THE PERFECT TEN (Boxed Set)

door.
    She walked into what Silverstein called Blackstone’s great hall and froze, mouth agape.
    Her new living room had to be at least sixty feet in length and thirty feet in width. Two ornate, soot-covered fireplaces—each as tall as a man—graced the ends. Three huge, wheel-shaped wrought iron chandeliers hung above her, suspended by chains from a barreled ceiling. She felt relief seeing the fixtures had been electrified, but suspected she’d been in diapers the last time they and the twelve-foot high woodwork surrounding her had seen so much as a dust cloth.
    Silverstein reached for the door at her back. As he pushed it closed, one of its huge mottled hinges screeched and detached. When he only shrugged, she wondered if a ten-penny spike and a gob of nail glue would be all she’d have at her disposal to hold the door up until she garnered some income.
    She had no idea what the “maintenance income” Silverstein alluded to in New York might amount to in dollars—and having only six hundred in her checking account—she began having serious doubts about the wisdom of accepting her inheritance.
    Her doubts only multiplied as she studied the chipped stenciling on the lofty plaster and beamed ceiling. Could she keep herself warm, let alone keep a castle in a decent state of repair, on a maintenance ?
    “Mr. Silverstein, how long has the castle been empty?”
    “’Tis never been empty, Miss Pudding.” He scowled as he waved toward a God-awful mix of contemporary and period furnishings. “Oh! You mean to ask how long have we gone without an heir?”
    “Yes.”
    “Two months.”
    “Ah, yet it seems like just yesterday,” she murmured, sniffing the acrid stench of cigar smoke. She ran a hesitant finger along a filthy window sash. Linda, her best friend and the Director of Housekeeping at the St. Regis-New York, would have a heart attack. “Could we open a window or two to air the place out?”   
    “Certainly.”
    It still didn’t seem possible. She owned a castle—-actually, it was little more than a medieval fortification occupying most of the landmass of a dinky isle off Scotland’s Highland coast, but a rose by any other name...
    Her , an orphan raised by—-no, dragged up within—-the Big Apple’s foster-care system.
    And what could she, would she do with it?
    According to Silverstein, she had to reside in Blackstone for six months to lay claim to her inheritance. After that, she could return to her job in convention services at the St. Regis, using the castle only as a retreat, or she could reside here permanently. The decision would be hers. But no matter, after a six-month residence, her inheritance would be secure and would pass on to her descendants. Not that she had any hopes of having any.
    More than a decade had passed since she’d exposed herself to the hope of being loved, and she couldn’t imagine a set of circumstances that could ever prompt her to do so again.
    It hadn’t taken her long to discover most men liked their women pretty and compliant. She was neither.
    Having only a high school education, she’d started her career path as a waitress. While watching prettier women seemingly rise without effort, she’d clawed her way, rung by rung, up three different hotel development ladders to become an assistant director. She didn’t resent the pretty women. She envied them. They didn’t have to work harder, be quicker and brighter, to get noticed.
    Too, if the mirror hadn’t made her plainness obvious to her, a frank foster mother had. She’d been only twelve when the woman she’d tried so hard to please—-to be loved by—-had told her, “You’ll never be pretty, so you’d best learn to use make-up. Then, there’s an outside possibility someone might consider you attractive.”  
    She shook off the memory. It really didn’t matter anymore. She, Katherine Elizabeth MacDougall Pudding, was an heiress. She now owned a tiny island and its broken down castle. The very thought took her breath away.
    “Let me show you to your rooms before we tour the rest,” Silverstein suggested as he gathered her bags.
    “By all means, but I’ll take that.” She snatched her prized tote from Silverstein’s hands and gave the surprised man an apologetic smile. Heiress or not, she still couldn’t bring herself to trust the tote’s contents to another. What if he dropped or misplaced it? The nearest cosmetics counter sat in Glasgow, a good four hour train’s ride away, for