“Welcome,” McCallister said, “to the ancestral millstone around my neck. Before you ask, yes, it’s mine. Or, more properly, it belongs to my family’s trust, and I’m allowed to rent it for a nominal fee.”
What did you say to that? Bryn finally settled for a subdued “Wow,” and studied a painting close to her. She’d seen that image before. They sold posters of it at Wal-Mart. “So you’re … rich.” Evidently, that was an understatement.
“Not really. As I said, most of this belongs to the trust; I just act as the administrator. I’m …” He thought for a second, and smiled. “A caretaker, I suppose. I avoid the place as often as possible, anyway. Liam is more than capable of running the enterprise without my interference.”
“But it belongs to your family.”
“No, to the trust. It belonged to my father. And my father didn’t leave it to me.” McCallister looked around for Mr. French, who was sniffing a low-hanging tapestry quite carefully, flat nose buried in the probably priceless fabric. “Ah, would you mind …?”
“Come here, dogface,” she said, and scooped him up. He squirmed, but she held him. God forbid the mutt should pee on anything in here; she’d be in debt for the rest of her life. “Who did your dad leave it to?”
“My brother,” McCallister said. “He died.” That was short, unemotional, and didn’t invite any more questions. “Let me take you to your room.”
“The Auburn Room,” she said. “Is everything named that pretentiously around here?”
“Be nice. I could have put you in the Aubergine Suite.”
“My God.”
“I’m two doors down,” he said. “If you need anything, you can press the button for Liam, or come get me. Don’t go wandering by yourself.”
“Ghosts?”
“None that would bother you.” Again, there was that slammed conversational door. McCallister jogged up a few steps, then turned and looked back at her. “Something else?”
She paused, hand on the railing. “What is your room called?”
“Patrick’s room,” he said. “But it used to be called the Black Room.”
Somehow, she wasn’t at all surprised.
The Auburn Room was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
Bryn paused in the doorway, staring at the graceful lines of the canopied bed, the massive gilt-framed mirror that stretched half the length of the room, the silks in muted orange, rich browns, harvest golds. If the Queen of England has a favorite room, this is probably it, she thought. Her cheap little suitcase looked particularly pathetic where Liam had put it on a folding luggage rack. The luggage rack was probably worth more than the entire contents, and the suitcase.
She’d been starting to like McCallister, but now … now she couldn’t honestly believe that they had anything at all in common. He came from a whole different reality than she—or anybody she knew—lived in. Why in the hell was he working as some corporate drone?
“I hope this is suitable, ma‘am,” Liam said, and gave her a warm smile. “Shall I bring a bed for your dog?”
“Um … can I let him sleep with me?”
“Of course.”
Yeah, what was a little dog hair on that national treasure of a bedspread, or the rug that the Antiques Roadshow appraisers would have orgasmed over? She let Mr. French hop down to run around the room sniffing excitedly, and tried not to think about the disaster that might happen next.
Liam was watching her, and clearly knew what she was thinking, because he smiled and said, “No worries about the dog, ma’am. We have seven here, including two rottwei-lers, three greyhounds, a poodle, and a pug. Your friend is quite welcome. I’ll bring some food and water for him. Anything for you?”
“I’m all kibbled out,” she said. “I think I just need to sleep, but thank you. And thanks for not making me feel … second-class.”
“You’re assuredly not,” he said, and nodded to her before closing the door behind him.
That lasted about two full seconds before there was another rap on the wood, and when she looked out, McCallister was there. He cleared his throat. “So you’ll be all right.” It wasn’t a question, really. “As I said, I’m two rooms down. The panic button is next to your bed. Press it if you’re in any way alarmed, and Liam will come running. So will I.”
“Why do you work for Pharmadene?” she asked, as he reached for the doorknob. “You must have a reason. It’s not like you need the job. If I lived here, I’d never clip on some corporate badge and wear a monkey suit.”
He considered giving her an honest answer—she could see that in the way he looked at her—but then he shook his head. “We’ll discuss all that some other time; it’s a long story. For now, please get some sleep. Liam will make sure you’re ready for breakfast. We’ll be leaving right after that.”
“Going where?”
“Hopefully,” he said, “to someone who can help you more than I can.”
“Patrick?” She saw him glance back over his shoulder as he opened the bedroom door. “Back at my apartment, we—”
He shook his head, and left without a word.
“—didn’t do anything,” she finished softly, as the door shut. “Right. Professional relationship it is. No problem.”
Despite the amazing down mattress and soft sheets and feathery duvet, neither she nor Mr. French slept much at all.
The morning dawned soft and bright, with those kind of cheerful chirping country bird sounds that Bryn thought existed only in the movies. She felt tired, but oddly at peace, and swung open the window to look out at the unbelievable view of the manicured, jewel-perfect gardens. That lasted about a minute, until Mr. French marched to the closed (and locked) bedroom door, whined, and she remembered that mansions probably didn’t come with convenient doggy doors. She was pulling on her robe and slippers and wondering what the rules were about wandering around this place looking ratty when a soft knock came at the door.
She unlocked it and peeked out. Liam smiled politely and said, “May I take the young lad for a walk outside?”
Oh. “Well … if you don’t mind …”
“Absolutely no trouble, Miss Davis. Will you want coffee or tea with your breakfast?”
Right on cue, she remembered her caffeine deficit, and her stomach rumbled. “Coffee,” she said. “And just a bagel, please. Oh—Liam?”
“Yes, miss.”
“What’s the story about this house?”
Liam regarded her for a few seconds without replying, then leaned against the door and said, “I’m not sure that Mr. McCallister shouldn’t tell you himself.”
“Mr. McCallister has a policy of telling me absolutely nothing, and it’s getting pretty old.”
“He does tend to be very private,” Liam agreed. “Very well. His great-grandfather was a hardscrabble railroad man who made a fortune, which his grandson set about squandering. Luckily, his granddaughter was more astute, and by the time Mr. McCallister’s father was born, the fortune had been successfully defended.”
“He said he had a brother.”
“He did.”
She waited, but he didn’t expand on it. “And?”
“I believe Patrick told you that Jamie died.”
“It sounds like neither one of you wants to tell me the truth about it.”
“So it does,” Liam said. “I should walk the dog, miss. Go down to breakfast when you’re ready.”
He left before she could think of any better way to pry information out of him. Not that she’d have succeeded. Liam and Patrick both seemed to have taken vows of silence on the subject.
Freshly scrubbed and dressed, she came downstairs to find Mr. French comfortably snuggled into a doggy bed near the door, looking deliriously happy. Liam showed her to the Small Room, which apparently was where the breakfast buffet was laid out; the room wasn’t small, and it held enough food to take care of a fairly major armed camp. “I just wanted a bagel,” she said weakly, surveying the ranks of gleaming serving trays. Liam pulled out a chair at the table, and she saw a steaming china cup and a bagel ready for her, just the way she’d asked. “Oh.” She sank down, and was taking her first sip as Patrick McCallister walked in.