suitcase rested against the wall. “Did you pack everything you own?” he asked, noting the empty closet.
“Better than returning home to find I’ve been robbed,” she replied as if the answer should have been obvious.
He wasn’t sure which bothered him more—the dangerous neighborhood she lived in, or the knowledge that everything she owned fitted into one suitcase. Whichever the reason, the knot in the pit of his stomach clenched tighter.
She ran a comb through her hair and checked the mirror. The simple black skirt and cream-colored blouse, although vintage, gave her an air of quiet dignity. She was probably wearing the best outfit she owned, he thought. Could she really be a Hawthorne? There did seem to be a familial resemblance. Or was he merely seeing what he wanted to see for his own reasons?
“We’d better get going if we want to catch the plane,” he said.
“Plane? You didn’t say anything about a plane.” Her olive complexion paled to white.
“Why, is there a problem?”
As if to gather her courage, she inhaled deeply. “No. Of course not.”
But Clayton didn’t believe her for one moment.
Only when she was settled in the car outside Logan International Airport did Mikki’s queasiness subside. She stretched her arms to relieve the tightness. Flying was highly overrated, she decided. She glanced toward her amused traveling companion.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“She speaks. Oh, speak again, bright angel.”
“Big deal. You can quote Shakespeare.” Maybe her conversation had been lacking during the short flight, but neither had he been Mr. Eloquent.
“You’ve never flown before.” His voice was pitched as if the very idea were inconceivable.
“Gee, did you just figure that out, Sherlock?”
His grin faded to a frown. “I’m sorry if that sounded condescending.”
“It did, and you are.” Or perhaps she was overreacting. Nothing he said or did seemed intentional, but Clayton had a way of making her feel defensive by his polished presence.
“Then you’d better learn from a master, because if you turn out to be Richard’s daughter, you’ll need all the arrogance you can muster to survive in that family.”
She arched an eyebrow at the harshness in his tone. “You sound as if you know them well.”
“I should. Richard is married to my Aunt Alicia.”
Aunt Alicia. Why did that name cause her nerve endings to stand at attention? She closed her eyes, but she couldn’t put a face to the distant memory.
“Are you all right?”
“year.” She glanced out the window as the car started to move. “I thought you were his lawyer or something.”
“I work for him, but I’m not a lawyer.”
“Oh,” she mumbled and waited for him to elaborate. Silence lingered. “How long a drive do we have?”
“About an hour. Put on your seat belt and enjoy the scenery.”
Once they left the city of Boston, there were miles of beautiful scenery to enjoy. Seven years in New York had dimmed her memories of lush green foliage. She thought about Kansas and better times, before her mother married Max. Before.... No! She would not dwell on a past she couldn’t change. The wrongs she’d committed had been done to protect the only mother she’d ever known.
How much of her past did Clayton know? Apparently he had been very thorough in his investigation, but juvenile records were sealed. That he had brought her this far meant he couldn’t disprove the information he had received.
She felt, rather than saw, his curious stare. His scrutiny unnerved her. She slumped deeper in the soft leather seat and did her best to ignore him. She failed miserably.
Outwardly Clayton was a flawless example of the male species. Tall and lean, he personified every fantasy she’d dared to imagine, and a few she hadn’t thought of yet. He had invoked a sexual awakening in her that was better left in a dormant state.
“I’m surprised you haven’t asked any questions about your family.”
“We haven’t established that they are my family,” she reminded him. He wasn’t convinced. Apparently the very fact that she worked in the diner was a strike against her.
“Well, your coloring is right.”
“Only five million people in New York have brown hair and brown eyes.”
He shook his head. “It’s different. Both William and Joseph have that same shade. Almost but not quite black.”
“How lucky for them,” she said drily.
“Not really. Judging by Richard, you’ll all go completely gray relatively early.”
“Are you going to clue me in as to who William and Joseph are, or do you assume I already know?”
His gaze remained on the long road ahead. She noticed a hint of a smirk. “Don’t tell me you can’t remember your beloved cousins.”
Her patience snapped. “I’m not sure which bothers you more—the fact that I might be Richard Hawthorne’s daughter or the thought that I’m not. Either way, I’m getting damned tired of your insinuations.”
Clayton groaned. She was so close to the truth, he marveled at her perception. He wasn’t sure which outcome he wanted more. As a child, he had witnessed the kidnapping of Megan Hawthorne. The memory still haunted him. Twenty years of false leads and outright cons had killed any hope he’d had for a favorable outcome. But twenty years of silently blaming himself had never allowed him to stop trying.
Every detail about Mikki fit. A little too well. Why had some anonymous person come forward now? Granted, anyone who had followed the case could have pieced together enough information to get his attention. That same person had to know that a DNA test would reveal a phony. So, why hadn’t he insisted that Mikki submit to one before bringing her to meet Richard?
“Stop,” Mikki shouted.
Instinctively he slammed the antilock brakes. His heart hammered in his chest. He scanned the area, expecting to find something in the road. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to stretch my legs.” She slipped out of the car before he could stop her.
Mikki sprinted across a baseball field with the exuberance of a child. Although numerous benches lined the local park’s trails, she plopped herself down in the middle of center field and turned her face up to the sun.
Once his pulse rate slowed, he stepped outside, too. How odd, he thought. He traveled this road every day and had never noticed the small park before.
He glanced at his watch, then shrugged. What difference would a few more minutes make? He closed the distance between them.
As he drew alongside of Mikki, she cupped her fingers around his ankle, halting his last step. For one moment he was reminded of the way Megan, the toddler, used to latch on to him when he had tried to leave a room. That little imp had been the only member of the Hawthorne family besides Richard who hadn’t treated him like a poor, orphaned charity case, and he’d failed them both when it counted.
“Be careful. You almost stepped on a flower,” she said.
He shook off the faded memory. Back in the present, the feel of her firm grip on his leg brought another image to mind. More sensual, but equally as disturbing. He willed his body to remain rigid. “What flower? That’s a common weed.”
She let