Free The Marrying Kind by Sharon Ihle Page B

possessed—grit enough to choke a full-grown horse—and strode right up to the magnate's expansive desk without waiting for a proper introduction.
    "It's, ah, Mr. William Donovan to see you, sir," the secretary said, stumbling over the words.
    While his sharp-eyed gaze never left Donovan's face, Savage waved the young woman away. "Thanks, Grace." Then he reached out and shook Donovan's hand, scrutinizing him as he waited for the secretary to close the door behind her. Once she was gone, he finally addressed Donovan.
    "Please," he said, his voice pleasant but firm, as he lowered himself onto his plush, barrel-shaped chair. "Have a seat."
    "Don't mind if I do."
    Donovan chose one of the three walnut and black leather chairs across from the man's desk, set the satchel on the floor beside him, then took another really good look at the man. Savage wasn't at all the way he'd pictured him; in fact, he was quite the opposite. Judging from Andrew's age, his father had to be close to fifty, but the publisher didn't look one hell of a lot older than Donovan. What Donovan could see of Savage's physique appeared to be trim and fit, and he still had a full head of coal-black hair, which was merely sprayed at the temples with gray, rather than streaked clear through. Even his eyes, clear blue in color, were as keen as any young sharper's Donovan had come across.
    R. T. smiled as Donovan perused him, and said, "I wasn't sure when I saw the name if it'd really be you, but from what I can see, I'd have to say that it is. What made you come looking for me?"
    This odd remark startled Donovan, making him feel like he was playing a game of draw poker, blindfolded. Savage almost sounded as if he'd already received information about his dead son. Before Donovan could draw any conclusions, R. T. asked yet another bizarre question, adding to Donovan's general confusion.
    "Did your mother have a hand in this, or does she even know you've come to see me?"
    What the hell did his mother have to do with this? Was the man baiting him for some reason, trying to make him feel like a kid in need of parental permission? Donovan tried to draw on his anger, but the hairs at his neck grew stiff with foreboding. "My mother doesn't have a damn thing to do with our business. I've come to see you about one of your sons."
    "I guessed as much—or haven't you figured that out." Savage sighed as he reached for a solid gold nail file lying beside his thick felt ink pad. "May I call you William, or are you still known as Willy?"
    Still known as Willy? Along with that peculiar statement, something in the man's voice tickled Donovan's memory. Had they met before? Fighting the anger along with his confusion now, he muttered, "I never go by'William or Willy. I'm just plain Donovan."
    "I'll remember that." Savage smiled at him again, the expression warmer, more familiar than ever. His eyes twinkling as he drove the file under the already immaculately groomed nail of his left index finger, R. T. went on with his strange conversation. "Why have you come to me after all these years? Do you need money or a job?"
    "Why the hell would you think a thing like that?"
    "I didn't mean to offend you." R. T. made a fast examination of Donovan's suit. "You look as if you're doing all right. If not for money or a job, are you thinking of staking your claim to the Savage family name?"
    Donovan leaped out of his chair. "My claim to the... family name? What the hell are you talking about?"
    "I thought..." Savage cocked his head, losing just a little of his cool confidence. "Just exactly what is it you want from me... Son?"

 
     
     
    Chapter 5

     
    In far less time than she would have expected, Libby heard the wide double doors at the end of the hall crash open against the walls. Reaching into the cute little lace-edged bag Donovan had insisted on buying for her, she grabbed her spectacles and brought them to her nose in time to see him barreling down the hallway toward her. His expression