Secret Billionaire on Her Doorstep Read online

  “I didn’t mention the fact that I’m your neighbor because it slipped my mind. It didn’t seem important.”

  She set her beer down carefully. “You didn’t tell me you live down here because you don’t trust me.”

  He straightened. “No, it’s not that. I...” The denial petered out. “It never used to be my...default position,” he made himself say. Before Fiona it hadn’t been. But now...

  “So I shouldn’t take it personally.”

  “You shouldn’t take it personally,” he agreed.

  They stared at each other, neither moving, and in that inherent stillness, something changed—stirred and unfurled, charging the air. A fist reached into his chest and gently but inexorably squeezed the breath from his body. Panic fluttered at the edges of his consciousness, and he had to wrench his gaze away before he did something stupid. Like walk over and kiss her.

  Dear Reader,

  Spending two weeks in New York City in July 2019 was a dream come true. How quickly the world changed afterward, and how doubly fortunate I feel that I had the opportunity to visit when I did. I fell in love with so much about that vibrant city. And as I wandered through the streets of Greenwich Village, I knew I had to set a book there.

  That’s how this story came into being. Callie receives an unexpected inheritance from a grandmother she never knew she had, while Owen is the godson of said mysterious grandmother. Both have had hard knocks in the past and have every reason to be suspicious of each other. As they unravel the mystery at the heart of Callie’s family, they come to learn that closing themselves off from all the best that life and love have to offer may not be the answer.

  I had the most splendid time poring over the many photos I took of New York and remembering the wonderful time I had. I hope this story transports you to a bright and happy place as it did me.

  Hugs and happy reading!

  Michelle

  Secret Billionaire on Her Doorstep

  Michelle Douglas

  Michelle Douglas has been writing for Harlequin since 2007 and believes she has the best job in the world. She lives in a leafy suburb of Newcastle, on Australia’s east coast, with her own romantic hero, a house full of dust and books, and an eclectic collection of ’60s and ’70s vinyl. She loves to hear from readers and can be contacted via her website, michelle-douglas.com.

  Books by Michelle Douglas

  Harlequin Romance

  The Vineyards of Calanetti

  Reunited by a Baby Secret

  Snowbound Surprise for the Billionaire

  The Millionaire and the Maid

  A Deal to Mend Their Marriage

  An Unlikely Bride for the Billionaire

  The Spanish Tycoon’s Takeover

  Sarah and the Secret Sheikh

  A Baby in His In-Tray

  The Million Pound Marriage Deal

  Miss Prim’s Greek Island Fling

  The Maid, the Millionaire and the Baby

  Redemption of the Maverick Millionaire

  Singapore Fling with the Millionaire

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  For sweet little Mikayla. Welcome to the family.

  Praise for

  Michelle Douglas

  “Michelle Douglas writes the most beautiful stories, with heroes and heroines who are real and so easy to get to know and love.... This is a moving and wonderful story that left me feeling fabulous.... I do highly recommend this one, Ms. Douglas has never disappointed me with her stories.”

  —Goodreads on Redemption of the Maverick Millionaire

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Excerpt from Rescued by the Guarded Tycoon by Rosanna Battigelli

  CHAPTER ONE

  OWEN PERRY GLANCED at the clock on the wall of the lawyer’s office and then at the lawyer.

  Mr Dunkley cleared his throat and adjusted his tie before shuffling the papers on his desk. ‘Ms Nicholls only arrived in New York yesterday. It’s a long flight from Sydney. She’s probably jet-lagged and still finding her feet.’

  Owen ground back his impatience. He had no idea why Mr Dunkley was determined to make allowances for Callie Nicholls. He knew as well as Owen did how many letters Frances had sent to Australia. And they both knew exactly how many letters she’d received back in return.

  None.

  Not one.

  With a deep breath Owen forced his jaw to relax and glanced at the envelope on top of the folder in front of him—his godmother’s final message to him. He’d brought it along as a reminder, to help him keep his resentment in check and to honour Frances’s memory. Frances wouldn’t want him telling Callie Nicholls exactly what he thought of her. She wouldn’t want him to feel resentful or bitter on her behalf. She’d want him to be professional...and kind.

  Unbidden, grief smothered his heart like a pillow pressed to his face, making it hard to breathe. His name, written in Frances’s familiar looping handwriting—in fountain pen rather than ballpoint, because she’d had a thing for fountain pens and coloured inks—made him ache.

  He wished he could sit in her living room just one last time to argue politics over a game of chess. That, of course, could never happen, and that letter addressed to him had been written in black ink, rather than a whimsical aqua or tangerine, as if to signify the formality of its contents. As if to symbolise death.

  Stop being maudlin.

  She’d give him a stinging set-down if she could see him now and be privy to his thoughts. But she couldn’t and she wasn’t. All that was left was her letter.

  Darling Owen, you owe me nothing...

  He owed her everything! Which was why he’d do what she’d asked rather than give Callie Nicholls a piece of his mind. He’d help this rotten woman however he could, keep an eye on her for as long as she was in New York—which he hoped to God wasn’t going to be too long—and he’d be neighbourly. Just as Frances had requested.

  He might have more enthusiasm for a root canal treatment, but he’d do it anyway. For Frances.

  The intercom on Mr Dunkley’s desk buzzed. ‘Ms Nicholls for her ten o’clock appointment.’

  Owen’s gaze flicked to the clock. Ten twenty-five.

  ‘Send her in,’ the lawyer responded.

  The door opened and a young woman burst into the room in a flurry of coat-shaking and swift gestures, and for a moment Owen had an impression of colour and sunshine and spring breezes.

  ‘I’m so sorry I’m late!’ She unwound a startlingly pink scarf from around her throat. ‘New York is insane!’

  The lawyer immediately leapt to his feet. Owen did the same, doing all he could to squash the defiance rising through him.

  ‘Does it ever get quiet here?’

  He couldn’t help himself. ‘You’re late because of the noise?’

  Blue eyes swung to him, a keen intelligence brightening them to the colour of a cobalt glass marble he’d once treasured as a kid.

  The corners of a mobile mouth twitched. ‘My hotel is right next door to a fire station, and either there are a lot of fires in New York or there’s something wrong with their alarm. But, even given my disrupted
sleep, I was awake nice and early—bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.’

  Bright-eyed? Tick. Bushy-tailed...? He refused to let his gaze drop.

  ‘The taxi driver I thought I’d been so lucky to hail dropped me three blocks away, swearing black and blue that your offices, Mr Dunkley, were just “right there”—he even pointed to a door—and then charged me twenty dollars for the privilege...which seemed a lot.’ She rolled her eyes and set her raspberry-coloured coat on the back of a chair. For the briefest moment her lips tightened. ‘I have a feeling I was just taken for a ride—literally.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’ he asked.

  She named a nearby hotel—budget and far from fancy. Not the kind of hotel Owen would want his sister staying at.

  ‘It would’ve been quicker to walk.’

  Her brows rose at his tone and his shoulders knotted. He’d promised to be helpful. Sniping at her wasn’t helpful.

  Pulling in a breath, he did what he could to temper his tone. ‘Your hotel doesn’t have the best of reputations. Other arrangements will have to be made for you.’

  Those blue eyes narrowed. ‘We haven’t been introduced.’ A small pointed chin lifted—a very determined chin—and a hand was thrust towards him. ‘Callie Nicholls.’

  He clasped it. ‘Owen Perry.’ He released it again immediately, his hand burning.

  ‘The executor of my grandmother’s will?’

  ‘That’s right.’ His hands clenched. Why hadn’t she written Frances just one letter? Had it really been too much to ask?

  ‘Well, Mr Perry, let me assure you that I’m perfectly capable of making my own arrangements in regard to my accommodation. And whatever else I choose to do while I’m in New York.’

  He’d just bet she was.

  ‘So, please, don’t trouble yourself on my account.’

  She was welcome to stay in a dumpster for all he cared. Still...

  ‘Your grandmother would want you to be comfortable and safe for the duration of your stay.’

  ‘That can be solved easily enough,’ Mr Dunkley inserted hastily. ‘Ms Nicholls, please have a seat.’

  They all sat.

  ‘I think it would be prudent for Ms Nicholls to stay in her grandmother’s apartment,’ said the lawyer.

  ‘No!’ Owen’s denial was instant, automatic and involuntary.

  Both Mr Dunkley and Callie Nicholls stared at him. The non-existent collar of his woollen sweater tightened about his throat. It was just... He couldn’t imagine anyone else living upstairs. Didn’t want to imagine it.

  Callie glanced at the lawyer, who swallowed and leaned towards Owen a fraction. ‘Why on earth not?’

  If Callie moved in he’d no longer be able to go upstairs and sit in the half-dark to breathe in Frances’s familiar scent and just...remember her.

  ‘Well...?’ Callie prompted now, not unkindly, but with a perplexed furrow ruffling the skin between her eyes.

  Damn it all to hell! This woman didn’t deserve to profit from Frances in death when she’d refused to come near her in life. He closed his eyes and bit back the howl that pressed against his throat.

  This is what Frances wants.

  That was what he needed to focus on. Not on how Callie had done Frances wrong.

  ‘The apartment hasn’t been touched in over eight weeks. It’ll need a thorough airing and cleaning before anyone can move in, and—’

  ‘All taken care of,’ Mr Dunkley said with forced cheer. ‘I took the liberty of hiring cleaners yesterday. The apartment is ready—’ he shrugged ‘—for whatever Ms Nicholls wishes to do with it.’

  Owen ruthlessly pushed all sentimentality away. He couldn’t afford it at the moment. ‘How forward-thinking of you, Mr Dunkley.’

  The salient fact was that as soon as Frances’s granddaughter signed the paperwork a significant portion of her grandmother’s estate would pass to her—including the apartment block her grandmother had lived in. It was a modest complex by New York standards—only eight apartments in total—but it was located in the heart of Greenwich Village, one of the most exclusive neighbourhoods in New York, and worth millions of dollars.

  As soon as she put it on the market, he planned to buy it.

  They got down to business.

  ‘Your letter informs me that I have inherited a small legacy from my grandmother, Mr Dunkley, which I’ll confess was unexpected.’

  Owen only just managed to contain a snort.

  ‘But it’s terribly exciting. What can you tell me about Frances?’

  ‘She was born Frances Victoria Allbright and grew up in Maine. At the age of nineteen she married Thomas Nicholls, an up-and-coming stockbroker. Thomas tragically drowned over forty years ago, leaving Frances and your mother reasonably well off. Frances, however, never one to rest on her laurels, began playing the stock market. Thomas had apparently taught her everything he knew, and she did rather well for herself.’

  As the lawyer spoke Callie moved closer and closer to the edge of her seat, her face glued to Mr Dunkley’s.

  Avaricious. That was the word that stuck in Owen’s mind. It made him sick to the stomach. Frances had deserved so much better.

  ‘She remarried when she was forty-six, but it only lasted four years before ending in an acrimonious divorce.’

  ‘Who did she marry?’

  ‘Richard Bateman...’ Mr Dunkley paused, as if waiting for more questions, but when they didn’t come he continued. ‘A year or so after the divorce she moved from her apartment on the Upper East Side to Greenwich Village, which is where she lived for the last twenty years.’

  Which was how Owen had met her. His mother had been Frances’s cleaning woman.

  Callie leaned forward again. ‘Mr Dunkley, these are all interesting facts, but you say you’ve been my grandmother’s lawyer for over thirty years?’

  Mr Dunkley removed his glasses. ‘What is it you want to know?’

  ‘I want to know what my grandmother was like. What sort of person was she? Did she have a quick temper? Was she fond of cats? Did she have any hobbies? Who were her friends?’

  ‘Your grandmother could be brusque to the point of rudeness, but underneath she had a kind heart,’ Owen found himself saying. ‘She was fond of neither cats nor small children. She could play a mean game of chess, and she continued to follow the stock market until the day she died. She didn’t have many friends—probably because she was insanely private—but those she did have she cherished. She was a philanthropist; she gave generously to a range of charities. And she spent every Christmas alone.’

  Callie turned to him, eyes wide and lips parted, as if hungry for his every word. Things inside him tightened. Things he didn’t want to tighten. Or clench. Or burn. She looked the epitome of wholesome small-town goodness—the quintessential girl next door—with her shiny chestnut hair, her wide smile and glowing skin. She looked like the kind of woman who hid nothing—what you saw was what you got.

  In other words: trouble.

  Owen knew better than to accept anyone at face value. Fiona had taught him that lesson in the most ruthless way possible. He’d base his opinion of Callie on her actions, not what she looked like. And, based on her actions so far, she was only out for what she could get.

  It took all his strength not to drop his head to his hands. Frances deserved so much better...

  * * *

  The longer Callie stared at the enigmatic and utterly perplexing Owen Perry, the more the breath jammed in her throat. Instinct told her he was the key to everything. This man had known her grandmother. If anyone could tell her everything she needed to know, it would be him.

  Which was going to be interesting, because every instinct she had told her he didn’t like her. How odd... He didn’t even know her! Still, in her experience men didn’t need an excuse to act either illogically or belligerently, and there was
no way on God’s green earth she was kow-towing to another privileged male, securely entrenched in his sense of entitlement, so help her God.

  She’d find out everything she needed to without his help. She knew how to follow a trail of breadcrumbs to put the past back together. It was what she did. She was a trained historian, for heaven’s sake. She didn’t need Owen Perry.

  ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

  While polite, she couldn’t help feeling his words were a taunt she didn’t understand.

  ‘I’m just envious, that’s all. Until recently, I didn’t know Frances existed.’

  He’d known her grandmother. He sounded fond of her.

  ‘But you knew her—you liked her, I think. What was your relationship to Frances?’

  ‘She was my godmother.’

  Godmother? Owen was Frances’s godson? Her heart, her spine and everything inside her softened. What she’d taken as aversion was grief.

  ‘Oh, Owen, I’m so sorry for your loss. You must miss her a great deal.’

  He didn’t answer, just glanced away.

  Mr Dunkley cleared his throat. ‘Let’s move on to the legacy, shall we?’

  She immediately straightened and turned back to the lawyer, gripping her hands in her lap.

  Please, please, please let Frances have left her a letter, explaining why she’d never contacted her. Please, please, please let her have left her a family tree she could finally start to trace.

  ‘Your grandmother was a wealthy woman...’

  Automatically she nodded, waiting for the lawyer to present her with the yearned-for letter.

  ‘Your grandmother owned the apartment block she lived in, and she’s left that to you—along with a trust fund she started for you when you were born.’

  Her pulse quickened. When she was born? Had she met her grandmother as a baby?

  Both men stared at her expectantly as she shuffled to the very edge of her seat. ‘And...?’

  The knuckles on Owen’s hands turned white. ‘You want more?’