She didn’t have to wait long to find out. Holt Ridley strode in as if he owned the place— in fact, he did— shoulders back, step assured, and not the least bit hesitant. Caitlin envied him that. Good looking, even more so now that he’d abandoned his suit jacket. Even features, chiseled jaw, his chin was neither too strong nor too weak; Holt Ridley’s looks appealed to her.
And that was a problem. She knew better than to get involved with the boss. Yet the white shirt he wore stretched over impressively broad shoulders. He’d also rolled the sleeves up his forearms since she’d seen him last, drawing her attention to his broad, tanned hands. Nice. Did he do any real work with them or just buy and sell, and count his money?
“Good evening.” She took the initiative rather than let him control their conversation from the start. She wouldn’t let him put her on the spot like he had in the office.
His stride broke ever so slightly. Had she glanced away, she never would have seen it. So he could be put off-kilter, eh?
“Good evening.” He met her gaze with eyes the color of stone, gray and hard, and took his seat. He frowned at the serviette on his plate, picked it up and shook it out, then draped it across his lap. “Is this usual?” He waved a hand.
Caitlin had no difficulty taking his meaning. He’d indicated the table setting and the small but formal dining room around them. “Somewhat.” She shrugged. “I’ve been eating alone in here the past two days. Though usually by the light of the chandelier,” she told him and gestured toward it. “The candlelight is a bit…spooky, actually.”
His gaze dropped from the light fixture to her. “Not the romantic sort, then, are you?”
Sarcasm seemed to be his weapon of choice.Interesting to meet her— her arse. Caitlin opened her mouth, intending to return fire. Fortunately, Farrell and Mrs. Smith came in bearing silver-domed plates, set them down in perfect synchrony, and lifted the domes away. The scent of their dinner wafting past her nose made Caitlin’s mouth water. No matter what else might aggravate her while staying here, she could not complain about the food. Tonight’s menu included poached salmon with dill, a potato casserole of some sort and bright green peas. Melted butter drenched a split roll, soft and still steaming from the oven. She smiled her thanks to Mrs. Smith as Farrell approached with a bottle.
“Wine, miss? It’s a local vintage, from a north fork estate.”
“Thank you, I believe I will.” If Mr. Ridley intended to be a disagreeable dinner companion, maybe some wine would loosen him up enough for them to have a civil conversation. At the very least, a glass or two would make her feel better about it if he didn’t.
Farrell poured for them both, then set the bottle in a crystal dish near Ridley, and left the room.
After a moment, she realized Ridley was waiting for her to start. Decided to be polite, had he? She picked up her fork and sampled the fish, which melted in her mouth. A taste of the potato casserole and she forgot her dinner companion for as long as it took to savor the creamy, cheesy richness. She hoped her eyes hadn’t rolled back in her head. She hadn’t groaned in appreciation, had she? She snuck a glance Ridley’s way. His gaze was on the piece of bread he was using to sop up more of the melted butter, but a small smile played around his lips. Damn, she had.
“It’s rather good, aye?” she asked, to cover her embarrassment.
“Indeed. Irish butter, I believe.”
“What?” She meant the fish and the potato casserole. “How would ye ken…I meanknow…?”
“Oh, we’re quite civilized in California. All the latest food fads either start or end up there. Irish butter has been popular for months.”
“No’ in Scotland,” she muttered and tried a bite of the butter-soaked bread. She wouldn’t admit it tasted quite good.
“You’re Scottish, then?” He took a bite of potato casserole.
Caitlin grinned as his eyes closed with obvious pleasure. So, he had a bit of a hedonistic streak, too, alongside that sarcastic wit he’d displayed since she first met him. You’d think a billionaire who could have anything he wanted any time he wanted it would have gotten blasé about such simple pleasures as a cheesy potato casserole or imported butter. Caitlin found herself wondering what else would make his dark eyes close in appreciation.
Nay! No sense wondering about that. She was here to do a job, then return to Scotland. Ridley was here for a few days before he headed home to California, and she’d never see him again.
“Aye, I’m from Scotland,” she told him as his eyes opened. She dropped her gaze quickly to her plate, pretending she hadn’t noticed his lapse, though she couldn’t say why she did him that favor. She distracted herself by wondering if he knew her cousin’s wife’s family in California. That would be proof of a small world indeed.
“So, the estate lawyer thought the things in this house were British imports. That is the reason you were hired?”
Caitlin took the question as a challenge. “Aye, and for the most part, they are. He has documentation on some of it, bills of lading and whatnot, from when they were shipped from England, some recent, some going back many decades or longer. I’ve experience with many types of British antiques, most recently with pieces from the Jacobite period.”
“Which is…?”
“Eighteenth-century. ’Tis a long, sad tale. I’d sooner no’ spoil our dinner in the telling. Some other time.”
A small frown drew his brows together, forming that crease she’d noticed earlier.
“And your recent expertise with Jaco…what did you call it?”
“Jacobite. Whether any of the pieces in this house are Jacobite remains to be seen.” Even if she knew, she didn’t see the sense in telling the man over dinner that his ancestors had stolen some of the contents of this house from her ancestors, at best after forcing them from their homes and land. At worst, they had killed the men and bairns, then raped and killed the women. He wouldn’t consider that proper dinner conversation.
“When do you think you’ll…see?”
“I’ve only started, really. This could take weeks, perhaps months, to reliably determine the provenance of some furnishings.”
