What a Woman Wants (A Manley Maids Novel)

by Fennell, Judi

  Sean rolled a wheeled library ladder along the rod that circled the room for that purpose. “You’re not going to be single forever. This is a great house for kids. That suit of armor in the foyer could keep them entertained for hours.”

  Or freak them out.

  “Kids are a long way off for me. If ever.”

  “You don’t want kids?”

  She was used to the disbelief; it was most people’s reaction when this subject came up, but since she hadn’t had the best parental role models, why perpetuate the angst? Not to mention, she probably wouldn’t be very good at it, since she had zero idea of what constituted “normal,” thanks to the way she wasn’t raised. “Not every woman is programmed with the procreation gene, you know.” She grabbed the book closest to her. William of Orange. Bleh. History had never been a strong point. She put it back.

  “No offense meant.” He stepped on a rung, then slid a book halfway off the shelf. “I can see why you’d want to unload this place in that case.”

  “That’s the plan. Highest bidder gets the Martinson legacy and Grandmama rolls in her grave for eternity.”

  He tapped the book back in place. “Ouch. Harsh.”

  Okay, so maybe he had a point. She was, after all, a grown woman; her grandmother’s disinterest shouldn’t hurt her anymore. She had friends, her own four-legged family, a business. And now she’d have enough money to keep that family and business in the manner she wanted. All thanks to the woman who hadn’t cared if she’d lived or died all those years. It made no sense to Livvy why Merriweather had left her anything, and especially this house.

  Sean climbed up three more rungs of the ladder, giving her a nice view. She laughed at herself. Still jonesing for the maid.

  “Did you find something?”

  “Not yet.” He traced his finger down a book’s spine, his lips silently mouthing the words. It was a cute mannerism and completely unexpected.

  He climbed back down, rolled the ladder to the right and climbed back up.

  She was going to have to find out who designed those pants because they did awesome things to a man’s butt—though that might just be because Sean had a great butt.

  “Livvy?”

  She shook off the hormonal bath and looked up. Beyond his butt.

  “Here.” He held a book down to her. “Try this one.”

  “This isn’t about Marie Antoinette.”

  “I know. It’s a copy of Henry VIII’s Great Bible, whose queen was—”

  “Beheaded,” she answered with him.

  “Anne Boleyn.”

  “Queen Elizabeth I’s mother.” It fit. She opened the cover.

  There, folded neatly, were two pieces of paper. The first one was yet another note from dear ol’ Grandmama.

  Well done, Olivia. You are holding the Martinson family bible. Henry VIII gave it to the first Martinson to make something of himself. We trace our lineage from him.

  Actually their lineage could be traced from that Martinson’s father, and his father before him, et cetera, but obviously, to Merriweather, unless there was a title after one’s name, they didn’t matter.

  Which left Livvy where?

  “What is it?” Sean asked.

  Livvy held up the letter and unfolded the bottom part. “Another poem.”

  A family’s honor to defend

  A reputation to mend.

  This inheritance I’ll not be handing

  Unless you identify the reward left standing.

  To mend? Her reputation was just fine, thankyouverymuch. No matter what Merriweather thought, her illegitimacy didn’t define her. She was an honest businesswoman. Hardworking. Delivered good customer service and a delicious product. Adhered to the standards she’d set for herself. She certainly had nothing to apologize for and did not have a bad reputation.

  Ol’ Larry the Worm, on the other hand, had more to atone for, but since he was dead, there wasn’t much she could do about his reputation. Her grandmother couldn’t honestly expect her to restore it, so this annoying riddle made no sense.

  She unfolded the other piece of paper. Great. Latin. A lot of -us and –um, a bunch of Vs . . . all of which didn’t matter a hill of beans, since she knew Latin as well as she knew British history.

  They hadn’t exactly been her favorite subjects. Cooking and animal science, on the other hand, as well as the recycling and organic portions of her science classes, they’d been her thing.

  “What’s that?” Sean peered over her shoulder.

  Livvy handed the notes to him. “Beats me. Another bad poem from Merriweather and a drawing of Henry VIII with a bunch of Latin. A love letter, maybe?”

  Sean whistled. “One of your ancestors got a love letter from Henry VIII? And lived to tell the tale? That’s amazing in and of itself. How’s your Latin?”

  “About as good as Orwell’s singing.”

  “That good, huh?”

  She rolled her eyes. “So now Grandmama wants me to learn Latin.” Conniving, controlling, vindictive old woman.

  “Or you can find out what kind of document it is and get it translated.”

  “And you know a sixteenth-century documents specialist, do you?”

  “No. But the internet might.”

  Right. The internet. How could she have forgotten?

  Mainly because she didn’t have a computer. Discretionary funds weren’t available for that purchase, nor for a cell phone with that capability.

  She was going to have to chat with Mr. Scanlon about getting an advance against her inheritance. Although, the way Dragonlady was going about this scavenger hunt, Livvy wouldn’t put it past her to nix any advances until this place was hers, free and clear. “They don’t happen to have a computer around here, do they?”

  Sean shook his head. “No computer that I’ve found. Other than the upgrades in the kitchen, this place is still firmly stuck in the last century. No remote controls for the televisions, no computer, and forget about Low-E windows.”

  She’d bet there had been a computer here. Merriweather wouldn’t not have had one, if only to keep up on world markets. The woman had been old but shrewd, and Livvy would bet she’d had it pulled from the house just to make Livvy’s search more difficult. “What about a public library?”

  Sean thought for a minute, then nodded. “About a half hour from here.” He checked the clock on the mantel above another monstrous fireplace. “But I think it closes before then. You don’t have enough time.”

  She put the document back in the bible and placed the whole thing on top of another old tome on a stand in the corner.

  Not enough time. She had a feeling that was going to be her mantra as Grandmama’s little game played out.

  IT was all Sean could do not to run out of that library and into his bedroom in the servants’ quarters. Mrs. Martinson might not have a computer around here, but he did. Ostensibly, he’d brought it to help with the running of his company, but since he’d sold almost everything, running his company consisted of making this work out to his advantage.

  But he didn’t need a computer to tell him what that document was. He’d seen enough letters patent when he’d done his research on this place, papers from the Crown gifting the title and lands over to the bearer, in this case, the very first Martinson—the uppercase, italicized Martinson—to hold a title and the making of the dynasty.

  If he could figure out how that document related to the next clue, it might be the unmaking of the dynasty, because he’d be one step ahead of Livvy and could get to that last clue before her. If he kept that up, he’d prevent her from fulfilling the will’s stipulations.

  Granted, it wasn’t the most honest method, but all was fair when it came to business. Especially when he’d banked everything he had on this venture. He’d done the research, contracted the preliminary planning, and planned a tourn
ament-sized fairway on the surrounding properties. Plus, he wasn’t about to let his brothers down. This property would make his reputation. His company. His future.

  Or break it.

  Chapter Ten

  STILL planning on tripolyphosphates for dinner?” Livvy entered the kitchen an hour later, nice and dry from her shower—both from the rain and the one in her Roman bath—in a new outfit with Orwell perched on her shoulder. He’d buried his head beneath her hair and was snoring softly into her neck. Stress always tired him out.

  “Actually, I was going for scrambled eggs with hot dogs. Want some?” Sean held up the pan of food that, by rights, shouldn’t be as appetizing as it was, but that apple from earlier hadn’t lasted very long.

  “Is there ketchup?”

  “You like bloody eggs?” He smiled, and when he did, whoa, baby. His eyes sparkled like sunshine, deep creases bracketed his mouth in a set of sexy dimples, and his lips formed the most perfect smile she’d ever seen.

  Then there were the most perfect lips she’d ever seen—and kissed.

  Well, technically, he’d kissed her, but she wasn’t going to blame that on a technicality ’cause, day-um, she wouldn’t mind getting technical all over again.

  “Livvy?”

  She shook her head. “What?”

  “Are you okay? I asked if you liked bloody eggs and you zoned out on me.”

  She wouldn’t mind doing a lot of things on him, but zoning out wasn’t one of them. “Um, sorry. Hungry.” She stroked Orwell’s head, making sure he was still asleep. “Bloody eggs would be great,” she whispered. The parrot didn’t actually understand what she was saying—at least, that’s what all the experts said—but she wasn’t taking any chances that he’d take issue with her meal. She did try not to eat eggs or meat in front of the animals.

  Sean served her half a plateful while she grabbed the ketchup from the refrigerator—the one healthy thing in it. And then she read the label. Okay, not quite up on the healthy scale; too much high-fructose corn syrup. That was why she made her own. Still, a little wouldn’t hurt. But, boy, she couldn’t wait to get to a grocery store and get some real food. Then Sean would see what he was missing.

  “So you’re heading to the library tomorrow?” Sean set a bowl of canned peaches in syrup and two disposable water bottles on the table, then headed back for his plate.

  Livvy just shook her head at the plastic that would end up in a landfill and the processed sugars that would end up in him. “Yeah. First thing. Then I thought I’d head over to the grocery store. Are there any foods I should avoid?”

  Sean straddled the chair at the end of the table and set his plate catty-corner to hers. “No. I eat just about anything.”

  Sadly, she saw that to be true. She picked up the rolled napkin he handed her and withdrew the fork from inside it. “So, do you live around here?” She took a bite. Not bad, actually. Although her arteries were probably going to start protesting any minute.

  “You could say that.” Sean shoveled it in as if he hadn’t eaten in days.

  By the looks of the empty fridge, that might be a good guess.

  “What does that mean?” She declined the bowl of sugar that was supposed to pass for fruit.

  “I have a room in the servants’ quarters.”

  And just like that, Livvy was thrust into the past again. The servants’ quarters her grandmother had actually called them. In front of the servants. Livvy had been mortified on their behalf, though Jeeves had seemed to take it in stride. Mrs. Tildwell’s left eyebrow, however, had twitched.

  Livvy speared a hunk of eggs so fiercely that if they weren’t already “bloody” from the ketchup, they would have been from her viciousness. “Sean, I think you should move.”

  Sean’s fork clattered onto his plate. “What?”

  Livvy set down her own fork. “I think you should move.”

  “Look, Livvy, I know I complained about the animals, but, you’re right. Why shouldn’t you keep them in the living room? It is, after all, your house. I promise not to say another word about them.”

  “What are you talking about? What do my animals have to do with where you sleep? The only place I’m planning to move them to after the living room is the barn. I’m certainly not going to toss you out just because you have your own opinion.”

  A muscle in Sean’s cheek ticked. “Then why are you?”

  “Why am I what?”

  “Kicking me out?”

  “What? Where did you get that idea? I’m not kicking you out.”

  “But you said you wanted me to move.”

  The light bulb went on in her brain. “Ah . . . You thought I meant to move off the estate. I didn’t. I meant that you should move out of the,” she gulped, “servants’ quarters. There are a hundred bedrooms upstairs. One of them has to be better than where you are now.”

  SEAN hid a huge sigh. For a minute there, he’d thought she’d figured him out. But she’d been taking a shower when he’d snuck back into the library and grabbed a few pictures of that Latin-filled paper to decipher later.

  “I don’t mind where I sleep, Livvy. The room’s fine.” And far enough from hers that she wouldn’t find his laptop.

  “I don’t care if the room’s fine.” She finger-quoted it. “You need to move into this part of the house. I insist.”

  It would look suspicious if he kept fighting her, but Sean couldn’t say he was exactly overjoyed. He still had a company to run, smaller though it was. Still had calls to make, plans to follow through with. Being within earshot could put a wrench in his plans.

  Although . . . by being closer to her, he’d be able to intercept or overhear any clues she came across.

  “Okay. I’ll move. It’s your house after all.”

  “Not for long.”

  She took the words right out of his head.

  “Ah, right. But why not stay? That’d keep your grandmother turning for eternity.” Not that he wanted to encourage her, but he needed every bit of ammo he could get, and if there was a chink in her armor, Sean needed to know about it.

  Livvy scooped a forkful of eggs into her mouth, the time it took her to chew and swallow ramping up his tension, though that could also have something to do with the way her tongue slicked over her bottom lip, catching the tiniest bit of egg there.

  What had he been thinking when he’d kissed her earlier? Talk about a bone-headed move—on so many levels that his bank account was cringing.

  His libido, on the other hand, was pleading for a repeat.

  “True, but this place is a monstrosity. And obscene. It ought to be a museum or a university or something. It’ll do more good for people that way than as a private residence. It should have been done years ago. What was my grandmother thinking, living here in this resource-hog all by herself?”

  She’d been thinking that she had a legacy to pass on, but Sean wasn’t about to share that since it ran counterproductive to his plans. But he understood Merriweather’s reasoning. What was the use of building something with your life if there was no one to leave it to? He sure as hell wasn’t building an empire to see it torn apart after his death. And Merriweather knew it. That’s why she’d given him first dibs. He even planned to name the formal living room after her. The Merriweather Martinson Salon. After he’d had it fumigated now, thanks to the animals. The old woman definitely wouldn’t appreciate alpaca sperm as a floor wax in her signature room.

  “So do you have any offers yet?” Sean went for nonchalant, covering the urgency in his voice with the hot dog he stuffed into his mouth.

  Livvy shook her head. “First I have to earn it, then I’ll put it up for sale.”

  “Earn it?”

  Her sigh was more expressive than words could ever be, and if Sean hadn’t known the true situation, he would have been able to figure it out from that alone.

 
She explained about the stipulations, guilt shriveling his spine a little at the unsuspecting truthfulness in her answer.

  “So, since it looks like I’m going to be exploring the house, I guess you’re going to come in handy,” Livvy said, finishing off her food.

  Sean almost choked on his. “Handy?”

  “Sure. You’ve probably been in every nook and cranny in this place. Who better to help me find what Merriweather has hidden than you? You will help me, right? I’ll make sure Mr. Scanlon pays you extra.”

  Hopefully, she’d put the sick smile on his face down to the preservatives in the food. What could he say but yes? A guy in his supposed position would be all about the extra cash.

  “Sure.” He wiped his mouth with the napkin after he coughed out the hot dog that was blocking his airway.

  “Great.” She sat back and threaded her fingers through her hair, the resulting fan around her shoulders not helping the events in his pants any. The woman was going to kill him. Either with frustrated passion or frustrated dreams. “So you want to come?”

  . . . So not responding to that.

  Sean covered his mouth again with the napkin. “I, um, was planning to start working on the barn.”

  “Oh. Right. I guess that should be first on your list.” She gathered her plate and utensils and took them to the sink. The clink when they hit the granite woke the parrot, who decided to imitate David Lee Roth.

  Sean arched an eyebrow. “‘Just a Gigolo?’”

  The blush on Livvy’s cheeks was too cute for words. Just like her. Which was becoming a huge problem.

  “Orwell, like most of my animals, was a rescue. He’d lived in a fraternity house for years until one of the pledges realized that nachos and cheese weren’t exactly the best diet. The story goes that he was ‘stolen’ during Hell Week. Poor thing lived Hell Years until that kid did the right thing. I’ve almost cured him of the foul language, but the song has stuck.”

  “Orwell wants a chip,” the bird said in the middle of the melody in a totally different voice.

  Livvy smoothed a finger over the bird’s gray crown. “Okay, Orwell, I’ll get you dinner.”