The image of Matthew Whitaker would never have come to haunt her if Johnny weren’t a Whitaker in every temperamental little bone in his body. Like should know what to do with like. Who else but a Whitaker could understand the family characteristics?

Richard had been dead a long time, and hell would freeze over before Lorna turned to either his father or his brother for help. But Johnny had needs that she couldn’t fulfill either emotionally or financially, and that reality was no small blow to her pride and fierce spirit of independence. The Whitakers had it all-money, power, a respected name-and Johnny was the only heir. Surely he had certain rights…

Irritably, Lorna punched the pillow and ordered herself to settle down. She didn’t know why she allowed herself to dwell on the subject of the Whitaker family.

The Whitakers didn’t believe that Johnny was Richard’s son. And they never would.


It was almost two months later that hell froze over. Literally, Lorna thought crossly as she did her best to control her ancient Camaro, which was bucking in the wind. She tried not to see the violent weather as a bad omen.

She’d grown up in the shadow of the University of Michigan where her father was a professor, and the attachment she felt to the small town of Ann Arbor was strictly a sentimental one. She loved it. Huge old brick buildings, ivy-covered, reeking with character and tradition, stood on tree-lined streets that climbed the gently rolling hills. In summer, the landscape was English-garden green; in spring, small blossoming trees sent out their fragrances in the shadow of larger oaks and maples; in winter, the snow piled up in Tudor doorways and casement windows with the picturesque quality of a Norman Rockwell painting.

But it happened to be autumn at the moment. November. And the landscape had nothing of the picturesque about it.

The snow was the kind that bit and stung, lashing at anything in its path. Angry gray clouds swirled in restless low masses, bringing on darkness as early as four in the afternoon. The massive old trees were stripped bare; dark, lampless windows added to the aura of gloom; and no one was venturing out for a casual stroll. The wind was so vicious that it was all Lorna could do to maneuver her small car, and by the time she had parked it her hands were shaking from their long, tight grip on the steering wheel.

As she emerged from the Camaro, the wind tossed up her chestnut hair and sleet assaulted the tender skin of her face. Her toes were already freezing in the tan leather sandals. She had chosen her outfit thinking only of her meeting with Matthew; the weather had been the last thing on her mind. Now she realized her folly. The leather gloves weren’t warm enough; she wore no hat; her toes were growing numb; and, shivering violently in the lightweight tawny coat, she thought ruefully of the fur-lined parka at home in the hall closet.

She crossed the parking lot with her head bent and her arms crossed over her chest. Her stomach was churning up the five cups of coffee she’d had since morning, and three aspirins hadn’t touched her headache. Looming ahead was a gray stone building with a sign: Whitaker and Laker. The last time she’d seen it the sign had read Whitaker and Whitaker. Brothers. The thought did nothing to settle her nerves. She took a deep breath and stepped inside.

Silence. Not only was there suddenly no lashing wind, but she’d forgotten how forbiddingly quiet an attorney’s office could be. Unconsciously, her gloved hand clenched into a fist at her side as she glanced around. The decor had changed since Richard Whitaker, Sr. had retired. Conservative gold carpeting led up to a receptionist’s desk; wildlife prints hung in exact symmetry over deep leather chairs in the lobby. The redhead at the front desk, who looked up as Lorna entered the office, wore a gray pinstriped dress with a white collar.

Determinedly coming up with a smile, Lorna approached the paragon in gray, her hands ridiculously tight on her black crocheted shoulder bag. “I wonder if it would be possible for me to see Mr. Whitaker this afternoon?”

The redhead raised perfectly plucked eyebrows. “Do you have an appointment?”

Why did she bother to ask? Lorna thought dryly. We both know I don’t. “Please tell him that Mrs. Whitaker is here.”

Those perfect eyebrows vaulted upward. “I wasn’t aware… Actually, Mr. Whitaker is in court. I was expecting him back an hour ago, but there’s no way I can immediately contact him. I don’t know what to tell you…” The receptionist hesitated, clearly having no idea what to do with a woman who claimed to have the same last name as her boss.

“May I wait?” Lorna asked patiently.

“Why…yes, of course.”

Alone in the stark, tiled bathroom off the lobby, Lorna took a brush from her purse and restored order to her wind-tossed hair. Her cheeks were so red that she looked like Cherry Ames, and her lips were scarlet. Rapidly, she restored her appearance with lipstick and powder, adding a subtle hint of perfume. Her hands, to her annoyance, were trembling. The image in the mirror didn’t please her. The pale blue dress now seemed all wrong. The oval neckline showed her collarbones; the bodice clung too closely to her breasts; and the navy piping at hem and cuffs…it was just wrong, that was all. Pinstripes with a white collar would have been appropriate. Unfortunately, she’d always hated pinstripes…

So just walk out if you’re so damned scared, she told her reflection. Vulnerable gray eyes suddenly telegraphed an S.O.S. in the mirror as Lorna admitted to herself that she hadn’t really planned very well what she was going to say to Matthew. To ensure Johnny’s future she’d make her pitch from a street corner if necessary. Her nervousness wasn’t the result of stage fright. It was the thought of seeing Matthew again that made her so tense.

He was a tough man, the kind who played to win and never backed down on a principle. Richard had modeled himself after his older brother; knowing that had intimidated Lorna when she first met Matthew. But until the end of the marriage, Matthew had always-oddly enough-had a soft spot for her… She had to hold that thought.

With a determined step, she opened the door to the bathroom and quietly walked into the lobby, not glancing at the receptionist. She sat down in one of the leather chairs, crossed her legs, stared out the window and ordered herself to relax.

“Mrs. Whitaker?”

The redhead was suddenly standing in front of her.

“I think you’d be more comfortable in Mr. Whitaker’s office,” she said firmly. “I’ll get you some coffee.”

“Really, I’m fine,” Lorna told her, but the redhead appeared to be accustomed to herding people. She’d evidently decided that a relative of the boss should be treated as such, even if she had never heard of the existence of a female Whitaker. Lorna found it impossible to explain that she wasn’t positive Matthew would even talk to her, much less allow her near his inner sanctum.

Which was where she found herself standing, playing with the handle of her purse, several seconds later. Matthew’s desk was a smooth slab of teak, spotless and gleaming. Lawyerly tomes filled the floor-to-ceiling shelves behind it, thick leather volumes that added to the elegance of the silent office. She took in the dark blue carpeting and teak paneling-very plush, very expensive. A pair of cream-colored leather chairs faced the desk; a long antique credenza stood behind them. The room was tasteful and quiet, but just being there increased the almost desperate feeling of dread in Lorna’s heart.

For generations, the Whitaker men had dedicated themselves to the law, and Matthew was the best of that breed. Nine years ago, Richard had been a year out of law school; Matthew, five years older, had already been at the top of his profession. He hadn’t wasted any time. He could have used the family influence to further his career, but he hadn’t bothered. Matthew was not only a successful lawyer, but a pillar of righteousness; he was a one-man band on the black-and-white of justice. Richard had both idolized and resented him…

“Here we go.”

Lorna pivoted as the redhead entered behind her, carrying a small tray. The sugar bowl and creamer were Waterford crystal, and the teaspoon was sterling silver. Whitaker traditions. The throbbing in Lorna’s temples increased. At the moment, her bank balance was so low that she couldn’t afford to pay a nickel to see the Statue of Liberty tap-dance.

“Sit down, please, Mrs. Whitaker. Really, it should only be another few minutes until Mr. Whitaker gets back. My name is Irene. Call me if you need anything…” The receptionist arched her eyebrows curiously, clearly hoping to learn Lorna’s first name. Presumably, it would look better to the boss if she was on first-name terms with his relatives.

Lorna sighed mentally. “Lorna,” she supplied simply.

The woman was satisfied, her smile radiant. “Well, then, Lorna, if you should need anything at all…”

She didn’t. Irene propped the door open and left Lorna in peace for another fifteen minutes. That peace was shattered, however, by the low, husky baritone she hadn’t heard in so very long. There was suddenly the strangest rushing in her ears, blocking out all other sounds.

Nine years, ago, Matthew had been the one who’d severed all contact between Lorna and the Whitakers. She wasn’t likely to forget his voice.

He was informing the redhead that his mother had been dead for twenty years, that he believed she knew he was unmarried, that there were no living female Whitakers, and that he was too damned tired to entertain imaginative women.

And then, suddenly, he was there; the redhead, flustered and flushed, just behind him. Lorna barely had time to stand up. He stopped midstride; Lorna knew he’d been prepared to oust the intruder from his office. Instead, he stood stone-still when he saw her.