Genuine Lies

correctness that had him detesting the man on sight.
    “Lincoln Hathoway,” he said, extending a manicured hand. “I’m here to see Julia.”
    It pleased Paul that his own palm was gritty with sand. “Paul Winthrop.”
    “Yes, I know.” Not that he recognized him from his book jackets. Lincoln didn’t have time to spare on popular fiction. But he’d had his secretary gather every clipping available on Julia from the last six months. He was aware of who Paul was, and his relationship with both victim and accused. “I’m pleased Julia has somewhere discreet to stay until we work this all out.”
    “Actually, I’ve been a bit more worried about her peace of mind than discretion.” He gestured Lincoln inside, deciding he would thoroughly enjoy detesting him. “Want a drink?”
    “Some mineral water with a twist would be fine, thank you.” Lincoln was a man who formed opinions quickly. It was often necessary to gauge a jury by little more than appearance and body language. He summed Paul up as wealthy, impatient, and suspicious, and wondered how he might use those qualities if the case went to trial. “Mr. Winthrop, how is Julia?”
    Suddenly the epitome of the aloof Brit, Paul turned and offered the glass. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”
    She was standing in the doorway, a lean, dark-eyed child tucked protectively under her arm. Ten years, Lincoln thought, had changed her. She no longer radiated enthusiasm and trust, but composure and caution. The fawn-colored hair that had once swung free was now swept back from a face that had fined down and become elegant.
    He looked at the boy, hardly aware that the four of them were standing, silent and tensed. He searched for some sign, some physical trait that would have run from him into the child he’d never seen, or wanted. That was human nature, and his own ego.
    But he saw nothing of himself in the slight-framed, tousel-haired child. And it relieved him, swept away the traces of guilt and apprehension that had snuck into him during the flight west. The boy was his—Lincoln had never doubted it—but was not his. His world, his family, his conscience were safe in that brief moment it took him to look, appraise, and reject.
    Julia saw it all—the way his gaze landed on Brandon, hovered fleetingly, then dismissed. Her arm tightened around her son to shield him from a blow he couldn’t have felt. Then relaxed. Her son was safe. Any lingering doubts that she should tell him his father’s name faded away. His father was dead, to both of them.
    “Lincoln.” Her voice was as cool and reserved as the nod of greeting she offered. “It was good of you to come so far so quickly.”
    “I’m only sorry about the circumstances.”
    “So am I.” Her hand slid over Brandon’s shoulder to rest at the tender nape of his neck. “Brandon, this is Mr. Hathoway. He’s a lawyer who used to work with Granddad a long time ago. He’s come out to help us.”
    “Hello.” Brandon saw a tall, stiff-looking man with shiny shoes and that dopey aren’t-you-a-big-boy expression some adults put on whenever they were introduced to a kid.
    “Hello, Brandon. I don’t want you to worry, we’re going to take care of everything.”
    He couldn’t stand it. In another moment Paul was certain he would deck the man for being so detached. “Come on, kid.” Paul held out a hand. Brandon took it willingly. “Let’s go upstairs and see what kind of trouble we can get into.”
    “Well then …” Lincoln took a seat, not even glancing around as Brandon clattered up the stairs. “Why don’t we get started?”
    “It really didn’t mean anything to you, did it?” she said quietly. “Seeing him didn’t mean a thing.”
    He lifted his fingers to the perfect Windsor knot in his tie. He’d been afraid she’d manufacture some sort of scene. Of course, he was prepared for it. “Julia, as I told you years ago, I can’t afford to entertain an emotional bond. I’m very, very grateful you were mature enough not to go to Elizabeth, regret you were too stubborn to accept any financial help I offered, and pleased that you’ve achieved the kind of success where you don’t require it. Naturally, I feel I owe you a great deal, and am deeply, deeply sorry that you find yourself in a position where you require my services.”
    She began to laugh—not the thin, edgy laugh of hysteria, but a full, rich chuckle that had Lincoln baffled. “I’m sorry,” she said as she dropped