The Billionaire Bid

In the last years of her life, Essie Kerrigan had not had energy to take care of those things, and so delayed building maintenance was one of the jobs that had fallen to Gina when she’d assumed Essie’s title as head of the museum.

And as long as they would have to raise money for restoration, why not go the whole way and expand at the same time?

Essie had understood the need to expand the museum, though she had sighed over the idea of adding modern wings to her beloved old house. Gina wondered what Dez Kerrigan would think of the plan.

Not that he would have any say in what the museum board did, of course. The house had been Essie’s, and the will she had written couldn’t have made her intentions any clearer. Still, Gina supposed that the other branches of the family might have feelings about the matter. And one who had apparently been named after the distant ancestor who had built the house in the first place might have strong sentiments indeed.

Gina wondered if Dez Kerrigan had known who she was yesterday. Was that why he’d been staring—looking at her not as a woman, but as the person who had—in a manner of speaking—ended up in possession of Desmond Kerrigan’s house?

It couldn’t be any more than that, she was certain. If he’d known about her plans for expansion, he might well object—even though he had no real right to an opinion. But the fact was he couldn’t possibly know about that. The plans were still so tentative that the only people she’d discussed them with were the members of the museum’s board and Anne Garrett. They hadn’t even hired an architect yet.

On the other hand, Gina thought, his reaction yesterday probably had nothing at all to do with the museum. Her first assessment of Dez Kerrigan had probably been the correct one—the man was simply rude. He thought he’d caught her staring at him, and he’d taken it as license to stare back.

What was it about the man that she ought to remember, but couldn’t? She was certain Essie had said something about him. Not that it was important—but if she had time today when she got to work, she’d dig out Essie’s family history files. Essie had noted down every jot of information she’d dug out, every source and reference, even her every suspicion. Somewhere in there should be the clue to Dez Kerrigan.

Gina heard three distinct thumps on the front porch—her newspaper, along with those of her upstairs and downstairs neighbors. As quietly as she could, watching out for the creaky stair, Gina went down to retrieve her copy. She spread it carefully on the old trunk which doubled as a coffee table, flipped through the pages once to see if anything leaped out at her, and then refilled her coffee cup and settled down to look at each individual story.

Million-dollar verdict in civil suit—but it was unlikely the winner was the type to donate money to a historical museum. City councilman challenges mayor—nothing unusual about that. Tyler-Royale expected to close downtown store—five hundred jobs at stake—formal announcement expected today…That kind of blow to the community’s economy wouldn’t make raising money for a museum expansion any easier.

Gina turned the page, then turned it back and sat staring at the picture of the Tyler-Royale department store building. There were two pictures, in fact—one of a group of clerks beside an old-fashioned cash register, taken when the store was brand new nearly a century before, and a shot from just yesterday of shoppers at the front entrance.

You’re thinking too small, Anne Garrett had said. And then Be sure you read the newspaper.

Had she…could she have been…thinking about the Tyler-Royale building as a home for the historical museum? It seemed the only explanation of that cryptic comment. But why hadn’t she just come straight out and said it?

Because if the announcement wasn’t going to be made until today, not just everybody had known about the store closing—and the last thing the publisher of the Chronicle would do would be to take a chance of the local television station beating her newspaper to the story.

Gina closed her eyes and tried to picture the department store. It had been a while since she’d shopped there, but if her memory was accurate, the space could hardly be better suited to house a museum. Areas which had been designed for the display of merchandise would be just as good for showing off exhibits, and a soaring atrium in the center of the building brought natural but indirect light to the interior of every floor. The store was big enough to house not only every exhibit the museum currently displayed but every item currently in storage as well. The stained-glass windows from St. Francis Church would be no problem; they could have a gallery to themselves.

In addition, the building sat squarely in the middle of the downtown area—an even better location for a museum than Essie Kerrigan’s house was. There was even a parking ramp right next door.

But best of all, in Gina’s opinion, was the fact that nobody in their right minds would pay good money for that building. If Tyler-Royale couldn’t run a profitable store in the center of downtown Lakemont, then it was dead certain nobody else could. No, Tyler-Royale couldn’t sell it—but they could donate it to a good cause and save themselves a wad in taxes.

And why shouldn’t that good cause be the Kerrigan County Historical Society?

The newspaper said that the CEO of Tyler-Royale had come up from Chicago to make the announcement at a press conference scheduled for ten o’clock that morning. Since she didn’t know how long Ross Clayton would be in town, Gina figured that would be her best opportunity to talk to him. All she needed, after all, was a few minutes of his time.

Not that she expected the man to make a spur-of-the-moment decision. This was hardly like making a contribution to the United Way; he couldn’t donate company property without the approval of his board of directors. And even if he was in the mood to give away a building at the drop of a hat, Gina couldn’t exactly take it. She didn’t even want to think about the fuss it would create if she were to call a meeting of the museum’s board of directors and announce that—without permission or consultation with any of them—she’d gone and acquired a new building.

But a few minutes with the CEO would be enough to set the process in motion. To give the man something to think about. And to give her a hint about whether he might act on the suggestion.

Her path toward downtown took her past Essie Kerrigan’s house. Gina paused on the sidewalk in front of the museum and looked up at the three-story red brick Victorian. The building looked almost abandoned, its facade oddly blank because most of the windows had been covered from the inside to provide more room for displays.

Gina had spent the best hours of her life inside that house. As a teenager, she had visited Essie Kerrigan and listened to the old woman’s tales of early life in Kerrigan County. As a college student, she’d spent weeks in the museum library doing research. As a new graduate, her first job had been as Essie’s assistant—and then, eventually, her successor.

In a way, she felt like a traitor—to the house and to Essie—even to consider moving the museum away from its first and only home. The building was a part of the museum; it always had been.

But in her heart, she knew Anne Garrett had been right. She had been thinking too small. She simply hadn’t wanted to let herself look too closely at the whole problem, because she had thought there was no viable alternative.

Putting a roof over the garden and the driveway would be a temporary solution for the cramped conditions, but if the plan was successful and the museum grew, in a few years they would find themselves stuck once more in exactly the same dilemma. And then they’d have nowhere to go, because the building was already landlocked, hemmed in by houses and commercial buildings.

If the museum was ever going to move, now was the time. Before they had invested hundreds of thousands of dollars in new construction. Before they tore up Essie Kerrigan’s house. The house was salvageable now—a restorer would have no trouble reversing the few changes which had been made to accommodate the museum. But as soon as the work started, knocking out walls and adding a couple of wings, the house would be even more of a white elephant than the Tyler-Royale store was.

“It’s all right,” she whispered, as if the house were listening. “It’ll be better this way. You won’t be carved up after all, because a family will buy you and make you truly beautiful again.”

Why the CEO had chosen to hold his press conference at the city’s premiere hotel instead of in the store was beyond Gina’s understanding, until she walked into the main ballroom and saw the final preparations under way. Cables and power cords snaked underfoot; lights and cameras formed a semicircle around the lectern set on a low stage at one side of the room, and people were milling everywhere. No wonder he’d wanted to keep this circus out of the store. Even though it would be closing soon, there was no sense in driving the last customers away with all the noise and confusion.

It was not exactly the place for a confidential chat, of course. But she didn’t have much choice about the place or the time, so she edged into the crowd, watching intently.

Almost beside Gina, a reporter from one of the Lakemont television stations was tapping her foot as she waited for her cameraman to finish setting up. “Will you hurry up? He’ll be coming in the door to the left of the podium—make sure you get that shot. And don’t forget to check the microphone feed.”

Gina, hoping the woman knew what she was talking about, edged toward the left side of the podium. She was standing next to the door when it opened, and she took a deep breath and stepped forward, business card in hand, to confront the man who came out onto the little stage. “Sir, I realize this is neither the time nor the place,” she said, “but I’m with the Kerrigan County Historical Society, and when you have a minute I’d like to talk to you about your building. I think it would make a wonderful museum.”

The man looked at her business card and shook his head. “If you mean the Tyler-Royale store, you’ve got the wrong man, I’m afraid.”

“But you—aren’t you Ross Clayton? Your picture was in the Chronicle this morning.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But I don’t exactly own the building anymore.”

Gina felt her jaw go slack with shock. “You’ve sold it? Already?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Gina looked more closely at him and felt a trickle of apprehension run through her as she recognized him. The photo of him in this morning’s paper hadn’t been a particularly good one, and she only now made the connection. This was the man who’d been having lunch with Dez Kerrigan yesterday at The Maple Tree.

At that instant a tape recorder seemed to switch on inside her brain, and Gina heard in her memory what Essie had said about Dez Kerrigan.

He has no sense of history, Essie had said with a dismissive wave of her hand. In fact, the older the building is, the better he likes knocking it down so he can replace it with some glass and steel monster.

Dez Kerrigan was a property developer—that was what Gina should have remembered as soon as she heard his name.

A familiar and uncomfortable prickle ran up the side of her neck, and she turned her head to see exactly what she was expecting to see. Dez Kerrigan had followed Tyler-Royale’s CEO onto the little stage.

“I own the building,” Dez said. “Or, to be perfectly precise, what I own is the option to buy it. But I’m always ready to listen to an offer. Your place or mine?”

CHAPTER TWO

GINA couldn’t believe the sheer arrogance of his question. Your place or mine? The very suggestion was an insult. Even if she actually had been staring at him yesterday at The Maple Tree—which of course she hadn’t—she wouldn’t have been inviting that sort of treatment. If he went around like this, propositioning every woman who happened to look in his direction…

The CEO said under his breath, “Dez, I think you’re on thin ice.”

Dez Kerrigan didn’t seem to hear him. He glanced at his watch and then back at Gina. “I’m a little busy just now, but after the press conference we can meet at your office, or at mine. Which would you prefer?”

Gina gulped. “Office?”

“Of course.” There was a speculative gleam in his eyes. “What did you think I was doing—inviting you to climb into my hot tub for a chat?” He shook his head. “Sorry, but I’d have to know you a lot better before I did that.”

Gina felt as if she was scrambling across a mud puddle, trying desperately to keep her feet from sliding out from under her. She needed to do something—and fast—to get her balance back. “I, on the other hand,” she said sweetly, “am quite certain that getting better acquainted wouldn’t make any difference at all in how I feel about you.”

His eyes, she had noticed, were not quite hazel and not quite green, but a shade that fell in between. Unless he was amused—then they looked almost like emeralds. And there was no question at the moment that he was amused.

“I suppose I should be flattered,” he murmured. “Lust at first sight is a well-recognized phenomenon, of course, but—”

Even though Gina knew quite well that he was laughing at her, she still couldn’t stop herself. “That is not what I meant. I was trying to say that I can’t imagine any circumstance whatever that would get me into a hot tub with you.”

“Good,” Dez said crisply. “Now we both know where we stand. Do you want to talk about the building, or not?”

Gina could have hit herself in the head. How could she have gotten so distracted? “Since you’ve only just cut a deal to buy it, I don’t see why you’d be interested in talking about selling it.”

“Don’t know much about the real estate market, do you? Just because there’s been one deal negotiated doesn’t mean there couldn’t be another. Let me know if you change your mind.” He stepped off to the side of the platform as Ross Clayton tapped the central microphone in the bank set up on the lectern.

Gina, fuming, headed for the exit. What was the point in sticking around? She had real work to do.

The television reporter who had been standing next to her earlier intercepted her near the door. “What was that little face-off all about?”

“Nothing at all,” Gina said firmly and kept walking.

She was halfway back to the museum before she could see the faintest glimmer of humor in the whole situation. And she found herself feeling a hint of relief as well. Of course, she was still disappointed at losing the chance to acquire an ideal building, but at least she hadn’t made a fool of herself by going public with her crazy plan before she’d checked it out. It would have been almighty embarrassing to have gotten the museum board excited over the possibilities and then had to go back to them and admit that her brainstorm hadn’t worked.

Tyler-Royale’s CEO was a pro with the press, Dez thought as he listened to the smooth voice explaining that no, the five hundred employees of the downtown store would not lose their jobs but would be absorbed into the chain’s other area stores. The reporters were circling like sharks in the water, snatching bites now and then, but Ross remained perfectly calm and polite. As the questions grew more inane, Dez let his attention wander to more interesting matters.

Like the little redhead who had been lying in wait for them. Now she was something worth thinking about. First she’d turned up at The Maple Tree yesterday, having lunch with the press. He’d thought that perhaps she was a reporter too. That would account for the inspection she’d given him. She’d looked him over like a cynical searchlight—not exactly the sort of feminine once-over he was used to.

Apparently his guess had been wrong, however. I’m with the Kerrigan County Historical Society, she’d told Ross. And she wanted the building. I think it would make a wonderful museum.

Dez snorted. The trouble with the history-loving types was that they were completely impractical. The woman was totally out of touch with reality or she wouldn’t have suggested anything so patently ridiculous as turning the Tyler-Royale store into a museum.

His aunt Essie would have done the same sort of thing, of course. Dez remembered visiting Essie when he was a kid, and being creeped out and fascinated all at the same time. In Essie’s house, there was no telling what you might run into at the next turn. He’d found a full human skeleton in a bedroom closet once; Essie had calmly told him it was left over from the personal effects of the first doctor who’d set up practice in Kerrigan County.

And that had been well before Essie’s house had formally become a museum. Though he hadn’t been inside the place in at least a decade, he had no trouble imagining how much more stuff she’d collected over the years. He’d been frankly amazed, when Essie died, that they hadn’t had to tear the house down in order to extricate her body from all the junk she’d collected.

At least this young woman appeared to have a little more sense than Essie had—she didn’t seem to want to live in her museum. Other than that, she might as well be Essie’s clone.

Apart from looks, of course. Essie had been tall and thin, seemingly all angular bone and flyaway gray hair, while this young woman was small and delicately built and rounded in all the right places. She had the big, wide-set, dark brown eyes of a street urchin—an unusual color for a redhead. Odd, how her hair had seemed sprinkled with gold under the myriad lights in the ballroom…

“Dez?” the CEO said. “I’ll let you address that question.”

Dez pulled himself back to the press conference, to a sea of expectant faces. What the hell was the question?

“The Chronicle reporter asked about your plans for the building,” Ross Clayton pointed out.

I owe you one, buddy, Dez thought gratefully. At least it was an easy question—a slow pitch low and outside, easy to hit out of the park. He stepped up to the microphone. “That won’t take long to explain,” he said, “because I don’t have any yet.”

A ripple of disbelief passed over the crowd. The reporter from the newspaper waved a hand again. “You expect us to believe you bought that building without any idea what you’re going to do with it?”

“I haven’t bought the building,” Dez pointed out. “I’ve bought an option to buy the building.”

“What’s the difference?” the reporter scoffed. “You wouldn’t put out money for the fun of it. So what are you planning to do with the building?”

Another reporter, the one from the television station, waved a hand but didn’t wait for a cue before she said, “Are you going to tear it down?”

“I don’t know yet, Carla. I told you, I haven’t made any plans at all.”

“You don’t know, or you just won’t say?” she challenged. “Maybe the truth is you simply don’t want to talk about what will happen to the building until it’s too late for anyone to do anything to save it.”

“Give me a break here,” he said. “The announcement that the store was closing came as a surprise to me, too.”

“But you leaped right in with cash in hand.” It was the Chronicle man again.

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve bought something without knowing what I’d end up doing with it.”

The television reporter bored in. “Isn’t it true in those cases that you’ve always torn the buildings down?”

“I suppose so.” Dez ran over the last few years, the last dozen projects. “Yes, I think that’s true. But that doesn’t mean…” What had happened to the easy question, he thought irritably, the slow, low, outside pitch that should have been so simple? He felt like someone had tossed a cherry bomb at him instead. “Look, folks, I’ll tell you the same thing I told the young lady from the historical society. Just because there’s already been one deal doesn’t mean there couldn’t be another one.”

“Then you’d resell the property?”

“I’d consider it. I’m a businessman—I’ll consider any reasonable option that’s presented to me.”

“Including preserving the building?” It was the television reporter again.

“Including that.” Irritation bubbled through Dez. Damn reporters; they were making it sound like he carried a sledgehammer around with him just in case he got a chance to knock something down. “As long as we’re talking about preservation, though, let me give the do-gooders just one word of warning. Don’t go telling me what I should do with the building unless you have the money to back up your ideas. I’m not going to take kindly to anyone nosing into my business and telling me what I should do with my property if it’s my money you plan to spend on the project. I think that’s all.”

The reporters obviously realized that they’d pushed as far as was safe, and they began to trickle out of the room. A crew moved in to tear down lights and roll up cables.

In the anteroom behind the stage, Ross Clayton paused and eyed Dez with a grin. “Thanks for snatching the headlines away from the question of what’s going to happen to all my employees,” he said. “After the challenge you issued, that pack of wolves will be too busy ripping into you to check out anything I said.”

That afternoon Gina dug out the blueprints of Essie Kerrigan’s house from the attic closet where they’d been stored, and when she finished work for the day she took them home with her. Not that she was any kind of expert; expanding the museum would take not only a good architect but an engineer. Still, she might get some ideas. She might even have missed something obvious.

But when she unrolled the papers on her tiny kitchen table, she had to smother a dispirited sigh. For a little while today, it looked as if she’d found the perfect solution. It was so ideal. So sensible.

But then Dez Kerrigan had gotten in the way, and she was back at square one. Only now, as she looked at the floor plans, she was finding it difficult to focus on the possibilities. All she could see at the moment were the obstacles—the challenges which stood in the way of turning an old house into a proper museum. She had done too good a job of convincing herself that the Tyler-Royale building was the answer.

She unfolded the age-yellowed site map. Originally the house had stood alone on a full city block. Desmond Kerrigan had centered his house along one edge of his property, to leave the maximum space behind it for an elaborate garden, and he had built it facing east so it could look proudly out over the business district to the lakefront. But through the years his descendants had sold off bits and pieces of the land. The garden had been plowed up and broken into lots long ago. Later the area to each side of the house had been split off and smaller homes built there, and the street in front had been widened. The result was that the Kerrigan mansion was surrounded, hemmed in, with just a handkerchief-size lawn left in front and only a remnant of the once-grand garden behind.

It wasn’t enough, Gina thought. Still, it was all they had to work with.

She weighed down the corners of the blueprints with the day’s mail so she could keep looking at the drawings while she fixed herself a chicken stir-fry. Perhaps some radically new idea would leap out at her and solve the problem…For instance, what if instead of simply building over the garden, they were to excavate and add a lower level as well?

Nice idea, she concluded, but one to run past an engineer. Would it even be possible to get heavy equipment into that small space? And how risky would it be to dig directly next to a foundation that was well over a century old?

Finally, Gina rolled up the plans and turned on the minuscule television set beside the stove. Even the news would be less depressing than her reflections at the moment.

But when the picture blinked on, the screen was filled with a shot of the Tyler-Royale store.

On the other hand, maybe it won’t be less depressing.

“…and a final-close-out sale will begin next week,” the female reporter—the one who had been standing next to Gina at the press conference—announced.