Where Secrets Sleep Read online

  Holding his breath, Nick pushed open the door and sidled into the office. No one was here, but a stream of light spilled from the open door into the showroom. He worked his way around the desk and groped the wall next to the door. He paused there for a moment and then cautiously peered into the showroom.

  The rows of cabinet doors on display made an effective screen. He couldn’t see the guy from here, but he could hear footsteps, followed by a soft thud as something bumped one of the cabinets.

  Nick held his breath and moved soundlessly farther into the showroom, taking cover behind a Peg-Board displaying hardware styles. The footsteps came nearer. Frowning in concentration, Nick counted the steps, estimating the prowler’s location. One step, two—he must be within a foot now, so close Nick imagined he could hear a breath.

  Muscles tense, he waited. The instant he saw movement, he lunged, grabbing the form. Several things happened at once. He realized he was clutching a female, he felt her swing something and he heard the crack as it hit his leg with numbing force. Another crack, a banshee shriek and an orange ball of fur plummeted toward the floor.

  The cat turned on a dime, hissed and spat at him, spine arching. The woman, yanking free of his grasp, looked as if she’d like to do the same. Nick had a quick image of shining auburn hair, pale creamy skin and bright green eyes that seemed to shoot sparks of rage.

  “What are you doing? Are you insane?” She held what he now realized was a cat carrier, its door hanging by one hinge. She raised it threateningly, and he had no doubt she’d hit him again at an unwary movement.

  He raised both hands, palms out, and took a step out of range. “Take it easy. I could ask you the same thing. What are you doing in my shop?”

  “Your shop?” she echoed.

  Nick saw the doubt enter her face, and a delicate pink stained her cheeks. The green eyes were framed by uncompromising brows, and her heart-shaped face had a stubborn cast along the line of her jaw. As for her lips...for a moment he was distracted, and he forced himself to focus.

  “That’s right, my shop. I’m Nick Whiting. This is the office and showroom of Whiting and Whiting Cabinetry. I repeat, who are you? How did you get in? Or maybe I should just call the police.” He sketched a gesture toward the pocket that held his cell phone.

  “That’s not necessary.” Her chin lifted. “You’re Mr. Whiting? I’m Allison Standish.” She said it as if it should mean something to him.

  It did. “You’re Ms. Standish? The long-lost granddaughter Evelyn left this place to?”

  “I haven’t been lost, Mr. Whiting.” Her tone was cool. “But, yes. I’m the new owner of this building, so I have every right to be here.”

  He raised an eyebrow, wondering if it would infuriate her. “You may or may not be the owner of Blackburn House, but this is my shop. According to my lease, I’m supposed to be notified in advance if the owner wants access.”

  Nick had no idea if the lease actually said that, since it had been negotiated by his father years ago, but if it didn’t, it should.

  “I see.” Her tone was icy. “I suppose I should have a look at all the leases, shouldn’t I?”

  Naturally she would, possibly to his sorrow. Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned it. He took the opportunity for a long look at her. Sleek chin-length hair the color of polished mahogany, earrings a delicate tangle of silver and jet, jacket of butter-soft leather and a silk shirt that molded full breasts, a skirt that flirted with her legs and a pair of high-heeled boots that looked capable of kicking if necessary.

  Well. With this woman taking over Blackburn House, there might be a lot of changes coming.

  * * *

  ALLISON MADE A concentrated effort to collect herself. Her nerves, already shredded by the events of the day, hadn’t been up to this additional assault. It was taking every bit of control she had to keep her courage up with this obnoxious character. If he was typical of the tenants she’d have to deal with, the sooner she sold this place, the better.

  She bent to pick up the cat, smoothing her hand over Hector’s ruffled fur. Poor thing. He’d had a bad day, as well. It was a shame he hadn’t managed to run his claws into Whiting’s leg.

  Glancing up under her lashes, she assessed the man. Light brown hair, cut in a short, almost military style, and tanned skin. He had a jaw that proclaimed his stubbornness, and at the moment it was set like granite.

  He met her gaze, and his eyes were a shade somewhere between gold and brown that reminded her of topaz. His gaze seemed to grow intent as he realized she was assessing him, and she looked down, trying to ease an affronted Hector into the cat carrier. He snagged the dangling door with one paw.

  “Look at this. You’ve broken my cat carrier.” Tears stung her eyes. Ridiculous, but this really was the last straw. “How can I walk into the bed-and-breakfast carrying a cat in my arms? I can’t expect the owner to accept that. She wasn’t eager to have a cat on the premises as it is.”

  Whiting knelt next to her, and a flicker of alarm went through her at the quick movement and his unexpected closeness. She caught her breath. How did she know he was really who he said he was? She shouldn’t be lingering in an empty building in a strange town alone with a man she didn’t know.

  “You hold the cat. I’ll deal with the door.” His tone warmed, filled with amusement, as if he’d guessed what she was thinking.

  Speechless, Allison gathered Hector into her arms and eased a little away from him. She watched Whiting’s hands as he worked on the carrier. They were square, strong, workman’s hands, a little scarred but deft and capable. In a moment he’d popped the door back into place.

  “That should do it.” His hand moved toward Hector, who reacted with a hiss. Whiting retreated prudently and held the cage door instead while she stooped to bundle Hector inside. “I don’t think that cat likes me.” He rose, putting a hand under Allison’s elbow to help her up.

  “It’s the traveling he doesn’t like. He’s had a rough day.” As she had.

  “Looks like he’s not the only one.”

  It was all she could do not to wince. “If that’s your idea of a compliment, I don’t think much of it.”

  Whiting grinned, the sun lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling. “My mother says I have all the finesse of a bulldozer. I just meant— Well, you’ve had a long drive from Philadelphia, and it’s late to be inspecting a building, besides being assaulted by a stranger who breaks your cat carrier with his leg. I’ll help carry your stuff over to Mrs. Anderson’s place.”

  “How did you know that’s where I’m going? Or that I’ve come from Philadelphia?”

  Allison was instantly suspicious, but the gaze that met hers was guileless.

  “You said you were staying at a B and B. There’s only one in town. And everyone has been buzzing about the unexpected relative scooping a piece of the pie.”

  “Oh.” She felt foolish, which was probably what he’d intended. “Thanks, but I can manage my own things.” She straightened, grasping the carrier and her bag. “Good night.”

  He nodded. Waiting until she’d left the showroom, he switched off the light, locked the door and strode off toward the rear of the building.

  That was that, she thought, rather surprised that he’d given in so easily. He looked like the kind of person who’d keep pushing, as if being female meant she couldn’t manage to carry anything heavier than a feather fan. She made her way to the front door, paused a moment to admire the frosted patterned glass that must have surely been original to the building and let herself out, locking the door behind her.

  By the time she reached her car, Nick Whiting was waiting there for her. She glared at him. “I thought we’d already established that I can manage my own bags.”

  “You can, but you don’t have to.” He leaned against the car, blocking her entry, seeming immovable.
r />   Allison wasn’t going to stand here all night arguing. She shoved past him unceremoniously, pulled out her suitcase and laptop bag, and clung to the handle when he attempted to take the suitcase from her.

  “I can manage,” she repeated.

  He raised one eyebrow, a trick she found annoying. “Come on, give me a break. It would reflect badly on my parents if I didn’t help you.”

  “No one will know,” she snapped.

  The grin transformed his face. “You’re not used to small towns, are you? Somebody always knows.” Before she could react, he seized the bag from her hand and strode off toward the bed-and-breakfast.

  Allison had to hurry to keep up with his long, lithe stride, and she scolded herself for noticing how he walked or anything else about him. Hadn’t she just learned a painful lesson about the chasm between looks and character in a man?

  When they reached the door, Whiting put the bag down and pressed the doorbell before she could reach it.

  Allison fixed a smile on her face. “Thank you. You’re actually right about one thing. I don’t know anything about small towns, and I don’t intend to find out. I plan to sell Blackburn House as soon as possible.”

  Thoughts of financial security, maybe starting her own business, flickered through her mind.

  Nick Whiting seemed to withdraw, even though he didn’t move. “Sell? I don’t think that’s what Evelyn would have wanted.”

  She was startled to hear his familiar reference to the grandmother who was little more than a name to her, and annoyed that he presumed to speak for the woman.

  “Since I never knew Evelyn Standish, you can hardly expect her wishes to be important to me.”

  Allison turned away, trying to ignore his frowning disapproval, and marched into the bed-and-breakfast when the door opened. But even though she didn’t look, she could sense him standing there, frowning after her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SHE SHOULD HAVE known there would be strings attached, Allison told herself the next morning as she stared across the polished mahogany desk at Jonas Litwhiler, her grandmother’s attorney. She knew perfectly well that no one gave you something for nothing. So why was she feeling oddly hurt at this reinforcement of her preconceptions about her grandmother?

  Litwhiler, perhaps made uncomfortable by her silence, cleared his throat. “You understand, Ms....er...Ms. Standish? The bequest from Mrs. Standish is conditional on certain requirements being fulfilled.”

  “I understand.” She leaned back, trying to demonstrate an unconcern she didn’t feel. “I’m waiting to hear what those requirements are.”

  “Yes, I see.” Litwhiler fiddled with the delicate china cup and saucer that sat on a small, doily-covered tray at the side of his desk. Coffee, by the smell of it. As if reminded, he gestured toward the cup. “Would you care for coffee? It won’t take a moment.”

  “No. Thank you.” Let’s just get on with it.

  Jonas Litwhiler was the image of an old-fashioned small-town attorney—white hair, white shirt, conservative tie, dark suit. The only surprise to his appearance was the white carnation in his lapel. Even his offices were a masterpiece of dark paneling and Oriental carpets, located in another of the Victorian houses in which Laurel Ridge seemed to specialize. He looked as if he’d strayed into the contemporary scene from a 1930s black-and-white movie.

  “According to the trust set up by Mrs. Standish, the ownership of Blackburn House passes to you completely if you run it successfully on your own for a period of one year.”

  So many questions crowded Allison’s mind that she didn’t know which one to spit out first. “Can I sell it?”

  An expression of profound disapproval settled on the attorney’s face. “Not until you’ve completed the year satisfactorily.”

  It was all very well for him to be disapproving. He hadn’t had his entire life turned upside down in the past twenty-four hours. “And who decides if I’ve been successful? You, I suppose?” If he was acting for the other heirs as well, that struck her as a conflict of interest.

  “No.” The answer was short, and he looked as if he’d just sucked on something sour. “If Mrs. Standish’s accountants declare that Blackburn House has been run at a profit for one year, the matter has been decided.”

  She suspected his reaction meant that he’d been offended to have that decision taken out of his hands. Still, it seemed to indicate that Evelyn Standish had tried to be fair, according to her definition of fairness.

  “And if I fail or choose not to accept the challenge?”

  “Ownership passes to Brenda Standish Conner, your father’s cousin,” he said promptly.

  She nodded, vaguely aware he’d mentioned the cousin in their telephone conversation. Apparently she and her daughter had lived with Mrs. Standish. They’d probably expected to scoop the lot. Well, they might still do so.

  “Didn’t it occur to Mrs. Standish that I’d have a career and a life elsewhere?” Even as she asked the question, Allison realized it wasn’t true in the sense that it had been the previous day, though she did still have an apartment and friends in Philadelphia. And nothing could reconcile her to uprooting her life to a place like Laurel Ridge.

  “I don’t believe Mrs. Standish was concerned about your career. In any event, I don’t feel comfortable discussing Mrs. Standish’s reasons for her actions.”

  Something about his acid tone suggested to Allison that her grandmother hadn’t seen fit to ask his advice.

  Allison took a steadying breath, trying to compose her thoughts. She’d come into this meeting unprepared, it seemed to her. She eyed the attorney, wondering how much of the truth he’d care to share.

  “Is it actually legal to attach such conditions to a bequest?”

  His grip tightened on the pen he held, and he put it down precisely on the desk blotter. “You can contest the will if you like, of course. It will be expensive, and in my opinion, you will lose.”

  Allison wasn’t sure she’d like to take his word for that. Maybe she should consult another attorney. But it would take time, and meanwhile she’d be stuck in Laurel Ridge. Maybe she’d been right in her first assessment, and this was just a final insult on the part of the grandmother who’d ignored her existence. Evelyn Standish didn’t fit anyone’s idea of the doting grandmother.

  “Didn’t you say there was a partnership in a quilt shop in the bequest?” That was the shop she’d seen briefly the previous night, before her run-in with Nick Whiting.

  “That comes under the same one-year provision, except that in the case of the quilt shop, ownership will pass to Sarah Bitler, the current owner.”

  It had begun to sound as if there were a lot of people who’d be happy to see her leave town.

  Litwhiler riffled through a sheaf of papers. “I think that about covers it. You’ll find the business accounts in Mrs. Standish’s office in Blackburn House. Funds for operating expenses and any necessary repairs are provided.” He hesitated. “You’ll also find that an apartment adjoins the office. A separate account has been set up for any renovations you’d care to do. Mrs. Standish thought you might want to live there, should you decide to stay.”

  If there was a question in that comment, Allison ignored it. She wouldn’t commit herself to anything until she’d had a chance to consider the options.

  As for the apartment— She thought again of her apartment in Philadelphia, of the time and care she’d put into making it the perfect home. “Could I rent this apartment?” she asked abruptly. “Or is it tied up with conditions, as well?”

  “No, no conditions.” He looked surprised, as if that hadn’t occurred to him. “If you stay, you can do as you like with it.”

  “I’ll give it some thought.” She slipped the strap of her bag onto her shoulder and slid to the edge of her chair.

  “You..
.you don’t want to give me an answer now?” He seemed disconcerted, as if this interview hadn’t gone as he expected.

  “Not without considering all my options.” She rose, looking down at him across the massive stretch of mahogany.

  Litwhiler stood abruptly. “There’s another option I’ve been asked to put before you.” He seemed to be picking his words carefully, wearing a faint expression of distaste.

  “Yes?” She raised her eyebrows, feeling as if the balance of power had shifted slightly in her favor.

  “Brenda...Mrs. Standish Conner, I mean, feels perhaps...” He let that die out, as if it hadn’t been the right approach. “Mrs. Standish Conner asked me to say that in the event you did not care to accept the terms of the bequest, she would be willing to make the sum of over one hundred thousand dollars to you.”

  Allison fought to keep her face expressionless, while her mind raced. One hundred thousand. She could do a lot with that amount. On the other hand, she’d guess that was a fraction of the actual value of the building. Even in a town the size of Laurel Ridge, a fully occupied commercial building had to be worth far more.

  She adjusted her bag deliberately and turned away. No wonder Litwhiler looked uncomfortable, quite aside from the fact that he seemed to be representing one heir against another. The offer was an insult to her intelligence.

  “Shall I tell Ms. Standish Conner you’ll consider her offer?”

  Allison took a couple of steps toward the door and turned to smile back over her shoulder at him. “I’ll consider it,” she said. “But first, I believe I’d better take some legal advice of my own.”

  It wasn’t a bad exit line, she decided. She walked quickly out of the office.