Authors: Kate Perry
Secretly, they’d been on their last legs forever. Their father fancied himself a businessman, but the only thing he’d been really good at was losing money. He’d never wanted to relinquish his hold on the estate either, not even after Beatrice proved how gifted she was at making money.
Their father had never hidden that he thought only a son was worthy to take on the Summerhill estate.
And now look at it. Rosalind touched the chipped paint on the wall. The title had gone to a distant cousin, and the house was crumbling around them. Who knew what state the old country manor was in.
Shaking her head, Rosalind looked around. Where should she start searching? She lifted a book from a bookshelf and flipped through it.
“What are you doing in here?”
The sharp voice startled Rosalind. She dropped the book in her hand as she whirled around, barely missing her foot.
Portia stood in the doorway, hands on her hips and suspicion in her eyes. She was dressed more casually this morning, in slacks and a silk shirt—all black, of course.
Great. Rosalind picked up the book slowly, trying to buy time to figure out what to say.
“You know we aren’t allowed in Father’s study,” Portia said.
“Then what are you doing in here?”
Her sister pointed at her. “Don’t try to manipulate me. Beatrice does that enough for everyone.”
Rosalind stood. “Beatrice has the family’s interests in mind. If she seems bossy, it’s because—”
“She actually is.” Portia smiled coolly. “But that’s all right, isn’t it?”
Based on her tone, it really wasn’t.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” Portia said again, not making a move to enter the room. “Father keeps a lot of priceless artifacts in the study that he wants to safeguard.”
Rosalind opened her mouth to remind Portia that their father was dead, but she realized how cruel that’d sound, so she nodded. “I know there are a lot of priceless things in this house. At some point, we’re going to have to catalogue them for mother.”
“We?” Portia’s voice rose. “There’s only one person qualified to catalogue the items in this house. For instance, do you have any idea what this is?”
Her sister stalked to the bookshelf, grabbed an item from the middle, and held it aloft.
Rosalind blinked at the metal ball in Portia’s hand, knowing there was no right answer here. “It looks like a bronze pineapple.”
“That’s what I mean.” She waved the grenade-looking thing around. “This is the acorn George II gave Robert Summerhill after the Battle of Oudenarde, for his steadfast strength and loyalty.”
“So you’re saying it’s worth something.”
“It’s priceless to future Summerhills, Rosalind!” She carefully set it back on the shelf, in the exact same position as before. “It’s where we came from. You never appreciated that.”
“What are you girls doing here?”
They both turned to find their mother in the doorway. She looked as immaculate as ever, like she’d walked out of the latest Vogue. She held what looked like a journal against her chest, as though it was armor.
Portia turned around, her fingers playing with her pearl necklace. “I found Rosalind in here.”
Rosalind rolled her eyes at the accusatory tone. “We’re not five anymore.”
“You started it.”
Their mother looked around the study, her nose wrinkled with distaste. “I hate this room,” she announced abruptly. “It’s rather dreary in here, isn’t it?”
They gaped at her as she strode inside straight to the desk and picked up a framed picture set on the corner. She frowned, her fingers tightening on the wood casing. Then she threw it against the wall.
Rosalind jumped, her eyes widening. “Mum, are you okay?”
“Much better now.” Her mother smiled at her, her porcelain skin flushed. “Portia, Rosalind is helping pack up your father’s things.”
“What?” Portia exclaimed. She stepped forward, arms out as if to block their path to the desk. “It’s too soon to pack his things away.”
“It’s much past time,” their mother said, crossing her arms. “We all need to move on.”
Portia looked horrified at the thought. “He hasn’t been gone for more than a week. You’re rushing things.”
“Rushing things? I think I’ve shown quite a bit of patience.” Their mother picked up a paperweight and threw it, too.
“Mum”—Rosalind took her hand before she could destroy something priceless—”I’ll take care of this for you.”
Her mother looked like she was going to argue, but then she nodded with a faint smile. “Thank you, Rosalind. I take it that means you’ll stay here for a bit.”
She swallowed, torn between needing to escape and wanting to help her mother. The old longing surged in her chest—the desire to connect with her mom the way mothers and daughters were supposed to.
“I’m glad you’ll be here, Rosalind,” her mum said haltingly, squeezing her hand.
Rosalind blinked, startled by the contact. The Countess of Amberlin wasn’t a touchy-feely person. This was tantamount to her flinging her arms around her and holding tight.
Her mother patted her hand and let go. “Portia, perhaps you’ll want to help.”
“Definitely,” her sister said with a steely glance at her. Portia waited until their mother breezed out of the room to say, “You aren’t touching any of Father’s things without me. I’m not going to take a chance that you’ll throw away something valuable.”
Great. How was she supposed to secretly look for the will with Portia shadowing her? But she also couldn’t say no. “That’d be nice, Portia. It’ll make the packing go faster.”
“Good. We’ll start in here. But you can’t touch the books. And the curios on the shelf to the left.”
Mentally, she rolled her eyes, but outwardly she smiled pleasantly. Thank goodness for all the practice she had being agreeable with her clients. “Whatever you want, Portia.”
Her sister looked at her suspiciously, but her hackles lowered a little.
Just one week, and then Bea would take over the search. She could deal with Portia for a week, especially if it meant making sure her mother was taken care of.
Chapter Seven
“So this place is”—his business manager looked around the barren house, his nose twitching like he smelled something foul—”quaint.”
Nick smiled as he opened the refrigerator and pulled out two beers. Some statements didn’t require an answer. Besides, Jon was right. This house was hardly up to
Home & Garden
standards.
Not that it was structurally unsound. The house itself was a fantastic find. It was on one of the fashionable circles in Knightsbridge, a little house perfect for a bachelor, the real estate agent had assured him. A good investment for when he married and had kids.
The real estate agent had said that jokingly, because what international celebrity in his right mind would shackle himself to domesticity when he had all the beautiful women in the world throwing themselves at him?
Him, that’s who, because Nick would have given anything for the chance to build a family of his own. Somewhere to belong, someone to belong to.
As he flipped open a bottle, he wondered if Rosalind wanted the same.
He shook his head. He shouldn’t think about Rosalind. He had no reason to see her again, and he’d made it clear to Summer that he wasn’t going to be party to her insanity.
Opening a cabinet, he reached inside to pull out glasses, only there weren’t any. Of course there weren’t—the house was virtually empty. The only piece of furniture in the whole place was a mattress, because Jon had made sure he had somewhere to sleep. One day he might even get a bed frame.
“Here.” Nick handed over the beer bottle. “Sorry. Apparently I don’t have glassware.”
“Only sissies drink beer out of glasses.” He took a delicate swig out of the bottle. “Man up.”
Nick lifted his beer in salute. “I’d like to hear you repeat that at any pub.”
“Forget the beer.” Jon set the bottle down and crossed his arms. “Tell me when you’re coming back to racing.”
He didn’t know when he was returning—or even
if
he was returning. It was ironic. He drove at such high speeds, but he felt like life was passing him by.
The more he thought about it, the more he thought it was time to stop and reassess. Tabitha had been fantastic to him, but after Summer had been born things had obviously changed. Not that she treated him with anything other than unconditional love, but he’d always known that his position was precarious, not because he wasn’t loved but because he wasn’t blood.
“I don’t like this silence,” Jon declared. “It doesn’t bode well.”
“It’s best to go out on a high note rather than as a has-been.”
His manager frowned. “Only if you’re already a has-been, and you’re far from that point. You’re on top of your game, Nick. You can’t quit yet. Juan Manuel Fangio was forty-six when he won the World Championship.”
“I have other things I want to do, Jon.”
“Can I still get ten percent?”
Nick thought about the softness of Rosalind’s lip and shook his head firmly. “No. Definitely not.”
Jon crossed his arms. “Sometimes you’re particularly stubborn.”
The doorbell chimed, and Nick looked at his agent suspiciously.
Jon shook his head. “Don’t look at me, although if I’d known you were considering throwing your life away, I’d have had some hookers sent over to help entice you back.”
Shaking his head, Nick went to get the door. It was the last person he’d ever have expected to see in his doorway: Luca Fiorelli.
Taking off designer sunglasses, Luca flashed his slick Italian smile. “
Caro
.”
Luca had been born in Italy but had been raised all over the world and spoke perfect Oxford English. He only turned on the Italian to use as a weapon, wielding it his advantage.
Without a word, Nick started to close the door.
Luca quickly stuck his fancy Italian loafers to stop it. “Nico, is this really how you treat an old friend?”
“Friend?” he asked his rival incredulously. “Didn’t you try to run me off the course in Abu Dhabi just last month?”
“
Si, certo
, but that was professional courtesy.” He pushed his way inside.
Rubbing his neck, Nick took a deep breath and closed the door. “Don’t get comfortable. I have to leave.”
“There’s nothing comfortable about this visit, Nick,” Jon piped up from the kitchen. He exchanged a handshake with Luca. “Fiorelli, tell me
you
aren’t having crazy thoughts.”
“Like having three women at once in my bed?”
“That’s not crazy. For you, that’s reality,” Jon pointed out. “Nick is considering leaving Formula One.”
“
Non ci credo
.” Luca threw his hand in the air. “It is not possible.”
“Ask him.”
Luca turned to him. “Tell me this isn’t true.”
Nick grabbed his coat from the counter, where he’d left it the night before. “It’s been a pleasure, gentlemen, but I need to go.”
“Where do you go, Nico?” Luca asked, as though very concerned.
“To my sister’s.”
“You have a sister?” Luca perked up visibly. “Is she available?”
“Not to you.” He gestured to the door. “This way out.”
“Nick, you have definitely become less entertaining lately,” Jon grumbled as he moved to leave. “You’re going to make me discuss representation with Fiorelli.”
“Feel free. Go to the Red Witch in Mayfair to discuss it. There’s a redhead there you’ll like.”
Luca put an arm around his shoulder. “You must race this year, my friend.”
He raised his brow. “I must?”
“I haven’t beat you at Monte Carlo yet. But this is my year, and you have to allow me that pleasure.” Luca grinned winningly. “We’ll discuss this, and then you’ll race again this coming year so I can prove once and for all that I’m the superior driver.”
For a moment he was tempted to say he’d race the next year, just to put Luca in his place. But he’d deal with it later. He was meeting Summer for lunch and didn’t want to be late. She became unbearable when she hadn’t been fed.
Once he escorted the men out of his place and sent them on their way, he took the tube to Summer’s flat. He arrived five minutes late, and the fact that it wasn’t a problem told him that something was going on. He studied her face. “You have that look.”
“What look?” She widened her eyes innocently, which was a warning sign in itself. Hugging him, she dragged him into the living room.
Rosalind Summerhill sat in there, blinking at him with her gorgeous eyes.
He stopped in his tracks, knowing if he didn’t collect himself he’d go and take her in his arms.
Damn Summer. He looked at her, eyebrows raised. She knew he’d washed his hands of her mad scheme—he’d made it clear in her office. This was blatant manipulating.
The devil’s spawn batted her eyes innocently, blithe and seemingly clueless. “Nick, I wanted you to be here to discuss my wedding dress, too.”
“Hello, Nick,” Rosalind said, smiling at him.
Bloody, bloody hell. He rubbed the back of his neck. He should leave—he
would
leave if he were smart.
Rosalind’s smile faded at the edges. “Maybe you don’t want to be here.”
He heard the underlying question:
Don’t you want to see me?
Of course he did. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the kisses they’d shared—he hadn’t been able to stop imagining all the places he still had to kiss her. If Summer weren’t there, he’d have pounced on her.
But he had to maintain distance, for everyone’s sake. “I thought you couldn’t design the dress.”
“I need to stay longer than I anticipated, and since my plans have changed …” She trailed off.
He knew what she was inferring. She wanted to see him.
And Summer was exploiting that. He frowned at her, silently promising retribution as he sat in the chair furthest from Rosalind.
“I’m excited about the dress,” Summer said, shooting him a warning look. She sat next to Rosalind on the couch. “I think it’s going to be absolutely lovely.”
Rosalind glanced at him before facing his sister. “Maybe you’d like your mother here? All mothers like to be part of the process.”