A Score to Settle

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.