by Avery Flynn
Maybe she needed to turn in some of that pint-half-full optimism and go back to her cultural roots, get a little bloody-minded herself. All the hope filling her belly after the early-morning call two days ago with Mr. Vane had blown away like coal dust. Why? Because the earl’s heir had gone back to ignoring her. He’d responded to her missives only one more time after she’d sent him a text with his itinerary and a link to his mobile boarding pass.
He’d texted a thumbs-up emoji.
Nothing else.
No “thank you.”
No “this will work.”
And certainly no “I look forward to seeing you.”
Just a bright-yellow thumbs-up. How very American of him.
She shouldn’t be annoyed. She shouldn’t even care. But the thing was, she did. Since the earl’s announcement of his dementia diagnosis, she’d been noticing more forgetful moments—especially in the evening—and he’d become even snarlier. It wasn’t that he’d ever had a reputation in the village for being particularly pleasant, really most everyone agreed he was a giant pain in the arse, but she couldn’t help but feel bad for being cross about him before.
It hurt her heart to see the man realize he was telling the same story he’d just told or couldn’t remember the name of the Financial Times columnist he’d been reading for years. He’d drop his gaze, his jaw would tighten, and then he’d dismiss her for the evening. Add that to the guilt she was feeling for knowing something that would affect so many but being sworn to secrecy, and it was no surprise that her antacid intake had increased dramatically.
However, all it would take for everything to be exponentially better for everyone would be for Mr. Vane to accept his duty and agree to stay on at Dallinger Park even if he was—on paper at least—utterly unsuitable for the job.
She flipped open the folder and, again, began going over the report that outlined so much that was just unacceptable about him. She turned the page, revealing a photo of Mr. Vane wearing nothing but a swimsuit and a sexy smirk as the golden sun highlighted every one of his abs. He had eight distinct abs. She’d counted. Twice. But only because, as the earl’s private secretary, she understood the importance of being thorough. She wasn’t ogling her employer’s heir. That just wasn’t done.
Heart beating a little faster, she slapped closed the folder containing the investigator’s report—including more photos of Nick sleeping in a fishing boat, lazing on what looked like a floating lawn chair in a lake, and sprawled across a porch swing with a bottle of beer and a blonde.
Her mobile buzzed.
Daisy: Is he as fit as he looks in the pics?
God, she hoped not. She needed this job to work.
Brooke: Shouldn’t you be in class?
Before the McVie University for the Deaf closes for good, she added in her head but left unsaid in text. Mundane responsibilities were Brooke’s area. Daisy took care of the taking-over-the-world-someday part of their sisterhood. It had worked for them since childhood, and Brooke didn’t believe in messing about with an established and successful scheme. She colored within the lines. Daisy went all over the page in neon glitter.
Daisy: I’m at uni. Relax. Are you already shagging him?
Brooke: Not appropriate.
She shifted in the back seat of the ancient but pristine Mercedes, her gaze darting over to the closed folder with his photo inside.
Daisy: I’m just taking the piss. But really, what’s he wearing?
Brooke: I haven’t seen him yet. We’re almost to the airport now.
Daisy: Shirtless = Pics to me.
She chuckled.
Brooke: No.
Daisy: Live a little.
She was. She just did her living in a shirt-buttoned-to-the-collar, navy-blazer, matching-trousers-and-sensible-shoes kind of way.
Brooke: Get back to class.
Daisy: Yes, Mum.
Smiling despite herself, Brooke slid her mobile into her handbag as the butler/driver/whatever-else-needed-doing-man Mr. Harleson pulled into the airport car park. There were no loose ends after that, only the rush of getting to the passenger pickup area. Of course, she spotted Nick right away. The American heir to the Earl of Englefield looked like he’d been hit by a coach on the A1, but instead of being in desperate need of going to hospital, he’d walked away from the wreckage arm in arm with a leggy flight attendant.
Not even his appearance or the fact that he really was walking toward her with a flight attendant/model waiting to be discovered hanging on his arm had any impact on his oh-so-American swagger. His light-brown hair was going every which way, his clothes were askew as if he’d pulled them on in a rush, and his eyes were at half-mast as he scanned the waiting crowd. Still, his whole vibe was that of power and confidence wrapped in utter relaxation. She almost envied him, except it completely reminded her of her ex. And that little comparison was enough to make her forget six of those eight abs Mr. Vane was hiding under his T-shirt.
Well, then. He’s a right proper git from the looks of him.
Good thing she’d learned the hard way in Manchester just how to handle someone like Nick Vane.
…
There was a monkey hopped up on a six-pack of Red Bull beating the crap out of the inside of Nick’s head. He’d taken his migraine medication somewhere over the Atlantic, downed a crappy airplane coffee, and tried to sleep. When he’d opened his eyes, it was to the sweet face of the first-class flight attendant with legs that went on for miles. His migraine had downgraded to a bitch of a headache and the plane had been practically empty when she’d welcomed him to England. Holding in his excitement at his arrival hadn’t been a problem.
This dreary little island was the second-to-last place he ever wanted to be—Harbor City won hands down—and yet here he was, about to meet the grandfather who just happened to be a royal dick.
Then why are you here, Nicky boy?
Three reasons.
One, the texts and calls with Brooke Chapman-Powell had made him curious. And maybe even a bit upset that his grandfather might fire her over this mess. Plus, he just had to put a face with the name. She’d managed to avoid having her picture on the internet unless you counted the ones where she was so far in the background, he wouldn’t have known she was there if it wasn’t for the photo’s cutline.
There had been pics of what had to be a different Brooke Chapman-Powell, because there was no way the woman holding a newspaper in front of her face while sprinting from a crowd of reporters was the same woman. There was just no way the uptight woman on the phone was the same woman who’d dated a soccer player with a wandering dick. No. Way.
The second reason why he was here? Because, while his curiosity had helped him earn 386 patents and enough money from his inventions to buy his own island somewhere a helluva lot warmer and sunnier than England, it also was a giant pain in his ass that wouldn’t let go of his brain until it had been satisfied. And some small part of himself that he would never admit out loud existed wanted to find out why the old man had fucked his family over so hard. It wasn’t that that information would bring back his mom or erase the years he spent in the group home, but he couldn’t help but think that knowing the real reason would make things somehow better.
Finally, he was here because telling his grandfather to fuck straight off wouldn’t be nearly as fun through intermediaries as it would be saying it face-to-face. Rude? Crude? Unadvisable? He’d admit to all three in front of a jury of his peers. He didn’t give a damn.
So Nick had gotten himself on the airplane, even though it was a guaranteed migraine trigger, and upgraded himself to first-class from the coach ticket his grandfather—a frickin’ earl who had enough money for an honest-to-God fancy manor house—had sent. At six feet three inches, there was no way Nick was going on a transatlantic flight folded up like a pretzel in coach. If he was lucky, the asshole whose DNA ran throug
h his veins would be at the airport so he could get the whole fuck-you taken care of right away, and then he could turn around and buy his return ticket home; toast Mom, who’d gone through hell because of the man in the airport bar; and—if his luck held—sleep the entire way back.
That was his plan, but like the voice-activated dog collar that was impervious to his inventing mojo, it wasn’t going to be.
The moment he saw the woman holding the printed Mr. N. Vane sign in the baggage claim area, he knew it wasn’t his day to win the lottery even if he was finally getting his first good look at the woman who had to be Brooke Chapman-Powell. Her blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail tight enough to be a cheap face-lift if she’d been old enough to need one. Her navy suit looked like a cross between a school uniform and a junior accountant who’d just taken off his tie for a mandatory fun work lunch at Dave and Buster’s. And her face? Well, it probably would easily have slid under the heading of “beautiful” if she didn’t look like she had lemons for breakfast, lunch, and dinner eight days a week.
“Darlin’,” he said as he started to unwind his arm from the flight attendant’s determined hold. “You saved my life back there, making sure I got off the plane before it took off again, but it looks like my ride’s here.”
The woman looked at Brooke, dismissed her after a quick up-and-down, and turned back to him. “I’m stuck here for the next forty-eight hours,” she said, looking at him with enough heat in her green eyes to let him know exactly how much trouble the two of them could get up to in the next two days. “I’m certain I can be more entertaining than her. How about I give you a ride instead?”
And yeah, he loved to get laid as much as any red-blooded American male, but after being raised by a strong single mother who instilled in him from birth the importance of not being a jerk just because you wrongly thought you were better than someone else, there was no way the flight attendant’s dismissive attitude toward Brooke was gonna do anything for him besides turn him off. He was, however, still Southern, and that meant giving someone the brush-off in a certain kind of way.
He cleared enough space between them that sunlight—if this country even had any—could sneak through between their bodies. “You have no idea how much I’d like to say yes, but there’s a man waiting for me.”
She arched an eyebrow. “I’d be up for sharing.”
“Not that kind of man.” Could this get any more awkward? “He’s my grandfather.”
“A girl can dream,” she said with a shrug.
“Believe me, I’ll be dreaming all about you tonight.” If you translate “dream” to “nightmare,” but as his mama always said, if you can’t kill ’em with kindness, then slather ’em with sugary sarcasm.
“You do that.” She plucked a card out of her purse and tucked it into the front pocket of his jeans, letting her fingers slide in right along with it. “Just in case you change your mind.”
That was not going to happen, but a hard brush-off would do nothing but delay the inevitable of her leaving, so he kept his trap shut. She walked past the baggage claim and out the doors while Nick came to a stop in front of the woman holding the sign with his name on it.
“I’m Nick Vane,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Yes, sir.” The woman shook his hand with an extra-firm-but-not-knuckle-cracking grip. “Brooke Chapman-Powell, the earl’s private secretary.”
God, he loved being right, and he’d totally have that pissed-off expression if he worked for Earl Douchebag, too. “That explains it.”
“What?” she asked as she closed up the sign with three precise folds until it was the size of a video-game case.
“The look on your face. He’s a total bear to work for, isn’t he?”
She locked her gaze on his and managed to somehow look down at him even when she was physically having to look up. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“My mistake.” Maybe she and the earl were perfect for each other.
“Well then, shall we get your bags, sir?”
The “sir” made his skin crawl.
“Got it already.” He lifted the carry-on duffel in his hand. “And don’t worry about the ‘sir’ business. My name’s Nick. Remember?”
She shook her head, making her blond ponytail sway and catch the light. “I couldn’t do that.”
Normally, it was the laid-back women who caught his attention. The ones who knew what they wanted and were up for anything. No one had to work hard at it and everyone walked away happy. And even though Brooke Chapman-Powell was so tightly wound, she looked like she could turn coal to diamonds, mental images of that ponytail wrapped around his fist had his dick waking up and saying howdy. Must be a side effect of the migraine medication.
“Why can’t you call me by my name?” he asked, coming closer and taking in the details of the bow of her pale-pink lips and silver flecks in her cornflower-blue eyes. “You did it before.”
The pulse point at the base of her throat picked up speed. “It’s not proper. You’re the earl’s heir, and he is my employer.”
“And you’re always proper?” he asked, unable to stop himself from wondering what she was hiding under such a prissy outfit.
“Yes, Mr. Vane,” she said with just enough ice to freeze a glass of sweet tea in July. “I am.”
“Too bad.” He winked at her, pushing for a reaction just to find out if he could get one.
Her blue eyes widened, but instead of popping off at him as he’d half expected, she pursed her full lips together, never losing eye contact even for a millisecond. “This way, sir.”
Then Lady Lemons—as he’d officially nicknamed her—spun around and led him out the doors to a waiting Mercedes and the chauffeur holding open the back passenger door. Okay, so he’d have to Uber back to the airport, since being driven by his grandfather’s chauffeur sure as hell wasn’t going to work out on the trip back.
Because Nick Vane planned to tell the old man to fly a kite right up his ass and then get the fuck back to Virginia, and Lady Lemons wasn’t about to stop him.
Chapter Four
“Too bad.”
Not bloody likely…and most assuredly not when the future earl was snoring softly next to Brooke in the back seat. At least he wasn’t resting on her shoulder. That had happened once already on the half-hour drive back to Dallinger Park from the airport, and she’d jostled him off, with utmost respect, of course. He’d mumbled something about medication and started snoring again.
Nothing in the solicitor’s report had mentioned a drinking or drug problem, but one could never be too careful. She’d alert the staff (bare-bones as it was) to keep an eye on the wine cellar, as it was one of the estate’s important assets still left.
“Just about there,” Mr. Harleson said, pulling onto the private road near the North York Moors. “He’s not exactly what we’ve been expecting, is he?”
Refusing to let herself check out the line of Nick’s square jaw or the way his broad shoulders rose and fell with each of his deep breaths, Brooke remained facing forward, chin high, attention focused on the view of the distinctive half-cone shape of the Rosebery Topping hill in the distance. “Life so seldom is.”
“Reminds me a little bit of his dad,” Harleson said. “But he’s got the look of the old earl about him, too.”
“You think?” Finally having a reason—not an excuse, a reason—to look, she studied the American’s profile. “I don’t see it.”
“Only because from the perspective of a young woman just starting out in life, the earl has been old since you met him. I’ve been here a lot longer.” He let out a rusty chuckle and turned onto the driveway. “Best wake him.”
Lucky her.
She tapped the American on the shoulder. He didn’t move.
“Mr. Vane,” she said in a stage whisper.
She tried again, this ti
me with more force.
“Sir?”
Nothing. As the ivy-covered ancestral home loomed up ahead, she let out an exasperated sigh.
“I’m not cracking my eyes open until you call me Nick,” he said without even a hint of sleep in his voice.
Heat bloomed in her cheeks. “You’ve been awake this whole time?”
“Off and on,” he said, his eyes still closed, his unfairly long, dark eyelashes resting on his cheeks. “Now are you gonna call me Nick or what?”
The temptation to blame his obstinance on his country of origin was great, but even if she hadn’t been at Dallinger Park as long as Mr. Harleson, she knew the legendary Vane stubborn streak when she saw it. “Nick.”
“There, that wasn’t hard at all.” He opened his hazel eyes that were, now that she thought about it, the same shade as the earl’s, and winked at her before turning his attention to the three-story Jacobean-style house that was their destination. He stared for a moment, the vein in his temple pulsing. “So that’s the old homestead.”
“Yes, Dallinger Park was built in 1856. It has been the Vane family residence for generations. Prior to this version of Dallinger Park, there was another grand house built in 1682, but it burned down in 1841. The nearby village of Bowhaven and the local McVie University depend upon the earl and the estate for their livelihood since the Pepson Factory closed down three years ago.”
His jaw tightened. “What does Gramps do for them?”
Oh, the earl would not like that nickname. Not even a little. “As much as he can, I’m sure.” Which equated to as much as she could nudge him into doing, considering the precarious financial situation the earl was in as well. The earl had been too angry to do much of anything about either situation but issue orders and stare out at the moors. Now that she knew about the dementia diagnosis, that helped to explain some of that. Stress could be a trigger for an episode just like the sunset could be. Of course, the earl had always been tight with money, according to her perusal of the estate accounts. But there hadn’t been enough to take care of Dallinger Park the way it should be for generations.