Radclyffe - Homestead

“Thanks for stopping by, Pete.”

Tess walked him to the door and watched him drive away. She wasn’t surprised he’d made an offer for her farm and briefly wondered what else motivated his opposition to the drilling. Pete struck her as the kind of man who always had a contingency plan. Clay would handle him, although Tess didn’t know why she believed that. She knew nothing of the woman Clay had become. And she didn’t want to.

She really didn’t want to think about Clay at all, even though she’d done almost nothing except exactly that since Clay had appeared out of nowhere, as if she’d never been gone.

Clay held the door for Ella as they left the diner.

“You really should let me know when you’re going out,” Ella said.

“I hardly think I need protection around here.” Clay gestured to the mostly empty streets on the short walk back to the small lot behind the B&B where Ella had parked the SUV.

“I know you can take care of yourself, but you underestimate your own importance. And if you’re not worried about yourself, just consider what happened to Doug in London last year.”

“I know, I know,” Clay said. Doug Hedley, NorthAm’s UK division head, had been mugged and his briefcase stolen along with some important merger papers. The theft had seriously compromised the final deal. They’d never been able to determine if the attack was specifically targeted or random, but industrial espionage and blatant strong-arm tactics were becoming commonplace in the highly competitive world of international fuel acquisition. Add to that her father’s high profile and substantial wealth, and Clay was a potential target for kidnapping or attack. She didn’t like the lack of privacy that went along with personal security, but she wasn’t consciously trying to make Ella’s job harder. “I was going to call you at a decent hour.”

“I was awake.” Ella unlocked the SUV with the remote.

“Well, you obviously knew where I was.”

“Knowing where you are isn’t good enough. I need to be with you.” Ella paused, regarded the Harley next to the SUV, then eyed Clay. “Is that by any chance—”

Clay gave her the smile that usually got her one in return—with most women. “Guilty.”

Ella shook her head. “Just be careful—and stay in touch with me. The diner felt decidedly cool this morning.”

Clay sighed. “I have some work to do.”

“Well, you’ve had practice. You’re good at putting things into perspective for people.”

“Thanks.”

“I still want you to keep a low profile for a while.”

“I’ll try to behave,” Clay said.

Ella nodded, looking skeptical. “That should be interesting.”

Laughing, Clay settled into the passenger seat and opened the briefcase Ella had brought along, content to let Ella drive. Ella was a good driver and Clay needed the time to review the specs on the job. When her cell phone rang, she checked the readout and answered. “Hello, Dad.”

“How’s the weather?” Her father’s deep baritone resonated even with a sketchy connection. He’d always been able to command a room with just a look and a word.

“Hot.”

“So I hear.” He said something in a low murmur to someone else and then came back briskly. “You’ve got some loose ends up there that need immediate attention. Millie will email you with the details on the acquisitions still in the works. You’ll want to sew those up as quickly as you can.”

“What do you mean, acquisitions? I thought Ali had that all taken care of.”

“We didn’t expect to green-light this project so quickly, and Ali hadn’t pressed to close the deals. We need to have unrestricted access to all drill sites to determine the optimal locations. Let’s move this along before someone in the legislature changes his mind again. Once we’re drilling, forward momentum will make it impossible to stop us.”

“What kind of budget—”

“Whatever you need. Take a look at what we negotiated originally and work from there. You ought to be able to handle negotiations with a bunch of farmers.”

Clay bit back a retort. Arguing with her father had always been an exercise in futility. Thinking of Tess’s opposition and the resistance she’d heard that morning, she suggested, “Maybe we should back off a bit and do a little more advance work. There’s a fair amount of opposition—”

“And that’s exactly why we need to move faster. We’ve got a toehold—now I need you to expand it. I’m confident you will.”

“Right. I’ll look over Ali’s paperwork as soon as I can. Then I’ll set up meetings with the landowners.”

“I trust you won’t complicate issues with old history.”

Clay squeezed the phone hard enough to make her knuckles ache. “The past has nothing to do with what’s going on here now.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear that. I’ll expect a report tomorrow.”

“All right, I’ll do what I ca—”

“And don’t forget Annabelle’s birthday celebration. You’re expected.”

“On my calendar.” Clay’s stepmother number two was a younger version of stepmother number one and, while pleasant enough, was essentially a stranger. “Wouldn’t miss it.” She disconnected and slid the phone into the front pocket of her pants. She looked out the window, the blaze of her temper blocking out the scenery.

“Problem?” Ella asked quietly.

“Nothing more than usual.” Clay clenched her fist on her knee. Her father still assumed he could direct her private life as well as her professional one, maybe because she let him.

“Can I help?”

“No,” Clay said softly. “This one’s on me.”

Tess reached Albany with ten minutes to spare and parked on Lark Street around the corner from the address Leslie had given her. Climbing the wide stone stairs to the three-story brownstone, she was reminded of how it felt being the girl who came to work at the resort rather than one of the girls spending the summer there vacationing. But Leslie hadn’t really been one of those privileged girls, either. She’d been the daughter of the resort owner, and there had been plenty of days when she and Tess had worked side by side when things got busy. By the time Tess pressed the brass doorbell next to the wide walnut doors, she’d forgotten past insecurities. She wasn’t that girl anymore and hadn’t been for a long time.

A female voice came over the intercom. “Yes?”

“Hi, I have an appointment with Leslie Harris today.” Tess automatically glanced up at the camera tucked into the corner of the alcove and smiled.

“Of course. Come right in.”

The lock buzzed, and the ornate brass doorknob turned in her hand. The foyer was as elegant as some living rooms she’d been in—old slate squares on the floor, dark walnut wainscoting, and above that, wallpaper in a muted floral print Tess guessed was original. She followed the winding mahogany staircase upward to the second floor where a discreet plaque announced Leslie Harris Attorney-at-Law . She entered a waiting room with a thick Oriental carpet and dark wood trim where a woman in a pale-green linen dress that complemented her auburn hair and moss-green eyes sat behind an old-fashioned cherry desk.

“Tess?” the woman said.

“Yes.”

“Estelle Clinton, Leslie’s paralegal. She’s just finishing up a phone conference and will be with you in a minute.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you need anything while you’re waiting? Sparkling water? Coffee? Tea?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks,” Tess said again and sat in one of the casual chairs arranged in a small seating area in front of the windows. Watching people walking by, she tried to remember the last time she’d been in the city. Two years? Three? In the last few years, more and more of the farm work had fallen to her, which provided a convenient excuse for her progressively hermitlike life. She hadn’t dated anyone after a few casual relationships during college that were more friendly than passionate, and though she detected some interest in a few women she bumped into regularly in the village and at Grange meetings, she always managed to sidestep any possibility of intimacy. She was tired of disappointing the ones who hoped for something more—something she seemed unable to give and had forgotten how to feel. She told herself she was too busy for a relationship, and that was partly true. The other part she didn’t want to look at too closely.