He didn’t really think; he just lunged for the door and yanked on it. It swung open just as she came toward him, her hand over her chest as if she was attempting to prevent a heart attack.
“Oh my God, you scared the crap out of me!” she said in a high-pitched voice. “All of a sudden you were there—why didn’t you come to the front door?”
“I’m sorry,” he said automatically. “I saw you here, and— Well, I was about to knock. I wasn’t just looking in.”
“Right. It’s all right. Come in.” She was wearing gloves and had her shiny black hair hanging loose. But this time, she wasn’t coated with dust, and she was wearing a snug t-shirt and bottoms that Declan had recently learned were called yoga pants. And, he noticed via his natural sweep of a glance, her feet were bare and decorated with grape-colored toenails. “It’s just so dark and lonely up here, and something fell down in the front room, so it made a loud noise that startled me—and then I looked up and there was a face in my window.”
Leslie laughed, and Declan got the impression she was more than happy he was there to defuse whatever had given her the willies a moment ago.
“I should have called,” he said, looking around the kitchen.
It was his first good look at it; he’d had a glimpse yesterday when he was looking around for Leslie. He was impressed by the size and homeyness of the place. Clearly, it had been recently remodeled, for the appliances were sleek and modern, and the island in the center was covered with a thick slab of bronze and black granite, and yet the overall feel of the space was warm and inviting.
“Well, calling’s generally a good idea. I might not even have been home—I wasn’t all last night. In fact, I’m supposed to meet Aunt Cherry for dinner in a bit,” she said as she glanced at the wall clock above the stove. “But I’ve got time. Have a seat.”
Declan obeyed, selecting one of the mismatched (purposely, he suspected) chairs at the battered wooden table. It was thick and solid, and probably over a hundred years old—an eclectic touch in a granite and stainless steel kitchen. The scars gave the table character, and the vase of fresh flowers and dried autumn cuttings sitting in the center of it let him know Leslie might be in the middle of a renovation, but she was still enjoying her new home. On the table was yesterday’s local newspaper.
“You’re on the front page,” he said, picking it up. The large photo just above the fold was of Leslie—without the ball cap and looking almost CEOish—standing in front of the dismantled stairway. She was holding swatches of fabric and an antique light fixture.
“Yes, you just missed being in the photo yourself,” she said. “They did a nice job on the article.”
“I guess you’re used to dealing with the press.” He set the paper down.
She smiled slightly. “A hometown lifestyle reporter is a lot easier on the nerves than a room full of AP journalists, I’ll admit. Especially ones from the financial papers. They’d wait to catch us after the board meetings, and it could really be brutal—especially as we got closer to the public offering. Give me a hometown newspaper over the Wall Street Journal any day.”
Yes, they certainly came from different worlds. Declan’s mood soured a trifle. Boardrooms, press conferences, executive meetings, private jets…Leslie Nakano was way out of her league here in touristy little Wicks Hollow, hiring teenaged girls and flannel-garbed blacksmiths to do her bidding. He wondered how long she’d last before she got bored and decided to head back to her uptight lawyer in Philadelphia. G. Eric Yarborough. The Fourth.
“So, did you need to see something in the foyer?” Leslie said, jolting him out of his thoughts. Her unspoken question was, What are you doing here?
“Uh…no. I’m here for a different reason.”
Leslie lifted one eyebrow, and he recognized wariness filtering into her expression. Her body language shifted: she eased back a little, and her eyes narrowed with subtle suspicion.
What, did she think he was going to attack her or something?
Although…he was here, showing up without calling, well past business hours. He supposed he could cut her a break. A very tiny one.
“I understand you’ve hired my daughter. I’d like to know exactly what you’re planning to have her do, and I have to tell you, I’m not very happy about the situation. I’m her father—she’s a minor—and I didn’t know anything about it.”
Her reaction was one of pure bewilderment and astonishment. “Excuse me, but I have no idea what you’re referring to.” The CEO had spoken.
“Stephanie Lillard is my daughter. You hired her, didn’t you?”
“Oh!” Leslie’s eyes widened and comprehension washed over her face. “She’s your daughter? I had no idea— She didn’t— You obviously have different last names. And I did speak to her…mother.” Her voice trailed off at the end of the sentence, as if she realized things might not be as simple as she’d thought. “I’m guessing there’s a divorce situation or something going on here, and that’s why you weren’t aware.”
Declan controlled his irritation—now more with Stephanie and her mother and less with the woman in front of him—and replied. “Something like that. Steph’s mother lives in New Hampshire, and I’m the parent here. So I should have been the one involved in this from the beginning.”
“I can understand your frustration; had I known, I certainly would have spoken with you yesterday. Stephanie simply didn’t mention that you were her father.”
“Obviously.” Declan couldn’t control a grimace, nor could he ignore a little twinge that stabbed him in the belly. A guy moves halfway across the country to live with his daughter so she doesn’t have to change schools, and she can’t even remember to keep him in the loop. For having been a father barely six months, it sure as hell hurt more than he’d thought it would.
“I’m really sorry. And clearly you have questions about the situation—which I’m happy to answer. She is, I realize, quite young. But I was very impressed with her and I wanted to give her the chance to try it out.” Leslie rose from the table. “Would you like something to drink while we talk? Coffee, wine, soda? I might even have a beer. Oh, and I have some tea Orbra gave me as well. Her special autumn blend. She’s going to be sampling it at the game tomorrow night.”
“Just water. Thanks.” Declan was having a bit of a time trying to release the prick of hurt that still lodged beneath his heart. But it wasn’t Leslie Nakano’s fault, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to say anything to Steph about it.
“Again, I’m sorry about the confusion. With your different last names…I had no idea Stephanie was your daughter. But you had some questions—and rightly so. What can I tell you to ease your mind?”
Declan realized he was no longer speaking to a busy, stressed homeowner client—now he was faced with Leslie Nakano, CEO and millionaire. The tone of her voice, the expression on her face: both had gone completely businesslike and impersonal. Appropriate, but a little unsettling for some reason. He liked her better when she was using words like dastardly to describe a piece of drywall.
Not that he liked her—or needed to like her—any more than he normally liked a client. Which was to say, no more than necessary.
His contrary brain immediately reminded him of Margie Hamberg again—a thought that he shoved away with the force of a sledgehammer on an anvil. “Well, to start,” he said, fumbling for this thoughts, “Steph mentioned her working hours—an hour and a half each day after school—”
“Except Thursdays, and Fridays if there’s a home football game,” Leslie clarified as she set two tall glasses of water, both with lemon wedges, in front of them.
“Right. She mentioned that. And then four hours on Saturday afternoon. But I’d like to know exactly what she’s going to be doing during those work times.”
“Of course. I envision her as a sort of assistant, Jill-of-all-trades for now. Initially, I intend to have her handling social media accounts for the business—her first few tasks will be setting up Twitter, Facebook, Ins
tagram, and whatever other social media sites that make sense. I figured a teenaged girl would be more than familiar with how to do that. Additionally, we have a basic website that’s already been created, and she’ll be doing simple updates to it as necessary while we’re going through the remodel process. I’ll have videos and photos of before and after, and on some of the restoration processes—in fact, your work on the stairway was one of the topics I’d intended to highlight. I’d like Stephanie to edit and post the pictures and videos on the site and on social media as a way to generate interest in the B&B before it even opens. There will also be some market research involved too, as well as listing some of the old items left here on eBay or other auction sites.”
Declan was beginning to feel slightly foolish. “So, administrative work is what you hired her for?”
“Why, yes. You didn’t think…” Her eyes suddenly lit with humor. “I see. You had a completely different scenario in mind, didn’t you? I assure you, Mr. Zyler, I want experts like yourself doing the work on this house—not a fifteen-year-old girl. That’s not to say I wouldn’t hire a bunch of teens—boys, but girls too if they were interested—to haul away debris and help with some of the demo, but that wasn’t why I hired your daughter.”
“I admit, I was pretty mad on the way here, figuring you were taking advantage of a young, star-struck girl. My apologies.”
“Star-struck?” Leslie seemed genuinely perplexed.
He shrugged and sipped his water. “You were on the cover of Fortune magazine. You’re almost as famous as Marissa Mayer, she told me.” His lips quirked in a smile. “We don’t get many celebrities here in Wicks Hollow.”
Her own mouth turned up at the corners, and she gave a short laugh. “Well, I’m flattered. But the days of boardrooms, shareholders, and press conferences are long over for me. And apology accepted. I’m sure if I were in your shoes, with a daughter to protect, I would have been similarly concerned and upset.” The smile faded from her expression, and Declan had the impression she’d just thought of something sad.
There was silence for a moment as she drank from her water, and Declan tried to figure out how he could finagle staying here a little longer now that their business was done—and then he was surprised at himself for that very crystal-clear thought.
But he realized, suddenly and surprisingly, that he didn’t want to leave. Maybe because he didn’t want to walk back through town and stop for something to eat alone, or, worse, try and find something to make for dinner at home. Or maybe because he liked the feel of this house, the homey comfort of this astonishingly large kitchen with its sleek appliances, fancy urban lighting, and chop-block wooden table. Or maybe he simply wanted the company.
Her company.
“Is there anything else I can tell you that would alleviate your concerns?” she asked, sounding once again like a cool, impersonal businesswoman. “I hope you’ll give your permission and allow Stephanie to keep the job, Mr. Zyler. She was very excited, and to be honest—it would be a great experience for her. Working with a celebrity and all.”
Declan looked up sharply and was relieved to find her dark, almond-shaped eyes sparkling with humor and her mouth curving again. She was quite a gorgeous woman, he realized with a start—especially in person. Much more attractive than when she’d appeared perfect and well-groomed in the photos he’d seen online. And even more lovely now that she wasn’t covered in dust.
Her shiny hair was a sleek and smooth black swath around her shoulders. She’d tucked one side of it behind an ear, and a diamond the size of his pinky nail (surely it wasn’t real, was it?) glinted on her earlobe. There might even be some mascara or eyeshadow or whatever that was called—the stuff around her eyes that made them look larger and darker.
Perhaps that was why he wasn’t in any hurry to leave.
“Yes, Stephanie can work for you. Thank you for alleviating my concerns. And—it’s Declan. Not Mr. Zyler, all right?”
“All right.” She stood abruptly. “I know it’s too soon to ask you how things are going with the railing, but—”
“I was actually working on it today.”
“You were? Already?” The surprise and delight on her face washed away the crispness of Ms. Nakano, celebrity CEO, and replaced it with a softer, more approachable version of herself. “I didn’t think you’d be able to get to it so quickly.”
“Well, I had some spare time this afternoon,” he lied, suddenly feeling sensitive about how he’d pushed aside two other projects to work on this one—just so he’d have an excuse to see her again soon? Nah, that was silly. He wasn’t about to make the same mistake he’d made with Bethany Hamberg—getting involved with a client only to be discarded when the job was finished.
“It’s a beautiful piece,” he continued, “and I was looking forward to working on it. So I started tinkering around when I had some extra time. Drew a few sketches so I could finalize a rubric.” Don’t read anything into it, he told her and himself. “It’ll still be a few weeks before it’s done.”
“Well, I’m glad you started on it already. I’ll try to be patient, but—it’s just that it’s such an important part of the house. The staircase is the first thing you see when you come in. I want it to be right.” Then she sobered. “After working with the wrought iron, do you have any further ideas about what that discoloration might be? I have to have a mold expert come out and sample it, but…”
He shook his head. “No. But it’s not rust. That much has become clear, as it doesn’t seem to be able to be removed.”
“Can I show you something?” Leslie gestured in the general direction of the front room.
“Sure.”
He followed her out into the foyer and saw the tarp on the floor, with a small bit of debris on it. A broom lay nearby.
“I was cleaning out the opening beneath the railing,” she told him, picking up an old piece of something pink. “And look what I found inside.”
He accepted it, and it took him a moment to realize what it was. “It’s like a mink stole—but it’s pink. It was down inside there?”
“Yes. Isn’t that a strange place for something like that to be hidden? Look how pretty its big crystal button is—I’m sure it’s not made of real diamonds, but it’s very elegant. And there was an evening glove in there too.” She showed him an elbow-length white glove with gold buttons that had seen better days. It was dirty, moldy, and…
“It’s got that same discoloration on it.”
Leslie nodded. “I’m going to try and wash it off. It’s on the velvet wrap too. But what I don’t understand is how it got inside there.”
Declan walked over to take a closer look at the situation. “So it was tucked inside this hole. Someone either had to dismantle the stair railing in order to put it down there, or they had to open up the side of it—the outside of the side of the stairs—and put it there.”
“I was thinking the same thing. But either way—why? What a hassle that would be. Why not just…I don’t know, burn it? Throw it away? Put it in the attic if they wanted to get rid of it?”
“Hell if I know. How old do you think they are? Any ideas? Maybe that will help answer the question.”
“There aren’t any tags on either of them, so that doesn’t help. The fabric of the wrap, though…it seems like it could be pretty old. It’s real velvet, I think—not a polyester blend. So it could be from the early part of last century. And with it not having a tag, that might also be an indication—I don’t know if they were regularly putting tags on clothing until at least the twenties.”
“There’s that vintage clothes store in town—you could have them look at it. Gilda Herring’s the owner. She’s a little intense, but she knows her stuff.” He handed it back. “I mean, if you really want to find out.”
“Well, I think I do. It’s just so strange—such a strange place. It’s not as if it were a closet… Wait. What if it was a closet, that place under the stairs? That would explain it.”
Decla
n peered down into the hole again, shining the flashlight she’d obviously been using. “It’s only that narrow space, Leslie. It doesn’t appear to be attached to a larger space like a closet. Besides, at this height of the stair rail, it’s much too low to be a closet. It’s only a few inches off the ground up to two feet. Not really closet space.”
“True. But it could be a hidey-hole sort of thing. Not a full-fledged closet. But you’re right.” She smiled up at him, a little bit of bashfulness in her expression. “I don’t know why it’s bothering me so much, but it is. I guess I’m a Nancy Drew at heart.”
“Well, the only way to know for sure would be to take a closer look at the wall here, on the outside of the stairs. Looks like the wallpaper is pretty old—been here a long time. If it was put over it to cover up a closet—or hidey-hole door,” he added with a sudden grin at her, “it was a while ago.”
“Right. Well.” She stepped back. “Thanks for your help and thoughts on this. I’ll— Oh, wait. There was something else down there. I was just getting a hanger to try and fish it out when you arrived—”
“You mean when I scared the shit out of you?” he said dryly.
“Yes. Guess I’m going to get some motion-detector lights out there in the back so you don’t do that again.” She grinned, holding his eyes for just long enough that he felt a definite sizzle of attraction. Then she pointed to the hole again. “It looked like something metal down there. At least the space isn’t big enough to hold a skeleton.” Leslie laughed, but there was a tinge of nervousness in her chuckle.
“Want me to try?” he asked.
“Your arms are longer,” she replied.
“That they are.”
“But a little more…muscular,” she added, and her voice dropped slightly on the last syllables. “Maybe you won’t fit.”
Was he imagining it, or had her cheeks turned a little pinker?
“Only one way to find out,” he said cheerily.
Declan wasn’t an ass—he knew (and appreciated) that women noticed the way he looked, the way his occupation had caused his arms and shoulders to develop into smooth, sleek muscles. He’d made certain he had the legs and an ass to match by biking and running as well. That was part of the reason he was more than a little uncomfortable with Stephanie’s girlfriends being around when he was shirtless—or even in a tight tee. It just didn’t feel right when they gawked at him.
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