Undercover Princess. Suzanne BrockmannЧитать онлайн книгу.
my.”
Trey smiled. “He was a gambler and lost his entire fortune—including this house—by the time he was forty. His son, Ford, was a gambler, too, and when he was twenty, he made enough money to buy back the house, but the owner carried a grudge and wouldn’t sell. Apparently Henry had played fast and loose with other women, including the new owner’s wife. He spent at least one illicit afternoon that came back to bite him hard on the rump.”
“Oh, dear.”
“You bet. Ford met an untimely end at the hands of a gunslinger who may or may not have been Billy the Kid—local legend says yes, but it’s never been proven and probably never will. He’s buried up on the hill, overlooking the house. I bought that land, too, about ten years ago. Ford’s money was lost, but about forty years later, his grandson made a fortune selling bootleg liquor during Prohibition. This Sutherland’s name was Ellery, and he tried to buy this house back, too—probably to use as a speakeasy. He got as far as a verbal agreement with the owner…who died before it could be put into writing. A nephew from Chicago inherited.
“He had plans of his own for the house, and wouldn’t sell. He turned it into a hotel, which is why there are so many bathrooms, and why the Beatles stayed here, too. It was a solid, prosperous business until the 1970s when the nephew died, and left the place to his two sons. The sons lived in L.A., and put the place in the hands of a manager who couldn’t even begin to handle the upkeep with the budget he was given. So the place started to crumble.
“My father—his name was Arthur—he tried to buy it next, but he had cash flow problems when the stock market crashed, and he couldn’t swing the deal. He died a few years later.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“He might’ve survived the cancer, but he didn’t survive the chemotherapy. He got an infection, and…Still, sometimes I think his wanting this house was what kept him alive so many extra months.”
“So you bought the place, when?”
“Not long after that. The year Stacy was born.” Trey pushed open the door to his office and flipped on the light. “I didn’t really want the damn thing. But when I heard it was going to be torn down—somehow that just seemed wrong. I actually had fun fixing it up.”
Trey Sutherland and fun weren’t two concepts Katherine could visualize together very well.
“Now I love the place. I really liked looking at all these old photos of the way the house used to be,” he continued. “Then, ripping out all the god-awful green shag carpeting and peace-sign wallpaper was reaffirming on all levels.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Yeah. ‘Oh, dear’ is right.” He crossed to a bar, built into the wall. “Soda?”
“No, thanks, I’m fine.”
So. Now they were here. In Trey’s office with the door tightly shut behind them. Katherine slipped her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, hoping the stance made her look relaxed and casual. If such a thing were even possible.
“Thank you for telling me about the house,” she ventured. “It’s fascinating. And now, after all that time, a Sutherland finally has it back.”
He carried a can of soda toward his desk. “Yeah—it’s almost as if you can hear the collective sighs of all those generations of haunted spirits. I’ve gotta hope if they’re walking these halls, maybe my being here makes them rest a little easier.” He changed the subject without missing a beat. “It’s probably good that we’re taking some time to talk about Doug—and Stacy, too. You wouldn’t know it at times, but Stace can get really fierce when it comes to Dougie. If he’s at all threatened, she’s like this little she-bear, ready to rip out the attacker’s throat.” He gestured toward his leather-covered chairs. “Sit. Please.”
It was impossible to sit with her hands in her pockets, so Katherine pulled them free before she slowly lowered herself onto the edge of one of the chairs.
“She gave Doug his nickname, you know,” Trey continued. “Helena and I called him Dougie, and she thought we’d named the new baby ‘Doggie.’ She was only seven, so I guess it made sense to her. Anyway, the name stuck, and unfortunately, it’s probably at the core of the kid’s current problem.”
“I truly don’t think Doug has a problem,” Katherine told him. “I think—”
“He eats breakfast from a dog dish,” Trey said flatly. “If that’s not a problem, I don’t—” He stopped himself. “Okay. Look. Helena died three years ago. Three years. The kid should be starting to come around, but instead I see him slipping further and further into this world of make-believe he’s created for himself.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid that one of these days, he’s just never going to come out.”
“He’s six,” Katherine pointed out. “There’s not much reality in most six-year-olds’ lives. Although I studied psychology in school, I’m no expert, sir, and yet—”
“Trey,” he said. “Not ‘sir.’”
“Hard habit to break,” she murmured. “Nearly as hard to break as the habit of interrupting people all the time.”
“I’m sorry.” His apology was swift and completely sincere. “I’ll—Please.” He finally sat down in the other chair. “Continue.”
“It seems to me that pretending he’s a dog is simply Doug’s way of dealing with any new—and potentially frightening—situation. He’s painfully shy, yet here he is, forced to go one-on-one with a new nanny for what? The four thousand, five hundred and something time since his mother just vanished from his life.”
“Twelve,” Trey said. “The twelfth time.”
She was appalled. “In three years?”
“Almost four actually, since we hired a nanny when Helena first got sick. Mae loved the kids and Helena, too, but she left when…” This time he interrupted himself. Apparently there were some details he didn’t feel comfortable sharing.
Such as perhaps the fact that this loving nanny had left because she had seen or heard too much, and feared for her own safety?
Katherine chided herself for having such an unruly and uncalled for thought. Trey hadn’t murdered his wife, contrary to all the rumors. And there were rumors. She’d heard them at the hotel, heard them while shopping in town. It was believed that Trey Sutherland had committed the perfect murder.
But that was just talk, and here Trey had just told her Helena had been sick.
He was sitting there grimly, fingers pressed against his forehead as if he had a headache, his broad shoulders slouched back in the chair, and Katherine couldn’t bear to press him with curious questions about Helena’s death. She would go to the library, read what the newspapers had to say about it, and then, if she had any questions, she’d speak to him. But until then, they had Doug and Stacy to discuss.
“The other nannies were…” Trey shook his head as he glanced over at her. His eyes were truly a remarkable shade of blue. “Some quit after only a few days, some just simply didn’t work out from our end, most of them couldn’t handle Stacy and Doug. None of them stayed more than a few months.”
“That’s got to have been dreadfully tough on Doug and Stacy. I’m not blaming you, mind you,” she added hastily. “I’m not going to pretend that I know you in any kind of depth, but what I do know is that you love your children.”
“But…?” Trey asked, correctly hearing that invisible little word dangling there.
“But twelve nannies in even four years would have to be trying on any child, let alone a sensitive one like Doug,” she pointed out. “In my opinion, Trey—” She’d managed to say his name instead of sir, but it had come out sounding too soft, too intimate and she froze.
He was