Waiting for a forever lo.., p.1
Waiting for a Forever Love, page 1
WAITING FOR A FOREVER LOVE
LOST LOVE
BOOK TWO
WILLA BLAIR
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be sold, copied, distributed, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or digital, including photocopying and recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of both the publisher, Oliver Heber Books and the author, Willa Blair, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Waiting for a Forever Love Copyright © by Linda Williams
Cover art by Dar Albert at Wicked Smart Designs
Published by Oliver-Heber Books
This title was previously published
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CONTENTS
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
Also by Willa Blair
About the Author
PRAISE FOR WILLA BLAIR AND…
WAITING FOR THE LAIRD: “Ian Patterson is hero to dream for…”
NIGHT OWL REVIEWS TOP PICK
HEART OF STONE: “...Fast paced and well written with passion, charismatic characters and romantic, thrilling storyline. Perfectly wicked and dangerous! Simply put, WOW!”
MY BOOK ADDICTION AND MORE
HIGHLAND HEALER: “Stealing a woman’s heart has never been so dangerous.”
THE ROMANCE REVIEWS
THE HEALER’S GIFT: “A story of mystery, regret, hope, danger, and trust...The characters are endearing, the story is fulfilling, and the set up for the remainder of the series presents an open invitation to dive right in. THE HEALER’S GIFT is a highly recommended read.”
FRESH FICTION
HIGHLAND SEER: “…this is different enough from other Highland romances to stand out from the pack. Ms. Blair’s writing style is natural and evocative…”
ROMANTIC HISTORICAL REVIEWS
HIGHLAND TROTH: “...trickling danger and suspense in perfect amounts...Scottish romance at its best!”
IND’TALE MAGAZINE
WHEN HIGHLAND LIGHTNING STRIKES: “Ms. Blair is a consummate storyteller…Can’t wait for more from this magical author.”
MY BOOK ADDICTION AND MORE
HIS HIGHLAND ROSE: “Another awesome Scottish Romance!”
MY BOOK ADDICTION AND MORE
HIS HIGHLAND HEART: “The plot was honestly a masterpiece. It was well thought out and orchestrated. Right out the gate I was hooked! The hero had immediate book boyfriend appeal.”
LONG AND SHORT REVIEWS
HIS HIGHLAND LOVE: “Fiery passion burns bright in HIS HIGHLAND LOVE! Readers who enjoy Highland romance should definitely try Willa Blair’s books.”
BOOKS & BENCHES
HIS HIGHLAND BRIDE: “Ms. Blair has delivered a wonderful and captivating read in this book where the chemistry between this couple was strong; the romance hot…”
BOOK MAGIC, UNDER A SPELL WITH EVERY PAGE
And for Author Willa Blair: “I thoroughly enjoy Blair’s work and recommend her Scottish love stories to all!”
ELIZA KNIGHT, USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Waiting for a Forever Love was previously published as When You Find Love, a finalist in the Short Contemporary category of the 2021 BookSellers’ Best Award. If you read the earlier book, I hope you will enjoy Caitlin Paterson’s and Holt Ridley’s new, expanded romance. It has been rebranded, new scenes and details have been added, and the emotional story deepened. And as you can see, it has a gorgeous new cover.
Oh, and for his fans, Fergus, from Waiting for the Laird, the first book in this series, still makes an appearance at the end.
If the story is new to you, I hope you have a wonderful time. Read on!
CHAPTER 1
LONG ISLAND, NY, EARLY DECEMBER, PRESENT DAY
After the long flight from Scotland, Caitlin Paterson couldn’t use either of her favorite sources of caffeine to help her combat jet lag. She’d been hired to research and catalog the contents of a private estate seaside cottage in the Hamptons recently inherited by a Holt Ridley from California. With so much at stake, she had to make a good first impression, which ruled out coffee or tea spills on her clothes.
She hoped her contact at the National Museum who’d recommended her for the job was right about its scope and potential value to her career. Added to Caitlin’s recent work assessing a hidden cache of Jacobite treasures, this trip across the pond could cement her professional reputation. And that should guarantee her selection for her dream position in Inverness at the Highland Museum, which would make the uncomfortable trip worthwhile.
She shifted on the taxi’s sprung seat, trying for the hundredth time to find a position even slightly more comfortable than the one in the airplane’s economy cabin that she’d recently vacated. Giving up, she let herself dream of a leisurely sail across the Atlantic, complete with one’s own stateroom, gourmet meals, interesting dinner companions and, when one desired, glorious solitude.
And icebergs, rough seas, and motion sickness for a week, she consoled herself.
Still, she couldn’t complain. The advance from the Ridley estate’s solicitor, rather lawyer as they were called here, would have allowed her to fly business class. She hadn’t because she hated to waste so much money on the elevated fare. Stifling a yawn, she vowed it was a mistake she wouldn’t repeat.
A sudden slowdown and turn pulled Caitlin back to her present circumstance. The driver spoke into a box outside a large gate, which opened smoothly once he said her name. They had arrived.
As the taxi pulled up the long tree-lined approach, Caitlin’s stomach sank. The lawyer’s description had not done this place justice. She had done her research, she had. But the family was either social-media ignorant or exceedingly private. Or both. Nothing she’d learned about the resident family or this estate in the little she could find online prepared her for its sheer size. She’d never heard a pile like the one before her now called a cottage. It might be as big as her cousin Ian and his wife Lara’s estate, Cairn Dubh, in the Highlands of Scotland. Depending on what she found inside, she could be here for months rather than the two weeks she’d anticipated.
The taxi stopped at the front portico, a massive, white semicircle that fronted the stone and stucco edifice. “That’ll be two hundred and eighty-five dollars, miss,” the driver told her as he opened his door.
He got out, opened the trunk, and began unloading her bags while Caitlin dug through her purse for a credit card, mentally subtracting the fare from the advance she’d been given to make the trip. The fare seemed quite high, even discounting the conversion rate from Scottish pounds to dollars. And she couldn’t forget the tip. Americans expected a tip, right?
The front door to the estate opened, and a dapper older gentleman dressed in a dark suit and bow tie approached. He had a word with the driver, picked up Caitlin’s bags, and turned.
“Sir, where are ye going with those?”
The driver opened her door and stepped back. “He took care of everything. Just follow him inside.”
“Aye? Very good.” Caitlin stuffed her wallet back in her purse, and after looking around to make sure she wasn’t going to leave something behind, she got out. “Thank you,” she mumbled and headed up the steps, barely aware when the taxi pulled away.
The gentleman waited for her at the front door, a confection in beveled glass set in wood painted white to match the portico’s trim. “Welcome to Hampton Dales,” he announced without offering his hand. “I am Mr. Farrell, in charge of this property for the Ridley family. You may dispense with the title and call me Farrell.” He opened the front door, gestured her inside, and again, picked up her bags. “If you’ll allow me, I will show you to your rooms, and later, give you a tour of the house.”
He sounded like a bloody English butler minus the accent. She heard some New York in his speech, calling on her recollection of American cop shows she’d seen. He didn’t sound like Ian’s wife, Lara, so he was not from California like the heir to this great pile. Caitlin managed a polite nod before she responded. “Thank you, Farrell, I’d appreciate that.”
She entered the house but had to pause in the high-ceilinged foyer to admire a sparkling chandelier. “Waterford?”
“Baccarat, miss. I apologize for the lack of seasonal decorations, but given the circumstance this year…”
“Of course. Such a celebration would seem out of place.”
“Thank you for understanding. Now, you must be tired from your trip. Follow me.”
Farrell led her to a suite of rooms larger than her flat at home, including a sitting room, a bedroom and a privy that reminded her of the huge Roman baths in the English city of Bath, complete with luxurious towels, scented soaps and a plush robe. If it included a stocked kitchen and a telly so she could watch her fa
“I trust this will be suitable, miss.”
“Of course,” Caitlin replied, still intent on studying every aspect of her new surroundings.
The sitting room included a wood-burning fireplace, now cheerfully warming and illuminating two facing wing-back chairs upholstered in what looked to be butter-soft suede the color of cream. They were anchored by a navy-blue leather sofa, broad and deep enough for her and at least two other people to relax comfortably.
An ornately carved four-poster large enough to accommodate a caber toss, with a mountain of pillows at its head, dominated the bedroom. Farrell then showed her a walk-in closet that included a built-in chest of drawers, a wealth of shelves, and its own time zone.
“I believe this will do nicely,” Caitlin managed to say. “I didn’t bring enough with me to use a fraction of this space.”
“The estate has provided an allowance, should you require any new clothing, coats or shoes. You may not be prepared for the change of seasons here on the water.”
“I come from Scotland. Yer weather canna be any worse than a Scottish winter.”
Farrell cleared his throat, apparently too polite to disagree directly.
“As you wish, miss. Dinner will be served in the small dining room at seven o’clock. If you would like something before then, you have only to ask.”
Caitlin’s stomach picked that moment to rumble. “I believe I would— just something light to hold me over for a couple of hours. It is five?”
“Five o’clock, yes. I’ll have Mrs. Smith bring a tray straight up. Wine, cheese, fruit, paté, and crackers? Or would you prefer something hot? Soup, perhaps?”
“The cheese tray sounds lovely. Thank you. Will Mr. Ridley be joining me for dinner?”
“I’m sorry, but no. He is, at this moment, still in California. He’s expected in a few days. By then, perhaps you will have a completed a preliminary survey and developed a sense of the furnishings contained in the house. An estimate of the time you will need to complete your assessment and catalog will, no doubt, be useful.”
Caitlin suspected that was more than a suggestion. Rather, he’d just given her fair warning. The boss would want information when he arrived. “Perhaps after dinner, you will give me the tour you mentioned.”
“I’d be honored.” He didn’t quite bow but inclined his head. “I’ll leave you to relax.” He glanced toward the door to the Roman spa attached to her suite. “Mrs. Smith will be up with a tray in a few minutes and will leave it on the writing-table, there.”
He indicated the surface with a nod in its direction, just in case she decided to take advantage of the sybaritic pleasures of that bath. He didn’t have to say it. The implication was clear. And, with a glance over her shoulder, Caitlin agreed. It was a damn good idea.
Farrell excused himself and left her to unpack and settle in. Her tray arrived ten minutes later, just as Caitlin had begun to hang the clothes she’d brought in the cavernous closet. She missed meeting the Mrs. Smith delivering it. By the time she noticed a slight noise in the outer room and went to investigate, the woman was gone.
Caitlin finished stowing her things and nibbled on the contents of the tray, then headed for the Roman bath. She might as well enjoy herself if she was going to be working and eating alone until her employer showed up demanding a progress report.
SILICON VALLEY
Holt Ridley frowned at his executive assistant as she placed a stack of correspondence on the exact center of his desk, a certified letter displayed prominently on top.
“Another one?” He stood and flipped quickly through the rest of the stack while he told her. “Send it back, marked Refused. Do the same with any others that arrive from this law firm.” He proffered the letter.
When she didn’t take it from him, he looked up, surprised.
She shook her head. “Sir, I’m afraid that won’t stop the inquiries.”
Holt shrugged. “They can send all they like. I’m not interested in what they’re offering.” He tossed the registered letter into the trash receptacle next to his desk.
“That’s not going to work, either…”
Holt sighed. The doggedness that made her an excellent executive assistant did have its drawbacks. She wouldn’t stop until she said what was on her mind.
“Why not?”
“A Mr. Thornton is waiting for you in the outer office.”
“Thornton as in—”
“Barclay, Thornton, and Barclay, yes.” She held out a heavily embossed business card.
Holt took it and gave it a glance, then added it to the trash, along with the registered letter from the man’s firm. “Send him away.”
“I tried, but he won’t budge. He threatened to camp out in the reception area,” she said and added air quotes, “if that’s what it takes to get a few moments of your time.”
Holt glared at the coffered ceiling above him in frustration. “That bad, huh?”
“He won’t leave until he sees you.”
She was very good at reading people— another reason she’d been with him for years— so if she thought Mr. Thornton was prepared to wait him out, Holt could be certain the man would not relent. Too bad she hadn’t told him what she thought about Helen Conroe. He sighed and fought back a curse. “Send him in, then. We can’t have a squatter in our outer office.”
Not wanting to give this Mr. Thornton the opportunity to sit down and thereby prolong their meeting, Holt stayed on his feet.
The lawyer, when he entered, was not the bulldog in a thousand-dollar suit Holt expected. He was slight and graying, wearing something off-the-rack and entirely too warm for the local climate.
“Mr. Ridley.” He glanced aside at the visitor’s chair and straightened his thin shoulders. “You’re a hard man to reach.” Thornton plowed on before Holt had the chance to ask him what the hell he was doing in California after sending interminable official correspondence that Holt ignored. “Since I’m certain your assistant gave you my card, I’ll get straight to the point. Your lack of response these past five months has forced me to come to you directly. Your great-aunt’s estate cannot sit unclaimed forever.”
Holt wondered how Thornton wound up a partner in a Long Island law firm. He was certain he detected a hint of a cultured British accent, but even without it, Thornton’s obsequious phrasing gave away his homeland, as did his carefully neutral expression. Holt was having none of it. “As far as I’m concerned, it can. You’ve made a long trip for nothing.”
The man had to be exasperated, but his face remained calm, his demeanor unruffled.
“On the contrary, Mr. Ridley. I’ve brought your great-aunt’s last will and testament, along with papers for you to sign. I hope we can conclude our business amicably, sir, because I also have with me a summons from the district court of Suffolk County, New York that I have been authorized and directed to serve should we fail in our discussion.”
Holt frowned. “On what grounds?”
Thornton’s expression didn’t change. “Abandonment of historic property. The house known as Hampton Dales is on the register of historical places in the county. I understand from your great-aunt that the contents, family heirlooms and such, are even more valuable than the house and property overlooking the Sound.” He cleared his throat and continued, “Which are quite valuable themselves. She left it all to you, sir.”
“I don’t want it.” He had made his own money. He didn’t need hers. His great-aunt had treated his mother so badly, that even after she escaped the old woman’s abuse, his mother remained certain the estate must also be infected with the curse on the family she claimed was passed through her uncle’s line. Holt had never taken seriously the idea of a family curse, much less that it could infest a structure they inhabited. But he had enough of his own bad memories about that place to keep him on a therapist’s couch for the rest of his life.
