A Precious Inheritance. Paula Roe
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space on her porch—tall, broad-shouldered and dressed in an expensive suit, an equally fine winter coat only emphasizing his impressive frame. “Okay.”
“Are you stalking me, Mr. Harrington?” She crossed her arms against the night chill.
“No. I just want to talk to you.”
“If you’ve tracked me down to accuse me of something else—”
“That’s not it.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Can we talk inside?”
“You could be a psychopath for all I know,” she retorted. Of course, she’d checked up on Mr. Million Dollars—have to stop calling him that!—days ago. And what she’d found gave no indication he was a criminal…at least, not on the record, anyway.
Across the street a light came on—Connor Jarvis’s—and she sighed. After a quick glance up the stairs, she unlatched the screen door. “Fine. Come in.”
He paused on the threshold. “I could be a psychopath.”
“Apparently you’re not, or so Google says.”
Surprise flashed across his face and she swallowed a satisfied smile, adding, “Silver Spring’s a bit far from One Madison Park just for a talk.”
Yes, I’ve been checking up on you. She let him digest that as she relatched the door.
She hadn’t forgotten their encounter, least of all that weird, tense moment just before Ann’s driver had inadvertently rescued her. She’d spent the last few days trying to forget it, steadfastly refusing to do what she normally did, which was scrutinize every single word, every action and reaction, then sort and define subtext and body language, keeping herself awake at night in the process.
She could practically hear her sister Juliet’s teasing laughter ringing in her ears. You always analyze things way too much, Ness. Does he like me? Do I like him? Should I hold his hand? Should I kiss him? And if I do, will it mean I’m too easy?
She’d interpreted Dylan’s interest—correctly, as it turned out—and followed up on it, which was how she’d ended up in his bed. And boy, had that turned out to be one colossal misjudgment on her part.
Only an idiot makes the same mistake twice, chère, her grandma used to say. And Partridges are smarter than that.
She finally turned to face him, the hall’s subdued lighting creating shadows and slashes of light across his face. Unfortunately, it was a very nice face and Vanessa could feel the unwanted flicker of attraction warm her insides.
He’s just a good-looking guy. Yet there was something else, something behind those carefully shuttered eyes, that called to her, something different.
Yeah, you always go for the brooding, intelligent, emotionally stunted ones, don’t you?
Vanessa clamped down hard on all emotion, instead letting righteous indignation flow freely. Chase Harrington here, in her home, did not bode well, of that she was certain.
Three
“Look, you’ve obviously been checking up on me, Mr. Harrington,” she began, arms crossed and eyes hard. “So you should know I was a legitimate bidder in that auction.”
“It’s Chase.”
Chase studied her as she stared at him expectantly, her legs planted wide and arms crossed in a classic defensive stance.
Chase tipped his head. “You’re swaying.”
Her cheeks flushed and she abruptly stilled. “Force of habit. So…you were telling me why you were here.”
Good question he’d yet to fully answer himself. Did rampant curiosity count or would that make him really sound like a stalker? “What you said at Waverly’s—the bit about you being Dunbar’s girlfriend. Was it true?”
She blinked, shock leaking out before she swiftly wiped her expression clean. “No. And anyway, what possible interest is my life to someone like—” she put her hand out, palm up, and swept him from head to toe “—you?”
That got his back up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What?”
“That little…” He mimicked her gesture with a lot less finesse.
She pulled her back straight, chin tipping up. “I mean, you are obviously a rich man. Someone with connections and power and influence…”—did she just curl her lip?—“And I, on the other hand, am not.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t sell yourself short, Miss Partridge.”
She frowned and there was that look again, that irritating-as-all-hell flash of arrogance. It was an expression so effortlessly executed he wondered if she’d spent hours practicing in the mirror.
Chase gritted his teeth. Yeah, this was such a great idea.
As they silently glared at each other, a baby’s muffled cry drifted down the stairs, cutting through the charged air. Vanessa’s gaze snapped away, then she put a foot on the first step. “If that’s all you came to say…?”
“There’s more.”
Irritation flared in those wide green eyes, but she reined it in with practiced ease.
“Go,” he said, nodding up the stairs. “I’ll wait.”
With a frown and a grudging “fine,” she turned away.
Chase’s gaze followed her jeans-clad bottom as it swayed upward, one mesmerizing step at a time. In fact, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Bare feet… Nicely filled pair of denims…
Wait, what?
He shook his head then dug fingernails into his clenched palm for good measure. Blood pounded in his ears, drowning out her rapid steps.
He’d managed to gain control when she returned fifteen minutes later, her hands brushing back a few stray hairs as she slowly descended.
“You have a baby,” he stated, feigning ignorance.
She crossed her arms. “Two girls. Twins. But considering you know where I live, I’m pretty sure you already know that.” When he slowly nodded, she narrowed her eyes. “Why the interest in me?”
“Why did you want Dunbar’s manuscript?”
“I told you why.” She cocked her hip, hands going to her waist as she effected a deliberately bored expression. “I hate waiting.”
Chase sighed. She was trying too hard and his patience was dwindling. But instead of plowing through her facade, he moved on. “So you’re a D. B. Dunbar fan.”
“Of his books, yes.”
He swiftly picked up on that correction with no outward indication. What did she think he’d meant?
Then she added, “So you must be quite a fan too.”
“Me? No.”
She frowned. “You’ve never read any of his books?” At his head shake, she said incredulously, “Charlie Jack? Calm Before the Storm? Justice Prevailed?”
“No.”
“You should. He is…was…” She paused, searching for the rights words before settling on, “Incredibly, amazingly talented. The world he painted just takes you to another place.” She smiled the smile of a true believer. “There are a finite number of words in the English language, yet when D. B. Dunbar arranged them he did it in such a way every page just sang. He was—” she hesitated a brief second, a flash of something behind her eyes “—a great writer.”
He’d bet a thousand bucks that wasn’t what she was originally going to say.
She brushed her hair back again, the other hand going to her back pocket. “So