Bannon Brothers by Janet Dailey Page A

dress lifted a bit by one hand, pretty as a picture. He felt like he ought to bow and take her arm. Gallant? Him? The truth was, she had that effect on him, filling him with an old-fashioned desire to court her.
    â€œYou’re on,” he grinned.
    â€œThe house was built in 1810. It’s never passed out of the Montgomery family.”
    â€œQuite a place. Ever been inside?”
    â€œNope.” Erin looked at the piece of paper in her hand and went to the door, entering numbers into a keypad lock with one finger.
    A small light on it flashed and she turned the doorknob. The huge carved door swung inward almost soundlessly. Well-oiled and well-maintained, Bannon thought. Just like the scion of the family himself.
    â€œWalk on in. Pretend you’re a Montgomery.”
    â€œI’ll have to think about that.” But he went in ahead of her and she followed him inside.
    The furnishings were as grand as the exterior. They looked like antiques, good ones, even to his untrained eye. Meaning there had to be security, above and beyond the keypad lock. Instinctively, his gaze swept the light fixtures and moldings, looking for discreetly placed devices and finding nothing. A prickling on the back of his neck told him they were there, though.
    Every surface gleamed, free of dust. The Montgomerys might have left the house just yesterday and not twenty-some years ago.
    â€œIt’s so perfect,” she said. The house seemed to swallow Erin’s soft words. It wasn’t empty, but it echoed.
    â€œThe society keeps it up, don’t they?”
    She nodded. “I think a couple of volunteers come out every week. And Mrs. Meriweather said something about a caretaker.”
    Bannon raised an eyebrow. “No sign of him.”
    â€œI don’t remember whether he lives somewhere on the property or not. When I was painting the place last year, I didn’t see anybody around.”
    â€œHmm. This stuff looks valuable.” Hands in his pockets, Bannon surveyed the large rooms that opened off the foyer. Parlor, music room, library—each was an example of the gracious old South, but it wasn’t a house he could ever imagine living in.
    â€œIt is.” Her answer was perfunctory. In silence, they moved from room to room. Bannon walked near her. He couldn’t help noticing that Erin seemed to hesitate before entering each room.
    â€œDining room, second parlor, study,” he said under his breath before she opened doors that had probably been closed to save on heat.
    â€œHow do you know that?” she asked.
    â€œAh—” He had pretty much memorized the police diagrams of the house. “Just guessing. Am I right?”
    Erin opened each door and peeped inside. “Yes.”
    Her gaze moved over everything, as if she was memorizing it herself.
    He studied an oil painting of a pair of Thoroughbreds from the Montgomery stable. “Not as good as yours.”
    She came over. “Different style. Not what I do, really.”
    â€œRight.”
    He followed her as they came to a small room that opened off a corridor. “I looked through the windows of this one from outside,” she said softly. “It’s not like the others. A woman decorated this just the way she wanted it, don’t you think?”
    â€œMaybe so.”
    She played tour guide again, pointing things out. “That delicate pattern on the wallpaper and the sewing table with the piecrust edging—very nice.”
    He picked up on the funny note of longing in her voice and then looked where she was pointing, realizing just how good her eye for detail was. If she had a house, she would probably have things like this.
    â€œI wonder—” Erin stopped and looked at a small oval painting of a little girl. It was half in shadow, but she didn’t seem inclined to turn on the light. “I didn’t see this from outside. Is it her? Ann Montgomery?”
    Bannon moved forward.