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The driver stopped the car next to a wooden construction barrier. “Here we are, miss. I’ll just go find Mr. Lucas.”
Jefferson disappeared into the construction site, but Corrie was too restless to wait. She was keyed up and ready. The plane trip had been a prelude. Her quest was about to start. She slid out of the car and followed Jefferson on to the construction site.
The three stories of what was going to be a new bank, according to the sign, were at the stark girder stage. The building loomed over her, surrounded by heavy yellow construction vehicles.
She didn’t see Jefferson, so she smiled at the nearest worker. “Where’s Lucas Santee?”
The man gave her the once-over before pointing to the third level of the building. “Up there. The suit.”
Actually, Lucas Santee had shed his suit coat, but Corrie understood. The other man was short, round and rumpled in workmen’s overalls. Santee’s shirt was dazzling white, and his dark slacks had a knife-edge crease she could see from here. He stood confidently on a girder, as self-assured as if he stood in a boardroom.
Santee said something that looked emphatic, motioning to the building around him. The other man appeared to object, but Santee cut him off with a quick, definitive gesture.
Santee stepped into the open cage of an elevator. With one hand braced against the metal on either side, he descended. Was he looking her way? She couldn’t be sure.
The cage jolted to a stop, and he stepped out lightly. He took a suit coat from the outstretched hand of one of his lackeys and handed over the yellow hard hat he’d been wearing.
Jefferson leaned close, murmuring something, and Santee sent a sharp glance at her before turning back to his men. He kept her waiting a few more minutes while he conferred with several people. Finally he detached himself from the group and started toward the car. He stepped from the shadow of the building, and the late-afternoon sun hit him like a spotlight.
Golden, that was the only word that came to mind. The sun tipped brown hair with gold. Even his tanned skin seemed to have a golden sheen. He covered the space between them in an unhurried, controlled stride.
Corrie’s nerves tightened. He reminded her of a mountain lion. There was that same sense of feline grace, of muscles rippling under smooth, golden skin, of danger hidden under a shining surface.
Santee stopped a few feet from her, surveying her from top to toe. Looking for Manning family resemblance? Or just trying to intimidate her?
“Ms. Grant,” he said finally, his voice a lazy baritone drawl. “I’m Lucas Santee.”
He held out his hand, and after an infinitesimal pause, Corrie took it. His fingers were warm and callused against her skin, surprising her. Surely he didn’t actually work with those hands.
“Guess I should say welcome to Savannah,” he said. “Your ancestral home, if Baxter Manning isn’t making the biggest mistake of his life in believing you.”
Corrie stiffened at the flash of steel under the lazy drawl. She pulled her hand away. “If Mr. Manning wants to invite me here, I can’t see that it’s any of your concern.”
Santee’s eyebrows lifted. “Anything that affects the family concerns me. Especially a con artist trying to convince a sick old man she’s his long-lost granddaughter.”
Somehow it sounded even more insulting in his molasses-slow drawl, though she ought to be getting used to the doubt by now. “I’ve told the lawyers and Mr. Manning. Now I’ll tell you. I don’t want anything from him.”
“No secret dreams of being the missing heiress, coming into all that lovely money?”
“Obviously the money is important to you. Not to me. I agreed to this visit to find out about my father. Nothing more.”
He smiled slowly, his eyes intent on her face, as if he tried to see beneath the surface. “Then we have to make sure you enjoy your time here, don’t we?” He took her arm, the warmth of his grip penetrating her sleeve. “Jefferson’s waiting,” he said. “Shall we go?”
Corrie had expected a bigger battle, and this swift surrender took her off guard, leaving her with nothing to say. She slanted a look at Lucas Santee’s face as he walked beside her to the car.
No, not surrender. Round One might have ended, but behind that smooth facade Lucas Santee was gearing up for future battles. This had just been a minor skirmish.
He held the door and then slid onto the leather seat next to her. The car purred onto the street.
Corrie stared out the window, acutely aware of the man beside her. Obviously she hadn’t thought this through enough. She hadn’t anticipated the hostility of people who feared she was trying to take what was theirs.
She straightened, pressing her back into the cool leather. These people had had it easy all their lives. Maybe that was behind Baxter Manning’s odd attitude—he wanted to expose them to the uncertainty most people lived with.
She glanced at Santee and found him watching her. His eyes were an odd shade of brown up close, with flecks of gold that made them look like amber.
“Plotting your strategy?” His voice was pitched for her ears only, even though Jefferson had closed the glass partition. “Thinking about how you’re going to worm your way into the heart of the family, so to speak?”
She felt anger color her cheeks. “I’m not trying to convince anybody of anything.”
“Right. You’re willing to travel across the country to move in with people who’ll hate you on sight, but you’re not trying to convince anybody you’re Baxter Manning’s grandchild.” His fingers closed around her wrist. “Try that story on someone who might believe it, sugar.”
Corrie stiffened. His intensity grated on her, but she wouldn’t let him think he intimidated her.
“Your opinion doesn’t really matter, does it?” she said. “The only thing that matters is what Mr. Manning believes.”
His grip tightened until she thought he’d leave fingerprints on her skin, and fury darkened his eyes. “Baxter Manning wants to think he’s found an unknown grandchild, but you and I know differently, don’t we?”
“Do we?” Corrie raised her eyebrows. At least she’d managed to dent that facade of his.
“I don’t know who you really are, Corrie Grant. But I’ll find out, I promise you that.”
It didn’t sound like a promise. It sounded like a threat.
He’d let this woman ruffle him, Lucas realized, and that shouldn’t have happened. Dealing with her was going to be a delicate matter, particularly since he hadn’t been able to tell what Baxter really thought of her from their brief phone conversation.
That was typical of Baxter, of course. He’d run his companies and his family with an iron hand all his life, and he didn’t intend to let advancing age or illness stop him. He’d been maddeningly vague when Lucas tried to find out what he really thought of Corrie Grant.
Take care of her, he’d said. Let her see what she can find out about Trey. That’s what she says she wants to do.
Trey Manning. He had a few vague memories of Trey, the golden boy who’d been a prep school athlete when Lucas had come to the Manning house as a child. Trey had been the only person who’d ever successfully stood up to Baxter, and look how that had ended.
And now this woman had come, claiming to be Trey’s daughter. Worry gnawed at him. Baxter was too old and, he suspected, too ill to be on guard. So he had to protect the family.
The thought sent a wave of weariness over him. That had become a full-time job since Julia’s death, and he didn’t expect it would ever end.
The car drew smoothly to the curb and stopped. He roused himself and opened the door, holding it for Corrie. “Welcome to Savannah,” he said again, knowing she understood how little he welcomed her.
Corrie slid onto the sidewalk and just stood for a moment, looking at the graceful sweep of steps with their glossy black wrought-iron railing. Visualizing herself owning the place, perhaps? Or feeling reluctant to go in and face what waited for her there?
“This is Mr. Manning’s house?”
“It is.” He almost imagined that was a bit of awe in her clear blue eyes, but that hardly seemed likely. An accomplished fraud would surely have boned up on the place.
Maybe it was those big blue eyes that had caught Baxter’s attention. Trey had had the blue eyes and curling blond hair, too. But not the freckles that dusted Corrie’s lightly tanned cheeks or the snub nose that made her look like a classic girl next door, if the girl next door happened to be a con artist.
“I didn’t realize…” She stopped, as if unwilling to share whatever she didn’t realize with him.
“That it was so old?”
She slanted a sideways glance at him, nodding.
“The house was built in 1835 in classic Regency style and restored in the early sixties when the historic district was in the midst of a wave of preservation.” He launched into the familiar recital. If you lived in Savannah’s historic district, you could do it in your sleep. “The compound has four town houses, built around a shared courtyard. Baxter lives here, and Eulalie Ashworth, his niece, has the next one.” He nodded to the adjoining house, identical in design and decor.
“I see.” She looked as if she were trying to take it all in. Maybe she never had been out of Wyoming. If so, Savannah was going to be a shock.
“The two houses that face the alley are smaller but similar in design. My son and I live in one. The other one is rented to a family friend, Lydia Baron.” He paused for an instant. “That was originally Trey’s house.”
He thought there was a small intake of breath, but otherwise she didn’t react. Maybe she was tougher than she looked.
“Shall we go in?” He gestured to the curving stairway.
Corrie hesitated. Then, with her face wooden, she started up.
He followed, running his hand along the polished rail. He couldn’t help but love introducing his city to a stranger, even an unwelcome one like Corrie. Savannah was bred in him. For all the city’s faults, he’d be a foreigner anywhere else.
“The main floor in many of Savannah’s historic homes is on the second floor—the parlor floor. The downstairs is called the garden level.”
She paused in front of the glossy black door. Heavy pots of alyssum stood on either side of it, perfuming the air. “I understand Mr. Manning hasn’t returned yet.”
Corrie, naturally, would be more concerned with the man she hoped to impress than with the decor.
“Not yet.” He reached past her to turn the brass knob. “But I’m sure some of the family is waiting to meet you.”
And ready to behave, he hoped. He’d warned all of them not to give this woman any ammunition to use against them with Baxter. He could just hope they’d paid attention.
He opened the door. They stepped into the long entrance hallway, rich with the mingled aromas of polish and potpourri. Two people waited for them: Eulalie, his mother-in-law; Deidre Ashworth, his sister-in-law. He shot Deidre a warning look.
“Eulalie, this is Corrie Grant.” He smiled reassuringly at Eulalie, knowing she was torn between her innate Southern courtesy and her fear that Corrie would somehow supplant her two children. “Corrie, this is Eulalie Ashworth, Mr. Manning’s niece. Who may, or may not, be your…let’s see, second cousin.”
“Of course she is not our cousin.” Deidre took a step forward, hands curling into fists as if she’d like to throw Corrie out bodily. “She’s a fraud, and she’s not welcome in this house.”
TWO
Corrie froze for an instant. Obviously she should have been ready for direct hostility, but she wasn’t. What had happened to that Southern hospitality she’d heard so much about?
She stiffened her spine. Aunt Ella had taught her how to behave, and she wouldn’t shame her. She held out her hand to the older of the two women, trying to manage a smile.
Eulalie Ashworth was as soft and round and fluffy as a mound of cotton candy. She also looked perplexed. She studied Corrie’s hand as if it might be a deadly weapon and then took it. Corrie felt soft, powdery skin and smelled a whiff of lilac scent.
“Welcome to Savannah…” Eulalie began, but the younger woman interrupted.
“She’s not welcome. I don’t see any reason why we should be polite.”
“An accusation no one could possibly make about you, Deidre.” Lucas smiled, but Corrie thought his amber eyes held a warning. “Corrie, this is Eulalie’s daughter, Deidre Ashworth.”
Deidre obviously wouldn’t take her hand. Her eyes flashed with anger, and her dark hair fairly sparked with electricity. Midtwenties, at a guess, she was sharp, thin, brittle and beautifully dressed.
“Deidre. Mr. Manning mentioned you.”
Deidre lifted arched black brows. “Not calling him Grandfather already? How subtle of you.”
“I’ve already told Lucas. Now I’ll tell you.” She darted a glance at Lucas. He leaned broad shoulders against the newel post of the soaring staircase, watching her with a sardonic expression. “I don’t want anything except to find out about my parents.”
“As I said, how subtle.” Deidre was clearly not impressed. She swung on Lucas, as if he were to blame. “Do we really have to have this creature in our house?”
“Deidre, please.” Eulalie’s cheeks turned as pink as her dress. “Think what Uncle Baxter would say.”
Deidre glared at her mother. “Uncle Baxter must have entered his second childhood. We should have him declared incompetent.”
Corrie’s head began to throb. Maybe Baxter Manning had overestimated his control over his family. If they didn’t cooperate, she’d find out nothing.
“This is Baxter’s home.” Lucas’s voice hadn’t lost its lazy timbre, but there was steel underneath. “It’s up to him to say who stays here. And need I remind you who owns the house you live in?”
For a moment the fury in Deidre’s face was so out of control Corrie thought she’d strike him. Her hands clenched until the veins stood out. “You’d take Uncle Baxter’s side, of course. You always do. But then, you know which side your bread is buttered on, don’t you, Lucas?”
If the barb hurt, Lucas didn’t show it. “It’s common sense, Deidre, which you seem to be sadly lacking.”
The side door into the hall swung open.
“Grandma, is she here yet?” A small figure ran into the hallway. The boy threw himself at Lucas. “Is she, Daddy?”
Lucas caught the child, lifting him high in the air. For an instant Lucas’s face was open, and the love when he looked at his son touched a surprising chord in Corrie.
Was that what she really wanted from this trip? Some sign that the father she’d never known would have loved her?
“Please, Lucas. Put Jason down.” Eulalie fluttered toward them, hands outstretched as if to take a baby. “That’s not good for him.”
Not good for him? The words startled Corrie. Was something wrong with the boy? He looked like a normal six-year-old, fair and a little skinny, as active kids often were at that age.
But Lucas set him down immediately, something that might have been guilt flickering in his face. He brushed the boy’s silky blond hair back from his forehead gently.
“He’s all right. Corrie, this is my son, Jason. He’s eight.”
Corrie mentally adjusted her image of the child. He was a bit small for eight. He came forward to shake hands solemnly.
“Hi, Jason.” At last, someone who didn’t seem to be out to get her. She smiled at him.
“Hello, Cousin Corrie.”
Deidre jerked as if she’d been shot. “Don’t call her cousin, Jason. She’s not your cousin.”
“But Grandma said that Uncle Baxter said—”
“Just call me Corrie, okay?” She wouldn’t let a child be pulled into their quarrel. “I’m glad to meet you, Jason.”
His mother had been Deidre’s older sister—she knew that from the briefing the attorneys had given her. Julia, her name was. She’d died three years earlier.
Jason studied her, brown eyes grave. “You don’t look like a cowgirl.” He sounded disappointed.
