Chin-length black hair framed a heart-shaped face. Eyes, a soft brown, were surrounded by thick lashes and tanned skin stretched tautly over high, sculpted cheekbones. Her mouth was wide, full-lipped and set in a tentative smile.

“Katie,” she said, shifting her curious gaze to the petite redhead. The smile faded a little.

“Hi.” Katie seemed suddenly nervous.

“And Bliss.” Tiffany’s grin disappeared. “I wondered when you’d figure it out and be back.”

Bliss’s heart did a nosedive. Any warmth in Tiffany’s eyes had disappeared and there was a slight stiffening of her backbone. “I thought we should meet.”

“We did,” Tiffany replied.

“No. You met me. You didn’t give me your name.”

“You didn’t bother to ask.”

“I know, I didn’t think of it.”

“Because you were anxious to find your ‘friend’ Mason.”

Boy, this woman had a wicked tongue. Bliss gave herself a swift mental kick for agreeing to Katie’s screwball plan. The least they could have done was given Tiffany the courtesy of a telephone call.

“Can we come in?” Katie acted as if she didn’t sense any of the nuances of the conversation, as if she didn’t feel the tension simmering between her half-sisters. But it was there, evident in Tiffany’s cool stare and frosty demeanor.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Bliss added, half hoping she’d refuse them and this ordeal would be over. So Tiffany didn’t like her. Big deal.

“Sure. Why not?” Tiffany’s voice had all the warmth of the inside of an igloo.

A million reasons why not, Bliss thought, but pressed on.

Guardedly, the eldest of John Cawthorne’s three daughters stepped out of the doorway and allowed them both to pass. Katie, as if she knew the place, took a right into an old parlor with gleaming hardwood floors covered partially by a floral-print carpet and wing chairs. A small camelback sofa was set in front of a marble fireplace and cushions covered the bench seats of two bay windows.

“I didn’t expect company,” Tiffany explained.

“Mommy? Who is it?” a small voice called from the second floor.

“Ms. Kinkaid—you don’t know her, honey. She’s here with a . . . a friend.”

A flurry of footsteps heralded the entrance of Christina. Her eyes were wide like her mother’s and her black hair shone nearly blue as she careened into the room. Tiffany’s harsh countenance softened a bit. “I think you’ve both met my daughter.”

The smiling cherub flung herself into her mother’s waiting arms, but she eyed Bliss with unveiled suspicion, much as her mother did.

“Well, uh, wow, this is awkward, isn’t it? Where are my manners? Please”—Tiffany waved toward the chairs—“have a seat. Can I . . . offer you something to drink?”