The Scandalous Heiress

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?

Two

Clayton instructed the driver to wait in front of the run-down building. Had Mikki given him the wrong address? Broken beer bottles littered the street. An old man huddled against a lamppost, trembling like a lost child. He held out a coffee mug, jingling the change inside.

Clayton paused on the landing and rapped his knuckles against the door. While he waited, he felt the need to constantly check over his shoulder. He expelled an immense sigh of relief when Mikki answered.

“You’re early,” she said and held the door for him.

“Your house?” he asked.

She shook her head. “It’s a boarding house. Or maybe you thought that working at the diner would afford me a suite at the Marquis.”

A stab of guilt cut through him. “I apologize.”

“No need.” She shrugged and led him down the narrow corridor.

Her room, smaller than the size of his closet, contained a twin bed and nightstand. A lightbulb in the ceiling provided the only illumination in the windowless alcove.

One 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.