Savannah Secrets. Fiona Hood-Stewart
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to recognize what an extremely attractive man he was.
“You left this behind,” he said, indicating the file.
“Right.” Meredith regrouped and, adopting a professional attitude, smiled briefly. “I presume you’ve read it?”
“Yes.”
“So you’ve seen the provisos?”
“Yes. I did.” He leaned back against the cushions, his eyes hooded.
“Good,” she replied briskly, “then you realize something needs to be done.”
“No. I haven’t changed my mind. I just came to give you your file back.” He pushed the manila envelope across the table.
“I wish you—”
“She and her daughter had a choice,” he interrupted, the trace of the bitterness she’d heard earlier entering his voice. “They made their decision. They probably had a number of perfectly good reasons for doing so. It doesn’t matter anymore.” He gave a shrug. “But I have my life, and I’m not going to let Rowena or anyone else foist their bad conscience on me. It’s too easy.”
Meredith watched an angry, cynical expression cover his handsome features, amazed when she experienced a flash of pity. She shoved it aside. Winning this battle had become a personal challenge. Never mind that she was embroiled up to the neck in Rowena’s affairs or that she wanted to do right by Dallas. The truth was that this was starting to mean something to her personally. She wanted to sort this mess out properly. For a moment she recalled Professor Morecombe’s advice when he’d told his students never, ever to become emotionally involved with their clients. They were a case. That was all.
She certainly hadn’t succeeded this time.
“I don’t need Granny’s charity,” he continued in the same ironical tone.
“Nobody thinks you do, Mr. Gallagher.”
“Grant,” he answered, looking straight at her, his inscrutable blue eyes gazing directly at her.
Meredith hesitated. “Okay, then, Grant,” she answered, surprised.
“At least Rowena was right about one thing,” he said, raising his brows. “I’ve made my own packet and don’t need anyone else’s. Perhaps I do have some of her in me after all.” He let out a dry, low laugh. “I don’t suppose my moth—Isabel—is pleased with all this, is she?” he asked, his voice 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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