Tangled Memories. Marta Perry

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