to talk things over with him. And let me know what you decide.’
‘Yes,’ she murmured, ‘of course.’
But even as she spoke, relief trembled through her. Edmund Maxwell had obviously not noticed that his own car was the only vehicle left in the forecourt. He’d been wrong in thinking Luke’s arrival presented a complication.
The man—thank the Lord!—had already gone.
The funeral reception had been held in the drawing room.
Whitney had replenished the fire there earlier, before going with the lawyer and the servants to the library. Now, lost in her troubled thoughts, she made her way back there. She closed the door behind her, and with a sigh, crossed to the hearth, seeking warmth and comfort from the flames.
With her arms clasped around her waist, she stared down unhappily into the leaping orange and yellow tongues.
‘Oh, Cressida,’ she murmured, ‘what have you done?’
‘What indeed!’ drawled a cynical voice from behind.
Feeling as if her body had jumped clean out of its skin, she swirled around with a loud gasp.
Luke Brannigan was getting up from a high-backed sofa, where he’d deposited his sleeping child. Tilted against the sofa was a huge, dirty-white canvas duffel bag, a jarring note, she decided abstractedly, in this elegant room.
He walked toward her, his tall frame moving between her and the doorway, blocking her means of escape—
Now why should she think she might need to escape? Oh, she knew why! His bold gaze was roaming over her with blatant male appreciation...lingeringly... as if he just couldn’t wait to get his hands where his eyes already were.
She stiffened.
‘Yes, what indeed,’ he repeated, and this time his tone was mocking. ‘But thank the Lord for codicils.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
His brows tugged together, as if she’d taken him aback... and then he gave a short derisive laugh.
‘You didn’t hear, did you! You were so wrapped up in delight at your own good fortune that you didn’t bother listening as Maxwell read out the finer points of the will.’
‘The finer points.’
‘The codicil. I guess Cressida still had a soft spot for me, despite our long estrangement—’
‘This codicil...’ Whitney’s cool tone revealed nothing of her rising sense of alarm. ‘What did it say?’
‘Pour me a drink and I’ll tell you.’
Whitney hesitated, briefly, and then with her lips compressed into a thin line, she crossed to the small buffet that served as a liquor cabinet.
‘What’ll you have?’ she asked curtly.
‘Scotch. Neat.’
She poured his drink but as she made to lift the glass, he said, ‘Are you going to make me drink alone?’
A drink might help steady her nerves, which were prickling; warning her of some danger ahead. She poured herself a rye, added a splash of ginger ale.
She placed his glass on the mantelpiece, and walked to the window. Then turned, so her back was to the light.
‘So.’ She took a sip of her drink, felt the fire of it race through her blood. ‘Tell me—’
‘Know something? I didn’t recognize you at first. The last time I saw you, you were still a scrawny twelve-year-old, with legs like twigs and pigtails the color of new carrots. But now—’
‘Yes?’ Whitney tilted her chin. She knew perfectly well what she looked like now, but it would be some sort of small revenge to have him admit how she’d changed.
How she’d...improved.
‘You’re a knockout,’ he said softly. ‘Even in that drab black outfit, you’re a knockout. Your figure, those green eyes and creamy skin, that fantastic flame red hair—lady, you’re drop-dead gorgeous...and you obviously know it. Just as you must know—’ his voice had become icy ‘—that you are the image of your late and unlamented mother.’
Whitney felt as winded as if he’d thrown her down a flight of stairs. ‘Yes.’ Somehow she managed to keep her voice steady. ‘I do look like my mother.’
‘Krystal would’ve been proud of you.’ His tone chilled her. ‘You’ve succeeded where she failed. You now own Brannigan House and the Emerald Valley Vineyards—and unlike your beautiful mother, who broke up a marriage in her unsuccessful attempt to achieve her goal, you had it handed to you on a platter. So tell me...’ He swallowed his Scotch in one gulp and rolled the empty glass between his hands. ‘What bargain did you make with the Devil, in order that you might inherit this paradise on earth?’
Because of her red hair, Whitney knew people expected her to have a temper. Which she did. But usually she managed to control it...and she was certainly not about to let this man know he was getting under her skin!
‘As you say, this house is now mine...and I’m not prepared to be insulted in it!’ She ignored an unexpected stab of compunction. Even if Luke had more right to the estate than she, she was honor-bound to respect the terms of the will. ‘I’m going up to change,’ she added cuttingly, ‘and when I come down, please be gone. If you’re not—’
His hand on her shoulder was rough, the unexpectedness of his move making her cry out as he spun her around.
‘You’re forgetting one thing,’ he said, with soft menace.
‘What?’
He smiled, and when she saw the triumph in his eyes, apprehension quivered through her.
‘The codicil,’ he said. ‘The terms of the codicil—’
‘I’m sure they don’t concern me!’
‘Ah, but they do. Grandmother’s codicil states—’
‘Edmund Maxwell left a copy of the will in the library.’ Whitney wrenched herself free. ‘I’ll read it for myself!’
The library was empty, and she hurried across to the desk. Snatching up the will, she flipped to the last page.
When she read the words typed there, she felt as if she’d stepped onto quicksand. She put a hand on the desktop to steady herself—
‘So you see—’ Luke had come up behind her ’—I’m to be living here, at Brannigan House, with you. And as long as I want to stay here, you may never sell the estate.’
‘It says,’ Whitney struggled to contain a feeling of panic, ‘that if you show up here on the day of the funeral, penniless and seeking shelter, I may not turn you away...and under those circumstances alone, I may not sell.’
