Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015

by Melinda Curtis

  His lips turned up in a mocking smile. "As I've been saying."

  "When did this happen?" It was an inane question, but she couldn't wrap her mind around this new coil. The image of the old, doddering, manageable duke was receding quickly before the reality of this new, dynamic, obviously capable duke.

  "Not that it's any of your business, but eight years ago."

  "You can't inherit your father's trusteeship," Miranda pointed out. She didn't know anything about the legalities, but there might be a way out here. Surely they would be able to find a new lawyer if the named lawyer was deceased.

  The duke yanked out his chair and sat down again. "Let me bring up the file."

  A few minutes of silence, broken only by the sound of computer keys clicking, allowed Miranda a chance to regroup.

  How long would it take to find a new lawyer? Would this problem cause the probate process to be even longer? Frustration swept through her once more. All they wanted was access to their own money!

  When the duke—she could not get used to thinking of him that way—looked up, her hope died.

  "I am the attorney of record in your father's will," he said calmly. "Believe me, I would prefer not to be."

  "In that case," she snapped, "my father clearly made a mistake. Which is not surprising given his diagnosis of Alzheimer's. I would think you could recognize the obvious."

  He raised one brow. "It is not my job to do anything more than safeguard your inheritance, which I will do."

  She would have to be blunt. After all, what difference could it make to him what was done with their money? "The inheritance is of no use to us if we can't have access to our money."

  "Am I to understand, then, that you are here for money?"

  "I've explained all that to you in my emails. Weren't you paying attention?"

  "Tell me again." He sounded more than a little bored.

  "Sharmie and I need to have our allowances released while the estate is in probate, and we need an additional sum of one hundred thousand dollars as an advance against the principal we're due to receive." She'd fight for the money she needed for her business once she got Sharmie's money released. "Our lawyer in New York explained that you were the person who could petition the court for these requests."

  "I suppose I could." He leaned back in his chair. "But why would I?"

  "Why wouldn't you? It's not your money." She placed her laptop on his desk. "I've drawn up a plan to show you that we can cut back on our living expenses in the future if we get the advance we need now."

  "You know," he said, "most people prefer to spend today and save tomorrow. Such a plan cannot recommend itself to me."

  She pressed her lips together to force herself to think before blurting out a rude retort. How would he know anything about saving money?

  "I understand," she said carefully, "that you might find our need for money to be frivolous, but it is very important to us."

  "What is this important need? I seemed to have missed that along the way."

  "I've told you right from the beginning when I first contacted you via email."

  "Yes, well, it's possible I missed it. There were rather a lot of emails from you."

  "Did you read any of them?"

  "A few," he admitted. She supposed she'd have to give him points for honesty.

  "Once I knew that all you wanted was money," he added, "I had to curtail the exercise."

  She stiffened in outrage. "We are an exercise to you?"

  He sighed. "We're straying from the point here. Why do you need this money?"

  "Sharmie is getting married."

  "So soon?" He shifted his gaze to Sharmie and lifted his dark brows, while his lip curled a bit.

  Miranda sprang to her feet and leaned over the desk. "Don't you dare criticize her! Maybe you can't help being ignorant, but my father had Alzheimer's for six long years, during which time Sharmie stood by him, took care of his every need, and birthed and raised his two children. Have you ever done the like?"

  "As I am unmarried, and unlikely to bear children, the issue is moot."

  "Don't pretend to misunderstand me. Whom do you care for? An expensive mistress? A pack of bloodhounds? A princely inheritance bequeathed to you as an accident of birth?"

  His brows rose higher. This time, she thought his mouth was curling up in amusement.

  "A tigress," he said. "Reversing the natural order."

  "Do not make a step-mother joke," she warned. "Sharmie and I are—are—" What were they? She wanted to say as close as sisters.

  She glanced over. Maybe Sharmie didn't feel the same way. Yes, they spent a lot of time together. They got along well. But maybe—Miranda tried to banish the thought. It was too frightening. Maybe, now that her father, the man who'd brought them together and turned them into relatives was dead, maybe Sharmie would move on. She could take the twins, marry her Pookie, and disappear from Miranda's life.

  Miranda couldn't bear the thought. And, if it happened, it would be all this man's fault for refusing to give her the money that would glue them all together. Cement them as a family.

  Miranda pressed a hand to her thumping heart. She couldn't let it happen. If she did, she'd be all alone in the world. Unthinkable.

  "Sharmie and I," she said fiercely, "are family." She hoped he didn't notice the quiver of her lip.

  His gaze was uncomfortably acute, though. "No step-mother jokes," he said. "I apologize."

  Drat the man. Why did he have to keep her so off-balance?

  "Thank you," she muttered. "The point is that we need the money for her wedding."

  The chair he'd been leaning back on crashed to the floor. One of the dogs yipped.

  "A wedding?" He stared at Miranda.

  Well, she'd finally managed to shake him out of his calm.

  "Yes," she answered. "A wedding is required in order to get married."

  "Perhaps some kind of ceremony is required, although I believe a justice of the peace could handle the matter for a negligible sum. But you can't seriously be considering spending one hundred thousand dollars on a wedding."

  "Not only am I considering it, I intend to do so."

  "Not with any funds under my control."

  Miranda stared at her adversary. His chiseled mouth had a stubborn set to it, as did his strong chin.

  "Fine then," she snapped. "Plan B."

  "How many plans are there?" he asked. His eyes had a certain wariness in them now.

  "As many as it takes."

  He raised a hand. "I think Plan A was enough for me for today."

  "No, please listen." She leaned forward. "You don't want to have to bother with us and we don't want to have to keep pestering you."

  "Finally," he muttered, "we're in agreement."

  Miranda decided to ignore the interruption. "Good. Then you would probably welcome the idea of transferring the trust and all its guardianship duties to another lawyer. It would certainly make more sense for us to have an American trustee."

  "Hold on. I can't just set aside the provisions of your father's will."

  "Why not?" She frowned at him.

  "A will is a legal document which disposes of your father's property as he intended. It is my duty as executor to oversee the correct disposition of the assets. Nothing more."

  "Any lawyer can do that."

  "Perhaps we are all interchangeable." His voice was dry. "But we are bound by laws and you can't expect me to ignore that inconvenient fact just to suit you."

  "But—"

  "Even if none of what I've just said were true," he interrupted, "there are still two minor children involved. I believe they are six years old?"

  He glanced at Sharmie, who nodded.

  Then he leaned over his desk, locking his gaze with Miranda's. "There is nothing you could do or say which would convince me to ignore the claim of these minors on the assets in your father's estate."

  She drew in a sharp breath. "Do you mean to imply that Sharmie and I wouldn't have t
he best interests of the twins in mind at all times?"

  He lifted one eyebrow. "The plan to spend a small fortune on a wedding does give me cause to wonder about the sense of responsibility you two have with respect to the children. The estate is not a bottomless well of money."

  He stood up. "I'm sorry you've wasted a trip here. But I cannot help you."

  "You won't, you mean." She watched him walk toward the door. He couldn't throw them out. She wouldn't allow it.

  "The end result is the same, yes." He opened the door and Baker appeared, as if he'd been waiting outside for the summons. "Please see that the Foxgloves have appropriate transportation back to London."

  He inclined his head to Sharmie, and she jumped up. "Yes," she said breathlessly. "It's time we were going."

  Miranda seethed. Unfortunately, he knew which of them could be successfully browbeaten. But what could she do with the man standing there, arms akimbo, his retainer waiting to do his bidding? She picked up her laptop. "I'm very sorry you refused to listen to my reasonable plan." She ignored Sharmie's pleading glances. "Let me assure you that I have not given up my mission."

  "I don't doubt that." His lips twitched again in that superior way that maddened her. "But," he continued, "I trust you'll allow me some peace in my own home."

  With no immediate alternative, they followed Baker back down the long hallway.

  "Pompous, conceited, smug ass!" Miranda could scarcely contain her ire as she and Sharmie were driven back to the castle in the golf cart. "The nerve of him to think he could take better care of the twins than we can."

  "I'm sure he didn't mean that," Sharmie said in a conciliatory voice. "Though he does seem a bit dictatorial…" Her voice faded off as she apparently couldn't think of any more positive traits of that despicable man.

  "He wants peace in his home? He'll have peace when we have peace! And not a moment before."

  "Miranda, there is nothing we can do. You know Hascombe said the duke has the law on his side."

  "Law, schmaw!" Miranda waved a hand to signify what she thought of that argument. "His Grace, the Duke of Devonwood, is going to discover that there's more to life than the law."

  "Miranda—" Sharmie laid a hand on her arm. "What are you thinking of?"

  "I don't have a plan yet," Miranda had to admit. "But I will soon."

  Chapter 5

  Baker pulled up to the broad stone steps of the palace. "I'll run in for your keys," he said.

  "Rude!" Miranda said to his departing back. "He could have at least let us back in the palace." She climbed out of the golf cart, wishing it had a door to slam. "I have no intention of being defeated, Sharmie."

  "What can we do?" A tiny wrinkle marred Sharmie's porcelain forehead.

  Miranda eyed the little Mini Cooper they'd rented. It sat on the side of the wide driveway, looking all shiny and in good working order. Maybe she could change that. But not in front of the many tall windows peering from the front of the mansion.

  "We'll have to pretend to leave," she said. "Once we're out of sight of the house…"

  Her voice drifted away as a blonde god emerged from the front doors and sauntered down the steps.

  "Hey," he called out. "Are you the folks waiting for the car keys?"

  Miranda elbowed Sharmie. "Our savior. Play along."

  Sharmie leveled a quick frown in her direction, but Miranda ignored her.

  "Yes, thank you." Using an old trick she'd heard once, Miranda thought about her waist and hips and strolled toward the god.

  Apparently, it worked. A broad grin appeared on his face. "No one told me you were so pretty."

  "Which one of us?" She grinned back at him.

  "Why both of you, of course." Stopping before her, he waggled the keys in the air. "I don't think I should give you these. You might run off before I get a chance to find out who you are."

  Miranda giggled. "You only have to ask."

  He held out his hand. "I'm Jack Devonwood."

  "Miranda Foxglove. And this is my dear step-mother, Sharmie Foxglove." She turned back to urge Sharmie closer. "I'm afraid she's not well after the long journey we had to get here."

  Sharmie's eyes widened in surprise and Miranda had to stifle another giggle. Her step-mother was never ill.

  "You're American," he exclaimed. "What brings you to Devonwood?"

  "We came to see the duke."

  Jack's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps that meeting made your step-mother ill?"

  Miranda choked in surprise and had to turn it into a cough. Apparently, there was no love lost between the brothers.

  "Why would you think so?" Maybe she could turn this hostility to her account.

  "He has that effect on people." Jack looked a little less god-like with a frown on his forehead. But he was still a very good-looking man.

  Miranda had figured the duke was a couple inches over six feet. His brother might be even taller. He had dark-blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, and an irresistible grin. With his athletic build and languid grace, Miranda could easily picture him sailing in Greece, or skiing in Switzerland, moving in swooping swirls with either sport. A hint of petulance curling his lip made him look a bit like a five year old who'd just been denied a cookie. But the overall effect was magnificent.

  "I'm not going to say the duke was pleasant," Miranda said, "but I think it was the food on the airplane that's affecting Sharmie. People were already getting sick while we were still on the plane."

  Lord, that might be laying it on a little thick. Didn't it take several hours for food poisoning to set in?

  Now Sharmie was frowning at her as well.

  But Jack didn't seem to find anything odd about her statement. "Perhaps you should come in the house and sit down," he suggested. "A car ride might not be the best thing right now."

  He moved over to Sharmie and took her arm. "Allow me."

  Casting one more dark look at Miranda, Sharmie placed her hand on the proffered arm. "Perhaps I should rest a bit."

  They walked slowly up the broad steps while Miranda tried to hide her glee. With any luck, she wouldn't have to sabotage the car.

  Another jolt of satisfaction jagged through her as they passed through the front door again. She was sure the duke thought she was bowling down the long driveway right now, on her way back to London in defeat.

  The butler showed no surprise at their return.

  "Here's Mrs. Foxglove," Jack said, "not feeling well. Could you find Mrs. Wilkins to show her to a room?"

  The butler moved off and Jack guided Sharmie to one of the wood framed chairs set out at intervals along the walls of the massive foyer. Sharmie sank onto the silk covered seat. She gave a little sigh. "It was a long trip."

  "Don't worry about a thing," Jack said. "One thing we have in this heap of stone is space."

  A tall, neatly dressed woman hurried into the hall. "Ma'am." She stopped in front of Sharmie. "Do you feel well enough to manage the stairs?" She gestured to the broad staircase sweeping up to the second floor.

  "I don't wish to be any trouble," Sharmie said in fading accents.

  Miranda wanted to cheer. Sharmie was finally playing along. But, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jack disappear through one of the many doorways leading out of the foyer. Drat. She needed him.

  "It's no trouble," the housekeeper said calmly. "Please come with me." She started toward the stairway.

  "Let me see you settled," Miranda said. "A small nap is sure to make you feel better, and then we can be on our way."

  "Thank you, dear." Sharmie tottered behind the housekeeper. "I would prefer to be alone if you don't mind. You know how I am." She turned to give a speaking look to Miranda. Here's your chance.

  "If you're sure." Miranda felt a stab of guilt. Sharmie really did look tired.

  "I'll be fine." Sharmie and the housekeeper moved slowly up the grand staircase.

  Miranda pivoted to study the foyer. Though elegant, the room was not fussy or old-fashioned. Someone with excellent taste
, and a very deep pocket, had decorated the space.

  Perhaps it was a little intimidating with its high coffered ceiling, enormous fireplace at the far end, and fine art hanging on the walls. But the decorator had scaled the room to the human eye, and had balanced gleaming antiques with rich paintings and modern, hand-painted wallpaper in gold and cream tones.

  Miranda was beginning to wonder what she would do with herself, when Jack returned, leading an exquisitely polished, blonde-haired woman.

  "There you are," Jack called out.

  Where else would she be?

  But Jack had a friendliness that made her disposed to like him.

  "Miranda," he said, "I'd like you to meet my mother Charlotte, the Duchess of Devonwood. Mother, this is Miranda Foxglove. She's some kind of relation to Devon."

  For a startled moment, Miranda thought the woman might be the wife of the duke, despite his earlier denial of being married. But then she realized the duke could not possibly be the father of a man Jack's age. The dowager duchess, despite her formidable title, was a very well-preserved woman of middle age. Her artfully tinted blonde hair formed a sleek cap around her delicate face. Diamonds gleamed at her ears, and her well-tailored trousers and silk blouse said "designer label" without any need for anything as crass as initials on her person. Her Lanvin flats and the Schiava gold bangle on her wrist whispered luxury.

  "I'm pleased to meet you," Miranda said, and extended her hand. Was she supposed to curtsey? Too bad. She didn't know how.

  The duchess clasped her hand in a limp handshake, with the air of one conferring a huge benefit. Miranda was glad to drop the contact.

  "Thank you for extending your hospitality to my step-mother," Miranda said. "I'm sure she'll feel better soon."

  "My pleasure," the duchess said in a hollow voice. She glanced up at her tall son, and Miranda watched the blinding light of worship leap into her eyes.

  "Jack?" she enquired.

  "They've been tangling with Devon, Mother. You know how that goes."

  "Yes, my dear, but it can't be any business of ours." Then, in a direct contradiction of her own statement, she turned to Miranda and said, "What did you need from Devon?"