She accepted the envelope from him and studied it with fresh curiosity. It was a standard envelope, but the paper had yellowed with age. Still, it was free of creases and unstained. Like the attorney said, it had obviously been important to someone. She ran a finger down the seal, slipped her nail into the corner—
“You should probably open that in private.”
She glanced up. “Private even from you? Her attorney?” Eccentricity and sentimentality were all well and good, but this was just odd. “What is it? A confession?” She laughed a little. “Did Cousin Gladys kill somebody with the cornerstone and decide to confess all to her descendants?”
He smiled. “I doubt it. Although, I have to admit I don’t understand what the secrecy’s all about either. Maybe it’s information regarding a scandal or something valuable. Or it could be that Gladys suffered from simple, generalized paranoia. It’s hard to say. I never actually met the woman; she dealt with my firm’s affiliates overseas.
“As for the letter, ” he nodded at the missive, “like I said, all I know is that it was Ms. Avebury’s wish that the heiress—that would be you—should be the only one to read it. My job is to respect the client’s wishes.”
“Of course.”
Twenty minutes later, Mina emerged from the attorney’s office, envelope in hand and mostly unopened. She supposed a properly respectful descendant of the great Avery—no, Avebury—family would be jumping all over a letter from deceased Gladys.
Sure, Mina wondered what kind of letter would merit secrecy even from the woman’s attorney. But right now, she was going to be late to meet with her new contractor unless she kicked it into gear. She just hoped he hadn’t already given up and left. And—ugh—charged her for a wasted day’s worth of labor.
Mina squinted into the sun, finally locating her ancient Ford Escort in the crowded line of cars parked along the busy downtown Richmond street. She climbed into the car and prayed to all the gods of motor vehicles that the engine would start at least one more time. She had half an hour’s drive back to Oakville ahead of her and she didn’t want to break down this far from home.
But start it did. Smoothly, in fact. “Okay.” She merged into traffic, pleased to see that, for once, traffic lights seemed to be working in her favor. Maybe her luck was improving?
When she finally pulled into her own driveway, she was further cheered to see the contractor’s truck still sitting in front of her house. Noticing that the cab of the truck was vacant, she decided he’d probably gone around back to survey the job ahead of him. So she trotted around to the backyard, only to discover that the contractor had already started working. Excellent.
“Hello?” She glanced around, looking for a face that would fit the voice she’d heard over the phone. That voice had certainly made an impression. What kind of face would go with tones as richly textured as crushed velvet? she’d wondered.
A man squatting in front of blueprints spread neatly on the grass rose to his full height. He turned to face her.
Oh. Sure, that would do it. Rough-hewn features, silky-looking black hair, and a shadowed jaw square enough to put a comic book hero to shame. Ooooh, and then there was the body, also as hot as she’d fantasized. He was big and rugged and trim, but weathered just enough, so he was probably in his thirties.
Even better, humor lined the corners of twinkling green eyes. And he had a very nice mouth, sculpted and bracketed by attractive dents that deepened when he smiled. “Mina Avery?”
“Wuh?” As in, duh? She cleared her throat. She’d probably been staring too long, damn it. “Yes, I’m Mina. And you are—”
“Jonathon Teague. You can call me Teague, though.” He held out a hand.
She stepped forward, attempting with effort to stave off hyperventilation, and clasped it. His hand was easily twice the size of hers. Warm and calloused. Of course it would be. No soft and clammy grip would do it for a guy like this. She reluctantly released him. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Teague.”
“No, it’s just Teague.” He shoved one hand in his back pocket and shaded his eyes with the other, squinting against the evening sun to see her.
“Just Teague, huh? Like Cher, just Cher?” She was shameless—but any heterosexual woman would be, in Mina’s shoes. “So you’re a temperamental artist, then?”