No. He couldn’t hate her. Even her lying was cute, like a kitten who couldn’t help but bite you.
Whoa. He seemed to be about to hand her carte blanche for anything. This was ridiculously dangerous. He had to get out of this mood and fast.
He shifted his gaze to his mother. Except, she wasn’t really his mother. It had been drummed into his head that he had to call her that, but it had never penetrated his heart. She wasn’t his real mother. She was his stepmother. She and her daughter Shayla had come into his father’s life after his biological mother had died. Now she ruled the roost here at Shangri-La, and that was just wrong.
He and Shayla had always been at daggers drawn. But Shayla was older and his brother Ricky had been forced to deal with her. Marc had flown under the radar, staying out of Shayla’s way and pretending she didn’t exist.
Poor Ricky had been battered daily by the attacks Shayla dealt out. Now that he looked back, he wondered how his brother had put up with it. If only he’d been there for Ricky more often. If only he’d taken some of the blows himself, maybe Ricky would still be alive.
Maybe. Sure. It was no use thinking ‘maybe’.
So he’d come back to his ancestral home to find his stepmother and his stepsister about to throw away the Huntington legacy that was over a century old. No one could pay enough to make the sale worth it. At least, that was the way it seemed to him. They wanted to sell the place and go live it up in the Bahamas. As if money could make up for losing their heritage.
This was a no-go as far as he was concerned. It was not going to happen. This property belonged to generations of Huntingtons and these interlopers were not going to be allowed to ruin that. He was the only real Huntington here, and he was going to have to put a stop to it.
A FEW minutes later, dinner over, Torie had to brush past Marc in order to leave the room.
“Waiting to high-grade the leftovers?” she asked mockingly in a soft voice for only him to hear.
“That would lead to starvation with this greedy crew,” he murmured back to her.
She’d meant to get past him and move on, but something in his smoky blue eyes caught at her and she paused, held in his gaze for a beat too long.
“I get first pick at all times,” he added arrogantly. “Or I don’t play at all.”
She flushed. He was so obviously trying to rattle her, and, darn it all—it was working. She should have known it was very foolish to taunt the tiger. A sharp retort came to mind, but she bit her lip and held it back, flipping her hair over her shoulder with a toss of her head and looking away as she walked on.
She could feel his gaze follow her like a brand on her back, but she just kept going. She’d come here to Shangri-La with a purpose—she wanted to find facts and clear her father, and that meant snooping into things. It might be best not to tempt Marc with reasons for him to want to follow her around.
She needed to stay as far away from this man as she could manage.
She joined the others on the wide terrace. The rain had cleared out the fog and now it had gone away as well. Twilight wasn’t far off, and in the light that remained, Marge suggested they all join her in an excursion to the pier. She wanted to show them the boathouse and the dock. They all gathered into a group and began the long tramp down to the shore, but Torie noticed that Carl had slipped away and she hung back.
“I want to run up and get a jacket,” she told Marge. “I’ll catch up with you.”
Just before she started up the stairs, she heard a muffled thumping down the hallway, and she followed the sound into the library. There was Carl, knocking on wooden panels as though he expected one to slide open at his touch.
“Searching for a secret compartment?” she asked a bit caustically. “Not cool, Carl.”
He whirled to face her, his thin face intense. “Just checking the quality of construction,” he said unconvincingly.
“I’ll tell you what the construction is like,” she responded, a bit impatient with him. “It’s old. This place was built about a hundred years ago. And it’s held up all this time. I wouldn’t worry about how sound it is. If you buy it, obviously, you’ll have to get some expert advice. Structural engineers and architects.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, frowning at her as though she were being a nuisance. He hesitated, then sighed and moved closer so that he could whisper. His dark eyes were darting about the room, strangely impatient. “But these old houses have false fronts and hidden passageways. I’m just checking it out.” He frowned at her. “Did you know about any? Did you ever find one?”
She shook her head. He was really turning out to be a little strange, wasn’t he?
“Carl, I never even came into this house when I lived on the property. My father worked here, but I didn’t. We lived down by the gate, at the butler’s house. I never even came onto the porch.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He gestured toward a glass cabinet in the corner of the room.
“So you never saw the bag of Spanish gold they used to keep in that display case?”
She turned and stared at it. An empty showcase was a sad thing and she realized it must have looked that way for the last fifteen years. Why had they left it like this? Did they think the Don Carlos Treasure would turn up again someday? From what she understood, it was at the bottom of the sea.
“No,” she said softly. “I never saw it.” At least not there.
There was a noise in the hallway and suddenly Jimmy, the current butler, appeared in the doorway, looking surprised to see them in the library. Torie gave him a friendly smile and told Carl, “I’m just running up to get a jacket. You ought to go on out and meet the others. They’re taking a look at the old boathouse. You might just be interested.”
Carl nodded, but he was eyeing Jimmy speculatively, and Torie took the opportunity to escape before he began questioning the man about construction facts. She raced up the stairs to the bedroom and was about to reach for her velour hoodie when she noticed that Marc’s denim jacket was still lying where she’d tossed it on the chair. She hesitated. Something about it appealed to her on a primitive level. She ought to get it back to him.
Instead, she found herself pulling it on and posing in front of the full-length mirror. It was big and heavy and rough and it looked completely wrong for her slender frame—and she knew she had better get it off before Carl came up and saw her in it. But she hugged it to herself, thinking it had a male smell that could be seductive if she let it be. For just a moment, she remembered how it had felt to be in Marc’s arms, coming through the fog. That made her smile at herself in the mirror.
“Go ahead and wear it if you want to,” Marc’s deep voice said.
She whirled, gasping in shock. There he was, standing in the doorway to her bathroom, a pipe wrench in his hand. Her face went instantly to crimson and she shed the jacket as though it had just caught on fire.
“What are you doing here?” she cried out. Surprised, embarrassed, humiliated—she was all three at once.
She could tell he was trying not to smile, but he just couldn’t help himself, and when his grin broke out, it was wide and sardonic.
“Just a little sink repair,” he said, waving the wrench at her. “I thought you’d gone down to the beach with the others.”
She dropped the jacket on the floor and glared at him. “I hate you,” she said unconvincingly.
He laughed, which only made her more angry. “Totally understandable,” he