Her Holiday Prince Charming. Christine FlynnЧитать онлайн книгу.
for him to witness in the moments before he glanced to where her son seemed to be counting something at the window.
He’d been about that age—five or so, if he had to guess—when his grandfather had put him to work stacking canned goods on shelves. After that, he’d practically begged to come over so he could help.
He’d once thought this would be a good place to raise a child, too.
“There’s one other thing,” she admitted, her voice still quiet. “Tyler has never lived anywhere other than in the house we’re leaving. We have to be out in three days. Until the job thing happened, I’d thought we’d be settled in our new house well before Christmas. He didn’t have a very good one last year and it would be really nice to find a place that I don’t have to move him from again.” Practicality, or maybe it was weariness, kept her tone utterly matter-of-fact. “So how much is it?” she asked. “And how do I make this happen?”
He didn’t know which struck him more just then: her absolute determination to do whatever she had to do to care for her child or the naked vulnerability lurking in the depths of her eyes.
As if she knew what he saw, her glance hit the floor.
Her determination to hide that vulnerability pulled at something unfamiliar deep in his chest, even as he steeled himself against it.
He hadn’t been told how she’d been widowed. Or how long she and her child had been on their own. He had no idea if her marriage had been as good as his parents’, as much a failure as his own had been or some form of tolerable in-between. He knew only from what she’d said about her child’s loss that it was entirely possible she still grieved the man she’d lost, too.
He wasn’t a particularly sensitive or sympathetic man. Or so he’d been informed by his ex-wife and certain of the arm candy who trolled the circles he moved in. But he wasn’t at all comfortable being privy to something so personal. It disturbed him even more to find himself wondering what it would be like to mean that much to a woman.
Equally unsettling was the fact that an hour ago, she hadn’t even known the store existed. “I can’t give you the terms.”
She hadn’t a clue what she was getting into.
He knew for a fact that he was no longer comfortable with what he’d agreed to do himself.
“My agreement with Cornelia...Mrs. Hunt,” he corrected, “is that she or her assistant will discuss those details with you.”
Reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, he extracted one of the same pearlescent cards Phil had given her yesterday. “Did you take the ferry or do the loop through Tacoma?”
“Ferry.”
“Which one?”
“Southworth. It lands at Fauntleroy.”
By land or water, either way it would take her a while to get back to Seattle.
“Then I’ll give you directions to their office from the dock. I have another meeting in Seattle at noon.” Card in hand, he pulled his cell phone from another pocket and keyed in a number.
With the instrument to his ear, he turned away, started to pace.
Rory glanced at her watch. It was already after eleven o’clock.
She was about to mention that when she remembered his mode of transport was infinitely faster than hers. He was already into his conversation with Phil, anyway. She couldn’t hear what he said, though. She knew only that he looked oddly resigned when he turned a minute later to inform her that Phil wanted to talk to her.
By the time the woman who had appeared out of nowhere yesterday told her everything was ready to proceed with the sale and confirmed their meeting that afternoon, Rory couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing could possibly be as simple as Phil had made it sound—and that Erik Sullivan had more of a role in the sale than anyone was letting on.
Chapter Two
The directions Rory had been given led her to the Ballard neighborhood in northwestern Seattle and a weathered, two-story redbrick building much like the others along an old business section of the waterfront. What distinguished the structure was the trail of plaster dust and debris leading from the open front door to the Wolf Construction Dumpster at the curb.
Inside, sheets of milky construction plastic masked two stories of interior scaffolding and what appeared to be something grand under construction. The filmy barriers did little to deaden the occasional clatter and boom of interior demolition. The noise was muffled considerably, however, behind the closed door of the only completed space—an unexpectedly feminine and elegant ground floor corner conference room in shades of ivory and pale taupe with a view of a marina, Shilsole Bay and snowcapped Hurricane Ridge beyond.
The long banks of ivory-draped windows caught Tyler’s attention the moment they’d walked in. Rory had thought the boats in the inlet had drawn him. Until she noticed Erik.
A walkway ran behind the buildings. She could see him outside, pacing past the rows of windows, bare-masted sailboats bobbing in the background. Apparently oblivious to the chill, he had one hand in a front pocket of his jeans, his head down against the breeze as he talked on his cell phone.
He did not look happy.
Logic told her he could be talking about anything. But the unease joining her curiosity and uncertainty over this meeting made her fairly certain his scowl had something to do with her.
“We’re so glad you liked the place,” said Phil, leading her across the floor, the click of her heels on polished oak suddenly hushed by the pale blue Aubusson rug. “With everything so unsettled for you, we didn’t know if you’d see the advantages of taking on a business right now. Especially one that you might not ordinarily have considered.”
Wearing a cream blouse and slacks slung with a thin gold belt, the woman Rory met yesterday took her and Tyler’s coats and motioned to one of the Queen Anne chairs at the circular conference table. The light from the ornate crystal chandelier above it made the mahogany surface gleam like glass. “Cornelia did feel you’d consider it, though,” she added, “given your circumstances.”
“Which are very close to what mine were at one time,” came a voice from a small alcove.
A statuesque, elegantly mature lady in pale lavender cashmere emerged from the washroom, carrying roses she’d just freshened. Her silver-blond hair was coiled in a chic chignon at her nape. Diamonds glinted from her ears. The rock on her left hand, a huge pink diamond surrounded by a dozen of brilliant white, flashed in its platinum setting as she set the vase on a marble credenza with a quiet clink.
“Please pardon the mess out there, Rory. We’re a work in progress at the moment. I’m Cornelia Hunt,” she said, intent on putting her guest at ease as she held out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Feeling a distinct connection to Alice after she’d slipped down the rabbit hole, Rory clasped the woman’s hand. She had dressed that morning in a casual black turtleneck and skinny denims to look at properties and apartments, not to meet well-dressed ladies in what could have passed for a drawing room in a palace.
“The pleasure’s mine,” she returned, fighting the urge to curtsy.
“You only met briefly, so I’ll officially introduce you to Felicity Granger. Phil is my assistant. She’s also an academic counselor at the university. She’s really rather brilliant at helping others with their life decisions, so I brought her in to help me with my work.” Her green eyes seemed to twinkle as she smiled. “What have you been told about the arrangements so far?”
“Hardly anything. The man who showed us around...Erik,” she identified, still aware of him pacing, “wouldn’t even give me the price.”
“I don’t doubt that you have questions,” Cornelia conceded. “I’ll have Phil start answering yours and explain the details