What a Woman Wants (A Manley Maids Novel) (6 page)

L
IVVY
looked like a drowned rat when she opened the door to the study. “Hey, I was wondering if you could get that ladder— Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had company.”

She turned around to leave, dripping enough water on the burgundy carpet that Sean was going to have to Shop-Vac it out of the padding or risk mold launching a colony in the fibers. If he had to replace any more carpets in this place, his profit margins were going to disappear.

And then Scanlon stood up. “Ms. Carolla?”

Livvy spun back around. “Mr. Scanlon?” She took two steps into the room. On the rug. Drenching it.

Lightning flashed outside and Sean sighed as he stood. Besides worrying about the possibility of mold, he’d also gotten an indelible picture etched into his mind—
again
—of the lithe body beneath the clingy clothes.

He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his pants to create some extra space so his body’s immediate reaction wasn’t obvious to everyone. He needed a cold shower.

Thunder rumbled overhead.

Or he could go outside. Same difference.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Scanlon?” Livvy ran a hand through her hair, bringing the curls to life like tiny corkscrews.

Sean almost groaned. The words “screw” and “Livvy” should not be in the same sentence in his world. Ever.

“Hello, Ms. Carolla.” The damn lawyer oozed more charm than a Swiss finishing school. “I was just telling your . . .” The lawyer looked over the glasses that were perched on the end of his nose and Sean felt as if he were getting a dressing down from the headmaster. “Your housekeeper, here, that we have some important documents to discuss.”

Livvy snorted at the
housekeeper
term and put her hands behind her back, doing a sort of slow Texas two-step as she approached them, her lips twitching.

“Oh I’m sure my
housekeeper
,” she winked at him, “was just about to come get me. Weren’t you Se—”

“Of course I was.” He didn’t need her telling the lawyer his name, not if Mrs. Martinson had mentioned him. The guy would know who he was and the whole plan could blow up in his face. “So, can I get you something, Livvy? Coffee or—”

“A frozen dinner?” Her lips twitched again.

Sean’s lips did the same thing. “I was going to suggest a hot dog.”

“Ah.” She nodded and leaned toward him. “I’m sure Mr. Scanlon appreciates better fare than hot dogs and frozen dinners. Isn’t that right, Mr. Scanlon?”

The lawyer was looking between them as if they were speaking some foreign language. Sean could see why. No one could follow that chat unless they’d been there from the beginning of their relationship.

Whoa. Hang on. They didn’t
have
a relationship. They
couldn’t
have a relationship.

“
Bad boy!
”

Sean might have put that screech down to his moral subconscious if not for the bird that flew into the room and landed on Livvy’s shoulder.

“
Bad boy, Orwell
,” the parrot said again.

Livvy reached up to stroke the bird’s feathers, and Sean could swear there was an expectant silence in the room as Orwell articulated what Sean, at least, imagined that touch felt like with an “
Ahhh
.”

He shook his head. Don’t. Get. Involved.

Right.

“
Bad boy, Orwell
,” the bird said once more with feeling.

Mr. Scanlon stared at the bird for a moment before shoving his glasses farther onto his nose, then lifted a briefcase onto the desk. “Why don’t we sit, Ms. Carolla?”

“Um, sure. Just a minute.” She slid her fist beneath the parrot’s talons and raised the bird so they were beak-to-nose. “What did you do, Orwell?”

“Do?” Both Sean and Scanlon said at the same time.

She glanced at them, then looked back at the bird. “Why were you a bad boy, Orwell?”

Orwell clucked in the back of his throat and the sound skittered up Sean’s spine.

“
Timmmmmmmmmberrrrrrrrrr
!” the parrot screeched, tossing his head back as he sung it to the coffered ceiling.

Sean met Livvy’s gaze. “Timber?”

She closed her eyes. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

Sean didn’t, either.

“Well, perhaps your
housekeeper
”—the old guy just
loved
calling him that—“could check it out while you and I get down to business, Ms. Carolla?”

She looked at Sean. “If you wouldn’t mind, Se—?”

“No, not at all.” Sean cut her off yet again and took the bird. Mind? Yes, he minded. He wasn’t a glorified pet sitter.

But he also had no legitimate reason to stay. So, with the two of them looking at him very pointedly, he took the damn bird and went back to work, trying to come up with some way to find out what they were talking about.

And then he did find a way. Looked like his principles were about to be compromised again.

S
O,
Mr. Scanlon, what are you doing here?” Livvy reluctantly took the seat across from the attorney, reminded too much of the last time she’d been here and
Grandmama
had given her the “this is what is expected of you” speech on her first day. That had set
quite
the tone for the rest of the visit. “I thought I signed all the papers I needed to in your office.”

“You did. I’m just acting in accordance with your grandmother’s wishes.”

Ah ha.
Wishes
. The oblique term for legal servitude had a nice ring to it. Too bad it still stuck in her craw. “Okay. So what are they? Do I have to not step out of the magic Martinson bubble beyond the front gates for the rest of my mortal life or something? Sacrifice my firstborn on the altar of Martinson to then become worthy? Lay prostrate in the hall of ancestral paintings until I atone for the sin of being born a bastard? What does dear
Grandmother
have planned now?”

The lawyer sat back, looking a little put out. Not that she could blame him, since she’d laid it on pretty thick, but come on already. An inheritance was an inheritance. What gave her grandmother the right to pull puppet strings from the grave?

And who’d know if she
didn’t
follow the letter of the law? Mr. Scanlon? She’d just pay him off. Rich people did that all the time. You could get away with anything for the right amount of money. The girls in her dormitory at school had proved it time and again.

“Actually, Ms. Carolla, I do believe there is mention made of the gallery, but Mrs. Martinson left specific instructions.”

“I’ll bet she did,” Livvy muttered.

“Sorry?”

Livvy shook her head. It wasn’t the old guy’s fault that her grandmother had had a God complex. She just hoped he was getting paid well. “Okay, fine. Whatever. Just lay it on me so I can get to it.”

Mr. Scanlon arched his eyebrows, which, with the way they moved halfway up his receding hairline, made him look like Mr. Potato Head of the interchangeable facial parts.

She coughed into her fist to cover the giggle. He really did look like Mr. Potato Head.

“I can’t just
give
them to you, Ms. Carolla. Mrs. Martinson left specific instructions, and the first is that I record the precise time when I give you the first document.”

“
First
document?” Livvy leaned forward, her hands clasped in her lap. “There are more?”

Exactly how long did she have to jump to Merriweather’s tune? The house was losing more of its appeal every moment.

And when a crash sounded in the next room, the appeal only lessened.

Although it did tick up a notch when she heard a muffled male curse that she was pretty sure was Sean’s—she’d worked very hard to make sure Orwell’s vocabulary was PG-rated at worst.

Mr. Scanlon unlocked the brass latches of his briefcase with a very loud and authoritative
click
. On purpose, she was sure. He’d hung around Merriweather too long.

Of course, given the fact that she sat up straight, crossed her ankles, and clasped her hands in her lap showed just what conditioning could do. Boarding school had been great—if that’s what she could call it—at conditioning.

Except, hey, she was in her own house and didn’t have to do what anyone told her.

Livvy lounged back in the chair, crossed one leg over the other, and put a little swing action into it, enjoying the fact that she didn’t have to toe anyone’s line anymore.

Mr. Scanlon handed her the first document. “If you’ll read that, please.” Then he wrote something down in the journal he also removed from the briefcase.

Livvy gnawed on the inside of her cheek and lifted the paper. It was her grandmother’s handwriting. Livvy had seen the imperial scrawl often enough on the checks the headmistress made sure she saw. All part of that gratitude thing everyone thought she ought to feel.

She flicked the paper and the first word jumped out at her.
Olivia
.

Well, that covered it in a nutshell. No messy emotions like, “My Dear Granddaughter,” or “Darling Olivia.” As if that’d ever happen.

Livvy cleared her throat.

Olivia.

My attorney has all the pertinent documents making what I’m about to explain legal and binding, but I’m sure you can’t be bothered by all the legalese, so I’ll get to the point.

The Martinson name has been revered for centuries. Not just anyone should claim it, and those who do should know its history. Since studying history was not one of your strong suits at the Academy, I have created a series of clues for you to follow. The first will lead you to the next, and so on, until you reach the last.

You have two weeks to the minute from now to find the clues and present the last to my attorney’s firm, whereupon you shall claim your inheritance, or the estate will be sold in accordance with terms I’ve specified to Mr. Scanlon.

I am aware, Olivia, of your hatred for this family. Of your desire to remove yourself from it, so I expect your first instinct to be to throw this away. But consider what turning your back on this home and our vast fortune means. Are you willing to give it all up? Willing to deny all the good your bleeding heart could do with it? The choice is yours.

The clock is ticking.

Don’t fail me, Olivia.

Don’t fail me.
No signature because one wasn’t necessary. Just the directive. Had Merriweather Knightsbridge Martinson ever
asked
for a thing in her life? Livvy doubted it.

She set the paper on the desk. Typical battle-axe self-centeredness. Livvy hadn’t really expected anything else.

She would so love to tell the old woman to shove it, but that’s exactly what Merriweather had expected. The woman had never had anything good to say to or about her. She was Larry’s Indiscretion. Larry’s Mistake. Larry’s Unfortunate Accident. All in capital letters.

Well now she was Larry’s Heir. Or, more specifically, Merriweather’s Heir. Wasn’t the irony delicious?

She wasn’t about to blow this. Not when Merriweather had hit her at her weak spot. The money would enable her to do what she wanted: grow her business and help out the co-op. Take care of her animals and never have to worry about paying the rent again. She’d even be able to afford to donate to causes she felt worthwhile. It was her ticket to making her life everything she wanted it to be. “Okay, Mr. Scanlon. How do I do this?”

The lawyer removed his glasses and folded them carefully, then tucked them into the breast pocket of his jacket. “When I give you this paper, the clock will start.”

Livvy contained herself. Such drama. “Okay then. Let’s have it. Let the games begin.”

S
EAN
really hated poker. If not for that stupid game, he wouldn’t be in this predicament.

The damn bird was worse than the goats, sheep, pig, and that pain-in-the-ass alpaca all put together.

Sean almost lost a finger trying to get the parrot to shut up, and the feathers the damn thing was molting all over the place were merely the tip of the iceberg.

Parrots needed diapers. Big time.

Actually, he realized as he surveyed the ruined Aubusson when he returned Orwell to the room,
all
of the animals needed diapers. Thank God the floor was marble; the mess would clean up easy, but he’d be the one doing it unless he could appeal to Livvy’s sense of fair play.

If she was anything like her grandmother, Sean wasn’t holding out much hope.

Dammit. He didn’t need this nightmare. At this point, the room was a write-off anyway, and if he didn’t find out what was happening in the study, he could write the rest off, too.

Checking to make sure the French doors to the outside were closed, Sean tossed Orwell into the air, where the bird swooped onto one of the curtain rods—that would no doubt soon be covered in bird droppings—then he left the menagerie alone and closed the doors to the foyer.

He walked to the study door, listening at the opening he’d deliberately left.

“So, what? Do I have to swear to name my firstborn after the old battle-axe, I mean, my grandmother, or something?” Livvy shook a piece of paper, then switched on the desk lamp.

“‘This is the first clue for the first item you must find,’” she read. “Great. A scavenger hunt. Wasn’t she a little old for games?” Livvy lifted the paper closer. “‘You’ll forgive an old woman an indulgence in rhyme. It seems the game calls for that and I find, at the end of my life, I like humoring my whims.’” Livvy snorted. “
Now
she wants to get a sense of humor. Her timing sucks.”

“Please read on,” Scanlon said with a sniff.

Sean liked the fact that he and Livvy were on the same side in their opinion of Merriweather—the old battle-axe. Yeah, he could see how the name fit.

He could also see Livvy’s butt wiggle slightly in the chair. Sean rolled his eyes.
Mind back on the problem, Manley.

One of Livvy’s combat boots rocked erratically. She tossed her hair back. “Okay, then. So, clue number one.”

Livvy’s back went a little straighter, her chin dipped, and her voice lowered an octave. She might have even put a slight British accent to the words, which Sean also got. Merriweather Martinson did seem like the upper-crust old paragon of British aristocracy. An image, he was sure, she’d purposely cultivated.

The pages are old, hundreds of years,

To when its benefactor instilled many fears,

In clergy and nobles, and even the peasants,

Though a loyal few did earn some presents:

Like the first Martinson, who hadn’t fled

When a queen’s mother lost her head.

Livvy set both feet on the floor and placed the paper on Scanlon’s desk—her desk, actually. She tapped the letter. “What’s that supposed to mean? Where’s the clue in there?”

Riddles. Sean cursed under his breath. He’d never had a problem with numbers, but letters had always been a challenge for him. Dyslexia had tormented him through school, and though he’d come up with coping strategies, things like homonyms and homophones—and
riddles
—had made his life hell. It figured that his future would come down to riddles.

“So what is this supposed to mean? I have to find some old documents?”

The lawyer cleared his throat. “The only clarification I can make is that should you elect to pass on this opportunity or fail to complete it, you will be entitled to a small stipend from the estate. Beyond that, Mrs. Martinson’s directions were clear.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Follow the yellow brick road and I end up in Oz. Scarecrow included. Question is, does
Grandmama
see herself as Glinda or the Wicked Witch of the West?”

Sean knew which one he’d pick right now. Dammit. That old woman was playing both of them.

“Maybe it’s a book.” Livvy stood up and kicked the Louis XIV chair with the heel of that ridiculous boot.

Sean cringed. He hoped to God she hadn’t put a dent in that chair or she’d just devalued it by several hundred dollars.

And then she stood just as more lightning flashed through the front window, streaming through her skirt, reminding him exactly what those legs had looked like draped over the banister, all smooth, creamy skin.

His damn pants were constricting him again. Sean bit back a curse. When was the last time he’d gotten laid? That had to be the explanation for this because frizzy-headed munchkins, with an attitude—and potential fortune—bigger than his, were not his cup of tea.

Tea. Oh, hell. He’d left the kettle on when he’d boiled the water for the coffee.

Great. Burning the place down would only make his problems worse.