She accepted his greeting, noting the solid-gold watch on his wrist. One thing she had learned from her stepfather was how to spot a genuine from a fake. Anything else he had taught her, she was better off forgetting.
“Would you care to sit down?” he asked.
Mikki nodded and slipped into the booth. After a day on her feet, she welcomed the rest. “What can I do for you?”
His pause stretched to an awkward silence. As he searched his briefcase, she had a chance to study him. His angular jaw and chiseled nose gave him a striking appeal, like a marble statue and most likely just as cold. That he felt ill at ease in his surroundings was obvious by the way he clenched the papers in his hands.
“Are you the same Michelle Finnley who was adopted by Sara Finnley?”
Shock waves ran through her. Until her mother’s death, she hadn’t known she was adopted. Who was this man, and how did he know so much about her? “Why do you want to know?”
“Could you just answer the question?”
“Are you a cop?” One look at his well-tailored suit and she knew the answer. He presented the image of a stuffy, yuppie, corporate type. Maybe a lawyer. She certainly felt as if she was on trial.
“Does the name Megan Hawthorne mean anything to you?” he asked.
Although the name didn’t seem to strike a familiar chord, a strangely numbing sensation enveloped her. “Should it?”
He exhaled deeply. “Is that a no?”
She tilted her head to one side. “Tell me something. Is it possible for you to smile while you’re doing this?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re asking me a bunch of questions you obviously know the answers to already. If you’re doing it for a laugh, you might as well look like you’re enjoying it.”
Clayton leaned back in the vinyl seat. Beads of perspiration settled around the collar of his starched white shirt. In spite of the stifling summer heat, the woman across from him remained cool. She would probably be pretty if she hadn’t pulled her dark hair into a cascading ponytail. Thick black eyeliner framed a pair of large, dark eyes, making her seem older than the twenty-three years he knew her to be.
She wasn’t what he had expected. Was it possible that this sassy waitress was Richard’s missing daughter? Someone had done their homework, but Michelle Finnley didn’t fit his image of a first-rate con artist. Was she working with a partner?
“It’s been a long day, Mr. Reese. If you’re making a point, I wish you’d get to it.”
“All right. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, my client is trying to locate his biological daughter.”
Her eyes seemed to double in size. An act, or genuine surprise, he wondered.
“And you think that’s me?”
“It’s possible.” He kept his response noncommittal. Until he knew what was going on, he didn’t want to divulge too much information. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“What makes you think I want to know my biological parents?”
He nearly choked on his now-cold coffee. For twenty years Richard had followed every crackpot lead trying to locate his kidnapped daughter. Whoever sent this new information might be playing a cruel hoax on a sick man. Clayton was determined to see that Richard wasn’t hurt again.
“Are you going to cooperate or not?”
“I’ll think about it. Where can I reach you?” She ran the tip of her tongue across her full lips. If she meant to distract him with the provocative gesture, she almost succeeded.
He had hoped for more information, but he sensed that pushing her would accomplish nothing. Whether she was an innocent pawn or a master player would become evident in due time. He removed a business card from his wallet and wrote down the name of his hotel on the back.
She read the information and let out a whistle. “Nice place.”
They rose at the same time. As she passed in front of him, his stare remained riveted to her slim hips, swaying as she walked. His body temperature rose along with his pulse. Suddenly she turned. Unable to stop his gait midstride, he dropped his briefcase and reached out reflexively to grab her tiny waist as they collided. Her hands came up to his chest, grasping the fabric of his jacket.
Their gazes locked. Something akin to emotion constricted his chest, and the rest of his anatomy reacted in an equally uncomfortable manner. Her onyx eyes were beguiling: a paradox of innocence and experience. So, he was wrong. Michelle Finnley was more than pretty. She was beautiful, despite her best efforts to make herself look tough.
Gradually her tight grip loosened. She wriggled out of his embrace and slid her hands shyly into her pockets. “You can breathe now.”
Clayton picked up his briefcase. “What?”
“I’ve touched ice blocks that give off more warmth than you. It was an accident that won’t happen again.”
She wasn’t the first woman to comment on his lack of warmth, but she was the first to provoke such a fire inside him. Far from minding the incidental contact, he had enjoyed the feel of her hands on him far too much. Thankfully she had misread the cause of his tension.
“Is there a pay phone around here?” he asked, anxious to break the embarrassing silence.
“Two blocks down at the pharmacy.” She tipped her head and took another step back. “You’ll be hearing from me.”
Clayton nodded and stepped out into the heavy city air. Although he had made little progress with the evasive Miss Finnley, he had promised to call Richard immediately after the meeting. Then, the sooner he left this area, aptly named Hell’s Kitchen, the better.
He tucked his attaché under his arm and strode down the street with a growing sense of uneasiness. How did a young woman survive alone in this neighborhood?
Of the three public phones in front of the pharmacy, only one still had the receiver attached. He reached inside his pocket. Realization hit him with the force of a moving train.
The raven-haired beauty had taken more than his breath away. She had walked off with his wallet.
Clayton returned quickly to the small diner. Michelle was nowhere to be seen. A woman in a similar pink uniform, but two generations older, greeted him at the counter.
“May I help you?”
“Is Miss Finnley still here?” he asked, but he already knew the answer.
“She finished her shift.” The woman pulled a coin from her pocket and offered it to him. “She left this for you.”
“What is it?”
The laugh lines in her weathered face deepened. “A subway token.”
Mikki ran a brush through her hair and splashed cool water on her face. Leaning against the sink in the ladies’ room, she removed the wallet from her pocket and flipped though the contents. A Massachusetts driver’s license, assorted business cards and no less than three credit cards—all gold—issued in the name of Clayton Reese.
So, he hadn’t lied about his identity. What did he really want? she wondered. He was too rigid and conservative to be a good con man.
She thumbed through the wad of hundred-dollar bills and laughed. It would serve him right if she kept the money, but she wasn’t a thief. Not anymore. And never by choice. She tossed the billfold in her purse and quickly changed into her jeans and T-shirt. If she took a cab, she could get to the uptown hotel before Mr. Reese figured out the New York City subway