Savannah Secrets. Fiona Hood-Stewart

into a winner.

      Moving round to the east side of the ancient stone castle walls, Grant stepped inside the cloakroom.

      At last. The reward. He shook himself like a St. Bernard, his large, well-formed shoulders soaked, and made his way down the corridor to the main part of the castle.

      “Good morning. Yer breakfast’s ready, sir,” Mrs. Duffy, the housekeeper, said as she crossed him in the hall just as he was about to climb the vast oak staircase.

      “Thank you, Mrs. Duffy. I’ll take a quick shower and be down in a moment.” He smiled.

      The housekeeper later described his smile to Mrs. Cullum, the baker’s wife, as a wicked yet wonderful one that lit up his fine features. Not that anyone, seeing her, would have guessed such a fanciful romantic lurked behind her severe expression. Two days later, Mrs. Cullum passed on the description to Mrs. Beatty at the butcher’s. They both agreed, shaking their permed gray heads, that Mrs. Duffy read far too many romance novels for her own good. In their opinion, any woman who raved about bright blue eyes that sparkled in a way that left a female, even one of Mrs. Duffy’s advanced years and station, with her heart fluttering definitely needed her head examined.

      Unaware of the flattering descriptions being exchanged in the castle kitchen and elsewhere, Grant swung open the heavy glass door of the shower—the one area of the castle he’d agreed to modernize—and, after discarding his soaked attire on the marble floor, stood under the powerful hot-water jet. It felt like heaven after the rigors of the run he imposed on himself daily, rain or shine, wherever he was in the world.

      Several minutes later he emerged, dried himself and, slicking his hair back, entered his dressing room where he donned a pair of navy sweats and the first high-necked cashmere sweater in the pile, which happened to be white. Next he slipped on his socks and sneakers and headed downstairs, humming a tune that for several days had been playing relentlessly in his head. That and the scent that Fernanda, his latest conquest, had worn on their last evening together in Paris. She was lovely, but far too young, of course. And she was beginning to cling.

      He sighed. Time to bring that little interlude to an end before it became complicated and she turned on the waterworks.

      Stepping into the breakfast room, he gazed satisfied at the round table covered with the usual white linen cloth, fine china and silverware. He lifted the cover of one of the Georgian silver dishes and sniffed. Mrs. Duffy’s breakfast made every drop of rain of his run worth it, he reflected, serving himself a large portion of scrambled eggs, bacon and ham onto a plate, and spreading a thick lashing of homemade butter onto a piece of local granary bread.

      This was the life. For a few days a month, at any rate, he reckoned, glancing at his watch, calculating the time difference with Sydney.

      After breakfast, he headed straight for the study, intent on making his calls. He was deeply entrenched in understanding the legal implications of the deal he was handling, a meat packer in Australia that, if everything went right, would be his for the picking before the end of the week. He sat down and dialed the number of his lawyer in Sydney, sifting through his mail as he waited for someone to pick up. Just invitations and bank statements. They could wait. Then he looked at the last letter in the pile and frowned. It bore an American stamp and was postmarked Savannah Georgia. He turned it over, curious. He didn’t know anyone in Savannah. Maybe it was another of those letters he received quantities of, people offering him deals right, left and center. Rita, his efficient secretary in London, must have forwarded it by mistake. The phone continued ringing just as he realized the letter was addressed to Strathcairn Castle, not to his office in Abemarle Street.

      Odd, he reflected, hanging up when no one answered, noting the letterhead. Who the hell were Hunter & Maxwell, Attorneys at Law? Certainly he’d never dealt with them in the past.

      Leaning across the desk piled high with scribbled notes, Grant reached for a letter opener. He pulled out a cover letter attached to a long white envelope with his name scrawled in large, spidery black ink.

      He frowned, ignoring the uncanny frisson that gripped him. This must be a mistake, he reflected, ignoring a quickening of his pulse and a sudden need to swallow. Yet the letter was addressed to him, and now, as he quickly flipped through the rest of his mail a second time, he noted another missive from the same law firm. For a moment he hesitated, gripped by a sudden urge to bin the lot. For a moment he stared at them, then at the trash can, then back at the distinctive handwriting on the heavy white vellum envelope. But curiosity won, and with a shrug he slit the second envelope and pulled forth a single sheet of paper.

      What he read made him sit up straighter. This had to be a joke, some crazy prankster playing tricks on him. But for some inexplicable reason, he couldn’t drag his eyes off the spindly scrawl, words leaping off the page in quick succession, their significance hitting him like an inside curve ball.

      Then, grabbing the cover letter, he skimmed through it rapidly, his pulse racing. This couldn’t be real. It had to be a case of mistaken identity. There must be another James G. Gallagher somewhere, maybe even several, and they’d mixed them up.

      But deep down, something told him it wasn’t a mistake. He’d always known he was adopted. His parents had certainly never bothered to hide that fact from him. But they’d never told him anything about his birth mother, and he sure as hell hadn’t wanted to ask. Surely it would be too much of a coincidence if…

      Grant rose, still holding the letter, and gazed out of the window. Rain poured, causing rivulets to trickle down the old panes before disappearing into the flower beds. What should he do? He had no desire to be connected with his past. A memory flashed—that of himself as a turbulent teenager ravaged with doubt. It had taken him long enough to force the hot, turbulent rage to subside and now that it was way behind him, he had no desire to revisit his past.

      Turning his back on the window, Grant crushed the letter in his fist and pitched the crumpled ball into the trash can. He had no intention of replying. Would simply pretend it never happened.

      But minutes later, and against his better judgment, he stooped and retrieved the two scrunched-up sheets from the trash, smoothed them reluctantly and read the letter over.

      “Shit,” he exclaimed, slamming his palms down on the desk. “Fuck Rowena Carstairs, whoever she is. And her damned attorneys.”

      But despite his desire to forget, he could think of nothing but what the old lady had told him in her letter.

      “Damn,” he muttered under his breath, glancing once more at the scrawled words. Why in hell’s name would this woman who claimed to be his grandmother want to leave him some estate he didn’t need? He could read some remorse between the lines, some desire to make up for a past mistake. But still, it made no sense.

      He pushed the chair back abruptly, wishing he had time to take a trip, go scuba diving in Thailand or hiking in the Rockies. But he couldn’t leave right now. He had to be available to jump on a plane at a moment’s notice.

      “Damn,” he muttered again.

      Leaving the correspondence on his desk, he shoved his hands in his pockets and left, slamming the study door abruptly behind him.

      “I don’t see what options are left,” Charles pointed out to a recalcitrant Joanna. He disapproved of his cousin’s house—wet bars did not belong in the home. Joanna was presently perched on a crimson leather bar stool, sipping a neon-colored cocktail at three o’clock in the afternoon. No wonder Rowena had entertained doubts about the woman’s capacity to manage a few million dollars. Still, she needed to be humored.

      “There really is no way we can contest the damn will?” Joanna asked for the hundredth time.

      “I’ve told you. It’s impossible. If we fail, we lose the trust income.”

      “But there must be a way,” she said, twiddling the cocktail stick thoughtfully. “I mean, let’s think. For instance, what would happen if, say, this Grant guy weren’t in the picture?”

      “What do you mean?” Charles looked at her and frowned.