I met him on the stoop, annoyed at his impertinence. “Who are you? And what do you mean by walking in here like you own the place?” My anger showed in my tone of voice.
His coldness showed in his, sending a chill though my bones.
“I might,” Chad Prescott said.
He stepped forward so I could see his face: lean, handsome, lightly tanned, an outdoorsman’s face—sporty, horses, fishing; things like that. I felt myself melt.
It was the doctor. Ohh, I thought. Another charmer.
8
I dragged my eyes away, looking down at the parquet floor but not seeing it. In the short time available I had managed to take in the floppy blond hair, the network of lines around his eyes, blue eyes in fact, much like my own, as well as the stubble on that firm chin, and a nice-looking underlip, full and sweet enough for a bite. But what was I thinking? This man, this doctor, had just claimed he owned my villa. I should want to smack him across his too-good-looking face. But I’m not the smacking kind, I’m a giver not a taker, a softie at heart, and I do have a heart though at the moment it seems to have stopped. Taken a break. I hope it begins to beat again soon, I’d quite like to breathe.
There! I was breathing after all. And smiling at this outrageous man who had just put claims on my villa. Aunt Jolly’s villa, that was. And before that, Jerusha’s.
My shoulder hurt, bruised in the crash, and I put up a hand as though to protect it from his gaze, but he was not even looking at me. He was looking at the villa, assessing its value I’d bet.
“So who are you anyway?” I put enough frost in my voice to kill any nice summer day.
He did not so much as glance around, so intent was he in taking in what he claimed was his property. “Name’s Chad Prescott.” He did not offer his hand, though, silly me, I did. Good manners can be the ruination of you; someone once told me that. It had to have been a man.
“Though you have not asked, my name is Mirabella Matthews.” I waited for a response, the oh really, of course I know your books. It did not come.
Verity came and stood tall beside me. “And I am Verity.” She did not mention her second name, obviously still confused as to which one it was, the single or the married. Not that it mattered.
Aunt Jolly had an old sausage dog that still lived here, along with a Siamese cat and a bright yellow canary that sang. The dog walked cautiously toward the doctor, stretching its long neck to sniff his sandaled feet. He ignored it.
“I did not invite you onto my property,” I said, choking back my anger. “And you should at least acknowledge the dog. He lives here, this is his home.”
“No, it’s not,” he said. And with that he walked past me and through the already open door.
Mouth agape, I caught the faint tang of briarwood cologne as he passed, a warm male aroma. What was wrong with me? This guy was talking about Aunt Jolly’s house, my house, as though it was his, walking into it like he owned it and I was caught up in his scent.
“You have no right to walk into my house.”
I hurried after him, the dog slinking at my heels. The Siamese was absent and the canary had disappeared from its open cage. I didn’t blame them. The vibes were not good.
He turned and for the first time really looked at me, as though he saw me and not as though I were some insignificant servant, here to do his bidding.
“You must understand,” he said. His voice was low and even and rather attractive if truth be known. “You must understand that whatever you have been told, whatever you believe or think, you did not inherit this house. It was deeded to me prior to her death by Madame Jolly Matthews.”
He’d called her Jolly. Only her friends and family, small though it was, namely me, ever did that. My aunt’s proper name was Juliet, though she claimed no one but her mother had ever used it.
“Well, then,” I said, considering my words carefully before I voiced them, because this was a situation I recognized was fraught with sudden danger. “Well, then, Mr.…?” I paused, waiting for him to remind me his name was Chad Prescott though I remembered it perfectly well. But he did not remind me, he simply stood there, arms folded now across his chest, all manly-man in a white polo shirt and pale pink bathing shorts, though had you asked me earlier how a guy in pink shorts could look masculine I would have laughed in your face.
“I’ll have my attorney send you the appropriate documents,” he said, turning and speaking over his shoulder, dropping his card on the hall table as he left. “I shall expect you to be gone by next week. Please leave everything as you found it.”
“The dog and the cat and the bird as well?” I was steaming with the heat of sudden anger. And, I admit it, fear. Because what if he was right and the villa did belong to him? I would regret having sold my little flat in London and all dreams of sunny South of France would be just dreams again.
“Take the animals,” he called back. “I do not want them around.”