Читать книгу The Scandalous Heiress - Kathryn Taylor, Kathryn Taylor - Страница 8

One

Mikki peered through the crack in the swinging doors. Anxiety caused her already weary body to tense. She wiped her hands against the white apron knotted at her waist and swallowed a nervous sigh. “Are you sure he asked for me?”

Annie tucked a lock of gray hair into her beehive and smiled a toothy grin. “Michelle Finnley from McAfee, Kansas. That’s you, child. This is the second time he’s been here looking for you.”

Mikki’s stomach flip-flopped. Michelle Finnley from McAfee, Kansas. She glanced again at the man in the last booth. She didn’t know much about fashion, but his pin-striped suit hadn’t come off the rack at Dandy Don’s Suit-O-Rama. He reeked of money the way the diner reeked of hot grease.

What did he want? And how had he traced her from McAfee, population eight hundred including the cows, to New York City? Any ties she’d had to the small town had been buried seven years ago along with the woman she had known as her mother. And Mikki wanted them to remain buried.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, honey.” Annie touched Mikki’s shoulder. “Do you want me to get rid of him?”

Mikki shook her head She might as well find out what he wanted before she panicked. For all she knew, the man worked for the IRS and they planned to return some of the money they had extorted from her each April fifteenth. She smoothed her pink uniform over her hips and stepped through the door.

The lunch crowd had thinned to a few couples lingering over coffee. A siren screamed as a police cruiser sped past, raising her pulse and her anxiety level. She stopped in front of the booth and clicked her tongue to get the man’s attention.

“I understand you’ve been asking questions about me.” She glanced down at him, trying her best to give the impression of indifference.

“Michelle Finnley?” His resonant voice held the trace of an accent she couldn’t identify. Magnificent, slate gray eyes appraised her. He frowned. Apparently she had come up lacking.

“And you are...?”

“Clayton. Clayton Reese.” He rose and offered his hand.

She accepted his greeting, noting the solid-gold watch on his wrist. One thing she had learned from her stepfather was how to spot a genuine from a fake. Anything else he had taught her, she was better off forgetting.

“Would you care to sit down?” he asked.

Mikki nodded and slipped into the booth. After a day on her feet, she welcomed the rest. “What can I do for you?”

His pause stretched to an awkward silence. As he searched his briefcase, she had a chance to study him. His angular jaw and chiseled nose gave him a striking appeal, like a marble statue and most likely just as cold. That he felt ill at ease in his surroundings was obvious by the way he clenched the papers in his hands.

“Are you the same Michelle Finnley who was adopted by Sara Finnley?”

Shock waves ran through her. Until her mother’s death, she hadn’t known she was adopted. Who was this man, and how did he know so much about her? “Why do you want to know?”

“Could you just answer the question?”

“Are you a cop?” One look at his well-tailored suit and she knew the answer. He presented the image of a stuffy, yuppie, corporate type. Maybe a lawyer. She certainly felt as if she was on trial.

“Does the name Megan Hawthorne mean anything to you?” he asked.

Although the name didn’t seem to strike a familiar chord, a strangely numbing sensation enveloped her. “Should it?”

He exhaled deeply. “Is that a no?”

She tilted her head to one side. “Tell me something. Is it possible for you to smile while you’re doing this?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re asking me a bunch of questions you obviously know the answers to already. If you’re doing it for a laugh, you might as well look like you’re enjoying it.”

Clayton leaned back in the vinyl seat. Beads of perspiration settled around the collar of his starched white shirt. In spite of the stifling summer heat, the woman across from him remained cool. She would probably be pretty if she hadn’t pulled her dark hair into a cascading ponytail. Thick black eyeliner framed a pair of large, dark eyes, making her seem older than the twenty-three years he knew her to be.

She wasn’t what he had expected. Was it possible that this sassy waitress was Richard’s missing daughter? Someone had done their homework, but Michelle Finnley didn’t fit his image of a first-rate con artist. Was she working with a partner?

“It’s been a long day, Mr. Reese. If you’re making a point, I wish you’d get to it.”

“All right. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, my client is trying to locate his biological daughter.”

Her eyes seemed to double in size. An act, or genuine surprise, he wondered.

“And you think that’s me?”

“It’s possible.” He kept his response noncommittal. Until he knew what was going on, he didn’t want to divulge too much information. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“What makes you think I want to know my biological parents?”

He nearly choked on his now-cold coffee. For twenty years Richard had followed every crackpot lead trying to locate his kidnapped daughter. Whoever sent this new information might be playing a cruel hoax on a sick man. Clayton was determined to see that Richard wasn’t hurt again.

“Are you going to cooperate or not?”

“I’ll think about it. Where can I reach you?” She ran the tip of her tongue across her full lips. If she meant to distract him with the provocative gesture, she almost succeeded.

He had hoped for more information, but he sensed that pushing her would accomplish nothing. Whether she was an innocent pawn or a master player would become evident in due time. He removed a business card from his wallet and wrote down the name of his hotel on the back.

She read the information and let out a whistle. “Nice place.”

They rose at the same time. As she passed in front of him, his stare remained riveted to her slim hips, swaying as she walked. His body temperature rose along with his pulse. Suddenly she turned. Unable to stop his gait midstride, he dropped his briefcase and reached out reflexively to grab her tiny waist as they collided. Her hands came up to his chest, grasping the fabric of his jacket.

Their gazes locked. Something akin to emotion constricted his chest, and the rest of his anatomy reacted in an equally uncomfortable manner. Her onyx eyes were beguiling: a paradox of innocence and experience. So, he was wrong. Michelle Finnley was more than pretty. She was beautiful, despite her best efforts to make herself look tough.

Gradually her tight grip loosened. She wriggled out of his embrace and slid her hands shyly into her pockets. “You can breathe now.”

Clayton picked up his briefcase. “What?”

“I’ve touched ice blocks that give off more warmth than you. It was an accident that won’t happen again.”

She wasn’t the first woman to comment on his lack of warmth, but she was the first to provoke such a fire inside him. Far from minding the incidental contact, he had enjoyed the feel of her hands on him far too much. Thankfully she had misread the cause of his tension.

“Is there a pay phone around here?” he asked, anxious to break the embarrassing silence.

“Two blocks down at the pharmacy.” She tipped her head and took another step back. “You’ll be hearing from me.”

Clayton nodded and stepped out into the heavy city air. Although he had made little progress with the evasive Miss Finnley, he had promised to call Richard immediately after the meeting. Then, the sooner he left this area, aptly named Hell’s Kitchen, the better.

He tucked his attaché under his arm and strode down the street with a growing sense of uneasiness. How did a young woman survive alone in this neighborhood?

Of the three public phones in front of the pharmacy, only one still had the receiver attached. He reached inside his pocket. Realization hit him with the force of a moving train.

The raven-haired beauty had taken more than his breath away. She had walked off with his wallet.

Clayton returned quickly to the small diner. Michelle was nowhere to be seen. A woman in a similar pink uniform, but two generations older, greeted him at the counter.

“May I help you?”

“Is Miss Finnley still here?” he asked, but he already knew the answer.

“She finished her shift.” The woman pulled a coin from her pocket and offered it to him. “She left this for you.”

“What is it?”

The laugh lines in her weathered face deepened. “A subway token.”

Mikki ran a brush through her hair and splashed cool water on her face. Leaning against the sink in the ladies’ room, she removed the wallet from her pocket and flipped though the contents. A Massachusetts driver’s license, assorted business cards and no less than three credit cards—all gold—issued in the name of Clayton Reese.

So, he hadn’t lied about his identity. What did he really want? she wondered. He was too rigid and conservative to be a good con man.

She thumbed through the wad of hundred-dollar bills and laughed. It would serve him right if she kept the money, but she wasn’t a thief. Not anymore. And never by choice. She tossed the billfold in her purse and quickly changed into her jeans and T-shirt. If she took a cab, she could get to the uptown hotel before Mr. Reese figured out the New York City subway system.

With a soft knock on the door, Annie let Mikki know that he had left. She slipped out through the back exit and hailed a cab.

She had difficulty believing Clayton’s story. If her biological parent wanted to find her, why wait until now to make contact? Why not back when she’d turned eighteen and the court records could have been unsealed? Something about his story didn’t quite fit. Could his interest lie more in her tainted past than in her uncertain parentage?

Clayton elbowed his way through the revolving door. Inside the lobby he sucked in his first breath of bearable air. His anger had risen with each passing subway stop. How the hell was he supposed to know there was an express train and a local train?

He had to call the hotel manager for a replacement key, an inconvenience that added to his embarrassment. Three messages from Richard didn’t help his mood, either. By the time he reached his room, he just wanted a shower to remove the grime. Right after he canceled his credit cards. As he stepped into the suite, he saw his wallet on the writing table. Skeptically he checked the contents.

“It’s all there.”

Clayton whirled around. Michelle Finnley was leaning against the wall with a grin that seemed to scream, “Sucker.” He suppressed the urge to inflict physical damage. “How did you get in?”

“Your pass key was in your wallet.” She slid her hands into the pockets of her worn jeans. “You shouldn’t walk around the city with that much cash. Anybody could pick your pocket.”

“And you shouldn’t enter a strange man’s hotel suite. It might not be safe.”

Her laughter filled the room. “You’re not a stranger. I know all about you. Where you work, where you live, who to call in case of an emergency. I even know your social security number. Which is fair, since you seem to know so much about me.”

Touché. He dropped his attaché on the desk. The woman had nerve, he’d grant her that. Her lack of fear led him to believe she knew how to take care of herself. Considering the neighborhood she worked in, she would have to.

She made herself at home in a Queen Anne chair. Her silky hair tumbled freely around her shoulders and her oval face had been scrubbed clean of the harsh makeup. She tucked her legs below her in the wide seat. A faded T-shirt, tightly stretched across her chest, outlined the firm breasts beneath.

“Are you going to tell me what this is really about, or are we going to continue to play games with each other?” she asked.

He came to the shocking realization that he wouldn’t mind playing games with her. At least not the kind of games that came to his mind. His awareness of her was too intense to be healthy. His purpose was to expose her as another in a long line of frauds. Instead, he was having erotic thoughts about her. “You don’t believe in subtlety, do you?”

“You may have time for that, but I don’t. And I don’t like people coming around where I work and asking questions about me.”

“Why? Do you have something to hide, Michelle?”

“Mikki,” she corrected. “And we all have something to hide.”

He wanted to discover her secrets. Another problem he had to overcome. The situation called for objectivity above all else, and he was fast losing his.

“What do you want to know...Mikki?” The boyish nickname rolled off his tongue with surprising ease. He sat in the chair across from her and met her unwavering stare.

“I find it difficult to believe that a parent who gave me away with no qualms has suddenly decided to renew family ties.” Bitterness tinged her voice and angry sparks danced in her eyes.

“Richard Hawthorne didn’t give his daughter away. She was kidnapped over twenty years ago.”

“Richard Hawthorne? As in Hawthorne Enterprises?”

Suspicion brought an end to his softening thoughts. “So you’ve heard of him?”

“No. It’s on your business card. Or did you think I couldn’t read?” Mikki sighed. Her first impression had been light. The man was a cold, distrustful snob.

“Yes, well—” He cleared his throat. “I recently came into some information.—”

“From who?”

“I thought you might be able to tell me.”

“I have no idea.” But she could make an educated guess. Her stomach muscles contracted.

Was her stepfather moving up in the world? Petty cons and picking pockets were one thing. Trying to pass her off as some rich man’s missing heir was in a class by itself. A class-A felony. Well, she wanted no part of it. “Obviously there’s been a mistake. You can tell Max I’m not playing this one.”

“Max?” He drew his eyebrows together in thought. “You mean Maxwell Blake? You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find your stepfather, would you?”

“I have no idea,” she said, but she noticed the distrust in his narrowed glare. Max wasn’t smart enough—or stupid enough—to pull off this kind of scam. Was he? Who else would have anything to gain?

Bright, Mikki. You would. No wonder Clayton Reese looked down his nose at her. As long as she knew she was innocent, why should she care what he thought of her? For some unfathomable reason, she did.

“I’m sorry you made the trip here for nothing.”

“So, you want to call an end to it now?” His question seemed more like an accusation.

Tension gripped her. “Call an end to what?”

“The con. The sting. Whatever you want to call it.”

“There is no con.” Exasperation raised her voice several decibels. “At least not on my part. I didn’t contact you. You came to me.”

“If that’s true, you have nothing to lose by seeing it through. I’m asking you to come to Massachusetts for one short weekend and meet Richard Hawthorne. No matter what the outcome, you won’t be out anything. All your expenses will be paid.”

Mikki came to her feet and crossed the room. Her first instinct was to decline the offer. Apparently someone had gone to a lot of trouble, or she wouldn’t be sitting in a first-class hotel room having this conversation with Clayton Reese. She stared out the window at the bustling city traffic. If she left now, he would believe she had tried to pull a scam then backed down. One weekend to prove her innocence to him. Would she succeed? Or would she find herself implicated in another of her stepfather’s cons without the benefit of juvenile status to keep her from going to jail?

She twisted a lock of hair nervously around her finger. Stay as far away from this situation as you can, she tried to warn herself. But a tiny voice whispered into the part of her brain that still believed in dreams. What if the information Clayton Reese had in his possession was genuine?

What if she could meet her real father?

What if she was a bona fide heiress?