A Score to Settle Read online

  “You can trust them. I don’t allow anyone to work on the estate who hasn’t been vetted six ways to Sunday. Jillian has been working for my family since before I was released from prison. Manuel’s father is the head gardener here—he was raised on the estate. And Claude—I’ve known Claude since high school. In fact, he was a part of my first restaurant venture right out of college.”

  Daniel lowered his voice. “It was a colossal failure, I’m afraid. That’s when I learned that a fancy business degree and a talented chef don’t add up to a successful restaurant.”

  “You owned a business that failed?” That surprised Jamie.

  “Most restaurants fail. We made a lot of bad calls. My dad could have bailed us out, but he wanted me to learn from my mistakes. Otherwise, I’d just keep making them.”

  “That must have been a painful lesson. I mean, your father was a legend in business. Was it hard to live up to that?”

  “Sometimes. He lived and breathed Logan Oil. I think he was disappointed when I wanted to go into the restaurant business, but he supported me. That’s what I remember about him the most. He let me make my own decisions and supported me, no matter what.

  “When I was arrested, he never once believed, even for a second, that I could have committed a violent crime.”

  Daniel’s face clouded over. “The strain of those years is what killed him. My mom, too.”

  Jamie couldn’t help but feel bad for a man who’d lost both of his parents just when he’d finally regained his freedom. “They both died within a year of your release…is that right?”

  “Yeah. Dad had a massive coronary. Mom had cancer—she was already sick by the time I came home. It wasn’t as happy a time as it might have been.”

  It struck Jamie suddenly that Daniel wasn’t a happy man. He put on a good show, but deep down, he must have been very lonely. Maybe all that money was a curse. Especially when he didn’t trust anyone, didn’t let anyone close unless they were “vetted,” as he put it.

  “Anyway, back to work.” Daniel seemed to shake off his melancholy. “I’ve set up a tentative appointment on Wednesday to meet with Christopher Gables. Unfortunately, it’s smack in the middle of the day. If you can’t make it, that’s unfortunate, but I’ll try to be flexible, given your new constraints.”

  “I could take a personal day off.” She was treading in dangerous territory. If Winston found out… But she was entitled to a day off once in a blue moon, right?

  THE UPCOMING VISIT to Christopher Gables became the focus of the evening. Though the work was somber in nature, Daniel actually enjoyed using his wits and collaborating with someone as bright as Jamie.

  She’d brought a transcript with her of Christopher’s original interrogation, which she’d already read and highlighted—she must have stayed up all night doing it. They picked apart various statements he’d made, making lists of follow-up questions and clarifications they wanted.

  Sometimes, though, Daniel found his focus drifting to Jamie’s hair, and how it fell across her cheek every time she looked down to read something. She would impatiently shove it behind her ear, only to have it fall again within a few minutes.

  He could smell her, too.

  In prison, he used to dream about the way women smelled. Whether it was baby powder, expensive perfume or flour and sugar and yeast, women smelled like nothing else in the world, and he’d sorely missed that olfactory stimulation when he’d been locked up.

  Then, one day, he couldn’t call it up in his imagination. Couldn’t fantasize about it as he lay in his bunk. And he’d felt a panic all out of proportion. His memories, his imagination, those were all he’d had in prison to comfort him. He’d been afraid of losing his ability to think at all. Afraid of going stark-raving mad.

  Was it Jamie’s skin that smelled like vanilla? Her hair? Did he detect a faint scent of lipstick?

  Would she taste as good as she smelled?

  “So here, he says he noticed the time he got home,” Jamie was saying, and Daniel snapped his attention back to her words. “Yet fifteen minutes later, he says he didn’t look at the clock and didn’t wear a watch. Why the discrepancy?”

  “Could be a number of things. He might have turned on the TV and noticed a particular show was starting. He might have noticed the time on his car clock right before coming in. He might have seen the time on a VCR or a coffeemaker or a microwave or even his cell phone. He might have seen how high the moon was—it was a full moon that night.”

  Jamie made notes. “I want to ask him.”

  “We’ll have limited time. Are you sure it’s relevant?”

  “It’s relevant because I can catch him lying.”

  They already knew Christopher was apt to make stuff up. Even if they did catch him in a lie, it wouldn’t necessarily speak to his guilt or innocence. But Daniel didn’t argue. He had Jamie on his side—sort of—and he didn’t want to blow it.

  “We have a psychologist on call—Claudia Ellison. Have you heard of her?”

  “Sure. She testifies as an expert witness all the time.”

  “She’s an expert on body language. She has watched video of Christopher Gables and feels certain he’s telling the truth—about the important stuff.”

  “I disagree. I remember thinking, when I watched the interrogation, that he was lying.”

  “But you had a vested interest in his guilt.”

  “Which is why I want to ask him certain questions.”

  “With an open mind?”

  “Yes, Daniel.”

  He sighed. “It’s after seven. Claude will have dinner on the table. Let’s take a break.”

  “Okay.” She picked up a stack of papers. “I can read you this part of the transcript—”

  He touched her hand and his awareness went off like a firecracker.

  “We need to give our minds a break, too. If we come back fresh after dinner, we’ll get more done.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me on this. I’ve studied the research. Working harder doesn’t necessarily mean working smarter.”

  She laughed. He loved the sound of her laughter, so rare and unexpected. “You sound like one of those inspirational speakers they bring in to professional development seminars.”

  “Busted. Once upon a time, I attended those types of seminars on a monthly basis. It was right after college, when I was intent on the success of my own business. I felt like a sponge, wanting to soak up every piece of advice anyone had to offer.”

  “Aren’t those seminars just gimmicks? Do they really help?”

  “If there’s one thing I took away from that part of my education,” he said as he stood, then went to pull out her chair for her, “it’s that the best thing you can do for any kind of challenging mental or physical activity is take care of your body.”

  “That’s easier to do when you have someone preparing your food.”

  “I’ll grant you that. But I didn’t always have Claude to cook for me. I lived on my own at one time.”

  “By yourself? No servants? No live-in administrative assistant?”

  “Hard as you find it to believe that, yes. Right after college I worked for Logan Oil in the marketing department, earned a paycheck, paid rent on a condo. Provided my own meals.”

  “Sounds like you lived pretty normally.”

  “Different from now, huh?”

  He took her hand—pretty, soft, with her natural fingernails painted in clear polish—and placed it firmly on his arm. His mother had taught him that when called to dinner, all ladies must be escorted to the table.

  She didn’t resist, but she smiled wryly. “Very courtly. Did they teach you that at finishing school?”

  “Girls go to finishing school. Boys take comportment classes.”

  “Did you really?”

  “In seventh grade I did. My mother was from Savannah, Georgia, and she insisted her only son have manners. I learned more from her, though, than any class.”

  Daniel led Jamie to t
he main dining room. Predictably, she gasped when she saw it.

  “Good night! You could give a dinner here and invite the entire Texas legislature. Where do you buy a table that big? They don’t sell them at the local IKEA.”

  Now it was his turn to laugh. “The table came from some castle in Spain.”

  “And the chandeliers?”

  He shrugged. “Not sure. My father wanted his house to be like the homes of the well-to-do in Great Britain and Europe. He was pretentious, I’ll admit it. My mother made it her job to hunt down furniture and carpets and chandeliers that would make him happy.”

  “I could easily believe I was in an ancient castle somewhere. But please tell me we won’t be sitting at opposite ends of the table. We’ll be shouting to hear each other.”

  She was probably just teasing, because clearly there were two places set at one end.

  But Jillian hadn’t used the good china, as he’d asked. He had wanted to create an oasis of comfort and beauty, so that for a few tranquil minutes they could forget about the grisly deaths they had immersed themselves in.

  The ordinary stoneware and stainless cutlery were what he usually ate with outside, on the patio, where it wouldn’t matter if they got broken or misplaced. And there was no tablecloth, only some brown cloth place mats.

  Jillian had certainly been acting strangely. Normally she followed his wishes to a T, sometimes anticipating his wants and needs before he even spoke them. Maybe Manuel or Cora had set the table, and there’d been a miscommunication somehow.

  “You’re frowning.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing.” If he made a big deal about their place settings, it would only add to Jamie’s opinion that he was a rich snob who didn’t occupy the same earthly plane as she did.

  He seated her on the side of the table, then grabbed a candelabra from the buffet and lit it, setting it nearby. Candlelight could make anything look better.

  “Do you always eat dinner here?”

  “Usually.” He spoke briefly into the phone, alerting the kitchen staff that they were ready, then took his own chair. “When my parents were alive, they always ate a formal dinner. And they dressed for dinner, too—my mother wouldn’t have dreamed of coming to the table without stockings and heels and proper jewelry.”

  “Daniel, I don’t mean this as criticism, but your life is about as strange as it gets. You spend your days in the Batcave, analyzing TV broadcasts and going over data your people send to you, and in the evening…this. You never leave the house.”

  “Not never,” he reminded her. “I did go downtown to see you.”

  “And you couldn’t exit your limousine. It’s not normal, even for someone with your wealth.”

  He didn’t argue with her, because she was only telling it like she saw it. He knew he wasn’t like most people. He preferred to think of it as living life on his own terms, something most people didn’t have the means to do.

  But Jamie thought he was weird.

  The realization disturbed him. He didn’t want her to see him that way. It shouldn’t matter; Jamie McNair was a means to an end. He was using her position and her fine brain to help him save a man’s life.

  But it was impossible to remember that when he saw Jamie not as an adversary or reluctant ally, but as a beautiful, vibrant woman he would very much like to invite into his bed.

  Romantic conquests had once come easily to him, and he told himself that his celibacy since prison was a choice. But the truth was, he hadn’t tried to woo any woman since he’d been granted his freedom. Despite his persistent prison fantasies of willing women and nonstop bedroom acrobatics, romance and sex had fallen way down on his priority list.

  His sex drive had chosen an inconvenient moment to wake up.

  Not now. For the first time, he believed he stood a chance of finding the man who’d framed him for the murder of his friend. Once he did, he fully intended to dispense justice his way. And Jamie, thoroughly disillusioned, wouldn’t find him at all attractive. She would try to put him behind bars.

  CHAPTER SIX

  JAMIE FORCED HERSELF TO RELAX. If a wealthy millionaire—some said billionaire—was determined to serve her another excellent meal, why should she argue? As he’d pointed out before, she had to eat.

  But this was like something out of a movie about the Tudors or the Bourbons. At least the dishes were ordinary, though the ornate porcelain candelabra looked as if it belonged in a museum somewhere.

  The door to the dining room opened, and a portly man in white entered pushing a cart filled with bowls and jars of mysterious ingredients. In his late thirties, he wore his blond hair very short. His face was flushed and jowly, and his tall chef’s hat didn’t quite disguise a receding hairline.

  “Claude.” Daniel sounded surprised. “What brings you out of the kitchen?”

  Ah, so this was the mysterious Claude who concocted the brilliant food.

  “I hear you have a guest,” Claude said, beaming. “So I wanted to make sure things were done right.” He looked over the table, then frowned. “Bah, what are those dishes?”

  “A misunderstanding,” Daniel said in a voice that indicated he didn’t want to pursue the issue. What was that about?

  “You can’t eat my beef tips à la Bourgogne on such common dishes. It’s heresy. I’ll have them replaced with—”

  “No, Claude, really, it’s not necessary,” Jamie interrupted. “We have a lot to get done tonight. These dishes are just fine.

  “My associate, Jamie McNair,” Daniel said by way of introduction. She supposed “associate” was as good a term as any.

  “It is very nice to meet you, Mademoiselle Jamie. I come to make a Caesar salad fresh for you.” He had a lovely French accent. “I apologize for the place setting. A beautiful lady such as yourself should only eat from the finest china.”

  Jamie found herself charmed. “It’s all right, believe me. I usually eat my dinner out of a paper microwave box, so this is an improvement.”

  Claude looked pained. “Microwave. Bah.”

  He proceeded to make a show of sharpening a knife, then mincing several cloves of garlic so quickly his fingers blurred. Eggs, anchovies, Worcestershire sauce, mustard, olive oil, all were tossed into the dressing mix with the grace of a circus juggler, and Jamie found herself relaxing. The troubles of the day—her conflict with Winston, her growing doubts about the Christopher Gables verdict—receded into the background as she once again allowed Daniel to delight her senses.

  She applauded as Claude served her salad and added grated Parmesan and freshly sautéed crispy croutons.

  The dinner was, as expected, incredible. The beef was so tender it didn’t need a knife, the flavors in the rice pilaf so delicate and aromatic she wanted to linger over it. Even the string beans—normally an uninspiring vegetable—were elevated to a new level just by virtue of their freshness and simple preparation.

  As Manuel cleared the table, Jillian made an appearance, dressed to the nines once again in form-fitting leather pants and a gauzy shirt, through which her black bra was clearly visible. She nodded at Jamie through slitted eyes, then turned her back and focused solely on her boss.

  “I’m working on the office holiday party, and I thought it might be nice to just have it here.”

  “Here?”

  “It’s not like we don’t have plenty of room for entertaining, and Claude could prepare the food. It would be cost-effective.”

  “I don’t care about—” He stopped himself, probably not wanting to admit in front of Jamie that he didn’t care about the cost. “Why don’t we have it at the Windsor Hotel, like always?”

  “They’re booked already. And we can’t change the date—we’ve already told everybody to save December 5.”

  And why was Jillian hitting him with this particular problem now, at 7:45 in the evening? Jamie wondered. It wasn’t as if she could do anything about the venue tonight. But Jamie was pretty sure she knew the answer.

  “Filling the house with pe
ople—it just can’t be done. The security, for one thing, would be a nightmare.”

  “Daniel, these are your people. Your handpicked employees. You don’t trust them?”

  “I trust them. But their spouses, their kids—”

  “We’ll put them through a metal detector,” Jillian said practically, and Jamie couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not. “Before and after the party, so they won’t be tempted to make off with the silver.”

  “Let me sleep on it. Jillian, really, I don’t have time for something so trivial. I’m working on a case.”

  “Oh. I thought you were having dinner.”

  “A working dinner. We’ll discuss this later.”

  Clearly she was being dismissed, and just as clearly, she didn’t like it. With one last hostile glance at Jamie, Jillian left.

  Dessert consisted of a thin slice of pound cake with fresh strawberries and whipped cream. Jamie longed to clean her plate, but an overfull stomach would only make her sleepy, and there was much more work to do.

  She took a couple of bites, barely refraining from moaning in gustatory pleasure, then pushed the plate aside.

  “No good?” Daniel asked just before forking a strawberry into his mouth.

  “No room. Daniel, are you aware that your administrative assistant is in love with you?”

  DANIEL STOPPED MIDCHEW, almost spewing a half-eaten strawberry across the table. “Excuse me?”

  “Jillian. She’s in love with you.”

  Daniel swallowed painfully and took a sip of water as he recovered his composure. “That’s ridiculous. She’s like a sister to me. I’ve known her since she was a kid—she worked for my mother as a summer job when she was still in high school.”

  “She might be a sister to you, but you’re not a brother to her,” Jamie said, looking faintly amused. “At first, I wondered why she disliked me so intensely.”

  “She doesn’t dislike you, I’m sure. She doesn’t even know you.”

  “She knows that I’m a single woman spending a great deal of time with you. How often do you bring women here to the estate?”

  “It’s not that rare. I bring the Logan Oil board of directors here, I conduct meetings—”