expected you earlier.”
Clayton felt the tug of a grin. “She’s not a woman to be hurried.”
“Where is she now?” Richard asked.
“I had her shown to a room to do whatever it is that women do when they lock themselves in the bathroom.”
Richard’s hearty chuckle echoed off the solid oak walls. “So, what was your impression of her?”
Clayton lowered himself in a chair across from the mahogany desk. Many of his personal impressions were not of the nature he could share with the man who might be her father. She was sexy, sensual and hypnotically compelling. A man would have to be blind and suffer sense deprivation not to notice her. And despite the impression the family had of him, he was neither blind nor without normal male desires.
Although he knew Richard would expect a full report, discussing Mikki as if she were a business prospectus left Clayton with an odd sensation. Guilt, he presumed, but why? She might be giving an Oscarwinning performance.
“Everything checked out so far,” he said.
Richard perked up with premature excitement. “So, is she little Meg?”
Little Meg. Clayton thought of the dark-eyed beauty. Mikki was not the pesky little brat he remembered from childhood, but a striking, complicated woman. “She might not be.”
“What are you saying, Clay?”
“Be careful. Don’t let your hopes cloud your judgment. This is not the first time.”
Richard waved his hand impatiently. “You can’t prove she’s lying.”
“Because she’s not claiming anything at all. She might be as innocent as she seems, but that doesn’t mean she’s Meg,” Clayton warned. He would be wise to take his own advice, because he had actually started to believe in the possibility himself.
He poured himself a shot of bourbon from the bar and swallowed the warm, amber liquid. To get through dinner, he would probably want a few more, but unfortunately, he needed to remain clearheaded for the night ahead.
Mikki sat on the edge of the sleigh bed. The last time she had seen a room like this, a customer had left a copy of House Beautiful at the diner. Though large and opulent, the room felt like a cage she had been locked in for viewing by the paying public. Restless, she decided to seek out Clayton.
She stepped into the hall. Her shoes clacked against the marble floor as she walked to the staircase. The light fragrance of fresh flowers was a welcome change from the humid smog of the city. At the bottom landing she paused to view a painting. She recognized the name of the artist, but the sterile cubist picture left her cold.
“A little early to be appraising the inventory.”
The deep voice, laced with contempt, gave her a start. She whirled around and met the chilling glare of the stranger. “Excuse me?”
He took a menacing step forward, then staggered. The smell of gin assaulted her. “So, Meg...”
“Mikki. And you are?”
A sneer marred his handsome features. “Don’t you know?”
“Should I?”
“What? No welcoming kiss for your favorite cousin?”
Not even if he was sober, she thought. So, he was one of the beloved cousins Clayton had spoken of earlier. She guessed him to be in his mid-thirties, although his behavior was adolescent. “Joseph?”
He tipped his head. “Right the first time. But then I expect that Clayton has coached you well.”
She laughed in spite of her anger. Clayton had been more guarded with his information than a courier holding national security secrets.
“It’s nice to see you entertaining our guest, Joseph.” Clayton’s timely arrival spared her from having to answer the accusation, but she doubted the grilling was over.
Joseph clenched his fingers into tight fists. “If it isn’t our esteemed president back from the hunt.” His gaze swept over Mikki. “Pick up a little roadkill on the trip?”
She wiped her palms against her linen skirt. “Last time I checked, I was still breathing.”
Clayton cupped his hand around her elbow. “He is better without a half bottle of gin in him. However, he prefers life from the bottom of the bottle.”
She realized that she was about to learn how slowly twenty-four hours could pass. With only Clayton to count on for support, her dreams were crumbling like stale crackers.
Joseph stumbled away and Clayton shrugged an apology. “I should have warned you.”
“Hey, no one will accuse you of failing to show a woman a fun time.”
“I’m sure my last few dates would disagree.”
“Maybe that’s because you didn’t bring them home to meet the family.”
His fingers tightened perceptibly. “They’re not my family.”
“I thought your aunt is married to Mr. Hawthorne.”
“That’s true. But in this family, blood is everything.”
No one knew that better than he did. For twelve years he had worked for Hawthorne Enterprises, the last four as president. A position he would lose if Richard’s condition worsened. Only a blood relative could inherit the company. If Mikki wasn’t the missing heir, William and Joseph would eventually gain control. The thought of those two pampered playboys ruining the business made Clayton ill.
He glanced toward Mikki. Her wide eyes reflected the effects of Joseph’s stinging comments. Just because she didn’t dress in a thousand-dollar suit or have her hair and nails done weekly, this didn’t take away from her natural beauty.
He searched for a compliment that would ease the hurt. “Dinner will be served soon.” He groaned inwardly. That was the extent of his charm and sophistication? How did this woman turn him into a social idiot?
“My head on a silver platter, no doubt,” she muttered.
“No. Rack of lamb, string beans almandine and new potatoes sauteed in sweet butter.” Mikki was strictly dessert. Luckily, he had sworn off sweets. Before his wandering thoughts gave him more than a toothache, he led her to the salon. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet first.”
She paused at the doorway and took a deep breath. After her confrontation with Joseph, he understood her reluctance.
His aunt rose as they entered the room. Her warm smile greeted them. “Clay. And you must be Meg.”
“Mikki,” he said, with deliberate emphasis, “I’d like you to meet my aunt Alicia.”
“No, no. She’s Meg. I can tell.” Alicia shook her head. His aunt wanted Michelle to be Megan Hawthorne almost as much as Richard. Alicia had never forgiven herself for failing to stop the kidnapping, and the family had never allowed her to forget. As if she could have overtaken two burly men with the help of one scrawny eleven-year-old. “Look at her, Clay. She’s only gotten prettier.”
Mikki looked to him for a response.
“Yes, she’s pretty, I suppose.”
“Well, don’t choke on the words,” she said for Clay’s benefit and offered her hand to Alicia. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Hawthorne.”
“Please call me Alicia. Your father will be down any moment. The doctor told him to slow down, but he wouldn’t allow you to greet him in his bedroom like some invalid.”
“He hasn’t been well?” Mikki asked.
Alicia shot a stern glare at her nephew. “You didn’t tell her about her father?”
Clayton