Читать книгу When the Earth Moves - Roxanne St. Claire - Страница 9

Cameron McGrath never missed the first pitch of a Yankee game. He considered it low class, bad luck and downright disrespectful to a near-holy tradition. So when the receptionist announced that a woman waited in the main lobby of Futura Investments and insisted on seeing him, he swallowed a colorful curse.

“I don’t have any more appointments today, Jen.” To be certain, he flipped open his PDA and checked the calendar. Of course he wouldn’t schedule anything past six on a game night. Especially when the Yankees were playing Boston. “Who’s she with?”

“Uh, she’s alone.”

He smiled, and silently forgave the young girl’s mistake. Jen had personality and charm, and that’s why she was out front. “Did she say what company she’s with? One of our clients? Or is it some kind of sales call?”

No doubt it was. Since he’d taken over as the top attorney at Futura Investments, it seemed he spent far too little time practicing law and way too much time overseeing the legal department. He hadn’t gotten dual graduate degrees in law and business to baby-sit junior lawyers and make decisions on office equipment, although it seemed he’d done a lot of both lately.

“She’s not with any company, Mr. McGrath.” The receptionist lowered her voice. “I think this is personal. I mean—she looks like someone, like maybe she’s…she looks personal.”

Personal? Amanda? She could be relentless when ignored. It had only been a week since he’d called her— or was it two? Geez. He’d been perfectly honest from the beginning of their short relationship, but that didn’t stop any marriage-starved Manhattan woman who had her sights set on a new last name. His.

He glanced at his watch. He’d take her along to the game. At least he wouldn’t be late and she’d count it as a date. “Tell her I’ll be out in a minute. Hope she’s dressed for a game.”

Jen’s laugh sounded more like surprise than humor. “I guess it depends on what you’re playing.”

With Amanda, he’d place his bets on a short leather skirt, a skimpy but painfully expensive top, and heels as high as the Chrysler Building. He smiled. She could be relentless, all right. And sometimes that worked in everyone’s favor.

The smile was still on his face as he loosened his tie and turned the corner toward the Futura lobby, ready to greet the former model he’d met at a fund-raiser two months earlier.

But as he glanced through the glass doors of the reception area, he froze midstep and slack-jawed.

That was not Amanda.

She stood with her back to him, studying the panoramic city view out the floor-to-ceiling windows. A pair of worn, faded jeans hugged a heart-shaped backside, with one cowboy-booted foot tapping the carpet, either in impatience or to a tune that played in her head. A thick mane of reddish-brown hair covered most of her back, just about kissing the top of those sinful-looking jeans. And on her head she wore a black cowboy hat.

She looked like one long, lean, bull-riding machine.

Did he know this woman?

As he opened the lobby door, she slowly turned, tipped her hat back on her forehead and answered that question with one heart-stopping gaze. Nope. He would never have forgotten that face. Wide-set eyes the color of copper pennies, buttercream skin and a mouth that demanded hours of close scrutiny.

And, he noticed with a bit of surprise, not a speck of makeup. He’d never even seen Amanda without makeup—or at least the remnants of it.

“Mr. McGrath?” She took a few quick strides toward him, the sound of her boot heels on the marble floor echoing the beat of his increased pulse rate.

“I’m Cam McGrath.” He extended a hand in greeting. “Can I…” Help? No, help was not on the list of things he wanted to do to and for her.

“Jo Ellen Tremaine.” Her handshake was solid, but her gaze held a question, a sense of anticipation. Was he supposed to recognize her name? Was she opposing counsel on a Futura case? He was drawing a blank. Or maybe that was because his brain cells had shut down in deference to an alternative organ.

He forced himself to focus on her face, but she hoisted a tote bag over her shoulder, the action pulling her shirt a little to the side and revealing the translucent skin of her throat and collarbone.

“I know you’re off to a meeting,” she said. “So I won’t take but a second of your time.”

“No problem. It’s nothing urgent.” Had he just told her the Yankees and Red Sox were not urgent? He had to get a grip. Pretty women could be found on every street in New York. They just didn’t generally dress for the rodeo. “What can I do for you?”

She glanced toward Jen, who hadn’t missed one second of the brief interplay. “Could I speak with you privately?”

He weighed his options. Spend some time talking to this gorgeous cowgirl. Be late for the Yankees. Cowgirl. Yankees.

“My office is right down the hall.” He tilted his head toward the door in invitation.

She took off her hat and shook out her hair, causing some silky strands to fall over her shoulders. His gaze dropped to her pale-blue button-down shirt, complete with silver snaps.

Yeehaw.

Holding the door, he managed a good long look at the fitted back pockets of her jeans again. The Yankees would play at home eighty-one times this season. A jaw-dropping version of Dale Evans would only appear in his office once. He had definitely made the right choice.

“Can I offer you something to drink, Ms. Tremaine?” he asked as they entered his office and he closed the door.

“You can call me Jo. And unless you have an ice-cold Bud on tap, I’m fine.”

He chuckled a little. “Wouldn’t you know it? My office tap is out.” He suddenly remembered the six-pack of Amber Bock in his refrigerator at home. Intended for Saturday’s softball game, but easily replaced. “Or we could go somewhere else.”

“No, thanks.” She stood in the middle of the room, her gaze direct and unwavering. “This won’t take that long. I hope.”

He heard an infinitesimal catch in her voice, something only a lawyer trained to sniff out half-truths and cover-ups would notice.

He gestured toward the sofa in the sitting area of his office. “Please. Have a seat.”

She folded herself into one of the chairs, her faded denim and black boots looking oddly out of place on the chrome-and-leather divan he’d had designed when he took over the massive corner office.

“Are you from around here…Jo?” The name suited her. She wasn’t feminine. Womanly, oh, yeah. But nothing fluttered in her movements, not her fingers, not her eyelashes. Jo. He liked it.

“I’m from Sierra Springs, California.”

He inched back in surprise.

“Have you heard of it?” She sounded like she expected him to say yes.

“I can’t say that I have, but you’ve come a long way. Is Sierra Springs near the Silicon Valley?” They had clients out there, several of them. This had to be related to Futura somehow.

She shook her head, smoothing her jeans with one long, slow stroke of her hands, a whisper of a cynical smile tipping her lips. “Not that valley. Sierra Springs is on the border between California and Nevada, a hundred miles from Sacramento, in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains.”

His knowledge of the area geography was scarce, at best. No clients that he could think of. No potential investments. Not much of anything but the Ponderosa Ranch and some second-class gambling in Reno. “Pretty quiet up there, I bet.”

“It was. Until the earth shook us down to our boots and rattled our brains into scrambled eggs.”

“The earth?” He zipped through a mental hard drive. What was she talking about? “Oh, yes.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “I have heard of Sierra Springs. There was an earthquake there a few months ago. A big one.”

She nodded. “Five point six. And some nasty aftershocks.”

This was definitely a lawsuit waiting to happen. “Five point six, whoa. That is major. Did it affect—were you hit hard?”

His gaze traveled over those jean-clad legs again, hoping against hope that whatever her business they wouldn’t be adversaries. He’d very much prefer to counsel her. Among other things.

She shrugged. “I lost some…people.”

Staff? Family? Whoever, he had no doubt that her loss was at the root of this unorthodox meeting.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He seemed to recall five people died at one site. An apartment building. And then the image of a firefighter carrying a one-year-old from a hellhole of debris flashed in his mind. Of course—the baby found in the rubble. The story had been on every news station for days.

Did she own the building? Did Futura? Surely he’d have been briefed on that kind of potential lawsuit if they did.

“So, what do you do in Sierra Springs?” With some witnesses, the most innocuous questions cut right to the truth. He half imagined she’d say she roped horses and cattle, but more likely, she was another lawyer. They just dressed differently in California.

“I do body work.”

His pulse kicked up again. “Excuse me?”

“Car repairs. Wrecks.”

“You’re a mechanic?”

“I’m a collision repair expert.” A little light danced in her bronze-brown eyes as she narrowed them. “I own my own body shop.”

“Really.” So she wasn’t a rodeo queen or a lawyer. She pounded steel for a living.

Without thinking, his gaze slid back to her hands, long and slender and not a grease stain on them. And free of any jewelry—not even a single gold band. “Well you’ve certainly piqued my curiosity, Ms.—Jo. What brings you to New York?”

“You.”

His body tightened with a low, natural response to the single raspy word.

“Me?” Okay. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Even if that mouth is damn near edible. “How’s that?”

“I need you to sign a paper.”

Legal alarms sounded in the back of his head. “What kind of a paper?”

“It’s called a Petition of Relinquishment and Consent.”

He thought for a minute, his mind skimming first-year law. “Isn’t that part of the adoption process?”

For a moment she didn’t move. The tip of her tongue peeked through her unadorned lips and dampened them. “Yes.”

“I don’t understand. Why would you need my signature?”

“I’m in the process of adopting a baby. And she is a…distant relative of yours.”

He leaned forward as though she pulled him on a string. “A relative of mine?”

“She’s your…your niece.”

He shook his head. “I don’t have a niece. I have two brothers and neither one has children.” Unease trickled through his veins, but he dismissed it. If Colin or Quinn had fathered a baby, he’d know it. They had no secrets, nothing they didn’t share with one another. Could this be a ploy for money? A hoax? “I think you’ve made a mistake. Who is the child?”

“There’s no mistake,” she insisted. “She’s definitely your niece.”

“I’m utterly certain I don’t have a niece.”

She raised one beautifully shaped brow. “Don’t be utterly anything until you’ve heard the facts.”

Objection sustained. “Who is the father?”

“Her father’s entirely out of the picture, and anyway, he’s not related to you. It’s her mother. Her mother is— was—a woman by the name of Katie McGrath.”

As if he had a Rolodex in his mind’s eye, he flipped through every distant McGrath cousin he could remember. No Katie. “I’ve never heard of her.”

Slowly she crossed and uncrossed her legs. “No, you wouldn’t have. You’ve never met her. But her mother is Christine McGrath.”

His gut squeezed into a knot.

“And that is your mother,” she said calmly. “So Katie is your sister. Or was. On both counts, I’m sorry to say.”

“No. I couldn’t have a—” He was speechless.

He couldn’t have a sister? Of course he could. An odd numbness began to make his arms and legs ache. He recognized the sensation. He’d first felt it when he was nine years old, the day he watched his mom climb in a station wagon and drive away, leaving a husband and three sons forever.

But he’d gotten so very, very good at making that ache go away. Sheer mind-over-body control was all it took, and if Cam was good at anything, it was control.

Her words replayed. Katie is your sister. Or was. On both counts… “Where is my—Christine McGrath?”

“I’m afraid she and Katie were both casualties in the earthquake.”

He waited for a rush of emotion, but nothing came. No surprise there. He’d killed any feelings for his mother years ago. He felt Jo’s gaze locked on him, waiting for a response. “Sorry to hear that, but I have no relationship with my mother. If this is the same woman who—I really have no connection with her whatsoever.” He wanted his point to be crystal clear.

“Then it shouldn’t be any problem whatsoever to sign this paper,” she said, pulling an envelope from her oversize handbag.

“Whoa. Wait a second, there.” He held his hand up. “I’m a lawyer. We don’t sign anything.”

“If you need proof that she was your mother, I have it. I expected you’d want to see that.”

He stared at her, trying to fit the jigsaw puzzle together. Slowly, he reached for the envelope.

“Christine McGrath left our home twenty-six years ago and moved to Wyoming,” he said, slowly opening the paper.

“No. She didn’t.” At his sharp look, she clarified, “Move to Wyoming, that is.”

According to his father, she had, and none of the McGrath boys had had reason to question him. Not that discussion of his mother’s whereabouts was dinner conversation at their house.

She squared her shoulders and regarded him with the bracing gaze of a judge about to hand down a harsh sentence. “She went to Sierra Springs twenty-six years ago, had a child named Katie and, eleven months ago, Katie had a baby. Callie McGrath.”

His throat closed up, and his fingers froze on the unopened paper. Was this possible?

“I’m going to adopt Callie, Mr. McGrath. But I can’t do that until her closest living relative signs this document and relinquishes any rights to her. I can’t spend the rest of my life worrying if you’ll show up and want custody of her.”

Want custody? Of a baby? “Sweetheart, I don’t want custody of a goldfish.”

“Great.” She stood quickly, tapped her hat back in place and nodded toward the paper in his hand. “All you have to do is sign it and you’ll never see me again. I can assure you of that.”

Part of him wanted to do just that. The part that always crushed any memories of his mother, the part that taught him years ago to have complete control over his environment, his life, his emotions.

But another part heard a nagging little voice that he really would have liked to ignore. But he couldn’t.

You’re going to heal the hurt in this family, Cam McGrath. His grandmother’s Irish lilt was as clear in his head as the first time she made her pronouncement. You’re the oldest. It’s your job. You’ll heal the hurt.

He’d forgotten that prediction. Just as he and Colin and Quinn had forgotten the hurt. Or learned to fake that they had.

But here stood a woman with the answers all of them had secretly craved for twenty-six years. The answers that might make three McGrath men finally, once and for all, close the holes that had busted wide open in their hearts so many years ago. The answers that might rid them of the memory of the day they’d crouched at a second-story window and watched their mother blow out of Pittsburgh. For Wyoming. Or California. Or somewhere.

Evidently, he had to make another choice tonight. And the recriminations could be far worse than missing the first few innings of a baseball game.

He could sign the paper and forget Jo Ellen Tremaine ever graced his office. Or he could get some answers from the cowgirl mechanic.

This could be his only chance to heal the hurt—for Gram McGrath, and for his brothers.

He would just never, ever let this woman know that’s what he was doing.

He stood and gave her a slow, lazy grin. “So, Jo. Do you like baseball, by any chance?”

Jo resisted the urge to let her jaw drop. Cameron McGrath stood a full six foot something and gazed down at her with what could only be called a glint in deep-blue eyes.

Baseball? Was he serious?

“I think it’s dull as dirt,” she replied.

The glint disappeared and the eyes narrowed to disbelieving slits, feathered with eyelashes that, she couldn’t help noticing, were just as long and thick as Katie’s had been. “Dull as dirt?”

Did he really want to discuss the merits of baseball four minutes after she told him his long-lost sister and mother had recently died and that he had a baby niece whom she planned to adopt? Could he be that cold?

Of course he could. Jo had read the letters from Katie’s mother to this man’s father. The letters he’d sent back with a scratchy “Return to Sender” note on the front. Jim McGrath had vinegar in his veins and evidently, that blood type was dominant on the McGrath side. Katie had missed the bad blood, but obviously got the traffic-stopping good looks.

This McGrath, however, had slightly different coloring from his sister. His hair was dark blond, his eyes the color of the September sky on a clear California day. He was rugged, with a shadow of beard and thick eyebrows. Still, he had the wide-set eyes, the chiseled jaw, the perfect cheekbones—features universal in beautiful people and in McGraths.

From what she could surmise under his gazillion-dollar, custom-made, three-button designer suit, he had a flawless body, too.

She forced her attention to the reason she came to New York: the envelope in his hand. “How much time do you need to read that and sign it?”

He shrugged, his gaze on her now and not the envelope. Assessing, scrutinizing. “I’m not sure. How much time do you think it’ll take to change your mind about the nation’s pastime?”

She almost laughed at how shallow he sounded. “You don’t have that much time, Mr. McGrath. I’m leaving on a red-eye at eleven-thirty.” With that piece of paper, signed, in my hand.

He made a show of looking at a sleek timepiece on his wrist. “If we’re lucky, we’ll make the bottom of the first. And—” he looked back at her and winked “—with no extra innings, you might get to see the whole game.”

Shallow and cocky. One of her least favorite combinations, no matter how well packaged. “I’m not going to any baseball games tonight. But the sooner you sign that paper, the sooner you can get to the park.”

“Not the park. The Stadium,” he corrected. “With a capital S.”

She managed a rueful smile. What would she have to do to get that petition signed?

“I’m guessing this is pretty important to you,” he finally said, leaning just close enough for her to catch a whiff of a musky, male scent.

His baritone assumption held enough of a challenge to send pings of apprehension dancing down her spine. Or maybe those were pings of…something else. She’d have to be blind, deaf and neutered not to recognize the raw attractiveness of this man. But she’d have to be stupid to let that influence her.

She wasn’t neutered or stupid, only determined. Callie McGrath would not become a ward of the state, or some kind of novelty for curious, distant, icy family members. Jo Ellen might not be the model of maternal instinct, but she couldn’t resist repairing a wreck. And Katie had left one hell of a mess when she died with no will and no plan for her tiny baby.

She phrased her response carefully. “Yes, it’s important. Important that it’s done right. I don’t want any loose ends threatening to strangle me.”

A half smile tipped the corners of his lips. “I don’t want to strangle you, sweetheart. Just share a little dull-as-dirt baseball with you. And during the game—” he put a warm hand on her shoulder “—we can get to know each other a little bit.”

She heard the subtle message in the request. He was a lawyer, as he’d made sure to remind her. And he wasn’t about to hand his signature and consent to a complete stranger.

“Fair enough,” she agreed, dipping out of his touch. “But is it absolutely necessary to go to a baseball game?”

“Absolutely.” He laughed a little and inched her toward the door. “Plus you can have that beer.”

She had a feeling she’d need it.