The Scandalous Heiress. Kathryn Taylor
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her freedom. And now she felt the haunting chains of her past reaching out to imprison her again.
“This way, Mikki.” Clayton pointed toward the garage which opened with a tap to the remote in his hand. She followed him inside. “I’ll put the car in later.”
The spacious town house used the waterfront view to full advantage. French doors in the living room led to a deck overlooking the bay. The water had taken on a deep shade of sea green as the last of the sun disappeared. The cathedral ceilings with inlaid skylights made her feel as if she could reach up and touch the full moon overhead.
His home seemed in contrast to his personality. The plush sectional sofa, in beige Haitian cotton, was accented beautifully with throws and pillows in a southwestern motif. The framed pictures and handcrafted collectibles displayed throughout the room were a departure from the stuffy image he fostered.
Clayton put her suitcase inside the door of a guest room. “I’ll make some coffee. You can change if you’d like.”
“Thanks.”
Once he left, she sprawled across the queen-size bed and traced the Navajo pattern of the quilt with her fingertip. Sleeping alone in this big bed seemed such a waste. Her thoughts went to her reluctant host, and her pulse accelerated. At this rate her vivid imagination would land her in serious trouble.
It must be the stress, she decided as she changed into a short-sleeved sweatshirt and a pair of leggings. Clayton had not made one comment or gesture that led her to believe he might be interested. To the contrary, he kept a distinct distance between them. Even though he had brought her here, she sensed his discomfort with the arrangement.
Mikki was about to search out Clayton when an old photograph captured her attention. She lifted the antique silver frame from the dresser for closer inspection. A small child sitting atop a pony waved for the photographer. A boy stuck his tongue out and held two fingers above the little girl’s head. Though they looked nothing alike, they behaved like siblings. She brushed her thumb over the glass. Why did the picture seem familiar?
“That’s Meg.” Clayton’s voice gave her a start. She turned to find him watching her with an odd expression. “My aunt uses this room when she visits. It’s one of her last pictures of you.”
“Me?”
He frowned. “Meg. One of the last pictures of Meg, taken on her third birthday. She got that pony from Richard.”
“And who’s the comedian with his tongue hanging out, holding rabbit ears over her head?”
“Take a guess.”
She smiled. “I don’t believe you ever had a sense of humor.”
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