The Christmas Target

Jessica surveyed the pleasant room with relief. She’d had visions of sleeping in the rustic equivalent of a bunkhouse, but the McGarrett guest room would rival any suite in Miami’s finest luxury hotels. In addition to an arrangement of pale pink roses and stargazer lilies in a cut-crystal vase, a silver bowl filled with fruit, a box of Godiva chocolates and three books from the latest bestseller list topped the table between two inviting overstuffed chairs centered in front of the fireplace.

Judging from the expensive antique furnishings and the lavish appointments in the room, the McGarretts weren’t hurting for money, Jessica thought. Then she recalled how deceiving appearances could be. Many people who’d lost every cent often continued to put up a good front. Only time and the careful scrutiny of the ranch’s books would reveal the true status of the McGarrett finances.

She longed for a hot bath to soothe her bruises but was unwilling to keep her formidable hostess waiting. Wishing fleetingly for warm wool socks, Jessica changed her stockings, stripped off her sodden clothes and dressed in a navy-blue skirt, white silk blouse and a camel-colored cashmere cardigan. She slipped her feet into low-heeled shoes, which were blessedly dry.

A few minutes later, she joined Fiona and Ross in the living room downstairs. Fiona set aside the book she’d been reading and glanced up with a smile of greeting that reached to her brilliant green eyes.

The woman could have been a fashion model, even at her age, Jessica thought, with her magnificent white hair arranged in Gibson girl fashion that matched the period of her house. Fiona’s fine bone structure, easy grace and sense of style, even in casual clothes, would fit perfectly on any couturier’s runway in Paris or Rome.

Ross pushed to his feet from the opposite chair. The big man would have overpowered an average-size room, but not this expansive space with its ten-foot ceilings. Jessica was struck again by his attractiveness. Not the cultured beauty of his grandmother, but a raw, earthy appeal that set her senses tingling. His expression, like Fiona’s, was welcoming, but with a hint of reserve. Jessica wondered how the sheriff felt about having a stranger living in his house, scrutinizing his finances and making the ultimate recommendation on whether the Shooting Star would be his.

“Bring us a glass of wine, please, Ross.” Fiona gestured Jessica to sit in the chair across from hers.

Ross looked at Jessica. “What would you like?”

“Whatever Mrs. McGarrett’s having will be fine.”

“Call me Fiona,” the older woman said. “And tell me all about Max. How is he?”

“You know Max?” Jessica didn’t know why she felt surprised. Her amiable boss seemed to be acquainted with half the population of the United States.

Fiona smiled, and the expression softened the majestic planes of her face. “We grew up near each other in New York. Our families were friends.”

Ross handed Jessica a glass of white wine, and his big hand brushed hers. With dismay, she realized she not only hadn’t seen the last of the too-charming sheriff, but she was going to be living in the same house with him. For days on end.

Concentrate on business, she ordered herself, and Ross McGarrett won’t be a problem.

She returned her attention to Fiona, but remained aware of Ross, pouring himself a whiskey over ice at the antique sideboard that served as a bar.

“Max is well,” she told her hostess, “and looking forward to his grandchildren coming home for the holidays.”

“You understand your assignment here?” Fiona asked.

“Max explained everything,” Jessica said.

Ross sank onto a sofa nearby, stretched his long legs in front of him and sipped his whiskey. Although he seemed nonchalant, Jessica could tell he was taking in every word of their conversation. She struggled to concentrate on what Fiona was saying.

“Please indulge me,” Fiona said, “and let me restate what I want you to do.”

“You?” Jessica asked in surprise. “I’ve been hired by the trustees.”

“I am the trustee,” Fiona said.

“There’s only one?” Jessica asked.

Fiona dipped her head in her regal fashion. “Since my husband died ten years ago.”

“I see,” Jessica said, even though she thought the entire arrangement odd.

“I’m sure you find the circumstances of the trust…unusual,” Fiona stated, as if reading her mind.

Jessica glanced at Ross, who was studying the ice in his glass, before returning her gaze to Fiona. “It’s not my job to assess the legal contract, only to fulfill the financial obligations of it.”

Fiona nodded in approval. “Ross’s great-great-grandfather set up a trust to make certain the ranch remained intact and in the family. Every McGarrett’s done the same since. When the current owner dies, the heir goes through a period of…I guess you could call it apprenticeship for ten years. After that time, if he’s proved himself capable of operating the ranch to its maximum capacity, the trustees award him ownership.”

“And if he hasn’t?” Jessica asked.

“The ranch is owned and operated by the trust,” Ross said, “until the next generation of McGarretts has a chance to prove themselves.”

The next generation, Jessica thought with a start. She hadn’t considered that the handsome sheriff was probably married. With children. Relief surged through her. She was uninterested in men, and she was even less interested in married men. If a wife and kiddies were present, Jessica wouldn’t have to worry about Ross’s charm and could concentrate on her work without distraction.

“The trust is a formality,” Ross continued. “There’s never been a McGarrett who didn’t inherit.”

A worried frown scudded across Fiona’s strong features, but she quickly regained her composure. His grandmother’s fleeting expression made Jessica wonder if Ross was in danger of breaking that record. Jessica would be the one who determined if he was operating the ranch to its maximum efficiency and whether he should assume ownership.

She took a deep breath and forced her aching muscles to relax. If Ross’s management of the Shooting Star didn’t meet standards, she’d be the bearer of the bad news. The prospect wasn’t pleasant, even though she’d handled such situations before, but disappointing the appealing man who’d twice saved her life wasn’t something she liked to contemplate.

Fiona gazed at Ross with concern clouding her green eyes. He didn’t meet his grandmother’s gaze, and the knuckles of his hand were white where he gripped his glass.

In spite of the McGarretts’ hospitality and obvious efforts to put Jessica at ease, she could sense a tension in the room, an underlying current of things unsaid, fears unstated, and she wondered at their source.

“Will the storm be a problem?” Jessica thought the vicious weather might be the cause of her hosts’ unspoken anxiety.

“The cattle have weathered bigger storms than what’s forecast,” Ross said, apparently unconcerned over his herd. “The worst should blow over during the night.”

The blast of wind against the side of the house rattled the windows, making Jessica believe the worst had already arrived. Not that the wind frightened her. She’d ridden out hurricanes in Miami. What concerned her was being stranded with strangers, no matter how hospitable they appeared.

“And we have a generator if we lose power,” Fiona assured her. “You mustn’t be alarmed.”

Jessica drank her wine. If the weather didn’t have them on edge, what did? Her instincts were flashing on yellow alert, cues that in the past had cautioned her to look beyond the financial statistics when evaluating a situation. Something was troubling the McGarretts. Only time would tell whether their anxiety was related to Jessica’s assignment or something altogether different.

“Have you worked for Max long?” Fiona asked.

“Since I finished graduate school,” Jessica said, “eight years ago.”

“Then you must be only a few years younger than Ross,” the older woman observed.

“Now, Fiona,” Ross cautioned gently, his deep voice seductively edged with a cowboy twang. “You know better than to mention a woman’s age.”

“Nonsense,” Fiona said. “I’ll be seventy-nine in March and proud of it. Why should anyone be ashamed of living long and well?”

Jessica hastened to change the subject. “I’d like to begin work as soon as possible.”

“Of course,” Fiona answered. “But not until after dinner. No one can work on an empty stomach.”

“I can work while I eat,” Jessica suggested. “Just a sandwich and some coffee on a tray—”

“Nonsense,” Fiona repeated with an indignant frown. “You’re our guest. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. You can begin when we’ve finished.”