by C. B. Clark
A maelstrom of thoughts tumbled through her…Angus Crawford was dead…she was the main beneficiary of his will…the hot hunk from the park was Angus’s son—adopted—but still his son. And he was the executor of Angus’s will. Her headache ramped up.
“There’s one more thing you should know.”
Athena groaned inwardly. Judging by the grim expression on the lawyer’s face, she wasn’t going to like what she was about to hear. With a supreme effort, she pushed down the yawning ache to lose herself in a bottle and figure out why the hell her world had turned upside down and inside out. “What is it?”
“Angus Crawford willed Shelter Island to his son.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. Shelter Island! How long had it been since she’d heard that name? Months? Years? And now this was the second time in the past hour that the island had been mentioned. She closed off a swirl of painful memories. The pieces clicked into place. “So that’s why he was here today. He was claiming his rights to Shelter Island.” If that was the case, Russ could have the island. It was all his. No problem. No problem at all.
For the first time since Athena met the lawyer, Jennifer looked uncomfortable. “Uh…ah…that’s not why Russell was here.”
Athena arched her eyebrows. “No?”
Jennifer shook her head. “He’s disputing his father’s will.”
Athena ran her fingers through her hair, uncaring she was rumpling the carefully coifed style she’d spent a half-hour working on that morning. Her gaze skittered around the office. Surely a high-end law firm like Smythe & Sons would have a bar with bottles of pricey scotch and vodka for their well-heeled clients. She bit the inside of her cheek. The sharp pain overrode the yearning in her head, and she focused on why she was there. “What exactly is he disputing?”
“He’s not happy with the will. He believes Angus Crawford was not of sound mind when he made his last will and testament, and that you exerted undue influence over a lonely old man.”
Athena laughed a bitter, harsh sound that burned like acid in her throat. The man she detested more than any other person on Earth had left her his estate, and now his son was fighting her for it. Well, he could have the whole damn thing. “That’s something he and I can agree on.” She smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt. “Angus must have suffered from severe dementia when he considered leaving me part of his estate. I hardly knew him, and I certainly didn’t like him.” She lurched to her feet and jammed her hands on her hips. “Where can I find Russell Crawford?”
“I can arrange a meeting with him tomorrow if you’d like.”
“Tell me where he is.” Heat rose in her cheeks, but she ignored the avid curiosity shining in the other woman’s eyes. She didn’t owe her an explanation. “Look, Ms. Smythe…Jennifer, I flew out here and met with you in good faith. You owe me. I just want to talk to Russ. That’s all, a simple conversation.”
Jennifer wrung her pudgy hands, and her gaze shifted around the office.
The heavy silence stretched until Athena thought she’d scream.
Jennifer stopped fidgeting and met Athena’s gaze. “I believe Russ said he was going sailing this afternoon.”
“He has a boat?” Of course, he did. The man probably owned a sixty-foot luxury yacht manned by a crew of gorgeous, half-naked women. Why not? Angus Crawford had been rich. His son was probably swimming in money. “Where?”
“He keeps his boat at the Blue Vista Marina in White Rock.”
“Thank you for telling me.” Athena spun toward the door but paused on the threshold when the lawyer spoke.
“What are you going to do?” Jennifer patted her hand on the folder. “About the estate, I mean. What are your plans?”
“I’ll let you know.” She strode out of the office and down the hall to the elevator. With each step, her desire for alcohol faded, and her determination grew. She’d confront Russell Crawford and shove his father’s estate in his handsome face. She wasn’t a frightened twelve-year-old. Not anymore. She refused to be intimidated by anyone, especially a Crawford.
Chapter 10
Russ jammed his foot on the gas pedal, and the sleek red sports car surged ahead, blasting past the slower-moving traffic. Fire raged through his veins. He was driving too fast, but his anger was too hot, too visceral, and demanded release.
A bus pulled in front of him, and he cursed. Downshifting, he swerved, missing the bus’s rear fender by inches. The top of the convertible was down, and the unseasonably warm spring wind tore at his hair, tugging it into a wild tangle. The powerful engine purred smoothly and ate up the pavement as he negotiated the early rush hour traffic.
“Damn it.” The curse vanished in the swirl of air coursing through the car. Margaret O’Flynn—or Athena Reynolds—or whatever the hell her name was, wasn’t the greedy, avaricious floozy he’d envisioned. He pounded his fist on the steering wheel. With her tousled mop of vibrant red curls, her creamy skin, the cute smattering of freckles across her pert nose, and fresh-faced beauty, she resembled a college coed—a very attractive coed.
A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he ground his teeth. When he met her in the park in Calgary, he hadn’t known who she was. Her full, pouting mouth, arresting blue eyes, and soft, womanly curves had caught his attention.
And then some.
He’d grinned at her, even flirted a little. Her answering smile, filled with warmth, had him standing taller. He’d wanted to do whatever it took to spend more time with her. But now that he knew her true identity, he wouldn’t be fooled. Sure, she was attractive, but she was a gold digger of the highest order. She’d used her youth and sex appeal and coerced his hard-edged, savvy father into leaving her his entire estate.
The terms of Angus’s will hadn’t made sense when Russ first learned of them. They made even less sense now he’d seen her. She wasn’t the type of woman Angus usually favored. He should know. Ever since Russ’s parents were killed in a car crash when he was thirteen, he’d lived with Angus until he’d moved out on his own at twenty.
During that time, a steady stream of women had passed through Angus’s life. Some hung around for a few days, others for weeks, but no one lasted longer. There was always a new flavor of the month. The girlfriends varied in size and hair color, but they all had three things in common—youth, cover-girl beauty, and lush, over-inflated curves. Anyone could see what Angus got out of the relationships—a boost to his aging male ego.
The women had different agendas—their goal was to marry the very wealthy and elusive Angus Crawford, hopefully without signing a prenuptial agreement. Not one of the many women was successful, and the old man remained a bachelor until his death. Russ figured Angus had had his heart broken in his youth and pined for a lost love. Whatever the reason, he’d never married.
A blue van turned into the intersection ahead.
He slammed on the brakes, swerving around the offending vehicle. Once he broke through the snarl of city traffic and pulled onto the highway, he mashed the gas pedal to the floor. The powerful car surged ahead, the speedometer climbing, as he sped down the open road.
He stared ahead, ignoring the thick stands of western red cedar, Douglas fir, and Sitka spruce trees flashing by. The past six months had been tough. He’d loved Angus and grieved his passing. Though Angus was prickly and demanding and had high expectations for his adopted son, he was a good man. After Russ’s parents died, the rich financier had taken the orphaned boy in and treated him like his own son. With Russ’s consent, he’d adopted Russ a year later, making their relationship official.
Russ had trained to take Angus’s place at the head of Crawford Industries when the time came. As Angus Crawford’s only living relative, he assumed he was his sole heir. Hell, at Angus’s suggestion, when the adoption took place, Russ had taken the old man’s surname as his own. He’d legally become a Crawford.
The bubble burst a week after Angus’s death when Russ was called into the lawyer’s office for the reading of Angus’s will. He gritted his jaw
as he recalled his shock when the details of the will were revealed.
“Margaret O’Flynn?” He shot to his feet. “Who the hell is that? I’ve never heard of her.” But he had, hadn’t he? Somewhere in the back of his brain a memory struggled to break free.
“Calm down, Mr. Crawford. Getting angry won’t change anything.”
He gaped incredulously at the pompous little man sitting behind the massive oak desk that dwarfed him. “Calm down?” He tightened his hands into fists at his sides. “You’re asking me to calm down when everything I’ve worked for most of my life has just been snatched from me because of a horny old man’s whim?”
“Now, it’s not as bad as all that.” The little man clucked. “Your father left you a sizable inheritance, as well as the property on Shelter Island.”
Russ was nonplussed. Was the man being deliberately cruel, or was he that stupid? Did he honestly think Russ cared about Shelter Island? The island was a lump of useless rock in the middle of nowhere. Even worse, ever since the O’Flynns vanished without a trace, an aura of tragedy hung over the island like a bad smell. No one would buy the island.
Why would the old man have chosen to leave the majority of his assets to this woman? A stranger? A chill settled deep in his gut. “Wait a minute.” He gripped the edge of his chair as if he were hanging on in the middle of high seas. “Margaret O’Flynn? Is that the same Maggie O’Flynn whose family used to live on Shelter Island?” He shook his head. No way. Impossible. But he still couldn’t help asking, “Is she the girl whose parents vanished and left her behind?”
The lawyer shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose I could check.”
Was it her? Even if she was that girl, that didn’t explain why Angus left her his estate. He’d never mentioned Margaret O’Flynn. Hell, in all the years Russ had lived with Angus, he’d never talked about the O’Flynns.
Maybe she wasn’t the same woman. O’Flynn wasn’t an uncommon surname, and thousands of women in the country were named Margaret. But if the girl from Shelter Island was the woman mentioned in Angus’s will, what the hell had she done to convince Angus to leave her the majority of his assets? His upper lip curled. Was she that good in the sack?
The lawyer cleared his throat. “There’s one more detail.”
“What is it?” Russ tensed, every muscle turning rigid. The situation was already a disaster. It couldn’t get any worse. Or could it?
“Mr. Crawford insisted on one condition in his will.” The lawyer tightened his lips. “If Margaret Anne O’Flynn predeceased Angus Crawford, or she can’t be located within one hundred and eighty days of the reading of the will, her portion of the estate reverts to you.”
Six months.
His heart leaped, and he clutched at this thin strand of hope. Maybe this Margaret O’Flynn was long dead. People died all the time…accidents, sickness…whatever…they died. Not that he wished anyone dead, but in this case…“Have you tried to find her?”
The lawyer pursed his mouth. “I’ve had my people looking, but so far we haven’t had any luck. I can tell you one thing—she doesn’t live in Vancouver.”
“What if you can’t find her? I mean, what if the one hundred and eighty days pass, and you haven’t located this woman?”
The lawyer shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’ve never handled a will like this. I assume the contents of the estate, with all its benefits, would transfer to you.”
He’d fired the pompous little man on the spot and hired the prestigious legal firm of Smythe & Sons to locate the unknown heir. Truth be known, he didn’t want her found. No way. But he had to know for certain this mystery woman wouldn’t appear out of the woodwork a few months down the line and try and claim the estate. A lawsuit like that would last for years. He could lose everything to lawyer fees.
He had to know for certain if Margaret Anne O’Flynn was alive. Jennifer Smythe had promised she’d find the woman, but as the days ticked by with no sign of the elusive heir, he’d begun to hope she’d never be found. But Jennifer Smythe lived up to her reputation. She was good at her job. Too damn good. She’d called last week and informed him she’d found the rightful heir. He grimaced. Two days remained before the one hundred and eighty days were up.
Two days!
His hopes crushed, he’d cut his trip to Calgary short and rushed to the lawyer’s office, determined to confront the woman who’d stolen his birthright. A bitter laugh escaped his tightly compressed lips. And hadn’t that been a kick in the nuts? Instead of the plastic-boobed, bleached-blonde bimbo he’d expected, she turned out to be the fresh-faced beauty from the Calgary park—the woman he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about.
Go figure. Angus must be having one hell of a laugh.
Learning the truth of her identity had dumbfounded Russ. He’d been so flustered he hadn’t denounced her for being an avaricious bitch. Oh no. He’d done something far worse. He’d flown off the handle and acted like a kid having a temper tantrum when he didn’t get what he wanted.
From all appearances, she’d been as shocked as he was. Unless her stricken face and near-fainting spell was an act. He’d been determined to tell her just what he thought of her conniving; instead, worried she was going to pass out, he’d grabbed her arm and steadied her trembling body against his.
A mistake. A damn big one, piled on top of all his other mistakes.
He shouldn’t have touched her, but hell, he couldn’t let her pass out at his feet. The press of her soft breast against his arm, her scent—something flowery and feminine… He helped her to a chair, but he hadn’t wanted to let her go. He ached to wrap his arms around her and press her sweet body against his.
That reaction pissed him off all the more, and he’d come out fighting. He raked his fingers through his hair. He wasn’t proud of what he said, but he’d reacted from his gut and laid the blame for Angus’s weakness for a pretty woman on her.
He’d calmed down. A bit. He had to think this through and figure out what he was going to do with the untenable mess of Angus’s estate. One thing was certain—he wouldn’t let that woman’s fragile beauty stop him from doing everything in his power to ensure she never got her greedy hands on a single penny. He didn’t have loads of money to spend on lawyer fees, but he’d do this one thing, even if it left him broke and living on the street.
Angus hadn’t been in his right mind when he made his will. He’d always told Russ that he wanted him to run the company when Angus retired. Russ wanted that too. So why had Angus changed his will and left the business to a stranger, a girl whose family used to live on Shelter Island? Was that it? Was that the connection? Angus felt some sort of misguided guilt over what happened, and this was his way of making amends?
Spotting his turn ahead, he jammed on the brakes. The car skidded, the back end swerving until the tires gripped the asphalt, and he turned off the highway onto a narrow gravel road. A plume of dust followed as he steered the car along the lane. He swung into a small, gravel parking lot and pulled into a numbered stall. Turning off the engine, he closed his eyes, settled back in his seat, and allowed the silence to wash over him. He breathed, inhaling the familiar scents of fresh sea air and fish.
Seagulls squawked, the ocean swells washed against the oil-stained pylons, and the warm breeze teased his hair. The late afternoon sun was like a caress across his shoulders. The knot in the back of his neck eased, and he opened his eyes.
The sky was a clear robin’s-egg blue. A bank of white, puffy clouds on the horizon reflected on the aquamarine waters of the small bay. A row of eight yachts, sailboats, and sleek motorboats were moored to the long wooden wharf. His was the only car in the parking lot. Not a surprise. The marina was busy on the weekends, but during the week, the small dock was quiet.
Perfect.
He wasn’t in the mood for idle chitchat. Not today. Not after meeting Margaret Anne O’Flynn. His sour mood returned, and he punched the button to activate the convertible roof. Once the hood was in place, he wrenched op
en the door and climbed out of the car. The little car shook when he slammed the door.
He stormed across the gravel parking lot and climbed the stairs to the wooden dock. His steps were steady as he marched along the swaying wharf past boats of every size and description. Nestled between a high-end, luxury cabin cruiser and a rundown fishing trawler was a white catamaran.
He studied her sleek lines and smiled with a familiar swell of pride. Thirty-four feet in length with a single, towering mast, the Minerva gleamed under the warm, spring sunshine. He’d bought her secondhand three years ago at a bankruptcy sale. She was in rough shape, and he’d spent every weekend sanding and staining her teak decks, painting the hull, installing new canvas sails, and refurbishing the interior.
Now she was a beauty, and he took her out at every available opportunity. Standing on the swaying deck, wind and salt spray in his face, the flap of the billowing sails overhead as the boat raced over the white-crested waves and cleaved a path through the wind-whipped water, instilled a sense of freedom and contentment. He left his worries behind and lived in the moment.
For the first time since he’d learned the shocking details of Angus’s will and the existence of the infamous Margaret Anne O’Flynn, the gnawing unease in his gut subsided. He couldn’t wait to board the vessel and sail her through the bay and onto the open ocean.
Chapter 11
Athena threaded the rental car through the throng of afternoon traffic as she headed out of the city. Keeping one eye on the surrounding cars, she read the directions she’d downloaded onto her cell phone.
Her plan was simple—confront Russell Crawford and inform him she had no intention of accepting any money, property, or business from Angus Crawford’s estate. He could have the entire estate. Every last penny. Then she’d catch her flight to Calgary, retrieve Otis from the kennel, and continue on with her life, taking satisfaction in the fact Angus Crawford was dead.