Fortune Hunters #2
Meadow needs to find a painting that her grandmother, Isabelle, left behind when her grandfather kicked her out in 1951. Bradley thinks that their baby daughter is not his child. He thinks that Isabelle has many affairs while they were married. But she didn't.
Meadow's mother has cancer and she needs money for treatment. She hatches a plan with another woman, Judith, who sometimes lives at Meadow's parents' art commune. Meadow goes to South Carolina, breaks into her grandfather's house (she has a key) and the painting is not in the room where her grandmother left it. A man turns on the lights and demands to know who she is. Meadow ends up falling a hitting her head. When she comes to she tells the man, Devlin, that she has amnesia. He plays along with her and tells her that she is his wife - doesn't she remember him?
Devlin wants to know what she's up to? He is pretty sure that he knows who she is but he doesn't know what she wants. Meadow decides to play along with his game and hunts for the painting. the house is being turned into a fancy hotel. Along the way she meets her grandfather. He recognizes something about her and knows that she is Isabelle's granddaughter. Coming back from town, Devlin and Meadow got into an accident. She hurt her head again. She was to stay in bed for 48 hours. She and Devlin get closer. They start falling in love. But something else is going on. Devlin and his assistant, Sam, suspect there are more people looking for the painting.
Just what is going on??
I loved this book. I found myself smiling while reading it.
From the author:
Getting in was the easy part…
Meadow Szarvas knew that breaking into Devlin Fitzwilliam’s mansion to steal a priceless painting was a dangerous move. She was ready for trouble—but not for the determination and guile of a handsome man with a secret agenda of his own. Locked in a breathtaking game of high-stakes deception, Meadow and Devlin can’t take their eyes off each other—and don’t want to. But what they don’t know is that another player has upped the ante—and is watching their every move…
The Present Day
On the South Carolina Coast
Lightning flashed. Shadows of bare limbs clawed the tangled path, and the lithe, black-clad trespasser stumbled. Paused. Shuddered. Then continued toward the Victorian house set high above the ocean. The roar of thunder shook the ground, and the next flash of lightning followed hard on its heels, blistering the massive structure with harsh white light. The spires on the fourth-story cupola stabbed at the roiling clouds, the wind gauge spun wildly, and on the beach, the waves growled and pounded.
The figure ran lightly up the steps and toward the imposing double doors. The large silver key slid neatly into the lock. It turned easily and was once again pocketed. One black glove-encased hand rested on the beveled glass, then pressed. Without a sound, the door swung open. No lamp lit the interior, but the intruder confidently strode into the foyer.
The lightning struck again, blasting away the shadows. Thunder boomed. The figure halted and spun in a circle.
The wide hall soared two stories above the floor. Gold blazed off every picture frame, every finial, off the coved ceiling. Stern eyes watched from nineteenth century portraits and wide stairs stretched up and out of sight. Then the lightning was gone. Silence settled like dust in the house.
The intruder crept toward the second entrance on the left. Each step fell soft and sure on the wide, custom-woven rug, headed in a straight line for the cozy sitting area. The figure halted behind one of the chairs and stared up at the painting over the fireplace. The beam of a tiny flashlight flicked on and scanned the wall, once, twice. “Oh, Grandmother. You promised. You promised. Where …?”
The overhead light flared. A man’s deep, Southern voice demanded, “What are you doing here?”
The intruder half-turned.
A tall, dark-haired man stood in the doorway, his hand on the light switch.
He was the most striking, arrogant, handsome man Natalie Meadow Szarvas had ever seen. She tried to run. Her feet tangled in the fringe of the rug. She tripped, grabbed for support, missed. Hit the floor — hard.
When the stars had ceased sparking behind her closed eyelids, she took a long, trembling breath. Her head … her head really hurt. She lifted her hand to touch the pain at her temple.
Someone caught her wrist. “Don’t. It’s bleeding.”
The man. The one with the contemptuous eyes. How had he managed to get from the door to her side?
The explanation was easy. She’d been unconscious. But she didn’t remember being unconscious. She only remembered … she remembered seeing him.
“Sir, should I call the police?” Another man. Eager. Quiet. Efficient.
“Call the doctor.” Mr. Arrogant pressed something soft to her forehead.
She winced and tried to flinch away.
“Leave it,” he instructed. “You’re bleeding on the rug.”
“Okay,” she muttered. Wouldn’t want to bleed on the freaking expensive rug.
“Open your eyes,” he said.