Trust Me
Authors: Melanie Craft
Copyright © 2003 by Melanie Craft
Excerpt from
Man Trouble
copyright © 2003 by Melanie Craft
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including
information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may
quote brief passages in a review.
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Contents
S
he looked defiantly at him. “I think that you’re just trying to think of me as untouchable.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Max growled.
Her blush deepened, and her words tumbled out in a rush. “Am I that dangerous?”
That was a hell of a question, he thought. His eyes moved over her flushed cheeks, her mouth, the curves of her breasts and
hips in that damned dress, and he felt his self-control beginning to slip.
“You think you understand,” Max said coldly, “but you don’t.”
“Don’t I?” Carly’s eyes were bright. “I’m just wondering if I get any say in this. Because if I do, I’d much rather be brazen.
Frankly, Max, it is not my hand that I want kissed.”
This book is dedicated to the Mercer Veterinary Clinic for the Homeless.
Founded in 1992 by students at the University of California at Davis, the Mercer Clinic provides free veterinary care to the
companion animals of the homeless. Royalties from this book will be donated to support the Mercer Clinic.
My thanks to the following people:
Mitch Douglas at ICM and Beth de Guzman at Warner, for their guidance.
Kira Craft for tea and sympathy during rewrites.
Joyce Higashi for organizing my life and letting me pretend that I’m the one doing it.
Lizzie Brumble Schwartz for unflagging friendship across many years and miles.
And most of all, Larry Ellison, who didn’t write this one either, but who was an integral part of the process. My love and
gratitude for his support, patience, humor, and willingness to praise first drafts.
HAPTER
1
“
Y
ou’re not what I expected,” said the man. He was handsome, with steely eyes that matched his suit, and he was as out of place
in the tiny veterinary clinic as Carly Martin, D.V.M., would have been in a Fortune 500 boardroom.
His gaze moved over her, and he nodded thoughtfully. “But now that I see you, it makes sense. That wholesome girl-next-door
look must work wonders on lonely old men.”
Carly sighed and pushed the reheat button on the coffeemaker. It was clearly going to be one of those days. The man, whoever
he was, had bypassed the receptionist and cornered her in the staff room, where she had gone to change into a clean lab coat
and gobble a few bites of cold pizza for lunch. He had walked in unannounced, set his briefcase on a chair, then dared to
call her Charlotte, which was the most reliable and efficient way to get things off to a bad start.
Morning at the clinic had begun with the frantic arrival of Gigi Beeson, society doyenne of San Francisco, whose pug had just
consumed a five-carat emerald earring. Carly had used an endoscopic forceps to retrieve the jewel, and the small dog was going
to be fine, but after dealing with Gigi’s hysterics and a yowling, barking waiting room full of increasingly impatient clients,
Carly wasn’t so sure of her own chances.
And now there was a stranger blocking the doorway, saying things that made no sense. If he was a random lunatic, he was the
best-dressed lunatic she had ever seen. A heavy silver watch was his only ornament, but Carly had spent two years caring for
the pampered pets of San Francisco’s elite and knew money when she saw it. That suit was Italian, tailored to an expert fit
over his broad shoulders, and his shoes and belt together were worth more than her entire wardrobe. Men like him did not wander
the streets looking for veterinarians to accost.
“Okay,” Carly said, trying not to think about the state of the waiting room. “You have exactly one minute until I take my
coffee and go back to work. Please explain what you’re talking about, and how you know my name.”
The stranger regarded her coolly. “Your name is just the beginning. One word from me, and my people will dig up things about
you that even your mother doesn’t know. Yet.”
Carly didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed. “You’re threatening me?”
“Damn right,” the man said. “The day you decided to fleece Henry Tremayne was the day that you messed with me, lady. And that
was a very big mistake.”
“Henry! What does Henry have to do with this?”
The man’s mouth curved cynically. “Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all. The startled surprise, the innocent, mystified look
… You’re almost convincing. Have you been practicing, or have you done this before?”
The novelty of the encounter was wearing off. “Look,” Carly said. “I’m tired, my feet hurt, and my afternoon is booked solid.
I don’t have time to stand here listening to you, so would you please get to the point? Who are you?”
“My name is Max Giordano. I’m the executor of Henry Tremayne’s will.”
“What?” In an instant, Carly forgot her sore feet and the overcrowded waiting room. “Oh, my God, Henry isn’t… ?”
“No. He isn’t. He’s alive, albeit barely. There was an accident, and he hasn’t regained consciousness.”
Carly pressed her lips together, trying to recover her composure. She did not want to cry in front of this forbidding man,
but the news was overwhelming. Henry, barely alive? He was nearly eighty, but he had always seemed ageless to her, and he
had been fine just yesterday afternoon, when she had stopped by to see him. Technically, of course, it wasn’t Henry who she
was visiting, but the latest addition to his ever-changing menagerie. This time it was a three-week-old kitten, abandoned
in a dump-ster on the other side of town. Henry’s reputation as a willing caretaker for any creature lost or unloved had brought
the baby, special delivery, to his doorstep. Carly had left him sitting in his favorite red velvet armchair, his white head
bent as he fed the tiny cat with an eyedropper.
She cleared her throat, blinking hard. “What happened?”
“He fell down the stairs and fractured his skull. He’s in the ICU at Hopkins Memorial.”
“Is he going to die?”
“At the moment, I have no idea.”
“And you… ? You’re his lawyer?”
“No,” Max Giordano said. “I’m his grandson.”
Max’s day had started at 5
A.M.
, when he had been awakened by the most shocking phone call of his life. He had stumbled into the shower and blasted himself
with hot water in an attempt to clear his mind and process the incredible news: Henry Tremayne—who wasn’t even supposed to
know that Max existed—not only knew about him, but had left him in charge of the entire Tremayne trust.
In the year that Max had spent planning his first face-to-face contact with his only living relative, he had never imagined
that it could happen in such a way. Henry, pale and unconscious in the hospital bed, his frail body violated with tubes and
monitors, had looked more dead than alive. Max had spent the next hours sitting alone in the visitors’ lounge, clenching a
Styrofoam coffee cup and staring through the window into the chilly, gray light of the new dawn.
It was easy to brood in a hospital. The cold sterility of the place, with its utilitarian white walls and steel-framed furniture,
magnified the horror he felt as he realized how close he was to losing the grandfather he had yet to meet.
Eight o’clock brought a meeting with the Tremayne legal team, confirming what had been said on the phone. Fourteen months
ago, Henry had quietly rewritten all of his legal documents to name Max as his primary heir and successor trustee.
Fourteen months. The timing couldn’t be a coincidence. His grandfather had learned of his existence shortly after Max had
hired an investigative firm to track down the family of the father he knew almost nothing about. Henry’s lawyers were close-mouthed
on the subject, but it was obvious to Max that someone at the firm had leaked—or, more likely, sold—the information to Henry.
Had his grandfather even believed the story at first? To suddenly be told, almost forty years after the fact, that his son
Alan had fathered an illegitimate child only days before the car wreck that killed him… well, that wasn’t the kind of news
that you mentioned casually over lunch. Max had spent many nights staring up at the darkened ceiling over his bed, trying
to come up with a reasonable plan for dropping such a bomb on an unsuspecting old man.
Little had he known that the announcement had already been made. It was lawsuit material, but at the moment, Max had a more
immediate problem to deal with, in the form of a woman named Charlotte Martin.
She was staring at him, obviously stunned. “You’re Henry’s grandson? I didn’t think he had any family at all. Aside from the
pets, that is.”
“Rich, old, and alone,” Max said. “The perfect target.”
She stiffened. “I think you’d better explain yourself.”
He was pleased to see caution darkening her eyes, replacing her earlier carelessness. She wasn’t feeling so confident. She
didn’t know what to make of him, or the threat that he represented, which was exactly as he had intended. Confused and on
the defensive, she would be easy to read. She could cling to the innocent, self-righteous role if she wanted to; it would
make no difference in the end.
It was time to get this over with. “You’ve been mentioned in my grandfather’s will.”
“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly.
Max looked curiously at her. This was an abrupt switch. He had expected wide eyes, trembling lips.
What? Dear Henry thought of me? How kind. How unexpected. How much?
“You’re not surprised, Ms. Martin?”
“Give me some credit,” she said. “Anyone with the brain of a hamster could have guessed that you were leading up to that.
Why else all the jabs about old, rich men? But I’d like to know what you’re doing here, talking to me about your grandfather’s
will while he’s still alive. Do Henry’s lawyers know about this? Because if they don’t, then you have absolutely no right
to—”
“The lawyers were the ones who called me,” Max replied. “And I wasn’t using the word ‘will’ in the technical sense. My grandfather’s
estate is actually held in something called an inter vivos trust, which means that all of his assets are under the care of
a person called a—”
“Trustee. I know what a trust is. My brother is a tax attorney, and he just helped my parents set one up. You should have
just said so, instead of assuming that my entire understanding of estate planning comes from the daytime soaps. So you’re
actually Henry’s trustee, not his executor. Fine. What does that have to do with me?”