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“Peyton,” Matt said, her name a stiff, stern greeting.
She stood there, her coat unbuttoned and splotched from the rain, a Christmas plaid scarf hanging listlessly from her collar. She appeared pale, hesitant, as if she’d rather be anywhere else. The sudden unwitting thrill of seeing her so unexpectedly faded as her eyes met his and her expression turned distant and cool. He missed the fire of her arguments, the zeal she’d thrown at him for no better reason than she enjoyed their debates. But since the night at the beach house, she’d avoided him.
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Which was neither true nor his personal opinion, but was what he said because he represented the Danville Foundation and because that’s what people like the O’Reillys wanted to hear. He’d learned early that being a liar and a gentleman was his birthright, bought and paid for with stolen gold by his ancestor, Black Dan, the pirate. So Matt lied, and he did it well, because no one ever considered that his story might not be the truth.
“That’s so sweet of you to say,” Connie replied. “We’ve been simply overwhelmed at the warm welcome we’ve received here in Newport. Especially after hearing about that famous New England aloofness all these years.”
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