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.