Her Sister's Secret (Mills & Boon Vintage Superromance) Read Online Free PDF Page B

a pretty good judge of age. Even if he’d done a lot of hard living and looked older than his chronological age, he had to have at least fifteen years on Morgan. Which would make him somewhere around thirty-five…minimum.
    And now, with his quick self-protective response, she sensed a chink in his armor. He didn’t like it when anyone inferred he wasn’t smart. Which wasn’t her intent, because so far, he’d been really nice. Yesterday he’d even helped her find a place to stay. Perhaps he wasn’t as devious as Morgan had said.
    On instinct, Whitney reached out, her fingertips grazing his forearm. “I only meant that the books may not have been distributed so far from New York.”
    Rhys looked at the hand still touching his arm; his eyes slowly moved upward until they locked with hers.
    “So you’re a famous author?”
    A smidgen of pride surfaced. She smiled up at him. “No. But I am known in some areas for my photography.” She dug in her leather backpack, found a business card and handed it to him.
    He eyed the card. “Another Annie Leibovitz?”
    “No—the only Whitney Sheffield,” she shot back, raising her chin in mock self-aggrandizement, hiding her surprise at his knowledge. Her name wasn’t as recognizable as her peer, but she did have her own unique style, which some people liked equally well, maybe even preferred.
    “Well, what can I do to help you, the only Whitney Sheffield?” He gave a dazzling white smile, and they laughed together, a guarded rapport settling between them as he resumed his stance leaning against the doorjamb. His gaze drifted beyond her to the front of the store.
    Whitney glanced in the same direction and saw two people dismounting a motorcycle. Rats! Just when she had him talking. Not wanting their conversation to be interrupted, she asked, “Can we go somewhere to talk?”
    “Sure,” he said, and before she knew it, he’d guided her by the arm through the office door. “Make yourself comfortable. This shouldn’t take long.” Exiting, he pulled the door, leaving it slightly ajar.
    She whirled around, looking from the large picture window opposite the door to a gold-framed poster from an art gallery in Chicago on her right, then to a similar poster on her left. A battered oak desk took up most of the tiny room.
    What the hell? Did he work here? Manage the store? Own the place? There was no one else around, so maybe the business was his front for selling drugs, just as she’d first suspected. But then why would he jeopardize his cover by bringing a stranger here?
    Or was he that sure of himself now because, with Morgan gone, there was no longer a threat? Morgan had said she’d never told Gannon much about her family, but Whitney just wished Morgan had given her more information about him.
    A knot of pain tightened in her chest. Did he even know Morgan was dead? Would he even care?
    Tears welled in her eyes. She blinked and quickly blotted out the thought. Good grief, what if he came in when she was all blubbery. If she didn’t get a grip, she’d never accomplish what she came here to do.
    She listened for voices, but the hum of conversation was too far away, so she edged closer to the desk. She craned her neck to read the upside-down writing on the papers—to no avail.
    Spotting a small bronze picture frame on her left, she reached for it, her stomach fluttering nervously. Just as her fingers touched metal, the door flew open. She yanked her hand back, nerves snapping like rubber bands.
    Rhys stood in the doorway.
    “Okay, that’s done,” he said as he barreled past her and rounded the desk. He motioned for her to sit, then dropped into a pockmarked brown leather office chair. His masculine presence loomed large in the room.
    “Have a seat,” he urged, then leaned back, obviously comfortable in his surroundings.
    Confused, she searched for words as she sat on the oak chair across from him. “What? What’s done?”
    “The customer. But with luck there’ll