Buch lesen: «The Accidental Heirs»

For Wanda Ottewell

With many, many thanks

and even more fond memories.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

Gracie Sumner came from a long line of waitresses. Her mother worked for a popular chain restaurant for three decades, and her grandmother manned the counter of a gleaming silver diner on the Great White Way. The tradition went all the way back to her great-great-great-grandmother, in fact, who welcomed westward-ho train passengers to a Denver saloon. Gracie may have brought a bit more prestige to the family trade by finding work in a four-star, Zagat-approved bistro, but the instinct and artistry of waitressing was pretty much encoded on her DNA, the same way her tawny hair and brown eyes were.

And that instinct was how she knew there was something more to the silver-haired gentleman seated at table fifteen of Seattle’s Café Destiné than a desire to sample the pot-au-feu.

He had come in at the end of the lunch shift and asked specifically to be seated in her area, then engaged her in conversation in a way that made her feel as if he already knew her. But neither he nor the name on the credit card he placed atop his check—Bennett Tarrant—was familiar. That wasn’t surprising, however, since judging by his bespoke suit and platinum card, he was clearly a man of means. Unlike Gracie, who was struggling to pay her way through college, and who, at twenty-six, still had three semesters left before earning her BA in early childhood education.

“Here you go, Mr. Tarrant,” she said as she placed the server book back on the table. “I hope you’ll visit Café Destiné again soon.”

“Actually, Miss Sumner, there’s a reason why I came here today.”

Her gaze flew to his. Although she always introduced herself as Gracie to her customers, she never gave out her last name. Warily, she replied, “The pot-au-feu. Yes, it’s the most popular item on our menu.”

“And it was delicious,” Mr. Tarrant assured her. “But I really came in to see you on behalf of a client. I inquired for you at your apartment first, and your landlady told me where you work.”

Good old Mrs. Mancini. Gracie could always count on her to guard absolutely no one’s privacy.

Mr. Tarrant withdrew a silver case from inside his suit jacket and handed her a business card. Tarrant, Fiver & Twigg, it read, and there was a New York City address. Bennett Tarrant’s title was President and Senior Probate Researcher. Which told Gracie all of nothing.

She looked at him again. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand. What’s a probate researcher?”

“I’m an attorney. My firm is one of several appointed by the State of New York when someone passes away without a will, or when a beneficiary named in someone’s will can’t be found. In such circumstances, we locate the rightful heirs.”

Gracie’s confusion deepened. “I still don’t understand. My mother died in Cincinnati, and her estate was settled years ago.”

Not that there had been much to settle. Marian Sumner had left Gracie just enough to cover four months’ rent and modestly furnish a one-bedroom apartment. Still, she had been grateful for even that.

“It’s not your mother’s estate my firm was appointed to research,” Mr. Tarrant said. “Did you know a man by the name of Harrison Sage?”

Gracie shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

“How about Harry Sagalowsky?”

“Oh, sure, I knew Harry. His apartment was across from mine when I lived in Cincinnati. He was such a nice man.”

For a moment, she was overrun by warm memories. Harry had been living in the other apartment on the top floor of the renovated Victorian when Gracie moved in after her mother’s death. They had become instant friends—he filled the role of the grandfather she never had, and she was the granddaughter he never had. She introduced him to J. K. Rowling and Bruno Mars and taught him how to crush the competition in Call of Duty. He turned her on to Patricia Highsmith and Miles Davis and taught her how to fox-trot at the Moondrop Ballroom.

She sobered. “He died two years ago. Even though I haven’t lived in Cincinnati for a while now, when I come home from work, I still halfway expect him to open his front door and tell me how he just got The African Queen from Netflix or how he made too much chili for one person.” Her voice trailed off. “I just miss him. A lot.”

Mr. Tarrant smiled gently. “Mr. Sagalowsky thought very highly of you, too. He remembered you in his will, which was just recently settled.”

Gracie smiled at that. Although Harry’s apartment had been crowded with stuff that was both eclectic and eccentric, nothing could have been worth much. After his death, she helped their landlord pack it all up, but no one ever came to claim it—Harry had never spoken of any family, so she’d had no idea whom to contact. Their landlord finally decided to toss it all, but Gracie offered to rent a storage unit for it instead. It had meant tightening her belt even more, but she hadn’t been able to stand the thought of Harry’s things rotting in a dump. She was still paying for the unit back in Cincinnati. She brightened. Maybe Mr. Tarrant could help her get it all into the hands of Harry’s next of kin.

“I’m afraid it took me a while to find you,” he continued.

She stiffened. “Yeah, I kind of left Cincinnati on a whim about a year and a half ago.”

“Without leaving a forwarding address?”

“I, um, had a bad breakup with a guy. It seemed like a good time to start fresh. My mom and Harry were gone, and most of my friends from high school moved after graduation. I didn’t really have many ties there anymore.”

Mr. Tarrant nodded, but she got the feeling he wasn’t too familiar with bad romance. “If you have some time today,” he said, “we can discuss Mr. Sagalowsky’s estate and the changes it will mean for you.”

Gracie almost laughed at that. He made Harry sound like some batty Howard Hughes, squirreling away a fortune while he wore tissue boxes for shoes.

“There’s a coffee shop up the street,” she said. “Mimi’s Mocha Java. I can meet you there in about twenty minutes.”

“Perfect,” Mr. Tarrant told her. “We have a lot to talk about.”

One

As Gracie climbed out of Mr. Tarrant’s Jaguar coupe in the driveway of the house Harry had abandoned fifteen years ago—the house that now belonged to her—she told herself not to worry, that the place couldn’t possibly be as bad as it seemed. Why, the weathered clapboard was actually kind of quaint. And the scattered pea-gravel drive was kind of adorable. So what if the size of the place wasn’t what she’d been expecting? So what if the, ah, overabundant landscaping was going to require a massive amount of work? The house was fine. Just fine. She had no reason to feel apprehensive about being its new owner. The place was...charming. Yeah, that was it. Absolutely...charming.

In a waterfront, Long Island, multi-multi-multi-million-dollar kind of way. Holy cow, Harry’s old house could host the United Arab Emirates and still have room left over for Luxembourg.

In spite of the serene ocean that sparkled beyond the house and the salty June breeze that caressed her face, she felt herself growing light-headed again—a not unfamiliar sensation since meeting Mr. Tarrant last week. After all, their encounter at Mimi’s Mocha Java had culminated in Gracie sitting with her head between her knees, breathing in and out of a paper bag with the phrase Coffee, Chocolate, Men—Some Things are Better Rich printed on it. To his credit, Mr. Tarrant hadn’t batted an eye. He’d just patted her gently on the back and told her everything was going to be fine, and the fact that she’d just inherited fourteen billion—yes, billion, with a b—dollars was nothing to have a panic attack about.

Hah. Easy for him to say. He probably knew what to do with fourteen billion dollars. Other than have a panic attack over it.

Now that they were here, he seemed to sense her trepidation—probably because of the way her breathing was starting to turn into hyperventilation again—because he looped his arm gently through hers. “We shouldn’t keep Mrs. Sage and her son and their attorneys—or Mr. Sage’s colleagues and their attorneys—waiting. I’m sure they’re all as anxious to get the formalities out of the way as you are.”

Anxious. Right. That was one word for it, Gracie thought. Had the situation been reversed, had she been the one to discover that her long-estranged husband or father, a titan of twentieth-century commerce, had spent his final years posing as a retired TV repairman in the blue-collar Cincinnati neighborhood where he grew up, then befriended a stranger to whom he had left nearly everything, she supposed she’d be a tad anxious, too. She just hoped there weren’t other words for what Vivian Sage and her son, Harrison III, might be. Like furious. Or vindictive. Or homicidal.

At least she was dressed for the occasion. Not homicide, of course, but for the formal reading of Harry’s will. Even though Harry’s will had already been read a few times, mostly in court, because it had been contested and appealed by just about everyone he’d known in life. This time would be the last, Mr. Tarrant had promised, and this time it was for Gracie. She looked her very best, if she did say so herself, wearing the nicest of the vintage outfits that she loved—a beige, sixties-era suit with pencil skirt and cropped jacket that would have looked right at home on Jackie Kennedy. She’d even taken care to put on some makeup and fix her hair, managing a fairly convincing French twist from which just a few errant strands had escaped.

She and Mr. Tarrant moved forward, toward a surprisingly modest front porch. As he rapped the worn knocker, Gracie could almost convince herself she was visiting any number of normal suburban homes. But the humbleness ended once the door was opened by a liveried butler, and she looked beyond him into the house. The entryway alone was larger than her apartment back in Seattle, and it was crowded with period antiques, authentic hand-knotted Persian rugs and original works of art.

She began to take a step backward, but Mr. Tarrant nudged her forward again. He announced their names to the butler, who led them through the foyer and down a hall to the left, then another hall to the right, until they were standing in the entryway of a cavernous library. Gracie knew it was a library because three walls were virtually covered by floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with exquisite leather-bound collectors’ editions. They matched nicely the exquisite leather-bound furnishings. And there were floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the gleaming water. She might as well have fallen through the looking glass, so grand and foreign was this world to her.

Her breathing settled some when she realized the room was full of people, since that would make it easier for her to be invisible. Mr. Tarrant had cautioned her that there would be a veritable army of attorneys present, along with their clients—Harry’s former business associates and family members. It had come as no small surprise to hear that Harry had left behind a widow and two ex-wives, along with three daughters by the exes and a solitary son by his last wife. Gracie had no idea how to tell one person from another, though, since everyone was dressed alike—the men in suits and the women in more suits and a couple of sedate dresses—and they represented a variety of age groups.

One of those suited men hailed Mr. Tarrant from the other side of the room, and after ensuring that Gracie would be all right for a few minutes without him, he strode in that direction. So she took a few steps into the fray, relieved to be able to do it on her own.

See? she said to herself. This wasn’t so bad. It was just like working a wedding-rehearsal dinner at Café Destiné for some wealthy Seattle bride and groom. Except that she would be in the background at one of those events, not front and center, which would be happening here all too soon. Not to mention that, at a rehearsal dinner, she’d be sharing 18 percent of a final tab worth a couple of thousand dollars with two or three other waiters, and here, she would be receiving 100 percent of almost everything.

Fourteen billion—yes, billion with a b—dollars.

She felt her panic advancing again, until a gentle voice murmured from behind her, “How can you tell the difference between a bunch of high-powered suits and a pack of bloodthirsty jackals?”

She spun around to find herself gazing up—and up and up some more—into a pair of the most beautiful blue eyes she had ever seen. The rest of the man’s face was every bit as appealing, with straight ebony brows, an aristocratic nose, a sculpted jaw and lips that were just this side of full. Not to mention a strand of black hair that tumbled rebelliously over his forehead in a way that made him look as if he’d just sauntered out of a fabulous forties film.

She took a quick inventory of the rest of him, pretending she didn’t notice how he was doing the same to her. He had broad shoulders, a slim waist and the merest scent of something smoky and vaguely indecent. Gracie couldn’t have identified a current fashion label if her life depended on it, but it was a safe bet that his charcoal pinstripes had been designed by whoever had the most expensive one. He looked like one of the high-powered suits in the riddle he’d just posed and nothing like a bloodthirsty jackal. She couldn’t wait to hear the answer.

“I don’t know,” she said. “How can you tell the difference?”

He grinned, something that made him downright dazzling. Gracie did her best not to swoon.

In a voice tinted with merriment, he said, “You can’t.”

She chuckled, and the tension that had wrapped her so tightly for the last week began to ease for the first time. For that, more than anything, she was grateful to the man. Not that she didn’t appreciate his other, ah, attributes, too. A lot.

“But you’re one of those suits,” she objected.

“Only because professional dictates say I have to be.”

As if to illustrate his reluctance, he tugged his necktie loose enough to unbutton the top button of his shirt. In a way, he reminded her of Harry, someone who knew there was more to life than appearances, and there were better ways to spend time than currying the favor of others.

“Would you like some coffee?” he asked. “There’s an urn in the corner. And some cookies or something, too, I think.”

She shook her head. “No, thanks. I’m good.” She didn’t add that the addition of even a drop of caffeine or a grain of sugar to her system would turn her jitters into a seismic event. “But if you’d like some—” She started to tell him she’d be right back with a cup and a plate, so automatically did her waitress response come out.

But he offered no indication that he expected her to get it for him. “No, I’ve had my quota for the day, too.”

The conversation seemed ready to stall, and Gracie was desperate to hold on to the only friend she was likely to make today. As a result, she blurted out the first thing that popped into her head. “So...this house. This room. This view. Is this place gorgeous or what?”

Her question seemed to stump him. He glanced around the library as if he were seeing it for the first time, but he didn’t seem nearly as impressed as she. “It’s all right, I guess. The room’s a little formal for my taste, and the view’s a little boring, but...”

It was a rare individual who wouldn’t covet a house as grand as this, Gracie thought. Although she had no intention of keeping it or much of anything else Harry had left her, since fourteen billion—yes, billion with a b—dollars was way too much money for a single individual to have, she still felt a keen appreciation for its beauty.

“Well, what kind of place do you call home?” she asked.

Without hesitation, he told her, “Bright lights, big city. I’ve lived in Manhattan since I started college, and I’m never leaving.”

His enthusiasm for the fast-paced setting didn’t seem to fit with how he’d reminded her of Harry earlier. But she tried to sound convincing when she said, “Oh. Okay.”

She must not have done a very good job, though, because he said, “You sound surprised.”

“I guess I am, kind of.”

“Why?” He suddenly seemed a little defensive.

She shrugged. “Maybe because I was just thinking how you remind me of someone I used to know, and he wasn’t a bright-lights, big-city kind of guy at all.”

At least, he hadn’t been when Gracie knew him. But Harry’s life before that? Who knew? Nothing she’d discovered about him in the past week had seemed true to the man she’d called her friend for years.

Her new friend’s wariness seemed to increase. “Old boyfriend?”

“Well, old, anyway,” Gracie said with a smile. “More like a grandfather, though.”

He relaxed visibly, but still looked sweetly abashed. “You know, the last thing a guy wants to hear when he’s trying to impress a beautiful woman he’s just met is how he reminds her of her grandfather.”

He thought she was beautiful? Was he trying to impress her? And was he actually admitting it? Did he know how one of her turn-ons, coming in second after a bewitching smile, was men who spoke frankly and honestly? Especially because she’d known so few of them. Really, none other than Harry.

“I, uh...” she stammered. “I mean, um, ah...”

He seemed to take great pleasure in having rendered her speechless. Not arrogantly so, but as if he were simply delighted by his success. “So you’re not a big-city type yourself?”

Grateful for the change of subject—and something she could respond to with actual words—she shook her head. “Not at all. I mean, I’ve lived in big cities all my life, but never in the city proper. I’ve always been a suburban girl.”

Even though she’d never known her father and had lived in an apartment growing up, her life had been no different from her friends’ who’d lived in houses with yards and a two-parents-and-siblings family unit. Her mother had been active at her school and the leader of her Brownie troop. And even with her meager income, Marian Sumner had somehow always had enough for summer vacations and piano and gymnastics lessons. As a girl, Gracie had spent summers playing in the park, autumns jumping into leaf piles, winters building snowmen and springs riding her bike. Completely unremarkable. Totally suburban.

Her new friend considered her again, but this time, he seemed to be taking in something other than her physical appearance. “At first, I was thinking you seem like the city type, too. The suit is a little retro, but you’d still be right at home in the East Village or Williamsburg. Now, though...”

His voice trailed off before he completed his analysis, and he studied Gracie in the most interesting—and interested—way. Heat pooled in her midsection, spiraling outward, until every cell she possessed felt as if it was going to catch fire. The entire room seemed to go silent for an interminable moment, as if everyone else had disappeared, and it was just the two of them alone in the universe. She’d never experienced anything like it before. It was...unsettling. But nice.

“Now?” she echoed, hoping to spur his response and end the curious spell. The word came out so quietly, however, and he still seemed so lost in thought, that she wondered if he’d even heard her.

He shook his head almost imperceptibly, as if he were trying to physically dispel the thoughts from his brain. “Now I think maybe you do seem like the wholesome girl next door.”

This time, it was Gracie’s turn to look abashed. “You know, the last thing a girl wants to hear when she’s trying to impress a beautiful man she’s just met is how she reminds him of a glass of milk.”

That, finally, seemed to break the weird enchantment. Both of them laughed lightly, but she suspected it was as much due to relief that the tension had evaporated as it was to finding humor in the remark.

“Do you have to go back to work after this thing?” he asked. “Or would you maybe be free for a late lunch?”

In spite of the banter they’d been sharing, the invitation came out of nowhere and caught Gracie off-guard. A million questions cartwheeled through her brain, and she had no idea how to respond to any of them. How had her morning gone from foreboding to flirtatious? Where had this guy come from? How could she like him so much after only knowing him a matter of moments? And how on earth was she supposed to accept an invitation to lunch with him when her entire life was about to explode in a way that was nothing short of atomic?

She tried to reply with something that made sense, but all that came out was “Lunch...? I...? Work...?”

He was clearly enjoying how much he continued to keep her off-kilter. “Yeah, lunch. Yeah, you. As for your work, which firm do you work for?” He glanced around the room. “Maybe I can pull some strings for you. I’ve known most of these people all my life. A couple of them owe me favors.”

“Firm?” she echoed, the single word all she could manage in her growing confusion.

“Which law firm, representing which one of my father’s interests?” For the first time since they began chatting, he sobered. “Not that they’re my father’s interests anymore. Not since that trashy, scheming, manipulative gold digger got her hooks into him. Not that my mother and I are going down without a fight.”

It dawned on Gracie then—dawned like a two-by-four to the back of her head—that the man to whom she had been speaking so warmly wasn’t one of the many attorneys who were here representing Harry’s former colleagues. Nor was he one of those colleagues. It was Harry’s son, Harrison Sage III. The man who had assumed he would, along with his mother, inherit the bulk of his father’s fortune. The one whom Gracie had prevented from doing just that. The one she had earlier been thinking might be furious, vindictive and homicidal.

Then his other remark hit her. The part about the trashy, scheming, manipulative gold digger. That was what he thought she was? Her? The woman whose idea of stilettos was a kitten heel? The woman who preferred her hemlines below the knee? The woman who’d nearly blinded herself that morning with a mascara wand? The woman who intended to give away nearly every nickel of the fourteen billion—yes billion with a b—dollars with which Harry had entrusted her?

Because even without Mr. Tarrant’s having told her about Harry’s wish that she give away the bulk of his fortune to make the world a better place, Gracie would have done just that. She didn’t want the responsibility that came with so much money. She didn’t want the notoriety. She didn’t want the pandemonium. She didn’t want the terror.

Maybe she’d been struggling to make ends meet before last week, but she had been making them meet. And she’d been happy with her life in Seattle. She had fun friends. She had a cute apartment. She was gainfully employed. She was working toward her degree. She’d had hope for the future in general and a sunny outlook for any given day. Since finding out about her inheritance, however, she’d awoken every morning with a nervous stomach, and had only been able to sleep every night with a pill. In between those times, she’d been jumpy, withdrawn and scared.

Most people would probably think she was nuts, but Gracie didn’t want to be a billionaire. She didn’t even want to be a millionaire. She wanted to have enough so that she could make it through life without worrying, but not so much that she spent the rest of her life worrying. Did that make sense? To her, it did. To Harry’s son, however...

She searched for words that would explain everything to Harrison Sage III quickly enough that he wouldn’t have time to believe she was any of the things he’d just called her. But there was still so much of it she didn’t understand herself. How could she explain it to him when even she couldn’t make sense of it?

“I, um, that is...” she began. She inhaled a deep breath and released it, and then shifted her weight nervously from one foot to the other. She forced a smile she was sure looked as contrived as it felt and tried again. “Actually, I mean... The thing is...”

Gah. At this rate, she would be seeing Harry in the afterlife before she was able to make a complete sentence. Just spit it out, she told herself. But all she finally ended up saying was “Um, actually, I don’t have to go back to work after this.”

Well, it was a start. Not to mention the truth. Go, Gracie!

Immediately, Harrison Sage’s expression cleared. “Excellent,” he said. “Do you like Thai? Because there’s this great place on West Forty-Sixth that just opened. You’ll love it.”

“I do like Thai,” she said. Still being honest. Forward, Gracie, she told herself. Move forward.

“Excellent,” he said, treating her again to that bewitching smile. “I’m Harrison, by the way,” he added. “Harrison Sage. If you hadn’t already figured that out.”

Gracie bit back a strangled sound. “Yeah, I kinda did.”

“And you are?”

It was all she could do not to reply, “I’m the trashy, scheming, manipulative gold digger. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m—I’m Gracie,” she said instead.

She was hoping the name was common enough that he wouldn’t make the connection to the woman he probably hated with the burning passion of a thousand fiery suns. But she was pretty sure he did make the connection. She could tell by the way his expression went stony, by the way his eyes went flinty, by the way his jaw went clinchy...

And by the way the temperature in the room seemed to drop about fourteen billion—yes billion with a b—degrees.