorbell again. "We'll just have to make him understand it's in his best interest to not interfere."

Ryan took a step back and looked up at the sparkling arched windows and soaring castle-like architecture of the Kazner mansion. "So this is where you grew up, huh? It doesn't look so bad. No trolls lurking on the parapets or anything."
 

"All a facade. The Captain lives to keep people off balance. Thinks it gives him the upper hand."

"The difference between nuts and eccentric is about a million dollars, I hear."

"Now, you're getting personal."

He tossed her one of his heart-melting, quirky grins. "My apologies."

"Keep it up, Anderson, and I'll make you go first."

CK reached for the enormous brass door knocker. The door swung open and she nearly grabbed the nose of her father's most loyal employee and friend. The aging butler spryly ducked her hand and opened the door wider. CK closed her eyes and did her best to suppress a sigh.
 

She'd really been hoping that her grandfather wasn't in "one of his moods." She reluctantly opened her eyes, again.
 

The ever solemn Winston stood before them barefoot, wearing flared white pants, a white vest, navy blue coat thick with brass buttons, a scarf and a flat-brimmed hat styled along the lines of a short top hat.

"Good morning, miss. Sir," Winston said, politely.

Ryan slid his sunglasses down his nose and stared at the older man.

Deciding denial was the better part of valor, CK pretended nothing was out of the ordinary. "We were summoned. Where is he?" she asked, proud of how calm she sounded.

"In the garden."

"In one of his moods?"

"Always, miss."

"Jesus," Ryan whispered.

Winston's pale brown eyes shifted to him. "No, sir. Napoleonic Seaman First Class." He stepped back and motioned for them to come in.

CK mentally fortified herself and stepped into the cavernous foyer. Ryan trailed behind her radiating curiosity with a healthy dose of reluctance. She couldn't blame him for either.

They trekked across the marble floor behind the shuffling butler, through the grand salon, took a right into the billiard room, and finally emerged into the vaulted splendor of the library. She barely noticed the collections of war memorabilia and antiques that stuffed her grandfather's mansion, but Ryan seemed openly fascinated by the vastness of it all. For someone who had never been there, she supposed the cases of rare items from all over the world and original paintings might be quite remarkable. To her it was just another twenty minutes of light exercise.

Winston reached the row of glass doors that led out onto the terrace and the labyrinth of gardens beyond. He gazed at CK with sad eyes, and the worry gnawing at her belly took an extra big chomp.

"May I say, miss, that I'm extremely sorry for what your grandfather is about to do to you."

"It's bad?" Ryan asked in the tone of voice people usually reserved for funerals.

"Oh, the worst, sir."

CK swallowed the tiny amount of spit left in her dry mouth. "Didn't the Napoleon thing clue you in, Anderson?" she gritted out, straightening her shoulders. She would not let him do this to her. She was twenty-seven and had managed Kazners on her own for nearly three years. He wasn't the boss of her anymore. She could do this.

As Winston swung open the doors, CK lifted her chin defiantly and stepped outside.
 

"Anderson?" she said, sharply when Ryan didn't follow her.

"Are those
winged
lions?" He focused on the life-sized statues on either side of the stairs.

"Where did you say he was, Winston?" she asked.

"Third elephant on the left," the butler provided.

Reaching back, she grabbed Ryan's thick wrist and pulled him up beside her. The warmth of him soaked into her palm and skated up her arm in a comforting buzz of energy.
 

Standing on the edge of the doorway, Winston brought himself to attention and cleared his throat. "Your good-for-nothing, blight on the family name granddaughter has arrived!" he shouted. His voice flowed down the terraced lawn and into the greenery beyond with surprising force. "And Mr. Anderson!"

"Wow," Ryan muttered.

"My apologies. It was required of me." He gave them a short bow and backed away.
 

The doors swung shut and Winston's shadowed form disappeared back into the depths of the house. CK's stomach gave a lurch and she had to push down the urge to throw up and run. Maybe all those years ago, Tim had the right idea.

From the far corner of the garden rolled a booming voice. "Front and center, Seaman. Front and center!"

The Captain's outrageous command drifted away on the fitful breeze coming off the pond that divided the lawn and garden below them.
 

"I'm ready to wake up, now," Ryan said. Curiosity and loyalty to CK had motivated him to go with her to New Jersey. The weirdness level and the desire to stay out of the middle of whatever was going on encouraged him to get the hell out.

He glanced at CK and noted how calm and cool she looked. At least on the outside. The way she tapped her forefinger against her thigh told him she was nervous; maybe even scared. He hated to abandon her, but interfering in a family fight was never a good idea and always led to trouble. The loyalty of friendship only went so far when it came to relatives.

Leaning down a little, he put his mouth close to her ear. "Maybe this isn't the best time for me to meet our distinguished founder. I should wait in the limo," he whispered.

A shiver ran over her, but she kept her gaze on the line of trees in the distance. "You do and I'll have Farley start a rumor about you."

He straightened up. "What kind of rumor?"

"One that would kill your love life. Something with a disease in it."

Ryan thought about that for a moment. "You sure know how to hit where it hurts." He stepped off the patio. "I'll go first."

CK darted down the steps and cut in front of him. "I'll go. He can't kill his only grandchild. People would talk."

"They won't miss me, is that what you're saying?"

"They'd assume a jilted woman was involved and not give it a second thought." She tossed a sassy grin at him. "I would miss you, though."

A candle flame of pleasure warmed his chest. "But would you avenge me?" he teased.

Her focus shifted to the house behind him. As her smile faded, the thinning clouds broke apart and a beam of morning sunlight touched her face, turning her eyes a clear amethyst and showcasing the worry she was trying so hard to hide. The desire to shield her from harm swiped through him. She always could bring out his usually dormant protective side.
 

"Together, then," he said and she nodded.
 

Their shoulders brushed as they descended and the casual contact felt nice. He'd always appreciated how easy he could be with CK. She was the only girl he'd ever felt that way about.

"What's he doing with the elephants, anyway?" Ryan asked when they reached the bottom and headed across the bright green lawn toward the oriental-style bridge that arched over the pond.
 

Their footsteps echoed off the glassy water below them as they trekked across the bridge. CK nodded toward the boxwood flying pig sitting beside the path on the other side. "The Captain sculpted all the topiaries. About five years ago, he took up the hobby to keep his blood pressure down. Not a good sign that he's out here."

"He seems to favor wings." Ryan speculated when eccentric got classified as crazy, even with several million dollars added to the formula.

"It's not far now," she said. "Try not to do anything to aggravate him. He's incredibly stubborn when he's aggravated."

Sounds familiar,
he thought, glancing at her.

They crossed another narrow strip of lawn and plunged into a maze of trees and plants, peppered with topiary animals. As they marched deeper into the garden, the chatter of birds and rustling movements of small animals thinned until a deep silence settled around them. Apparently squirrels were brighter than they were when it came to confronting CK's grandfather.
 

Tension radiated off of her and her expression had pressed into pale determination. Ryan gave her a reassuring smile. "Nobody can freak us out more than family."

"I'm not freaked out," she answered, tightly. "I'm angry. He's keeping me from an important meeting and an inbox full of email, probably for some silly reason like he doesn't appreciate how I worded my last business report."