But that didn’t make it any easier to forgive her.
“Next time I’ll do a better job hiding,” he said as he brushed past her.
“Yes, I’d recommend it.” Her light, breathy voice followed after him like a nightmare memory. “Especially now that you’re a brand-new millionaire. The ladies will be coming out of the woodwork.”
Of course she was here because of that money. She was a Berenson, wasn’t she? Whenever he thought about the insurance policy, he wanted to disappear into Lost Souls Wilderness again. His dread had been justified; that damn insurance policy had brought Waverly Berenson into his safe haven.
“Good to know that’s what you think of your own gender.”
“It’s the way of the world, Al. Money makes the world go round.”
He hated being called Al, but gritted his teeth and ignored her.
“Name one woman who wouldn’t be tempted by your new fortune,” she challenged him.
“Not everyone is like you, Waverly. You should take a look around while you’re here in Lost Harbor. You’ll find lots of women busy with things that don’t involve fortune-hunting.”
“Poor things. They just haven’t had the opportunity. Now they will.”
He growled something sort of like, “remains to be seen,” but he didn’t want Waverly to know his business.
Inside the guesthouse, they both paused, as if for a break in the hostilities. She gazed around the space, which had a stepladder that led to a loft, a fully functional kitchenette, and a bedroom in the back. She wore a gold chain belt, a silk blouse with a pattern of retro cocktail glasses, and wispy sandals that would likely fall apart in the mud. He couldn’t imagine anyone more out of place in Lost Harbor, Alaska.
“Is this what’s known as a ‘tiny house’? I thought those were an urban legend.”
“State your business, Waverly. I have a guest coming.”
He heard the sound of tires on gravel. Blood hell. Ruthie was early. She was the only person he knew who routinely arrived early to things.
“Actually, she’s here. You can go now.”
“Ohh, it’s a female guest?” Waverly lowered herself onto the couch and crossed one leg over the other. How had she managed to walk across the grass in those shoes? The taxi must have dropped her off right at the door. Or maybe she’d convinced the driver to carry her to the doorstep on his back. “You’re still up to your old tricks, I see.”
“She’s a friend and a coworker and I don’t need your bullshit right now, Waverly. Make it quick and then I’ll call you another cab.”
“Oh no. No more cabs for me. In fact, there’s a chance I’m now on their blacklist. It’s either hire a chauffeur or rely on the kindness of relatives.” She lifted her eyebrows at him.
“You decided long ago I was no relative of yours. I see no reason to change that.”
“Well, I do.”
Through the living room picture window, he caught a glimpse of Ruthie getting out of her car. She pulled a tote bag out of the back seat, then another and another, until she had three of them slung over her shoulders. After adjusting her glasses—the ones with bejeweled cat-eye frames—she ambled toward his front door.
“I can see why she’s only a friend,” Waverly said snidely.
Out of all the digs she’d let loose so far, that one irritated him the most. “What do you want? You have fifteen seconds before she knocks on my door.”
“I come in peace, Alastair. I think we can help each other. I want to team up.”
He let out a snort. “Team up? Where were you before I inherited that money?”
“Silly. You wouldn’t have been much help then.”
At least she didn’t bother to hide her motives. “Ten more seconds.”
“I’m tired of living on nothing but my allowance.” She stroked a lock of her beachy-blond hair into place. “I want to challenge Uncle Tate for control of the company, but the board won’t take me seriously unless I have more substantial financial backing. That’s where you come in.”
He almost laughed out loud. “I’m supposed to back you? Why the devil would I do that?”
“Because even though you don’t like me much, Uncle Tate’s even worse. He’s the one who kicked you out after Daddy died. Not me.”
Now that was a good point, sort of. But not a good enough point to get involved with the Berensons again.
“Carole didn’t like Uncle Tate either,” she added. “She would have supported my bid. She always wanted more women on the board.”
Wrong move, mentioning Carole. His sister had knocked herself out trying to win over Tony’s older children. She never got anywhere.
“You’re wasting your time, Waverly. I have other things on my mind besides that money.”
“What are you talking about?”
He shrugged, not wanting to share too much information with her.
Her gaze sharpened. “You’re going to reject it?”
“I said I’m focused on other things.”
“You can’t reject it. That means the insurance company gets to keep it, and that’s just—a crime.”
He laughed. “That’s your idea of a crime? Have you heard what happened to my sister’s plane? That was a crime.”
She jerked, almost imperceptibly, and he felt terrible for a moment. Her father had also been on the plane, after all. She’d grieved too. He’d caught her crying once, but then she’d slammed the door in his face. Genuine tears were to be hidden; only the fake ones were for public viewing.
Ruthie tapped on the door. Thank God. He dashed for it as if it were a life preserver tossed to a drowning man surrounded by sharks. Waverly qualified as a whole school of sharks all on her own.
Ruthie’s forehead crinkled when she caught sight of him. “Are you okay?”
“Shark-bitten, but fine.”
He felt an arm slip around his waist and a head lean against his shoulder. Waverly, damn her. Shaking her off, he took Ruthie by the hand and pulled her inside.
“Fair warning, Ruthie. You may need a biohazard suit in here. This is my sister’s husband’s daughter, Waverly. Waverly, this is a human being, in case you don’t recognize one in the wild.”
“A pleasure.” Waverly put out her hand for Ruthie to shake. Alastair had the impulse to dive between them to prevent any physical contact. He didn’t trust her for a minute. “I believe I caught the name Ruthie?”
“Yes,” Ruthie said cautiously, her eyes darting toward Alastair. He kept his face grim as a warning for her to keep her guard up. “I’m sorry if I interrupted something.”
“Absolutely not,” Alastair said at the same time that Waverly said, “Indeed you did.” They both ignored each other.
Ruthie took a cautious step backwards. “Maybe I should come back another time.”
Again, they both answered at the same time.
“Don’t you dare leave.”
“That would be best.”
Alastair stepped toward Ruthie and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Her loose waves of hair cascaded over his arm. She smelled of old newsprint and cloves, for some reason. “Ruthie, I will sign my entire potential new fortune over to you if you promise not to leave me alone here.”