8

Kira finished her story and looked at the newsroom clock. Nearly noon.

She left the newsroom and went to the feature department. Although the Sunday paper wouldn’t be on the stands until late Saturday afternoon, the feature section was printed early. It was available today. Friday.

There was a pile of them on the editor’s desk, and she grabbed one and took it back to her desk. The photo of Leigh with the horse took up a quarter of the page. Leigh was stunning as she looked directly at the camera. Photogenic didn’t say half of it.

She resembled the early photos of Katy Douglas. The eyes were similar, and the full mouth. So was the build.

But where Leigh’s movements were all grace, Kira’s mother’s had been all energy.

Stop it!

She was probably seeing things that weren’t there, like someone looking at a newborn and claiming it looked just like the mom or dad. To her, babies were yet unformed. They didn’t look like anyone, only their own small selves.

When would the test results come in? Chris had said it should be sometime today.

She had paid an exorbitant sum to have them expedited. A technician from a private lab Chris had recommended had taken a DNA sample from her mother under guise of just another test. The question was whether she—Kira—had obtained enough DNA from Leigh for a true test.

Her cell phone rang. She looked at the caller. Chris!

“You have a match,” Chris said without preamble. “Leigh Howard is your mother’s biological daughter.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t breathe for a moment. She had thought Leigh Howard was probably her mother’s daughter, but she hadn’t known. Even though she’d wanted a match for her mother’s sake, the truth was still like a kick in the ribs.

“Kira?”

“I’m here,” she said with a tremor in her voice. “There’s no mistake?”

“No.” A pause. “What now?” he asked.

“I have to go to Leigh. It would probably be better if the feature had already been published, but every minute counts now.”

“Isn’t it time to contact the hospital?”

She could go to the hospital. But how long would it take for hospital officials to act? They would go to their attorneys first. An investigation. Meanwhile, her mother’s chances dropped every day. A matter of weeks, according the doctor. Maybe less. She felt the moments ticking away …

“Kira?” Chris’s voice was full of concern. She’d told him about the visit, had given him her impression of Leigh Howard. Pleasant but with no real warmth. Plastic more than real. The only time she’d really come alive was when she talked about the horse camp for disabled kids. Maybe because of her own trauma years ago.

“I have to convince her to donate a kidney,” she said. Her one hope for a fast resolution was to contact Leigh Howard and make a personal appeal.

She remembered the morning earlier in the week when she discovered she might not be who she thought she was. Incredulity. Disbelief. Devastation. A loneliness that couldn’t be defined. A life that was a lie.

But she’d had her mother. She had memories. She had the comfort of love and support all these years. Leigh had lost hers when she was very young. Would she long for one now, or would anger and doubt keep her from acknowledging the truth?

“Are you still there?” Chris’s voice was worried.

“I’m sorry. I was just thinking how I felt when the test results came in. In that moment, I felt as if I’d lost part of myself, that I was wandering on some strange planet.”

“You couldn’t lose part of yourself,” he said. “Neither will Leigh Howard, not the important part. Not who she really is inside.” He paused, then said, “You know this could mean something financially,” he said. “I found a copy of the probated will of Ed Westerfield. He left the bulk of his estate in a trust for his granddaughter, Leigh Howard. It looks like you are Leigh Howard.”

“He left it to the granddaughter he knew,” she said, “and that’s where it should stay.”

“Even if she doesn’t agree to a transplant?”

Kira didn’t want to go there. She didn’t really want to go anywhere with this. She didn’t want to impact someone else’s life like hers had been. It was an emotional train wreck. Only the necessity of a kidney transplant kept her from staying silent now and forever.

When she didn’t answer, he continued, “Do you want me to go with you?”

Kira thought about that. He would give substance to her claim. And that was what it was now. A claim. No fact proved in court. If someone showed up on her doorstep with the story she meant to tell, she’d probably call the police. But then, this was something she should do alone. It was too personal to bring along a stranger.

“Thanks. I might ask you to call or see her later, but I think it might be better if I approached her alone.”

“Okay. But call if you need me.”

“I probably will,” she said honestly. “I don’t know what to say, or how to convince her of something that was impossible for me to believe.”

“You’ll find the words.”

“I hope so.”

I have to.

She hung up and sat for a moment, wondering whether she was wrong in refusing his help. And yet in her gut, she felt it was the right thing to do.

She used her cell phone. “Ms. Howard, please,” she said when the housekeeper answered. Leigh Howard. Her name. Funny how that just sounded. Funny and tragic.

“Ms. Howard,” she said when Leigh came on the line. Her voice shook slightly and her hand clasped the phone receiver. “This is Kira Douglas. I wonder if I can see you tomorrow. In the morning if possible.”

“More for the story?”

She didn’t want to lie any longer, not even for a good cause. “No. In fact it’s ready. I’ll bring you several copies, but there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“You can’t tell me now?”

“It will take a rather lengthy explanation. But it’s quite important that I see you in person.”

There was a pause, then, “I have a riding lesson in the morning, but eleven should be safe.” Her voice was puzzled.

“I’ll be there. Thanks.” Kira hung up before Leigh asked more questions. Her hands trembled as she replaced the receiver in its cradle.

Max met with the president and CEO of Westerfield Industries. He served as a corporate attorney and a member of the board. He also controlled—in the name of the Westerfield trust—51 percent of the shares of the privately held stock.

The CEO—Jack Melton—was not happy with the situation. If Max wanted to prevent one of Jack’s proposed acquisitions, he could. And he’d stopped this one after running the numbers.

They had another fight today. “It’s an obsolete business,” Max said. “I checked out the financials. They just don’t meet our standards.”

“Your standards, you mean,” Melton said. “I want to go in, buy bad companies cheap, and turn them around with good management.”

“Some bad companies can’t be turned around,” Max said. Jack was competent in running the company as it existed now. He had a knack for finding good people, but he also overestimated his abilities to save companies that had outlived their usefulness. They had lost money on the last two acquisitions.

“You’re tying my hands,” Jack protested.

“I’m well aware of that, but Ed minimized risks. I intend to make sure the firm continues to do that.”

“That’s it?” Jack said.

“Bring me something more viable,” Max said.

He saw the anger on Jack’s face, but he was not going to let the man take risks with the Westerfield legacy. Time to go, before Jack’s temper got the best of him.

Max returned to his office to find the report he’d ordered on the newspaper reporter. He’d wanted more depth than a Google search, and he’d ordered a quick investigation by Parker and Carroll, the investigative agency the company used to do background checks on high-level hires.

The report was twelve pages long. He skipped over basics, then hesitated when he saw that her mother was critically ill. Although her credit rating was good, her credit cards were currently maxed out. That was new. And she recently moved from a midtown apartment into her mother’s modest home on the city’s south side.

The report also noted that she’d been on the newspaper ten years and had won several awards for reporting. She was currently on the city hall beat and covered Atlanta legislation in the Georgia General Assembly. She was an Atlanta native, had graduated from Georgia State University, and had two speeding tickets.

It was the kind of report he liked to see on possible executives. Steady. Law-abiding. The maxed-out credit cards might be a warning sign, but the mother’s illness might explain that.

He thought of that moment she’d turned into him, and his arms had steadied her. Blue gray eyes gazing up at him with momentary confusion, then a second of apprehension. She’d felt good.

Hell, he’d been way too long without a woman.

He punched some numbers on his office phone, reached the Atlanta Observer, and was passed through to Kira Douglas’s phone.

She picked up on the second ring. “Kira Douglas.”

“Ms. Douglas, this is Max Payton.”

A short pause, then, “Mr. Payton, what can I do for you?”

“Go to dinner with me.”

A longer silence, then, “Why?”

He was taken aback. It was his turn to pause. He’d never been asked that question before. The reason had always been clear.

“Because the idea appealed to me,” he said.

To his surprise, she laughed, and he liked the sound. He was intrigued with the thought that he really would like to have dinner with her rather than merely tolerate an opportunity to inspect her.

“Thanks for the invitation,” she said, “but my mother’s ill and I don’t have much time.”

“I was going to suggest tonight,” he ventured.

“I’m going to see my mom.”

“What about afterward? You have to eat.”

She hesitated just long enough to encourage him.

“We can go wherever is most convenient to you.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be at the hospital.”

“I can wait.”

“Why?” she asked again. “And why tonight?”

“I’m intrigued,” he said. “I don’t usually run into attractive reporters.” God, he hoped that didn’t sound too facile, too pushy. It had been a long time since he’d had to ask for a date twice. But then, this was no date. It was a fishing expedition. He wanted to know why she was interested in the Westerfields.

A silence told him he might have come on too strong. “Call it a sudden impulse,” he added, “and I don’t have many of those.”

“I didn’t think you would,” she agreed. “I did a little research on you.”

“Now it’s my turn to ask why.”

“A sudden impulse.” She used his own words against him. “I don’t usually run people down and end up in their arms.”

“Should I be flattered?”

“No, research is what I do,” she said, but he heard amusement in her voice.

“I didn’t realize I was on your radar.”

“You would be surprised how many people are on my radar,” she replied.

“So it’s nothing special?”

“Nope.”

“So what about tonight?”

“Call me later.” She gave him her home number but not the cell. Only the paper and the hospital had that.

“How did the story work out?” he asked.

“Good. It’ll be in the Sunday paper.”

“I’ll be looking for it.”

An awkward pause, and he was never awkward. What in the hell was happening?

“Good-bye,” he said more brusquely than he intended, and hung up before he made more of a fool of himself.

He placed the phone back in its cradle and stared at it. He’d wanted information. That was all he wanted, but somewhere along the way seeing her again had become important.

Nonsense. It was nothing but those tingling instincts that had sensed something wrong with the interview. Nothing at all.

Kira stood.

What had she just done?

Even considering going to dinner with Max Payton was probably among the most foolish things she’d ever done. He would soon discover she had an interest in the Westerfields far deeper than a Sunday feature.

She should have said no, right off the bat.

Yet she justified her wavering. She could learn more about the Westerfields. Information was ammunition.

He’s more than just a family attorney. He had been completely at home in the kitchen, as if he lived there. And he apparently did. His address was the same as the estate.

Family attorney, indeed.

She didn’t know much more. She just had access to superficial stuff and hadn’t had time to dig deeper. He apparently was single. He’d been featured in Atlanta magazine as one of the city’s most eligible bachelors five years earlier. Of course, he could have married since. No ring, though. She’d noticed that.

One of Atlanta’s most eligible bachelors. And he wanted to take her out. Yeah.

As much as she would like to think she was irresistible, she was a realist. She wasn’t. For some reason, she’d sparked his curiosity.

She didn’t usually have self-esteem issues. She was passable enough in a girl-next-door way, but she’d never attracted the football hero or basketball star or the most popular boy in the class. She’d always been more interested in books than most of the guys who asked her out. None had made her heart race, and none of her relationships had developed beyond the friendship stage. Sex, she had thought on her few attempts, was highly overrated.

Now someone had made her heart race, even if it had been for only a few moments, and he was the worst possible person for more reasons than she could count at the moment.

Maybe that racing was due to the circumstances, of nearly being caught red-handedly stealing DNA. And maybe she needed to know why he was curious.

Or so she told herself, even as she admitted the obvious. Max was one of the hottest-looking men she’d met. He certainly had the greenest eyes. Not to mention a definite presence. Meeting him, even for an early dinner, would be the same as walking through a land mine field. As the family attorney, it was his responsibility to represent Leigh Howard. He might even be in love with her. He would not take kindly to Kira withholding information that could rock the Westerfield empire.

She could tell him everything. But she owed it to Leigh to tell her first. She knew her own reaction to the news. Utter devastation. It was Leigh’s right, just as it had been her own, to decide who should know. At least for the moment.

That was it, then. She would tell him she couldn’t make it.

Didn’t really matter, anyway. She was not his type, and he wasn’t hers. And, she reminded herself again, she was, above all, a realist.