“Months…?” He set his fork aside. “I mean to sell this mausoleum as soon as possible. You’ll have to work faster than that.”
Sell this fabulous place? Was he out of his mind? “I’ll do the best I can, but research can take time. Perhaps after you have been here a few days, you’ll better appreciate what you have inherited.”
He set his jaw in a grim line. “Only for what it’s worth. I have no sentimental attachment to anything on this property. Quite the opposite.”
And didn’t that sound ominous? Caitlin returned her attention to her plate. Her dinner companion had nothing good to share. Her food, at least, she could enjoy.
* * *
Holt grimaced, certain that Caitlin, who had quickly dropped her gaze and failed to comment, had taken offense. She obviously loved old things, or she wouldn’t do the work she did. No doubt she had already fallen in love with many things here. He glanced around the room and hid a smile. That could work to his advantage. She’d naturally assign greater monetary value to things she admired.
Still, he pressed his lips together, fighting to keep from challenging her silence. It would do her no good to become attached to the house or anything in it. He intended to get rid of it all and never set foot on Long Island again, except as required to pass through JFK. The sooner she finished the job she’d been hired to do, the better.
Assuming, of course, that his lawyers could break his great-aunt’s will and eliminate the stipulation that he live here before selling the place. He could barely tolerate the idea of spending one night under this roof, much less ninety of them.
The thought crossed his mind that he could simply fire Ms. Paterson and get on with the sale. But no, he needed her to do her job. His company could use the infusion of cash, and if the contents were valuable in their own right, so much the better.
He took a sip of the wine Farrell poured and found it acceptable. Caitlin hadn’t touched hers yet. He tipped the bottle in her direction. “Would you prefer something else?”
Absently, Caitlin sipped her wine, then shook her head. “Nay, this will do nicely.”
He set the bottle aside. “I thought people mostly drank tea and whisky in Scotland.”
She settled back in her chair and eyed him.
Though he found her quite attractive, he didn’t enjoy her scrutiny quite as much as he’d expected.
“We do,” she bit out, “but we also drink coffee and wine. And we have the best water in the world.” She took a larger sip from her glass, then straightened. “I take it ye have never been to Scotland?”
“No, never needed to.” He took a bite of fish, his gaze meeting hers as he chewed. She had a glint in her eye. Apparently, he’d said something wrong— again.
“Never needed to? You don’t go on holiday?” Caitlin frowned.
Holt picked up his wine glass, then set it aside. “Vacation? I don’t have time. If I travel, it’s for work, though I conduct most of my meetings by teleconference. I’m here only because I’m legally required to be in order to settle the estate.”
She set her fork on her plate, her disbelieving gaze on him. “So to you, this trip is nothing but business.”
“Yes. What else would it be?”
“A chance to reclaim part of your heritage? To meet long-lost relatives who might still live in the area?” She leaned forward and waved a hand. “To enjoy the holidays away from your all-consuming work? I can think of many reasons why you could enjoy this visit.” She raised her glass as if in salute, or to punctuate her point, and took a long drink.
“Then you’d be wrong.” He would not let himself focus on the way her lips pressed the rim of the glass in her hand or how her throat moved as she swallowed. She seemed bent on irritating him this evening. Rather than becoming consumed with that mouth, that throat, he would go with her attitude. He emptied his glass and poured another. The bottle was getting low. “More wine?” He tipped the bottle toward her glass.
Her shoulders tensed. “No, thank you. And while we’re on the subject of the reason for your visit, how can you call this estate a mausoleum? There’s much to appreciate here. The beautiful furnishings, the history of the house and property, the setting. Yet, you just want to be rid of it. You Americans have no sense of history. Everything has to be clean and new, aye? I can imagine how your place in California is furnished— chrome and glass minimalism? Am I close?”
She frowned when he didn’t respond, but her comments hit too close to home. Not so much chrome and glass, but minimalism, certainly. He spent so much time at work, he’d done little to make a home for himself. His condo was a place to sleep and not much more until Helen Conroe threw herself at him. Now, he was back to sleeping alone, and let that be a lesson to him.
“I hope I can open your eyes before you make a huge mistake here.” Caitlin gestured with her half-full glass.
Her assessment made him uncomfortable, and that made him fight back. How much did she know about his family history? And him? He kept his hands on the table, one by his plate and one toying with the wine glass’s stem. Snapping it would show her that her analysis hit close to the bone, so he set it aside. “My eyes are as open as they need to be,” Holt replied, on the defensive and not liking it one bit. “I don’t need your help, except to do the job you’re being paid to do. That doesn’t include meddling in my personal life.”
“I see.” She laid her napkin by her plate and stood. “I think I’ve quite lost my appetite. I’ll bid you goodnight.”
Holt watched, frowning, as she left the dining room without another word. So, she didn’t like being criticized, did she? Then she’d better stop trying to analyze him and do the job that the estate— his estate— was paying her to do.
CHAPTER3
The next morning, Caitlin hurried down the village street, eager to reach the shelter of the shops in the blocks ahead. The estate’s housekeeper and cook, Mrs. Smith, had suggested having a look at the nearby village as a way to combat Caitlin’s lingering jet lag. She planned to get some shopping done for Hogmanay, which, rather than Christmas, was the holiday when most Scots exchanged gifts.
