Savannah Secrets - Fiona Hood-Stewart MIRA

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both parents, actually. There wasn’t much to remember but occasional visits from boarding school where he’d been shipped off at five, the sporadic perfumed kiss, the new husbands and wives to whom he was expected to be polite and charming and whom he didn’t give a shit about except that they were the momentary cause for his parents’ absence and therefore deserved blame. The only remarkable incident had been with Emily, the luscious blonde his father had married when Grant was sixteen. They’d gone on a trip on his father’s yacht in the south of France. Raymond Gallagher had been called away on urgent business, and Emily had wasted no time in expertly seducing her stepson.

      Grant smiled at the memory. At least he’d lost his virginity in style.

      But all that was history. At least the Gallaghers had never rejected him outright. Quite the opposite. On those rare visits home during his school years, they’d always been pleasant and generous. Too generous, he realized now, remembering the never-ending flow of checks that substituted for affection.

      And now Meredith Hunter had pursued him to Strathcairn.

      Grant got up and moved impatiently across the room to the window and stared out through the dusk across the lawn to the tossing sea beyond. Ignoring Meredith Hunter was probably childish, obtuse and unbusinesslike. But he really didn’t care. She could stake out at the Strathcairn Arms for as long as she liked. He was damned if he was meeting any lawyer until he felt ready; he didn’t care how far she’d traveled. After a while she’d get the message and leave.

      Ignoring his earlier reasoning—that the issue needed to be faced—he ran his fingers through his hair. He was prone to willing problems away. It was a strategy that worked nine times out of ten. After all, it was much easier to forget the whole thing, decline the inheritance and the hassles it surely entailed. He’d let them give it to the next in line. That was fine by him.

      Turning his back on the fading Scottish scenery, he marched into the study and without more ado sat down at the computer. If there was one guaranteed way to avoid reality, it was wheeling deals, and as luck would have it a new one had come onto his radar screen this very morning: an old-world resort hotel sitting on a huge chunk of valuable land in the Adirondacks. Definitely a good time to tap into his creative juices and work the magic he was renowned for, Grant decided, skimming through his latest e-mails. Of course, if he carried out the plan at present burgeoning in his mind, he would close down the resort, he realized, eyes focusing on the potential offer. But hey, that was par for the course. Win a few, lose a few. That was his life philosophy.

      And he planned for it to stay that way.

      6

      The next day dawned cold and dreary as the previous one. Meredith peeked out the window and sighed. A native Savannahian, she was used to sweltering summers and mild winters, not this persistent bleak chill. How on earth did people keep their spirits up around here?

      Slipping on a smart gray gabardine business suit and high-heeled shoes, she made her way downstairs for breakfast, her briefcase tucked under her arm. She was not going to be put off by last night’s reception. She had every intention of pursuing Grant Gallagher as soon as she’d had a large cup of coffee. She’d ask Moira how to get to the castle and be on her way. In fact, she’d be willing to bet that Moira might prove to be a good source of information. No doubt Grant Gallagher’s presence in Strathcairn had set tongues wagging.

      Meredith settled at the same table she had the night before, and gave Jim, the landlord, who was busily polishing glasses behind the bar, a cheery good-morning.

      “Morning to ye.” Moira came bustling in with a bright smile and a pot of steaming tea, which she placed on the table in front of Meredith. “What’ll ye have for breakfast, dearie, porridge? Black pudding? Scrambled eggs and sausage?”

      “Oh, no, thanks, I really couldn’t. I’m still digesting last night’s meal. Just a piece of toast would be great.” So much for coffee. She hardly dared refuse the tea when it was so graciously offered.

      Moira looked disappointed but soon produced the toast.

      “Tell me, do you know the owner of the castle?”

      “You mean Mr. Gallagher?” Moira cocked a sandy brow.

      “Yes. That’s right. I wondered if you knew anything about him?”

      “Not much.” Moira shook her head and wiped her hands on her apron. “He comes in here once in a while for a dram, and although he’s pleasant enough, he keeps himsel’ to himsel’, if ye know what I mean. Not one for conversation by the looks of it. Mrs. Duffy—she’s the lady who manages things up at the castle—says he’s always polite and nice to her, but never gets into a chat. Just closets himself up in the study and talks on the phone when he’s not working on his wee machine, she says.” Moira pursed her lips and leaned forward confidingly, her red curls bobbing. “It takes all sorts to make a world, but can ye imagine staying cooped up there in that pile o’ stone all day? It’s not healthy if ye ask me.” She shook her head once more.

      Meredith nodded in compliant agreement and sighed. “I have some business to conduct with him. I have to go up there this morning. I hope I’ll get a decent reception.”

      “Well, I wouldna count on it if I were you.” Moira sniffed and placed the marmalade on the table. “The last person that went to visit left with a flea in his ear, according to Mrs. Duffy. Still, I wish ye luck.” She smiled and returned to the kitchen.

      The pub was empty except for Meredith and the big sheep dog lying before the open fire. Although the establishment could hardly be five-star rated, it was warm, welcoming and cheery. Her host’s extravagant taste in color schemes hadn’t extended to the pub, which boasted traditional paneled walls, muted green and tartan cushions on the chairs and benches and a mellowed oak bar counter. And her host and hostess couldn’t have been kinder, she reflected with a smile. The pub was the gathering place for the locals, and last night a man in a tartan tam had played Scottish tunes on an ancient squeeze box. Very picturesque. A pity she didn’t have more time to appreciate it.

      As she sat and sipped her tea, Meredith weighed her options. She’d wait until ten o’clock and then make her way up the hill to the ancient Highland keep just visible through the rising mist. She peeked gloomily at the stark, forbidding structure through the net curtains. It looked about as welcoming as its tenant. When she bit into a piece of warm raisin toast spread with butter and delicious homemade marmalade, she wished she could sit here all day and soak in the atmosphere, but she had a job to do.

      Taking another sip of strong black tea, grateful for its reassuring warmth and smothering an inner hankering for espresso, Meredith thought about her boys, asleep now at Ranelagh, their grandparents’ home, the family plantation that they loved dearly. She glanced at her watch and calculated the time difference between Scotland and Savannah with a sigh. Not a good time to call. In a few hours her father, John Rowland, would drive them to school in the new four-wheel drive he’d acquired last week and the kids would love it. Would her mother remember to tell Nan, the maid who’d been with her family forever, to send Mick’s soccer shoes along for his afternoon practice? Perhaps she’d better leave a text message on her mom’s mobile just in case.

      Searching her purse for her cell phone, Meredith suddenly stopped herself. She was being ridiculous. She would only risk waking the household, and there was little use worrying about matters over which she had no control. She’d do better to apply her thoughts and energy to the upcoming meeting.

      At ten o’clock precisely, Meredith left the Strathcairn Arms, and after a deep breath of damp, misty morning air got into her rental car and drove through the tiny village of Strathcairn. Now that she could see it properly, she realized it was quaint. Little whitewashed cottages bordered each side of the street, lending the impression of a Grimm’s fairy tale. She saw the butcher, the baker. She grinned. All that was missing was the candlestick maker.

      What, she wondered, could have induced a man like Grant Gallagher, a man who moved in pretty sophisticated circles, to come to an out-of-the-way spot like this?

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