A Precious Inheritance. Paula Roe

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      Three

      “Look, you’ve obviously been checking up on me, Mr. Harrington,” she began, arms crossed and eyes hard. “So you should know I was a legitimate bidder in that auction.”

      “It’s Chase.”

      Chase studied her as she stared at him expectantly, her legs planted wide and arms crossed in a classic defensive stance.

      Chase tipped his head. “You’re swaying.”

      Her cheeks flushed and she abruptly stilled. “Force of habit. So…you were telling me why you were here.”

      Good question he’d yet to fully answer himself. Did rampant curiosity count or would that make him really sound like a stalker? “What you said at Waverly’s—the bit about you being Dunbar’s girlfriend. Was it true?”

      She blinked, shock leaking out before she swiftly wiped her expression clean. “No. And anyway, what possible interest is my life to someone like—” she put her hand out, palm up, and swept him from head to toe “—you?”

      That got his back up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      “What?”

      “That little…” He mimicked her gesture with a lot less finesse.

      She pulled her back straight, chin tipping up. “I mean, you are obviously a rich man. Someone with connections and power and influence…”—did she just curl her lip?—“And I, on the other hand, am not.”

      “Oh, I wouldn’t sell yourself short, Miss Partridge.”

      She frowned and there was that look again, that irritating-as-all-hell flash of arrogance. It was an expression so effortlessly executed he wondered if she’d spent hours practicing in the mirror.

      Chase gritted his teeth. Yeah, this was such a great idea.

      As they silently glared at each other, a baby’s muffled cry drifted down the stairs, cutting through the charged air. Vanessa’s gaze snapped away, then she put a foot on the first step. “If that’s all you came to say…?”

      “There’s more.”

      Irritation flared in those wide green eyes, but she reined it in with practiced ease.

      “Go,” he said, nodding up the stairs. “I’ll wait.”

      With a frown and a grudging “fine,” she turned away.

      Chase’s gaze followed her jeans-clad bottom as it swayed upward, one mesmerizing step at a time. In fact, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Bare feet… Nicely filled pair of denims…

      Wait, what?

      He shook his head then dug fingernails into his clenched palm for good measure. Blood pounded in his ears, drowning out her rapid steps.

      He’d managed to gain control when she returned fifteen minutes later, her hands brushing back a few stray hairs as she slowly descended.

      “You have a baby,” he stated, feigning ignorance.

      She crossed her arms. “Two girls. Twins. But considering you know where I live, I’m pretty sure you already know that.” When he slowly nodded, she narrowed her eyes. “Why the interest in me?”

      “Why did you want Dunbar’s manuscript?”

      “I told you why.” She cocked her hip, hands going to her waist as she effected a deliberately bored expression. “I hate waiting.”

      Chase sighed. She was trying too hard and his patience was dwindling. But instead of plowing through her facade, he moved on. “So you’re a D. B. Dunbar fan.”

      “Of his books, yes.”

      He swiftly picked up on that correction with no outward indication. What did she think he’d meant?

      Then she added, “So you must be quite a fan too.”

      “Me? No.”

      She frowned. “You’ve never read any of his books?” At his head shake, she said incredulously, “Charlie Jack? Calm Before the Storm? Justice Prevailed?”

      “No.”

      “You should. He is…was…” She paused, searching for the rights words before settling on, “Incredibly, amazingly talented. The world he painted just takes you to another place.” She smiled the smile of a true believer. “There are a finite number of words in the English language, yet when D. B. Dunbar arranged them he did it in such a way every page just sang. He was—” she hesitated a brief second, a flash of something behind her eyes “—a great writer.”

      He’d bet a thousand bucks that wasn’t what she was originally going to say.

      She brushed her hair back again, the other hand going to her back pocket. “So why did you buy the manuscript if you’re not a fan?”

      “It’s a collector’s item,” he said neutrally. “A good investment that will only increase in value with the author dead.”

      A flinch. Just a small one, barely noticeable. But he still caught it.

      A thread of disquiet surged.

      In New York she’d been as slick and icy as a January sidewalk. But here, on her own turf, not so Perfect. That is, if you didn’t count that haughty display earlier.

      “You didn’t answer my question,” she said, recrossing her arms. “Why the interest in me?”

      “Because СКАЧАТЬ