The Unexpected Landlord Read online

  Clancey took a deep breath, held it, and counted to ten. It wasn’t far enough, but it helped a little. “If you’re going to tell me that you won it from him playing poker—”

  He shook his head. “In a tax sale.”

  “What?” she said faintly.

  “Your precious so-called landlord hasn’t paid his property taxes for years. I paid them, so now I own the house. The details don’t matter. However, since Leonard doesn’t own it anymore—” His voice took on a dry note as he quoted her own words back to her “—it’s a matter of common sense that he can’t lease it to anyone.”

  Ever so slowly, he’d been advancing on her. Clancey had been backing away, just as slowly. Now she bumped into the dollhouse at the end of the parlor, hard enough that some of the tiny furniture toppled. The delicate chandeliers swung and rattled from the shock of the collision. They sounded the way her nerves felt.

  “Now that I’ve explained myself,” he added patiently, “can I have an answer to my original question? What the hell are you doing in my house?”

  Her voice had gone flat and lifeless. “I am going to run a toy store here.”

  “No, you’re not. You’ll have to get out.”

  “I will not! You haven’t shown me any evidence to convince me you’re telling the truth. You’ve just burst in here with an incredible story and you expect me to pack up everything I own and leave on your unsupported word? Forget it.”

  “Mark my ungentlemanly conduct down to the shock of finding you in what’s supposed to be an empty house.”

  He didn’t sound like a gentleman, she thought. “I don’t even know who you are. Maybe you’re a psychotic personality after all, with some kind of grudge against Leonard.”

  He smiled. At least, she thought it was a smile, but it didn’t last long enough for her to be certain. “It’s not hard to imagine all kinds of people having a grudge against Leonard,” he conceded. “And they wouldn’t necessarily be psychotic, either. let me see this lease of yours.”

  Clancey put her chin up. “Show me proof that you own the house. I’m betting you don’t even have a key— explain that one, if you can. If I hadn’t left the door open, you probably couldn’t have gotten in at all.”

  “I’d have knocked out a window,” he countered. “It’s not breaking and entering when you’re locked out of your own house, you know, and owners don’t generally hand over things like keys and blueprints and instructions on the balky water heater when they’ve lost the property in a tax sale.”

  She had to admit the truth of that, but she wasn’t going to give up her advantage. ‘Perhaps. But it’s a pretty flaky story.”

  “Tomorrow morning I will be back with not only the deed, but the legal papers to evict you. So you’d better take my advice, and be packed and ready to go.” He touched the brim of his cap in a gesture that parodied a respectful salute.

  She clutched the edge of the dollhouse table so hard her fingers ached.

  Just as he reached the pillars, the front door creaked open and the lights in the hall flashed on. “What’s with the dark, Clancey?” Eileen called. “You can’t get anything done in the—” She broke off awkwardly as she saw the visitor.

  He tipped his hat to her and left without a word.

  Eileen swallowed hard and watched him out of sight. Then she came across the mom toward Clancey, the pizza box balanced like a waiter’s tray on one upraised hand. “I take it all back,” she said. “If your system of man-hunting can produce results like that, I think I’ll give it a try after all. Have a piece of pizza and tell me how to do it.”

  *****

  In less than fifteen minutes he had destroyed what Clancey had worked five years to gain. That was the fact of it, in one tiny blunt package. Five years of struggle, first to gather enough seed money to convince the bank to lend her the necessary capital, and then to build her business and her client base until she could point to Small World with pride.

  And now it was all going down the drain.

  If she couldn’t open the store on schedule, Clancey didn’t know what she would do. She couldn’t possibly find another place on such short notice and get it ready. It would be difficult enough to find adequate warehouse space to store her inventory while she sought out another location. And every day that went by would make it more difficult—sales would be lost and regular clients would seek out other stores. They might never come back to her, even if she got on her feet again.

  And it was already October. Christmas was around the corner. She’d not only miss out on her most profitable sales period, but she’d have to dig deep into her credit line to pay for storage space. She didn’t have cash to fall back on, because she had sunk most of her money into advertising her new location. And suddenly she was without a place to live, as well.

  Don’t panic, she told herself. You’re assuming that he was telling the truth. You’re assuming that he’s right about everything he said. But it’s just as likely that you’re right. You’ve got a lease.

  And an attorney. Hank Gleason might not be her first choice for a passionate lover, but he was a more than adequate lawyer. Hank could tell her what her rights were where this — person — was involved. He would listen to her story, and then he’d check up on this — person.

  Whoever he was.

  She groaned. That wasn’t going to make Hank’s job any easier, not even knowing who he was dealing with Damn, why hadn’t she had the brains to at least ask the man’s name? Why hadn’t she insisted on getting a look at him? She could run headlong into him on the street and not even know him — unless her hand happened to rest on his arm. The solid feel of him she was sure she’d recognize. But as for his face...

  Eileen would have been helpful on that question, Clancey was positive. She’d certainly gotten a good look at him, in the glare of the hallway lights. But Clancey wasn’t sure she could bear to listen to Eileen on the subject, so she sent her home, phoned Hank and promptly embarrassed both of them by bursting into tears.

  She managed to blubber through her story, but it didn’t get easier, especially as Hank sounded increasingly grim with every word he spoke. “I’ll do the best I can, Clancey, but it’s going to take time to track down how all this happened. And you know I can’t even start to check on it fill morning when the courthouse opens.”

  Clancey felt her last bit of hope slide away. In the morning Hank would start to work. But the morning was also when he — that nameless “he,” again — had promised to come back with eviction orders and throw her out. And she had no doubt he would do his best to keep that promise.

  Time. Hank needed time to figure out a strategy.

  And time was the one thing Clancey didn’t have.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Clancey was up early, sitting morosely in the window seat at the front of the house, drinking coffee just to keep herself busy and hoping that something would delay the inevitable long enough for Hank to bring matters to a screeching halt. Surely he could find grounds to stop this. It was so bloody unfair.

  But what was it Hank had told her last night? Something about a great many things being unfair but still perfectly legal. Not much of a comfort to feel that your own attorney had somehow ended up on the other side.

  It was barely eight o’clock when a car pulled into the driveway and her annoying visitor of last night started up the front walk.

  He was alone. There would be no sheriff’s deputies, then, to serve papers and drag her belongings out into the street. That was some relief. Or perhaps it only meant they were coming along later, in case she balked.

  “I could pretend not to be here,” she muttered. “If I simply don’t answer the door, what can he do? Break it down?”

  Yes, she remembered. He had threatened last night to break in a window. He wouldn’t hesitate.

  So when the first firm knock sounded on the massive front door, she dragged herself up from the window seat and went to open it. She found herself hoping the door would jam so completely
there would be no question of getting it open. Then he would have to stand outside and yell his demands. Like all inanimate objects, however, the door seemed to know precisely how to be most annoying at any given moment. It opened smoothly and sweetly and silently at the merest touch, and for the first time Clancey saw the face of the stranger who was ruining her life.

  He was younger than she’d expected. It surprised her to realize that he couldn’t be much over thirty. It might have been the conservative topcoat and the soft cap he’d been wearing the night before that had made her assess him differently, but on this sunny fall morning he was wearing neither. He wasn’t casually dressed, however; his navy blazer and gray trousers were obviously the garb of some sort of professional man, and the pin-striped shirt and muted tie finished off the picture in perfectly coordinated fashion.

  He was on his way to work, she told herself, and he had just stopped by for a minute to deal with a minor nuisance before he got down to the day’s important business. The suspicion that this problem, catastrophic as it was to her, might be classified in his mind with a dozen other petty ones infuriated her, and she had an unreasonable impulse to grab a handful of his hair and tug. He had dark hair, so close to black that it had a bluish sheen, and he wore it a little longer than she had thought last night—it wouldn’t be hard to get a good enough grip on it to gain his attention, that was sure.

  “Sorry about the hammering,” he said. “The doorbell seems to be broken.”

  She wasn’t in a mood to play games. “Complain to the owner,” she snapped. “I only rent the place.”

  He actually looked a little apologetic. His eyes — they were deep set and dark blue, with almost a hint of sea green in the depths — met hers in earnest appraisal but no animosity. It was almost as if he was silently pleading with her to be reasonable.

  That’s foolish, she told herself. There’s no compromise for this problem.

  Clancey put her arm firmly across the doorway. “I believe you said you’d have some papers for me. Unless you do, I’m not letting you in.”

  His hand moved to the inside breast pocket of his jacket. “I have the deed but not the eviction papers,” he admitted.

  She tipped her head back and stared up at him, eyes narrowed. “Oh? What happened? Did you discover you couldn’t throw me out so easily, after all?”

  “No.” His voice was level. “I thought perhaps after our conversation last night you’d have accepted the inevitable and gone away. I see I was daydreaming.”

  Behind her back, Clancey’s fingers curled into a fist, and she had to remind herself that hitting him wouldn’t help the situation. Her eyes dropped to the document in his hand. It certainly looked real enough.

  “Since we are going to have to deal with each other,” he said, “don’t you think we should start with names, Miss—?”

  There was no point in trying to continue to be anonymous. “Kincade,” she said reluctantly. “Clancey Kincade.”

  There was a tiny span of silence. Clancey was used to it; there was inevitably a pause when she introduced herself, and it was always followed by the unavoidable question, How on earth did you get a crazy name like that?

  But he didn’t ask. She was almost disappointed.

  He passed over the document, instead. “This isn’t a copy, because I thought you’d insist on having the official deed in your hands. I might point out, however, that destroying it will not delay or change anything, merely send me back to the courthouse for a duplicate.”

  “I wouldn’t think of destroying—” She glanced at the paper and said, without thinking, “How in the world did you get a name like—” She stopped herself by biting her tongue, hard. Rowan McKenna. It was unusual, there was no doubt about that. It certainly explained the fine-tuned, dark good looks; that was the Celtic strain in him.

  He looked injured. “I would have thought any woman named Clancey would understand.”

  She suspected that the hurt was a sham, purely a tactic to manipulate her into embarrassed concessions, and she wasn’t about to apologize. “I suppose you might as well come in, Mr. McKenna.”

  Once inside, he put the deed safely back in his pocket and asked politely, “May I see your lease?”

  She passed it to him silently and stood drinking her cold coffee while he scanned it.

  Finally he refolded the pages and slapped them casually against the palm of his hand a couple of times. He seemed to be staring at the teddy-bear tree, but Clancey wouldn’t have bet that he was seeing anything at all.

  Then he said very quietly, “Miss Kincade, I understand that this has been a terrible shock to you, and I don’t want to be unreasonable. I’ll give you a few days — shall we say a week? — to move out.”

  She blinked in astonishment. “That’s quite a concession, coming from you. I can only conclude that my lease must look pretty solid.”

  “As leases go, yes, but that still doesn’t make it valid. I don’t have to make concessions. I’m giving you a little leeway out of the goodness of my heart. If you’d rather have it otherwise, I’ll go downtown right now and get the eviction papers.”

  She was already regretting her rash words. He’d handed her a delay, a little time for Hank to dig around, and she’d practically thrown it back in his face. She said quickly, “No, it’s very thoughtful of you. Look, would you like coffee?”

  He eyed her cup. “Is it safe?”

  “Of course,” she said crisply. “I’ve never seen a need to keep cyanide in my kitchen. Until now.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched, but his voice was solemn. “I’d love a cup of coffee.”

  He followed her through the parlor and the adjoining dining room into the kitchen. Clancey dumped out the over-brewed contents of the coffee maker and filled it with fresh grounds and cold water. As she turned, she caught him glancing up the twisting back stairway as if he was wondering what lay at the top of it now.

  “I haven’t hurt the place,” she said defensively. “In fact, most of the walls have had a fresh coat of paint since I took possession. And all that work and cost isn’t the only thing I stand to lose in this deal — there’s the security deposit I paid Leonard Schultz, and the rent in advance, and—” Her shoulders began to sag.

  I am not going to cry, she told herself fiercely. She swallowed hard and said, “I don’t think you understand how important this is to me. My whole life is at stake here. My business is going to fail if you force me to move.”

  “How about just going back to wherever you came from? This isn’t a new venture, is it? I’m sure I’ve seen the name somewhere before.” He gestured toward the Small World sign propped against the overloaded table, its fresh paint bright with a promise that would now probably never come true.

  Clancey moved the sign to the back porch, its face to the wall so she wouldn’t have to look at it, and cleared a corner of the table. “No, Small World isn’t new. But I can’t go back to where I came from. The storefront is already leased.” She put a couple of mugs down on the table with more force than she’d intended.

  He didn’t respond. “Do you mind if I take my coat off?” he asked instead. “It’s a bit warm in here.”

  “The boiler works wonderfully. I’m sure you’ll find that news a comfort. After the doorbell and all—” Clancey’s voice started to tremble. She turned her back and watched the coffee maker as if it was likely to explode without supervision. By the time it finished the cycle she had herself under control again.

  “Look,” she said earnestly, pulling up a chair across from him. “You own the house now. You’ve got what you want, right? I’m actually a benefit, you know, if you’ll just look at it that way. You won’t have to advertise for a tenant for three whole years. And since I’m renting both apartments, you won’t even have squabbles between your renters. You’ve got nothing to worry about. It’s a great deal.”

  “It might be,” he interrupted, “if I wanted a tenant.”

  “Oh,” Clancey said weakly. “You me
an you were planning to use the space yourself?”

  He said, “Why do people usually buy houses, Miss Kincade?”

  “To live in? You want to renovate the place and move in?” She looked around as if she’d never seen the kitchen before. “It isn’t going to be cheap.”

  “Don’t you think that’s my problem—not yours?”

  “You could let me stay, and put all the rent money I pay into a fund, and then when you start work on the house...”

  He shook his head.

  Clancey sighed. “I suppose, with my luck, you’re a banker or a stockbroker, or somebody else who’s made of money.”

  “I’m a certified public accountant.”

  “Oh. That means you already have budgets and things lined up.”

  “And time schedules — which you, Miss Kincade, are interfering with. A week, I believe we said?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he pushed his chair back. “I hope you don’t mind if I look around a bit before I leave?”