A Score to Settle

Jamie sat up straighter and looked at him. “Yes, Daniel, you will have to accept that. There are some things in this world that your money can’t buy, and I’m one of them.”

“Did I say anything about money?”

“It’s implied. You’re so used to getting your way that you forget other people have free will.”

“Let me rephrase, then. I don’t accept that you don’t want to find the man who took two lives and ruined two others… That doesn’t excite you?”

She took her time answering. “I would be pleased to prosecute that man as part of my job. But for me, it’s not personal.”

“So this case is nothing personal? Just business?”

She nodded curtly.

“What was that kiss all about, then?”

Her gaze locked with his. Jamie licked her lips and swallowed. “Th-that kiss is immaterial to this discussion. We were talking about the justice system. Our work.”

“You’re right. Immaterial. Completely out of line for me to even bring it up.” With that, he leaned in and kissed her again.

Dear Reader,

Revenge is an ugly thing. I guess that’s why it works so well as a motivation in a novel—it creates instant internal conflict. If the author does her job, the reader will share the character’s outrage and totally understand the desire to strike back; at the same time, the reader knows that taking the law into your own hands is wrong.

Creating that inner conflict is why I write novels. I find it delicious!

In this story, my hero, Daniel, feels a strong desire to strike back at the person who framed him for murder, causing him to spend six miserable years on death row. What better heroine to give him than a law-and-order prosecutor? I hope you enjoy the long journey each of them has to make before they can be together for the long haul.

Best,

Kara Lennox

A Score to Settle

Kara Lennox

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kara Lennox has earned her living at various times as an art director, typesetter, textbook editor and reporter. She’s worked in a boutique, a health club and an ad agency. She’s been an antiques dealer, an artist and even a blackjack dealer. But no work has ever made her happier than writing romance novels. To date, she has written more than sixty books. Kara is a recent transplant to Southern California. When not writing, she indulges in an ever-changing array of hobbies. Her latest passions are bird-watching, long-distance bicycling, vintage jewelry and, by necessity, do-it-yourself home renovation. She loves to hear from readers; you can find her at www.karalennox.com.

For my sister Pat.

You are so good at everything.

I wouldn’t be the person I am today if I hadn’t

tried so hard to keep up with you.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

JAMIE MCNAIR FUMED SILENTLY as she crawled along a traffic-clogged Houston freeway. Who did Daniel Logan think he was, summoning her as if she was one of his lackeys? When she’d heard that the billionaire wanted to overturn one of her verdicts, she’d been anxious to talk to him and set him straight. But on her terms, not his.

Unfortunately, he’d gone over her head, which tweaked her all the more. Now, because her boss was scared of Daniel and his charitable foundation, she had to make a command performance.

A meeting at the Project Justice office would have been tolerable. But no, Logan had decided he wanted to meet her at his home.

She hated being manipulated. But since Logan had forced her into this meeting, she intended to make it count. In her briefcase she had every piece of information she needed to convince Logan that Christopher Gables was right where he belonged—on death row for brutally killing his business partner.

She had far better things to do than cater to the whims of a spoiled, supposedly do-gooder billionaire. Logan might be wealthy and powerful, but he was also a convicted murderer himself. Her own father had prosecuted Daniel many years ago, and her dad hadn’t been one to make mistakes.

To prepare for the meeting, she had learned everything she could about Logan. She’d found lots of data about his arrest and trial, as well as his family’s oil company. Unfortunately, personal information was in short supply.

The most recent picture she had found was a blurry wire-service photo of him the day he was released from prison six years ago. Back then, he’d been a tall, thin, pale man with a bad haircut. In photos from his trial—more than twelve years ago—he’d looked like a handsome but scared frat boy.

A few minutes later she pulled up to a set of ornate wrought-iron gates in tony River Oaks, one of the richest zip codes in America. She was steamed, but she couldn’t deny a certain curiosity to see the inside of this place. From the outside, it looked like a nineteenth-century English estate home, something that might be found in a Jane Austen novel, complete with ivy-covered walls and worn cobbles forming the driveway.

Jamie was about to get out of her car and walk up to the intercom when the gates opened quietly on well-oiled hinges. She pulled her car—an aging Subaru that must have looked as out of place as a donkey in church—down the cobbled driveway toward the house.

When she got out, one of her heels caught in the cobbles and she turned her ankle. Good night. Who made their driveway out of real cobblestones? Limping slightly and silently cursing at the added annoyance, she made her way to the front door; two huge panels of carved oak that looked as if they belonged on an ancient castle.

She reached for the bell, but before she could press it the door opened.

“Ms. McNair, please come in.”

Standing in the doorway was a beautiful young woman with a sleek, blond bob. She wore a snug lavender cashmere sweater, skinny black pants and pointy-toed boots. Though Jamie wasn’t exactly a clotheshorse, she knew quality when she saw it.

Even Daniel’s servants were well-to-do.

“Thank you. You must be Jillian.” Jamie had recognized the slight British accent as belonging to Daniel Logan’s personal assistant.

Inside, the foyer was no less impressive than the outside, soaring three stories to a peaked roof with stained-glass windows that shot beams of colorful light to the white marble floor below. At the center of the foyer was a fountain in the shape of a boy riding a sea horse, like something one might find in ancient Greece. On the walls were oil paintings in gilt frames, museum-quality portraits and landscapes.

Holy mother of…was that a Van Gogh?

“You’re a few minutes late,” Jillian said matter-of-factly.

“Yes. The traffic…” Jamie was damned if she was going to apologize for being twenty minutes late when Logan was the one who had insisted she meet him here, rather than at his downtown office, which was within walking distance of her own workplace at the Criminal Justice Center.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Logan had another appointment. He should be free in about an hour. In the meanwhile, I’m sure you’d like some lunch.”

Jamie was starved, but she wasn’t going to let Logan’s underling lead her around by the nose. “Unfortunately,” Jamie said, enunciating every word, “my time is limited as well, and the traffic jam tightened my schedule. If Mr. Logan can’t see me right now, perhaps he can come by my office when it’s convenient for him.”

Jillian’s eyes widened slightly. Probably she was so used to people bowing and scraping, eager to please her high-and-mighty boss, that Jamie’s behavior came as a surprise.

“Give me a minute and I’ll see what can be arranged.” Her tone had gone a bit frosty.

Jillian stepped out of the foyer, leaving Jamie alone and steaming. Just because she was a public servant didn’t mean Logan could treat her as if she were insignificant. She would walk right out of here and see how he liked it.

Jamie turned toward a noise she heard in the doorway, thinking Jillian had returned, but instead it was a large golden retriever. Tongue lolling, tail wagging, he accelerated toward her, and for a moment she thought he was going to jump up on her. But he skidded to a stop mere inches from her and stared up at her with big chocolate-brown eyes.

“Oh. Hello, there.” She reached out cautiously to pat his head. He looked friendly, but you could never tell with dogs. This one wagged half his body, obviously thrilled by her scant attention. He leaned into her, and she scratched him behind the ear.

Jillian finally reappeared. “Tucker. Behave.”

The dog obediently abandoned Jamie and trotted to Jillian, sitting at her heel, and she gave him an absent pat on the head. He was obviously well trained.

“Mr. Logan will see you now. But he apologizes for his rather, um, casual attire.”

He could be dressed in a potato sack for all Jamie cared. She just wanted to get this meeting over with. Having tangled with Project Justice before, she knew that the foundation often took on cases that had merit.

This wasn’t one of them.

With the dog following them, Jillian led Jamie through an opulent living room, a strange study in contrasts—ancient-looking tapestries and modernist furniture; cold marble and a warm sandstone fireplace; an antique, ivory-inlaid table here and a modern one of polished limestone there.

She got only a quick impression. Soon they were walking down a long hallway lined with more paintings, and finally down a flight of stairs.

He had a basement?

This just didn’t seem normal. What had she gotten herself into? Logan might be a refined gentleman, but he was also a convicted murderer. The governor had pardoned him, but the conviction had never been overturned—a distinction that made Jamie feel edgy about meeting him in an underground bunker.

Finally, they ended up in an enormous workout room with fancy machines worthy of any upscale health club. But what drew her eye was the naked man lying on a massage table, getting worked over by a busty blonde in a pink velour tracksuit.

Jamie sucked in a long breath. He had only a small towel over his hips to preserve his modesty.

“Daniel, Ms. McNair is here.” Jillian sounded faintly disapproving.

“Ow, Greta, have a heart,” said the naked man, who Jamie assumed was Daniel Logan.

He was still tall, but no longer skinny or pale. In fact, the large expanse of skin on his muscular back was an even golden color, and for a moment she wished with all her heart that she was Greta, digging her fingers into those firm-looking muscles.

Daniel turned his head and caught sight of Jamie for the first time. Their eyes locked and held for several seconds.

He was arrestingly gorgeous, and he looked nothing like the stereotypical Texas billionaire in the oil bidness. No boots, no hat, no cigar and no Texas twang. His voice was cultured, educated.

“I’m afraid you’ve caught me at my worst, Ms. McNair,” he said. “But I got a muscle spasm in my back just before you arrived, and Greta is the only person who can get rid of it.”

Yeah, and he probably got lots of muscle spasms.

“Mr. Logan,” Jamie said succinctly. “We can’t have an intelligent discussion under these conditions. I suggest that if this meeting is important to you, we reschedule. Or even speak on the phone. You can call my office—”

“No, wait, please.” Daniel pushed himself up on his strong-looking arms and swung his legs over the massage table, somehow managing to wrap the towel around himself in the process so that he didn’t flash the three women surrounding him. “I can meet with you now.”

Greta handed him a silk robe, which he donned as he hopped off the table, letting the towel drop to the carpet. He shrugged experimentally, stretched his neck side to side and smiled. “I think you did it, Greta. Now, if you don’t mind giving us a bit of privacy?” He included Jillian in his request.

Greta melted away as quietly as an icicle in the hot sun, but Jillian hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t need me to take notes? Or bring you a file?”

“That won’t be necessary for this meeting, thanks.” He leaned down to scratch the dog, which had been waiting patiently for some attention from him. “Hey, Tucker.”

With one last warning scowl toward Jamie, Jillian walked away.

“My office is this way,” Daniel said. “Thank you for coming. It won’t be a waste of your time—I think you’ll be interested in what I have to say.”

Jamie was dumbfounded by the luxury she saw all around her. In a basement, no less. Though they were underground, what appeared to be natural light surrounded them, pouring in from windows and skylights covered with frosted glass or translucent shades. But the most impressive sight was Daniel Logan himself.

He literally made her mouth go dry. No sign of a bad haircut now. As soon as he’d moved to an upright position, his silky brown hair had fallen into place perfectly. The hair was a medium length on top and short over his ears, where he had a sprinkling of premature gray.

Her research had told her he was in his mid-thirties, but he looked slightly older. Not that that was a bad thing. He was still handsome as sin. Perhaps prison had aged him.

She stopped herself before she started feeling sorry for him. He was a convicted murderer who belonged behind bars. Because of his money and influence, he was free to enjoy all this luxury.

His victim, Andreas Musto, would never enjoy anything again.

Daniel’s office was another surprise. She’d expected a commanding antique walnut desk or maybe a workspace carved from a solid piece of granite, and walls decorated with more original art, perhaps a giant, saltwater fish tank or a bearskin rug—something masculine. Instead, she found herself in a high-tech cave.

She’d never seen so much electronic equipment in one place outside a Best Buy. A huge U-shaped desk dominated the room, littered with gadgets of every description: multiple phones, keyboards, printers, three computers, each of which appeared to be in use. One of them had a monitor the size of a movie-theater screen.

Mounted on the walls above them were four TVs, each tuned to a different news channel.

Daniel indicated that Jamie should sit in one of the silk-covered wingback chairs facing the desk. He moved around the room to take his place in the giant rolling chair inside the U. Tucker settled onto a big pillow where he could watch his master with adoring eyes.

For all its high-tech feel, the room was still beautiful. More faux windows covered with black, wooden shutters lined one wall. A fine Oriental carpet topped the wood floor, and above them, two stained-glass chandeliers bathed them in warm light.

“Perhaps we can just cut to the chase here,” Jamie said, wanting to get in the first word. “You have some wild idea that Christopher Gables is innocent. I don’t know what might have led you down that garden path, but I can assure you, the facts speak for themselves. Gables and his victim argued. A couple of hours later, the victim was found dead with a slashed throat, a bloody knife lying nearby. Gables’s prints—and only his prints—were found on the knife.

“Gables, who was normally in the restaurant until closing, could not account for his whereabouts at the time of the murder.

“That, Mr. Logan, is what we in the prosecution business call a slam dunk. The jury reached a verdict in less than an hour.”

Daniel Logan seemed to be listening intently. He kept his gaze firmly focused on her as she spoke, his expression grave, nodding every so often. It unnerved her, having that laser beam of attention pointed at her, and she got the impression he was not only listening to her words, but observing every nuance of her face, her gestures—and learning more than she wanted him to know.

“So what do you have to wow me with, Mr. Logan?” she asked, struggling to keep from sounding smug. “If it’s that little bit of unidentified DNA found on Sissom’s apron, you should know that fingerprints trump DNA any day. Four separate fingerprint experts identified the prints on the knife as belonging to Gables—even the defense’s own expert witness. The DNA could have come from anywhere.”

Logan nodded again. “It was a solid case. You did an excellent job prosecuting.”

Yes, she had. It had been the first big case in which she’d led the prosecution. After the verdict, for the first time in her life, she’d felt sure her father was proud of her. Not that she would ever know for sure, since he had died while she was in law school.

She did not thank Logan for the compliment. Flattery wouldn’t sway her. “So, what’s your point?”

“Ms. McNair, how would you like to prosecute a serial killer?”

DANIEL COULD SEE HE’D GOTTEN Jamie’s attention. His initial salvo was a shock tactic, sure; he’d have to have the facts to back up his claim. But at least she’d dropped that infuriating smugness. Her pouty lips were open slightly in surprise, her eyes wide and attentive.

He hadn’t expected her to be so beautiful in person. But the photos and video he’d seen didn’t do her justice. The glossy, fudge-brown hair had depth and texture no camera could pick up; the unusual shade of blue-green in her eyes defied description. And her skin—like the smoothest stone—somehow also looked warm to the touch.

He told himself it was best for him not to think about her lips too much.

All that was above the neck. He didn’t dare study her anywhere else until her attention was diverted.

Finally she spoke. “You think Christopher Gables has killed before?” She barely whispered the possibility.

“No. I think whoever killed Frank Sissom—and framed Christopher—has killed before. He’s the same man who framed me.”

At last Jamie found her voice. “You have got to be kidding. You brought me all the way here, disrupted my whole day’s schedule, so you could hit me with this…this ridiculous fairy tale about a serial killer?”

“It’s still an unproven theory, I’ll admit. But aren’t you the least bit curious as to why I’m trying to convince you it’s true?”

“Because you like manipulating people, and you have the money and influence to do it?”

He bit the inside of his lower lip to hold on to his temper. Typical prosecutor. She was so sure she was right, that the almighty justice system was infallible. “You seem a bit cranky this morning. You probably haven’t had enough protein. Let me guess—you skipped breakfast.”

“My diet is no concern of yours. Are we done here?” She started to rise from her chair.

“Metal shavings. Were any metal shavings found on Frank Sissom’s body?” It was one of two anomalies brought to light during Daniel’s own murder trial. The prosecution never successfully explained where those shavings had come from, but Daniel had always believed they’d come from the murderer’s own clothing during a struggle.

These days, metal shavings could be analyzed every which way right down to their atoms. Every metal object had a distinct signature, so shavings could be matched to their source. It wasn’t perfect, not like DNA or fingerprints. But cases had been won and lost based on similar trace evidence.

The other anomaly was, in fact, a bit of unidentified DNA found on Andreas’s clothing. Another similarity to the Gables/Sissom case, which Jamie herself had just mentioned.

“I don’t recall hearing about any metal shavings,” Jamie said.

Daniel tried not to be too disappointed. It was a long shot. “Let me go over the facts, then, as I see them.”

Jamie glanced at her watch. “I have other appointments today. You can put your so-called facts in an email.”

Just then someone tapped on Daniel’s office door. He knew that tap. Everyone knocked on doors differently. It was one of those patterns that Daniel had picked up without trying.

“Come in, Jillian.”

She entered, holding a plate with a metal warming lid over it in one hand, and a tall glass of iced tea in the other. “I am so sorry to interrupt, but Claude insists this chicken will go bad if it’s not eaten immediately. Something about the sauce coagulating.”

It was past Daniel’s usual lunchtime; the muscle spasm—and Jamie’s tardiness—had put a kink in his schedule. Jillian knew he put great stock in eating well and often to fuel the brain. But she also knew not to interrupt an important meeting.

He accepted the plate from her. “Thank you, Jillian, but it would be excessively rude for me to eat in front of my guest. Especially since she hasn’t had breakfast.”

“I never said I skipped breakfast,” Jamie objected.

“But you did.” He knew he was right just by the slight shade of defensiveness in her tone.

“Of course I brought a plate for Ms. McNair.” Jillian quickly produced another covered dish from a rolling cart she’d left in the hallway.

“I’m not staying,” Jamie said.

“Give me fifteen minutes to convince you.” Daniel stood and came out from behind his desk. “Share a meal with me. You’ve got to eat at some point, and this will save you time.” And probably improve your temperament. Also, sharing food was a bonding activity. He needed to convince Jamie that he was not the enemy. If things went his way, they would soon become allies, fighting to save an innocent man’s life. As the prosecutor of this case, she was uniquely able to handle some tasks he would find difficult to do himself.

Jamie inhaled deeply; she probably had gotten a whiff of whatever genius concoction Claude, his chef, had whipped up today, because something convinced her.

“Fine, if you insist, I’ll have some lunch. But keep in mind you can’t soften me up with a gourmet meal.”

No, but good food could make her more open to his suggestions.

Jillian set up their lunch in the small room adjacent to Daniel’s office, where he sometimes took his meals when he was deep into a project and didn’t want to go all the way upstairs to the dining room or patio. He’d had it specially designed to relieve stress.

Although it had no windows, he’d had lights installed that replicated the electromagnetic spectrum of sunlight. The limestone floor and running-water feature helped to ionize the air, and all the plants, of course, provided an oxygen-rich environment.

“Good night!” Jamie paused at the doorway, her jaw about to hit the floor.

CHAPTER TWO

“SOMETHING WRONG?” Daniel asked innocently as Jillian placed napkins and silverware on the wrought-iron umbrella table.

Jamie shook her head in obvious amazement. “Oh, nothing, just that I thought for a moment I’d walked through a wormhole and was transported to an outdoor café in Tuscany. This is incredible!”

“I’m glad you like it.” Daniel enjoyed surprising people.

“Are those…grapes?” Jamie looked above them at the grape arbor, which did, indeed, have a few clusters of fruit growing on it.

“Yes, they are. I had some of our grapevines transplanted to this room. I wasn’t sure they’d survive—grapes are tricky. But they seem to love it here.”

“Where did you get that fountain?” she asked suspiciously.

“From an antiquities dealer. Legal, I assure you. It was recovered in pieces from an Italian farmer’s field. The restoration cost more than the fountain did. Shall we eat?”