A Score to Settle (9 page)

Having spent so much time with her lately, both physically and in his mind, he felt strangely close to her. But close enough for his arguably inappropriate physical contact?

Jillian met him in the sunny breakfast room, a large, glass-walled enclosure filled with plants. The floor had been crafted from antique Mexican tiles. The room always felt good to him, warm and cheerful.

Jillian looked a crisp, wintry contrast in ice-blue wool and cashmere.

“Daniel, what’s going on? A power surge?”

“A TV in the blue guest room fell in the bath. Almost fried Jamie McNair to a crisp. Jillian, I want you to call the company that installed those TVs—”

“Wait. Jamie McNair is…here?” Her face turned icy, like her outfit.

“She had car trouble last night. Seemed easier to just let her stay over.”

“Car trouble. And then she almost died from a TV in the bath? And you don’t see through her act?”

“Jillian,” he said sternly.

“Daniel.” She lowered her voice, too. “I know you think this woman is the cat’s pajamas, but have you gone crazy? She probably sabotaged her own car, then rigged the TV to fall in the water. Think about it. Those TVs don’t just fall off the walls.”

“This one did. And you’re wrong to insinuate that Jamie is to blame.” Although, now that he thought about it, it was odd that he hadn’t immediately suspected some nefarious plot on Jamie’s part.

She could have easily disconnected a battery cable on her car. But if she did, it would be on his security video. What if she’d instigated some plan to blame him for her near-death, to distract him enough that he would be forced to give up the Christopher Gables case?

“You see it now, don’t you?” Jillian said, a note of triumph in her voice.

He refused to give Jillian the point. “Just make the call. I’ll deal with Jamie. And let Tucker outside, please.”

As Jillian stalked out of the room, dragging a reluctant Tucker by the collar, he picked up the phone and pushed the button that would instantly connect him to his on-site security office. “Doug?”

“Brandon, sir.”

“Oh, right. I need you to review some video. I had a guest arrive last night in a blue Subaru. Check the video from the driveway cam and see if she opened the hood of her car when she got out, or if she came straight to the front door. Then check to see if anyone tampered with the car while she was inside,” he added as an afterthought.

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me know ASAP.”

There. He’d done his due diligence, and he would be pleased to prove Jillian wrong.

Why wasn’t he more suspicious of Jamie? But the thought that she might have a malicious agenda hadn’t crossed his mind until…well, frankly, until Jillian brought up the possibility.

Then, a terrible thought occurred to him. What if
Jillian
was somehow responsible? Jamie claimed his personal assistant was in love with him. What if she was jealous of Jamie and wanted to get rid of her somehow?

No. In the first place, he couldn’t see her putting her hands into a car engine, or doing a complex sabotage of a TV. He knew Jillian. She could be stubborn, and she liked things a certain way, but she wasn’t devious, and no way was she homicidal.

This was just a series of unfortunate accidents, nothing more.

“I ought to. A prosecutor’s salary couldn’t begin to pay for this suit. But I’m grateful for it. I’ll have everything cleaned and returned to you as soon as possible.”

He waved away her concerns. “Keep it. It looks good on you.”

“I’m not allowed to accept gifts from constituents. I’ll have a hard enough time explaining why I’m wearing such an expensive suit.”

It definitely was a nice suit. He recognized the quality, but would her coworkers? He didn’t think so.

Cora brought in a cart with their breakfast choices—eggs, toast, bacon and sausage, fresh fruit and yogurt, and his favorite Kona coffee.

Jamie eyed the choices with a troubled expression. “I don’t usually eat breakfast.”

“Now that is a terrible mistake.”

“I’ve always heard you shouldn’t skip it, but then I get to running late…” She chose fruit, yogurt and one slice of whole-wheat toast, dry.

He put an almost identical choice on his plate. “Have you made a decision about tomorrow?”

“Yes. After putting in all this preparation, I want to go to Wichita Falls. I’ll take a personal day.”

“Good.” A wave of pleasure washed over him at the knowledge he would likely spend the whole day with Jamie. But then he remembered exactly where they were going, and his pleasure diminished. When he’d walked out of the Conklin Unit six years ago, he never in a million years imagined he would ever willingly return, even as a visitor.

“I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow morning.”

His phone rang, and Jamie nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Brandon?”

“Yes, sir. The subject came straight to the front door, and no one got near the car.”

Daniel’s spirits lifted, as if a lead weight had been lifted from his stomach. “Thank God.”

“Pardon?”

“Thank you, Brandon.”

Some of her associates, however, took a keen interest in clothing. She hadn’t been at the office ten minutes before someone asked her where she’d gotten the Tonio Cucci suit and how she’d been able to afford it.

She hadn’t dared mention Daniel. Put on the spot, she’d finally choked out something about borrowing it from a friend. Then, first chance she got, she performed a Google search on Tonio Cucci and discovered her suit retailed for over a thousand dollars.

Daniel bought thousand-dollar ladies’ suits to hang randomly in his guest-room closets, on the off chance some female guest would need such a thing?

The depth of his wealth once again boggled her mind. She might go as far as putting a new toothbrush in her guest room, not that she often had sleepover guests. But a selection of designer outfits in various sizes for every occasion…no.

That was crazy.

Last night, she’d started to feel something kind of warm and squiggly inside of her whenever Daniel innocently touched her arm or her shoulder, or when he became passionate about a point he was trying to make, and even when he alluded to the trial that convicted him.

She’d stopped thinking of him as a convicted murderer who’d gotten out on a technicality, and started thinking of him as a man, one with whom she actually had things in common. Someone she could talk to and never run out of conversation. Someone who challenged her on every level.

Yes, all right, she might have even spun a little romantic fantasy about him. That they could somehow become…involved. That once they’d finished with this Christopher Gables thing, they could watch a movie together or…or…

Play polo?

C’mon, Jamie.
He was so far out of her league, operating in a completely different universe than she did, and the suit proved it. Once they were done with Chris Gables, they would have nothing else in common.

And, more to the point, once they were done, one of them was likely to be very disappointed in the outcome. If Project Justice freed Gables, she would feel that the system had failed. And if she succeeded in tying Christopher to the Andreas Musto murder, Daniel wasn’t just going to be disappointed, he was going to feel a whole range of emotions.

It was almost seven. Jamie quickly made a decision, grabbing a pair of loose black pants with a rather boxy jacket, a high-necked blouse and low heels. Early in her career, she’d once made the mistake of wearing a skirt to a prison. When she’d had to walk past the exercise yard she’d heard so many catcalls, wolf whistles and disgusting suggestions she’d wanted to run away and take a bath.

She caught herself wondering what Daniel would think of her choice, then censored herself. Did she want to be like one of those pathetic women who sent Daniel love letters and stood outside the gate to his home, hoping for a glimpse of him?

She grabbed her briefcase and tape recorder, then at the last minute, a coat, because Wichita Falls was farther north and it might actually be cold there in November.

As she stepped out onto the porch of her town house, a gorgeous black Bentley—not the limo—pulled up in front. How many luxury cars did Daniel own?

As luck would have it, her neighbor Frances was just coming out to get her paper. She stopped and gawked at the Bentley.

Jamie groaned inwardly. Why couldn’t he have sent a normal car? Why did everything with Daniel have to be a grand gesture?

“Is that gorgeous vehicle for you?” Frances asked in awe.

“Um, yeah.” How did she explain this? “I’m doing some pro bono work for a charitable foundation. The car belongs to the man who runs it.” That was all true.

“I’m gonna start volunteering more,” Frances said wistfully.

Jamie didn’t have time to worry about what Frances thought. The driver, a muscular man in a uniform, had just gotten out and was coming around to open her car door.

“Good morning, Ms. McNair,” the man said with a friendly smile. “I’m Randall, your driver.”

“I’d be more comfortable riding in the front.” She wasn’t the type of woman who rode in the backseat like some pampered princess.

“If that’s your preference,” Randall said, and opened the door for her.

“I can open my own doors, you know.”

“Yes, you look very strong to me,” Randall said with a perfectly straight face. “But opening your door is my job. You don’t want to get me fired, do you?”

She rolled her eyes and got in.

Randall was fast on his feet, and moments later he was behind the wheel and putting the big vehicle in motion, whistling a little tune.

“How long have you worked for Daniel?” she asked.

“Oh, a long time. Since his college days.”

“Is he nice to work for?”

“The best, ma’am. His daddy, too. The Logans are good people. Most of the senior staff has been around since before the, um, incident.”

“Since before Daniel’s arrest.”

“Yes. Even though I was no longer needed to drive Daniel around or protect him, Mr. Logan, Sr., kept me on, found other duties for me. He was always sure Daniel was coming home. Everybody felt that way. We all knew he couldn’t have done what they said, that it was just a terrible mistake.”

“Eventually, you were proven right.” About him coming home, at least. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Are we going to Intercontinental or Hobby?” Jamie asked. She hadn’t thought to find out which airport they were using.

“Neither. Mr. Logan keeps his plane at a private airport just north of town.”

“His… He has a plane?”

“It belongs to Logan Oil, but Daniel can use it anytime he needs.”

“Does he, um, fly it himself?”

“He has a pilot’s license, and he used to fly the Piper Cub quite a bit. But he doesn’t fly jets.”

Jets. They were flying a private jet to Wichita Falls.

She couldn’t help herself. She felt a little thrill wiggle up her spine at the idea that she, Jamie McNair, the poor girl in the thrift-store clothes who never had enough money to go to the movies with her friends, was in a Bentley, on her way to a private airport, so that she could ride in a private jet with an oil billionaire.

She couldn’t even tell anyone!

Once she had resolved Christopher’s guilt or innocence, she might be forced to go public with her Project Justice work. Until then, she didn’t want anyone to know, not if she wanted to keep earning a paycheck.

What she was doing wasn’t unethical. She’d taken a personal day, and she hadn’t specified what she would be doing. But Chubb would flip his wig if he found out she had not severed herself from Daniel and his problematic quest for justice.

The small airport was just outside town, and Randall drove the limo right up to the runway, where a sleek, gleaming jet with the Logan Oil logo on the side sat waiting.

“Let me get the door,” Randall said, and for some reason, she let him. She could play the princess for a short while. No one was here but Daniel’s own people, and she gathered they were discreet or he wouldn’t allow them near.

The hatch was already open, providing steps into the cabin. Randall walked her the few feet toward the stairs, then followed her as she ascended, ducked her head and entered the aircraft.

Good night.

The cabin smelled of new carpeting and leather, and it looked less like an aircraft and more like the living room of a luxury home. Sofas and chairs upholstered in buttery suede were arranged here and there around tables of various sizes that were antique mahogany, or at least disguised to look that way. The furniture, of course, was bolted to the floor—the only concession to aircraft decor. Expensive-looking curtains hung over the windows.

Finally, Jamie’s gaze zeroed in on Daniel, who sat in the center of it all like king of all he surveyed.

He stood to greet her. “Nice day for flying.”

Her mouth automatically went dry. She’d thought her borrowed suit was nice, but the one he was wearing…it was just wool and thread and buttons, but somehow it made him look like the billionaire he was.

“So tell me again why we couldn’t just take a commercial flight?”

“Because I don’t fly common carriers,” he said easily, though something in his eyes told her he was uncomfortable with her question. “It’s a security issue. Because of my position with Logan Oil, my life is insured for an unusually large sum, and my insurance company has certain mandates about how I travel.”

“But statistically a private plane is less safe than a commercial jet,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but my plane doesn’t allow any nutcases on board. There are lots of people who don’t like me. Disgruntled former employees, antioil fanatics and a host of people who don’t like the work of Project Justice. Trust me, a private plane is safer—not to mention more comfortable. Have a seat.”

“Anywhere?”

“Anywhere you like. No assigned seating on Logan Air.”

She chose a love-seat-size sofa at random, still amazed that this living room would soon be airborne.

“Good morning, Randall,” Daniel greeted his chauffeur.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Randall’s coming with us?” Jamie asked.

“In addition to being a fantastic chauffeur, Randall is the best bodyguard in the world. He’s former Secret Service on the presidential detail. I figure if the president trusted him, that’s good enough for me.”

Jamie eyed Randall curiously from the corner of her eye. He looked ordinary enough, harmless even, with his cherubic face and eyes full of humor.

But she knew appearances could be deceiving. She had prosecuted murderers who looked like innocent kids who shouldn’t even be shaving yet, much less killing someone.

“I’m sure you’ll be interested to hear that I’ve solved the mystery of the falling TV. The company that originally installed it rushed out when I told them of the accident. Apparently, the cement they used hadn’t cured properly, and they took complete responsibility. So rare these days. They’ll be sending you a letter of apology and offering you a free TV.”

“Really. You’re not going to sue them?”

“Are you?” he countered.

She shook her head. “Despite my profession, I’m not the litigious kind. I spend enough hours in the courtroom.”

“I hope to never see the inside of another courtroom as long as I live.”

The jet was under way quickly, and Cora—the nice woman who had served them breakfast yesterday—brought out coffee and a tray of fresh Danishes.

Since Jamie had skipped breakfast, she availed herself of the refreshments, which she knew would be excellent. But Daniel, for the first time since she’d met him, didn’t seem interested in eating.

“Have you had breakfast already?” she asked.

“What? Oh. Um, no, but I can’t eat right now.”

“You wouldn’t let me get away with that. You’d give me a speech about how we need to fuel our bodies for the tough work ahead.”

“Yeah, well, that only applies if you don’t have a thousand hyperactive gremlins in your stomach.”

She immediately felt contrite for ribbing him. “Oh, Daniel, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to tease a man when he’s not feeling well. Are you a nervous flier?” No, that couldn’t be it. He had a pilot’s license.

“Today I’m a nervous flier. Do you know this is the first time I’ve been out of Houston in three years?”

“Really? I would assume with this jet at your disposal, along with almost unlimited disposable income, you’d be jetting all over the place. I would.”

“You like to travel?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never done much of it. But if I had your resources…yes, I think I’d travel the world.”

“I’ve done my share of that,” Daniel said. The distraction of having a conversation seemed to relax him slightly. “But it gets old.”

“Traveling? Strange hotels, living out of a suitcase?”

“I don’t mind that so much. But it’s the spending money that gets old. I’ve always known that I would work, like my father, doing something I enjoyed, doing something that mattered to people.”

“Is that why you opened a restaurant?”

“That was a start. I thought providing high-quality food at a moderate price so everyone could afford it was a noble idea. I had a lot of ideas about things I wanted to accomplish, changes I wanted to make in the world with my money.”

“You are making a difference in the world,” she pointed out. “I’m a prosecutor and I’m supposed to hate you, but realistically, I know you do sometimes correct mistakes that people in my profession make.”

“So you don’t hate me?”

“Of course not. I’m still not convinced I’m wrong about Christopher Gables, but I’m keeping an open mind.”

“That’s a lot more than most D.A.s will do. You’re okay, Jamie McNair.”

She felt ridiculously pleased by his approval. Automatically, she wondered whether he was buttering her up for some kind of manipulation. But then she decided to just take the compliment at face value.