A Billionaire's Redemption

“What do you have to say about John Merris’s murder? Some people are saying you’re more pleased than anyone that the senator is dead. Is it true you two had a violent argument just a few weeks ago?”

He stonily ignored the reporter and her sleazy innuendos.

“Is it true that the police have asked you not to leave town, and that you’re a person of interest in the senator’s murder?”

He stopped at that, turned slowly and gave her the flat, pitiless stare that had earned him his reputation as a hard man among hard men. The reporter recoiled from him with a huff. Smart girl.

“What did you say your name was?” he called after her as she stomped away from him.

She half turned and snapped, “Paula Craddock. KVXT News. Are you going to give me a statement?”

“Nope. Just wanted to know who to sic my lawyers on the next time you harass me.”

The journalist’s gaze narrowed to a threatening glare.

Yeah, whatever. Better women than she had tried to get a rise out of him over the years. But he wasn’t the founder and CEO of a billion-dollar oil conglomerate for nothing. He chewed up and spit out self-serving leeches like her for breakfast.

Meanwhile, the alarm in his gut refused to quiet. What had caused Willa Merris to blow up at her own father’s funeral? She and her mother were always the souls of decorum, quiet props in the background of Senator Merris’s many public appearances. Willa had been trained practically from birth how not to draw attention to herself. It was unthinkable that she would cause a scene, ever, let alone in public, in front of the press, and most definitely not at a somber occasion like this.

What had gotten into her?

Worry for the unpleasant conversation he had yet to have with young Willa flashed through his head. Maybe he should wait awhile to break his own bad news to her and her mother. But it wasn’t like there was ever going to be a good time to tell them John Merris’s last, nasty little secret.

He sighed. Lord, this was going to suck. He might as well go find Willa Merris now and make her misery complete.

Chapter 2

No matter how long she stood under the water, nor how hot the water was, Willa never felt entirely clean anymore. But as the shower went from tepid to icy cold, she reluctantly climbed out. She felt like the fragile little handblown glass horse figurine she’d gotten somewhere as a child. At the slightest touch, she was going to shatter into a million knife-sharp pieces.

She’d give anything not to have to face the world for a good, long time. Or better, to leave this place and never, ever come back. But duty drove that rebellious thought back into her subconscious nearly as quickly as it had surfaced. God knew why, but her father had named her executor of his estate, which meant she was trapped in this town for months to come.

The doorbell echoed far away in her parents’ mansion. Someone else would get it—Louise, their longtime housekeeper, or maybe Larry Shore, her father’s new chief of staff and right-hand man since the old one, Frank Kellerman, wound up in jail for covering up her father’s sins.

Despite the ninety-degree weather, an impulse to cover as much skin as possible overcame her. She pulled on a pair of light wool slacks and a long-sleeved cashmere sweater. She skipped her usual French twist and merely pushed her strawberry-blond hair off her face with a simple headband. My, my. More rebellion, Miss Merris? Leaving your hair down? Scandalous. Making a wry face at her reflection in the mirror, she put on just enough makeup not to look like a corpse, herself.

A knock on her bedroom door startled her. “Miss Willa. You’ve got a visitor,” Louise announced, her voice laced with heavy disapproval.

Willa allowed herself a mental groan. Decorum dictated that she receive each and every one of the endless stream of her father’s business associates offering condolences and, of course, the avid gossip seekers disguised as neighbors and family friends. But the strain of it was getting to her. The constant visitors never gave her a moment’s escape from the oppressive grief pervading the house.

If they would all just give her a minute to breathe, to blank her mind and forget everything, maybe she could get her mental feet under her. Start tackling the mountain of decisions piling up around her. She closed her eyes for a moment to gather strength and replied, “Show our visitor into the library. I’ll be right down.”

She checked her appearance in the mirror and drew up short. She looked… haggard. Father wouldn’t approve at all. Her train of thought derailed. Her father was dead, and she was no longer obligated to look like a poster child for his endless political campaigns. A surprising and overwhelming sense of relief flooded her. She could go without makeup if she wanted. And wear sloppy T-shirts and jeans. She could say what came to mind without first checking the comment against her father’s political platform. So giddy she almost felt ill, she giggled a little hysterically.

Pull it together, girlfriend. There were still a few social boundaries she would not cross. Like not acting properly bereaved at her father’s passing.

She hurried down the grand, sweeping staircase to the marble-tiled foyer. Her parents’ house was designed for maximum “impress the guests” factor. Personally, she found it gaudy and overbearing. But then, that had been her father. She much preferred her sweet two-bedroom cottage across town by the college.

She opened the oversize walnut doors into the library and stopped cold as she spied her visitor. She would recognize those broad shoulders, that rugged profile, the casual confidence anywhere. Gabe Dawson.

It had been years since she’d seen him. A wash of memory heated her cheeks. As a teen, she’d had the mother of all crushes on this man. He had been by far the most handsome and dashing male she’d ever laid eyes on. And good golly, Miss Molly, he still was. Of course, he’d never given her the time of day. When he had bothered to speak to her at all back then, it had been to ruffle her hair like she was an amusing puppy, and call her something demeaning like “squirt.”

But that had been a long time ago. She wasn’t that innocent kid anymore. And he—he wasn’t that impetuous, up-and-coming geologist who dared to challenge the established rules for how oil was explored.

He was standing with one elbow propped on the mantel, staring down into the cold, gray ashes of the fireplace. A half-consumed glass of bourbon dangled in his other hand. In this unguarded moment, he looked sad. Worried. Lonely, even.

Her heart went out to him before her conscious mind registered the irony of this man’s presence in her father’s inner sanctum. Gabe Dawson and John Merris had been like matter and antimatter. Any time they crossed paths, they erupted in a fiery explosion that consumed everything and everyone around them.

She stepped farther into the room, clearing her throat as she did so. Gabe turned sharply to face her with the barely contained energy she remembered. Being in the same room with him was still like standing next to a hurricane.

She registered a few changes, though, as he met her in the middle of the spacious library. His clothes were more expensive, and fit better these days. His hair was shorter but still looked tousled like someone had just run a hand through it. His eyes… oh, my. They were still that dark, mysterious shade of green that looked right through her. Although at the moment, she saw reticence in them.

An urge to stutter and blush like a schoolgirl nearly won out over a lifetime’s worth of ingrained manners, but she only fought it off by dint of long years of concealing her true thoughts and feelings.

“Gabe Dawson. What a pleasant surprise,” she said smoothly. “Can I get you a refill on your drink? Is it still Kentucky bourbon, neat?”

He waved off the drink offer and set down his glass on a side table. His gaze slid down her body to her toes and back up to her face quickly enough not to be offensive, but with enough thoroughness to send a wave of heat coursing through her—and a shiver of apprehension. He always had skirted the edges of impropriety in the most delicious way. Rhett Butler, move over.

“How are you doing?” he asked, his voice every bit as potent as she remembered. The passing years had given it a richness, a maturity, that tasted good on her tongue. Oh, my.

She sank onto the edge of one of the big leather wing-back chairs and gestured him into the matching one. He leaned forward in it, propping his elbows on his knees to study at her intently. It was unnerving being the subject of such intense scrutiny. But then he’d always had that effect on her. She restrained an urge to pat her hair and tug at the neck of her sweater. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap and nearly crushed her own fingers.

The monstrous impropriety of his being here occurred to her. How dare he intrude upon her family on this day of mourning and loss? He’d hated her father. Done his damnedest to ruin John Merris. Abruptly, his presence grated like sandpaper on her skin. He had no right to be here.

She gritted her teeth, her training in being polite to everyone in all cases rubbing raw against an urge to scream and rail at this man. Although truth be told, her need to scream at the top of her lungs wasn’t all about him. She risked a glance at him, and felt awkward heat bloom in her cheeks. Lord, this man discombobulated her.

She stared down at her tightly twined fingers and very belatedly answered his question. “My mother and I are doing as well as expected after such a shock,” she said automatically, for the hundredth time. “Thank you for coming.”

“You don’t have to put on a show for me, Willa.”

Her gaze snapped up to his. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m not here to pay my condolences. I wouldn’t insult you or your mother by pretending to be sad your father is gone.”

She leaned back hard, shocked at his bald honesty. This was the deep South. Old-school Texas. People didn’t admit to being delighted that their archrival had kicked the bucket. The rules of polite behavior were observed. Leave it to Gabe Dawson to flout even the most basic societal convention.

“I need to speak to you and your mother about a business matter. Is she up to joining us?” he asked.

Minnie Merris had been so doped up on tranquilizers before the funeral, it was a miracle she’d been able to stand. Willa had no doubt her mother had added a handful of sleeping pills to the cocktail of medications by now and was passed out cold in her bed.

“I’m taking care of all business decisions at the moment,” she answered smoothly.

“Minnie dumped it all on you, huh?” he asked sympathetically. “She never was much for taking care of herself.”

Willa’s spine went rigid. He might be absolutely correct, but she didn’t need this man pointing out her mother’s flaws to her. “If you’ve come to gloat over our loss, Mr. Dawson, you can leave now.”

He threw up his hands apologetically. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Willa noted wryly that he didn’t apologize for calling her mother weak and unable to care for herself; he’d merely apologized for saying it aloud. She waited, irritated, as he took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts.