Susan Mallery: Second Chance Girl

“Here’s your copy of the contract,” Linda said. “Along with a receipt for the first payment. As you requested, we wired the money directly to your bank.”

“Excellent.”

Linda had the firm, slim body of a woman who took fitness seriously. She looked at least a decade younger than what he would guess to be her age and he was sure, when it came to playing the game, she was far more experienced than he. He’d married young, divorced only two years ago and since then had avoided entanglements. He supposed he should have been flattered and perhaps intrigued when she said, “Now that our business is complete, I’d love to take you out to dinner. I know a great little place not far from my condo.”

Ulrich knew he could easily take advantage of what was being offered. He was single, out of the country and no one would ever know. He doubted Linda wanted or expected anything other than the one night. What could be more perfect?

Only he couldn’t summon the interest. It wasn’t that she was nearly a decade older, it was...well, everything.

“Thank you for the invitation,” he said, offering a polite smile and a tone of genuine regret. “I’m afraid I have pressing business in the eastern part of your state and I must get on the road right away.”

“Where are you heading?”

Ulrich did his best not to curl his lip in disdain. “To a town called Happily Inc.”

She laughed. “I’ve been there. A friend had a destination wedding at a place called Weddings in a Box a couple of years ago. It’s cute. An interesting choice for a man like you. Are you getting married?” She sounded more intrigued than put off by the idea of his pending nuptials.

“What? No. I have, ah, family business in the area.”

An American shyster stealing from his grandmother, to be exact.

Linda regarded him thoughtfully. “I’m sorry we won’t be able to spend the evening together.”

“As am I,” he lied. “Truly.” He waved the folder. “Thank you for this.”

“You’re welcome.”

Ulrich nodded and left. Twenty minutes later he was heading east on I-10. His rental car’s nav system promised him an arrival at his destination in less than four hours.

On the seat next to him was his briefcase. Inside, along with the contract from Linda’s production firm, was a name and an address.

For the past half dozen or so years his eighty-year-old grandmother had been sending packages to one Violet Lund. At first Ulrich hadn’t noticed or cared, until the head housekeeper had mentioned that items from the estate had gone missing. A pair of candlesticks here, a small painting there. Individually the items were of little consequence, but in the aggregate, they were significant.

He’d found out about the packages, but when he’d questioned his grandmother, the dowager duchess had informed him it was none of his business.

Ulrich had very little family left—Winifred, his grandmother, was his closest living relative. She’d helped raise him after his mother had died, they’d comforted each other when his father had passed a few years before, and he loved her deeply. There was no way he was going to confront her directly, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t go around her and find out about the disgusting human being who would prey on a helpless old lady.

For a second Ulrich mentally paused to appreciate the six or seven thousand miles between him and his grandmother. Because if she ever knew he’d thought of her as helpless or old, she would grab him by the ear and give him a stern talking-to. She wouldn’t care that he was thirty and the Duke of Somerbrooke.

Fortunately he didn’t plan to tell her. Instead he would confront the con artist and sever the contact. Then he would fly back to England and retreat to his beautiful if slightly needy home and brace himself for the Hollywood invasion.

Nothing about his mission was pleasant, but that didn’t matter. For over a millennia, his ancestors had been riding or sailing or, in his case, driving into battle. Not for glory or personal gain, but because it was expected. He had been raised to do the right thing—damn the inconvenience or short-term consequences. Or in this case, the thieving ways of the mysterious Violet Lund.

CHAPTER TWO

MATHIAS HELD THE form in position. Ronan focused intently as he heated the glass to a molten state. Timing was everything. The material had to be hot enough to shape, but not heated too much or it would become a blob and he would lose all the work he’d already done.

A sketch of the completed piece was pinned up on the wall of the brothers’ giant studio. The finished installation would be nearly thirty feet across and ten feet high. On the left was a perfect green dragon—on the right was an elegant white swan. In between the two were morphing shapes as one became the other.

Ronan had just started the piece. He had a year to complete it and then he would oversee the installation of it in an upscale hotel in Japan. While these days he mostly worked in the privacy of his studio at home, aided by assistants and interns, he often started a project at the studio they and their brother Nick shared. Mathias liked to think Ronan wanted the comradery and the shared energy, but maybe he was fooling himself. He and his brother had once been close. A few years ago, all that had changed.

Ronan pulled the glass out of the oven. Mathias stepped into place and held the form as Ronan spun the rod. Nick applied pressure with a sharp edge. The glass yielded.

The heat was intense, as was their concentration. Success or failure was measured in seconds as the material hardened in the breathable air. Ronan studied what they’d done, then returned the piece to the oven, only to pull it out again and watch it cool and harden.

The commission would be done in hundreds of sections all carefully joined together, like a giant glass puzzle. It would consume him for weeks at a time. Mathias had seen it happen before. The start was slow, then the project picked up momentum. Usually Mathias had been a part of that. This time, he was less sure.

In his head, Mathias understood why. Everything was different now. They were no longer two of the five Mitchell brothers. He dropped the form back into the bin and walked to his work area, then shook his head. Okay, that wasn’t true. They were still the Mitchell brothers, but he and Ronan, well, that was gone forever.

He studied his own morning’s work. Two serving bowls in a dozen shades of amber, moss green and yellow. Unlike Ronan’s creation, Mathias’s was practical rather than esoteric. He made light pendants and giant vessels that were used as bathroom sinks. He created vases and platters and dishes. The latter were done in various colors to reflect the seasons. White, blue and silver for winter, pale green, pink and peach for spring, red, orange and purple for summer and amber, moss green, chestnut and yellow for fall.

There had been a time when he, too, had created art, but he’d figured out this was his path. He liked what he did—he brought beauty to people’s everyday lives. If every now and then he yearned for something more, well, what was the point? Yes, he had some of their father’s talent, but Ronan and Nick were the artists. He was just a guy who worked with glass.

He studied the bowls, pleased with the outcome. Every year he tried to do something to challenge himself. For this year, he’d decided to add a shape to the serving pieces. The fall bowls had the outline of a leaf. Summer had been a strawberry and spring, a daisy. For winter, he would take on a snowflake—something he still had no idea how he was going to create. Every attempt had been a disaster, but that was half the fun.

His phone chirped. He glanced at the screen and saw he had a text from his mother.