AllFreeNovel
Share Us
That lasted about two full seconds before there was another rap on the wood, and when she looked out, McCallister was there. He cleared his throat. “So you’ll be all right. ” It wasn’t a question, really. “As I said, I’m two rooms down. The panic button is next to your bed. Press it if you’re in any way alarmed, and Liam will come running. So will I. ”
“Why do you work for Pharmadene?” she asked, as he reached for the doorknob. “You must have a reason. It’s not like you need the job. If I lived here, I’d never clip on some corporate badge and wear a monkey suit. ”
He considered giving her an honest answer—she could see that in the way he looked at her—but then he shook his head. “We’ll discuss all that some other time; it’s a long story. For now, please get some sleep. Liam will make sure you’re ready for breakfast. We’ll be leaving right after that. ”
“Going where?”
“Hopefully,” he said, “to someone who can help you more than I can. ”
“Patrick?” She saw him glance back over his shoulder as he opened the bedroom door. “Back at my apartment, we—”
He shook his head, and left without a word.
“—didn’t do anything,” she finished softly, as the door shut. “Right. Professional relationship it is. No problem. ”
Despite the amazing down mattress and soft sheets and feathery duvet, neither she nor Mr. French slept much at all.
The morning dawned soft and bright, with those kind of cheerful chirping country bird sounds that Bryn thought existed only in the movies. She felt tired, but oddly at peace, and swung open the window to look out at the unbelievable view of the manicured, jewel-perfect gardens. That lasted about a minute, until Mr. French marched to the closed (and locked) bedroom door, whined, and she remembered that mansions probably didn’t come with convenient doggy doors. She was pulling on her robe and slippers and wondering what the rules were about wandering around this place looking ratty when a soft knock came at the door.
She unlocked it and peeked out. Liam smiled politely and said, “May I take the young lad for a walk outside?”
Oh. “Well … if you don’t mind …”
“Absolutely no trouble, Miss Davis. Will you want coffee or tea with your breakfast?”
Right on cue, she remembered her caffeine deficit, and her stomach rumbled. “Coffee,” she said. “And just a bagel, please. Oh—Liam?”
“Yes, miss. ”
“What’s the story about this house?”
Liam regarded her for a few seconds without replying, then leaned against the door and said, “I’m not sure that Mr. McCallister shouldn’t tell you himself. ”
“Mr. McCallister has a policy of telling me absolutely nothing, and it’s getting pretty old. ”
“He does tend to be very private,” Liam agreed. “Very well. His great-grandfather was a hardscrabble railroad man who made a fortune, which his grandson set about squandering. Luckily, his granddaughter was more astute, and by the time Mr. McCallister’s father was born, the fortune had been successfully defended. ”
“He said he had a brother. ”
“He did. ”
She waited, but he didn’t expand on it. “And?”
“I believe Patrick told you that Jamie died. ”
“It sounds like neither one of you wants to tell me the truth about it. ”
“So it does,” Liam said. “I should walk the dog, miss. Go down to breakfast when you’re ready. ”
He left before she could think of any better way to pry information out of him. Not that she’d have succeeded. Liam and Patrick both seemed to have taken vows of silence on the subject.
Freshly scrubbed and dressed, she came downstairs to find Mr. French comfortably snuggled into a doggy bed near the door, looking deliriously happy. Liam showed her to the Small Room, which apparently was where the breakfast buffet was laid out; the room wasn’t small, and it held enough food to take care of a fairly major armed camp. “I just wanted a bagel,” she said weakly, surveying the ranks of gleaming serving trays. Liam pulled out a chair at the table, and she saw a steaming china cup and a bagel ready for her, just the way she’d asked. “Oh. ” She sank down, and was taking her first sip as Patrick McCallister walked in.
I made this man sleep on my ratty old Sears couch, she thought. Covered with a Wal-Mart blanket. In my six-hundred-a-month apartment. I made him eat peanut butter and crackers off of paper plates.
And he smiled at me.
She wasn’t sure which emotion that boiled up in her was the most apt: a vague sense of shame for being … not part of this world; anger, for making her feel inadequate; or surprise, because once again, Patrick McCallister looked like a real person when he smiled.
