been ice-cold in his arms; somehow, he’d never managed to stir her. No man had managed that in her virginal life, although she was certain she had passion in her. She loved fast cars and excitement and all sorts of hobbies that her father had predicted would be the death of her.
She hadn’t gotten over Adam in the month since their engagement had been broken. She’d gone off to France for two weeks and come back with a suntan, a sour disposition, and a grudge against her disappointed parent. Now she was bored again, and nagging him had become a rather satisfying diversion for her.
“I want to be loved for myself,” she muttered.
His eyebrows arched again. “I love you.”
“Prove it,” she challenged. “Stop throwing men at me!”
He threw up his hands. “My God, all I want is a few grandchildren!”
“Adopt!”
He glowered at her. “Shame on you, moaning over being rich. Plenty of women would love to walk in your shoes.”
“Maybe I’d like to be poor for a change!” she shot back, rising from the sofa. “And have a chance to be liked for myself alone.”
“So, do it,” he dared her, with narrowed eyes. “I dare you. If you think it’s so wonderful being poor, you go try it. I grew up with nothing, but you’ve always had the advantages. Let’s see you get along without them. For, say, a month.” His eyes twinkled mischievously and he wiggled his mustache, which had more hair in it than he had on his head. “Live without money. Work for your keep. And if you can manage that for a month, without telling anyone who you are or what you’re worth, I’ll swear off matchmaking for life. Cross my heart.”
She pursed her lips, and her own green eyes began to twinkle. “A month, huh?”
“A month.”
“What kind of work could I do?”
“You’ve got a degree in history,” he reminded her.
“Lots of people have.”
He looked thoughtful. “Yes, but I think I know a way you could use it.”
She cocked her head warily. “Oh, no, you don’t.”
“No men,” he said, holding up his hands defensively. “Just a lovely lady who writes torrid historical romances. She lives on Lake Lanier, north of here.”
“In Gainesville?” she asked, and he nodded. She studied him. “What would I do?”
“Help her with some research on her next book. Jack Thomas was talking about it yesterday. We were at the board meeting of that college—you know, we’re both trustees. He knows Cameron Thorpe, the Charleston banker, well. The writer is Thorpe’s mother. She lives alone, except for a housekeeper.”
It was sounding better and better to Merlyn. She knew Lake Lanier. It was a man-made lake, Georgia’s biggest, and one of her good friends raced at Road Atlanta near there. Dick Langley had an enormous home on the lake, which she’d visited occasionally.
“She’s a writer?” She frowned. “Does she write under her own name?”
“No. Her given name is Lila Thorpe,” he said, “but she writes as Copper O’Mara.”
She gasped. “But I read her!” she burst out. “She’s one of my favorites!”
“All the more reason to apply for the job,” he chuckled. “Want me to call Jack Thomas and ask if he knows her phone number? And don’t worry, I won’t blow your cover. I’ll say I have an acquaintance who might qualify for the job.”
“Fair enough,” she said. “I’ll show you I’m no society darling.”
He studied her slenderness and smiled with pure pride. “You’ve got class, though. Just like your mother.”
“But she was beautiful,” Merlyn argued.
He nodded. “The most beautiful creature on earth. I still miss her, you know.” He turned away. “Well, let’s get this show on the road, daughter.” He picked up the phone.
***
Three days later, on a rainy Friday, Merlyn drove up to the large two-story lake house where Lila Thorpe lived. It was a fieldstone and wood building as beautiful as its natural surroundings. Beyond it was the lake, with a boathouse and a private cove and pier. Around it was open land, with hills and pine trees and none of the cluttered construction one found closer in to Gainesville.
Merlyn imagined that the estate would be beautiful in the sun, and she could hardly wait for the weather to break and the warm breezes to herald blossoming things. There were dogwood trees all around the house, along with small shrubs; the dogwoods were in bud already.
She carried her suitcase up to the front porch and rang the doorbell. A small, thin woman in a cotton dress let her in.
“I’m Tilly,” she introduced herself. “Mrs. Thorpe is in the living room. If you’ll follow me?”
There was a quick scurrying sound on the staircase in the long hall. Merlyn got a glimpse of a dark-haired, dark-eyed girl of about twelve who hesitated a few steps up.
“Hello.” Merlyn grinned, tossing back her long black hair. “I’m Merlyn Forrest,” she said, deliberately leaving off the “Steele.”
The child, obviously shy, stared at her, unsmiling. “Hello,” she said after a minute.
“This is a lovely house,” Merlyn said. “Do you live here with Mrs. Thorpe?”
“She’s my grandmother.”
How formal the child sounded, how repressed. Why did she live with her grandmother? Where were her parents? Was Cameron Thorpe, the man her father had mentioned, this little girl’s father?
“This way, Miss,” Tilly called when she realized that Merlyn was lagging behind.
“Yes, excuse me,” Merlyn said. She winked at the girl and walked on.
Lila Thorpe was tall, thin and graying and had twinkling eyes. She held out a slender hand to shake Merlyn’s extended one. “You must be Merlyn,” she said, smiling. “I’m so glad you’re here! I simply can’t research and write at the same time, and I have this incredible pull toward English royalty at the moment. What do you know about the Plantagenets and the Tudors?”
Merlyn caught her breath with a little laugh. “In fact, just a smattering, though the English kings have always fascinated me. But I brought my history books along, and I can find anything you need. How about that?”
“Perfect!” Lila sighed.
“Is she going to live here?” the little girl asked from the doorway.
Merlyn turned and found the child hesitating at the door. She was wearing a white and brown cotton frock, knee-high socks, and patent leather shoes. She had a manner that was much older than her years, and eyes that didn’t smile.
“Yes,”
