Christmas Star (Contemporary, Romance) by Roz Denny Fox Page A

curled to reveal teeth yellowed by too many cigarettes. “He vouched for Starr Lederman, who is a rich spoiled brat. Do-gooders like her are the worst. Gung ho when it enhances their image. Then, like old toys, their projects are dropped when they tire of being charitable.”
    Clay rubbed his neck. “She sounded pretty sincere a moment ago.”
    “A lot you know,” Wanda said smugly. “I lived in a series of foster homes when I was growing up. One of my foster sisters could have been Starr Lederman’s twin. I wasn’t fit to wipe her boots. Oh, the whole family patted me on the head and threw me crumbs to show their rich friends how benevolent they were. Poor little Wanda—saved from the evils of the streets. But never quite good enough to be in their social circle. Sincere, Mr. McLeod? I doubt it. There’s a well-defined limit to the good works of the wealthy.”
    Suddenly, as if realizing she might have said too much, Wanda pressed her lips into a disapproving line and changed the subject. “Actually, Mr. McLeod, you’ve hit on something that’s always puzzled me—why a man as well connected as the senator would choose to involve himself in the nitty-gritty of this case.”
    “Would the girl’s birth certificate shed any light?”
    “Perhaps.” Her fingers toyed with a pencil. “Except that Judge Forbes ordered the records sealed.”
    Clay arched a brow. “What exactly does ‘sealed’ mean, Mrs. Manning?”
    “It means no one has access. Oh, SeLi can petition to see them when she turns eighteen, but no one else.”
    “That’s it? There’s no other reason to un seal them?”
    “Sometimes in a rare instance. If an adoptee should need an organ transplant or has severe psychiatric problems—those types of things.”
    “Well, I guess that’s that.” Clay was almost relieved by the news.
    “Maybe not.” Wanda Manning stood up as her receptionist came back into the room. “I believe it’s in SeLi’s best interests to stop this adoption. A biological father is one way. Perhaps I can find your answer.”
    Clay didn’t like the gleam in her eye. But he’d read the professional certificates displayed on her wall. She wasn’t a novice in this business.
    “Where can you be reached?” she asked, thrusting a pad and pen at him.
    Clay hesitated briefly, then reached for his wallet. “I have a business card with the phone number of my ranch. I’m staying here in San Francisco temporarily, but I’m due to auction some bulls before Christmas and I’ll be spending the holiday down there. How long do you think it’ll take?”
    “I’m not sure,” she murmured. “Maybe two or three weeks.”
    “Then this card should do it. I have an answering machine here, but I wouldn’t want a message to fall into the wrong hands.” He was thinking of Vanessa. “If you call and I’m not there, leave a number.”
    “No need to mention confidentiality. I understand.” She took his card, then looked at him curiously. He was thumbing rapidly through the photo windows in his wallet. “Is something wrong, Mr. McLeod? Have you lost something?”
    “What?” Clay looked up.
    “I said, have you lost something?”
    “A couple of family pictures,” he muttered. Seeing her interest, he returned the wallet to his back pocket. “It’s nothing,” he said. “I assume this concludes our visit.” Clay stepped into her office and took his hat from a brass rack. He came out and offered his hand. The fingers clasping his in return were bony and cold. It was all Clay could do to keep from snatching his card back and hightailing it out of there.
    He didn’t. He withdrew his hand and walked to the door.
    “A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. McLeod.”
    Even her voice grated on his nerves. And the discomfort, the sense of being soiled, remained with him after he’d placed the solid barrier of the door between them.
    As he clattered down the winding staircase of the old building, the noise of his footsteps helped rid