The Owner's Secret (A Secret Billionaire Romance Book 4)

by Kimberley Montpetit

  Standing at the threshold, Melody stared at the large door mat lying there. What was a door mat doing here when the house was empty and no one lived here? Most likely, the place was a dilapidated hollow shell inside.

  Her heart was in her throat when Melody grasped the doorknob, afraid it might be locked, and she’d be stuck outside all night. Surprisingly it wasn’t—and surprisingly, the doorknob didn’t fall out of its hole. She gave a tug and the carved door swung open on well-oiled hinges. No squeaky, spooky haunted house here.

  Once inside, she couldn’t make out a single thing. The place was as dark as a cave. Either it was completely hollowed out, or the power was still out. Her bet was on both since the windows had been dark ever since the Heberts had dropped her off.

  What an idiot she was coming all the way out here, only to find absolutely nothing!

  But Melody loved her grandmother and at least she would be able to return to the hospital and tell Mirry that she had fulfilled her wishes—even if she had to find a tree in which to spend the night.

  “Now what do I do?” she said, throwing the beam of the flashlight inside the entrance.

  Melody staggered forward in shock, and stared underneath her own feet. Beautiful old rugs covered the polished parquet floors, at least twenty feet in length along a wide, dramatic foyer. Shaking her head in disbelief, Melody stopped, aware that she was tracking mud onto the antique carpets.

  Casting the beam of her light upward, she gazed at a magnificent curving staircase with molded mahogany wood climbing up into the darkness of the second story. When she tilted back her head, a stunning antique chandelier hung directly overhead.

  “Chandeliers? Carpets? Am I dreaming?”

  Footsteps suddenly sounded above her, and a powerful beam of light crisscrossed the foyer, like a spotlight. Instantly, Melody snapped off her light and dropped to her knees, shutting her eyes like a little kid, as if she could hide.

  “Who’s there?” came a male voice.

  Melody’s throat was dry and she couldn’t speak. She only wished she could sink into the floor—sink down, down, into the broken basement she had expected to find ever since she left New Orleans.

  The smell of lemons and dust and antique furniture wafted over her nose. It was the smell of old houses and brittle books.

  “Who’s there?” the voice called out again—and, like a switch, a chandelier dripping with pendant crystals lit up like a Christmas tree directly over her head.

  Melody lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the sudden light after all the darkness. She squinted when the halo of teardrop crystals showered a thousand prisms around the great hall.

  A moment later, she fell back on her heels with a gasp. Her heart thundered like a piston when she caught sight of the most beautiful man she had ever encountered in her life.

  Chapter 6

  Standing at the top of the staircase, Britt held his lamp steady, scanning the downstairs hallway. “This is a private residence,” he called down. “Can I help you?”

  The next moment, his breath was in his throat. A woman with wild, dark hair, and large blue eyes was on her knees, staring up at him like a deer in the headlights.

  In the circle of light, she looked like an angel. Despite the plastered wet hair and the desperate, frightened look in her eyes, she was stunning. Pale, luminescent skin, nearly black hair, parted red lips—and those deep blue eyes. Such a contrast of hair and skin and eyes.

  It had to be close to midnight—and he hadn’t slept a wink yet after checking windows and potential leaks in the attic from the storm.

  Britt probably looked like an idiot the way he was staring at her, but the sight of her was so totally unexpected.

  The woman finally spoke, her voice hesitant, but lovely. “I—I thought the house was deserted. I’m sorry. The door was unlocked.”

  “Not deserted, but mostly empty,” Britt said with a self-deprecating chuckle. “It’s just me. At least after hours.”

  She shook her head, confusion crossing her features while droplets of rain fell to the rugs. “After hours?”

  “The Nottingham Mansion is on the historical register and open for tours during the day. At least when there’s not an actual hurricane churning overhead.”

  “Right,” she said slowly. “I knew that, but I didn’t know it was so—striking and well appointed.” She gazed around the hall at the antique furniture and then lifted her eyes to the chandelier. “I was expecting it to be run-down. You know, decrepit, falling apart.”

  Britt cocked his chin. “You were expecting the house to be run down?” he paused. “So you came here on purpose? In this hurricane?”

  She lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug. “My house in New Orleans is gone. Everything.”

  She said the last words in a whisper and Britt took a step down the staircase, snapping off his industrial-sized flashlight now that the power appeared to be back on.

  Shuffling on her knees, the woman tried to get up from the floor, but she moved unsteadily, and her sneakers squished with water. “I’m so sorry!” she said, staring down at the small puddle she’d left.

  “It’s just water. Oh, and a little dirt,” Britt added with a wink and a grin. “It’ll clean up.”

  She gave him an embarrassed smile. “This is the sort of house where I should arrive in a ball gown and allow a footman to help me down from my carriage.”

  “I can imagine you doing just that,” Britt said with a soft laugh. Inwardly, he groaned. What a stupid thing to say. She bit her lips and took a tentative step backward. “I mean—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything suggestive by that. It’s the house. It does that to people who visit. To me, it’s the magic of the antebellum period. The elegance and charm. Okay, I’ll stop. Now I’m talking too much.”

  She gave a wry smile. “You took the words right out of my mouth. The house is magnificent, I love it already.”

  “So you drove all the way from New Orleans? I didn’t see a car drive up when I was checking windows on the parking lot side.”

  “I was dropped off by a nice couple who were on their way to Baton Rouge.”

  “You came to White Castle on purpose? I’m sorry to be confused. It’s not the sort of place people think, ‘Oh, there’s a hurricane, think I’ll go hang out at White Castle.’”

  She laughed, covering her mouth, and Britt was drawn to the shy, but infectious sound.

  “That makes two of us. I thought the house was uninhabited. I planned to snoop around and then report back to Mirry. So she would get better and I could bring her home,” she added, as if that explained everything.

  Giving a laugh, Britt shook his head. “Who is Mirry? A realtor or something?”

  “No,” she burst out, covering her mouth again. The gesture was endearing and charming. “Mirry is my grandmother.”

  The grandfather clock in the hall began to chime and Britt paused to listen as he always did. The woman did as well, her lips turning upward into a smile of delight, erasing the look of panic she’d had moments earlier.

  Standing utterly still, she listened as the twelve deep bongs began to signal midnight and they turned to stare at each other, only a few feet apart now.

  Britt tried to suppress the strange rise of emotion in his chest. This woman was having an odd effect on him. He wanted to protect her, shield her from the lost look in her eyes. Wrap her up in a cozy robe and just hold her in front of a roaring fire.

  There was definitely something wrong with him. Only an hour earlier, he’d been moping about Crystal, wondering how he was going to recover from the woman he thought he’d be marrying in a few months.

  She had left over a week ago, but the scenario of the strange night where he’d given her a diamond ring and she’d left, or they’d broken up, or they’d decided to take a break or whatever had happened, still puzzled him. He still wasn’t sure, and they hadn’t spoken since, except for a couple of brief texts.

  The final bong of the grandfather clock reverberated i
n the air and the woman let out a deep breath, as though she’d been holding it the entire time. “That is the most exquisite clock I’ve ever seen. I love the rich sound it makes. I need to get one for my bookstore.”

  “You own a bookstore?”

  “Yeah, Books on the Mississippi, but it’s currently sitting under water in New Orleans.”

  Her answer shocked him and he winced. “Wow, I’m so sorry. I still don’t understand what you’re doing at White Castle?”

  “That’s a good question,” she said, tiny frown lines creasing her brow. “My grandmother insisted. And … my apartment sits above the bookstore so I literally have nowhere to go. My sister lives in Baton Rouge, but she said she was with her boyfriend and I don’t have a key to her place so I came here. My other sister is in Chicago and that’s a little harder to get to with airports closed and no vehicle.”

  “Don’t tell me you walked all the way here from New Orleans,” Britt said.

  “No, I got a ride from a lovely couple outside the hospital.”

  “That’s right. You did say that. Are you hurt?”

  “No, my grandmother was admitted to the hospital with pneumonia. Her house flooded and we were rescued by boat paramedics. The city is flooded. Just like Katrina fifteen years ago. It’s … insane,” she added, her voice falling to a whisper.

  “You’ve been through a lot. I’ll bet you’re worried about your grandmother.”

  She looked into his face curiously. “You don’t even know me and yet you’re more compassionate than my boyfriend was when I told him how ill Mirry is.”

  “You have a boyfriend?” Britt was dismayed by the knowledge, and he tried to shake it off, but he didn’t like the idea of her being taken. Whatever that meant. Her presence invigorated him and Britt wanted to know all about this stunning creature who had landed here in the middle of a hurricane at midnight.

  “Sorry. I’m spilling my guts, but let me correct that. My former boyfriend,” she added with emphasis. “He ditched me and took off for greener pastures. Companionship-wise as well as location. I don’t know where he is, I don’t care, and good riddance.”

  She blushed at her strong tone, and pressed her hands against her face. “I’m really not a crazy person.”

  “Never crossed my mind,” Britt assured her. Just the opposite, he found himself thinking. She was so open, refreshing, thinking more about her family than herself. If Crystal had lost her home and business and ended up drenched and wet and muddy at some strange house, she’d have had a complete meltdown.

  It was odd how strongly he knew that now. Life with Crystal would have been stressful and wearing. Relief flooded him. No more moping, that was for sure.

  “Please,” he said. “Follow me to the kitchen. Let me get you some hot tea or something. My manners are atrocious. You must be freezing.”

  “I couldn’t possibly stay. If you call a cab, I’ll be out of here. My phone is almost dead. You wouldn’t happen to have a power cord, would you?”

  “Of course. I keep spare ones here for guests who forget to pack theirs. Where would a cab take you if the cities are flooded? And there's nothin’ around here but gators, swamp, and sugar cane fields for miles and miles.”

  “I’ll be out of your hair. I didn’t mean to barge in on you. But who are you exactly? Honestly, I thought the place was a hollow, deserted shell.” She shook her head, as if embarrassed by her rambling thoughts.

  “Sorry I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Britt Mandeville. Caretaker. Gardener. Landscaper. Handyman. Et cetera.”

  She quirked her lips, amused. “Et Cetera. Jack of all trades?”

  He grinned. “Except my name is Britt instead of Jack.”

  “Good one,” she laughed.

  A warm feeling spread through Britt’s chest at being able to make her laugh. He loved the musicality of her voice, the light in those rich blue eyes.

  She seemed a little nervous, although how could he blame her? She’d just lived through a horror in New Orleans. And he was a total stranger to her.

  “The kitchen is downstairs actually. Follow me this way.”

  Britt rounded the circular staircase to descend to the floor below. After a few steps, he looked backward at Melody. She wasn’t following him. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “I—maybe I should just walk back to town. Find someone at the gas station. A pay phone to call my sister and see if she can come get me.”

  “Haven’t you heard? Pay phones are an ancient invention. I’ll get you my cell phone.”

  She glanced over her shoulder toward the front door, then began to sidle backward. Britt felt like an idiot again. Of course, she was nervous about going downstairs with a total stranger.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized, holding up his hands. “You can never be too careful these days, right? You don’t know me. We’re alone in the house. I understand. I’ll give you my phone and ID. I promise I am the caretaker. Heck, I used to teach history to high school students up in Forest Lake. You can call my previous employers. Look me up on the internet. There’s a computer in that back room on the other side of the staircase. Here,”—he handed her the flashlight he’d switched off—“you can club me with this, if it helps give you peace of mind.”

  Melody took the flashlight and held it in her fist like a weapon. “Okay, give me your wallet. Please.” She laughed as if realizing that she sounded like a mugger.

  Pulling it out of the back pocket of his jeans, Britt handed it over and flipped it open. There was his driver’s license, his social security card, and a couple of credit cards that matched his other I.D., including a name tag he used for his job here at the mansion.

  She examined them, glancing up to study his face and the photos, then pressed the button on his cell phone.

  “If you take it across the foyer,” he told her, “there’s a room you can go into if you want to make a phone call.”

  “I’ll go out on the porch, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’ll wait right here. Take your time.”

  Britt plopped himself down on the steps of the staircase and leaned back, giving her a smile of reassurance. He liked that she hadn’t just taken his word for anything. He could be a squatter, or a burglar caught in the house. He liked her independent thinking and measured calm.

  But the moment she walked back through the front door, he found himself desperately hoping she’d come back inside and not disappear into the storm-soaked night.

  Chapter 7

  Melody leaned against the outer door frame, taking deep breaths. Her brain whirled like a merry-go-round, thoughts ricocheting off the corners of her mind.

  White Castle was gorgeous. And she hadn’t even seen it properly yet. At the moment, the mansion was all shadowy Victorian rooms—with a caretaker that about made her swoon. She had been careful not to fall into his arms in her relief at finding out that she wasn’t spending the night in a rat-infested barn. And Britt Mandeville had a working cell phone. And the house was actually warm. He must have a fire burning somewhere. And there was a kitchen—probably with food and water. And real beds with blankets.

  It was enough to make a girl weep.

  Despite Mr. Mandeville’s exquisite looks, rugged chin, and broad shoulders, she had been taught well to check into a stranger, especially since she was a couple of miles out of town—if you could call that one-road, tiny gas station, café, and a post office, a town at all.

  It was no surprise that it was pouring rain again. The wind blew so hard the rain slanted across the veranda porch. Melody huddled under the eaves and punched a number on the phone.

  She had a friend from college who was now with the police dispatcher in New Orleans. When the connection went through, Melody quickly gave Sally Britt’s name and info.

  “I hate to bother you when the phones are ringing off the hook with the storm,” Melody said, “But I’m alone with this guy and I need to know that I’m not going to wake up dead in the morning.”

  Sall
y laughed and Melody could hear her fingers tapping the keyboard like a professional secretary.

  “Britt Mandeville, huh?”

  “Yeah, what have you got on him?”

  “I hate him already. He actually takes a good photo for his driver’s license. So unfair. I’ll trade you places,” Sally went on. “This guy is hot—in capital letters.”

  “He’s also clean and has a good haircut,” Melody said with a laugh. “But serial killers can often deceive a person.”

  “Mr. Mandeville has a squeaky-clean record. Not even a speeding violation. His address is listed there at White Castle. Former employer is a website start-up, his boss a guy named Caleb Davenport. Now this Mandeville guy is the caretaker for White Castle. Has been for a couple of years. Oh—scrolling further down … guess he used to teach high school.”

  “He really is a Britt-of-all-trades,” Melody said, letting out her breath.

  “What?”

  “Inside joke,” Melody said.

  “You already have inside jokes with him? That was fast.”

  “Too hard to explain. Guess I won’t try to walk into town and hope for a non-existent motel. I’d probably slide off the road into a muddy ditch and spend the night with an alligator as a pillow.”

  “Just lock your bedroom door. And keep a weapon handy.”

  “He already offered all those to me. Plus, his cell phone.”

  “Men who intend to harm you would never do that. Now stay safe and get out of the storm, you idiot,” Sally chided. “I can hear that dragon rain through the receiver. Gotta run, phones are ringing off the hook!”

  “Thank you!” Melody said quickly, but Sally had already hung up.

  She blew out another breath and pushed against the door, desperate to get out of the weather now. But the door was stuck, the doorjamb swollen from the rain.