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eBook Category: Romance/Mystery/Crime
eBook Description: A man's home may be his castle, but for American millionaire Rhys McCain the ancestral fortress he inherited from his Irish kin is also the backdrop for scandal ... and murder.

eBook Publisher: SynergEbooks, Published: SynergEbooks, 2005
Fictionwise Release Date: August 2005

9 Reader Ratings: Great Good OK Poor

Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [1.7 MB], eReader (PDB) [334 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [341 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [303 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [257 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [327 KB], hiebook (KML) [794 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [416 KB], iSilo (PDB) [280 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [353 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [386 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [438 KB]
Words: 98408
Reading time: 281-393 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
ISBN: 07443090X

The tarnished clock above the bar had not yet struck nine but the regulars at Finnegan's Pub, lined up like a row of squat ducks on their respective stools, were already on their second pints. Now and again, the two nearest the window--Gouwens and Birdy--took turns to see if the hillside spectacle they'd been promised all month was about to commence.

"Y' be hearin' the bloody rumble afore y' sees 'em," McAleese remarked.

The wizened Irishmen to either side of him grunted agreement, well versed in the decades of stories McAleese had shared of his younger years in heavy labor, happier years before the local likes of Hurney & Hurney Construction had been swallowed up by American conglomerates. It'd be foreigners rolling their equipment up the mountain today like a bright orange serpentine. Not like the old days one bit.

"Y' think he knows, Seamus?" one of the men queried of the bartender.

"'N' turnin' in his grave to be sure," the portly Seamus responded with no need to give it a longer thought.

"God rest his arse!" another spoke up, clinking his glass with his nearest neighbor, touching off--like dominos--a string of murmured condolences down the row.

Though none of them, of course, had known the man whose home would succumb to the wrecking ball, it was not uncommon to speak of the dead as casually as if they'd broken bread only the night before. Duncan and his craggy hilltop castle had been the colorful stuff of legend in the village of Quirke for nearly seven centuries. They were more familiar with Duncan, in fact, than his reclusive descendant, the enigmatic, notoriously stingy, and recently deceased Patrick. Even less known to them was Patrick's heir, the American millionaire whose blunt directives were about to remove Quirke's only landmark of substance. No show of council petition or prayer had swayed the decision, leaving them only to guess what manner of insanity had possessed him to call for the castle's removal from Irish soil.

A shout of excitement by Birdy rang out from the window, followed by a confirmation from Gouwens.

"Y' be hearin' the bloody rumble afore y' sees 'em," McAleese said again, but his companions had already deserted him, eagerly vying for space at the window. McAleese reached for his crutch, cursing, as he always did, the missing limb below his knee that slowed him up and had cost him the companionship of a woman--any woman--to keep his house and cook his meals.

"Will y' be havin' another?" Seamus asked him, poising a bottle of amber heaven over the old man's glass.

"What the hell," McAleese replied, needing no further invitation.

And though neither man who remained at the bar could see the stir outside through the press of bodies at the window, the ground beneath Finnegan's Pub began to perceptibly tremble as the first convoy of bulldozers entered Mixon Lane.

There were very few things in life that intimidated Elliott Burke. Thirty-four years of seasoned practice in the Fairfax County courts had honed the Southern attorney's ability to handle almost any situation or personality with unflappable calm. "Elliott could take on the devil and win," his spouse was fond of boasting, well versed in her husband's judicial achievements and always elated to recite them, even to total strangers at the Dixie Mart.

The impending task of delivering unpleasant news to his firm's most prestigious client, however, was a duty he would gladly have delegated at that moment to one of his two partners. Mr. McCain was not one to passively take "no" as an acceptable answer, nor did he have a reputation for compromise. All or nothing, he had told the law firm.

The crux, naturally, was that Rhys McCain wanted it all.

Elliott resignedly closed the leather portfolio in his lap and reached up to slide the wire-framed glasses off of his hawkish nose, catching as he did so a glance at his watch. As if to supplement his own observation, the hollow chime just then of the hallway Biedemeier confirmed the hour, startling him with its coincidental intrusion on the silence. Nearly fifteen minutes had passed since his host excused himself from the room to take a telephone call. Fifteen minutes. Too short a time to be considered a reprieve, he thought, and yet an interminable delay in reporting what he must.

"It's Tokyo on the line, sir," the housekeeper had announced from the doorway before they even got started on their meeting, a nonchalant statement as if such calls for her employer on his unlisted phone were the norm and not the exception. Considering his client's reputation on the international business scene, of course, anything was possible.

"This will only take a minute," he had promised the attorney, flashing the charismatic smile that could seal alliances or topple entire empires. "Just make yourself comfortable."

I'd feel more comfortable on my own turf, Elliott had wanted to say, regretting that he hadn't insisted on meeting at the firm in Alexandria. Surrounded by the kindly and familiar visages of Washington, Lincoln and Roosevelt that graced his office walls, the senior partner would have found a quiet strength in numbers. Here at the estate, he was on his own and maneuvering at the outset from a defensive position. It wasn't a role he enjoyed.

He looked down at the portfolio again, half-wishing that--if he opened it just once more--a magical answer might materialize on the front page. No such luck, his conscience chided him. He had scrutinized Sir Patrick McCain's will for the past month to the point of memorization. Yet try as he might to discern a poorly executed clause within the document, the assignment had met with dismal failure.

The bottom line was that his client had overstepped his own power. Telling him that, of course, was roughly equivalent to a root canal without anesthesia.

The minutes dragged onward. With a sigh, Elliott redirected his attention to studying the room where he waited for his client's return. It was an interior as rich and awe-inspiring as Rhys McCain himself, an elegant showplace straight from the glossy pages of Architectural Digest. As far as Elliott was concerned, the rest of the house need not even have existed. The library alone was proof of Nirvana.

The most engaging feature of it, of course, was the triple set of French doors along the room's west side, affording a sunny and panoramic view of lush green lawns and a sprawling lattice of white fences to segregate the gentleman's collection of thoroughbred horses.

Elliott would kill for a view like that, content as he was with the Foggy Bottom brownstone he and his wife had lived in since the Carter Administration.

Not fifty yards from where the house stood, McCain had told him, Yankee and Confederate troops had met in bloody skirmish on what were previously open fields. It was hard to believe to look at the grounds now, for the fertile pasture land bore no visible scars of historical battle, only the signs of contemporary wealth.

The furnishings were an extension of McCain's success as an American industrialist. The repetition of dark mahogany, antique brass fixtures, and forest green fabric conveyed a timelessness and grace that would have been at home on either side of the Atlantic. Floor to ceiling bookcases of leather bound volumes invited cozy browsing, though Elliott wondered when his client ever had the time for such casual pursuits. What did the man do for fun, he wondered, marveling at just how little he really knew about his client on a personal level.

Even Rhys' mention of family was sparse. Two cousins, a maiden aunt, an eccentric great grandfather with a twisted sense of humor. Perhaps I wouldn't make mention of family, either, Elliott thought, recalling some of the more peculiar things he had heard about McCain's Irish relations.

As he shrugged the memory away, his glance suddenly fell on something he hadn't noticed before. Nestled between a slender Egyptian statuary and an onyx paperweight on the left side of McCain's desk was a five-by-seven picture frame. Curiosity tugged at his brain, daring him to turn it around, to steal a peek at the mystery subject who had earned the privilege to grace the Irishman's private sanctuary. Elliott glanced over his shoulder toward the open door of the library, his spirits lifted twofold by the fact that the hallway was empty and that the floors ware hardwood. Certainly any approaching sound of footsteps on their polished surface would be ample warning to return the frame to its proper place. Without further hesitation, he reached for it. A gasp escaped his lips at the sight of what the frame contained, for he found himself staring at the picture of a beautiful young woman.

Twenty? Twenty-five? Elliott had never been a good judge of female ages, owing to their tricks with makeup and hair. His first impression, though, was that she was quite a bit younger than McCain. A pretty girl, he thought, her heart-shaped face almost overwhelmed by a curly mane of strawberry blond hair that fell past her shoulders and defied any semblance of taming. Wide blue eyes and an impish, lip-glossed grin could even place her age somewhere in the high teens, Elliott speculated, all of which made her relationship to McCain more puzzling.

Who was she? For that matter, where was she? Cursory exposure that he had had to the house, the presence of a young woman in it would have been noticeable by now. Whoever she was, he decided, her picture would inspire anyone to great things. No wonder McCain kept it so close at hand.

The sudden sound of a footfall nearly made him drop it. With a quick lunge, Elliott thrust the frame back on the desk just as McCain entered the room. "Sorry to keep you," Rhys apologized, striding across the library with the hard grace of someone in total control and not averse to show it. "It was a call that couldn't wait."

"No apology necessary," Elliott assured him, jarred back to the reality of having to tell the man who now sat opposite him that he was in trouble. Major trouble.

"Well?" McCain said pleasantly. "Shall we get on with it?"

As Elliott reached for the portfolio, his glance was automatically drawn again toward the frame. Would McCain notice that it wasn't at exactly the same angle? He hoped that it would escape his client's attention until their business was concluded and he was behind the wheel of his car heading back for Alexandria. "My partners and I have been over your great grandfather's will a number of times," he began. "As I shared on the telephone with you, we've also been in regular communication with Mr. Tapping in London." His eyes met McCain's across the desk and he could already read in their steel-gray depths that his host was impatient.

"Why do I have the feeling," McCain interrupted him a moment later, "that this isn't going to go the way I'd like?"

Elliott cleared his throat. "Never having met Sir Patrick, I can only say that the conditions of his will were a reflection of the pride he felt for his--and your--Irish heritage."

"The conditions are the ravings of a hundred year old lunatic. A stubborn hundred year old lunatic."

At least one can see where you inherited it, Elliott would have pointed out if he had had the license to speak his mind. "Whatever his mental state," Elliott continued, "I'm afraid that his attorney, Mr. Tapping, successfully covered all of the bases." Elliott ran a hand through his hair. "God, but I wish you'd asked me before you went ahead and did this."

"Why? So you could tell me 'no'?"

"So I could have saved you what's going to be pricey litigation."

"'Pricey,' Elliott, is the operative word. They can't afford to contest me and they all know it. Besides," he added, "they're getting a new mall and a couple factories out of it. Tell me they're going to pull the plug on that kind of trade."

"It's not that simple."

"Of course it is." McCain leaned back in his chair, quietly contemplating the ceiling. "Read it to me again," he said.

"Which part?"

"The stupid part. The part about the castle."

In spite of the circumstances, Elliott nearly smiled at the irony of a man as self confident as Rhys McCain being defeated by a clause concocted in the land of leprechauns. He wondered if Rhys had ever lost anything in his entire life. In response to McCain's request, he thumbed through the pages to the one he wanted, the page that had kept him up nights since this entire mess first began and taxed his capacity to turn mistakes into assets. He skipped over the jumble of heretofores, party of the first parts and Latin phraseology to the single paragraph which had caused then both so much vexation. "...and should my great grandson choose not to reside in said property and make it his permanent hone, all acquisitions, titles and benefits described herein shall be divided equally between my late daughter's two surviving children, Mr. Aidan Gleavy and his sister, Miss--"

"I really don't see what the problem is," McCain cut in.

Elliott regarded him over the tops of his wire framed glasses, wondering why a 700 year old castle that his client had never set foot in had become such a bone of contention. Nor did it make sense that a man as wealthy as Rhys McCain would even miss the forfeiture of his great grandfather's financial holdings. "Like I said," he reiterated, "his terms are quite explicit. If you're set on inheriting what Sir Patrick left you, I'm afraid the castle is a major obstacle you have to deal with."

"No such thing as obstacles," McCain muttered under his breath. "Just temporary inconveniences." As he turned to smile at Elliott, his gaze was diverted to something on the desk. Without saying a word, he reached over and adjusted the frame to his liking.

Elliott drew a deep breath. "You didn't have the authority to do what you did."

McCain looked off toward the French doors and the pastoral view beyond, resting his cleft chin on steepled fingers. "Tell me again what it all means," he said. "In twenty-five words or less."

"It means that, to claim your inheritance, you have to move to his castle in Ireland."

McCain cocked a brow. "And the problem is what?"

"Excuse me?"

"The will only said I had to live in the damn place. What it doesn't say," McCain pointed out, "is that the castle had to stay where it was..."