Paula Roe - A Precious Inheritance

He blinked, scrutinizing her in a most disturbing way before he said, “I think I will have that coffee, thanks.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You did offer coffee, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“I can help if you show me where—”

“No! No,” she repeated more calmly. “How do you take it?”

“Black with one sugar.”

She nodded then whirled to the kitchen, her mind one big hot mess. Coffee. He wants coffee. She strode over to the cupboard below the sink, opened it to grab the box of Nespresso pods and began to prepare two cups.

The familiar task did nothing to settle her sudden disquiet. Cups from the stand… What was he up to now? Spoons from the drawer… Is he fishing for more information, maybe to go to the press with? Sugar from the cabinet…

You could try to convince him to sell you the manuscript.

She eyed his broad back through the archway as she warmed the first cup with hot water. Possible. She may not have Juliet’s stunning looks and killer negotiation skills but she was still a Partridge. Persuasion ran in her veins.

She dropped the coffee pod into the machine and pressed the button. Yeah, but how much “persuading” would he need?

The brief memory of their first meeting and that weird anticipatory…thing that had passed between them suddenly flared. The scent of his cologne. The sound of her heartbeat thudding in her head. The moment when he realized how close they were, the exact second his eyes had dropped to her lips…and lingered.

She sucked in a breath, held it for an eternity then exhaled with a snort. Her entire relationship with Dylan had been a secret, sordid affair designed to bolster his fragile ego. And prior to that, she’d been popular because of who her parents were. For once, it’d be nice if a man wanted her just for her.

So Chase Harrington thought he knew why she wanted that manuscript? He had no clue. He had no idea how Dylan’s rejection of her—of his children—had cut so deeply that it had only now just started to heal. No idea that she’d chosen this new life rather than spend a moment longer in her parents’ poisonous silent judgment. No idea how desperately she needed some kind of bond, some tangible proof that Erin and Heather’s father had been a living, breathing person to her.

As the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen, she took a second to think—really think—about her situation. One—she still wanted that manuscript and all it represented. Two—Chase was a businessman, and businessmen lived to make money, right? If she could make him the right offer—

Yeah, but with whose money?

She dropped sugar into his cup then started on hers. By the time she’d finished and returned to the living room, Chase had made himself comfortable.

He’d removed his coat, and it was now draped over the back of the couch. He sat, ankle crossed over knee, looking perfectly relaxed amongst the girls’ toys and her comfortable possessions, and her first thought was: he’d make a great portrait subject. Her second: that internet search had done nothing to appease her intense curiosity.

Hedge funder extraordinaire Chase Harrington was worth billions, which was not exactly a selling point given the current financial climate. Yet he was no high-profile Donald Trump: he didn’t spend money on expensive cars or private jets. And except for that one standout purchase of a beleaguered midtown office complex, no multibillion-dollar property deals either. For all his connections and wealth, her rudimentary search had come up with less than thirty accurate hits, and only after the usual ones featuring his recent purchase from Waverly’s. From those she quickly worked out that, while he owned a few properties around the world, he didn’t date supermodels, didn’t court the limelight and was intensely private.

Which meant a possibly interesting backstory in there somewhere.

“Tell me, what exactly do hedge fund managers do?”

He took the cup she proffered, palming it in one large hand.

“Well, in simplified terms, they manage a private pool of capital from investors and advise them on trading strategies.”

“And what do you get out of it?”

“I put in a percentage, so when the investors make money, I do, too. Plus, there’s the investment and management fees.”

“So it’s like playing the stock market?”

“Sort of.” He blew on the coffee before taking an experimental sip. “The term hedging means reducing risk, so it’s all about getting as much money as you can for as little risk as possible, then getting out. All funds aren’t the same, and returns, volatility and risk all vary. You can hedge anything, from stocks and bonds, to currency, to downturns in the market.”

“Like what happened in the financial crisis.”

She noted the way his shoulders stiffened, his brow creasing. “Yeah. But that…that was the result of a bunch of arrogant, irresponsible people who—” he took a breath and gave a tight smile “—who aren’t really fit to mention in polite conversation. And the only money I manage now is my own and a few select investors’.”

She shook her head. “I’m okay at math, but you must have some kind of superbrain to do what you do.”

He took another sip of coffee then said slowly, “It’s called an eidetic ability.”

Her eyes widened. “You have a photographic memory? You’re kidding me.”

“Oh, I’m not. I was the most frequently requested party trick at college when word got out.” His sardonic tone told her it wasn’t something he was particularly proud of, which was odd.

A college guy who didn’t want to impress everyone, be the life of the party and brag about himself? Intriguing.

“Your parents must be happy you’ve done so well,” she said now.

He made a noncommittal sound and shrugged, which was neither confirmation nor denial. There was a major story in his past, Vanessa surmised. One that probably didn’t end well, given his response.

So whose does?

In the awkward silence Vanessa sipped on her too-hot coffee, burning her tongue in the process.

“So how did you and Dunbar meet?” he finally asked.

Okay, moment over. “I think we established I’m not going to answer your personal questions.”

“I’m not about to go running to the press.”

“That’s not the impression I got in New York.”

He leaned back on the couch, those worry lines marring his forehead again, a sure sign he was uncomfortable. Uncomfortable with being rude? Or because she’d called him on it?

He sighed and suddenly his expression changed. “Vanessa.” His cup went down on the coffee table as he fixed her with his direct gaze. “I apologize for my behavior in New York. I was impolite and pushy and totally got the wrong end of the story. I’m sorry.” Oh. Those sincere blue eyes held hers and, after a few seconds, his singular attention started to make her giddy, the not-unpleasant feeling a little like a champagne buzz. “I must’ve come across as…”

She finally found her tongue. “Rude?”

He nodded, stunning her further. “Yeah. I tend to get steamed when people are trying to rip me off.”

“But I wasn’t.”

“I know. Look, this isn’t coming out right at all. I made an assumption about you and it turns out I was wrong. Normally I’m smarter than that.”

If that didn’t beat all. She sat there, unable to form a comeback. Truth be told, he was not at all what she’d first assumed, and she didn’t know what to think.

“What would it take for you to sell me that manuscript?” she blurted out.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“You sure? Just about everything has a price.”

Was it her imagination, or did his expression turn bitter? “Not this thing. And anyway, I seem to recall you don’t have the money.”