Second Chance Girl. Susan Mallery

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      Mathias didn’t know why the giraffe and the woman were so closely linked in his mind, but they were. Now, as he watched the morning fog slowly dissipate, he saw Millie stroll into view.

      She was a reticulated or Somali giraffe, nearly fifteen feet tall, with traditional markings. Her face was almost heart shaped, with widely spaced eyes and an inquisitive gaze.

      Mathias sipped his coffee before reaching for his sketch pad. He already had hundreds of drawings of Millie and Carol, but he hadn’t yet found the one. He would know it when he saw it, so every morning he waited.

      Carol appeared when they cleared the trees. She barely came to partway up Millie’s shoulder. In the morning light, her short red hair seemed almost blond. She was strong and wholly herself—a contrast to his usual type of woman, so he shouldn’t have found her appealing...only he did. There was something about her lack of artifice, something about the way she was so comfortable in her own skin that made him pay attention.

      Carol and the giraffe strolled together like this most mornings, after the other animals had been fed. At first he’d thought this was Carol’s way of making Millie more comfortable with her surroundings. But the walks had continued long after Millie had settled in to her new home. When the small donation jars had started popping up all over town, he’d realized Carol was attempting to fulfill Millie’s need for companionship.

      A few minutes on the internet had taught Mathias that while male giraffes were mostly solitary, female giraffes lived in a loose group. Mothers often took on babysitting duties so they could each go forage for food. Carol’s morning walks were her attempt to help Millie feel as if she had a herd.

      He watched them for nearly half an hour then went inside. Before heading to the studio, he went to his sunroom where he worked from home. Not with glass—that setup would require more equipment, not to mention a very understanding insurance agent—but with pencil and pad or even paint and canvas.

      He flipped through the drawings stacked on a shelf. Millie alone, Millie and Carol walking, Millie with the zebras. It was there, he thought, doing his best to ignore the ever-present frustration. He’d been close a couple of times, nearly capturing the image he wanted. It would come—he had to believe that. And when it did, he would create it out of glass. Assuming he still had what had once been his reason to live and breathe.

      * * *

      ULRICH SHERWOOD, Duke of Somerbrooke, stared out of the eighth-floor conference room window of the Century City high-rise. To the west was Santa Monica and the vast Pacific Ocean, to the east were haze-covered mountains...or maybe that was smog smudging the outline. He’d only been in Los Angeles twice before and hadn’t enjoyed himself either time. This visit was to meet with lawyers—something else he didn’t enjoy but which was in this case a necessary evil. A very well-financed TV producer wanted to set a modern-day Downton Abbey in England and Ulrich’s home of Battenberg Park had been chosen as the location. Not only did the use of the rambling estate mean a hefty fee, Battenberg Park would also receive a “spruce” as the lawyer had called it. For their purposes, that meant fresh paint and a significant upgrade in landscaping. Combined, the fee and the “spruce” had made a trip to Los Angeles more than worth the time and effort.

      Linda, the forty-something attorney, returned to the conference room and smiled at him. “Your Lordship.”

      “Ulrich, please,” he murmured, knowing there was no point in correcting her to use the more accurate “Your Grace.” Not only did he prefer to keep that sort of formality to a minimum, he was in the States. Here, true royalty came in the form of movie stars. What did anyone care about lineage, titles or peerage?

      “Here’s your copy of the contract,” Linda said. “Along with a receipt for the first payment. As you requested, we wired the money directly to your bank.”

      “Excellent.”

      Linda had the firm, slim body of a woman who took fitness seriously. She looked at least a decade younger than what he would guess to be her age and he was sure, when it came to playing the game, she was far more experienced than he. He’d married young, divorced only two years ago and since then had avoided entanglements. He supposed he should have been flattered and perhaps intrigued when she said, “Now that our business is complete, I’d love to take you out to dinner. I know a great little place not far from my condo.”

      Ulrich knew he could easily take advantage of what was being offered. He was single, out of the country and no one would ever know. He doubted Linda wanted or expected anything other than the one night. What could be more perfect?

      Only he couldn’t summon the interest. It wasn’t that she was nearly a decade older, it was...well, everything.

      “Thank you for the invitation,” he said, offering a polite smile and a tone of genuine regret. “I’m afraid I have pressing business in the eastern part of your state and I must get on the road right away.”

      “Where are you heading?”

      Ulrich did his best not to curl his lip in disdain. “To a town called Happily Inc.”

      She laughed. “I’ve been there. A friend had a destination wedding at a place called Weddings in a Box a couple of years ago. It’s cute. An interesting choice for a man like you. Are you getting married?” She sounded more intrigued than put off by the idea of his pending nuptials.

      “What? No. I have, ah, family business in the area.”

      An American shyster stealing from his grandmother, to be exact.

      Linda regarded him thoughtfully. “I’m sorry we won’t be able to spend the evening together.”

      “As am I,” he lied. “Truly.” He waved the folder. “Thank you for this.”

      “You’re welcome.”

      Ulrich nodded and left. Twenty minutes later he was heading east on I-10. His rental car’s nav system promised him an arrival at his destination in less than four hours.

      On the seat next to him was his briefcase. Inside, along with the contract from Linda’s production firm, was a name and an address.

      For the past half dozen or so years his eighty-year-old grandmother had been sending packages to one Violet Lund. At first Ulrich hadn’t noticed or cared, until the head housekeeper had mentioned that items from the estate had gone missing. A pair of candlesticks here, a small painting there. Individually the items were of little consequence, but in the aggregate, they were significant.

      He’d found out about the packages, but when he’d questioned his grandmother, the dowager duchess had informed him it was none of his business.

      Ulrich had very little family left—Winifred, his grandmother, was his closest living relative. She’d helped raise him after his mother had died, they’d comforted each other when his father had passed a few years before, and he loved her deeply. There was no way he was going to confront her directly, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t go around her and find out about the disgusting human being who would prey on a helpless old lady.

      For a second Ulrich mentally paused to appreciate the six or seven thousand miles between him and his grandmother. Because if she ever knew he’d thought of her as helpless or old, she would grab him by the ear and give him a stern talking-to. She wouldn’t care that СКАЧАТЬ