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“You have nerve,” Meredith burst out, finally losing her cool and jumping out of the chair. “If you’d bothered to read all the letters I sent, you’d know about this already—”
“I rarely read my correspondence.”
“Well, that’s just too bad.” She flung out the words, throwing down the file. “Maybe when you’ve come to your senses, you’ll read that through properly.”
“What for?” he goaded her, crossing his arms, looking her arrogantly up and down. “I have no intention of changing my mind. I plan on ignoring the whole thing.”
“Mr. Gallagher,” Meredith said through gritted teeth, “I am not to blame for the manner in which your grandmother chose to bequeath her fortune. I’m merely an emissary. I have no pleasure in being here, I assure you. But I have a fiduciary responsibility to act on behalf of the beneficiary, and a legal duty to act in managing and administering the estate.”
“Bravo. An impressive speech.” He clapped his hands and looked her over, amused. “I guess law school is good for something, after all.”
Mastering the urge to knock those well-aligned teeth down his throat, Meredith took a deep breath. “In case I used too many big words,” she said sweetly, “it means that, like it or not, I now represent your best interest. I need you to cooperate. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m very busy this morning. Goodbye, Miss Hunter.” With a sharp nod he rose, turned on his heel and marched out of the room the same way he’d entered. The door snapped shut behind him, leaving Meredith openmouthed in the middle of the room.
“An enthralling page-turner—not to be missed!”
—New York Times bestselling author
Joan Johnston on Southern Belle
Also by FIONA HOOD-STEWART
SOUTHERN BELLE
SILENT WISHES
THE LOST DREAMS
THE STOLEN YEARS
THE JOURNEY HOME
SOMEDAY SOON
Savannah Secrets
Fiona Hood-Stewart
To my goddaughter
Annabel Freya with love
Contents
Prologue
“So. This is finally it, Bill?” Rowena Carstairs murmured in her deep, tobacco-riddled voice, her eyes never leaving the doctor’s face.
The gray-haired, athletic-looking Bill Maguire let go of her pulse and straightened next to the large four-poster. “I’m afraid so,” he said, looking at her with a wry, sad smile. He knew it would be futile to pretend.
“That’s all right,” she said, her creased features breaking into a smile that still sparkled with mischief. “I’ve had a good inning. Better than most.”
“You’re sure you won’t consider the treatment? There’s a small chance it would buy you another year or two.”
“Ha! You have to be joking! I’m ninety-three, Bill. If I don’t die
