Table of Contents
Excerpt
Spring Tides
Copyright
Dedication
Quote
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
A word about the author…
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“You say you trust me, but you’re holding back. This won't work if you don’t tell me everything.”
She felt his breath on her temple. Desire snaked through her. She had to get control of the situation. She was too vulnerable right now. “It’s not about trust. I told you before, I don’t do complicated.”
“I think we’re past complicated.” He lowered his head to hers and began to feather light kisses on her cheeks, scraping his teeth along her jaw until she almost couldn’t breathe. She gasped from the pleasure of it. He turned his attention to her mouth and used his tongue to tease her lips. Taking hold of the back of his neck, she pressed her body against his and sucked on his lower lip. She heard his indrawn breath before their lips fused together for a searing kiss.
She wasn’t sure when all rational thought stopped, but the next thing she knew, he had her by the arms, pushing her away.
“We can’t do this though Christ knows I want to.” His breaths came out ragged, his voice sharp.
“Why are you angry?”
“I’m mad at myself. I can’t seem to control myself around you.”
She folded her arms against the sudden chill. “Last I checked, there were two of us here.”
Spring Tides
by
Jill Allyson Keene
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Spring Tides
COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Jill Allyson Keene
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2019
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2619-1
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2620-7
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To my ladies: Jodi, Jacci, Jessica, Jill—
for allowing me to be a part of the best coven I know.
~
To the team that loves us: Joe, Dad, Vic, Bryan, Tim—
we aren’t the same without you.
~
To our babies: Chito, Donovan, Jordan, Delaney—
you’re the reason for everything.
~
To my baby: Jax—
I will never come up with words to tell you
what you mean and how much I love you.
I hope I’m showing you every day.
~
To the best Beverly I know.
Quite simply, this wouldn’t have happened
without you.
“Her mind was like a spring-tide in full flood;
rich, shining, vigorous,
and capable of infinite variety.”
~Vera Brittain
Chapter One
Reginald Anthony Winslow III was dying.
Finn Callahan didn’t particularly like the old man. However, he was a client, and Finn was on retainer. So, a summons to the bedside of one of the richest men in New England at three A.M. on a Saturday morning fell under the heading of “good business”.
Shaking off a chill from the crisp, thin air, he walked to the entrance of Winslow’s seaside mansion. He smelled the sea, heard the waves beyond the estate’s fortress-like stone walls. Moonlight shone down on the paved driveway. It would have been a perfect April night were he not three hours from his apartment in Boston. He sighed deeply as he rang the bell at the double doors.
The butler—who introduced himself as Conroy—led him into the foyer, then down a dim hallway. As they walked up the ornate walnut staircase, he took in the generations of Winslows staring at him from their portraits on the dark-paneled wall. Not one smiled. A mausoleum would be warmer than this place. And certainly far less creepy. But it was exactly the type of home he’d expect for a man as cold as Reginald.
“Hey, Conroy, can you give me an update on his condition?” he asked. When the butler didn’t reply, he said, “So…no, then?”
They had reached the outer door to Reginald’s room. Finn straightened. Conroy opened the door and gestured for him to enter.
As he walked in, the smell of disinfectant stung his nostrils. The room was the size of his entire apartment in Boston. The walls, paneled in the same dark walnut as the foyer, stretched twenty feet high. But the walls still closed in. The only pop of color was the forest-green coverlet on the enormous tester bed in the center of the north wall. By comparison, the man in the middle of that bed was so insignificant he almost missed him—until a dry, hateful cough gave him away.
“Come here, son.” The voice was thin, wisp-like. “We don’t have a lot of time.”
“Yes, sir.” He walked to the foot of the bed and noticed a young woman sitting in a club chair at the man’s side.
“My nurse, Ellen,” Reginald rasped.
She was plump with mouse-brown hair, and when she smiled, lovely dimples appeared in her cheeks. Ellen came around the bed to shake his hand. “Pleased to meetcha.” Her down-east Maine accent was obvious.
“Enough,” the patient barked. “We need to get this done.”
Ellen nodded and returned to her seat. He pulled up the other club chair and took a legal pad from his leather messenger bag. He situated himself and then stared at his client. Reginald wore a burgundy smoking jacket, complete with ascot. All that was missing from the cliché was cigar smoke and a chessboard. His client would consider him under-dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and fleece pullover. But there wasn’t a chance in hell he would’ve put on a suit at three A.M.
Reginald’s breathing was labored and raspy. Finn studied him. The strapping bull of a man with piercing blue eyes who had first come to his office three years ago was gone. In his place was a shrivel
ed, old shell whose eyes were milky with disease and pain. Cancer had eaten away at his muscles. His shock of white hair was almost gone, and the face, once tan with health, now looked gray and pale. Death was near.
Finally, the old man spoke. “You’re probably wondering why I sent for you.”
“I’ve learned these last three years to never wonder anything in regard to you and your motivations.”
“Ha.” Reginald growled out the laugh. “Don’t think I don’t know how you feel about me, boy. I can see it in those yellow eyes of yours.” He attempted a shrug but seemed too weak to move much. “Yes. You’ve got the eyes of a lion, but do you have the heart? You’re going to need it before all this business is settled.” He sat completely still for a moment, then suddenly came back to stare directly at him. “It doesn’t matter what you think of me. Only that you do what you’re told.”
Finn gritted his teeth. “I understand.”
“Not yet, but you will.” He laid his head back on an ivory pillow. “I need to start this story about thirty years ago.” He swallowed with great difficulty before beginning again. “Are you aware I have two more heirs?” When he didn’t answer, Reginald opened his eyes. “I can see by your expression you did know. I wonder why you never mentioned them…”
Finn raised an eyebrow. He made it a point to know as much about his clients as possible. That didn’t mean he always shared the information. “Because you didn’t mention them.”
“Surely you’re curious.”
“As I said before, I have learned not to question why you do the things you do.”
Reginald appraised him. “You are a cool one. That has always impressed me. I hope you can keep that cool in the coming months.”
Curiosity piqued, he prodded the old man. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“All right then, we’ll get to it. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed I am not relishing this in the least. I am not the type to enjoy confessing my foibles.” His sigh was deep. “It can’t be helped.” In an amazing show of determination, he straightened himself on his pillows and took a drink from a glass of water on the bedside table. Ellen rushed to help, but he waved her away.
“Take a break, Ellen. I’ll need you close by, so don’t wander too far.” After she left and the door closed behind her, his client began the story.
“Thirty years ago, my daughters were twenty and eighteen…”
****
One hour later, Finn stared down at the shriveled, dying man in the center of the bed and shook with rage. He’d never experienced such hatred for another person. Pulling in a cleansing breath, he willed himself to calm down before he spoke but found he couldn’t do it. “You son of a bitch.”
Reginald’s cloudy eyes flickered. “I imagine you consider that an accurate characterization.” He paused as a breath rattled painfully out of his throat. “Some might characterize what I’ve done as preserving an empire.”
“Those who would are soulless.”
His sigh was impatient. “I am not interested in your judgment of my character. We’ll leave that to the One better equipped for the task.” He lowered himself back to the pillows and closed his eyes.
He was almost certain Reginald was about to die in front of him, and he wasn’t at all sure he’d be sorry to see him go. Disbelief about the horrible things Winslow had confessed swirled over him, but for now, he needed to know what the old man really wanted. Finn reached out, gave his shoulder a gentle shake. “Sir?”
Reginald slowly opened his eyes. “Yes, yes. What else do you need?”
He pushed away from the bed and began to pace. “After everything you just told me, you want to know what I need?” He took a breath and steeled himself. “What I need, sir”—he bit out the words—“is for you to explain how in the hell you expect me to accomplish the task you’ve given me.”
Reginald stared into his eyes for a very long time, until finally he replied, “It doesn’t matter how you get it done. And I don’t care if you have to break every law written to do it. I hired you three years ago for a reason. This was it. You don’t give up, and you won’t give up on this.” He chuckled a mean, little laugh. “So that part of your character that makes you such a suitable attorney and excellent human being will be at war within yourself, because I know you don’t want to do this. But you will. Even in death, I’ll have my way.” With those final words, he dropped into a fitful sleep.
****
Finn walked out the mansion and to his car, relieved at least he didn’t have to watch the old man die. A cold fury washed over him. He hated being used. But he was stuck. Bound by honor and his profession, he had to carry out his client’s final wishes. All he could do now was pray he unexpectedly recovered. He zipped his pullover against the biting chill, certain the Almighty wouldn’t save that rotting piece of carrion.
He could always hope for a miracle.
****
His prayers were not answered. At seven A.M., Reginald Anthony Winslow III was declared dead. Finn hadn’t even made it back to his own apartment before turning around and heading back to the mansion. After conferring with the coroner, he requested the official death certificate and then walked down the wide staircase to leave. He would wait for the death certificate to arrive at his office before he could do anything else.
Hoping to avoid a run-in with any of the family, he strode past the drawing room, but couldn’t help overhearing Reginald’s daughter Serena.
“Of course, we’ll need you to provide us an inventory of the household valuables, Conroy. While we are waiting for the will to be read, I wouldn’t want anything lost to sticky fingers.” He heard the amused sneer in Serena’s voice and cringed as she continued. “Then I imagine you’ll need to start looking for other employment. I will be replacing the entire staff.”
“Serena, really? Must you discuss this now?” He didn’t recognize the voice but assumed it was Serena’s husband, John.
“John, I have no intention of keeping these relics my father called a staff. Why let them believe they will have a place here when I run the household?” Her voice was syrupy sweet in contrast to the venom she spewed.
He sighed deeply. He was going to have to talk to them after all. Turning away from the double doors and freedom, he leaned against the jamb of the drawing room entrance and spoke calmly. “I wouldn’t send out the invitations for the housewarming yet, Serena.”
She turned toward the door, and he was amused at her complete transformation—from mercenary to magnanimous in a blink. Serena extended a well-manicured hand to him. A light frost pink on the nails, he noted. Country-club nails, his sister Kate would call them. Serena wore a cream Chanel suit and spectator pumps and perfect chestnut hair, which was shellacked into a shoulder-length helmet he imagined would feel like a nest if anyone dared touch it. No one would ever dare touch it, though.
“Finn, please come in.” He took her hand and shook it firmly as she continued. “I don’t believe you’ve met my husband and children.” She looked calmly to the waiting staff, gave them a curt nod, and issued a quiet, “That will be all for now.” Quickly turning to him she said, “Unless you’d like some coffee, Finn?”
At his decline, Serena continued the introductions. “John Hamilton the Fourth, meet my father’s attorney, Finn Callahan.” He shook the hand of a broad-shouldered, fifty-something-year-old man, who wore a gray suit and blue shirt that perfectly complemented the silver in his hair.
“A pleasure to meet you. However, I am sorry it is under these circumstances.”
He almost rolled his eyes. The husband was as proper as the wife.
Serena continued. “These are our children, John and Amanda.” He nodded at the offspring, both of whom were in their twenties and both of whom looked equally boring and proper.
Before he could utter a word, the older John chimed, “Finn Callahan? Any relation to Bill Callahan of Callahan Enterprises?”
Serena laughed. “Darling, Daddy wouldn’t have just anyone taking
care of his estate.”
He smiled before answering John for himself. “Yes, that is my father and his company.”
Serena ignored him. “Johnny and Amanda, why don’t you two run along. There is very little that can be done here I have not already handled. Then Mr. Callahan can explain his amusing comment about a housewarming,” Serena added with one raised eyebrow as punctuation.
“They need not leave, Serena; this will be quick. I apologize if it seemed like I was joking. That would lack good taste while your father’s body grows cold upstairs.” Serena’s pale blue eyes ignited with temper. “My comment was only meant to remind you all”—he scanned the room—“no changes shall take place in this house until after the will has been read.”
Serena’s laugh was full and rich. “Oh, Finn, really, that is just a formality.” She walked to a crystal decanter of water and poured a glass. Without drinking, she continued. “I admire your discretion, and if your concern is I won’t keep you on as our attorney, please know I have every intention of keeping you on retainer.” She shrugged. “No one can deny in all things business, Daddy knew best. And your reputation as one of the elite in the country is well known.”
“I am sure your father would agree with your opinion of his business prowess. My reputation is important to me, so I will say I graciously decline your offer of employment, as I will work for only one Winslow at a time.”
John jumped in. “What is that supposed to mean? Reginald is dead. Serena is his only heir!”
He could have sawed off his tongue for almost revealing too much, but blamed his slip on the rage he felt at the assembly of vultures in front of him. He quickly regained control. “My point is this: the will shall not be read until certain conditions are met. I have six months to accomplish a goal your father set for me. My every hope is I can do so sooner, but I will not rest until the conditions of the will are upheld.”
Before Serena could protest, he held up a hand. “Additionally, it would benefit you all if you didn’t spend your inheritances, especially given the fact you don’t know what the bequest will be…if any.” He let the threat hang. He didn’t have to wait long.
She whirled toward him and with surprising calm said, “Your comments lead me to believe my father’s diminished mental state may have led him to make changes to his will without my knowledge. Should this be the case, I would like you on notice I have every intention of contesting.”
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