Trust Me

by Melanie Craft

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Veterinarian Carly Martin cares for the animals belonging to an eccentric millionaire. When the old man falls into a coma, and Valerie discovers she's to inherit his fortune, the man's illegitimate grandson of accuses her of being a gold digger--until he falls in love with her. Original.

Release date: May 30, 2009

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

“You’re not what I expected,” said the man. He was handsome, with steely eyes that matched his suit, and he was as out of place
in the tiny veterinary clinic as Carly Martin, D.V.M., would have been in a Fortune 500 boardroom.


His gaze moved over her, and he nodded thoughtfully. “But now that I see you, it makes sense. That wholesome girl-next-door
look must work wonders on lonely old men.”


Carly sighed and pushed the reheat button on the coffeemaker. It was clearly going to be one of those days. The man, whoever
he was, had bypassed the receptionist and cornered her in the staff room, where she had gone to change into a clean lab coat
and gobble a few bites of cold pizza for lunch. He had walked in unannounced, set his briefcase on a chair, then dared to
call her Charlotte, which was the most reliable and efficient way to get things off to a bad start.


Morning at the clinic had begun with the frantic arrival of Gigi Beeson, society doyenne of San Francisco, whose pug had just
consumed a five-carat emerald earring. Carly had used an endoscopic forceps to retrieve the jewel, and the small dog was going
to be fine, but after dealing with Gigi’s hysterics and a yowling, barking waiting room full of increasingly impatient clients,
Carly wasn’t so sure of her own chances.


And now there was a stranger blocking the doorway, saying things that made no sense. If he was a random lunatic, he was the
best-dressed lunatic she had ever seen. A heavy silver watch was his only ornament, but Carly had spent two years caring for
the pampered pets of San Francisco’s elite and knew money when she saw it. That suit was Italian, tailored to an expert fit
over his broad shoulders, and his shoes and belt together were worth more than her entire wardrobe. Men like him did not wander
the streets looking for veterinarians to accost.


“Okay,” Carly said, trying not to think about the state of the waiting room. “You have exactly one minute until I take my
coffee and go back to work. Please explain what you’re talking about, and how you know my name.”


The stranger regarded her coolly. “Your name is just the beginning. One word from me, and my people will dig up things about
you that even your mother doesn’t know. Yet.”


Carly didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed. “You’re threatening me?”

“Damn right,” the man said. “The day you decided to fleece Henry Tremayne was the day that you messed with me, lady. And that
was a very big mistake.”


“Henry! What does Henry have to do with this?”

The man’s mouth curved cynically. “Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all. The startled surprise, the innocent, mystified look
… You’re almost convincing. Have you been practicing, or have you done this before?”


The novelty of the encounter was wearing off. “Look,” Carly said. “I’m tired, my feet hurt, and my afternoon is booked solid.
I don’t have time to stand here listening to you, so would you please get to the point? Who are you?”


“My name is Max Giordano. I’m the executor of Henry Tremayne’s will.”

“What?” In an instant, Carly forgot her sore feet and the overcrowded waiting room. “Oh, my God, Henry isn’t… ?”

“No. He isn’t. He’s alive, albeit barely. There was an accident, and he hasn’t regained consciousness.”

Carly pressed her lips together, trying to recover her composure. She did not want to cry in front of this forbidding man,
but the news was overwhelming. Henry, barely alive? He was nearly eighty, but he had always seemed ageless to her, and he
had been fine just yesterday afternoon, when she had stopped by to see him. Technically, of course, it wasn’t Henry who she
was visiting, but the latest addition to his ever-changing menagerie. This time it was a three-week-old kitten, abandoned
in a dump-ster on the other side of town. Henry’s reputation as a willing caretaker for any creature lost or unloved had brought
the baby, special delivery, to his doorstep. Carly had left him sitting in his favorite red velvet armchair, his white head
bent as he fed the tiny cat with an eyedropper.


She cleared her throat, blinking hard. “What happened?”

“He fell down the stairs and fractured his skull. He’s in the ICU at Hopkins Memorial.”

“Is he going to die?”

“At the moment, I have no idea.”

“And you… ? You’re his lawyer?”

“No,” Max Giordano said. “I’m his grandson.”

Max’s day had started at 5 A.M., when he had been awakened by the most shocking phone call of his life. He had stumbled into the shower and blasted himself
with hot water in an attempt to clear his mind and process the incredible news: Henry Tremayne—who wasn’t even supposed to
know that Max existed—not only knew about him, but had left him in charge of the entire Tremayne trust.


In the year that Max had spent planning his first face-to-face contact with his only living relative, he had never imagined
that it could happen in such a way. Henry, pale and unconscious in the hospital bed, his frail body violated with tubes and
monitors, had looked more dead than alive. Max had spent the next hours sitting alone in the visitors’ lounge, clenching a
Styrofoam coffee cup and staring through the window into the chilly, gray light of the new dawn.


It was easy to brood in a hospital. The cold sterility of the place, with its utilitarian white walls and steel-framed furniture,
magnified the horror he felt as he realized how close he was to losing the grandfather he had yet to meet.


Eight o’clock brought a meeting with the Tremayne legal team, confirming what had been said on the phone. Fourteen months
ago, Henry had quietly rewritten all of his legal documents to name Max as his primary heir and successor trustee.


Fourteen months. The timing couldn’t be a coincidence. His grandfather had learned of his existence shortly after Max had
hired an investigative firm to track down the family of the father he knew almost nothing about. Henry’s lawyers were close-mouthed
on the subject, but it was obvious to Max that someone at the firm had leaked—or, more likely, sold—the information to Henry.
Had his grandfather even believed the story at first? To suddenly be told, almost forty years after the fact, that his son
Alan had fathered an illegitimate child only days before the car wreck that killed him… well, that wasn’t the kind of news
that you mentioned casually over lunch. Max had spent many nights staring up at the darkened ceiling over his bed, trying
to come up with a reasonable plan for dropping such a bomb on an unsuspecting old man.


Little had he known that the announcement had already been made. It was lawsuit material, but at the moment, Max had a more
immediate problem to deal with, in the form of a woman named Charlotte Martin.


She was staring at him, obviously stunned. “You’re Henry’s grandson? I didn’t think he had any family at all. Aside from the
pets, that is.”


“Rich, old, and alone,” Max said. “The perfect target.”

She stiffened. “I think you’d better explain yourself.”

He was pleased to see caution darkening her eyes, replacing her earlier carelessness. She wasn’t feeling so confident. She
didn’t know what to make of him, or the threat that he represented, which was exactly as he had intended. Confused and on
the defensive, she would be easy to read. She could cling to the innocent, self-righteous role if she wanted to; it would
make no difference in the end.


It was time to get this over with. “You’ve been mentioned in my grandfather’s will.”

“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly.

Max looked curiously at her. This was an abrupt switch. He had expected wide eyes, trembling lips. What? Dear Henry thought of me? How kind. How unexpected. How much?

“You’re not surprised, Ms. Martin?”

“Give me some credit,” she said. “Anyone with the brain of a hamster could have guessed that you were leading up to that.
Why else all the jabs about old, rich men? But I’d like to know what you’re doing here, talking to me about your grandfather’s
will while he’s still alive. Do Henry’s lawyers know about this? Because if they don’t, then you have absolutely no right
to—”


“The lawyers were the ones who called me,” Max replied. “And I wasn’t using the word ‘will’ in the technical sense. My grandfather’s
estate is actually held in something called an inter vivos trust, which means that all of his assets are under the care of
a person called a—”


“Trustee. I know what a trust is. My brother is a tax attorney, and he just helped my parents set one up. You should have
just said so, instead of assuming that my entire understanding of estate planning comes from the daytime soaps. So you’re
actually Henry’s trustee, not his executor. Fine. What does that have to do with me?”


Max opened his mouth, then closed it again. This wholesome-looking veterinarian might be an unlikely femme fatale, but she
was smart enough to cause trouble if he wasn’t careful. “Henry Tremayne has given you custody of the animals in his estate,”
he said, his eyes never leaving her face as he waited for her reaction.


She blinked. “All of them? My goodness.”

“You will be their caretaker in the event of his incapacitation, and their owner upon his death. They may be placed in qualifying
homes, the criteria for which are outlined in a special document, but they must never be abandoned, euthanized, or given to
a shelter.”


He pulled a slip of paper out of his suit pocket, and consulted it. “The sum total of the animals is… twenty-three cats,
eleven dogs, two birds, and an iguana. Are you willing to accept custody under these terms?”


He had intentionally avoided telling her that the pets were only the first part of Henry’s bequest. It was his chance to erase
the Charlotte Martin problem in one quick stroke, thanks to a trick in the wording of the legal documents. If she refused
guardianship of the animals, then she would forfeit everything, and he had the disclaimer statement sitting in his briefcase,
ready for her signature. He waited, concealing his impatience. There was no way that she could possibly agree to this part
of Henry’s plan. He knew, from having questioned the lawyers, that she lived in a tiny basement apartment with barely enough
room for one animal, much less thirty-seven. She had to refuse. She had no choice.


His heart leaped as she began to shake her head.

“No,” She said. “I don’t think—”

Max seized the word. “No?”

“No,” she repeated, more firmly now. “It’s twenty-two cats, and definitely no iguana. Henry found homes for the Persian and
the yellow tomcat, then adopted the new kitten, and Oscar—the iguana—died weeks ago.”


She shot Max a chilly look. “Died of old age, I should add, in case you’re planning to accuse me of murdering him.”

Max put a hand to his forehead and discovered that he was perspiring. The clinic was hot, or maybe the day was finally getting
to him. “Answer the question. Do you, or do you not accept custody of these animals?”


“Of course I do,” she said, but a wrinkle furrowed her brow. “It’s the least I can do for Henry, after everything that he’s
done for me. I just wonder… I can’t bring them to my house… and the cost of feeding all of them…”


She stopped herself and squared her shoulders. “Well, I’ll figure something out,” she said. “Henry loves his animals, and
he’s been a good friend to me. I accept.”


Frustration gripped Max. What was this woman thinking? How could any sane person agree to be his grandfather’s zookeeper?
Her response proved that she already knew what else was included. “I’m sure this isn’t news to you,” he said, “but you’ll
receive a generous income from the trust to cover care of the animals.”


She exhaled softly. “That will help.”

Max paused, hoping to catch impatience in her expression as he delayed the real news. But she didn’t betray a thing.

“There’s more,” he said finally.

Charlotte Martin looked surprised. “Something else?”

“Yes. Something else.” Max narrowed his eyes at her. He had hoped that things would not get this far, but she was turning
out to be more adroit than he had expected. There was no way to delay the inevitable next step, but he reminded himself that
it was only a preliminary defeat. The real battle was only beginning.


He took a deep breath. “My grandfather has given you the Tremayne mansion.”

“What!”

Carly reached back to grab the edge of the counter as her knees went wobbly. “The house?” she said, her voice sounding thin
and squeaky to her own ears. “Henry left me his house?”


“No.” Max Giordano shook his head. “A house is a little building with a picket fence. My grandfather left you a mansion with an estimated value of 20 million dollars.
He left you his castle, for God’s sake, and he’s under the impression that you’ll turn it into some kind of stray animal rehabilitation
center. I assume that you know what he’s talking about.”


“Oh, my God. He was serious about that?”

Max nodded grimly, and she stammered, “I mean… it was something that we chatted about, yes, but never in detail, and he never
said anything about putting me in charge of it. It was just an idea. I never thought…”


“Really. You never thought. Oh my.” He widened his eyes in disbelief at her shock. “Well, guess what, Ms. Martin. I find that
a little hard to believe. I’ll bet that you’ve been thinking about this for a long time. It must have taken some work to insinuate
yourself into Henry Tremayne’s life and brainwash him into making a gift like this.”


Carly stared at him, finally understanding what had brought this man into her clinic with both fists swinging. Because of
her, Max Giordano was not going to inherit a significant portion of his grandfather’s estate, and he was angry about it. This
was all about greed, and the ugliness of it appalled her. Who would have guessed that gentle, eccentric Henry Tremayne could
have produced a grandson like this?


“Henry and I are friends,” she said. “I make house calls to take care of his pets, and that’s all. Your accusations say a
lot more about you than they do about me.”


“Sorry, Doc, but I wasn’t born yesterday. Old men don’t casually leave mansions to pretty young female friends.”


“They do if they have no one else,” Carly exclaimed. “Where have you been? I’ve known Henry for two years, and I’ve never
seen you or heard a single word about you. Just the fact that you think he’s a gullible old man who would fall prey to some
… temptress… is ridiculous. He’s one of the sharpest people I know, old or young. Have you ever so much as spoken with your
grandfather, or are you just showing up now to collect his money?”


Max Giordano paled slightly, and Carly hoped that her question had hit a nerve. She glared at him. “When was the last time
that you visited him?”


“You don’t understand the situation.”

“No? Explain it to me, then. When was the last time you called him? Just to say hello. I’m curious.”

Max remained grimly silent.

“I think I do understand,” Carly said, nodding. “And I’m not surprised that Henry never mentioned you. You had better pray
that he recovers, Mr. Giordano. Your grandfather is one of the kindest and most caring people I’ve ever met, and if you’ve
missed your last chance to know him, you’ll have lost more than you can ever imagine.”


It wasn’t nice, but she hadn’t intended to be nice. She wanted to slap him verbally, to see if he was capable of feeling even
a flicker of shame over the way he had neglected his grandfather. Any kind of guilty reaction would have satisfied her, but
what she saw was astonishing.


A shadow crossed his face; dark, naked, and saturated with a grief so great that every healing instinct in Carly’s body cried
out in sudden sympathy.


And it was gone as quickly as it had come. Carly blinked, feeling as if a ghost had just flitted by and touched her with one
stroke of a spectral finger.


“Mr. Giordano?” she said hesitantly, regretting her harsh words. For all his abrasiveness, he apparently was no stranger to
pain, and she was suddenly ashamed to have added to it.


He simply reached for his briefcase, giving no sign that he had heard her. “One of the lawyers will meet you in front of the
mansion at six,” he said. “You’ll be given the keys then, and you can come and go as you please. For now.”


“For now?”

“Don’t get too comfortable, Ms. Martin. You’re only the temporary guardian of the animals and the mansion. If my grandfather
recovers, this will all have a very different ending. And believe me, in the meantime, I’ll be watching you.”




The hills of San Francisco’s elegant Pacific Heights district were one of the last parts of the city to be touched by the rays
of the evening sun. Golden springtime light dappled the roof of the Tremayne mansion, illuminating the dark slate tiles and
gloomy gables, which would have looked more at home in the midst of a perpetual thunderstorm. Henry’s house was a Gothic wonder
in a neighborhood of Victorian gingerbread, and it stood high on the highest hill around, bordered by a stone wall that gave
the estate the look of a fortress. The combination of house and grounds covered an entire city block, and Carly knew from
Henry’s stories about his childhood that the property had once been even larger.


The Tremayne family had been in San Francisco since the nineteenth century, and Henry’s own father—an old-fashioned rogue
given to legendary gambling binges and surprisingly good investment decisions—had built the house with the fortune he made
from his shares of the Comstock Lode, won in a gin-soaked all-night game of poker. Or so Henry claimed. He liked to tease
her, and he knew that she was susceptible to believing any wild yarn as long as it was delivered with a straight face. It
was just as likely that his father had been a sedate church elder in the grocery business.


The wrought-iron gate was open, as always. Carly had never seen it closed, and from the look of the hinges, it would take
a strong man and a blowtorch to close it. She turned her VW into the driveway and headed uphill toward the house. It was a
familiar route by now. She had been making weekly visits to Henry and his menagerie for two years, ever since the day her
business partner Richard had buzzed her on the clinic intercom to tell her to take the call holding on line one.


“There’s a weird old guy on the phone. He says he’s got a sick raccoon.”

“A raccoon? He shouldn’t be handling a wild animal. Has he been bitten? You’d better give him the number for Animal Control.”

“No, no. It’s not wild, it’s a pet.” Richard sounded appalled by the idea. “It ate some spoiled tuna, and now it has indigestion,
or something. He wants a house call. I told him you’d go.”


The “weird old guy” had turned out to be Henry Tremayne, calling with his usual lack of pretension. His regular veterinarian
had retired and moved to Florida, he told her, his enunciation as elegant as his grammar, and he did not care for the fellow’s
successor. He was looking for someone new, but he was having a bit of trouble finding a doctor who was willing to come to
the house. Would she be so kind? He would certainly compensate her for the trouble.


At the time, Carly was fresh out of her small hometown of Davis, California, and the Tremayne name meant nothing to her. After
a brief conversation, she had decided that he seemed like a nice old man, harmlessly eccentric, and had taken his address
and promised to stop by later that afternoon.


When his directions led her to the foot of the driveway leading up to the towering Tremayne mansion, she had checked and rechecked
the numbers on the gate against the ones in her notes, convinced that she had made a mistake. Finally, she had worked up the
nerve to drive up the hill and approach the front door.


Looking back on it now, she found it hard to imagine that there had ever been a time when she hadn’t spent Wednesday afternoons
sitting with Henry in the solarium, drinking tea from the antique silver service and making genteel conversation. He was a
great fan of both pets and poetry, and had spent most of her first visit reading to her from T. S. Eliot’s Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats. On her second visit, he had presented her with her own copy, a first edition. At the time, she’d had no idea of what it was
worth, and later, when she found out, Henry had only laughed when she tried, red-faced, to return it.


Richard had been shocked when he realized what kind of client he had tossed away, and he had insisted on making the next trip
to the mansion all by himself. But Henry took an immediate dislike to him, and the next week Richard grudgingly told Carly
that he was too busy to waste his time on house calls.


Carly had met Richard Wexler when he lectured at the University of California in Davis on the use of lasers in veterinary
surgery. He was thirty-five then, ten years older than she, and somehow her postlecture questions had turned into a discussion
over dinner at the nicest restaurant in town. They dated through her last year of school, and as graduation approached, Richard
had stunned her by suggesting that she join him as a partner in his San Francisco practice. She had been over the moon with
delight, and had completely ignored everyone who warned her that mixing romance with business was a recipe for disaster.


Carly grimaced. She hated to remember her own dewy fantasies of gazing into Richard’s eyes as they worked together, tenderly
ministering to the sick and wounded creatures of the city. At least she hadn’t married him, she thought—not that he had asked.


He was a brilliant and tireless surgeon, happiest when he was in the operating room involved in some complex procedure. His
practice, though physically small, had one of the best-equipped facilities in the Bay Area, and other veterinarians regularly
referred cases to him. He would have been welcomed onto the faculty of any vet school in the country, but he was a cowboy,
not a team player, and academic life would not have suited him at all.


But Richard’s surgical strength was also his weakness. He had no patience for weepy pet owners and the hand-holding and explanations
they required. He knew what had to be done, and he wanted to do it, not to stand around explaining himself to nonprofessionals.
Carly had been sure that she was just what he needed. She could be the nurturer and the comforter, the link between his high-tech
skills and their anxious clients, and becoming a partner in his established practice would immediately give her the kind of
security that would otherwise take years to build.


They had signed an agreement to take reduced salaries for a five-year period, reinvesting their profits in the business during
that time. Richard kept a controlling interest, which was fine with Carly, who could not have afforded to buy an equal share
anyway. She was flattered and grateful that he had chosen her as a partner despite her inexperience. It was a risk for him,
but she saw it as a testament to his belief in her.


The first few months had been the bliss that she had imagined. But as she gradually settled in, and her momentum began to
fade, she began to see that Richard’s practice, and Richard himself, were actually very different than she had believed.


At first, Carly made excuses for the things that felt wrong. If Rich always seemed to be pushing the newest and most dramatic
procedures, even when she thought that a noninvasive approach would be better, she told herself that it was his confidence
that made him so aggressive. And if he dismissed her when she questioned his judgment, she reminded herself that he was the
expert, and it would be better for her quietly to watch, and learn.


So she did. And by the end of their first year together, she had learned that she was no longer in love with Richard Wexler,
and that she did not even particularly like him. They had nothing in common, including their opinions on how to run a veterinary
practice. He was the most gifted surgeon that Carly had ever known, but he was also egocentric and had no tolerance for any
ideas but his own. His clients were wealthy professionals who could afford the whopping charges that he ran up and seemed
to consider the size of the bill a measure of the quality of care. At first, Carly had tried to meet with some of Richard’s
clients to explain her views on their options, but she usually found that they did not want to listen. They wanted the instant
results that he could deliver, and even when they arrived undecided, they quickly fell into the thrall of his brash self-assurance.


“Just like I did,” Carly muttered, parking her car in the top semicircle of driveway in front of Henry’s house. Rich had somehow
mesmerized her, and the spell hadn’t begun to dissolve until she started to see him every day. By then, of course, it was
too late.


She hadn’t been surprised when he flatly refused to release her from their contract, though she didn’t know whether his motive
was malice or money. Whatever the case, he had her legally hooked. If she broke the agreement and left, she would forfeit
every cent she had invested, and that was much more than she could afford to lose.


So the business relationship, at least, had endured. Carly had gritted her teeth through months of postbreakup unpleasantness
when Richard refused to speak to her except in icy monosyllables. They had eventually come to an uneasy truce, but even with
almost three years to go before she could pull out her 30 percent of the equity, Carly had no illusion that she and Richard
would ever be friends. The clinic was doing well, though, and it was some comfort to know that the partnership had at least
been a good financial move. By the time that she was free to leave, she would have enough money—with a little help from the
bank—to open her own practice, and there would be nothing that Richard could do but scowl as she waved good-bye.


Three years to go. It wasn’t really so long, although there were days when it felt like an eternity. But she had no other
option—or, rather, she hadn’t had one until that afternoon, when Max Giordano delivered his incredible news.


Carly stepped out of her car and turned to look at the gigantic stone mansion. There were knots in her stomach. After Max
had left the clinic, she had spent the remainder of the day trying to focus on her work, but she felt as if she had been hit
by a hurricane, and conflicting emotions still battered at her like ocean waves. If what Max had said was true—she couldn’t
quite believe that there hadn’t been some mistake—then Henry Tremayne had given her a gift that was incredibly, overwhelmingly
gener. . .