The Sinner - Molly O'Keefe Page 0,3

“Look at him. It’s a fabulous idea.”

And then he was there, big and masculine on the tattered welcome mat. C.J., the little tart, stepped out of the sleeping porch to curl around his shoes.

Seriously, that cat gave all of us a bad name.

“My name is Matt Howe,” he said, holding out his hand.

Margot clasped Matt’s big paw in her’s. “I’m Margot O’Neill,” she said. “Welcome to our home.”

Then it was my turn.

My turn to touch his flesh to mine. My turn to stand under his neon gaze.

He’s just a man, I told myself. Tell yourself he’s a client. He wants research on minor battles in the Pacific during World War Two or about the migratory patterns of long-tailed swallows.

My hand slid into his and receptors, long buried, long ignored, shook themselves awake, sighing with a sudden pleasure.

“Savannah O’Neill,” I said, my voice a brusque rattle.

“A pleasure, Savannah,” Matt said, bowing slightly over my hand. And my whole body went hot thinking he was going to kiss my fingers.

“Your ad was a little vague,” he said, stammering slightly on the words. “I was hoping for some more information about what you’re looking for?”

I cast a quick, dubious look at Margot. What about Handyman /gardener needed was vague?

“We’ll show you the courtyard,” Margot said, smiling at Matt. “And you can see the scope of the work.”

Margot was determined—more determined now that a man was here, handsome and virile, stepping into the Manor—than she’d been in front of the greenhouse two days ago, cradling her dead orchids.

Men in general were a danger to the O’Neill women; it had been proven time and time again men brought out the worst in us. The most notorious aspects of our already inappropriate characters.

Even me.

Especially me.

It had been years since my heart had thundered in my chest like this—and that had not ended all that well.

“I’ve lived in this house my whole life,” Margot was saying, her hand cradled in Matt’s elbow as she led them through the shabby manor as if it was still the best property in the area. “And my mother did the same before me.”

“It’s a beautiful house,” Matt said, glancing up at the high ceilings, all of which needed spackle and paint. The mahogany floors beneath our feet were beginning to buckle and sag in places and I watched as Margot led him around the worst patches, as though they were avoiding puddles in the rain. “Did your family build it?” He asked.

I laughed and Margot tossed me a wicked look over her shoulder. “Yes,” Margot said. “My great-great-grandfather built this house.”

As a saloon and whorehouse.

All of us stepped from the dark hall, with its offshoots of parlor, dining room, solarium and library, through the glass doors into the middle courtyard.

“Beautiful,” Matt said, and I wondered if he really meant it. He seemed to. All that predatory intensity was dialed down for a moment as his eyes swept over the hedges and lilies I kept in order. There were tables to rest cups of coffee and cushioned coaches for reading. And silence.

Everything I loved.

“Yes,” Margot agreed, with a sideways look at me. “The middle courtyard is not the problem.”

The phone rang inside the house and Margot cast me a pleading look, which I scowled at.

Right. I was going to leave this strange man alone with my aging grandmother. Particularly when said aging grandmother insisted on wearing the only real jewelry we had left that was worth anything.

I didn’t care how handsome this Matt guy was, he could still break Margot’s wrist with one hand.

I was distrustful. Sue me.

“I’ll be right back,” Margot said, giving Matt’s arm a squeeze. “My granddaughter will show you the rest of the way.”

Margot left, blue silk fluttering behind her.

“Grandmother?” he said. “She looks like she could be your mother.”

“She’s not,” I said. The subject of daughters and mothers was not discussed at the Manor.

“Is your mother here?” he asked, and I stared hard at Matt, as if to see past his green eyes and strong arms to the heart beating under that lean chest.

“Strange question.”

“Just a question.”

He stared right back at me, his eyes wide open as if he had nothing to hide.

Of course, that had to be a lie. Everyone had something to hide.

“No,” I said. “She isn’t. I’ll show you the back courtyard.”

I led him through a second set of glass doors into a brighter hall leading left to the kitchens and cellars and right to the upstairs bedrooms.

“So why don’t you call her grandmother?”