The Soon-To-Be-Disinherited Wife. Jennifer Greene

tired, all that stuff. But now she knew that sizzle was strong, knew it wasn’t right, yet awareness of him still tiptoed up her senses like a wicked secret.

      Even so, when she realized that he was obviously headed for her, she did the hospitable thing and met him at the edge of the yard.

      “Amazing what riffraff this neighorhood attracts,” she teased.

      He laughed. “So this is your gallery?”

      “Sure is.” She hesitated, not wanting to invite trouble but feeling the increasing need to understand why he still had such a tormenting pull for her. “I’ve got a mountain of stuff to do—bet you do, too—but come in if you have a few minutes. I’ll get you a cup of coffee, show you around…How’s Caroline?”

      He sucked in a breath. “Not great. She’s still not talking—but something clearly happened to her. This isn’t like a chemical depression. Something specifically had to trigger this, something that’s killing her. You haven’t heard any gossip in town?”

      “Tons of it. But nothing ever about Caroline. Everyone likes her, Garrett. And everyone was hoping she and Griff would get back together when they hit that rough patch.” She led him inside. “Has anyone reached her husband yet?”

      “They keep trying. Messages have been left at all his contact points, so it’s just a matter of him checking in. Deep inside China, communications just aren’t what they are here.”

      Josh poked his head out to say hello. She brought out a mug of java for Garrett, then got trapped on the telephone with a customer. By the time she caught up with him, he’d obviously been freely wandering around. “My God, Emma, what you’ve made of this place.”

      His enjoyment buoyed her spirits as nothing else could have, so she couldn’t resist showing off some of her favorites. Right inside the lobby was a fish tank—not filled with fish but with a mermaid sculpted in marble and inlaid with precious and semi-precious stones. “I found the artist—and this crazy, wonderful piece—in a tiny jewelry store in upstate New York.”

      “One of those who-can-believe-it kind of things? She’s…riveting. Hard to take your eyes off her.”

      That was exactly how Emma had always felt. “Come on, I’ll whisk you around upstairs.”

      She didn’t have to coax him. Today he was wearing casual chinos, a dark polo. As a teenager, he’d been a workaholic and a hard-core overachiever yet always friendly and gregarious. He was still easy to talk to, but maturity had given him an inner quietness. His emotions didn’t show the way they used to. He had that mover-and-shaker look, that kind of virile, vital energy, even with his emotions locked out of sight. She wondered—she hoped—that he’d found someone to love him. Really love him. Because he seemed vitally alone.

      Beware, whispered her hormones.

      But she was aware now and had every intention of being careful.

      Surely it wasn’t wrong to feel compassion for him, though. His sister was in the middle of a frightening crisis, after all.

      She showed him her Oriental lacquer room and the long, skinny hall where she displayed a range of Oriental carpets. She reserved the far east room for women’s art—sculptures, oils, watercolors, cameos of women in all shapes and forms. The west room across the hall echoed a range of art about males—men sleeping, studying, working, fighting, enjoying guy hobbies. Down a few doors was her “room of light,” which displayed work with gems.

      “Sheesh, Emma. You’ve put together the most unique gallery I’ve ever seen,” he said. “The way you present everything is just…fun. But it’s also thoughtful and interesting.”

      “Quit being so nice. It’s going to my head.” But damn, it was nice to share her love. She’d put a ton of thought into every room, every piece she used for display, every artist she chose to represent. “Hey, you haven’t said what you were doing at the real-estate office. You suddenly thinking about buying property in Eastwick?”

      “When hell freezes over,” he said wryly, but he motioned to the sheaf of papers under his arm. “I picked up a list of short-term rentals from the agent.”

      “I thought you’d planned to stay home?”

      “So did I.” His tone was rueful. “I should have known that wouldn’t work. But now that I’ve been around Caroline, talked to her doctors, I’m afraid I’m going to be here for a while. At least a few weeks.”

      “Oh, Garrett. You’re that worried your sister isn’t going to recover from this?”

      “I just don’t know. In fact, all I know is that I can’t leave her. And I’ll likely get on better with my parents if I’m not under their feet—and they’re not under mine.” He walked into the upstairs bathroom—just to see what she’d done in there, as if he knew she’d done something. And she had. The ceiling was a mural of graphic comic art, all superheroes. He came out chuckling—and claiming to have a crook in his neck—but he pretty swiftly returned to their conversation.

      “Anyway…I decided I’d better look for some alternative living arrangement. So far, though, I’m not thrilled with the places the real-estate agent came up with. All of them are a distance from town. I don’t want that, don’t want to stay in a hotel either. It’s easy enough for me to fly or helicopter into New York several times a week. All I need is a simple place to set up a temporary office. A bed, a mini kitchen. Some quiet. A place to set up a computer, fax, printer, that sort of thing. I don’t want anything fancy or far.”

      She frowned thoughtfully as she led him back downstairs. “If you want a place in town, I actually know of one. Just two doors down, in fact.”

      Garrett raised an eyebrow. “The agent claimed there was nothing close in town.”

      “That’s because it’s not on the formal market.” She explained the situation. Most of the old homes on the block used to be residential, but they’d been gradually turning into businesses—lawyers, accountants, psychologists, brokers, that kind of thing. Not the kind of commerce that required big parking needs, but quiet enterprises that were willing to maintain the historical flavor of the buildings. “Anyway, my neighbor, Marietta Collins, is a holdout. She rented her upstairs to a boarder, a writer, only he recently moved. She didn’t list it because she only wants to rent to friends of friends. I have no idea what the place looks like, Garrett, so maybe it won’t suit you at all. But if you like, I could call her…”

      He did like. It only took Emma a second to dial and find out the place was still available for rent. Garrett blinked at the price.

      “I can’t imagine why she’s giving it away.”

      “Well, it could be a clunker. But I think she just really wants someone she can trust living above her.”

      “Good thing you had pull, huh?” From the amused sparkle in his eyes, Garrett was obviously not used to anyone having to pull strings for him—likely it was usually the other way around.

      “Well, you’d better see it before you get your hopes up. You might decide the real-estate agent had better ideas for you.”

      “There really isn’t much to rent. You know how Eastwick is. Everyone wants to own. And no one’s looking to encourage transients.”

      She had to laugh at the idea of Garrett being considered a transient. And though he expressed concern over stealing any more of her workday, she walked over to the place with him. She knew Marietta would be uneasy without a personal introduction—and she was also a little worried what she might have gotten him into. If the place was a disaster, she didn’t want him to feel obligated to take it because of her.

      Marrietta Collins took one look at Garrett, beamed and promptly gave them the key to check out the upstairs at their leisure.

      Emma’s impression of the apartment was the opposite of Garrett’s. “Well, it isn’t exactly a garret, Garrett, but—”

      “That