Kira rode with the photographer. She wanted to talk to him prior to reaching the Westerfield estate.
“I want this to be really good,” she said.
She saw him stiffen as if she’d impugned his ability. “You’re always great,” she said. “That’s why I requested you. But I want a certain look here.” She paused, then added, “It’s for charity.” That last statement made her wince. She did not admire mendacity. At the moment, though, mendacity seemed the only option.
You could try the direct approach.
But she couldn’t. If Leigh Howard was not her mother’s biological daughter, Kira could cause a great deal of unnecessary angst, and word might leak out. Her motives, she assured herself, were good.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions. She did not appreciate her conscience’s reminder.
Still, she didn’t feel good about what she was about to do.
“Just go along with what I ask,” she pleaded.
“What’s up, Kira?”
“I just want this to go well.”
Another long look. She and Dan had been friends since her first week at the paper. One of her first assignments had been covering the paper-sponsored spelling bee. Dan Hayes was the photographer. They traveled together throughout the state, covering the district contests. He drove. She listened to all the paper’s legends. On the two occasions they stayed overnight at a hotel, they drank together and exchanged life stories. He became a friend.
She might be testing that friendship today.
He didn’t say anything else during the rest of the drive.
Her heart pounded harder as they approached the address. She’d pulled up directions on the Internet and had memorized every mile. The neighborhoods became less and less dense, and the land turned into estates, most with horses grazing within picture-perfect white fences.
Dan turned into a driveway and was barred by a gate controlled by a combination mechanism. Kira had been given the combination and Dan punched in the numbers. The gate opened.
The Westerfield house was striking. The architecture resembled Tara in Gone with the Wind. The movie, not the book. It was stately but not ostentatious. A smaller but architecturally similar building stood to its left. A third building, obviously a stable, was at the right of the big house.
A funny twinge ran through her. Had her biological mother lived here? Her grandfather?
So many emotions had battered her in the past week. Loyalty and curiosity. The desire to protect her mother and the desire to know who she really was. They conflicted at the moment, and she couldn’t reconcile them.
But she had to. She had to be just another reporter to Leigh Howard.
Dan drove up the circular drive and stopped.
For a moment, Kira couldn’t force herself to open the car door. So much depended on the next few moments. Dan, on the other hand, had opened the back door and was taking out his camera gear.
Coward.
She’d never been one before. She opened the door and stepped out just as the front door of the home opened, and an attractive woman walked out to greet them.
Too easy, she told herself again.
Kira had seen photos, but she was stunned by the real person. Leigh was attractive, with long blond hair held back by a yellow ribbon. She was small, her build more similar to Katy Douglas’s frame than Kira’s, and there was an elegance that Kira never had. And her eyes …
Kira blinked. Leigh’s eyes were a striking sea blue. Like her mother’s. If she’d had doubts before, they were rapidly falling away.
Leigh smiled and held out her hand as Kira approached, but there was an automatic quality about both gestures rather than real warmth.
“Hi,” Kira said brightly. “I’m Kira Douglas, and this is Dan Hayes, my photographer. Thanks for seeing us on such short notice.”
“Whatever helps the horse show,” the woman replied, obviously not believing it necessary to introduce herself.
“Can we go somewhere for say, thirty minutes, for an interview while Dan checks out possible shots? Is it possible for him to go inside the barn?”
“Rick should be inside. He’s a groom that comes over every morning,” Leigh Howard replied. “He can show your photographer around. Tell him I said it was okay.”
Dan nodded and headed toward the barn, his photographer’s bag swinging at his side.
“I won’t take long,” she told Leigh.
Leigh nodded. “We’ll go inside.”
Kira followed her to the house, feeling gawky in her size 12 slacks as Leigh Howard floated ahead in white size 6 slacks and a soft yellow silk blouse.
Leigh obviously belonged here. Kira knew she never would.
Not that she wanted to. She wanted to be back in her own small but homey apartment. She wanted her life back to normal.
It would never be normal again. Never.
Her mouth went dry with the reminder of why she was here. Her fists clenched and unclenched as they entered a magnificent foyer. Curving mahogany stairs wrapped around it on both sides, and the floors were marble. The silk wallpaper looked hand painted.
As they turned into a sitting room, a woman dressed in a blue skirt and blouse met them.
“Ms. Douglas, this is Mrs. Baker, the housekeeper. Mrs. Baker, can you bring Ms. Douglas something to drink?” She looked expectantly at Kira. “What would you like?”
Kira hesitated, then said, “Black coffee, thanks. If you’ll join me.”
“Tea for me,” Leigh said, and the woman left.
Kira looked around the room. Everything was perfect. Too perfect for her tastes. There was a photo portrait over the fireplace. She wandered over to it. A woman. A strikingly beautiful woman. Karen Howard. She was dressed in a shimmering green evening gown and stood confidently on the stairs.
Nothing about her looked familiar. A chill ran through Kira. Shouldn’t she feel something? A sense of familiarity? If. If, she reminded herself, she had the right family.
She heard the silence behind her and knew her behavior must seem odd. She was probably staring at the portrait with untoward interest. She turned around. “Your mother?”
“Yes,” Leigh said.
“She’s beautiful.”
“She died in an accident,” Leigh said shortly.
Don’t blow it. Kira joined Leigh at a traditional sofa.
“What would you like to know about the show?” Leigh asked as they both sat.
“Your publicity person sent all the facts,” Kira said. “Time. Place. Tickets. Entrance requirements. That would take about three paragraphs to write and get little attention. What I need is some human interest. I really like the idea of a horse camp for kids.”
Leigh gave her a real smile for the first time. “Me, too. There’s a camp not far from here that offers riding as one of its activities. I’ve been talking to them about reserving several weeks for kids with special needs. They’ll need special instructors and more horses. Some modifications for the camp. Tuition for kids who can’t afford it.”
“Has the show always supported camp for special needs kids?”
She shook her head. “Last year it was breast cancer. A great cause, and we’ll continue to send some money to them. But the camp—it’s a natural match for this show.” Animation was suddenly in her voice. “I checked out some in other states. They’re really quite wonderful. They use old horses that might otherwise be put down. The kids love them. And riding gives them a control they don’t otherwise have.”
No more reticence now. Keep her talking.
“How long have you been involved with the horse show?” she started. It was one fact she really did not know.
“Just since last year,” Leigh said.
“You must have impressed them.”
Leigh shrugged. “Off the record?”
Kira nodded.
“It’s the Westerfield name more than anything else. It magically attracts sponsors.”
Kira was stunned by the answer. It
wasn’t only self-deprecating. There was a trace of wry acceptance in it as well.
“I don’t really think we want to say that,” she said gently.
Leigh shrugged. “It’s true, but I’m going to make it into something more. I’m planning a silent auction of riding equipment. I’m trying to get donations of equipment—particularly saddles—used in films or by famous people. My name opens doors. We’re going after new stuff as well.”
The housekeeper returned with a tray. In seconds she’d served coffee and tea, along with a small platter of pastries. Kira refused the food. Her stomach was still queasy from worrying about the interview.
But she took a sip of coffee. She really needed to stretch this out. Long enough to ask to use the restroom. That was one plan. She had another one. A trickier one.
“That sounds like a terrific idea.”
“We’ve been getting a good response.”
Kira scribbled. She could—probably should—use a tape recorder, but she always preferred taking notes.
“How many horses do you have?”
“Just one at the moment. And a rescue donkey to keep her company.”
“A rescue donkey?”
“Horses are social animals. They like company, and someone told me about this donkey …”
“I have friends who have rescue animals,” Kira said. “They swear by them. One has a rescue parrot and another, Chris, has a dog named Archie. One of these days, I plan to adopt several. Right now, my schedule is a little too busy.”
Leigh took a sip of tea.
“How long have you been riding?” Kira tried again. She wanted to keep Leigh talking and talking and talking. She wanted to know everything she could.
“Not long. My mother was a superb rider and had started to teach me when I was five. After she died, my grandfather got rid of the horses. I just started riding again two years ago.”
After Ed Westerfield died.
Leigh looked at her watch, and Kira got the message. She’d stumbled on something painful.
More research needed.
But she needed something else now. She glanced down at the cup of tea on the table. Lipstick on the side of the fragile cup. God—or the devil—was with her.
“Ben will want some photos,” she said. “I hope to have the front of the feature section, and that means color. Perhaps a riding outfit …”
Leigh Howard looked as if she was going to object, then nodded. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
Kira doubted it. She certainly hoped not.
She stood as Leigh left the room, then walked to the door where she watched Leigh climb the stairs.
She went back to the chair. The hardwood floor was covered by an obviously expensive rug. Probably a Persian. What she was about to do was a sacrilege. Her mother would horrified.
Don’t think! Hurry.
She leaned over the table, her hand brushing the cup, tipping it on the face of the table. China shattered against glass. Tea spilled across the table onto the floor and onto her slacks. She scooped up a broken piece of china that had a trace of lipstick. She slipped it into an envelope in her purse. Then she took a handkerchief from her purse and gathered up the other pieces.
She glanced around. No one in sight. She hurried down the hall to where she hoped she would find the kitchen.
No housekeeper. No anyone. She put the pieces of the cup on the counter, then started swabbing at her slacks as anyone would do under the circumstances.
How much did the cup cost? She would replace it. She only hoped it wasn’t part of a one-of-a-kind antique set.
She finished rinsing the spot on her slacks, turned.
And ran smack into a tall masculine figure. She looked up at his face and was stunned. Dear God, he was a fine-looking male specimen …
His arms went around her waist, balancing her. “And who in the hell are you?” he asked with a lazy drawl.
7
Kira was too startled to say anything. Even to breathe. How long had he been in the house, and had he seen her deliberately break a cup?
And why did he have to be so incredibly fine-looking?
She tried to move away, but bumped against the sink. His arms were still around her. Good thing. Her legs were suddenly rubbery.
She forced herself to meet the man’s gaze. She felt like a thief, and that was exactly what she was. She had purposely broken an expensive piece of china and …
Dammit, she planned to steal even more while here. She just hoped guilt didn’t radiate from her eyes.
“Well?” he asked.
“I’m Kira Douglas,” she said, trying desperately to sound professional. “I’m here to do a story on Ms. Howard.”
“A story?”
“I’m with the Atlanta Observer.”
His brows drew together and he frowned. She realized instantly his opinion of the press wasn’t good.
“It’s about the horse show,” she said as if that explained everything.
He dropped his hands from her waist. He stepped back, regarding her with sharp green eyes. “Kira Douglas? Don’t you cover the city government?”
Her surprise must have been evident.
“I read the paper,” he said wryly, “and the name is unique.”
She shrugged. She hoped it looked careless. “I write other things, too. I was available.”
His eyes didn’t change expression, yet his silence spoke volumes. He didn’t believe her.
Then his glance went to the broken china on the sink and to her stained slacks.
She told her legs to behave. She couldn’t let him see her nervousness. Or guilt.
“I broke a teacup,” she confessed. “And spilled tea on the carpet as well as myself. Clumsy of me, I know, but I can be a klutz at times. I came in, looking for the housekeeper,” she continued, rattling on like an idiot.
A humiliating confession but better than the truthful alternative. He raised one of his dark eyebrows but said nothing.
A superb technique to get someone to say something she didn’t intend to say. She’d used it herself. Who was he?
“Where’s Leigh?” he asked after the pregnant silence.
“She’s changing clothes for a photo,” she replied, her voice a little unsteady.
He looked startled. “Leigh?”
“You sound surprised.”
“She doesn’t usually like the press.”
“You don’t, either,” she said.
“Now why do you say that?” His green eyes were like a truth laser drilling through her.
“Something in your face when I mentioned it.”
“I don’t like or dislike,” he said. “I’m just wary. So is Leigh. Usually.”
The familiar use of Leigh’s name sent a shock of reality through her. “She chairs a charity horse show. The position usually brings publicity.”
“It brings money,” he corrected wryly.
“You don’t approve?”
“I neither approve nor disapprove. In any event, it’s not my business.”
“What is your business?” she asked. The question just popped out, but then her professional life evolved around questions. Still, she realized that this one was personal as well as professional.
“I’m an attorney,” he said as a gleam appeared in his eyes. He seemed amused at the question.
She waited for him to continue. He appeared very much at home in Leigh Howard’s kitchen.
“Mr. Payton?” came a voice from the door.
The housekeeper entered and didn’t seem surprised to see either one of them in the kitchen.
“I was looking for Leigh,” the attorney said. “And ran into this young lady, who has a confession to make.”
The housekeeper looked directly at Kira.
Stunned, Kira wondered whether he’d been able to see within her head. Then she remembered her cover story. “I’m afraid I was very clumsy,” she said. “I leaned over the table to get cream and knocked over the teacup. I’m afraid it brok
e. I came out here to tell you and ran into Mr.… Payton.”
His gaze met hers. “I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself. I’m Max Payton. Ms. Howard’s attorney.”
That explained the familiarity. Maybe. Did most family attorneys make themselves at home in the kitchen?
He didn’t look like a family attorney. Of course, she hadn’t had much experience with family attorneys. But in the films they were always elderly and smoked a pipe. They certainly weren’t eye candy and named Max.
The man standing next to her looked as if he ran five miles every morning and played racquetball every afternoon. Because he was in such good shape, she couldn’t quite determine his age. His hair was dark and thick, styled short enough to keep what looked like unruly tendrils in check. Inexplicably, she wanted to reach out and run her fingers through it to see how it felt. A bubble of heat formed in the pit of her stomach.
She tried to tamp it down, but still she couldn’t stop studying him. He wore a dark suit that was obviously tailored. His face was lean, all interesting angles, and his mouth had a twist on the left side as if he were laughing at the world.
And his eyes. God save her from green eyes that seemed to look through her. She was sure her lies were visible to him.
She turned back to Mrs. Baker. “I’ll pay for a new cup, of course,” she said.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Max Payton said in a slow drawl that made her wonder how natural it was. It didn’t go with the sharp eyes, the edgy quality underneath a very definite charm. The latter had faded only briefly when she said she was a reporter.
He glanced at his watch. “I have to go. Mrs. Baker, tell Leigh I’m negotiating a lease for the horse she wants.”
“Yes, sir.”
He shook his head. “I just can’t break you of that ‘sir’ thing, can I?” Then he turned back to Kira. “A pleasure, Ms. Douglas.”
He strode to the door with the grace of a professional athlete. He was polished and well dressed and yet … there was something elemental about him that intrigued her. Intrigued, hell. Attracted. Like, big time.
Out of your league, kiddo. Her brain told her that, but she could dream.
Some other time. Why was she even wasting precious time on him?
She turned her attention to the housekeeper. “I picked up the pieces of the cup and placed them on the counter.”
Behind the Shadows Page 4
