down at the crumpled piece of paper in her hand. ‘But I just told you, it’s obviously a case of mistaken identity—’
‘Landris, Landris and Davis,’ her father said flatly, his gaze steadily meeting hers.
Her eyes widened as her father correctly named the firm of lawyers who had sent her the letter. How on earth—?
‘Please, Brianna.’ He held out his hand for the letter, then slowly and meticulously straightened out the creases before attempting to read its typed words.
‘What’s going on, sis?’ Gary asked in a loud whisper, his cereal being eaten now as he got ready to leave for school. In his final year at school, and taking his ‘A’ levels, Gary looked like most of his peers: hair a bit too long, clothes studiously untidy, not yet a man but no longer a child.
‘I have no idea,’ Brianna told him frankly, distractedly handing him some money for his bus fare and lunch.
He grimaced at the way their father just sat looking at that letter Brianna had received in this morning’s post. ‘Looks serious,’ he muttered.
Brianna wasn’t altogether certain how it looked. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to know, either. Her mother had died just over two years ago, and since that time their father, with help from Brianna, had managed to keep them going as a family.
Perhaps this letter was something to do with her mother? Although that didn’t make much sense to her either; her mother had left them all that she had to give, which was her love, and the happiness of close-knit family life. That was a legacy not everyone could leave behind them.
‘School,’ she reminded her brother as he hovered curiously, then ‘Homework,’ as she handed him a folder from the top of the fridge. ‘Bus,’ she finished pointedly.
He looked disgruntled at having to miss finding out what the mystery was all about, and pulled a face as he went. But he was going to miss his bus if he didn’t leave now, and having to walk the distance to school wouldn’t suit him at all; any form of exercise was total anathema to Gary!
Brianna busied herself tidying away the breakfast dishes, knowing that when her father was ready he would talk to her. She had learnt this practice from her mother, although it hadn’t been an easy lesson to learn; Brianna was more inclined to impulsive action than thinking things through. But, as her mother had pointed out affectionately long ago, her father could be led but he wouldn’t be pushed.
And so Brianna waited—although she hoped her father wouldn’t take too long over his musing, or the two of them were going to be late for work, her father at his consulting rooms, Brianna at the hospital where she worked as a receptionist.
Her father suddenly spoke, his voice gruff with emotion. ‘I believe that this letter has something to do with your real mother.’
Brianna turned slowly, frowning. Her parents had never made any secret of the fact that she was adopted. It had been explained to her as soon as she was old enough to understand that she was special, a gift to Graham and Jean Gibson after childless years of marriage.
It had never bothered Brianna that she was adopted or that, as often happened in these cases, her adoptive parents had actually conceived a baby of their own when she was four years old. She was ‘special’, loved all the more dearly because her parents had believed they would never have a child of their own. It was because of that love she had never felt any inclination to search out her real parents; she simply didn’t feel the need to know them, accepting that there must have been a reason she was given away in the first place, and that it was probably a reason that might still cause hurt and distress to the people involved.
She had certainly never expected that her real mother would seek her out!
She sat down in the chair opposite her father, her face pale, blue eyes wide above a small nose, generous mouth, and stubbornly determined chin. Her father had often teased her about that stubbornness during her childhood, saying her shoulder-length hair should have been red rather than the colour of gold-ripened wheat. But gold it was, straight and fine to her shoulders, with a wispy fringe above those deep blue eyes.
‘Why do you think that?’ she asked through stiff lips. She didn’t want to hear any of this!
Her father looked at her with steady brown eyes. ‘Because I received a letter from them myself about three months ago. Just before your twenty-first birthday...’
‘The letter clearly states that you should contact us before coming to the office,’ the frosty middle-aged receptionist told her dismissively. ‘I would be happy to make an appointment for you to see—’
‘I don’t want an appointment,’ Brianna told her equally coldly—after all, she was a receptionist herself, knew every put-off there was, both polite and otherwise. She also knew that if she waited here long enough, refusing to budge, someone would eventually see her. ‘I wish to see one of the partners mentioned in the letter. Now.’
And she was determined that she would. She had been totally shocked this morning when her father had told her Landris, Landris and Davis had written to him some time ago, enquiring as to whether he had an adopted daughter by the name of Brianna. Her father had written back confirming that he did, and asked exactly why it was they wanted to know. But he had received no reply from the lawyers in the three months that followed and had finally decided the law firm must have made some sort of mistake. The second letter, this morning, from the same practice, seemed to indicate there had been no mistake after all...
Brianna had gone off to work as usual, but she had been distracted all morning, thoughts going round and round inside her head, and she’d finally decided that enough was enough. She hated mysteries, and the sooner she found an answer to this one, the better. Which was why she had taken a taxi to this office during her lunch-break.
The premises of Landris, Landris and Davis were designed to be imposing, the grey-haired dragon of a receptionist a further deterrent to anyone not here on serious business. Or someone without an appointment...
‘I’m afraid that’s impossible,’ the woman told her firmly. ‘None of the partners are available to see you at the moment.’
‘Then I’ll wait until one of them is available,’ Brianna informed her stubbornly.
‘Look, Miss—Gibson—’ the woman filled in her name after another quick glance at the letter Brianna had received this morning ‘—I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. I can make you an appointment, possibly some time next week—’
‘I don’t think so,’ Brianna cut in mildly, deep blue eyes silently warring with stony brown.
‘Miss Gibson, I really must insist—’
‘Problems, Hazel?’
Both women turned sharply at the sound of that deeply male voice, the receptionist at once looking flustered and Brianna’s interest in the intruder deepening as she saw the other woman’s reaction to him.
Not a simple clerk, by the look of him. He stood well over six feet tall, and was powerfully built beneath the formality of the dark suit and white shirt he wore. He looked down his arrogant nose at the two of them with icy blue eyes through dark-rimmed glasses: eyes that were not the deep blue of Brianna’s own, but a pale blue that sent an arctic chill down her spine.
Some
