Sweet Stallion. Deborah Fletcher Mello
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she answered.
He turned to face her and was now standing directly in front of her. He wasn’t at all how she remembered him. He was shorter, no longer as physically fit as the man she recalled. His hair was more salt than pepper, age having clearly caught up with him. His suit was expensive and his hands well manicured. His skin was tanned, as if he spent much time on a tropical island or in a tanning booth. With his chiseled features, he reminded her of the actor George Hamilton. Money, and a great plastic surgeon, had served him well.
“You look exactly like your mother. Just as beautiful,” Nolan stated.
He stretched out his hand, as if he wanted to trail his fingers along her cheek. Naomi bristled and stepped back, shaking her head. Before she could respond, Noah suddenly moved between them, giving the old man his broad back. The chill in the air around them could have easily frozen hell.
“Naomi, is everything okay?”
She nodded. “I’m ready to leave when you are,” she said, grabbing her brother’s hand and holding on tightly.
The two moved toward the door and made their exit, leaving Nolan behind. From where he stood on the other side of the room, Patrick noted the tense exchange. Something wasn’t quite right, and he suddenly had even more questions for Naomi that he hoped to get answers to.
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