Patricia Seeley - The Millionaire Meets His Match

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Women to WatchWHEN THE CAT'S AWAY…Cass Appleton had the ideal live-in companion–until someone makes off with her favorite feline! Desperate to rescue poor Crudley from the kit-napper's clutches, Cass enlists the help of a wealthy widow–and the woman's sexy-but-skeptical godson.WILL THE LOVERS PLAY?The lovely Ms. Appleton stirs far more than suspicion in Gabe Preston's jaded heart. Still, the millionaire ex-cop isn't about to trust any female. To prove she's up to something, he keeps her under surveillance. But Gabe soon discovers Cass is no conniving crook. In fact, she would make a purr-fect wife–if he were a marrying man….For classic tales with an exciting twist, dazzling debut author Patricia Seeley is our Woman to Watch….

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The boy nodded mutely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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