Sweet Siren: Those Notorious Americans, Book 3

by Cerise DeLand

  More than all of that, though, she itched to fill this client's new country house of twenty-eight rooms overlooking the southern waters with the most ethereal treasures she could conjure in her mind. Her mouth watered. The setting—the essence of it—was the finest she'd seen on any English coastline. Every ounce of her blood, every beat of her heart turned toward the view she knew so well. She transform the site into the most serene home in Britain.

  But she shouldn't rush to do it. Mustn't without knowing who this potential client was. That worried her, having worked with one very cantankerous old gentleman two years ago.

  She ran a fingertip across one of the lines in the contract. "I see, Roger, that you expect this house to contain all the latest improvements. Electricity. How many homes have installed it? Two in England? Bathrooms with running water, efficient w.c.s. Astonishing. We’ll need the finest plumbers. And four lifts. Who does that? No one. If I decide to work on this, I may become as famous as you to have drawn the plans."

  "We'll have work for years to come, Liv." Roger grinned. She'd worked with him on many houses over the past decade And on another country house in Norfolk last year. The client, a lord known for his penny-pinching ways, was the very devil to work with. Always late with his payments, too. "I'm happy with this client. He pays well and has already put down a deposit on my services and yours. I'm happy to post it into your account as soon as you sign that."

  Oh, she was tempted to sign, then run out in the street and sing. But she refrained from such exuberance until she had the funds in her name. "For such largesse, what does he ask in return?"

  "That you consult closely with him on fabrics, colors, appointments. He likes painting, sculpture too, and he has a growing collection of art from the impressionists. He wants it showcased here. He also asks for original art in the foyer. Trompe l'oeil."

  "Painting on plaster for depth perception takes a special artist."

  "That it does and I assured him you knew of a few. One in particular."

  She did. A very talented but very temperamental creature.

  "Does he like cherubs and gladiators?" she joked, questioning now if she wanted to work with such an exacting client as this one seemed to be.

  "I doubt that." Roger shook his gray head. "He's above such mundane concepts."

  "I should like to meet him."

  "You can. Simply sign." Roger pointed to the bottom of the page.

  Looking up at Roger Antram, she arched her brows. She'd worked with him on so many different estates. "This seems in order."

  "It is. Our legal team has reviewed it."

  Leaning forward in her chair, she placed the papers down on the architect's desk. The sites were west of Brighton in Hove. Attractive, delightful to her in all seasons of the year. The fee was a fifteen percent increase in her usual amount per home. That, too, was wise given the extra responsibilities she'd have of choosing wainscoting, paint colors, marble, kitchen appointments and fixtures and so much more for two large projects. She'd also have to lease a house in Brighton while she worked on the last phases of decoration. "I have one problem, Roger."

  Perhaps to learn who had bought this land for the country house, she could have a chat with the current Lord Savage. He was her husband David's younger distant cousin who'd inherited the title and lands from him, a roué so careless with money that he needed to sell this marvelous parcel. Why, after so many years of holding on to this, did he decide to sell now? She'd told him often enough that she wished to buy it, if she ever earned enough. That was not in her cards. Never had been, really. Now someone had come along and purchased the plot. Blithe chance and serendipity meant she was to design the interior of the home for the new owner. Odd, how ironic life could be. And mysterious. "You know what I mean."

  Roger tipped his head to one side, sheepish. "I do."

  She sat back, her palms up. "How can I sign this if I do not know who the client is?"

  He removed his glasses, put them to the mahogany expanse and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's the client's wish."

  "Why?" The prickle of suspicion that rose up her back had her shifting in her chair.

  "I wanted you to see how favorable it was to you."

  She canted her head. "Before you tell me who this is?"

  He walked toward his window.

  "You're being terribly mysterious, Roger. I can't say as it’s comforting. You and I have had a very good working relationship for many years now. Why change your methods of working with me? If I've been remiss, not done a client's bidding, then you must tell me what it is that I—"

  He spun, one hand up to stop her. "Nothing, Liv. You've done nothing. Your work has been more than satisfactory. Exemplary."

  She flung out a hand toward the contract on his desktop. "Then let's be done with this. Just tell me who this client is."

  Willowreach

  Duke of Seton's estate

  Kent

  She alighted from the coach, hesitating only a step at the sight of the grand old home of the dukes of Seton. Once when she was ten, her mother had brought her here for a family gathering. The current duke, Julian Ash, had been a baby, perhaps only two or three years old. The event had died in her memory, but the house lived on. The house was an ageless combination of Tudor, Stuart and Palladian styles. The first sight a visitor had on entry was its pink marble foyer and the grand staircase where portraits of centuries of noted Setons marched up the walls.

  She took a deep breath. Picking up her reticule, she strode to the front door and knocked. She hadn't sent word of her coming. She hadn't wanted to alert anyone to her intentions, but Roger had told her that his client—and hers—was in residence at Willowreach as he awaited the birth of his first grandchild. So she'd come. Quickly. And with ripe intent to tell him precisely what she thought of his offer.

  The butler opened the door to her and with polite efficiency took her name and that of the man she wished to see. "Might I also invite you to leave your reticule here in the foyer, Lady Savage?"

  "You may," she said and surrendered it, along with her coat and gloves.

  "Do follow me, my lady," he said and ushered her into the purple sitting room where she tried to focus upon a landscape painting of Setons at the hunt.

  She examined the Ming and Ch'ing vases, then took up residence in a sumptuous red damask Chippendale chair before the butler reappeared. "Please come with me, my lady."

  She followed him as he led her up the grand circular staircase to the next floor. Along the wide corridor he walked and opened the double doors to a large and well-stocked library. The walls and shelves were dark oak and the tall Palladian windows were swathed in vermilion silk draperies. It was a sumptuous room, comforting and quiet.

  "Lady Savage, for you, Mister Hanniford."

  She'd last seen him—was it ten days ago?—at the crowded corner of Moulton Street on a busy afternoon. In bright May sunshine, he had smiled down at her, his gaze as smoldering as a swashbuckling pirate. His black hair had shown like exquisite Japanese lacquer. His lips had spoken words so alluring that she'd recalled the lush sexuality of his kisses and the strength of his embrace. In her heart, she'd smiled at him as warmth swirled through her at the virile power of him. Then, she'd had to argue with him.

  As she did now.

  "I'm pleased to welcome you, my lady. Thank you, Perkins. Please bring us tea," and so Killian Hanniford dismissed the family butler. His gaze danced with silver fires but his demeanor was businesslike until the butler shut the doors. "Do come and sit with me, Liv. I'm delighted to see you."

  She sailed forward to plant herself firmly before him. He stood with a large tome in his hand, some volume he'd take from the wall-to-wall shelves. Dressed in grey wool trousers, white linen shirt and sky blue silk waistcoat, he was informal and had not donned a coat to greet her. Indeed, she sensed he had not worn one into the library. Well, what did it matter if he would not stand on ceremony? She wouldn't.

  "Mister Hanniford, you know why I'
m here."

  "To continue this discussion, I had better be Killian. And as for why you are here, I hope I know." He extended a hand toward two chairs either side of the large ruby marble fireplace.

  "I won't sit."

  "I hope you would. I'm certain your journey was long and I'm sure you came via public coach so that—"

  She pressed her lips together. "I did."

  He threw her a sharp glance. "So that was uncomfortable. Allow me to make you more comfortable."

  Given his generous financial offer for the work he proposed, she had to frown at the double entendre. "I think you've done very well."

  He narrowed his gaze, a question there. "Yet from your tone, I fear I must improve."

  "Such as they are, your conditions are satisfactory." Infuriating man. He would not get the better of her. Declare how things were to be without her having any say. "I have my own set of conditions."

  "Ah, good." He walked around her, a smile—damn him—playing at his marvelous mouth. "I thought you might."

  She blew air through her teeth. The man was most irritating. "I'm quite serious."

  "So am I." He sat and put out a hand toward the opposite chair. "Please. Until you do, I will talk of nothing."

  She marched over and perched on the edge of one chair. Hands in her lap, she willed herself to stone. "I've read the contract."

  He looked her over, his perusal tingling her flesh as his gaze passed her lips, her breasts, her hands and lingered over each again as he returned to dwell on her eyes. "I assume because you are here and you know it is I who hires you, you have signed it."

  "I have."

  He relaxed backward in his chair. "Tell me what you want."

  "I need you to know I dislike the means by which you had me sign. Your anonymity was unprincipled."

  He had the integrity to look guilty. "Given the numerous times you've rebuffed me, I imagined few other means to influence you to work for me."

  "I accept your praise, your wish to have me work with you on your houses, but I don't approve of skullduggery."

  "I don't approve of mine, either. You have a stellar reputation, madam. I would not hire you because you refuse my company."

  She stared at him.

  "Nor would I hire you to induce you to share my company."

  His frankness insulted her as much as it soothed her. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome."

  "But I won't be manipulated on anything else." She had to demand that of him.

  "Such as?" His face grew stern, the lines of his jaw firm, his eyes steel. This was the robber baron. This was the blockade runner. The brutal negotiator, infamous. Ruthless.

  "I use the best materials. I demand excellence from plasterers and plumbers, the stone cutters and even the painters. Once you see the selections I've offered you and you have chosen and approved, you will not meddle."

  He pursed his lips, examining her minutely. "I believe in allowing the experts to do their work as they see fit."

  She'd advised on many a house design outside and in. Yet no one had ever termed her an expert. The word complimented. It also implied excellence. "It is what I demand."

  "I'm honored that you would still come to require it of me," he said with less ferocity in his manner.

  She hooted in laughter. His change of tone could drive her to climb the wall. "You shouldn't be."

  "Still...you have the look of a woman who has stepped into the lion's den."

  She snorted. "If I were in my right mind, I wouldn't be here."

  "But you are," he said with delight in his voice. "Tell me why."

  She sucked in air.

  Humor twitched about his mouth. "If you come here to berate me for manipulating you, the least I can expect in return is your honesty."

  That I rejoice at the chance to be near you. That I will not want more. That I want minutes in which I can dream of your lips on mine and wish— She shook herself. "I want this contract. The work is exciting. All the latest home improvements. I want to be a part of that."

  Pride gleamed in his marvelous silver gaze. "I'm glad."

  "But there is more."

  "Continue then."

  "The twenty-four townhouses were originally planned in the eighteen-thirties. While the foundation remained dormant and the plot of land undeveloped, the houses erected around it are fronted of gault brick. The look is very antiquated. The town council constantly criticizes them for their staid appearance. So I wish to recommend a livelier style of red brick and half timbered gables."

  "If Roger agrees with you, so do I."

  She cocked her head.

  "You thought I'd argue with you?" His luscious mouth spread with amusement.

  "I did."

  He lifted a shoulder. "Anything else?"

  "Yes." She rushed to her next consideration before she was disarmed by his agreeable nature. "The foundations are solid cement blocks and cannot be re-arranged without great expense."

  "True. Did you want to make each house bigger?"

  "No. But gas and plumbing specifications have changed and much improved in the past fifty years. I want your assurances that you will permit Roger and his staff to design the newest."

  He nodded. "Electrical equipment, as well, yes."

  "And that you will hire a local Sussex builder whom he recommends."

  "I will not stand on my prerogative. I want the best. That's why I've hired Roger and you." He lifted those long dark impressive brows. "How else to gain top price for the sale?"

  "Precisely." He would think that, wouldn't he? He was Black-hearted Killian, wasn't he? Her father had been right. So right to name him that. "If I am to work on both projects simultaneously, I must live in Brighton. But also I must travel to suppliers in London and Paris."

  "You're right. I hadn't thought of travel."

  She stuck out her chin. "I must have a living expense in addition to my fee."

  "I agree. What would you consider appropriate?"

  "One hundred pounds a month."

  "One-twenty."

  She bristled. He could not buy her. "I don't need that. One hundred will do."

  "Then I shall add the twenty per month to Camille's school fees. Let the headmistress deduct it from her tuition."

  She could not argue with that. More fool she, she welcomed it. "You make this very difficult for me."

  "I hope to make it all very easy for you," he rejoined.

  "Killian..." Oh, she was mistaken to call him by his given name.

  He beamed at her. That familiarity broke innumerable barriers and allowed for too much intimacy to flow between them.

  "I want this work, Killian. Both the townhouses and the separate home."

  "Good. I thought you might find the challenge attractive."

  "The house on the cliff is to be yours, isn't it?" she asked, unable to ban the wistfulness from her voice.

  He nodded. "I've looked for a setting that spoke to me. This does. Like you, I find the sight and sound of water soothes my soul. You are the best person to create the right tone there."

  "You must consult with me," she said because she wanted his perspective, his preferences to form the core of her work for him. She was doing exactly what she'd do for any other client. Even as she realized it would put her in close contact with him on far too many occasions. "You will have to tell me what you like. What pleases you. Not only colors, fabrics but furniture that excites you or soothes you."

  "I will. But I must say, on much, I will only state what I like and leave the implementation to you. There is one aspect of the private plot that I must have exactly as I envision it. I enjoy the stone windows to the sea. I will not have them changed."

  She met his stirring silver gaze and thrilled to his reference. "The old monastery arches? Oh, I agree. No changes to them. They are incomparable, aren't they?"

  "So you've seen them and remember them?"

  "Yes, yes. Decades ago. When I was a child and we visited. I played there. There is
a tale that the Knights Templar buried gold florins from the French king's treasury up on the hillside. As children, David and I used to dig in search of them."

  "David?"

  "My husband. I knew him...or rather our families knew each other. We played together up there beneath the arches. I cannot imagine how they've withstood the test of time and storm and sea."

  "Nor I," he said in a reverent whisper. "I want them preserved. Shored up. The wild flower banks along the path to them improved. The terrace connected somehow to the house. I don't care how you do it. Just give me that."

  "I will. Never fear. I love them too. It's as if they've stood this long as sentinels to the centuries. As if they've proclaimed they can endure. As if they challenge what we build to last as long."

  He was silent. The moment stretched on. In his expression stood compassion, affection and...flashes of desire.

  She remembered herself and considered her hands. "There is something else I must have."

  "Name it."

  A knock came at the door.

  "Come in," Killian ordered.

  The butler appeared, tea tray in hand. He set the elements out on a table before them, then promptly turned on his heel and left.

  "Would you do me the favor to pour?" Killian asked, motioning to the teapot and the service.

  Relaxed in his presence, she agreed. Yet she knew she might not be so with her next request. She set about pouring tea, handing him his, offering the sandwiches and biscuits.

  "Thank you," he said, took a sip of his tea and placed his cup aside. "I hope you didn't plan to return to London today?"

  "No. I reserved a room at the inn in Ashford."

  "Please don't go. Stay for dinner. Stay the night, in fact. The family's all here, waiting for Lily to deliver her baby. You know everyone from Marianne and Remy's wedding. No need to rush back to town today, is there? Not since we've agreed on your stipulations."