Patricia Seeley - The Millionaire Meets His Match

Hurt and then indignation flashed across Bobby’s face. “It’s for your own good,” Cass explained. “I can’t let you do anything else that might jeopardize your job. As I recall, you’re going to be putting yourself through school soon.”

The boy nodded mutely.

“You can’t afford to lose this job,” Cass said soothingly. “I can’t take the chance that you’ll be penalized for doing the right thing in coming to me. I want you to promise you won’t say anything about this to anyone else. I’ll tell the police that my information came from a confidential source. With luck, Dr. Bellingham will suspect Mr. Howard slipped up somehow.”

Bobby grinned. That particular possible consequence seemed to make Cass’s alterations of his plan more palatable. “Okay,” he agreed. “Do you know where Crosswhite Manor is?” Without waiting for her answer he plunged on. “It’s not along the Cliff Walk, with the real famous places. It’s out farther, next to Heritage Park. You can’t see the house from the road—Mrs. Crosswhite has acres and acres—but you can’t miss the spot. There’s a high iron fence all around and a gatehouse out front with the name on it.”

Cass nodded. “Thanks, Bobby. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate everything you’ve done. If you hadn’t figured all this out and then put your job on the line by telling me about it, I doubt I would ever have seen Crudley again. Now I think there is a good chance he’ll be home very soon.”

“He’s a great cat, Miss Appleton,” Bobby said. “If there’s anything else I can do, you let me know.” He stood up and threw a disgusted look back at the clinic. “I’m gonna start looking for another job, anyway. I don’t like working here anymore. These animals have no class.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his lowslung jeans and exaggeratedly sauntered back to work.

Cass pulled out of the parking lot into rush-hour traffic. She should have taken a back way to Heritage Park, but on impulse she drove toward Bellevue Avenue. Her route would now take her past the renowned mansions Bobby had referred to. Perhaps looking at them first would make Crosswhite Manor seem less imposing.

When she’d first moved to Newport, Cass had behaved like a typical tourist. She’d strolled along the Cliff Walk, enjoying the panoramic ocean view on one side and the incredible architecture on the other. Along this one threemile stretch of Atlantic coastline, she had seen some of the most opulent private homes, built around the turn of the century. The Breakers. Rosecliff. Marble House. The names evoked images of beauty and extravagance, money and imagination indulged and run wild. That had been Cass’s first purely practical opinion.

But although the imitation European palaces, castles and châteaus were undeniably pretentious, Cass had come to think of them as oddly charming. Like the yearly yacht races and tennis tournaments, these flamboyant “summer cottages” belonged to a different era, or at least a different class than the one Cass inhabited. It seemed pointless to speculate about the motives and morality of the people who’d lived in such grandeur.

Except now Cass was forced to ask for help from one of the residents of the great mansions. She fervently hoped that Bobby was right about this specific woman and that she was in fact “a nice person” and “pretty cool.”

Nervously Cass practiced explaining the bizarre mixup that had led to Crudley’s kidnapping, and Mrs. Crosswhite’s unintentional involvement in Cass’s plight. Not until she pulled up the driveway in front of the heavy iron gates and saw the redbrick gatehouse manned by a private guard did Cass realize she had overlooked a fundamental problem. The guard eyed her neutrally, glanced conspicuously at a clipboard in his hand and then walked over to her car as she rolled down the window.

“Good day, ma’am,” the guard said politely, just a hint of a foreign lilt adding music to his deep commanding voice. His eyes took in every detail of the interior of Cass’s car as though she might be smuggling contraband. “Your name, please?”

“Cass Appleton,” she told him. The guard studied his clipboard again. “Mrs. Crosswhite is not expecting me,” Cass offered. “I didn’t know I would have to come here today. It’s an emergency. I only need to speak to her for a few minutes.”

“Mrs. Crosswhite does not see anyone without an appointment,” the guard said placidly.

“I can’t make an appointment,” Cass protested, growing frustrated. “Mrs. Crosswhite’s telephone number is unlisted.”

“That is because she does not like to be bothered by people she does not know.”

For a moment the two of them stared at each other, neither willing to give an inch. Sweat trickled between Cass’s shoulder blades, and she wondered how the guard managed to look so cool. Maybe it was all in the attitude. “Fine,” Cass said eventually, raising her chin to look down her nose at the man, not an easy thing to do when she was sitting and he was towering over her. “Maybe I’ll just wait here and catch her when she comes out.”

“I would not advise that,” the guard replied. “This driveway is private property. I am asking you to leave. If you do not, I will be forced to call the police. You could, of course, wait in the street if you choose, but the local authorities do not take kindly to people loitering in the area.”

He wasn’t bluffing. He had no need to make empty threats. He held all the cards and he knew it. Logic, duty and the law were on his side, and Cass was on the other. After a few seconds of glaring at the guard to prove he couldn’t run her off, Cass threw the car into reverse and backed down the long, winding driveway to the street. Despite the guard’s warning, she parked there for a few minutes, fuming.

She was annoyed at herself for not having anticipated the problem of getting in to see Mrs. Crosswhite. She should have realized visitors would be screened. On the other hand, what difference would it have made if she had thought about it ahead of time? She had a feeling the guard had heard every story in the book and didn’t believe any of them. It would have come down to the same thing, one way or another: no appointment, no entrance, at least not through the front gate.

But surely there was another way in, Cass thought with sudden inspiration. The servants wouldn’t use the front gate. Cass put the car in drive and headed slowly along the border of the Crosswhite acreage. She didn’t remember passing another entrance, but she had been watching for the gatehouse. Almost a quarter of a mile from the main driveway, Cass spotted an unmarked service road. She turned into it and followed it for several hundred yards, stopping when she discovered a second massive iron gate, this one flanked by brick pylons, but no guardhouse. There was no sign of a guard, either, only a man digging in a nearby flower bed. The gardener, no doubt.

Cass parked the car and got out to examine the gate. She glanced at the gardener, who showed no interest in her arrival. Perhaps that was a good sign. Maybe people went in and out here all day without anyone noticing or caring. Cass pulled on the iron bars experimentally. The gate was definitely locked. Someone would have to open it for her from the other side.

She sneaked another peek at the gardener. Was he part of the permanent staff, or did Mrs. Crosswhite hire some landscaping service when she needed work done? Cass thought it over. A place this size would obviously have full-time year-round maintenance workers for the grounds. Her posing as one of the staff would be too risky; the gardener would probably know she was lying. Better to pretend to be a lost visitor coming to see Mrs. Crosswhite. That was sort of true, at least.

Cass took a few steps toward the gardener and called out, “Excuse me.” The man continued working as though he hadn’t heard her. With an easy rhythmic motion, he plunged his shovel again and again into the soft earth of the flower bed, deftly turning the soil as he lifted the blade out. He was drenched with sweat, yet his movements seemed almost effortless. A natural animal grace marked every aspect of his activity. His T-shirt had been cast onto the nearby grass. For a moment Cass stood mesmerized by the play of muscles across the man’s broad shoulders and back, the gleam of his bronzed skin.

With an effort she shook off her trance and walked closer to him, following the heavy ornamental iron fence a short distance until she was only a few feet from the man. “Excuse me,” she repeated, louder than before.

This time, the gardener must have heard her. He drove his shovel into the ground and turned toward Cass. Involuntarily she caught her breath. He was incredibly good-looking. Her next thought was that he’d probably been a beautiful child. The years had sculpted a leaner, more angular look to his cheekbones and jawline, and added enough experience to make the face even more interesting than it was handsome. His sea green eyes regarded her with polite inquiry, the proper attitude, she supposed, for the hired help. Cass wished she felt equally unaffected by him. She was here on business, after all.

She cleared her throat. “Would you help me, please?” she asked. She tried to sound imperious, like a lady of the manor used to ordering the servants about. Instead, her uncertain delivery gave the request a peculiar poignance rather than any insistence.

The gardener leaned on his shovel, one foot propped on the blade. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I’m here to see Mrs. Crosswhite. Would you please let me in?” Cass pointed to the huge wrought iron gate.

“The main gate is back that way.” The gardener jerked his head in the direction she’d just come from. “Security there screens all visitors.”

“I know. I was already there. He... There wasn’t anyone at the gate so I came around here.” Cass had thought it wasn’t possible to feel any more overheated and uncomfortable until hot blood flooded her cheeks with the lie. She tugged at the neckline of her wilting silk blouse, trying to unstick the material from her perspiring skin.

“The front gate is always manned,” the gardener said, watching Cass squirm as he calmly confronted her with her own falsehood.

Cass pushed a wet tendril of dark hair out of her eyes. She had no patience for this kind of game. “All right,” she admitted. “Someone was there. He wouldn’t let me in. He insisted I had to make an appointment first, but I can’t make an appointment because Mrs. Crosswhite’s phone number is unlisted and I haven’t time to write a letter. It’s vitally important that I speak with Mrs. Crosswhite. If I could just explain the problem to her...”

“Explain it to me.”

The gardener walked casually toward Cass, pulling off his heavy gloves. He stopped just on the other side of the fence, disconcertingly close. Cass could smell the mingled scents of earth and grass clinging to his sweat-sheened body. The sun glinted off his streaked sandy brown hair.

“Explain it to you?” Cass repeated.

“Explain it to me. Convince me you need to see Mrs. Crosswhite and maybe I’ll let you in.”

Cass didn’t like the direct way he looked into her eyes, or the keen intelligence evident in his coolly assessing gaze. He seemed to be taking her measure in a completely detached, analytical way that was more intimidating and more intimate than the leering and ogling some men indulged in. She felt exposed and vulnerable, as though all her secrets were being laid bare before his critical eye. She took a step backward and folded her arms protectively across her breasts, forcing herself to meet his stare. “I can’t,” she said. “It’s personal.”