Wintergreen

Chapter 1

Carefully, Lorna slipped the key into the lock, yawned hugely and tiptoed into the hall of her first-floor apartment trailing a chiffon scarf and a gold-spangled evening purse that seemed too monumentally heavy to lift at two in the morning.

“I thought I told you to stay out and have a good time.”

Lorna jumped, her head pivoting around toward the scolding voice. Freda Noonan had a hand on one hip and was all wide-awake, foot-tapping impatience. Lorna shook her head, suppressing a tired smile. As a daunting image, her friend lacked something. Freda’s red-gray hair was in curlers, and she was wearing a robe the Goodwill would have rejected a decade ago. “The sun’s about to come up. I thought you wouldn’t mind if I came home,” Lorna said dryly.

“Don’t tell me you were worried about Johnny.”

“Of course I wasn’t.” Lorna hesitated. “But he was okay, wasn’t he? This afternoon I thought he was coming down with a cold…”

“Between your Johnny and my Brian, the house was destroyed three times over. Mostly your monster’s energies. Which is the point,” Freda chided. “Potential father material. What was wrong this time?”

“Nothing,” Lorna said mildly. “Hal has a lot of potential wrestler in him, but except for that he seemed fairly law-abiding. Why on earth did you wait up for me?”

“God knows. You’re getting beyond help,” Freda said disgustedly.

Lorna grinned and pushed back a dark mane of chestnut hair as she kicked off her sandals. “You want wine or coffee-as in, how long is this scold going to take? Keep in mind that both boys will be up at dawn.”

“Wine, and for the rest of the night the boys are your problem. Why do you think I decided to babysit here tonight? And don’t be sending my little angel next door any earlier than ten tomorrow morning.”

Lorna chuckled, moving through the pale green living room that she knew had some claim to taste and even serenity…somewhere beneath the model airplanes and comic books. Switching on the overhead light in the kitchen, she wondered for a full second and a half if it was worth the effort to drag a chair over, to reach the wineglasses in the top cupboard. It wasn’t. She poured the Pinot Noir into two Pac-Man mugs, aware that Freda had trailed after her.

“Honey, he was gorgeous. And don’t try to tell me he wasn’t interested.”

“Oh, he was interested,” Lorna agreed. “The so-called bash at his place had a massive guest list of four, and the other couple politely left at eleven.”

“I thought you said…”

“I did. I thought it was going to be a big affair.”

“All right. So what happened between eleven and two?” Freda demanded interestedly as she picked up her mug of wine.

“Nothing unusual. First we played sophisticated seduction. You know, how many times can he fill my glass while we talk. Then he shifted to poker, as in, let’s see if I was really bluffing when I said no. Then we had to check out whether I was the kind who liked a man to be a little rough.” Lorna’s voice was full of dry humor, as she automatically cleaned up the children’s glasses and took a swipe at the counter with a damp sponge.

“And then…” Freda prompted impatiently.

Lorna took a sip of wine and perched up on the counter, her dark gray eyes rueful as she met her next-door neighbor’s gaze. “And then…nothing. I just told him that I’d honestly had enough, and the chase came to an end rather abruptly. Hal turned into a lamb…” Lorna considered. “Maybe not exactly a lamb…” At Freda’s quelling stare, Lorna’s humor subsided, her smile fading.

“Lorna, I thought you liked him,” Freda said despairingly.

“I do.”

“And you can’t tell me you weren’t attracted-”

“He’s very good-looking,” Lorna agreed.

“Well, then?”

Lorna sighed, her thick dark lashes suddenly shielding the vulnerable cloud-gray of her eyes. “Couldn’t you see the way Johnny looked at Hal when he came to pick me up? He didn’t like him, Freda. And Hal just isn’t kids-oriented.” Lorna hesitated. “Maybe further down the road, Hal might even have offered a ring, but I have a feeling the next day he’d have been looking into boarding schools.”

“Lorna, he couldn’t have spent more than an hour with the boy! You can’t live your entire life through Johnny. With your looks, you’ve got a right to be picky, but honey, you’re downright impossible. And that boy needs a father before you ruin him completely. Someone has to have the courage to land a good one on his backside occasionally.”

“I know that. In principle, I’ll even grant that Johnny needs a masculine influence. The problem is that the men who make good fathers turn me on like dead dishrags. Say, Freda, are you going home soon?” Lorna inquired politely. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t covered the territory before.

“Obviously, I might as well.”

Lorna slipped down from the counter and finished her wine, setting the mug down by the sink. “You were a sweetheart to watch the two of them.”

Freda moved to the back door. “It balances out, you know that. Brian’s here more than he’s home.” She paused with her hand on the doorknob and turned back to Lorna. “You don’t still have Johnny’s father on your mind? Lorna, you’ve got to trust again. Everyone isn’t like that Whitaker clan-”

Something cold and familiar settled in Lorna’s throat, but she shook her head with a weary smile. “I haven’t thought of a Whitaker in nearly nine years. Don’t be silly, Freda.”

“You’ve waited a long time-”

Lorna whispered firmly, “Go home.”

The door closed with a little click, and Lorna let out a pent-up sigh, raking her hand restlessly through her hair. After locking the back door and switching off lights, she headed toward the bedrooms, her hands unconsciously reaching behind her to unzip her dress. The first door was Johnny’s, and she automatically peeked in.

Freda’s son, Brian, was stretched out peacefully, the covers snugged up to his chin. Predictably, her own son was another matter. His blankets had been pulled out from the bottom of the bed and were trailing on the floor along with his arm, and only one leg was covered. Lorna silently rearranged the blankets, taking a moment to smooth the irrepressible cowlick on top of Johnny’s towhead and to kiss the freckles he hated. Both worry and love showed on her expressive face as she tiptoed back out, leaving the door open an inch or two.

He was too smart, her nine-year-old son. In fact, his school had identified him as a gifted child. He was also stubborn, curious to the point of being insatiable, courageous to the point of recklessness, and at times, Lorna admitted to herself, he was more than she could handle. Last week there had been more trouble at school…

The dress slipped down from her shoulders and made a silky pool on her bedroom carpet. No one was going to tattle if it stayed there until morning. The makeup, though, had to come off. Her eyes were burning from the layer of mascara applied too many hours before.

In the bathroom, she creamed the makeup off her face, brushed her teeth and then took a brush to her shoulder-length hair. Unsmiling, she viewed her image in the mirror. Almond-shaped gray eyes stared back at her, large and dark-lashed. Her classical features were surrounded by a thick mane of dark red-brown hair that crackled under the hairbrush. Her figure was long-legged and long-waisted, her high breasts barely contained in a pale green camisole. She made no particular claim to beauty, but at twenty-nine she would have been foolish not to admit she had the kind of looks that attracted men. Knowing that brought Lorna no special pleasure. Her looks had netted her one husband named Richard Whitaker once upon a time; indirectly, those same looks had been responsible for losing him. But she didn’t want to think about Richard; she didn’t want to think about any of the Whitaker men. The only Whitaker who concerned her was one towheaded little urchin named Johnny.

She turned away, flicking out the light. Moonlight flooded the bedroom, casting long silver waves on the pale yellow comforter. She crawled into bed and curled up, though she knew she was too restless to sleep. Her worries about Johnny refused to go away. Other single parents seemed to manage just fine. Why couldn’t she? Freda was so positive that a man’s influence was all Johnny needed. Self-discipline wasn’t exactly a characteristic of nine-year-old boys, and Lorna was definitely not famous for her iron hand. When Johnny acted up, her urge was always to give him more love instead of more discipline, if only to make up for his not having a father.

Unfortunately, Johnny inhaled that love the way a sponge soaked up water, and then exhaled trouble. He was violent in every way. Violently loving, violently protective, violently defending his point of view until he was violently convinced he was wrong. Then he would perversely, and just as violently, stick to his guns.

Lorna smiled in the darkness, closing her eyes. She adored her son. But who ever heard of a fourth-grader being kicked out of school?

You’ve got to do something, her conscience ordered. The problem was what to do. There were so few options… A Whitaker face whirled in her head. The face was that of Richard’s brother, Matthew. She sent it furiously right back down to her subconscious. It resurfaced. She buried it again.

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.

Lorna had once known him well, yet still she faltered. He was taller and leaner than Richard, his body made up of more sinew than flesh; Matthew had never stood still long enough for any extra weight to settle on him. His gray suit jacket hung open over wide shoulders, and his steel chest was encased in an impeccable white shirt. Thick brown hair brushed his shirt collar and framed a square face with an iron chin, a high forehead and dark brown, almost black eyes-cruel eyes, she thought fleetingly, though never before had they seemed cruel to her.

To others, yes. It was said that he could make a truthful witness stumble on the stand, that he could make the most articulate of judges stammer. The deeply etched lines on his brow only accented the strength of his face. She knew those lines. She saw them in Johnny. It went beyond the perseverance that was a Whitaker family trait. Maybe Matthew couldn’t make a mountain cave in with that look of his, but he could probably come close. No give, she read, and suddenly felt exhausted.

“You were right, Irene. I apologize,” Matthew said suddenly. He turned to the redhead. “I won’t need you anymore this evening.”