building loomed over her, surrounded by heavy yellow construction vehicles.
She didn’t see Jefferson, so she smiled at the nearest worker. “Where’s Lucas Santee?”
The man gave her the once-over before pointing to the third level of the building. “Up there. The suit.”
Actually, Lucas Santee had shed his suit coat, but Corrie understood. The other man was short, round and rumpled in workmen’s overalls. Santee’s shirt was dazzling white, and his dark slacks had a knife-edge crease she could see from here. He stood confidently on a girder, as self-assured as if he stood in a boardroom.
Santee said something that looked emphatic, motioning to the building around him. The other man appeared to object, but Santee cut him off with a quick, definitive gesture.
Santee stepped into the open cage of an elevator. With one hand braced against the metal on either side, he descended. Was he looking her way? She couldn’t be sure.
The cage jolted to a stop, and he stepped out lightly. He took a suit coat from the outstretched hand of one of his lackeys and handed over the yellow hard hat he’d been wearing.
Jefferson leaned close, murmuring something, and Santee sent a sharp glance at her before turning back to his men. He kept her waiting a few more minutes while he conferred with several people. Finally he detached himself from the group and started toward the car. He stepped from the shadow of the building, and the late-afternoon sun hit him like a spotlight.
Golden, that was the only word that came to mind. The sun tipped brown hair with gold. Even his tanned skin seemed to have a golden sheen. He covered the space between them in an unhurried, controlled stride.
Corrie’s nerves tightened. He reminded her of a mountain lion. There was that same sense of feline grace, of muscles rippling under smooth, golden skin, of danger hidden under a shining surface.
Santee stopped a few feet from her, surveying her from top to toe. Looking for Manning family resemblance? Or just trying to intimidate her?
“Ms. Grant,” he said finally, his voice a lazy baritone drawl. “I’m Lucas Santee.”
He held out his hand, and after an infinitesimal pause, Corrie took it. His fingers were warm and callused against her skin, surprising her. Surely he didn’t actually work with those hands.
“Guess I should say welcome to Savannah,” he said. “Your ancestral home, if Baxter Manning isn’t making the biggest mistake of his life in believing you.”
Corrie stiffened at the flash of steel under the lazy drawl. She pulled her hand away. “If Mr. Manning wants to invite me here, I can’t see that it’s any of your concern.”
Santee’s eyebrows lifted. “Anything that affects the family concerns me. Especially a con artist trying to convince a sick old man she’s his long-lost granddaughter.”
Somehow it sounded even more insulting in his molasses-slow drawl, though she ought to be getting used to the doubt by now. “I’ve told the lawyers and Mr. Manning. Now I’ll tell you. I don’t want anything from him.”
“No secret dreams of being the missing heiress, coming into all that lovely money?”
“Obviously the money is important to you. Not to me. I agreed to this visit to find out about my father. Nothing more.”
He smiled slowly, his eyes intent on her face, as if he tried to see beneath the surface. “Then we have to make sure you enjoy your time here, don’t we?” He took her arm, the warmth of his grip penetrating her sleeve. “Jefferson’s waiting,” he said. “Shall we go?”
Corrie had expected a bigger battle, and this swift surrender took her off guard, leaving her with nothing to say. She slanted a look at Lucas Santee’s face as he walked beside her to the car.
No, not surrender. Round One might have ended, but behind that smooth facade Lucas Santee was gearing up for future battles. This had just been a minor skirmish.
He held the door and then slid onto the leather seat next to her. The car purred onto the street.
Corrie stared out the window, acutely aware of the man beside her. Obviously she hadn’t thought this through enough. She hadn’t anticipated the hostility of people who feared she was trying to take what was theirs.
She straightened, pressing her back into the cool leather. These people had had it easy all their lives. Maybe that was behind Baxter Manning’s odd attitude—he wanted to expose them to the uncertainty most people lived with.
She glanced at Santee and found him watching her. His eyes were an odd shade of brown up close, with flecks of gold that made them look like amber.
“Plotting your strategy?” His voice was pitched for her ears only, even though Jefferson had closed the glass partition. “Thinking about how you’re going to worm your way into the heart of the family, so to speak?”
She felt anger color her cheeks. “I’m not trying to convince anybody of anything.”
“Right. You’re willing to travel across the country to move in with people who’ll hate you on sight, but you’re not trying to convince anybody you’re Baxter Manning’s grandchild.” His fingers closed around her wrist. “Try that story on someone who might believe it, sugar.”
Corrie stiffened. His intensity grated on her, but she wouldn’t let him think he intimidated her.
“Your opinion doesn’t really matter, does it?” she said. “The only thing that matters is what Mr. Manning believes.”
His grip tightened until she thought he’d leave fingerprints on her skin, and fury darkened his eyes. “Baxter Manning wants to think he’s found an unknown grandchild, but you and I know differently, don’t we?”
“Do we?” Corrie raised her eyebrows. At least she’d managed to dent that facade of his.
“I don’t know who you really are, Corrie Grant. But I’ll find out, I promise you that.”
It didn’t sound like a promise. It sounded like a threat.
He’d let this woman ruffle him, Lucas realized, and that shouldn’t have happened. Dealing with her was going to be a delicate matter, particularly since he hadn’t been able to tell what Baxter really thought of her from their brief phone conversation.
That was typical of Baxter, of course. He’d run his companies and his family with an iron hand all his life, and he didn’t intend to let advancing age or illness stop him. He’d been maddeningly vague when Lucas tried to find out what he really thought of Corrie Grant.
Take care of her, he’d said. Let her see what she can find out about Trey. That’s what she says she wants to do.
Trey Manning. He had a few vague memories of Trey, the golden boy who’d been a prep school athlete when Lucas had come to the Manning house as a child. Trey had been the only person who’d ever successfully stood up to Baxter, and look how that had ended.
And now this woman had come, claiming to be Trey’s daughter. Worry gnawed at him. Baxter was too old and, he suspected, too ill to be
