away from her face, realizing she’d wandered into the sunroom. “Of course,” she answered airily. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
She reached out to adjust the angle of a small fern, but her shaking hands knocked it askew and it tumbled from its narrow perch, sending rich soil cascading across the antique rug. A sob caught in her chest and she crouched down, furiously scrabbling the clumps of dirt back into the small pot.
“Kate.” Brett crouched down beside her, then closed his big hands over her shoulders, urging her to her feet. “Leave it.”
“I don’t want to leave the mess,” she whispered thickly. But his broad shoulder was so close and before she knew what she was doing, her face was pressed against it and his arms—oh, his strong, warm arms—had closed around her, pulling her against him.
Horrified, she scrambled backward, scattering the dirt even more. Vision glazed, she tried scooping it back into the pot.
“For God’s sake, Kate. I said leave it. Mrs. Hightower will have it cleaned up. God knows she has plenty of staff under her thumb,” he added flatly.
Kate dashed the dirt hurriedly into the pot, then brushed her fingers together. “You always detested Mrs. Hightower,” the words came without volition and her ears felt like they were on fire.
“She detested me,” Brett countered smoothly. “Here. Stop blubbering.”
Shock propelled her to her feet. “I don’t blubber.”
“Spoken with all the dignity of the princess of the manor.” Brett’s glance flickered over her as he returned the more-or-less restored pot to the shelf. “Except you’ve got mascara running down your face.”
Her stomach ached. “You’re hateful.”
He shrugged, his disinterest plain. “Wipe your eyes, Katy.”
Katy. The name that only Brett had ever called her. She closed her eyes. For an aching moment, time seemed suspended. Bittersweet and filled with the ghosts of the past.
She turned away from the memories. And from his eyes that had always seen too much, yet not enough.
Then he pushed a soft, white handkerchief into her hand, and the aching moment passed. “Trust you to have a handkerchief,” she murmured thickly. He’d always carried one. Even when they’d both been only thirteen years old, tearing up the schoolyard with their antics.
“My mama may have been a servant in a big old house not too far from here, but she did raise me with some manners.”
His oh-so-smooth voice grated. “And I’m sure all the women whose tears you’ve tenderly mopped throughout the years have greatly appreciated it.” She scrubbed her cheeks. Hating him. Hating the situation that had brought him back into her life.
“Well, well, Kate. Jealous?”
She very nearly snorted. Only a lifetime of minding her manners prevented it. “Hardly. I’m not the jealous type.” That was a bald-faced lie and she was grateful that he didn’t challenge it. She had been jealous. Jealous of the one great love in Brett’s life. And she’d had no one to help her deal with it.
She’d needed a mother.
But Kate had been raised to believe that her mother had drowned in Stockwell Pond nearly thirty years ago. Caught between pond and lake, it was thirty feet deep in some places, two miles across at its widest point. Willows and oaks crowded along its jagged coves and inlets.
She wiped her eyes. She may hate the situation—hate him even—but there was a purpose to his presence. One she’d do well to remember. He was supposed to be a crackerjack investigator, after all. And that was his only purpose there.
“It can’t be a painting of me,” she said, forcing herself to think straight. “It’s just…a coincidence. It has to be her…other child.” A child who would have been only a year or so younger than Kate. A child who’d grown up with a mother.
Brett’s silence spoke volumes and her fingers tightened around his handkerchief. “Why would my father lie all these years about my mother?” The question that had plagued them all for weeks, months, burst from her. “I never knew her because of him. I knew he was a cold, cruel man. But this—” She couldn’t continue.
“That’s why you and your brothers hired me,” Brett reminded. “To help you find your mother. To get the answers that Caine can’t, or won’t give.”
“I didn’t want to hire you,” she said, perturbed at the way he still managed to unsettle her.
His shoulders moved. Amused? Annoyed? She’d given up trying to figure his thoughts long ago. “No kidding.”
“But I’m told that you do own the best private investigative agency in the entire Dallas area.”
“Not just in the suburb of Grandview?” Brett commented dryly. “I’m wounded.”
“Jack suggested it some time ago. Then Caroline.” Caroline Carlyle Stockwell. Rafe’s brand-new wife. The mother of Rafe’s brand new child.
“I get the hint. I’m here to find your mother. To do a job.”
“Make sure you remember that.”
His expression didn’t change. “What’s the matter, Kate? You afraid I can’t keep my mind on the job what with being back amongst the exalted Stockwells?”
“Nobody knows better than I do that nothing distracts you from your work. I’m just curious why you accepted this case in the first place.” Her lips felt dry. “Considering everything.”
“You mean considering you.”
“That was a long time ago.”
His gaze drifted over her. “You don’t trust me,” he said softly.
Her lips parted “I—”
“That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t believe I’ll do my best for your family.”
“My brothers wouldn’t have brought you in on this if they thought that.”
“We’re not talking about your brothers.”
“No,” she said after a long moment. “We’re not.”
“Well, well,” he mused. “Score one for fierce Katy Stockwell.” His eyes narrowed and his lips twisted a little. Just enough to make him look even more saturnine. “It’d have more effect if you weren’t in tears, I’m afraid.”
“Stick to the case, Brett. Find Madelyn LeClaire.”
“And stay away from you.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
She cursed the tears that still insisted on leaking from her eyes. “Jack didn’t come all the way home from Europe with that…that painting, and call you here today just so I could cry on your shoulder.” Her voice was flippant. Better that, than anything else. She couldn’t bear it that this man, of all people, should see her weakness.
“I’ll consider it my perk for the day.” He didn’t look any more delighted about it than she felt. “Look,” he said after a moment. “You don’t have to pretend that this hasn’t been rough on you. First you learn that your father’s cancer is terminal, then that your mother may be alive. And now, to see that portrait— Katy, it would shake anyone. You don’t have to hide it. Hell, it shook me.”
“Nothing shakes you.”
His lips tightened. “You’d be surprised. Besides. I remember you at that age. You were a holy terror, and the girl in that painting looks as serene as a lovely country pond.”
“Go away,” she said flatly. “I need to fix my face.”
“Is that a dismissal,