Windswept (27 page)

“Milt’s a retired banker,” Davis told her before Sandra could speak. “He and his late wife were with me at the beginning of Jamison Investments. Without his help, I wouldn’t have gotten off the ground.” He looked back at the older man. “Barrett’s a history professor and is cataloging my family’s papers for me, Milt. I’m glad you could come tonight. It’s been too long since we saw each other. You’re looking good. How are you doing?”

As he talked, Davis slid their clasped hands behind her back and pulled her closer. Barrett relaxed a bit as she felt some of his tension drain away. She concentrated on Milt and pretended Sandra didn’t exist.

“Oh, not too bad,” Milt said vaguely as his gaze moved back and forth between Barrett and Sandra and noted the half embrace between Davis and Barrett. Barrett could see the moment he realized the awkward situation he’d caused. “Uh, Davis, I hope I didn’t overstep any bounds bringing Sandra to the party . . .”

“No, of course not, Milt,” Davis said. “I know some of your old friends here will be as happy to see you as I am. The Kramers are over by the fireplace, and the Turnbulls are outside on the patio. Help yourself to a drink and go talk to them. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Right. Good idea,” Milt agreed and turned to Barrett. “It was nice to meet you, ma’am.” Then with a “Come on, Sandra,” he practically dragged the woman toward the bar.

Her reception evidently not what she had expected, Sandra went without a word,. She only flashed a viperous glance at Barrett, who turned her back, the better to ignore the malicious bitch.

“I wouldn’t have thrown her out,” Davis said in a low voice. “I wouldn’t embarrass Milt. She knows that, which is probably why she inveigled him into bringing her. I do appreciate your defusing the situation, but I really didn’t need help in handling her.”

“I know,” she replied, “and I may not be a military historian, but I also know it always helps to have reinforcements after a surprise attack.” She glanced beyond Davis back toward the living room. “Speaking of reinforcements . . .” She gestured toward Martha and Bill who were standing just down the steps looking like the cavalry about to charge.

Martha and Bill nodded at Davis and walked away toward the patio.

“Looks like all of us have your back,” Barrett told him.

“That’s nice to know,” Davis murmured.

He gazed down at Barrett. He felt a little stunned. What a woman she was, coming to his “rescue” like she did. He’d never had such support before, someone stepping forward to take part of a burden, social or otherwise, even from his family. When Sandra had pawed him, he’d felt his skin crawl. He’d had no idea how to get rid of her without hurting Milt. Then Barrett took over, declared without being obvious he was hers, not Sandra’s. Milt, no slouch, had picked up the hint and the awkwardness of Sandra’s presence immediately.

Sandra, for once, had the sense to keep her mouth shut. After all, what could she say? Barrett was being perfectly hospitable. Sandra must have realized throwing a fit here would put her on several society blacklists, not because it would embarrass him, but because everybody loved Milt. She also must have realized Barrett was no pushover.

His “tame” historian was turning out to be not a harmless scholar at all, but more like a hit woman. She was certainly dressed to kill. When she had come down the stairs, all deep blue eyes, curvy body, long legs and curls, his breath had caught in his throat and his mind had gone blank as the blood in his body rushed south. It had taken him several long seconds to regain control--all the while wanting to sling her over his shoulder and climb the stairs to find the privacy of his bedroom.

Take it easy, he’d told himself. She’s not going home with anybody but you. He raised their still clasped hands, kissed her knuckles, and winked. “I’ll have to thank you properly later.”

Before she could reply, Gonzales opened the door to admit more guests, and Davis released her hand as they turned to greet the new arrivals, the two couples from the Wednesday dinner party. “We have a surprise for you two,” the man from Georgia announced. “Look who showed up on our doorstep this morning.” The couples parted to reveal a fifth member of their group, and Davis heard Barrett gasp. He shot a glance at her. She seemed frozen in place for a moment.

“Horace,” she said, almost under her breath. Then she plastered on a smile so false it looked like it might crack her face.

“Davis,” the client continued, “let me introduce Dr. Horace Glover. We met several years ago when he was kind enough to include two of my ancestors in his military histories. He heard we were in town and gave me a call. He’s a colleague of Barrett’s and I didn’t think you’d mind us bringing him along.”

“The professor and I have spoken on the phone,” Davis said, shaking Glover’s hand. “And no, I don’t mind your bringing him. There’s always room for one more. Welcome to my home, Dr. Glover.” He felt his teeth grind together as he said the words. So this was the snake--a reptile with a square jaw, trendy eyeglass frames, and a toothy smile.

“Thank you,” Horace boomed. “That’s true Southern hospitality. And Barrett, how are you, my dear?” He held out his hand and when Barrett took it, he pulled her to him and would have kissed her on the mouth if she hadn’t moved her head so quickly.

Davis felt rage ripple through him, but he put on his negotiating face as Barrett said something inconsequential and hurriedly stepped back. He put his hand on her waist, drew her into the curve of his arm, and gave her a surreptitious squeeze. Some of the stiffness went out of her spine, but she still didn’t say anything.

He saw other guests entering behind Glover. “Please make yourselves at home,” he told the clients, with a wave toward the bar and the food. “The other investors for the project we discussed on Wednesday are here, and I’ll introduce them just as soon as I welcome the people behind you.”

The five went toward the bar as Davis shook the hands of the latest arrivals and introduced them to Barrett. She seemed to be back on track as she smiled and bantered with a guest who made a fatuous comment about not having any teachers like her in school. He signaled to one of his associates who took the newcomers off his hands.

“Are you all right?” he asked Barrett as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“Yes,” she replied and opened her eyes again. “Seeing Horace here was just a surprise. He’s called me twice, asking to get a look at the papers. I told him no, of course, but I didn’t think he’d have the gall to show up without permission. He’s very sneaky. Nobody knows how he gathers his information, like knowing those people are your clients and are here in Houston, but some department members claim he has a network of spies--former students--all over the country. Whatever the truth, I’m certain he didn’t ‘just happen’ to drop in on your client by pure chance.” She ran her hand over her forehead as if to soothe a pain. “You’ve spoken to him before?”

“Yeah, he called me at the office the other day with an absurd claim that Granddaddy had ‘promised’ him a look at the papers. And no,” he continued when she jerked her alarmed gaze back to his, “Granddaddy never promised, and I refused him access.”

He glanced over her head and saw Bill and Martha heading their way. “I’ll handle Horace. You talk to the other Jamisons. Bill’s always good for a laugh. And don’t worry. I know just the people to sic on Glover to keep him occupied.”

“You mean the couple who’ve traced their ancestors back to the Stone Age?” Her eyes began to take on a mischievous twinkle. “The ones who claim kinship with the Lees of Virginia and English nobility and want to tell you all about every single member of the family?”

“Exactly. Now, go.” He gave her a little nudge toward the living room and went to join the clients with Glover. The man was pontificating about something and Davis could clearly hear him over the voices of his other guests. It didn’t take him long, however, to lure the professor into the genealogists’ web and see him safely ensnared.

Davis looked around for Barrett. She was engrossed with one of his favorite clients. Then he noticed Bill and Martha talking intently with Peggy Murphy and her husband. The foursome grinned at one another and split up, each heading to other groups. What was that all about? Davis shook his head. He didn’t have the time to find out. He first had to make sure his clients were talking with the entrepreneurs he’d invited them there to meet.

Chapter Nineteen

About an hour later, Davis stopped by the foot of the stairs to check with Gonzales about food and beverage supplies. After being assured no one would go hungry or thirsty, he stood for a moment surveying the crowd around the pool. He needed to circulate with those folks, now that it looked like there’d be no more arrivals. He stepped aside to let a woman pass and watched her walk toward the powder room between the office wing and the family room behind the kitchen.

As he turned back around, he frowned. What had he just seen? Something had been out of place or not quite correct. He faced the office wing again. Its door was slightly ajar. He knew he had closed but not locked the door. Too often at this party, someone asked for specific information or a private word, and he took them to the office, so he had not locked the wing. He had locked . . . only the conference room. Where the Windswept papers were.

He stalked down the hall, opened the door, and flicked the light switch. The sudden illumination revealed Professor Horace Glover standing in the opened conference room door with his hand on the knob--a knob from which a wire protruded.

“Can I help you, professor?” Davis asked in a calm, soft and--he hoped--deadly voice.

Glover whirled around, his eyes bugging out, his mouth open.

Davis shut the office wing door behind him and waited for Glover to speak. He watched several emotions--fear, anger, contempt--play across Horace’s face as the man decided what to say, how to explain himself.

“Well,” Glover finally said with a hint of phony embarrassment in his tone, “I guess you’ve caught me.” He held out his hands as if in supplication. “I plead temporary insanity. I couldn’t stand being in the same place with the fabled Windswept records and not sneak a peek at them. I throw myself on the mercy of the court and ask you to put me out of my misery and let me see them.”

Davis let ten seconds go by and watched the professor fidget before he asked, “Why should I break the conditions of the agreement I have with Dr. Browning?”

Glover drew himself up and said with what sounded like the utmost sincerity, “Because I can do a much better job of the inventory than she can.” He assumed a just-between-us-men manner and continued, “I have to tell you, Jamison, she’s out of her depth here. Way out of her area of expertise.”

“And I need experience like yours . . . or what will happen?”

“I’ve seen thousands, tens of thousands, of pages of primary source materials like your papers. I understand what I’m looking at. I doubt Barrett can say the same for her ‘women’s studies.’” He put a sneer into the last words. “Furthermore, I am a recognized authority. My name on the inventory will enhance the reputation of the papers, make them more valuable for you, gain you more and better publicity when you decide to donate or sell them. Scholars will know they can trust the inventory to be correct and complete.”

Putting answers in lists must be a professorial occupational hazard, Davis observed, but he kept his tone reasonable and resolute when he said, “Dr. Glover, the answer is still no.”

“Mark my words,” Horace said, his face beginning to flush as he pointed his finger at Davis, “you’re making a mistake. Letting a little no-talent, no-tenure nobody with a feminist ax to grind, with no conception of what makes good history, loose on your family records is to head straight for disaster. Especially if you let her use them to write articles or books. There’s no telling how she will twist the Jamison story to make your ancestors into something other than the heroes and fine people they were.”

Davis watched, fascinated at how Glover was working himself up. What a pompous ass! He thought about refuting the man’s words, but knew it would do no good. Arguing with Glover would be like arguing with Lloyd. Neither man would listen to any contrary opinions.

Glover kept talking, his voice falling into a conspiratorial tone as though he was imparting confidential information. “If she’s done to you what she’s done to me, led you on, dropped salacious hints, offered you false promises or ‘her charms’ for helping her gain a place in the field, beware. She’ll never deliver. I can promise you she’ll never be offered tenure, not at our university or any other, not with my influence against her. You should have heard what the professors said at the university where she received her doctorate. I think there’s something fishy about her work there also.”

Davis’s anger boiled up past indignation, past fury and reach the level of wrath, but he leaned back against the door and spoke softly and carefully. “What exactly are you claiming, Glover? Barrett is dishonest? Incompetent? Untrustworthy? A poor historian? A slut and a whore?” He shook his head in fake wonder.

“What do you take me for?” he asked. “Do you think I would let just anybody into my home or my family’s history? I had her thoroughly investigated. Everyone speaks extremely highly of Dr. Browning. Except for you. Isn’t it strange that you are the only person with such accusations, in fact, with any derogatory statements at all?

Letting some of his contempt show, he looked the professor up and down. “And isn’t it interesting that you, with all your supposed sterling reputation, should have broken into a locked room in my house, having wormed your way in by trading on an acquaintance with good and honorable clients of mine?”

Glover’s face darkened from pink to red. “Now, listen here . . .” he boomed, but stopped there, obviously searching for his next words.

Davis didn’t give him the chance for rebuttal. He stood straight again, his hand on the doorknob. “Let me suggest a scenario, Glover. Let’s say a certain professor tries to block the tenure appointment of another historian and uses false claims and spurious evidence to do so. Let’s say someone holds security recordings of this certain professor breaking into a room, a locked room holding records to which everyone knows he has already denied the professor access. Let’s say someone makes those tapes, which also record sound, by the way, available to the relevant authorities of the university.” He paused. Glover appeared too stunned to speak.