Secret Billionaire on Her Doorstep Read online

  ‘Yes!’ Her heart hammered so hard she could barely breathe. ‘Didn’t she leave me a letter, explaining why she never contacted me? Why would she leave me anything when she never tried to pursue any kind of relationship with me? Why start a trust fund for me?’

  None of it made any sense.

  Owen leapt to his feet and started pacing. As if... She frowned. As if he were furious and needed an outlet. His actions made no sense either.

  The man’s grieving, she told herself.

  ‘Your grandmother didn’t leave you a letter,’ the lawyer said.

  Her heart shrank. No letter? Then—

  ‘But she has left you a comfortable nest egg. The trust fund totals five million dollars.’

  As if money made up for not knowing her grandmother, her family. As if—Whoa!

  ‘What?’

  ‘In all, the value of the apartment block and the trust fund totals more than twenty million dollars.’

  She gaped at him. It took a moment before she could find her voice. ‘You cannot be serious? In your letter you told me I’d inherited her apartment—not an entire apartment block. Twenty million dollars? That’s not a comfortable nest egg. It’s...outrageous!’

  ‘Agreed.’ Owen’s mouth tightened and he flung himself back in his seat. ‘It is a lot of money, Ms Nicholls.’

  ‘Callie,’ she corrected automatically.

  Her grandmother had left her ridiculously wealthy. But why? None of it made any sense. She wanted to drop her head to her hands. Instead she pushed her shoulders back. A letter would’ve made things easier, but she wasn’t giving up. She’d uncover the mystery of her family’s past if it was the last thing she did.

  But apparently she’d do it as a wealthy woman.

  Only if you keep the money.

  The thought filtered into her brain and stuck there.

  Did her mother know about all this wealth? She had to know. And yet she’d scorned it throughout the financially difficult years of Callie’s childhood. She’d chosen to work hard and struggle alone on her small wage rather than rely on her family’s wealth and support. She continued to shun it still.

  There had to be a reason for that. A good reason.

  Her mother had always said rich people made up their own rules—subscribed to a different moral code than the rest of the world, thought they were above everyone else and untouchable. And she hadn’t meant it in a flattering way.

  It appeared she’d been speaking from experience.

  If that was the case then maybe Callie shouldn’t accept the legacy? She didn’t want to profit from a family that had victimised her mother.

  She clenched her hands so hard her fingers started to ache. Dragging air into cramped lungs, she focussed on her one definite course of action and the reason she’d come to New York in the first place—to piece together her family tree. That would help to keep all the emotions at bay—the panic, the hope, the fear. Once she’d traced her forebears she’d be able to put together a step-by-step account of how she’d done so. She was hoping that would earn her a prestigious research position with the TV series Mystery Family Trees.

  That was all she needed to concentrate on for the moment.

  She’d think about the money later.

  Besides, once she’d found out the truth she’d know what to do with the money, right?

  If she kept it... She swallowed. If she kept it she’d never have to work again. It was like being handed a winning lottery ticket. But she couldn’t imagine not working. Not working was wrong on way too many levels.

  She’d loved her previous job. For good or ill, it had defined her. A familiar anger fired through her. She pictured the look on Dominic’s face when he found out she’d won the TV job—the knowledge that in having her fired from her university position he’d pushed her to win the job he most wanted... Oh, there would be something so Karma-perfect about that.

  Her heart slowed and satisfaction warmed her veins. Her success would chafe him from the top of his too-tight shirt collars to the soles of his feet. How sweet that would be.

  ‘Spending the money already, Ms Nicholls?’

  The words were said lightly enough, and from someone else they might even have been teasing, humorous. But there was an edge to them...an edge to Owen Perry. Still, people grieved in different ways. She had to make allowances for that.

  ‘Not yet, Mr Perry. Believe it or not, my mind was far more pleasantly engaged.’

  ‘On?’

  She couldn’t stop her smile from widening. ‘Revenge,’ she purred.

  And it would serve Dominic right for every self-serving second of his mean-spirited treachery.

  Common wisdom said revenge was a dish best served cold, but she wasn’t so sure. She was still furious with Dominic, not to mention the head of the history department at her university back home, and revenge fantasies were her greatest source of satisfaction at the moment.

  She’d never considered herself particularly hot-headed or grudge-bearing before, but now she knew differently. Now she knew she’d simply never had a reason to be hot-headed. And apparently, given the right set of circumstances, she could hold a grudge like a champion.

  ‘How...delightful.’

  Owen Perry’s drawl snapped her back. Concentrate. She had a family tree to unravel and she needed a trail to follow.

  ‘Mr Dunkley, may I have a copy of the will?’

  ‘Why?’

  Owen Perry leaned towards her as he spoke, and for the first time she noticed the innate sensuality in the disturbingly firm set of his mouth. It made things inside her flutter and twitch. With his square jaw and grey eyes, Owen Perry was a disturbingly attractive man.

  ‘Curiosity, I suppose.’ And because she was searching for breadcrumbs. But she didn’t say that out loud. ‘Is there any reason why I shouldn’t see the will?’

  He sat back with a shake of his head. ‘Of course not.’

  She did her best to ignore him after that. She had a sneaking suspicion jet-lag was catching up with her. Maybe that was why she’d become so aware of him. Jet-lag could be making her misinterpret the vibe he gave off. After all, the man had no reason whatsoever to dislike her, did he?

  It wasn’t easy to ignore him. Owen wasn’t a diminutive man—he had broad shoulders and a long, lean frame that put him at just over six feet. And he was hard too—muscled, as if he worked out. And all that bristling masculinity vibrated with an intriguing intensity beside her.

  She moistened her lips. ‘Were there other bequests?’

  Other bequests meant there’d be other people she could talk to about Frances—and even if they couldn’t tell her about the falling-out that had obviously occurred between Frances and Callie’s mother, at least they’d be able to paint a picture of Frances for her.

  ‘There were no other bequests—except to your mother.’

  Her heart sank.

  The lawyer adjusted his glasses. ‘Your grandmother left the rest of her money, along with the family estate in upstate New York, to your mother, Donna Susan Nicholls.’

  There was a family estate? She straightened. That wasn’t just a breadcrumb. That was an entire loaf of bread!

  * * *

  Callie Nicholls’s face lit up at the mention of the family estate and a gargantuan weight slammed down on Owen’s shoulders. It took all his strength not to bow under its force. He didn’t even have the energy to swear. Clearly twenty million dollars wasn’t enough for Frances’s granddaughter—she wanted the family estate too. He was glad his godmother wasn’t here to witness such a travesty.

  ‘What happens if my mother refuses the bequest?’ asked Callie.

  It was a circumstance Frances had foreseen. She’d placed a twelve-month timeframe on her daughter’s acceptance of her inheritance, with instructions to her lawyer to ignore any letters from Donna refusin
g the bequest during that time.

  Mr Dunkley relayed that information, and then removed his glasses. ‘If after that time your mother still refuses her inheritance, it will go to a cats’ home.’

  Callie turned to Owen. ‘You said she didn’t like cats.’

  It made no sense to him either. He squared his shoulders. ‘Nevertheless, I can assure you that the likelihood of winning, if you were to contest the will and seek to have your mother’s share of the estate settled on you instead, is extremely unlikely.’

  She waved his words away and he had a disturbing impression that she’d barely been listening to him.

  ‘Mr Dunkley, how much money are we talking, here?’

  ‘Five to six times what your grandmother left you. So, somewhere in the region of one hundred to one hundred and twenty million dollars.’

  She sagged. ‘That’s an obscene amount of money... How could I not know my grandmother was one of the richest women in New York?’

  ‘She wasn’t. Not by any means,’ said the ever-pedantic Mr Dunkley. ‘The richest woman in New York is worth a hundred times that.’

  Owen didn’t blame Callie for the look she sent the older man. He watched with a detached but fascinated interest as she straightened, wondering what game she planned to play now.

  ‘Mr Dunkley, do you know what it was my mother and grandmother fell out about?’

  Owen’s eyebrows rose. Was she hoping to heal that breach and inherit that ‘obscene amount of money’ in turn when her mother died?

  Mr Dunkley pursed his lips into a prim line. ‘Your grandmother never took me into her confidence.’

  She turned to Owen and raised an eyebrow, and for a disconcerting moment he wondered if he’d misjudged her. All he could see in her face was bafflement. There wasn’t an ounce of guile, and no—

  Don’t be an idiot. It was simply part of an act. The same kind of charade Fiona had played.

  ‘What about you, Mr Perry? Do you have any idea?’

  Owen shook his head. He had no idea what had happened between Frances and her family.

  Mr Dunkley shuffled some papers. ‘Let’s get this paperwork done, shall we?’

  It took a ridiculously short amount of time to dispose of a fifth of Frances’s estate. A few signatures, Callie’s bank account details, and the key to Frances’s apartment promised in the next day or two. A fifth of Frances’s life—gone, just like that.

  A fist reached into Owen’s chest and squeezed hard. It should be more difficult. It should take longer. Callie Nicholls should be forced to jump through hoops and prove her worth. There should be...

  There should be more than this clinical practicality!

  Callie Nicholls should be damn well grateful to her grandmother. And she should’ve given Frances the time of day when her grandmother had been alive. She could’ve answered at least one measly letter. Was it too much to ask in exchange for twenty million dollars?

  They left the lawyer’s office together. As they took the elevator to the ground floor his conscience chafed him. Damn it all to hell! He was supposed to be fulfilling his promise to Frances.

  When they reached the foyer he pulled his business card from his pocket and handed it to her. She raised a dubious eyebrow, and for some reason that set his teeth on edge.

  ‘My card,’ he said. ‘If you need anything while you’re in New York, I hope you’ll contact me. I’ll help in whatever way I can.’

  Very slowly, she reached out and plucked it from his fingers, careful not to touch him. ‘That’s surprisingly kind of you.’

  He deserved that.

  Her lips pursed and her eyes suddenly narrowed. ‘You say you were my grandmother’s godson?’

  He lifted what he knew was a crushingly supercilious eyebrow, but he couldn’t help it. ‘Would you like to see my baptism certificate?’

  Just for a moment humour made her eyes sparkle. ‘You’ve no idea how tempted I am to say yes to that.’

  When her lips curved up like that, they looked suddenly and irresistibly kissable. Her humour, and the direction of his thoughts, took him entirely by surprise. He had to bite back a smile—totally inappropriate. He had no intention of falling for this woman’s charm. A charm no doubt honed and practised to take in gullible fools like him.

  She slipped his card into her handbag. ‘If you’re Frances’s godson,’ she said slowly, ‘and the only bequests she left in her will were for my mother and me...’

  He frowned. Where was she going with this?

  ‘Do I need to make you some kind of monetary reparation? If you were expecting something and didn’t receive it...’ She shrugged. ‘That would explain it.’

  He clenched his hands so hard he started to shake. Was money all this woman could think about?

  ‘Explain what?’ he managed to ask in a credibly even tone. He, for one, would do Frances proud.

  ‘The distinct impression I get that you don’t like me.’

  He dragged in a breath. Evidently he’d have to work harder if he truly wanted to do Frances proud. ‘I’m sorry if that’s the impression I’ve given you. It’s been a...difficult day.’

  Her face softened.

  ‘And, no, you do not need to make me any financial recompense. I would refuse it if it were offered. So please save yourself the bother and me the offence. Frances gave me everything I needed while she was alive.’

  He didn’t need any handouts from the likes of Callie Nicholls! Frances had saved both him and his mother. She’d given him a top-notch education that he’d forever be grateful for. But more than that she’d given him her love and support. Nothing could replace that. Nothing.

  Her lips thinned and her eyes narrowed. ‘I see. Well... It was a...pleasure to meet you, Mr Perry.’

  Her inflection told him she meant the exact opposite.

  Without another word she turned and stalked out onto the busy downtown street, head held high and with a sway to her hips that, despite his fiercest efforts, had male appreciation heating his blood.

  The moment she was out of sight he threw himself down onto one of the foyer’s strategically placed sofas, raking both hands back through his hair. That could’ve gone better...

  His phone rang, jolting him back into the present. It was the new intern he’d recently taken on. Christopher used a wheelchair, and worked remotely from his home in Ohio. Owen talked him through a coding issue, channelling some much-needed patience.

  No sooner had he ended the call, however, than his phone rang again. He didn’t recognise the number, and hesitated to answer it, but eventually he pressed it to his ear and barked a curt, ‘Hello?’

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr Perry, especially so soon after having met with you, but you did tell me to call if I should need any assistance...’

  Callie Nicholls!

  Darling Owen, help her in whatever fashion she needs.

  ‘And I meant it. How can I help?’

  ‘My hotel room has been burgled. Naturally, I’d prefer not to stay here now. I’ve just spoken to Mr Dunkley and he said you have a key to Frances’s apartment. I mean, he has one too, but it’s currently still with the cleaning company he hired. And while he’s expecting them to drop it off this afternoon...’

  Her words petered out, as if she’d run out of energy, and a sudden wave of compassion threaded through him.

  He deliberately hardened his heart. Concern was reasonable, but instinct warned him against anything more benevolent or generous.

  ‘I’ll be right there.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  CALLIE LEAPT OUT of the armchair in her hotel’s misleadingly respectable foyer, unable to sit still for another moment. As much as she hated to admit it, Owen Perry had been right. This hotel was a disaster. Beyond its shabby-grand foyer, with its chintz armchairs and ostentatious chandelier, the rooms were poky and plai
n. And, while Callie had never considered herself a stickler, they weren’t scrupulously clean either.

  She could make do with poky quarters and a bit of dust—she’d once lived in student digs, for heaven’s sake—but the appalling lack of security was scandalous. She should’ve done more research before booking...read some reviews, made some comparisons.

  She huffed out a laugh. Yeah, right. She’d been knocked so far sideways on receiving the registered letter notifying her of her grandmother’s death that it was extraordinary she’d managed to arrange flights and accommodation in the first place.

  Her pulse skittered. She had a grandmother.

  Correction—she’d had a grandmother.

  She folded her arms tight. And now she’d not only lost her grandmother, but every darn thing she’d brought with her to New York bar the clothes on her back and the handbag slung over her shoulder. Said handbag didn’t contain all that much either, as she’d heard all the usual horror stories about tourists having their bags snatched, yada-yada-yada, so she’d deliberately left most of her money and valuables in the safe in her room, thinking they’d be...well, safe!

  Apparently she’d been wrong about that as well.

  ‘Callie?’

  A warm and ridiculously comforting voice had her swinging around. Owen. While her sixth sense still told her he didn’t like her, the sympathy in his face and the concern alive in his eyes had her fighting the urge to throw herself into his rather capable-looking arms to sob her heart out and let him fix everything.

  She rolled her shoulders. That was just the jet-lag talking. She wasn’t a sobber. And she never abdicated responsibility. Not any more.

  Her initial instinct had warned her to stay on her guard around Owen, and she meant to listen to it. The man had obviously fleeced Frances out of as much money as he could while the poor woman had been alive. He couldn’t be trusted.

  Her fingernails made half-moons in her palms. ‘That was quick. You’ve obviously mastered the flagging a cab thing better than me.’ Things inside her pulled tight. ‘So...would you like to gloat?’

  His brows drew together and her words seemed suddenly small-minded and petty.