Behind the Shadows (2 page)

God, could she ever pick them!

But even a gold-digging husband might be better than being so entirely alone.

She yawned. She'd had three hours' sleep at most.

She needed more. She needed to be alert and confident when she faced the lion in his den later today.

She would take a hot shower and use a bed in one of the guest rooms. Maybe the nightmare had gone away for the night.

Maybe.

Anger came in waves. It swelled to tsunami strength, then retreated, only to return.

Kira tried to tamp it down as she walked inside her mother's cubicle. She had rerun the doctor's words all day, even as she'd struggled through a city budget committee meeting. She'd returned to the hospital last night, but her mother had been exhausted from tests.

The words made no more sense today than they had yesterday. Either the hospital had made a terrible mistake and somehow mixed her blood up with someone else's, or her mother had lied to her for more than thirty years.

She pasted a smile on her face as she approached the bed in the critical care unit. Her mother was sleeping. Kira sat down in the uncomfortable chair next to the bed.

Katy Douglas had always been a small, slender woman who was constantly on the move. Now Kira studied her mother's features as she never had before.

Kira's build was larger. She was taller and had more curves. She'd always attributed her mother's slender size to the fact she worked so hard, right up to the moment she was diagnosed with renal failure. Even then, she hadn't stopped until she'd collapsed while cleaning a house when one of her employees didn't show.

Their eyes were both blue, although her mother's were a bright blue and Kira's were more of a smoky blue gray. Her mother's hair was a honey color, and curly, while hers was a dark mahogany shade and both straight and fine.

But they thought alike. Was that genes or environment?

Had
her mother lied to her all these years?

How many times had her mother told her she was a miracle baby? That when she was born, everyone—everyone but Katy—said she would die within days. But she hadn't. She'd been named Kira, Latin for light, her mother said. She'd found the name in a baby book. She'd known Kira would live, that her light would glow.

Her mother's eyes flickered open. Even though her face was wan, she smiled. The open, delighted smile that always came to her face when she saw Kira. “How long have you been here?”

“Not long.”

“You should have wakened me.”

“You looked too peaceful,” Kira said.

It wasn't true. Katy Douglas looked ravished by a disease that was draining her lifeblood. The doctor said she didn't have much more than a month to live unless she received a new kidney.

“You look tired,” Katy Douglas said. “You aren't taking care of yourself. Go home and get some rest.”

“I'd rather spend some time with you,” Kira said.

Another smile. “A little while, then. What did you cover today?”

Kira made a face. “A budget committee meeting. Deadly dull. Give me a good political scandal any day.”

A knock came at the door, and a tall, thin man entered then with a tray full of test tubes. The technician glanced at Katy Douglas, then Kira.

“My daughter, the newspaper reporter,” her mother said with pride. “She works for the
Atlanta Observer
,” she explained to the technician, who placed the tray on a table, then searched for a vein in arms that were mostly purple from numerous needles. He finally found one and drew blood.

The technician nodded at Kira and left the room.

“Tell me again about the day I was born,” Kira said, asking the question she'd wanted to ask since the moment she entered the room. “It was this hospital, wasn't it?”

“The best day of my life,” Katy said, her gaze fixing on Kira's face. “Your father was playing drums that night. We thought … I thought you wouldn't come for another month. But then, you were always impatient. So impatient.” Her voice started to fade.

“Was it a caesarean?” Kira asked gently.

“No. You were coming just as we reached the hospital,” Katy said. “As I said, impatient. I just made the emergency room. The doctor … he said he didn't have to work … that I had already done everything. But then the pediatrician came in and looked at the baby. I … knew something was wrong.”

“But you wouldn't give up on me.” Kira knew the story by heart, but she had to hear it again. Now.

“No,” her mother said softly. “Not my Kira.” Her voice had weakened in those few moments and her eyelids fluttered.

“Time for me to go,” Kira said, even as she clung to her mother's hand, trying to force her own life force into her mother. “I love you,” she whispered.

“I love … you, darlin',” her mother replied in a voice already weakening from those few words.

Kira waited until she knew her mother was asleep, then stood. For a moment she couldn't move.

She knew one thing now. Her mother certainly believed that she had given birth to Kira. No one could relate the story with such loving remembrance unless she'd lived it.

Her mother believed Kira was her daughter, the daughter of her blood.

The hospital
must
have made a mistake. Then or now.

She hoped to God it was now.

Damn it. Damn the doctor. Damn the hospital. She knew her mother was slipping away, and Kira was being cheated of her chance to help. Perhaps her mother's only chance.

She'd been assured the doctor would call her the moment the new test results returned. She resisted the urge to pick up the phone and call him again. Persistence was a good quality for a reporter, but she couldn't risk alienating him at the moment.

She looked down at her hand. It was shaking. This time, the lab
had
to get it right.

Maybe if they were wrong about the genetic match, they were wrong about the compatibility as well.

Maybe there was still hope.

3

Max Payton raised an intimidating eyebrow. Leigh Howard met his gaze directly.

He was impressed. Usually, she avoided directness.

She held a strange place in his professional life. Not exactly his ward. Or his client. But someone whose life and future was entrusted to his care. The situation suited neither of them.

He was damned tired of being a heavy.

He owed the old man—her dead grandfather—but he was beginning to wonder whether this job was worth the aggravation. “Another horse?” he asked dryly. “You have Silver Lady or whatever the damned horse is named.”

“It's my money,” Leigh Howard said for the thousandth time.

“It's the trust fund's money,” he corrected her as he had for the thousandth time. “And it financed Silver Lady.” He knew his voice was edged with weariness. “You've gone through so many expensive hobbies that I would like to know that you're serious about this before investing fifty thousand dollars on another horse.”

He watched her face turn to marble. Leigh Howard was a pretty woman. Maybe too pretty with the naturally blond hair and striking blue eyes. Most men would consider her lovely. But he knew her too well. She was more like a wayward younger sister to him than a desirable woman.

He liked her. He had known her since he'd been an assistant—more of a gofer—for her grandfather. He'd taken her to the zoo and driven her to dancing classes. She had always been polite except for a few tantrums, relying more on charm than temper to get what she wanted.

She exasperated him, just as she had her grandfather. She was smart; Max knew that. But underneath the polished exterior, she was still—in many ways—the six-year-old who almost died in the accident that killed her parents. That night had left more than the physical scars on her legs and arms.

“Max, just consider it. My riding instructor says I'm a natural in the show ring. She says I'm ready to start jumping.”

He hesitated. “Jumping is dangerous. You know how you—”

“I'll be very careful,” she broke in eagerly. “I won't take chances.”

“If you get hurt again …”

Her face clouded. “My instructor says I have a real talent, Max. A real feel for the horse. I'm a good rider. I really am.”

“I know you are. I've watched you.”

She looked surprised, and he kicked himself. Ed Westerfield never praised her for anything. Neither had Max. Perhaps he'd picked up more from the old man than he'd thought. He cleared his suddenly thick throat and continued, “You're good at most things you do. You just don't stay interested very long. And I know how you feel about hospitals and …”

“I won't get hurt. The … car is just as dangerous, and I drive.”

But not easily. He knew how long it had taken for her to learn to drive. She still didn't like it, and after the accident, he didn't blame her. He also knew from Mrs. Baker about the nightmares that didn't go away, and the way her face stiffened when she had a doctor's appointment.

“I'm ready,” she persisted. “My instructor says this jumper is perfect. Well trained and gentle. I'm not rushing into this, Max. I've become familiar with horse people. You know I'm chairing the South Atlanta Regional Horse Show.”

He knew that, too. Westerfield Industries was a sponsor. And that, he thought cynically, was exactly why she was asked to chair the committee. Yet she probably
would
be good at it. Her problem had never been lack of brains. It had been lack of confidence. If she didn't succeed in something immediately, she abandoned it. Though she would deny it forever, her grandfather had instilled a deep sense of inadequacy in her. It had led her into one very bad marriage, almost into a second, and into some terrible investments.

After buying off one husband and then a husband-to-be, Ed Westerfield put most of his fortune into an unbreakable trust for his only grandchild. She would receive the bulk of the money if and when she took a responsible place in Westerfield Industries or married someone who met Max's approval. She'd reached neither requirement. Until then she was on an allowance. A healthy one, but not enough to buy a $50,000 horse.

Max hated the promise he'd made to the old man when he was dying. At the same time, he knew how susceptible Leigh was to someone who pretended to care about her. She'd never truly been loved, and she hungered for it. He sympathized to some extent, but now he just wanted to say, “Get over it.” He sure as hell had.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Six months. If you still want this, then we'll talk about it again.”

“Samara will be sold by then,” she protested.

“There will be other horses.”

Anger and disappointment clouded her face. She changed the subject. “What about Seth? Will you give him a contribution?”

He should have known that was coming. Hell, it probably had been her first goal. Make a request she knew he would refuse, and he would feel obligated to grant the second.

Good God, he was tired of saying no. He wished Ed Westerfield had just given her the money rather than establishing the damned trust and conning him into being trustee with a strict list of rules.

“Westerfield Industries doesn't give contributions,” he said, citing the old man's philosophy. “You give something to one politician, then all the vultures descend. As an industry doing business with the state and U.S. governments, we can't single out one lawmaker or one party. You know that.”

“This is different. He's a Westerfield. Family. People will understand that.”

“He's a politician first.”

“Dammit,” she exploded. “It's not fair. He and David should have gotten more of the inheritance. Grandfather just wanted to bend everyone to his will and when he couldn't, he cut them off.”

“True,” Max admitted. “But you have a big allowance. You can contribute.”

“I already have. The max.” She lifted her chin. “I don't know why you're still his lackey. He's dead.”

“I make promises, I keep them. It's my one virtue.”

“And you believe you owe him,” she said angrily. “That's bunk, and you know it. He got far more from you than he ever gave. All those years you did every nasty little chore. Hatchet man. That's all you were to him.”

“Probably,” Max said. “If you think that bothers me, you're wrong.”

“You would have to be human to be bothered,” she said, turned around, and marched out of the room.

True. He had lost his humanity when he was ten years old. A succeeding series of foster homes erased any remaining remnants. He'd resolved then never to be a victim again.

He leaned back in his chair. It was in his freshman year in college when he'd caught Westerfield's eye while he was a janitor in the Westerfield office building. He was caught reading Plato when he should have been scrubbing floors.

Ed Westerfield had questioned him at length, then become his mentor as well as employer. On his part, Max had made sure he became indispensable to his boss. When he graduated at the head of his business school class, Westerfield paid his tuition to Georgia State University Law School and slowly moved him up the ladder to corporate attorney.

The price had been complete dedication and loyalty. Whatever the old man wanted, he got. Didn't matter if Max found it distasteful. He was Westerfield's man.

Still was. Even two years after his death.

As Westerfield had known he would be.

Leigh was now his albatross.

The phone rang and he snatched it to his ear. His secretary had instructions not to disturb him unless it was about a state contract he was finalizing for the company.

He switched his mind to a different frequency.

The contract crowded out everything else.

The results of the new DNA test were the same as the initial ones. Kira could not be her mother's biological daughter. Couldn't be
any
relation.