dark and cynical. “I mean, she must have done something pretty terrible—besides getting pregnant with me, of course—to get on old Rowena’s bad side, because she’s been cut out of the will, too, right? You haven’t mentioned much about her,” he said, barely masking his hostility.
“I’m afraid she’s dead.”
He looked at her, completely expressionless, then rose quickly to his feet and moved toward the bar. After exchanging a few words with Jim, he returned with a pint of Guinness and a fresh gin and tonic. Placing them on the wooden surface, he sat down again. “Dead,” he commented, as though the conversation had not been abruptly interrupted. “How old was she when she had me?” He tipped back his glass.
“About seventeen, I guess.”
“Exactly what I thought.” He sounded satisfied.
“Maybe your grandmother was trying to make it up to you in some way,” she murmured, trying a new approach.
“With a payoff, you mean? Like they did the first time around? Paid to have her ‘little mistake’ taken care of?”
“Maybe.” Meredith shifted uncomfortably. “Or maybe Isabel wasn’t able to care for you herself and they wanted to find you a good home,” she said, keeping her voice neutral.
He let out another bark of humorless laughter, took another sip and eyed her cynically. “Don’t try to sugarcoat this, gorgeous. I’m a big boy. I can take it.”
“My name is Meredith Hunter, not ‘gorgeous,’” she bit back. “And I’d appreciate it if we could keep this conversation professional. I’m not interested in your dysfunctional psychological issues.”
“Dysfunc—what the hell are you talking about?” He slammed the tankard down abruptly.
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