Savannah Secrets. Fiona Hood-Stewart

that she’d remembered the woman’s name. She knew it was dangerous to dabble. But still, Joanna wondered whether she was worth investing in. After several moments’ reflection, she decided in favor. After all, things couldn’t get much worse. She must use some kind of intervention if she wasn’t going to be screwed. And from all she’d heard, Miss Mabella had a trick or two up her sleeve.

      The question was how to contact her? Perhaps she would ask Josie, her cleaning lady, tomorrow. Josie had an aunt who lived in what she believed was the same neighborhood as Miss Mabella. Maybe she could make contact for her.

      With a sigh Joanna turned off the light. Grant Gallagher, indeed. Fuck him. She was damned if she’d allow anybody, much less some illegitimate son of Isabel’s—whom she’d never liked, anyway—to take what should be hers.

      No siree!

      Despite her laudable resolve of having a quiet morning, Meredith found it impossible to relax. Tweaking her hair back and donning her glasses, she rummaged for the Carstairs file. Sitting at her highly polished mahogany desk, an heirloom from her great-grandmother Rowland, Meredith admitted ruefully that relaxing was not her forte. Plus the task ahead of her was no light challenge. Setting the thick manila folder next to her laptop, she got online, determined to find as much information as she could about the man she already considered her adversary. All her legal training taught her never to get emotional about a case. Ross would have told her it was none of her business, that technically the man was her client now, and that her only agenda should be to defend his interests.

      But how could she when so much was at stake for Dallas?

      Typing his name into Google, Meredith learned it was distressingly easy to acquire information on Grant Gallagher—the man was probably a publicity hound. There were newspaper headings, articles and pictures of him at nightclubs with beautiful blondes hanging on to his arm. The fact that he appeared to be outrageously handsome only made her glare more coldly at his wolfish smile. No doubt his behavior in the bedroom matched his ruthless actions in the boardroom.

      Logging off, she pulled out a thick sheaf of papers, realizing that even if the man willingly lived his life in the public eye, there were details in this folder that were intensely private. Details that he wouldn’t want to share; information about himself that even he didn’t know. Despite her contempt for him, she felt as if she were committing a violation. Rowena’s detectives had been nothing if not thorough, she reflected, her lips curling cynically.

      She skimmed once more over his case history. He didn’t have much of a childhood, she admitted grudgingly, her brow knit. Grant had been adopted at birth by a wealthy couple unable to have children, who then divorced when he was four. Both parents had subsequently remarried several times. Judging by the frequent changes in address and the different schools he’d attended throughout Europe, it was obvious the man had lived an erratic youth in which his adoptive parents had figured little. They probably cared even less.

      She studied a glamorous photo of Raymond and Gina Gallagher, clipped from some sixties-era society page. Although a handsome couple, they looked more impressed with themselves than with each other. Grant had probably been adopted to serve as a plug in a leaking tub. When the plug failed, the tub had drained and the child was left to fend for himself. Well, not entirely. There seemed to be some serious financial security. But that kind of life couldn’t have been easy.

      His experiences hadn’t impeded his getting ahead at the expense of others, she recognized, reaching for the bottle of Evian that she’d carried in from the kitchen. She would have imagined that someone who’d had an emotionally deprived childhood, albeit a financially secure one, would be sensitive to the needs of others. But apparently empathy wasn’t a word in Gallagher’s lexicon.

      Meredith sighed, remembering her own happy childhood, her loving parents and sibling. Even when she’d been at her most rebellious—like the time she’d led a third-grade boycott of the Webelos for not admitting girls into their organization—her family had been there for her, offering their love and support. She’d been one of the lucky ones.

      Slipping the documents back into the envelope, Meredith rose from the desk and headed upstairs for a shower, trying not to think about her upcoming phone appointment with Dallas. She had all of fifteen minutes to get herself cleaned up and dressed before she had to head to the office. Time to get the show on the road, she realized with a grimace, yanking off her tracksuit and heading for the shower.

      “It doesn’t matter, I wouldn’t have taken a penny of her money, anyway.”

      Dallas’s voice sounded harsh and determined, and Meredith sighed. She’d just pointed out a minor loophole in the will that she thought might give Dallas grounds to contest, but the girl wouldn’t listen, despite the dire situation she was facing. Rarely had Meredith met anyone more stubborn and unyielding.

      “Dallas, please, you need to think this over carefully. Let me give you the name of an estate attorney I admire. She can at least help you figure out where you stand.”

      “Nope. I don’t care. I’ll just let it go.”

      “But that’s ridiculous. I know the mortgage company is breathing down your neck. At least let me talk to them, explain how things are, tell them there’s still a chance you’ll recover something, or at least enough to pay off a large chunk of the debt. That should keep them at bay for a while.”

      “Meredith, why won’t you understand? I hated Grandma Rowena. She fucked up all our lives. I don’t want any of her money. It’s tainted. This guy Gallagher’s welcome to it.”

      “You know, technically he’s your half brother,” Meredith said thoughtfully. She didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to her before, but of course these two shared the same mother. They were siblings. Surely that had to count for something?

      A short silence ensued. “So? What if he is my half brother? I don’t know him, he doesn’t know me. Just because we were born of the same mother doesn’t mean we signify anything to each other. Why should I care about him? Or he about my problems, for that matter?”

      “You’re right, I guess,” Meredith responded sadly. “Look, I’ve already sent him a letter to advise him of the inheritance, and I presume I’ll be hearing from him shortly. I’ll keep you informed.”

      “Fine. In the meantime I’ll take that modeling job I was offered for that Australian magazine. At least that’ll keep food on the table.”

      “Good. Go ahead.”

      Meredith was glad that Dallas was busy finding solutions to her plight. Although most people would assume she was a spoiled brat, given the way she spoke and reacted, she possessed the tough, determined streak of a survivor.

      From all accounts, the girl had lived a solitary childhood. Apparently Isabel had shown little interest in her daughter, preferring her social life to motherhood. After Isabel’s suicide, Dallas had lived alone with a father whose obsession with raising horses probably left little time or inclination to nurture the needs of a teenager. Lord only knew what kind of emotional baggage the poor kid carried.

      Dallas wasn’t precisely a child anymore, of course, but she was only nineteen. Such an age seemed a long way off from Meredith’s own thirty-three. She thought of what that twelve-year difference amounted to in her own life. She had already experienced a wonderful marriage, two great kids and now widowhood.

      Brushing the thoughts aside, Meredith turned to her computer screen and decided she’d better draft a follow-up letter to Grant Gallagher. She was surprised she hadn’t heard anything from him yet, but she decided that he probably was having his lawyers look over everything before he took the next step.

      3

      Glancing at his watch, Grant Gallagher pushed himself into the last stretch leading up to the lawn and the castle. He’d been running for an hour on the wet Scottish moor and he was now ready for breakfast. But this final effort justified the rest of a day often spent seated in boardrooms or behind his desk. Today, he reflected, wiping