Kiss Me Forever/Love Me Forever

by Rosemary Laurey

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Paranormal Romance; Vampires

Synopsis

Kiss Me Forever He's Hot. He's Sexy. He's Romantic. He's Immortal. If there is one thing Dixie LePage does not need in her life, it's complications. And the man sitting across the table from her in a crowded English pub, the one offering to buy the library of her inherited estate in a small English village, is a major complication. For starters, there's the broad shoulders. The slightly amused smirk. That smoldering look that makes it impossible to concentrate. And that infuriating, old-fashioned, and well, okay, incredibly appealing sense of chivalry. No doubt about it, the guy is hot and sexy. Of course, there is one wee little problem: He claims to be a vampire named Christopher Marlowe, as in THE Christopher Marlowe, famous playwright, contemporary of Will Shakespeare. Right. Amend that to hot, sexy, and totally insane. Please see "no more complications." So why can't Dixie seem to resist the warmth of Christopher's charm, the protective feel of his strong hands, or the tempting pull of his full mouth when the sun goes down. . .? Love Me Forever Does This Come In My Size? Justin Corvus. That was the name of the gorgeous, dark-eyed charmer holding her hand in a sensual clasp, turning her knees into jelly. All struggling, single mother Stella Schwartz meant to do was let her son, Sam, browse through books at Dixie's Vampire Emporium. She hadn't counted on the shop assistant being a stylish super-hunk with the kind of Hugh Grant accent that makes a woman's thoughts wander through a neighborhood called Take Me Now, Please. And to top it off, the man's a sweetheart. The way he picked up on the fact that she didn't have two red cents for the Halloween costume Sam wanted but made it happen anyway? Total head-over-heels time. When Justin smiles at her, it's as if he's known her forever. . .and when he asks for her phone number--to let her know when the costume is ready, of course--Stella can't help wanting this feeling to go on forever. There's something very different about Justin Corvus. . .different and irresistible. . . For The First Time Together-- Two Unforgettable Novels Of Passion By An Extraordinary New Voice In Romance Rosemary Laurey Discover one of contemporary romance's brightest rising stars, Rosemary Laurey, in two remarkable novels complete in this volume. Enter a world where enchantment runs wild, passions are white-hot, love is deliciously unexpected, and the hero is anything but safe. Experience this dazzling new author and feel twice charmed, because with novels this good, you won't want to stop with just one. . .

Release date: September 1, 2004

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 740

Sample

“You want me to give her an unwelcome?”

Sebastian Caughleigh almost smiled. His nephew caught on quickly. “We’ll call it a…discouragement.” With that laugh, James had definite possibilities.

“I can take care of one old lady.”

“This is the granddaughter. The daughter died years ago and it seems the Misses Underwood’s sister snuffed it a few weeks before old Miss Faith. This Dixie LePage is thirty and conveniently sent me her picture.”

James peered at the photo on the desktop. An auburn-haired young woman with green eyes smiled at the camera. “Nice,” James murmured. “Do I get to choose the inconvenience?”

“No! She’s arriving on the twelfth and obligingly gave us the flight number. You find her at Gatwick. Lift her wallet. Without money or credit cards, she won’t get far. With a bit of luck she’ll run home in distress. A fainting female who can’t take inconvenience.”

A glint of appreciation lit James’s pale eyes as he smiled at the photograph. “Maybe I won’t lift her wallet—first thing.”

“You will. It’s survival. For all of us. We can’t have her poking around the house and finding stuff the Sunday supplements would kill for.”

“What if losing a wallet doesn’t delay her?”

“How far can she get without passport or money? She’ll be stranded and run home—where she should have stayed. The damn woman could have had nice regular checks and no hassle, but she just had to come and see a ‘real, quaint English village.’” Sebastian snorted. “I’ll give her quaint.”

James chuckled. “The wallet should work. Nice idea, Uncle. I salute you.”

“It was Emily’s. She lost her wallet and passport in Madeira last year and she’s still talking about it.”

A smirk played on James’s pale lips. “Always knew you were attracted to the woman for her mind.” He nodded. “I’m off then, Uncle. Got to work out the details of my ‘welcome.’”

Sebastian frowned at the closed door. He hadn’t told his nephew the half. If this wretched woman arrived and insisted on claiming her property, they’d have problems beyond measure. Once she was in the house…Sebastian pushed his chair from his desk. She couldn’t get that far. James’s little diversion had to work. If not, they’d have to get awkward, maybe even nasty. Others stood to lose along with him. Maybe it was time to call in favors.

Dixie LePage prayed for patience. A train strike! Just her luck! And all because she’d listened to her travel agent, who insisted the train was the best way to travel in England. “Fast, easy, and none of the problems of driving on the wrong side of the road.” She’d tossed over a paying job and flown across the Atlantic on the strength of two letters and a phone call only to find herself stranded. She’d come out of curiosity, the promise of a sudden inheritance, and the prospect of being on a different continent from the man who’d made a fool of her, and was now stuck.

Dixie’s plan B: to hire a car and drive the thirty or so miles, might have worked. But half the population of Southern England beat her to it. Her attempts to call Mr. Caughleigh, the lawyer, didn’t go too well either. She lacked the necessary small change or a phone card. Resisting the temptation to smash the receiver into the wall, she muttered heavenward.

“Having trouble?” a smooth, very proper British voice asked.

Dixie turned and stared at the bluest eyes she’d seen since her ex-fiancé. “It’s these stupid phones. There are no proper instructions!” This was unfair, she knew. Directions came in half-a-dozen languages.

“Oh!” Blue Eyes laughed. “American, are you?” What was so amusing about that? “Use your credit card. You do have one, don’t you?” His long arm reached too close beside her and a manicured finger pointed at familiar logos. If she hadn’t been so wound up, she’d have noticed them herself.

Mr. Caughleigh, or “Corly” as the secretary said it, wasn’t in. “He’ll be in about nine-thirty. I’ll tell him you called, Miss LePage.” So much for thinking he could help her.

“Need a ride?”

Blue eyes had lurked while she called. “No, thank you.”

“I’m driving into Surrey, perhaps I could drop you somewhere?”

She remembered Gran’s warnings about white slavers hovering around train stations. Airports made a good modern equivalent. “Thank you, I’m fine.” She made to walk away.

“Don’t trust me?” The idea seemed to amuse him.

“No.” She’d never again trust a Norse god with moussed hair, a plastic smile and shallow blue eyes. She’d learned that much.

The smiling clerk at Travelers’ Aid suggested she take a coach to a place with the improbable name of “Leatherhead,” a short distance, he claimed, from Bringham. Dixie’s image of something out of a Regency romance didn’t last long. The coach proved to be nothing more exotic than a long distance bus. The so-called “express” bus made a dozen stops in a couple of hours. Dixie vowed to walk next time. Shoot, there wouldn’t be a next time. She should have taken the lawyer’s advice and let him sell the house and send her the proceeds. She settled back in the surprisingly comfortable seat and shut her eyes. Time to catch up on lost sleep.

“I’m sorry but I think you’re in my seat.” Dixie blinked. The reincarnation of Miss Marple half-smiled at her.

Dixie’s neighbor settled with a flurry of packages and a gracious smile and chatted for the next hour. Or rather nattered on while Dixie listened to details of Miss Marple’s married son, his wife’s taste in kitchen decor and her grandsons’ success in football. Dixie knew enough to know she meant soccer, however she did learn that Leatherhead was one word.

“Here’s your stop, the same as mine,” her neighbor announced and Dixie found herself and her suitcases on the sidewalk.

“Someone picking you up?” her companion asked.

“I thought I could get a taxi.” Truth was, she hadn’t thought beyond the bus ride and had no idea how far she still had to go. “I’m going to Bringham.”

“Bring’em,” she said and Dixie made a mental note to remember to swallow the ‘h’ like everyone else. She held out a wrinkled but surprisingly strong hand. “I’m Ida Collins. My son will give you a lift. He lives near Bringham. Stanley,” she said to the man who’d appeared on the sidewalk with a young boy. “This young lady needs a ride to Bringham. No sense in her wasting money on a taxi.”

Stanley took this in his stride. Maybe his mother foisted strangers on him all the time. “If it’s not too much trouble….” Dixie began. She figured she’d be safe. Rogues and abductors wouldn’t have a small boy trailing behind them.

Stanley grinned. “Nah. We live in East Horsley, it’s on the way.”

“I’ve got luggage.”

“We’ve plenty of space. I brought the Rolls. Mum likes it.”

Stanley, with his blue jeans and zippered windbreaker didn’t quite fit the Rolls-Royce image, but the coach hadn’t matched her imagination either. “Thanks, I’m really grateful. My name’s Dixie LePage.” She held out her hand.

He took it. “How do you do? Stanley Collins. You’ve met my mum, Ida, and here’s Joey.”

Dixie smiled at a small boy, complete with freckles, Dallas Cowboys’ sweatshirt, and a Chicago Bulls’ cap. “Hello,” he said through a wad of chewing gum.

Settled on the butter-soft leather upholstery, Dixie appreciated why Ida liked the Rolls. “Beautiful car,” Dixie said, eying the rosewood dashboard and the soft carpet.

She’d said the right thing. Stanley beamed. “Best one we have. We keep it for weddings mostly—and picking up Mum,” he added with a chuckle.

Dixie’s jet-lagged mind clicked. “You rent it out?”

“Right you are! Collins Car Hire. That’s me. If you ever need a car…”

“I do. Like now. You have regular cars?” She leaned over the high seat back, wide awake at the prospect of transportation.

Stanley grinned. “What’s a regular car? I’ve a nice little Metro on the lot and a Fiesta due back in Saturday.”

“I’ll take whatever you have today.” Dixie would have handed over her plastic money there and then.

Stanley chuckled. “You Americans make up your minds quickly.”

“I made up my mind hours ago. The airport rental companies couldn’t deliver.”

Stanley grinned. “Cheers then! Let me drop Mum and I’ll take you down to the shop.”

The Metro turned out to be a small, red car—stick shift, but Dixie could handle that.

Stanley called Joey over to look at her license. South Carolina driver’s licenses were an obvious novelty here. For her address, she gave the one Mr. Caughleigh had written, Orchard House, Bringham. “That’s all I have. No street or number I’m afraid.”

Stanley’s eyebrows almost disappeared under his hair. “You’re living at Orchard House? You bought it or renting or something?”

“I’ve inherited it. It was my great-aunts’.”

“Sheesh!” Stanley muttered between tight lips, his eyes not quite meeting hers. “You’re an Underwood?” He made Underwoods sound like roaches.

“My grandmother was. She died just before Faith Underwood.”

Stanley Collins sucked in his cheeks and looked Dixie up and down like a secondhand car of doubtful provenance. “I heard there was another sister who ran off with an American during the war.”

Gran would laugh at that one. She and Charlie Reilly were married in the Grosvenor Chapel with his commanding officer’s blessing, even if Gran’s sisters had boycotted the ceremony. “That was my Gran.”

Stanley rubbed at an invisible mark on the car hood. “Mentioned this to Mum, did you?”

“It never came up. Did she know my aunts?”

Stanley shrugged and looked away, intent on aligning the windshield wiper blades. “Everyone knew them. Interesting old ladies but you’d know that.”

Dixie shook her head. “Never met them. And Gran never came back here after she married either.”

He looked straight at her for twenty long seconds. “Good luck to you then. Now how long would you be wanting the car?”

They agreed on two weeks, or what Stanley called a fortnight and Dixie drove off with directions to Bringham scribbled on the back of an old envelope. She wondered about Stanley’s words as she maneuvered the narrow lanes, remembering, most of the time, to stay on the left. A black sports car passed with about two inches to spare. Dixie gasped. Had renting a car been such a good idea with drivers like that on narrow roads?

Stanley’s directions got her to Bringham in fifteen minutes. It took longer than that to find a parking place. The packed High Street stretched for fifty yards, a snarled mass of cars, pedestrians and baby carriages. At one point, it was blocked by a baker’s van. Dixie looked around as she waited, fascinated by the narrow street and the old buildings. A wool shop and its neighboring florist had bow windows and paneled doors that hinted of hooped petticoats and reticules. On the opposite side of the street, a modern grocery store sat next to a Tudor tea shop. Definitely a street to explore on foot.

She parked in an impossibly narrow space in a crowded “car park” hidden behind the grocery store. Actually getting out of the car involved gymnastic feats, and she eased herself sideways between her car and the large BMW beside her.

Mr. Caughleigh’s address was Mayburn House, 29 High Street. That shouldn’t be too hard to find. A narrow alley led from the car park to High Street, and a sign on the fence asked, “Have you paid and displayed?”

“Paid and displayed what?” Dixie muttered to herself, a vaguely obscene image coming to mind.

“You’re American,” a cheery voice announced.

Dixie turned. A young woman pushing a stroller loaded with two toddlers and groceries stood at her elbow. “You were thinking aloud. Pay and Display. It’s for parking.” She slowed her voice as if talking to a child. “You did park in the car park didn’t you?” Dixie nodded. “You have to pay.” She led Dixie to a yellow machine. It needed £1 and 50p coins.

“I don’t have change. I’ll have to skip it and take my chances with the fine.”

“You can’t do that! The fine’s fifty pounds.”

Fifty pounds? She had to be kidding. Seventy or eighty dollars for a parking fine? What did you pay for speeding? The smallest thing Dixie had was a ten-pound note. Minutes later, Dixie had a five pound note, five heavy coins, and had learned the intricacies of the parking system. A small round coin paid for an hour’s parking. She received a large seven-sided coin for change and a ticket with small print giving precise directions for placing it on the inside of the driver’s window.

Dixie squeezed between her car and the BMW, unlocked her door and set off the alarm. Silencing it took a good three minutes of searching for the manual and finding the right page. Why hadn’t Stanley explained this instead of all the stuff about dipped headlights and windshield wipers?

To Dixie’s surprise, the passersby ignored the siren. She wished she could and finally emerged, red-faced, after slapping the ticket on the window.

Mayburn House wasn’t the gracious Georgian structure she’d expected, but a yellow-brick building housing a baker and an “off-licence.” The latter looked like a liquor store. A brass plate by the front door announced “Woodrow, Hartscomb and Caughleigh. Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths.” Oaths fit Dixie’s mood right now. At the top of the uncarpeted stairs, a glass paneled door stood ajar.

“I’d like to see Mr. Caughleigh,” Dixie said as she pushed open the door.

A secretary glanced up from her typewriter, flicked her purple nails and asked, “Do you have an appointment?”

“Mr. Caughleigh’s expecting me.”

“You need an appointment,” she repeated, tapping her artificial nails.

The click of her long nails snapped Dixie’s nerves. Planting both hands on the desktop, she leaned over until they were nose to nose. “My name is Dixie LePage. I flew in this morning from the States. Mr. Caughleigh is expecting me. I wrote to him and left a message this morning. Tell him I’m here.”

Secretary blinked her impossibly long eyelashes, pulled her shoulders back and pursed her mouth. “I’ll see if he’s in,” she said and teetered across to the inner office.

Muffled voices sounded through the closed door. Dixie regretted her temper but gave Caughleigh five minutes before she pushed open the door herself. She took a deep breath and looked around the room. Battleship gray filing cabinets looked old enough to house secrets from World War I. Stacks of old deed boxes with faded names covered two walls and both chairs by the window appeared to have been quietly fading since the sixties.

“Miss LePage, I’m delighted to meet you at last.” Dixie’s images of a Dickensian lawyer were way off base. Manicured hand extended, Sebastian Caughleigh looked down at her, all six foot one of him, with bedroom eyes and a smile that could melt butter.

“You had a good flight, I trust,” he said in a too-smooth voice.

“The flight was fine. Everything went downhill after I landed.”

“Yes, yes, I got your message. These strikes!” He raised his eyes upward as if that would get the rails rolling. “Terrible. If you’d only left a number, I could have sent a car for you.”

“It’s hard to take return calls at a pay phone.”

He showed pristine white teeth when he smiled. “Never mind. You’re here now. That’s what matters and we have a lot of business to discuss.” He closed the door behind him. “You’ve met my secretary, Valerie Fortune.” Valerie smiled graciously and Dixie decided anyone called Miss Fortune could be forgiven purple fingernails. “It’s a bit late to ask Valerie to make coffee. Perhaps you’d rather a spot of lunch?”

She could use more than a “spot.” The clock said two. Her body was still at breakfast time with scant sleep. “Lunch would be very nice.”

“We’ll be at the Barley Mow,” he told Valerie as he took Dixie’s elbow.

“Uncle?” The inner door opened. Sebastian Caughleigh drew in his breath. Dixie felt her jaw drop. The Adonis from the airport stood in the doorway. “Hello,” he said and smiled. Sebastian Caughleigh didn’t.

“We’re just going out, James. I’ll talk to you when I get back.” Then, as if remembering Dixie, he added, “My nephew, James Chadwick.” Reluctance shadowed Sebastian’s voice.

“We’ve met,” Dixie replied. “James helped me out with a pay phone at the airport.”

James’s eyebrows rose, slowly. “I wish I could join you for lunch,” he said with a sly smile.

“So do we, James, but I know you’ve got things to do. See you later.” Caughleigh opened the outer door wide. Dixie stepped out and he slammed the door behind them.

“The Barley Mow is our local down on the village green. I thought, being American, you’d like lunch in a genuine old-English pub.” She would, but she wasn’t picky—anywhere that served food would be fine right now. “Just a short walk, not worth taking the car,” he said as he went to cross the road.

“We might as well drive. I have to move my car. I only paid for an hour.” A seventy-dollar fine would make an expensive lunch.

Sebastian Caughleigh stopped mid-stride. “You have a car?”

“A rental.”

He jackknifed his long legs into the Metro’s passenger seat. It took a good fifteen minutes to exit the car park, negotiate the traffic in High Street, turn right at a Norman church that invited exploration, and find a space in the Barley Mow’s graveled car park. They could have walked it in ten.

The Barley Mow stood on the edge of the village green, just yards from a wide pond that edged onto the lane. Inside, it was an antique hunter’s dream. Horse brasses hung on oak beams. A hammered copper hood decorated the chimney of an inglenook fireplace. Willow pattern plates, copper kettles, hunting prints and old maps decorated every niche and wall.

Sebastian led her through the pub. “Alf,” he said to the dumpy man behind the polished bar, “this is Miss Dixie LePage, the Misses Underwood’s great-niece. She’s over from America to see about settling the estate.”

“Hi, Alf.”

“Afternoon.” Alf looked up from counting money and smiled—at Dixie. “What can I get you?”

“Two ploughman’s please, Alf.” Sebastian turned to Dixie. “You’ll like this. It’s a pub specialty.”

She would, would she? Irritation pricked down her spine. He hadn’t bothered to ask before ordering. Were Englishmen still living in the Victorian age? And what the heck was he expecting her to eat? Meat, if the plates on the table she’d passed were anything to go by. “What’s a ploughman’s?” Dixie asked, pointedly looking at Alf.

His mouth twitched as he looked straight at her and gave her a little nod. “American, aren’t you?” Alf paused, acknowledging her agreement with another smile. “It’s a pub standard: bit of salad, pickle, a chunk of baguette, and Cheddar, Stilton, or ham depending on your choice.”

That was something; she could have a good lunch without explaining or justifying her reluctance to eat meat.

“Two Cheddar ploughman’s,” Sebastian went on, sounding a little irritated at her interruption.

“I’d prefer Stilton, Alf,” Dixie said.

Alf’s smile broadened to a grin. “Right you are.” He gave Dixie a distinctly interested look as he turned to call the order through a hatch behind him.

Dixie rested a foot on the rail of the bar and leaned on her elbows. Jet lag sapped her energy. Chauvinistic Brit lawyers didn’t help. Food might.

“A pint of bitter too, Alf.” Sebastian turned to Dixie, “How about you? G and T? White wine?”

She shook her head. “Guinness, please.”

“Right you are.” Alf filled a heavy glass mug with great care, settling the head just right, rested the glass on a towel to take up the drips, then set it on a coaster advertising Merrydown Cider.

Dixie sipped, drinking through the foamy head. The taste took her back to evenings on her grandmother’s lap, relishing the one sip Gran allowed. Something pinched deep in her chest at the thought. She took a deeper taste and met Alf’s questioning eyes. “Great,” she said. “Gran was right. It does taste better over here.”

“That’s because your people mess with it, changing the alcoholic content and I don’t know what.” Alf wiped a couple of drips from the bar top. “Staying long, are you?”

Caughleigh tapped her elbow. “We’ve got business to cover. Let’s sit in the conservatory.”

Irritated, Dixie followed him. Suppose she’d preferred to stay at the bar. Had he thought about that? She had a hard time not making a face at his broad, pinstripe-covered shoulders.

The conservatory looked out on green lawns, flowerbeds beginning to show bloom and a large jungle gym. Dixie sat down on the chintz-cushioned chair Sebastian held for her and set her drink on the wrought-iron table. They were alone except for a cat, curled up in sleep in a pool of sunshine. Dixie looked around at the faded roses on the upholstery, the polished tile floor, the geraniums on the windowsills and the mismatched wrought iron and mahogany furniture. Fashionable interior decorators would charge a small fortune to put together this look.

Dixie’s arm brushed an immense, pink geranium as she turned in her seat. The sharp scent took her back to Gran’s piazza overlooking the Battery. And her reason for being here. “Sebastian,” she said, “I’d like to see my house after lunch.”

He almost choked on a mouthful of bitter.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he replied after he’d coughed into a linen handkerchief. “I only have one key. Mike Jenkins has it. I asked him to value the house. He’s a local estate agent, very reputable. I’d recommend him to handle the sale.”

“Can’t you get it back?” Dixie looked across at his smooth, dark eyes. They didn’t quite meet hers.

He took a slow sip from his beer. “How about in the morning? It gets dark early and the electricity’s turned off.”

Alf arrived with two plates overflowing with salad, a slab of cheese, pickles, relishes, and a small loaf. The sight and smell of food reminded Dixie how long ago she’d eaten her last real meal. Plastic food on an airplane didn’t count.

“You didn’t say how long you’re staying.”

Dixie looked up from buttering a hunk of bread. “I’m not sure.” She hadn’t really thought about it.

“I’ve booked you for bed and breakfast at Miss Reade’s. She’s here in the village. I’ll take you there after lunch.”

He had, had he? “I’d planned on staying in my house.”

Sebastian’s brows wrinkled. He smiled. He showed very white teeth. “Well, you could…but there’s no electricity or gas and the water’s turned off. I know how you Americans like your creature comforts.”

“We do. But I’ve come quite a long way to see my property.”

He put a lot of effort into his smile. His eyes weren’t half bad either. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want to do. The house isn’t habitable right now. Your great-aunts were the local eccentrics, I’m afraid. I think you’ll be more comfortable at Miss Reade’s. If not, there’s a good country hotel over in Bookham.”

“I’ll stay in Bringham.” She hadn’t come this far to end up miles down the road.

“Suppose I take you over to Miss Reade’s after lunch? Leave you to get settled, unpacked and whatever you ladies do. In the morning, we can meet at my office and sign a few things that need taking care of. I’ll have the key then. We can go over the house and find out what Mike Jenkins thinks.”

Reasonable enough. Every muscle ached and her head throbbed. A whole pint on a jet-lagged stomach hadn’t been a good idea.

Sebastian gave her a key for the front door of a tile-hung cottage by the Green. Miss Reade worked in Leatherhead and wouldn’t be home until six. He carried Dixie’s suitcase up to a floral-papered room in the eaves, explained the intricacies of the electric kettle in her room, and left after agreeing to meet her at ten in the morning.

Overcoming the odd sensation of inhabiting the house in its owner’s absence, Dixie explored. This was her idea of an English country cottage: oak furniture, polished brass, open fireplaces, a spotless kitchen overlooking a neat back garden and a narrow, dark stairway hidden behind a door in the dining room. After hanging her clothes in the corner closet and placing the rest in the carved oak dresser, Dixie showered off the grime of travel and made a cup of coffee using the kettle and rose-decorated china in her room. Too weary to finish it, she crawled between the lavender scented sheets and slept the afternoon away.

 

“What the Hades were you trying? I told you to stay out of my office!” Sebastian Caughleigh stormed through the door.

James raised an eyebrow. “I wanted an eyeful of the American heiress.”

“You already had one.”

“No harm done then.” James lounged in the wingback chair.

“No?” Sebastian sneered down at his nephew. “If you’d taken her wallet as you were supposed to, she’d have been delayed, maybe even gone home in disgust. Instead, she’s here and oh so very anxious to look over her property. I’ve stalled her until the morning. You’d better find what we need tonight. There must be enough of it to fill a van.”

“I’ll find it. Trust me, Uncle.”

“Trust you? I’m not that stupid!”

James ignored that. He stretched his thin legs out towards the empty fireplace. “Where is our eager American now?”

“Safely ensconced at Emily’s.”

“How nice. Tuck away your newest opportunity in your inamorata’s cottage.”

Sebastian sat in the opposite chair, rested his forearms on his thighs and snarled towards James, “A word of advice. Don’t fail. It could get difficult for you if you don’t succeed tonight. Remember whom you’re letting down.”

“Such unkind words, Uncle. Threats even. You hurt my feelings. Maybe I won’t tell you what I took from Miss LePage.”

“You will.”

James reached into his pocket and hefted a small brown leather book. He made as if to toss it to his uncle, then pulled back his arm. “Interested?” He smiled at Sebastian’s outstretched hand.

The hand stayed open. “Give,” Sebastian hissed. James tossed the book at him. Sebastian caught it and flicked the thin pages. “Her diary. Wonderful. Now we know when she plays bridge.”

“More than that, Uncle. I had a good read while you were out courting her. It’s one of those ‘everything’ books—phone numbers, addresses, bank account numbers and every lunch date and dentist appointment since January. Without it she won’t be doing much telephoning or sending postcards to her pals back home.”

Sebastian wrapped his fingers around the soft leather. It might make interesting reading but its loss was hardly enough to make her leave. He glanced at the marble clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s almost four. I’m taking her over to the house at eleven. That gives you eighteen hours. Find everything.”

James tilted his chin. “Or else? What?”

“You may have to get an honest job.”

James paused in the doorway. “Don’t worry, Uncle. It won’t happen. Who’d hire me?”

Sebastian frowned at the empty grate. Hadn’t James understood anything? They couldn’t risk those papers falling into anyone else’s hands. Too many reputations were at stake and too much money. If only the wretched woman had stayed on the other side of the Atlantic. She could have had a comfortable three-quarters of a million. He would have settled some old scores, and been set up for life. Now—who knew?

She had to be gotten rid of. No, a better idea. Woo her? Why not? Court her a little. Break her heart and she’d go running back home.

 

A knock on the door woke Dixie. She stared at the unfamiliar pitched ceiling, and remembered. The door opened; she’d noticed earlier there wasn’t a lock, only a wrought iron latch.

A pleasantly plump face smiled around the door. “Sorry to disturb you. I’m Emily Reade. I’m about to put the kettle on. Would you like to come down in a minute and have a cup and I can explain things?”

Miss Reade liked to chat. She also wanted to be called Emily, took three sugars in her tea, and worked in a bank in Leatherhead. “Such a lovely house you have, beautiful. Worth a small fortune at today’s prices. Of course, whoever buys it will have to spend a pretty penny on it.”

Why did everyone assume she was selling? “Where exactly is it? I haven’t seen it yet.”

Emily’s pudgy eyes widened. “Orchard House? It’s just across the Green.”

Why hadn’t Mr. Caughleigh pointed it out? They must have passed it driving here. She’d look for it later.

Her arrangement with Emily involved bed and breakfast and unlimited cups of tea. Other meals Dixie fended for herself. She planned on exploring neighboring villages and the “Leatherhead” everyone referred to as the local metropolis, but tonight she’d content herself with the Barley Mow.

She’d walk. She needed the exercise. She’d barely moved her muscles the past twenty-four hours, except to sit or sleep. The evening was colder than she expected so she doubled back to the house and slipped upstairs.

Pulling a sweatshirt over her head, she heard a voice from the bedroom next door, “…. Out to get dinner…. I don’t know…. An hour or so I expect…. No, of course I didn’t…. I’m leaving all that to you…. When can I see you?…. Alright.” Uncomfortable at overhearing a private conversation, she tiptoed downstairs and closed the door quietly behind her.

The Barley Mow packed a fair crowd in the evenings. Alf had a helper, a young man with a Mohawk and a large ring in one ear.

“Evening, Miss LePage. Guinness wasn’t it?”

“A small one.”

“Half pint it is then.” Alf called to his helper, “Vernon, half of Guinness and watch the head. Anything else?” he asked Dixie.

“I need dinner. Do you have a menu?”

“Up there.” Alf nodded towards a chalkboard on the wall.

Dixie scanned the scratchy writing: shepherd’s pie, lamb curry, Cornish pasty, steak and kidney, scampi, bangers and mash, Dover sole and an assortment of salads. “I don’t eat meat. What do you recommend?”

“Vegetarian, eh? If you eat fish, I’d go for the sole or the scampi.”

“Scampi then, Alf.” In the spirit of adventure she added a jacket potato. Whatever that was.

Dixie settled in an empty table near the window, took out a paperback mystery, and settled into reading as she sipped her Guinness.

“Why, hello there!”

Dixie glanced up from Stephanie Plum to meet James Chadwick’s pale blue eyes. His smile implied she was just so lucky he’d found her. “Hi,” she said and purposely went on reading.

He pulled out the opposite chair. “Ever so glad to bump into you again.”

She wouldn’t return his smile at any price. No way was she encouraging him. She didn’t need to. He set his glass on the table. The nerve of the man! Three times in one day was beyond chance. Dixie debated emptying her glass into his lap. It would get rid of him, but it seemed a dreadful waste of good Guinness.

 

Kit Marlowe braced himself for the scent of human blood that waited on the other side of the closed door. He seldom came to the Barley Mow, but it was the best place for local gossip. He grasped the knob, remembering to hold it gently—no point in mangling doorknobs and getting unwanted attention. He stepped into the crowded bar, every nerve and sense alert and watchful. He froze. She was in here. He knew it. Nonsense! His senses hadn’t developed that well. He might sense a known quarry when he hunted, but not this unknown Miss LePage. Besides, he wasn’t hunting her. His only interest in her was an invitation into her house. The village telegraph claimed she’d arrived but the house was as deserted as ever.

Why did he sense her so keenly? Was she one of them? A member of another colony? Maybe. If Justin was to be believed, Vlad Tepes had half-populated the States with his offspring, but only mortals filled the crowded bar. He’d have scented one of his own kind immediately. He glanced around, nodding at familiar faces, noting the visitors, and found her almost at once.

Why? He just knew her the minute he saw her, sitting alone with a book. Auburn curls fell across her face as she read. He had a glimpse of smooth skin and a creamy hollow at the base of her neck. He sensed, scented the richness of her and forced himself to concentrate on the task in hand. He couldn’t afford distractions. No matter how desirable.

A man walked across the bar to her table. Eyes green as church window glass looked up from beneath silky lashes. Angry eyes in a calm, cold face. Given the man standing over her, he didn’t blame her. Caughleigh’s nephew! She had brains equal to her looks if she already disliked Chadwick. She wrinkled her nose as if assailed by an unsavory smell. Kit smiled to himself, noted the glass she clutched like a weapon, and crossed to Vernon at the bar.

Close up, her skin had the bloom of early roses. The pulse at the base of her neck beat in perfect rhythm beneath flawless skin. She smelled of night air, lavender soap, and human blood. She never even noticed him. Her attention was focused on Chadwick. Her irritation was focused on Chadwick. The quiet thud of heavy glass on wood broke the tension as Kit put a new Guinness in front of her.

“Here you are, sorry it took so long.”

She looked up. “River emeralds” was a better description for her eyes. Such sensuality didn’t belong in any church window. She gaped when he put the second glass on the table. He let her gape and turned his will on Chadwick. He wasn’t hard to bend.

“Marlowe? You’re with her? I…I never…I didn’t…didn’t realize.” His pale eyes popped like a demented Pekingese.

“Really?” One word. That was all it took.

“Didn’t know you were with Dixie. See you later.” James grabbed his tankard and disappeared into the crush.

Kit took the empty seat. “May I join you?”

She looked straight at him, chin up, her brows creased, studying him like a specimen. She met him eye to eye without faltering, a flicker of amusement twitching the corner of her mouth. Was she mere mortal? With a presence like this? With her ancestry, who knew?

“Suppose I say no?”

“Suppose I retire and give Chadwick another chance?”

“Too late, he just left.”

“I’m desolate.”

“I’ll bet you are! You chased him off deliberately. What if you’ve destroyed a great romance?”

He liked her sense of humor. “I didn’t.”

The corner of her mouth tightened. He’d infuriated her. Women hadn’t changed no matter how much the world had. “What makes you so sure?”

Elbows on table, he rested his chin on his hand. “I could smell the antagonism between you.”

She opened her mouth to complain. Then shook her head and smiled as their eyes met. “Could you also smell too much beer?”

“Any amount is too much for Chadwick.” He leaned back in the chair and watched her, willing himself to ignore the warm blood singing through her veins. “You despise him.”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t go that far. He irked me the first time I met him. He isn’t my type. You can’t despise someone you’ve only known one day.”

“It’s possible. Trust your instincts.”

“Yes, much safer than trusting a stranger who tries to pick me up in a pub.” She looked around as Vernon thumped a plate down in front of her.

Her dinner. Good. A nice distraction. Dixie stared at the plate in front of her. A jacket potato was baked, without sour cream. She wanted to eat and read in peace. Fat chance. Man number two was a distinct improvement over James but anything would be. Dixie mashed butter into her potato as she thought about the tall man sitting opposite. He wasn’t that tall. He just blocked out the rest of the room with his broad shoulders, black turtleneck and black slacks. All he lacked was the black hat to complete the villain outfit. But he had disposed of James Chadwick for her. That was a definite recommendation. Even if he looked like Long John Silver with his eye patch.

“Bon appetit,” he said.

She looked him straight in the eye. Straight in his one eye, dark and warm as velvet. “You’re going to sit there and watch me eat?”

The corner of his eye wrinkled. Was he smiling? “You’d rather I left?” Placing his hands flat on the polished tabletop, he made to stand.

“No!” She grabbed his wrist. Stunned at her action, she met his eye again. This time the smile was unmistakable.

He looked down at the hand circling his wrist. “I’ll stay, if you insist. Why don’t you eat before it gets cold?”

Dixie didn’t think she’d ever be cold again. But he was. His wrist felt cold and dry. Hardly surprising, the night was cool. Hadn’t she gone back for a sweatshirt? She took her hand off his wrist. “I’ve no idea who you are.”

“The name’s Marlowe, Christopher Marlowe.” Dixie noticed a silver signet ring with a black stone on his offered hand.

Long, cold fingers met hers. Strong, cold fingers. “Here to meet Will Shakespeare?” His fingers stiffened in her hand. His brow wrinkled. “Sorry. It just slipped out. I bet everyone you meet makes that crack.”

“You’re not the first.” He smiled. He had a very nice smile. She wasn’t about to think about his smile. Or the goose bumps on her arm. Holding his hand was quite enough. More than enough. She shook it and then let go.

“I’m Dixie LePage.”

“Great-niece and heiress of the renowned Misses Underwood. Just arrived from America in one of Stanley Collins’s vehicles. Staying with Emily Reade for the nonce.”

He had her gaping for the second time. “How did you…?” She gave up. Maybe jet lag caused terminal confusion.

“Village telegraph. It’s chronicled your progress since you drove into town. Someone, somewhere already knows your shoe size, the color of your toothbrush, and how many sugars you take in your tea.”

“Just like small towns everywhere.”

He nodded. Slim fingers stroked the stem of his glass. “You may find Bringham…unusual.”

“May? I have already. Total strangers accost you in pubs.”

“I did offer to leave.”

He had and she’d grabbed him. Maybe wrist-grabbing was a come-on in England. She hoped not…. “You don’t have to. I’m going as soon as I finish eating.”

“Stay and finish your drink.” He nudged the second Guinness towards her. “I won’t proposition you on the strength of one drink.”

“How many does it take?” Dixie almost choked. She must be getting drunk. She never said things like that.

“I’m interested in your library. Not you.” Reassurances like that shouldn’t be disappointing.

“My library?”

“The one you inherited in your house.”

It took her a couple of seconds to realize he meant Orchard House. “You want to buy my library? I’m not sure it’s for sale.”

“Just a few books. I’m interested in the paranormal. Your aunts had quite a collection. I’d like to buy some of them. I’ll pay market price. I’m not bargain hunting.”

A reasonable business proposal; it shouldn’t leave her breathless. “I haven’t even seen them yet. If I think of selling them…”

“You’ll give me first refusal?” He leaned forward, waiting on her reply.

She nodded. “Yes, if I sell.” She stood up to go. “Where can I find you, Christopher?”

“I drop by here every so often.” He would from now on. “If not, I live in Dial Cottage, up from the station.” Goose bumps again. It definitely was his smile. He stood with her. “Shall I walk you home?”

This was like something out of Jane Austen. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

Dixie was out the door before she wondered how he knew she’d walked. Lights from the pub windows lit the lane in each direction; they also showed the beginning of a dirt footpath across the green. Looking up at the stars in unfamiliar positions in the cloudless sky, Dixie realized she wasn’t the least bit ready for bed. Emily had said Orchard House was on the other side of the green. It couldn’t be that far, and Dixie wanted a glimpse of the house she’d come to claim.

The lights from the Barley Mow, and the moon shimmering on the pond gave Dixie a clear view. It would be an easy walk to cross the Green and circle back to Miss Reade’s. The dry, well-trodden path skirted around the water’s edge and joined the lane near three tile-hung cottages with neat hedges and lighted front doors. Turning right, Dixie followed the curve of the lane.

Five modern, brightly lit houses caught her attention with glimpses of flickering TV screens and a woman filling a kettle at the sink. The path ended and the road narrowed past a clump of trees that cast ragged shadows over the lane. Something fast and warm scuttled inches from Dixie’s feet. Tempted to abandon what now seemed like a crazy moonlight hike, Dixie glanced back across the Green and realized the Barley Mow was a good hundred yards away. She had to be near Orchard House. She’d tramped this far. She wasn’t going back. If she walked in the middle of the lane, she’d avoid four-footed nocturnals and tree roots.

Then she heard the owls. Two of them, calling back and forth like a pair of feathered Harpies. Nothing like it to add a bit of atmosphere. She was alone, in the dark, on a deserted country lane, in a foreign country, looking for a house she’d never seen. Dixie willed courage, marched round the next curve, and stopped.

This was her house. She knew it.

She peered through high wrought-iron gates. A gravel path led past shadows of overgrown shrubs to a square brick house where moonlight flickered on long sash windows. Paint and rust flaked in her hands as she shook the gate. The chain clanked like Marley’s ghost, rattled and fell to the ground. Budging the gate took more effort. Either the gate had sunk or the drive risen in the past months. The hinges complained, but a few hard shoves opened it enough to slip in sideways.

Dixie stood on the gravel driveway and surveyed her property. Even in the dark, she could see she owned an elegant house. Eight double-hung windows were set in a beautifully proportioned façade, and four dormers rose from the roof. A dark shadow of a front door stood at the end of the uneven path ahead and the gravel drive circled behind the house. It could have been the set for Sense and Sensibility. And it was hers. Complete with moonlight.

In an upstairs window, on the far right a light flickered. It wasn’t moonlight.

A burglar.

And in her house.

Fired by righteous indignation, Dixie raced up the steps to the front door and tugged the iron loop of the bell pull. Loud chimes echoed through the silent house. Standing on the step, Dixie watched the light disappear and then…nothing. What did she expect? The burglar to answer the doorbell?

Even the owls had gone quiet. Nothing moved in the night. Dixie half-convinced herself she’d imagined the light when a door banged. Twice. A loud cussword echoed through the night quiet.

Cautious now, keeping to the overgrown grass, Dixie crept round the side of the house. It was a whole lot bigger than it looked from the front. Odd corners and shapes jutted out behind. A cluster of outbuildings huddled over by a high brick wall. Deep shadows hid everything except rough outlines and shapes, and patches of moonlight made an eerie checkerboard of the backyard. Dixie waited by the corner, watched and listened. A dark shape slunk across the yard.

The intruder continued his path between a clump of overgrown bushes. Fury burned away all her caution. “What are you doing in my house?” she called. The intruder didn’t stop to answer. One look behind and he fled across the grass and out through a side gate.

Dixie chased, racing through the gate, out into the lane and careened into a dark figure.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, too angry to consider fear.

“Dixie?” She knew that voice.

“Christopher? Christopher Marlowe? What are you doing here?” This was a bit much, first intruding on her dinner, then her property.

“Walking home. Are you alright? You’re shaking.” Strong hands gripped her shoulders.

That last bit was true. She shook from her knees to the shoulders he held. Dixie stepped back from his hands and looked sideways. They stood in a narrow, unpaved lane. Behind her loomed the high brick wall and ahead, distant lights from the new houses glimmered through the trees.

He stepped closer. “Something scared you. What are you doing here at this time of night?”

“Looking at my house.” Had he been the intruder? He’d been suspiciously close but he wasn’t breathing heavily. After that sprint across the garden, a marathoner would be wheezing. “You really live out this way? You said you lived by the station.”

“It’s a shortcut.” One hand went back to her shoulders. “You shouldn’t be wandering around here after dark. It’s not safe for a woman.”

She’d ignore that. “Someone was there, in the house. I saw a light. He ran out this way.”

“And you thought it was me?”

How did she answer that one? She still did—halfway. “There’s no one else.”

“I promise it wasn’t me. I don’t wander around empty houses by torchlight.”

“You think I imagined it?” Let him dare answer yes.

“No. It’s probably some teenager braving out a dare. The house is supposed to be haunted. You likely interrupted some lad’s attempt at machismo. This time I am walking you home. You’re scared and it’s not wise to wander around after dark.”

She let him walk her back to Emily’s. Familiar with the path, he warned about roots and hazards hidden by the shadows. Crossing the edge of the Green, he took her elbow. “There’s a dip here, watch out,” he said. She stopped and explore with her foot. There was a hollow, deep enough to trip on but hidden by the grass.

“How did you know?” she asked, looking up at his pale face in the moonlight.

“I walk here all the time.”

Ten minutes later they stood by Emily Reade’s front gate. He waited. Surely he didn’t expect her to invite him in? He was going to be disappointed.

“Thanks for the escort. I think I can find the way next time.” She held out her hand.

A strong, cold hand grasped hers. “Take care, Dixie. I’ll be seeing you around.”

He waited at the gate as she walked up the path. Dixie turned and waved as she reached into her jeans pocket for the key. It felt warm after his fingers.

Without turning on her light, Dixie watched from her bedroom window as Christopher retraced his steps across the Green. Had he spoken the truth? Was that path by her house a shortcut to his? A few questions or a check on a map could answer that. She watched him halfway across the Green until his silhouette faded in the dark.

Christopher Marlowe paused in front of Orchard House and willed himself to think about the library inside. He wouldn’t think about its new guardian, her copper curls, her skin smooth as clotted cream, or the warm green eyes that glittered with intelligence.

Most of all he’d ignore the warm rich blood that coursed though her veins. Temptations like that could ruin everything. With her ancestry, she was more likely adversary than ally. He wouldn’t forget that. He’d learned that much in four hundred years.

 

“You’re an incompetent idiot! What this time? Scaredy cat frightened by a ghost? Give me strength!” Sebastian felt the blood rise up his neck as he snarled at James.

Pale eyes glowered back. “You try it! Nothing’s there. I’ve gone through that room twice.”

“Make it three times!”

“You try poking round that mausoleum in the dark. I’m not going back.”

A nasty chuckle vibrated in Caughleigh’s chest. “You will. I’m taking LePage round the property in the morning. It’ll be on the market by tomorrow afternoon. You’ve got one more night to find everything.”

“Or, dear Uncle?”

“Or you’ll find we’re not as benign as you thought. We can be quite nasty when roused and crossed. As the old ladies found out.”

That hit home. Sebastian smiled. He had James where he needed him.

 

“It’s beautiful.” Dixie ignored Caughleigh’s benevolent amusement. She’d need more than a morning to grasp the reality of owning such a house. Mysterious and eerie last night, the red brick glowed a welcoming warmth in the midmorning sun. The cracked paving stones were worn, not hazardous, and the garden looked neglected, not sinister. But the elegance of the house remained, like a weary dowager resting her tired bones in the sun. “How old is it?”

Sebastian shrugged. “Hard to say exactly. Too heavy to be Georgian. Maybe Queen Anne. The local historical society might know something. I think it’s listed. The back is much older of course.”

Dixie held out her hand for the key; it was four inches long and weighed several ounces. The lock turned slowly but it clicked. Dixie grasped the dulled brass knob and pushed open the heavy black door.

A musty smell and cold, damp air hung about the wide shabby hallway. Dustcovers protected the heavy furniture but a film of dust covered the marble fireplace and obscured the windows. Cobwebs decorated the crystal chandelier and the banister rails. It didn’t take much to imagine mice nesting in the rolled up carpet by the wall. “Miss Haversham would feel quite at home here.”

Sebastian Caughleigh smiled. “Your aunts had a reputation for eccentricity.”

“Surely they didn’t live like this?” She remembered Gran’s obsessive spring cleaning and her insistence on linen napkins and polished glassware.

“Miss Faith died almost two years ago, she tended to be the organizer. I’m afraid Miss Hope didn’t manage too well and the house has been empty since October.”

Sebastian strode from room to room like a zealous realtor. Dixie followed, collecting impressions: a wide, airy drawing room with faded pastel curtains, a dining room with a heavy, black oak table and exquisite pale wood paneling with a carved fireplace to match. The breakfast room looked out on an overgrown flower garden. A small parlor with worn modern furniture and an ancient TV looked like the Misses Underwood’s everyday room.

The kitchen was dark, low-ceilinged and several steps down from the rest of the house. “Much older,” Sebastian said. “They built the new house onto an old farmhouse.”

Upstairs were four bedrooms and another room filled with books from floor to ceiling. Dixie figured that must be the collection Christopher had referred to. A sixth room held an immense claw-footed tub, a pedestal washbasin large enough to bathe a small Doberman, and twin toilets with a double mahogany seat.

Dixie stared. “Why double toilets?”

Sebastian coughed. “Old-fashioned. You’d never see it nowadays. Whoever buys the house will have to modernize.”

“But worth it. With some money spent on it, this would be a beautiful house.”

“We need to get back. I promised the key to Mike Jenkins before lunch.”

Dixie wasn’t about to be hustled out of her own house. “I’m staying. He can meet me here.”

Those dark eyes almost popped. “Staying? There’s no water or electricity.”

“I can manage for a couple of hours.”

He frowned. “Fine. Drop the key by the office later.”

The house settled back into quiet as the noise of his engine faded. An hour of signing papers in his office had settled her possession of her property. She wanted time to herself to enjoy owning this wonderful house before she did the practical thing and put it on the market. How much would a house like this fetch? More than enough to buy and furnish a nice, sensible house back in South Carolina. She’d ask Mike whatever-his-name when he arrived.

He never turned up. But James did.

Busy removing dustcovers in the breakfast room, Dixie heard the front door open and footsteps cross the hall and start up the stairs. “Hi, I’m back here,” she called, assuming it was the realtor. She opened the door into the hall and James stared at her from the third step.

“You’re here?” he asked, gaping. Why shouldn’t she be? Hadn’t he heard of knocking on doors? “Don’t let me disturb you if you’re busy.” He took another step up.

“I won’t.” A half-dozen strides took her to the foot of the stairs. “Going somewhere?” she asked, one hand on her hip.

He squeezed out a laugh. “Sorry, I thought Uncle told you. I’m looking at the furniture. A friend of mine is interested in making you an offer.”

“I’m not interested in selling.” At least not to any friend of his.

That slowed him down. “Well…surely…I mean…”

“My furniture isn’t for sale.”

He stepped down. “If you change your mind, let me know.” He stood far too close to be polite in any language.

“It’s not for sale, and not likely to be in the near future.” Dixie held open the front door.

Even James couldn’t miss the heavy hint.

He held out his hand. Dixie took it out of common courtesy and wished she hadn’t when he squeezed. “See you at the Barley Mow tonight?”

Dixie grunted as she shut the door. Why had James just walked in? He’d seemed right at home. Was he used to coming and going? She shrugged and went upstairs. The bedrooms could wait, but she did want to look at her books. If Christopher was to be believed, her aunts had an interesting collection.

The book room proved too much for one afternoon. She’d come back tomorrow with a flashlight if she couldn’t get the electricity turned on. She looked around at the packed shelves, the stacks of books on the center table and the scattered footprints in the dust. Someone had been in here. Who? The person she’d seen, or imagined last night?

She looked at her watch. Her two hours had become four and no sign of Mike the realtor. She’d go back to Emily Reade’s and get a much needed shower and find somewhere other than the Barley Mow for dinner.

She walked around the backyard before she left. Tool sheds, half-collapsed coal stores, and an old washhouse spanned one side of the kitchen garden. The gate she’d run through last night stood open but she couldn’t close it. The wood at the bottom jammed on something. She hadn’t imagined those lights last night. A heavy, black flashlight lay in the ankle-deep grass.

 

“I think that’s everything for now, Miss LePage.”

Dixie smiled at the bank manager and the chief cashier. Her breath didn’t come clear enough to speak. With a couple of signatures, she’d just received ten times as much money as she’d earned since grad school. And that was only a beginning. “This is rather a surprise.” Rather a surprise! She was getting British. They were lucky she wasn’t dancing around like the sweepstake winners on TV.

“You’ll need to make some investment decisions.”

Dixie nodded. “I know. It’s just this will take some getting used to.”

“Of course.” The manager smiled, delighted to have her as a customer, no doubt. “Contact us when you’re ready. You have several options. With your non-resident status, there are some very attractive offshore opportunities.”

“How about I get back with you next week? Same time next Friday?” Dixie shuffled through her bag for her appointment book but she couldn’t find it. She took the business card he offered and scribbled a note on the back before tucking it in her pocket. She needed to get out of here and think.

Two buildings down High Street stood the Copper Kettle. Dixie chose a wheelback chair by the window, searched in vain for the elusive appointment book, decided she’d left it at Emily’s, ordered a pot of tea, and contemplated her future.

She had a small fortune in the bank and more to come after the sale of securities and the maturity of some bonds. More money than she’d imagined saving after a lifetime of work, and still more if she decided to sell the house.

It didn’t make sense. Gran had struggled with Social Security and the little bit Grandpa had left, while her sisters had sat on a stash. True, they hadn’t lived high on the hog; the house showed years of neglect. A couple of old scrooges. What else was new? Gran had despised them. “A pair of old witches!” she’d once replied to a teenaged Dixie’s questions about her English relatives.

A smart person would sell the house to the highest bidder, grab the money and take the first plane home. But where was home? She’d as good as blown her job. The man she’d loved had thrown her over for a richer (okay, not richer now!) woman with social connections. Her worldly belongings filled her neighbor’s garage and still left room for his lawn mower. . .