Great-Aunt Sophia's Lessons for Bombshells (3 page)

“What? Why?”

“They look down on me. They know I’m not one of them.” That had always been the story with her cousins, the sneering, dismissive branch of the family that saw Grace’s parents as depressingly meaningful hippies, with their academic careers, natural-fiber clothing, and fondness for organic co-op farming.

Catherine snorted. “It’s all in your head. Rich people don’t care what you do. They’re too busy with their own screwed-up lives.”

Grace shook her head. Everyone silently assessed whether someone was like or unlike oneself, better or worse, higher on the social ladder or lower. She herself did it, an unconscious evaluation that took in subtleties of dress and health, posture and speech, education and culture, or the lack thereof. She relaxed if she was roughly equal, or higher. So did everyone else.

But no one liked being the lowest dog in the pack. Her rich cousins in Connecticut had laughed at her clothes, at her hair, at her going to public school, at her earnest activist parents with their green Subaru and National Public Radio bumper sticker.

“Besides,” Catherine went on, “what have you got to be embarrassed about? You’re brilliant. Bet you no one here is half as smart.”

“Thanks.” But being smart wasn’t the issue.

“And you’re beautiful.”

“I’m thirty pounds overweight. I look like a pig.” The Taco Bell burritos she’d had for lunch rolled heavily in her gut, and the waistband of her khaki capris dug into her flesh.

Catherine heaved a sigh tinged with delight. “Gracie, if you of all people can still fall prey to the fake marketing-based ideal of beauty in this country, and base your sense of self-worth on it, then there’s no hope for any woman!”

“It’s not my self-worth that’s in question, it’s my worth as judged by others, and how they’ll treat me as a result. Which
can
affect my sense of self-worth over time.”

“I don’t know whether to keep reassuring you or to kick you in the butt.”

“Butt kicking is probably quicker,” Grace grumbled.

“Then consider yourself kicked. Come on, let’s go meet Bette.”

Grace took a deep breath and got out. How bad could it be, anyway? Aunt Sophia’s letter had made it sound like she would be a guest more than an employee. She would be a valuable member of the household, introduced to visitors as the brilliant grandniece, admired for the generous spirit that had brought her here to tend to an elderly woman in need.

Or maybe she’d be more like a Brontë heroine: plain, impoverished, and relegated to the shadows, pining for the manly hero who was forever inaccessible.

She’d be pressing a cool cloth to Sophia’s fevered brow, a brooding hero telling her what a brave young woman she was—

The front door opened and a middle-aged brunette poked her head out. “Is one of you Grace Cavanaugh?”

Grace waved her hand, gathering her courage as she walked over to the woman. “Hullo! Yes, that’s me.”

The woman had a thick, blocky torso that was not helped by her brown silk blouse and tweed skirt. Her hair was bobbed at her chin, a line of gray showing where her roots had started to grow out. Her mascara had smeared under her small, dark eyes, and her gold-rimmed glasses looked strangely old-fashioned. Her whole outfit looked old-fashioned, as if she was dressed as a no-nonsense secretary from a 1930s film.

The woman looked Grace up and down, then chuckled. “Well, of course you are.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean?
“And this is my friend Catherine Ruggieri. She gave me a lift.”

The woman spared Catherine a glance and a nod. “Darlene,” the woman said, holding her hand out to Grace. “I’m your aunt’s personal assistant.”

“I didn’t know she had one. I thought she’d retired a long time ago.”

“Oh, she doesn’t work anymore, but Sophia won’t sit still until she’s dead.”

“I hope that’s not anytime soon.”

“It won’t be. She’s got too much of the ornery bitch in her to die off quickly.”

Grace blinked in shock. “Uh, er, uh . . .”

Darlene raised an eyebrow. “I hope you’re not the sensitive type; you won’t last long around here if you are.”

Grace squeaked a laugh. “Me? Oh no, I’m thick-skinned!”

“Mm,” Darlene grunted, unimpressed. “Your aunt is being
attended by her doctor at the moment, so get your things and I’ll show you to your room. You can clean up before you meet her.”

“Sure. Thanks. Um, and would it be all right if Catherine stays the night? She still has to drive down to San Diego, and it’s too much to take on today after how far we’ve come . . . ,” Grace trailed off as Darlene stared at her without expression.

“It’s not
my
house,” Darlene said into the silence.

“I guess I’ll check with Aunt Sophia, then?”

“I guess you will.”

Grace turned and rolled her eyes at Cat, who was smothering a grin. Together they dragged Grace’s possessions out of the back of the Volvo, the car rising on its springs as it was freed of the weight. Loaded down with backpacks, book bags, and suitcases, they could barely stagger to the front door and into the foyer.

Darlene’s brown leather pumps clicked on the checkerboard marble floor as she quickly led the way to a curved stone staircase.

“
What
is her problem
?
” Catherine whispered.

“Shhh,” Grace hissed, “she’ll hear you.”

“So what?”

“I’ve got to get along with her for the next three months, that’s what!” Grace set her old wheeled suitcases on the floor and dragged them, the things as heavy as rocks. A horrid screech came from one of the suitcases, and after a few hard tugs it fell over. Grace looked back in annoyance and saw an empty metal bracket where a wheel had once been. A gray gouge cut across a black marble tile, ending at the dead suitcase.

Grace’s stomach sank to the cold stone floor. “Oh, crap.”

Darlene stopped and turned, her eyes sharp, then click-clacked back across the floor. She looked at the gouge, then at Grace.

“I’m so sorry!”

“It’s
not
my house.”

“I’ll tell my aunt—”

Darlene shook her head, a sharp denial. “This isn’t the type of thing to bother her with.
I’ll
take care of it,” she bit out. She turned on her heel and once again set out for the stairs, moving up them without a backward glance.

Grace’s shoulders slumped. It had taken her only minutes to screw up. She was nervous and embarrassed, and she avoided Catherine’s eyes as tears stung her own, afraid that any sympathy would undo her. She set her jaw against her tears, righted her bag, and hoisted it off the floor.

She was a few steps up the staircase, deep in a silent monologue of self-chastisement, when the sound of quick, solid footsteps behind her penetrated her inner storm cloud. Catherine made a startled noise, and a moment later Grace felt the heavier of her suitcases being pulled from her grip. She instinctively tightened her hold and jerked it back toward her.

“Here now, beautiful young women shouldn’t be carrying their own bags,” a deep male voice said.

Grace looked down at the broad, strong hand pressed against hers on the handle of the bag, then raised her gaze to meet startling turquoise eyes fringed with black lashes.

“I promise I won’t steal it.” He winked.

Grace opened her mouth, but all that emerged was a gurgling sound. A flood of heat rose to her cheeks. He was the most ruggedly handsome man she’d ever seen, tall and broad and with a square jaw and heavy brow that had testosterone written all over them. Sex appeal wafted off him like cologne off a hot lightbulb. He steamed with it.

Grace’s grip loosened, and he took the bag, slinging it under one arm as if it were a loaf of bread. He grinned and reached for her other bag, his arm brushing against the small of her back. A
shiver stroked over her body, and her breasts tingled. She dropped her eyes.

And then he had her bag and had pulled away. “Which way, my darling Darlene?” he asked, and with their three suitcases ran easily up the stairs.

“The Garden Room. Don’t go barging in on Sophia; she’s with Dr. Andrew.”

“When do I barge? I’m meek as a maid.”

“And chickens dance the cha-cha,” Darlene said sourly, leading them all down the hall and opening a door.

“I taught them myself,” the man said. “Wonderful sense of rhythm, chickens.”

Darlene shook her head, a hint of a smile softening her mouth, and waited in the hall while he deposited the bags inside. Grace followed him in, her book bag bumping Darlene as she passed.

“Sorry,” Grace muttered.

Darlene exhaled through her nose, her lips tightening again.

The Garden Room was full of light, one wall composed of French doors that showed the tops of cypress trees and the blues of the sky and ocean beyond. Grace was only vaguely aware of yellow-flowered wallpaper and a canopy bed; the man setting down the suitcases sucked up her attention, even as she pretended to look at everything but him.

“Excuse me,” Catherine said, dropping her own things and disappearing into the bathroom.

When Grace sneaked a peek at the man’s face she found him staring at her, looking puzzled.

“Declan O’Brien,” he said, and put out his hand.

“Grace Cavanaugh.” She shook his hand, but he didn’t release it. He sandwiched her hand between both of his, his thumb rubbing the back of it, his fingertips pressing gently against the inside of her wrist. Each stroke of his thumb sent shivers up her arm.

“Do I know you?” he asked. “Where do I know you from?”

She pulled her hand out of his grip. “Nowhere. I’ve just arrived from Seattle. Sophia is my great-aunt.”

She could see comprehension work its way across his face. After a stunned moment he laughed. “Well, of course you are!”

“Yes, of course I am,” she repeated, bewildered again. “Are you a friend of Aunt Sophia’s?”

“Financial adviser. And friend, too.”

Suspicion snaked into her mind. He seemed too young and good-looking to be a financial adviser, and too charming. She hoped he wasn’t taking advantage of her aunt. He seemed like a salesman/womanizer/fast-talker type. She’d bet he owned a speedboat, or some other noisy, motor-powered, penis substitute.

Catherine emerged from the bathroom and Grace introduced her, noticing how Declan quickly scanned her friend’s lithe, compact body and high, small breasts. Catherine was a natural beauty, her olive complexion smooth, her curly black hair luxuriant in its loose ponytail. Grace always felt like pale boiled haggis in comparison.

“How long are you visiting?” Declan asked Grace, turning back to her.

“All summer. I’ll be watching over my aunt,” Grace said, crossing her arms.
Yes, that’s right, Slicky McSlickerson, I’ll be watching if you try any schemes on a relative of
mine.

“Watching over her?” He laughed. “Is that a joke?”

“No joke.”

“Well, I hope you enjoy your time here. You’re very fortunate to have an aunt like Sophia.” He nodded to them both and then was gone, taking all the energy in the room with him.

“I’ll send someone to fetch you when Sophia is ready to receive guests,” Darlene said. “Don’t bother her on your own.” She pulled the door shut with a slam.

Grace blinked, then went to the bed and plopped down on the edge. She felt like her stuffing had been knocked out. With a groan she collapsed backward and then covered her eyes with her forearm. Fifteen minutes ago she’d been laughing with joy at the prospect of her summer here in Pebble Beach. It really
had
been too good to be true. “Oh God. This is going to be a very long summer.”

The bed shifted as Catherine lay down beside her. “So you have an ocean-view room in a mansion filled with vipers. It just goes to show: there’s nothing good in this world without the bad to go with it.”

“Then let me hope Great-aunt Sophia is a perfectly average old woman.”

“Somehow, Gracie . . . I just don’t think that’s what you’re going to get.”

CHAPTER

2

H
alf an hour later someone knocked on the door, and at Grace’s call of admittance a pretty Hispanic girl came in. She looked about sixteen and was wearing a pale gray maid’s dress, white sneakers, and a white headband to hold back her long glossy hair. Like Darlene, she appeared to be wearing a costume from an old movie. “Hi!” she said, with an uncertain smile.