“It did. Then again, you needed only to ask.”
“Well…” Her smile faltered. “That’s not entirely true. I did have to work for it.”
Win grimaced. “Fair enough. I probably owe you more of an explanation about…well, about me.” He didn’t want to tell her, still. Hated telling her. Especially when she’d already said she understood their relationship was casual, temporary, simple…
And yet…
He finished dressing and collected his own glass, then moved to the chair nearest hers. Rather than asking her to adjust it, he also pulled it out of its spot to angle it nearer to her.
She began speaking even before he sat, anticipating the direction of the conversation. “It’s not really any of my business.”
“It’s absolutely your business,” Win said, cutting her off. “And if it wasn’t before, I just made it so, quite decisively.”
She colored but said nothing, and he took another sip of his drink, studying her over the rim of his glass. In a little over a day, Marguerite Saleri had made him realize just how fragile his supposedly iron-clad commitment to a life without love was. It was for the best if she knew the truth…if not for her sake, then for his.
First, the easy part. “Juliet and I were engaged for six months, four days and approximately thirteen minutes. Lawyers on the topic were involved for six months, twenty-two days and—I truly don’t know the number of minutes, but I can find the exact time if you’re interested.” He clearly had gotten her attention, so he continued. “It was not an arranged marriage, but it was a business arrangement. A mutually beneficial one. Juliet’s team of lawyers—”
“She had a team?”
He nodded. “Her representatives were of course keen to ensure her sizable fortune was augmented in the case the relationship went south; my lawyers were equally set upon assuring she didn’t gouge the living daylights out of me. We were, admittedly, close to a binding agreement on the pre-nuptial contract, but we had not signed.”
She was staring at him now, her expression somewhat aghast. “You’re not kidding. It was solely a business transaction.”
“One which I entered into for very good reasons.” Marguerite didn’t need to know those reasons of course, and Win wasn’t about to explain them. “But when we decided we wouldn’t work out, I assure you there was no terrible wounding that occurred on either side. She won’t lack for suitors.”
“Maybe not, but they won’t be you,” Marguerite pointed out, with such unconscious—and unearned—loyalty that Win smiled despite himself, a small kernel of happiness bursting to life deep inside him, though there was still so much he needed to say.
Before he could continue talking, however, Marguerite set her drink carefully on the table, and reached for his hand. “And since I do have you, at least for tonight, I’d very much like our tour of your home to continue all the way to your bedroom. If I can spend the next several hours in your arms, I don’t think there’s any place I’d rather be.”
The small flame leapt further inside Win, warming him in places he hadn’t realized had grown cold. What he had to say, to do—could wait, he decided. Not for long…but at least for tonight.
Chapter Thirteen
Marguerite stirred drowsily, reaching for Win. She’d grown intimately familiar with his every curve and ridge over the course of the night, until they’d finally sunk into sated exhaustion. But when she passed her arm over the rumpled sheets, she blinked awake.
No Win.
She sat up quickly, but there was no sound of movement in the en suite bathroom, no sign of life anywhere in the opulent room. The bedchamber was a study in antebellum architecture—a four poster bed set atop a wood planked floor littered with rich carpets, and there were several large carved armoires, a fireplace set into the far wall, and enormous floor-to-ceiling windows—but it was also decidedly empty.
Half-pulling the sheets from the bed, she knocked a few pillows to the floor as she stood, then immediately saw the note on the side table. It was hard to miss—there wasn’t even a clock on the stand; she had no idea what time it was. But the note had been penned on the creamy paper in a sharp, rushed hand.
“Meeting Holt—he texted first thing. John will take you home whenever you’re ready.” And his initial, W. That was it.
It wasn’t even time for breakfast yet, and she’d been abandoned by a billionaire.
The rest of the day didn’t improve from there. Marguerite quickly showered, changed into fresh clothes and shook out the clothes from the previous night, surprised to find more leaves caught in the rolled-up cuffs of her shirt. She waited until it was past seven a.m. before she’d gone in search of John, who’d been waiting for her in the front salon. He hadn’t offered an explanation about Win’s disappearance, and she hadn’t asked.
Now Marguerite moved through bright morning sun streaming into the lobby of the Cypress Resort as if in a daze, her feet moving on their own, without her needing to guide them. Which was good, because her brain was a hopeless puddle of goo.
“Marguerite! What have you been up to?”
Barely avoiding a stumble, Marguerite paused and turned. Striding toward her was Janet Mulready, her primary contact with the Cypress and—usually—her biggest fan. But now Janet looked far more stressed than she should, especially considering Marguerite had just tendered her resignation. Had Janet learned that this fast?
“Whatever it is, you can blame me. I just gave my notice,” Marguerite began, trying to allay the other woman’s obvious anxiety. “That should cover at least the next three months.”
“What are you talking about! You’re leaving?” Janet curled her arm into Marguerite’s and swayed around, leading them both in a new direction. “When it’s getting so exciting?”
“Um, exciting?”
“You’ve unleashed a hornet’s nest!” Janet was practically hissing now, her gaze darting everywhere. “You have to tell me everything.”
Instantly Marguerite could feel her cheeks coloring. Oh, no. If somehow people already knew where she’d been…what she’d done…
“Spill!” crowed Janet as they stepped into an empty alcove. “I want to know everything.”
“Everything, about what?” Marguerite protested weakly. Surely the gossip mill hadn’t been that effective.
“About Constance Gibbs forcing Dawson to sell her Holt House or risk it being declared condemned, and about Win Masters and Juliet breaking off their engagement! It’s all anyone is talking about!”
That did set Marguerite back. “What? Constance is going to have Holt House condemned?”
“Figures that’s what you’d focus on.” Janet rolled her eyes. “But you’re the one who started it. Going over and talking to the poor old dear on Constance’s watch—with Win in tow no less, about gave the woman apoplexy. She got on the phone with the local police chief, announced that she was declaring the property should be condemned unless Holt can clean it up in the next week before some crazy inspection she’s put together. None of it sounds legal, you ask me, but she practically had the old man in tears right here at the resort yesterday evening. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so set off!
“In tears…” Marguerite could only stare at Janet. “She doesn’t have any right to do that.”
“Apparently, she’s been trying to cause trouble for years, and the sheriff out there hasn’t had any patience for it. But he’s coming up for election next term, and somehow, she’s gotten some dirt on him, so he’s got to cater to whatever she says or she’ll spill it. That’s all anyone can tell me. Mr. Holt’s house is clear on the other side of Charleston, I’ve never been out that way. Everyone says it is a wreck, quite legitimately, but—”
“It’s not a wreck,” Marguerite said hotly. “It needs to be restored, same as half the buildings around here, but it’s nowhere near a wreck.”
“Don’t shoot the messenger!” Janet raised her hands. “All I know is what I hear, and trust me, the country club set is ratcheting u
p the bar bill like you would not believe between that little development and the Masters-Graham break-up. Don’t think the timing of that doesn’t have everyone in a stir, too. If you could cause a scandal closer to the island next time, that’d be even better.”
Marguerite barely hid a wince. “Well, I can’t imagine what I did other than talk to him. Win and I—
“Win?” Janet brows raced each other up her forehead. “You guys are on a first name basis now?”
“Mr. Masters and I merely talked with Mr. Holt. He was distraught about the property. He’s a sweet old man!”
“Well, he’s going to be a sweet, broke old man from what I hear. The restoration that Gibbs is saying is necessary is full-tilt, and no way he can get it done that quick. The permits alone would take weeks to pull together, and she knows that. Meanwhile, if the property’s condemned, she can pressure him to sale for pennies on the dollar. Or he sells it to her now and she makes it all go away.” Janet gave a low whistle. “I still don’t think it’s legal, but down here—there’s a lot that happens under the table like that.”
“Really?” Marguerite set her jaw. She knew Win had entertained the possibility of approaching Holt to work on his property—or, at least his associates had. But the kind of money and political pull it was going to take to do that on Gibbs’s timeline would only be possible with someone like Win. “I—I need to make a phone call,” she said, stepping back out of the alcove as she looked back at Janet. “Thank you so much for—”
But Janet’s face had gone stark white, her eyes huge in her head. Instinctively wanting to fight whatever was flying in to attack them, Marguerite whirled around—s which took her face to face with an absolutely stunning, statuesque, thoroughly pissed off ice princess.
“You!” Juliet Graham seethed, stalking up to Marguerite.
This…couldn’t be good.
“Ms. Graham, how nice to see you.” For all her initial shock, Janet rallied her wits with impressive speed and stepped neatly in front of Marguerite before Juliet could reach her. The ice pick stopped short and glared at Janet.
“This isn’t about you.”
“I’m afraid it is. You see, Marguerite is an employee of the Cypress Resort, and we believe in caring for our employees every bit as much as we do our guests. I’m sure you understand.”
“Well, your employee threw herself at my fiancée, and now the wedding’s off. I’ve been planning it for months. I’m officially lodging a complaint with management.”
Marguerite winced, but gamely eased Janet out of the way. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Ms. Graham, but you must know—”
“Do you have any idea how much money I will lose because we didn’t make it to seven months?” Juliet glared at Marguerite, her statement so unexpected that Marguerite was left with no reply.
“How much—money?” she finally managed.
“Just be sure you know what you’re in for. He’s already left one poor girl in emotional trauma, don’t think he won’t do the same to you.” And with that she swung back toward Janet. “You’re who I was coming to find anyway. Are you even remotely aware of the state of my villa this morning? Just where is the champagne I ordered—or the strawberries? You can’t expect me to properly mourn my breakup without champagne, for God’s sake.”
She pulled Jenna away with her as Marguerite watched them, her feet rooted in place.
Emotional trauma? What on earth was the woman talking about?
That was it, Marguerite decided. Everyone in America was crazy.
Her cell phone buzzed in her purse, and still somewhat in a daze, she pulled it free, moving as if by rote toward the open door. She didn’t recognize the number, but she clicked on anyway.
“Marguerite Saleri.”
“You! What is the meaning of this!”
The voice on the other end of the phone was so shrill and accusatory that Marguerite thought Juliet had come back for round two, but then she realized the voice was something else, too. Old.
“Mrs…Gibbs?”
“Yes, it’s Constance Gibbs, and don’t act so shocked I tracked you down. You used your position at the Cypress to undermine me, and I won’t stand for it. I’ll have you fired!”
“I…” Marguerite swallowed, her head spinning. “I’ve already resigned. But ah, what do you mean, undermine you?” She and the old lady weren’t close, by any means, but Marguerite had always rather enjoyed her, her keen wit and shrewd commentary peeling back the prim surface layer of island society with rapier precision.
“With that Holt creature, of course. Giving him a shoulder to cry on—and, worse, bringing that insufferable Masters into it. You knew all along what I was planning.”
Marguerite was aware that she shouldn’t even know now what Gibbs’ was planning—and wouldn’t except for the highly active gossip hotline—but she was completely turned around. “I have no idea—”
“Well, it won’t work. That house is as good as mine. I have more leverage on Holt than he can possibly imagine, and believe me—a few dead flowers will be the least of his problems.”
With that, the old woman clicked off.
And that’s when Marguerite noticed the text that had hit her phone. It was from Win.
John’s out front waiting for you. Need your help.
Win sat across from Dawson Holt, wondering if he would ever be so old.
“I just…” the old man sighed. “I don’t think it would be right.”
They’d been meeting for the better part of an hour now, after Win had already spent two hours with his contractors, interrupted by calls to every local official from Charlotte to Columbia he could think of. Between Win’s money and his family’s clout in the area, plus the odd camaraderie of one group simply happy to find another group with whom to pick a fight, Win almost had everything in place to pull off the renovation of the century.
Everything, it seemed, but Dawson Holt. “I can’t take your money like that, Mr. Masters. I appreciate it, the good lord knows I do. But this is a family predicament through and through, and I can’t accept charity to get clear of it.”
“It wouldn’t be charity,” Win said, for what felt like the thousandth time. But of course, he couldn’t completely deny Holt’s concern. The bottom line was, Win was willing to invest a huge monetary stake in Holt’s property, for absolutely no return. If that didn’t evoke the images of charity, he didn’t know what did.
But he couldn’t explain his strange desire to see the old house returned to its former glory. And, if he was honest, he wanted to see the flowers blooming on the property as well. He also had more than a passing interest in the wrought iron filigree they’d found in the gazebo. He suspected the metalworkers on Holt’s original farm had created some sort of hybrid wrought iron, maybe by mistake, that resisted corrosion. But he couldn’t know that for sure until he cleared everything else out.
He’d gone over the plans with Holt, and the man had been interested—fascinated really, with everything Win proposed. He’d listened with grave sincerity as Win had discussed with Dawson everything the man had learned about Constance Gibb’s designs on the Holt property. He’d agreed that the threat from Gibbs was real, that she could cause him inestimable losses, and that he had nowhere near the kind of money it would take to fast track a renovation in time for the review.
Yet his answer was still no.
Now Holt was looking out the window of Win’s Charleston-based office, his eyes crinkling as he took in the boats navigating the harbor. He looked, if possible, more shrunken than he had when they’d talked to him at the Cypress Resort, as if telling his story to them had somehow reduced him to a ghost of even his former diminutive self.
Then the door to his private office burst forward, and an absolute vision walked in.
“Mr. Holt! Mr. Holt, I’m so glad to have found you. Your gardens were everything you said they could be.”
The Countess Marguerite Saleri sailed across the room with her hands folded over until she re
ached the old man, who stared up at her as if she was some sort of apparition. “I…I do beg your pardon, Countess Saleri.”
“I was at your lovely old home yesterday, quite late, as daylight dimmed. I’m afraid I was somewhat clumsy, and stumbled into the foliage.”
At this the old man winced, then looked at Win reproachfully. “I didn’t think you would be going out there at night,” he said. “Not safe at all, at night. I’ve no lights set up except around the house proper.”
“But that’s exactly why this is so important.” Marguerite dropped down before Holt, her hands opening to reveal the treasure within. Win recognized it immediately, of course. The leaves that he’d brushed from Marguerite’s hair as she’d entered the limo after their late-night visit. He vaguely recalled her tucking them into the cup holder but had promptly forgotten them after that.
But it wasn’t just leaves in Marguerite’s hand. Several small, withered white petals lay amidst the dark green. Petals that made Holt stiffen.
“Those are moonflower petals,” Holt said, his voice shocked. “And they were plucked while they were open. But moonflowers don’t bloom anymore at Holt House.”
“They did last night,” Marguerite said. She looked up at Holt, her face radiant, and even Win felt himself getting swept along with her enthusiasm. “I noticed them this morning driving over here, then looked more closely. It dawned on me that they were flowers—actual flowers from your home. They couldn’t be from anywhere else.”
“Moonflowers were Priscilla’s favorite flower,” Holt said, and he touched the delicate petal with a trembling finger. “I’d seen her gardens only once, but it wasn’t a place you could forget. The passages were lined with arbors, and the vines climbed everywhere, the night-blooming flowers thick and luxurious. No one knew why they grew so well. People would even bring starts of other, more exotic flowers, the kind that had no business blooming in South Carolina…but they’d bloom at Holt House. Anything could bloom there.”
“And they still can bloom there,” Marguerite said. She’d risen and settled herself into the seat beside Holt. “With just a little bit of help.”
Chosen: Gowns & Crowns, Book 7 Page 13