Free Amanda by Kay Hooper Page B

newel post. She knew she was staring at Sully, but she didn’t really see him.
    “Very good, the perfect reaction of a loving granddaughter,” Sully observed in a sardonic tone. Then, a moment later and in quite a different voice, he said, “Hey, are you all right?”
    She blinked, seeing his sudden concern even as she became conscious of his large hand gripping her arm. Had she swayed on her feet? But the sudden and unexpected dizziness was passing now, and with an effort she was able to meet his eyes steadily. “Yes, thank you. I’m fine.”
    Sully released her arm and stepped back, still watching her critically. “You really didn’t know, did you?”
    “No.” She cleared her throat. “No, I really didn’t know.”
    “Well … sorry to break it to you like that, then.” Sully was abrupt, but seemed sincere. He hesitated, then said, “Jesse doesn’t like to talk about it, but it’s pretty clear he believes the doctors—this time. He’s been fighting this thing for more than two years now, and at first he thought he’d beat it. But not anymore.”
    “And the doctors say—?”
    “Six months, if he’s lucky. He might make it to Christmas, but nobody’s counting on that.”
    “I see.” She wanted to think about this, because it meant things were different, that time had become even more important than she’d realized, but her thoughts were confused and she couldn’t seem to make them come straight.
    Sully gazed at her for a moment, then looked briefly at his watch. “it’s after five. In case nobody told you, we usually gather in the front parlor before supper.”
    She had been told. And she wanted to change clothes first, to put on a dress or at least something less casual.
Armor, I wish it could he armor.
    Nodding, she turned back toward the hallway that led to the main house, with Sully on her left and both dogs pacing along silently on her right. And even though she didn’t see or sense the same fury in Sully that he’d exhibited earlier today, she had a hunch he was both more dangerous and a lot more complicated than the dogs could ever be.
    “What are you doing in here?”
    Amanda looked quickly toward the door of Jesse’s study to find Walker McLellan observing her narrowly. Caught by surprise, she said, “I came down theback stairs from my room and passed by … I hadn’t been in here yet.” I
sound guilty. Damn the man.
    “Jesse usually keeps this room locked,” Walker told her, his lazy voice still not overly warm. He came into the big, book-lined study and joined her before a marble-faced fireplace, where a large oil painting hung above the mantel.
    She was disturbingly aware of his nearness, and told herself firmly that it was only because he was less formal than she’d yet seen him, in an open-necked white shirt with the sleeves turned back casually, and dark slacks. No tie, no jacket. But the same unrevealing face and sharp green eyes, she reminded herself. The same suspicious lawyer.
    “I don’t think he’d mind me being in here,” she said, trying not to sound defensive.
    “No, probably not.”
    Avoiding his gaze, she turned her own back to the painting. Beautifully done and amazingly lifelike, it was a much-photographed portrait of Brian Daulton, his wife, Christine—and a wide-eyed and sweet-smiled three-year-old Amanda. The little brass plate on the bottom of the frame proclaimed that it had been painted in 1969.
    “I don’t look much like my mother,” Amanda said, determined to say it before he did.
    The woman in the portrait, dark-haired like Amanda, was obviously much taller—though she was very slender and delicate, almost fragile. Her flawless skin was tanned gold, which made her black-lashed, pale blue eyes appear even lighter and more striking, and her faintly smiling mouth was unusually lush, explicitly erotic.
    Christine Daulton was …
more
than Amanda knew herself to be. Of the three in the painting, aslifelike as all of them were, she stood out,