Sealed With A Kiss. Mae Nunn
morning earlier than required and parked at the busy grocery across the street. Hidden among the minivans, he straddled his favorite bike and considered the meeting to come.
Why was his presence required for the reading of Miriam Elliott’s will? He scrubbed a hand over a three-day growth of whiskers, exhaled and folded his arms across his chest.
At precisely 9:00 a.m., a gas-guzzling sedan pulled into the parking spot in front of the offices marked Wade Latimer, Attorney at Law. The woman who emerged was one of the black-draped mourners at yesterday’s service. At first glance he almost didn’t recognize her. She’d filled out, quite a lot.
She swung the massive car door closed and made her way up the fieldstone walk. The familiar auburn hair was caught back into a tight French braid, which hung past the shoulders of a conservative, black suit. The gangly girl etched into his mind’s eye was gone, replaced by an impeccably dressed full-figured female with graceful curves.
He appreciated the changes. A smile of satisfaction curved his lips.
She wasn’t the only one who’d changed.
Ten minutes later, a door chime inside the reception area signaled Sam’s arrival.
“Good morning, sir. May I help you?” The young blonde, college intern written all over her fresh face, glanced up from her textbook.
He drummed his fingers on the counter before her. “The name’s Kennesaw. I have an appointment with Mr. Latimer regarding the Miriam Elliott estate.”
The girl’s eyes lit up with interest. “I’ll see if they’re ready for you, Mr. Kennesaw.” She stood, smoothed her hands over her cashmere sweater and disappeared down the hallway.
He removed the dark shades and caught sight of his image in the beveled glass behind the reception desk. His departure from Houston had been rushed, allowing no time for a manicure or close shave. Not that anyone in this small-minded town would expect it.
With one glance at his shaggy hair they’d cluck their tongues and judge him a failure, no better than a latter-day hippie. Now, with a like-I-care smirk at the mirror, he ran the fingers of both hands through his thick mop, ruffling the curls free from the effects of his helmet.
Around his neck on a braided cord hung expensive eyewear, in stark contrast to his old T-shirt and frayed jeans. He’d intentionally chosen a well-worn shirt with the phrase Don’t Mess with Texas emblazoned across the chest.
“Mr. Kennesaw?” The intern was back. “Mr. Latimer will see you now.”
Sam had more important places to be and, beyond mild curiosity, he really didn’t care about the reason for today’s meeting. But the shock value of this unexpected encounter would make the trip worth his time.
“What do you mean, show Mr. Kennesaw in? I thought today’s meeting was only for the two of us.” Tara gripped the arms of her chair and pushed herself halfway to a standing position. Her gaze darted around the room seeking any avenue of escape other than the door that stood as the only barrier between Tara and her past.
“I’m sorry to startle you like this, Miss Elliott, but your grandmother’s will gives very specific instructions about Mr. Kennesaw.” Sympathy filled his brown eyes. “I feared you might be upset.”
Tara’s heart pounded at the mention of her former teacher’s name. Knowing the object of her lifelong dreams stood a few feet away threatened to send her into a panic. She relaxed with effort into the leather chair and brushed nonexistent lint from the lap of her silk suit.
“I admit I’d have preferred some advance notice, but I’m far from upset.” Aware her smile was probably unconvincing, she lifted her chin.
The door creaked open behind her, and the attorney rose. She stared at the opposite wall and occupied herself with a sip of water.
“Good morning, Mr. Kennesaw.” Wade Latimer extended his hand graciously. “We spoke on the phone. It’s so good of you to come on such short notice.”
As the two men clasped right hands in her peripheral vision, a breath caught in her throat at the sight of a bare, muscular arm.
“Well, it was the least I could do to repay Miss Elliott for her kindness all those years ago, don’t you reckon?” Sam’s question dripped with icy sarcasm.
Unsure whether the mocking words were directed at her or at the memory of her grandmother, Tara glanced toward the voice for confirmation.
“Ms. Elliott, Mr. Kennesaw, I don’t believe introductions are necessary,” the lawyer stated the obvious.
Sam’s head jerked a curt acknowledgement.
She locked eyes with a virtual stranger.
He’s changed, she thought with relief. Thank goodness.
She would melt on the spot if the kind, gray eyes that haunted her sleep even now had stared back. Instead, she felt his cold, steely gaze wander across her face. Not to be outdone, she returned the once-over.
As a twenty-five-year-old teaching assistant, he’d been thin and studious. He’d worn the required button-down collar shirt and geeky horn-rimmed glasses that made him all the more endearing to his female students.
All these years later, he had a shape honed by physical labor. A man’s body. The long legs were trim, his shoulders and torso well developed beneath the dingy T-shirt. The pale hand that had once offered a jaunty salute at the end of each class was now work-roughened, fingertips and short nails darkly stained.
More striking than any other changes were the deep tan and five o’clock shadow that gave him a bad-boy look. Even in worn-out clothes, Sam carried an air of distinction thanks to the gray flecks in his loose roguish curls.
“Have a seat, please.” Latimer gestured toward a chair, took his own behind the cherry desk, then turned to face Tara.
“As you well know, the value of your grandmother’s property holdings in Beardsly was once considerable. However, in recent years, she made significant donations to charitable institutions, which lessened her overall holdings. I have them itemized for you here.” He handed a sheet of figures across the desk.
Tara scanned the list, unable to prevent her eyes from bulging at the scandalous amount of money her grandmother had given away. Other than the century-old house on Sycamore and its well-known collection of antiques, there couldn’t be much left.
“Were you her attorney of record when she made these contributions?” Tara hadn’t counted on an inheritance from the grandmother who had taken her in at three when her own mother had died of breast cancer. However, having her only relative give away a fortune to strangers was deflating.
“Yes, but Miss Elliott was quite capable of making these decisions. Her mind was sharper than mine, right up to the end. Do you have reason to question her?”
“No.” Embarrassed, she glanced at her watch. “Let’s move on, please. I have a conference call with my New York office in an hour.”
The lawyer cleared his throat and squinted at Sam Kennesaw. She followed his gaze. Sam slouched in the burgundy leather chair, fingers laced across his abdomen, an arrogant air of detached interest on his face.
“In that case, I’ll get right to the most important portion of Miss Elliott’s will.” Wade Latimer perched wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his Roman nose.
As regards the disposition of my remaining holdings: I bequeath the contents of my home to my beloved grandchild, Tara Elliott, to dispose of as she chooses. Furthermore, Tara may occupy Sycamore House for as long as she accepts all terms of my will.
Concerning my first and favorite commercial property, the Elliott Building, it is my wish to leave this ten-thousand-square-foot structure to be co-owned, co-managed, and co-maintained by Tara Elliott and Samuel Kennesaw.”
Tara sputtered on a sip of water and choked behind her hand.
Sam