Secret Combinations Read Online Free PDF

demanded.
    â€œMy name is Kenyon. I’m here to see Miss Tanya O’Neill.”
    â€œJust a moment.” The clerk picked up a phone that would have looked right at home with a hand crank on the side of it, and dialed a number. “Yes, a Mr. Kenyon to see you.” He hung up the phone and arched an eyebrow. “She’ll be right out.” The clerk went back to his typing.
    Kenyon looked around the room. The only free seat was greasy and worn, and he didn’t want to risk staining his suit. The whole office looked cheap and run down. Is this all that Lydia could afford? He wondered if they had buried his aunt in Beggar’s Row.
    A small woman in her late twenties appeared at the door. She extended her hand in greeting and the cuff of a turquoise blouse peeked from beneath her dark solicitor’s robes. “Good afternoon, Mr. Kenyon,” she said, in a soft Irish brogue. “I’m Tanya O’Neill.”
    Kenyon shook her hand solemnly. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
    O’Neill turned and pointed down the hall. “Would you care to join me in my chambers?”
    Kenyon smiled as he followed her into the inner recesses of the office. Her dark red hair, cut in a page boy style, bounced from side to side as she walked.
    The dark corridor doglegged several times. Kenyon had to take care not to bang his head on the low, exposed beams. They finally turned into a small office, and O’Neill closed the door behind them.
    Kenyon glanced around the room. The lawyer’s desk was made of ancient, heavily scarred wood. A large computer screen rested in the center, and a decorative alabaster vase sat on one corner. The remainder of the surface was almost completely covered with legal files.
    The rest of the room was as fashionable as the desk. The carpet was dull brown and needed cleaning. Except for a small lead-paned window that opened onto a tiny courtyard, the walls were covered with shelves of legal texts.
    The only decoration in the room was an oil painting, propped against the wall beneath the window. It was a portrait of a nude woman, framed in a thick, burgundy-colored wood. It looked distinctly out of place.
    â€œCare to sit down?” O’Neill motioned her visitor to a wooden chair as she took her place behind her desk.
    Kenyon eased himself down onto the hard chair and grimaced at the pain.
    O’Neill, not noticing his discomfort, picked up a folder marked “Kenyon.” She opened it, and began to read. “I, Lydia Kenyon, of 61 Herringbone Gardens, London, hereby revoke all wills and testamentary dispositions made by me and declare this to be my last will, which I make this 29th day of June.”
    O’Neill flipped the first page over and was about to begin reading the contents of the will when she noticed Kenyon’s pained expression. “Is there something amiss?” she asked.
    Kenyon squirmed in the hard wooden seat. “It’s nothing—I got shot in the backside a few days ago, and this chair is a little uncomfortable.”
    O’Neill blinked in surprise. “Oh, dear. Let me see if I can find you a cushion.” The solicitor stood up from behind her desk and exited the room.
    O’Neill was gone for several minutes and Kenyon took the opportunity to stand up and take a closer look at the painting. The nude was reclining in a settee beside a large bay window. Her slim body was angled to one side, but her gaze was turned directly toward the viewer. Her blond hair was cropped short, and there was something about the way she cradled her breasts in her left arm that was sensuous, yet vulnerable. Her lips were curled up in a sly, mysterious smile. She appeared to be in her mid-fifties, a little old for Kenyon, but he still found her very attractive.
    O’Neill came back into the office holding a thick, bright-orange cushion. “Will this do?”
    Kenyon placed the cushion on his chair and gingerly lowered