The Man Who Had Everything. Christine Rimmer
Читать онлайн книгу.
hurt. That really got to him. Steph’s respect meant a lot to him. It cut him to the core to think he’d lost it.
But losing Steph’s high regard wasn’t all of it.
He told Eva, “The offer was too good, really.”
She looked at him as if he made no sense at all. And when she spoke, her tone was patronizing. “Grant. Please. If the offer’s too good, why are you telling me you’re turning it down?”
“What I meant was, the offer was so good, I jumped at it without thinking it through, without stopping to realize that I really can’t sell.”
“Why not?”
He’d said enough. He stood and held out his hand. “I apologize again for wasting your time.” In actuality, he hadn’t wasted all that much of Eva’s time. He hadn’t asked her to represent him until after Melanie had put the offer on the table. “But I’m not selling and that’s the end of it.”
Eva rose and they shook. He walked her to the door.
Before she went out, she turned and gave it one more try. “You have to realize that Ms. McFarlane is actively seeking the right property for her needs. If you don’t respond to this offer and she finds something else that suits her requirements—”
“Eva.” He almost smiled. “Why am I getting the feeling you still can’t believe I just changed my mind?”
She pursed that red, red mouth. “I doubt you’ll get this kind of deal from anyone else.”
“I’m sure I won’t. But the truth is, I wasn’t looking to sell in the first place. Melanie approached me.”
The realtor refused to believe he meant what he said. “This is a good deal. A terrific deal.”
“It sure is. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m passing it up.”
An hour after Grant showed Eva out, Melanie McFarlane called. He knew he owed the woman some kind of explanation for backing out of their deal. Too bad he didn’t have one—nothing anyone else, particularly an eager and generous buyer, would understand.
Still, she deserved to hear it straight from his own mouth. He took the call.
Melanie wasted no time on idle chitchat. “My real estate agent talked to your real estate agent a few minutes ago. What’s going on, Grant? I thought we had a contract.”
He apologized for waffling on her and then told her what he’d told Eva: that he regretted any inconvenience he’d caused her, but he’d changed his mind.
Melanie McFarlane was a damned determined woman. “Change it back,” she said cheerfully in that brisk New England accent of hers. “What do you need with a ranch? You’ve got your hands full at the resort and you know it.”
“Sorry,” he said again. “I know I’ve inconvenienced you and I regret that. But I’m giving it to you straight here. I’m not selling.”
Melanie kept talking. “Your realtor implied there might be some chance you’ll be ready to sell, after all, in the near future.”
“My realtor, understandably, hates to lose a sale. But she’s mistaken. I won’t change my mind. And again, I apologize for this. I never should have told you I’d be willing to sell.”
“You’re serious. I can’t believe this.”
He did understand her disappointment. Clifton’s Pride would be a fine site for a guest ranch. It had a number of interesting, not-too-challenging trails, perfect for novice riders. It was picturesque, with varied terrain and spectacular mountain views. Most important, the ranch house and outbuildings were right off the main highway. To make a go of a guest ranch, access was key. Visitors needed to be able to get there with relative ease.
She demanded, “Is it the price?”
“No.”
“I can talk to my banker. I might be willing to up the offer, if that’s what it’s going to take.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not selling.”
A deadly silence. Then, “Until I find something else, the offer remains open. I like to think I have good instincts, and right now I have a feeling you’ll come to your senses—soon, I hope. When you do, let me know.” The line went dead.
Grant hung up and scrubbed his hands down his face. He hoped he hadn’t made an enemy of the McFarlane woman. In the resort business, a man did his best to get along with everyone. And she was a McFarlane. Her family owned the world-famous McFarlane Hotels.
No, he didn’t blame her for being furious with him. Hell. He was furious with himself. He should never have agreed to sell to her in the first place.
He buzzed his assistant and told her to send flowers and a fruit basket up to Melanie’s suite, rattling off another apology to go on the card.
After that, well, he hoped Melanie McFarlane would find another suitable property real damn soon and quit waiting around for him to change his mind.
Grant said good-night to the investor group at a little after eleven and went to his suite.
He started to change into an old pair of sweats, thinking he’d have a drink or two, watch the late news and hope that the alcohol would ease him to sleep. But then, what do you know?
He ended up reaching for his Wranglers instead.
The stables were closed at that time of night. He could have dragged the head groom from sleep with a call. There were, after all, certain privileges that went with being the boss—among them, the right to inconvenience the help.
But as much as the idea of a midnight horseback ride appealed to his troubled mind right then, the Range Rover was faster. And he didn’t have to wake anybody to get to it, since it was always ready and waiting in his private space in the main lodge’s underground garage.
He made it to the ranch house in twenty minutes flat, pulling into the circular dirt driveway, cutting his engine and dousing the headlights as he rolled up opposite the porch.
For a minute or two, he just sat there, staring at the darkened house where he’d grown up, at the small pool of brightness cast by the porch light, at the bugs recklessly hurling themselves against the bare bulb beneath the plain tin fixture. Bart appeared from the shadows at the end of the porch, tail wagging, sniffing the air in a hopeful way. Never had been much of a guard dog, that mutt.
Grant got out of the vehicle. He shut the car door as quietly as he could and went to sit on the steps with the old dog. Bart sniffed at him a bit and then flopped down beside him, yawning hugely and resting his head on his front paws with a low, contented whine. Grant petted the dog as he pondered what exactly he hoped to accomplish, showing up there in the middle of the night when the house was shut up tight and all sane ranch folk were sound asleep in their beds.
Rufus emerged from the bunkhouse across the yard, long johns showing up ghostly white through the shadows, the dark length of a shotgun visible in his right hand. Grant gave him a wave. After a second or two, Rufus waved in return and went back inside.
More time went by. Five minutes? Ten? Grant didn’t bother to check his watch. He just sat there with Bart, his arms looped around his spread knees, knowing that eventually the door behind him would open and a soft, husky voice would ask him what he was doing there.
It happened, finally: the click of the lock and the soft creak of the door as she pulled it inward. Then another, louder creaking as she came through the screen. She shut it with care. Bare feet brushing lightly on the porch boards, she approached and sat beside him.
He didn’t look at her. Not at first. There was her scent on the night and the warmth of her body next to his. It was more than enough.
She spoke first. “So…what’s up?”
He