LITMIR.BIZ

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Carstairs relatives if they made a nuisance of themselves, an increasingly likely contingency. She sighed heavily, wondering why her gut was telling her it wasn’t going to be that easy.

      The mist had lifted as she reached the top of the steep hill where the castle loomed, severe and uninviting. Slowing the car, Meredith glanced at the huge wrought-iron gates, surprised to see them open. Raising her brows, she drove on through, past a couple ancient oak trees, tended grass and onto the gravel drive, wheels crunching loudly as she came to a smooth stop in front of the massive front door.

      Picking up her briefcase, she checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror, then stepped out of the car, almost tripping on a large jutting root. Recovering her balance, she straightened her skirt and, securing the briefcase firmly under her arm, walked up the wide, well-trodden shallow stone steps that led to the front door. There she tugged a rusty iron wire to her right, presuming it must be the doorbell. Sure enough, a distant clanging somewhere in the castle’s nether regions confirmed she was right. Taking a deep breath, Meredith stood straighter and braced herself. Then she heard a cough and a shuffle of feet and slowly the ancient door creaked open.

      “Good morning,” she said brightly, smiling professionally at the stooped elderly woman in a flowered, pale blue, mid-calf overall. She presumed this must be Mrs. Duffy. Her hair was scooped up in a tight bun secured by a net. A pair of clear blue eyes stared inquiringly at her. “I’ve come to see Mr. Gallagher. Is he in?”

      “And who might ye be?” the woman asked warily, looking her up and down.

      Undeterred, Meredith kept the smile in place. “I’m Meredith Hunter. I’m an attorney from the United States. I believe we may have spoken yesterday. I’ve come to see Mr. Gallagher on important business.” She shifted her weight to the other foot while the woman continued to eye her with misgiving. “Well,” she asked, trying not to sound rude or impatient, “is he in?”

      “A couldna say.”

      “Look, either he’s here or he isn’t,” Meredith responded, her patience withering, wondering if Gallagher had instructed his housekeeper to be unwelcoming only to her, or if the frosty reception applied to all visitors. “I’ve come all the way from Georgia to see him,” she pleaded. “At least you might let me in.”

      The woman’s expression unbent slightly and her blue eyes softened a tad. “Well, he won’t be pleased, but I suppose there’s nae use ye standing out there in the drizzle. Come in. You can wait in the living room,” she offered, then shaking her head and muttering under her breath, she turned and led the way. Meredith followed her inside.

      The hall was vast and drafty. Agaping medieval stone fireplace large enough to roast an ox stood against the far wall. It looked as if it hadn’t been lit in a while. A threadbare Oriental rug covered the floor and a wide oak staircase led up to a Gothic-arched gallery above. The owner of Strathcairn Castle hadn’t done much to modernize the place, she noted. It also felt distinctly chilly, and she shivered as Mrs. Duffy showed her grudgingly into the parlor. She wished she’d brought her coat.

      “I’ll go and tell Mr. Gallagher you’re here,” she said as they entered the oak-paneled living room.

      “Thanks,” Meredith murmured, stepping closer to the fireplace, glad of the warmth of the crackling logs. Placing her briefcase on a tapestry chair, she took a look about. There were portraits—under the circumstances, they could hardly be Grant Gallagher’s ancestors—hanging on the walls, as well as miscellaneous ornaments, some ugly, large, empty porcelain vases and an expanse of draughty French windows framed with faded chintz drapes that looked out over a lawn. Meredith stepped over and looked out at the view. The lawn was pristine and stretched toward the edge of the cliff. Beyond that she spied a fishing boat bobbing back and forth, tossed by the strong wind as it ploughed the leaden waves. She could hear the squawk of gulls in the distance and the windows shook in their casements when a strong gust of wind hit.

      She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, wondering whether to sit or remain standing. Gallagher had certainly chosen an eerie spot to work. She wondered if it was here he planned his Machiavellian takeovers. The venue certainly lent itself.

      After a ten-minute wait, Meredith’s mood had deteriorated significantly. Surely the man must realize that she wasn’t here by choice but that she was merely doing her job. She wondered again if Gallagher had read Rowena’s letter and whether she had revealed the truth. What if he hadn’t known he was adopted? It was a definite possibility. Some adoptive parents never disclosed the truth to their child. How, she wondered uneasily, was she going to tell him the tangled story if that proved to be the case? Meredith shifted nervously before the fire, tweaked her chestnut hair behind her ear and wished it were all over.

      Then, just as she was about to go and seek out Mrs. Duffy, the noise of a squeaking door handle from an adjoining room had her spinning on her heel and a tall, remarkably handsome, dark-haired man in old jeans, a baggy gray sweater and a day’s growth of beard appeared. In the pictures she’d seen of him, he’d always been immaculately dressed. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t this George Clooney look-alike who was taller than she’d imagined. For a second Meredith caught her breath as his eyes bored angrily into hers.

      “What the hell do you want? I made it clear, didn’t I, that you and I have nothing to say to each other?” he growled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants and eyeing her malevolently. “My advice to you is to get out. I hate being disturbed.”

      Meredith gasped and squared her shoulders. “You know perfectly well why I’m here.”

      “Oh?” A thick dark brow shot up.

      “I’m here because I have important business to discuss with you. You cannot simply ignore my correspondence, Mr. Gallagher,” she added in a clipped tone. “Presumably you have questions about what the letters contained.”

      “I’m not interested in the damn letters,” he muttered, casting her another blazing glare from under thick, dark brows. That and the day’s growth of beard gave him a rugged, devilish look. As he approached her, Meredith felt as though the large reception room had suddenly shrunk. She drew in her breath, then pulled herself together.

      “There are matters to discuss that will significantly impact your future,” she insisted, determined to stay the course.

      “Ha!” He let out a harsh laugh. “My life is just fine as it is, thank you very much.”

      “Fine. Once we’ve gone over things, I promise you’ll be left in peace and your life can go on,” she said, standing her ground.

      Gallagher gave her a thoughtful look. “I suppose I’m not going to be rid of you until you’ve had your say,” he muttered. “You’d better sit down.”

      “Thank you,” Meredith retorted sweetly, pleased her veneer of professional patience had at least got her through stage one. “As you rightly pointed out, I’m not leaving here until I’ve dealt with business. But neither am I here by choice.”

      His brows shot up. “Well, as I’ve already made it plain to you I’m not interested in what you have on offer, unless…?” He eyed her up and down, then met her eyes with a speculative look.

      Meredith gasped, wondering briefly if he was mad and whether it was against the Georgia bar’s code of conduct to kick a client in the balls. Clearly he was trying to needle her into losing her composure. Well, she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

      Seeing that he’d dropped into a wing chair opposite, she sat down on the couch and carefully removed the file from her briefcase. She should have expected a man of his ilk to lack gentlemanly courtesy, she reminded herself as she put on her reading glasses. Still, despite her growing anger, Meredith couldn’t help noticing how sharp the contrast of his blue eyes was to his dark hair and tanned skin.

      “As you know, I’m here at the behest of your American grandmother,” she began in a crisp, nonemotional tone.

      “Ah, yes. The prodigal grandmother,” he murmured ironically in a pronounced

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