“As you wish, miss. Dinner will be served in the small dining room at seven o’clock. If you would like something before then, you have only to ask.”
Caitlin’s stomach picked that moment to rumble. “I believe I would— just something light to hold me over for a couple of hours. It is five?”
“Five o’clock, yes. I’ll have Mrs. Smith bring a tray straight up. Wine, cheese, fruit, paté, and crackers? Or would you prefer something hot? Soup, perhaps?”
“The cheese tray sounds lovely. Thank you. Will Mr. Ridley be joining me for dinner?”
“I’m sorry, but no. He is, at this moment, still in California. He’s expected in a few days. By then, perhaps you will have a completed a preliminary survey and developed a sense of the furnishings contained in the house. An estimate of the time you will need to complete your assessment and catalog will, no doubt, be useful.”
Caitlin suspected that was more than a suggestion. Rather, he’d just given her fair warning. The boss would want information when he arrived. “Perhaps after dinner, you will give me the tour you mentioned.”
“I’d be honored.” He didn’t quite bow but inclined his head. “I’ll leave you to relax.” He glanced toward the door to the Roman spa attached to her suite. “Mrs. Smith will be up with a tray in a few minutes and will leave it on the writing-table, there.”
He indicated the surface with a nod in its direction, just in case she decided to take advantage of the sybaritic pleasures of that bath. He didn’t have to say it. The implication was clear. And, with a glance over her shoulder, Caitlin agreed. It was a damn good idea.
Farrell excused himself and left her to unpack and settle in. Her tray arrived ten minutes later, just as Caitlin had begun to hang the clothes she’d brought in the cavernous closet. She missed meeting the Mrs. Smith delivering it. By the time she noticed a slight noise in the outer room and went to investigate, the woman was gone.
Caitlin finished stowing her things and nibbled on the contents of the tray, then headed for the Roman bath. She might as well enjoy herself if she was going to be working and eating alone until her employer showed up demanding a progress report.
* * *
SILICON VALLEY
Holt Ridley frowned at his executive assistant as she placed a stack of correspondence on the exact center of his desk, a certified letter displayed prominently on top.
“Another one?” He stood and flipped quickly through the rest of the stack while he told her. “Send it back, markedRefused. Do the same with any others that arrive from this law firm.” He proffered the letter.
When she didn’t take it from him, he looked up, surprised.
She shook her head. “Sir, I’m afraid that won’t stop the inquiries.”
Holt shrugged. “They can send all they like. I’m not interested in what they’re offering.” He tossed the registered letter into the trash receptacle next to his desk.
“That’s not going to work, either…”
Holt sighed. The doggedness that made her an excellent executive assistant did have its drawbacks. She wouldn’t stop until she said what was on her mind.
“Why not?”
“A Mr. Thornton is waiting for you in the outer office.”
“Thornton as in?—”
“Barclay, Thornton, and Barclay, yes.” She held out a heavily embossed business card.
Holt took it and gave it a glance, then added it to the trash, along with the registered letter from the man’s firm. “Send him away.”
“I tried, but he won’t budge. He threatened tocamp outin the reception area,” she said and added air quotes, “if that’s what it takes to get a few moments of your time.”
Holt glared at the coffered ceiling above him in frustration. “That bad, huh?”
“He won’t leave until he sees you.”
She was very good at reading people— another reason she’d been with him for years— so if she thought Mr. Thornton was prepared to wait him out, Holt could be certain the man would not relent. Too bad she hadn’t told him what she thought about Helen Conroe. He sighed and fought back a curse. “Send him in, then. We can’t have a squatter in our outer office.”
Not wanting to give this Mr. Thornton the opportunity to sit down and thereby prolong their meeting, Holt stayed on his feet.
The lawyer, when he entered, was not the bulldog in a thousand-dollar suit Holt expected. He was slight and graying, wearing something off-the-rack and entirely too warm for the local climate.
