Christmas Star (Contemporary, Romance)

by Roz Denny Fox

  Still, the thought of anyone overhearing this discussion embarrassed her. Starr turned away. She couldn’t wait to escape this oppressive room. But good manners dictated she at least thank Wanda for her time.

  Or did they?

  She paused, a hand on the doorknob. “This visit has been no more pleasant for me than it has for you. You should realize, however, that I haven’t the slightest intention of letting you take SeLi away from me. You may not approve of me or my single status, but there’s an important fact you’ve missed. I love SeLi—and she loves me. But maybe love is a foreign concept to you, Mrs. Manning. Good day.”

  * * *

  AS THE FRONT DOOR closed savagely behind Starr, the one leading to the social worker’s private office creaked slowly open.

  “Rich bitch!” Wanda’s fury was almost palpable, and it stopped Clay from stepping fully into a room still vibrating with it.

  At last, appearing to have gained control, Mrs. Manning managed a halfway civil tone for the man who waited. “Now, how may I help you, Mr. McLeod?” Her clipped speech reflected her lingering agitation. “As I was about to say before we were so rudely interrupted by Miss Lederman’s unexpected visit, your brother has already gotten permission from Judge Forbes for the Lederman child to leave the city. I have no doubt that you know the power the senator’s name wields. After all,” she finished sarcastically, “I am but a poor servant of the state, and this is an election year.”

  Clay thrust his hands deep into his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels. Something in the way Starr went to bat for the child touched him. But he’d come here for answers. What he had was more questions.

  “The walls are thin, Mrs. Manning. I heard every word of your exchange with Miss Lederman.” Clay stopped short of saying the woman’s own attitude had left him with a bad taste for certain representatives of the social services in this town.

  “Our agency is overworked and understaffed, Mr. McLeod. Visits without appointments add to the load. Could you get to the point, please?”

  Clay freed one hand and dragged a thumb across his lower lip—an action that reminded him how soft Starr’s mouth had felt under his earlier. Quite a contrast to the hard determination he’d heard in her voice moments ago. Which was the real Starr Lederman?

  Irritably he switched gears. The only reason for his visit today was to determine his brother’s interest in this adoption. Was it political—or was it personal? While in Wanda’s office, Clay had put together some possibilities. He didn’t like the one that most insistently reared its ugly head.

  About eight years ago Harrison’s marriage had hit a low spot. It rallied briefly—until Morgan was born. Other men acted sappy over their firstborn. Not Harris. He threw himself into his work. But what if Morgan wasn’t Harrison’s firstborn? And what if his opponents knew?

  Damn, suspicions of this nature were distressing. Yet he had to ask. “Uh, Mrs. Manning...” Clay cleared his throat and studied the tips of his boots. “Do you know why my brother would take a personal interest in this particular child?” God, he wanted out of this suffocating room.

  Mrs. Manning’s unfeeling eyes showed a spark of interest. “Perhaps you can tell me,“ she said curtly. “Go ahead, Mr. McLeod. I’m listening.”

  Clay didn’t look at the woman as he began to pace. “What do you know about the child’s mother? What did she do? Was she pretty?”

  “Those are odd questions. Pretty is as pretty does, Mr. McLeod. She had no visible means of support, other than the usual for homeless dock women, if that’s what you’re talking about. Do you mind my asking what difference it makes?”

  “I’ve only recently learned of the senator’s involvement with the little girl. As his brother, I find it curious. I mean, Miss Lederman isn’t related to us or anything.” He stopped beside the desk, bile threatening to choke him. “As you pointed out, this is an election year. My brother’s opponent isn’t new to mudslinging. Do you follow me?”

  The woman merely inclined her head.

  Clay crossed to one of the room’s narrow windows. With his back to the social worker, he lifted a dirty slat of the miniblind and restlessly monitored the progress of slow-moving vehicles on the wet streets below. In a low, impassioned voice he expressed the fear that had begun to fester ever since Starr had planted the seed of doubt this morning. “Is it possible that Harrison is SeLi Lederman’s biological father?” There was no point in mincing words.

  At the woman’s shocked gasp, Clay struggled to breathe in the stale air. His fingers tensed on the slat. Apparently whatever Mrs. Manning had expected him to ask, it had definitely not been this question. That brought Clay at least a degree of comfort.

  He turned and she sat forward. The old chair protested in a loud squeak. “I must say that’s an interesting notion, Mr. McLeod. One I hadn’t considered.”

  “We can’t rule it out, then?” He was disappointed. Her words hadn’t delivered the unequivocal relief he would’ve liked.

  “Only Judge Forbes can do that.”

  Clay frowned. “Judge Forbes and my father go way back—to law school. I attended elementary and high school with the judge’s son, Joel. Lost track of him when I went off to college. I heard he’d joined the navy after his mother died. Haven’t thought of him in years.”

  “Yes, well, Joel was killed in a training mission off Alcatraz a few years back. The judge hasn’t been himself since. He should retire, if you ask me.”

  Clay walked back across the room. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Naturally a man would dote on his only son.” Which brought him back to wondering why his own brother didn’t. Morgan hardly knew his dad.

  “I assume you have reason to suspect your brother,” Wanda Manning mused aloud, breaking into Clay’s reflections.

  “Frankly you’re one reason, Mrs. Manning. You seem to resent his involvement.”

  Her top lip curled to reveal teeth yellowed by too many cigarettes. “He vouched for Starr Lederman, who is a rich spoiled brat. Do-gooders like her are the worst. Gung ho when it enhances their image. Then, like old toys, their projects are dropped when they tire of being charitable.”

  Clay rubbed his neck. “She sounded pretty sincere a moment ago.”

  “A lot you know,” Wanda said smugly. “I lived in a series of foster homes when I was growing up. One of my foster sisters could have been Starr Lederman’s twin. I wasn’t fit to wipe her boots. Oh, the whole family patted me on the head and threw me crumbs to show their rich friends how benevolent they were. Poor little Wanda—saved from the evils of the streets. But never quite good enough to be in their social circle. Sincere, Mr. McLeod? I doubt it. There’s a well-defined limit to the good works of the wealthy.”

  Suddenly, as if realizing she might have said too much, Wanda pressed her lips into a disapproving line and changed the subject. “Actually, Mr. McLeod, you’ve hit on something that’s always puzzled me—why a man as well connected as the senator would choose to involve himself in the nitty-gritty of this case.”

  “Would the girl’s birth certificate shed any light?”

  “Perhaps.” Her fingers toyed with a pencil. “Except that Judge Forbes ordered the records sealed.”

  Clay arched a brow. “What exactly does ‘sealed’ mean, Mrs. Manning?”

  “It means no one has access. Oh, SeLi can petition to see them when she turns eighteen, but no one else.”

  “That’s it? There’s no other reason to unseal them?”

  “Sometimes in a rare instance. If an adoptee should need an organ transplant or has severe psychiatric problems—those types of things.”

  “Well, I guess that’s that.” Clay was almost relieved by the news.

  “Maybe not.” Wanda Manning stood up as her receptionist came back into the room. “I believe it’s in SeLi’s best interests to stop this adoption. A biological father is one way. Perhaps I can find your answer.”

  Clay didn’t like the gleam in her eye. But he’d read the professional certific
ates displayed on her wall. She wasn’t a novice in this business.

  “Where can you be reached?” she asked, thrusting a pad and pen at him.

  Clay hesitated briefly, then reached for his wallet. “I have a business card with the phone number of my ranch. I’m staying here in San Francisco temporarily, but I’m due to auction some bulls before Christmas and I’ll be spending the holiday down there. How long do you think it’ll take?”

  “I’m not sure,” she murmured. “Maybe two or three weeks.”

  “Then this card should do it. I have an answering machine here, but I wouldn’t want a message to fall into the wrong hands.” He was thinking of Vanessa. “If you call and I’m not there, leave a number.”

  “No need to mention confidentiality. I understand.” She took his card, then looked at him curiously. He was thumbing rapidly through the photo windows in his wallet. “Is something wrong, Mr. McLeod? Have you lost something?”

  “What?” Clay looked up.

  “I said, have you lost something?”

  “A couple of family pictures,” he muttered. Seeing her interest, he returned the wallet to his back pocket. “It’s nothing,” he said. “I assume this concludes our visit.” Clay stepped into her office and took his hat from a brass rack. He came out and offered his hand. The fingers clasping his in return were bony and cold. It was all Clay could do to keep from snatching his card back and hightailing it out of there.

  He didn’t. He withdrew his hand and walked to the door.

  “A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. McLeod.”

  Even her voice grated on his nerves. And the discomfort, the sense of being soiled, remained with him after he’d placed the solid barrier of the door between them.

  As he clattered down the winding staircase of the old building, the noise of his footsteps helped rid him of the unclean feeling—although if Starr Lederman was any better than the woman upstairs, he wouldn’t have two empty frames in his picture slots. One a school photo of Morgan, the other a candid shot of himself that Vanessa had taken last Christmas.

  Starr had lied when she’d said nothing was missing from his wallet. Why? It was time he found out more about her. What if she was a blind? A lovely decoy for somebody who might be blackmailing his brother?

  Clay tried, but he couldn’t recall exactly what she’d said at their first encounter. Something about environmentalists or wildlife advocates. She worked in Fish and Game, and there was definitely something fishy going on.

  He stopped on the first floor to dig out his keys. Outside the rain was no longer just a drizzle. It was a downpour. Traffic crawled. So what would the lady in question do, he wondered, if he grabbed a sandwich at the deli he’d seen nearby and just dropped in on her at lunchtime?

  The harder it rained, the more appeal the idea held.

  The deli was crowded. Clay placed his order, took the number they gave him and wandered through the packed tables into an attached flower shop that was all decked out for the holidays. The bright red poinsettias had originally attracted him, but he paused to touch the petals of a peach-colored rose that seemed out of place among the cedar and pine. Its petals looked lush and soft—like Starr Lederman’s skin.

  Flushing, he stepped back and glanced around to see if anyone noticed his odd reaction. Then, sidestepping the display, he turned the corner and promptly stumbled over an entire bucket of those same flesh-colored blooms. Clay stared at them for what seemed an endless moment—until he realized someone had announced his number over a loudspeaker.

  It felt like a reprieve. Clay found it much easier to deal with a pastrami-and-provolone than these uncharacteristic emotions involving Starr Lederman that sucker-punched him at inopportune times.

  Which was why it made not a lick of sense when, after paying for his sandwich, he wound up buying two of the roses.

  A cheerful clerk wrapped them in waxy paper with stalks of some wispy white stuff and a sprig of Christmas greenery. All this for a woman he didn’t even like.

  As Clay inched through noon-hour traffic headed for Starr’s building, he gave up questioning his impulsive action and just accepted it. He’d already parked, climbed out and was wondering idly why anyone chose to live in the city when he saw her dashing through the rain toward a waiting cab. She wasn’t alone. Her fingers were linked with those of some skinny guy with a receding hairline and horn-rimmed glasses.

  Clay suffered a swift feeling of betrayal. Anger nipped at its heels.

  Calling himself all kinds of a fool for standing in the rain holding a wet bouquet like some idiot teenager, Clay tossed the flowers and the sack with his sandwich into a nearby trash receptacle. Then he yanked open the door and climbed back in, staring furiously out the windshield.

  Like hell she was eating lunch at her desk today.

  He watched the couple’s taxi pull out onto a rain-slick street. Hands unsteady, he jammed the key into the ignition, started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot behind them.

  Lie to him, would she?

  Did Harrison know how she spent her lunch hours?

  Somehow Clay doubted he did.

  Well, wouldn’t little Miss Lying-through-her-teeth Lederman be shocked when he broke up her noon-hour quickie?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  STARR PAID the cabdriver and dashed after Dr. Stanley Ellsworth between parked cars and through the rain into a trendy new restaurant. She glanced at the ice blue Christmas trees with their crystal cherubs as she shed her dripping coat and smoothed her wet hair. It was time to engage in another round of verbal sparring with her colleague.

  “Stanley, I need six serum-test kits and three extra packs of vials. You said Mr. Jensen explained I was going on special assignment—so why give me a hard time?”

  Her companion removed his glasses and wiped them clean of rain spots. “Two!” Instead of answering Starr, he wiggled two fingers at a harried hostess, who nodded and beckoned them to a second room. Starr stopped to hang her coat on a heavily laden rack.

  Stanley waited impatiently beside the booth. After she slid in, he took a seat opposite and picked up the argument where they’d left off. “The media base you’ve requested is strictly for mammals, Starr. Your area is the harbor.” His lips turned down in something of a pout. Starr opened her menu. “I deserve to be let in on the secret, don’t you think?”

  Frankly Starr had never dreamed that someone of Stanley’s professional stature would act like a spoiled child.

  His brown eyes, made larger by the thick glasses, blinked owlishly at her until he gave up and opened his menu. “Yikes! You didn’t tell me this charming little eatery would cost me a week’s salary. I’m not in the same league as your senator friend—who, by the way, called twice before you got in today.”

  “Senator McLeod called? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He shrugged. “You were so late arriving at the lab I forgot.”

  “I cleared being late with Mr. Jensen.”

  “Did I say you hadn’t? My, we’re touchy. Is that because you missed Mr. Bigwig’s call? Or because I griped about the prices?”

  “You’re the one throwing a fit, Stanley. Over giving me the gel-plates. Will it make you happier if I buy lunch?”

  “Maybe. I still want to know what you’re doing that’s so hush-hush.”

  Starr closed her menu and put it aside. “The senator didn’t say anything was wrong, did he? I mean...” She lowered her voice and darted a nervous glance around the room. But she didn’t expect to see anyone she knew, so her gaze skipped over a dark-haired man seated alone in a nearby booth. Suddenly her gaze darted back, and Starr found herself locked in a glaring duel with Barclay McLeod. She sucked in a breath.

  Stanley turned to see who or what had caught Starr’s attention. His search got only as far as a half-filled old-fashioned glass lifted toward them in mock salute. “Who’s that?” he asked.

  “Who do you mean?” Starr buried her nose in the menu and feigned nonchalance.

  “T
he fellow in the corner booth. I’m quite certain I’ve never seen him before.” Stanley adjusted his glasses. “Disagreeable character, if you ask me. One of those macho cowboy types that women fall all over.” He stiffened and hastily corrected himself. “Except you, Starr. You’re more levelheaded.”

  Starr angled another glance at the corner. Guiltily she remembered saying she’d be eating at her desk. For one wild moment Starr considered dashing over to explain about the sheep and the gel-plates. But of course she couldn’t. She’d given her word not to.

  Fortunately a waitress zipped over to fill their coffee cups and to take their order. Her timely arrival kept Starr from making a fool of herself. She caught Stanley’s eye. “Order light. I need to get back to work.” Starr ordered a cup of soup and a turkey sandwich while Stanley continued to peruse the menu. “Oh, and put both orders on my check,” she added.

  The waitress nodded, then turned to Stanley. Before he made his request, Starr sneaked another peek at the corner. Clay was watching her the way a cobra eyes a mouse.

  “I, for one, do not plan on rushing,” Stanley informed Starr. “You dragged me away from work, Now I intend to enjoy every morsel. Especially since you’re paying.” He calmly ordered a three-course meal.

  The waitress left and Stanley gathered up Starr’s drumming fingers. “Does the odd way you’re acting have anything to do with the full moon, love?”

  “Full moon?” Starr shook her hand loose and with a nervous laugh said, “Stanley, I swear...”

  Seemingly satisfied at gaining her attention, Dr. Ellsworth sat back and hefted his coffee cup. All at once he squinted over the edge and frowned. “That fellow, Starr—he’s watching you. You must know him.”

  “I don’t,” she lied smoothly. It wasn’t her fault Clay McLeod had decided to spend the day playing I spy.

  “Maybe you two met at one of your mother’s parties,” Stanley muttered. “He looks like the kind of weirdos Patrice has hanging around.”

  “He doesn’t look weird!” Starr regretted her outburst immediately. For Pete’s sake, now she was defending him. Thank goodness a waitress had stopped at his table. Starr didn’t dare let Stanley catch her looking that way again.