Read Online What a Woman Wants (A Manley Maids Novel) by Judi Fennell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Judi Fennell
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had anything good to say to or about her. She was Larry’s Indiscretion. Larry’s Mistake. Larry’s Unfortunate Accident. All in capital letters.
Well now she was Larry’s Heir. Or, more specifically, Merriweather’s Heir. Wasn’t the irony delicious?
She wasn’t about to blow this. Not when Merriweather had hit her at her weak spot. The money would enable her to do what she wanted: grow her business and help out the co-op. Take care of her animals and never have to worry about paying the rent again. She’d even be able to afford to donate to causes she felt worthwhile. It was her ticket to making her life everything she wanted it to be. “Okay, Mr. Scanlon. How do I do this?”
The lawyer removed his glasses and folded them carefully, then tucked them into the breast pocket of his jacket. “When I give you this paper, the clock will start.”
Livvy contained herself. Such drama. “Okay then. Let’s have it. Let the games begin.”
Chapter Eight
S EAN really hated poker. If not for that stupid game, he wouldn’t be in this predicament.
The damn bird was worse than the goats, sheep, pig, and that pain-in-the-ass alpaca all put together.
Sean almost lost a finger trying to get the parrot to shut up, and the feathers the damn thing was molting all over the place were merely the tip of the iceberg.
Parrots needed diapers. Big time.
Actually, he realized as he surveyed the ruined Aubusson when he returned Orwell to the room,
all
of the animals needed diapers. Thank God the floor was marble; the mess would clean up easy, but he’d be the one doing it unless he could appeal to Livvy’s sense of fair play.
If she was anything like her grandmother, Sean wasn’t holding out much hope.
Dammit. He didn’t need this nightmare. At this point, the room was a write-off anyway, and if he didn’t find out what was happening in the study, he could write the rest off, too.
Checking to make sure the French doors to the outside were closed, Sean tossed Orwell into the air, where the bird swooped onto one of the curtain rods—that would no doubt soon be covered in bird droppings—then he left the menagerie alone and closed the doors to the foyer.
He walked to the study door, listening at the opening he’d deliberately left.
“So, what? Do I have to swear to name my firstborn after the old battle-axe, I mean, my grandmother, or something?” Livvy shook a piece of paper, then switched on the desk lamp.
“‘This is the first clue for the first item you must find,’” she read. “Great. A scavenger hunt. Wasn’t she a little old for games?” Livvy lifted the paper closer. “‘You’ll forgive an old woman an indulgence in rhyme. It seems the game calls for that and I find, at the end of my life, I like humoring my whims.’” Livvy snorted. “
Now
she wants to get a sense of humor. Her timing sucks.”
“Please read on,” Scanlon said with a sniff.
Sean liked the fact that he and Livvy were on the same side in their opinion of Merriweather—the old battle-axe. Yeah, he could see how the name fit.
He could also see Livvy’s butt wiggle slightly in the chair. Sean rolled his eyes.
Mind back on the problem, Manley.
One of Livvy’s combat boots rocked erratically. She tossed her hair back. “Okay, then. So, clue number one.”
Livvy’s back went a little straighter, her chin dipped, and her voice lowered an octave. She might have even put a slight British accent to the words, which Sean also got. Merriweather Martinson did seem like the upper-crust old paragon of British aristocracy. An image, he was sure, she’d purposely cultivated.
The pages are old, hundreds of years,
To when its benefactor instilled many fears,
In clergy and nobles, and even the peasants,
Though a loyal few did earn some presents:
Like the first Martinson, who hadn’t fled
When a queen’s mother lost her head.
Livvy set both feet on the floor and placed the paper on Scanlon’s desk—her desk, actually. She
Well now she was Larry’s Heir. Or, more specifically, Merriweather’s Heir. Wasn’t the irony delicious?
She wasn’t about to blow this. Not when Merriweather had hit her at her weak spot. The money would enable her to do what she wanted: grow her business and help out the co-op. Take care of her animals and never have to worry about paying the rent again. She’d even be able to afford to donate to causes she felt worthwhile. It was her ticket to making her life everything she wanted it to be. “Okay, Mr. Scanlon. How do I do this?”
The lawyer removed his glasses and folded them carefully, then tucked them into the breast pocket of his jacket. “When I give you this paper, the clock will start.”
Livvy contained herself. Such drama. “Okay then. Let’s have it. Let the games begin.”
Chapter Eight
S EAN really hated poker. If not for that stupid game, he wouldn’t be in this predicament.
The damn bird was worse than the goats, sheep, pig, and that pain-in-the-ass alpaca all put together.
Sean almost lost a finger trying to get the parrot to shut up, and the feathers the damn thing was molting all over the place were merely the tip of the iceberg.
Parrots needed diapers. Big time.
Actually, he realized as he surveyed the ruined Aubusson when he returned Orwell to the room,
all
of the animals needed diapers. Thank God the floor was marble; the mess would clean up easy, but he’d be the one doing it unless he could appeal to Livvy’s sense of fair play.
If she was anything like her grandmother, Sean wasn’t holding out much hope.
Dammit. He didn’t need this nightmare. At this point, the room was a write-off anyway, and if he didn’t find out what was happening in the study, he could write the rest off, too.
Checking to make sure the French doors to the outside were closed, Sean tossed Orwell into the air, where the bird swooped onto one of the curtain rods—that would no doubt soon be covered in bird droppings—then he left the menagerie alone and closed the doors to the foyer.
He walked to the study door, listening at the opening he’d deliberately left.
“So, what? Do I have to swear to name my firstborn after the old battle-axe, I mean, my grandmother, or something?” Livvy shook a piece of paper, then switched on the desk lamp.
“‘This is the first clue for the first item you must find,’” she read. “Great. A scavenger hunt. Wasn’t she a little old for games?” Livvy lifted the paper closer. “‘You’ll forgive an old woman an indulgence in rhyme. It seems the game calls for that and I find, at the end of my life, I like humoring my whims.’” Livvy snorted. “
Now
she wants to get a sense of humor. Her timing sucks.”
“Please read on,” Scanlon said with a sniff.
Sean liked the fact that he and Livvy were on the same side in their opinion of Merriweather—the old battle-axe. Yeah, he could see how the name fit.
He could also see Livvy’s butt wiggle slightly in the chair. Sean rolled his eyes.
Mind back on the problem, Manley.
One of Livvy’s combat boots rocked erratically. She tossed her hair back. “Okay, then. So, clue number one.”
Livvy’s back went a little straighter, her chin dipped, and her voice lowered an octave. She might have even put a slight British accent to the words, which Sean also got. Merriweather Martinson did seem like the upper-crust old paragon of British aristocracy. An image, he was sure, she’d purposely cultivated.
The pages are old, hundreds of years,
To when its benefactor instilled many fears,
In clergy and nobles, and even the peasants,
Though a loyal few did earn some presents:
Like the first Martinson, who hadn’t fled
When a queen’s mother lost her head.
Livvy set both feet on the floor and placed the paper on Scanlon’s desk—her desk, actually. She
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