A Score to Settle. Kara Lennox

came from—or any other evidence—I’m willing to talk. Contrary to what you might believe, I do not have a closed mind. In fact, I’m having one of our evidence analysts reexamine Frank Sissom’s apron.”

      “Really?” She’d succeeded in surprising him.

      “I should have results tomorrow.”

      “Then by all means, we should talk again. When can you get here? I can free up my schedule anytime—”

      “I’m glad to hear that, because mine is packed. I can spare you an hour tomorrow afternoon or Monday morning, here at my office.”

      Daniel’s heart clutched, and he forced himself to breathe deeply. “I can’t possibly drive downtown.”

      “Afraid you’d miss your afternoon massage? Exactly how serious are you about wanting to free your client? I disrupted my whole schedule to drive to River Oaks. If you want my cooperation, you can meet me halfway. Besides, we might need to talk to people in the crime lab or the investigating officers involved in the case—all of whom can be found downtown.”

      “I can send one of my best people.” And admit to his staff—already skeptical—that he was not up to handling a case on his own. That would be a bitter pill to swallow.

      “Okay. Your assistant can meet with my assistant.”

      Now she was playing hardball. “Ms. McNair. Jamie. This matter is too serious for us to play games.”

      “Don’t talk to me about games. You’re the one who made me cool my heels while you got your massage and sent me home with tiramisu, trying to butter me up.”

      Maybe she had a point. “Did you like it, by the way? Chef Claude is a genius.”

      “That is immaterial. I’ve got a lot on my plate and I really don’t have time to chase after every hard-luck and if-only story I hear. You believe he’s innocent? Fair enough. Show me the commitment that says you mean it. I’m willing to listen, but I’m not going to deal with layer upon layer of assistants and bodyguards. You started this, and I think you should be the one to finish it. Personally.”

      His awareness of her primed his body for action, even over the phone. She wanted to deal with him personally, did she? Her reasons sounded plausible, but he didn’t completely buy them. Perhaps she wanted to see more of him, just as he wanted to see more of her. He would have been pleased, if not for the massive logistic problem her ultimatum caused.

      “What’s it going to be?” she prompted. “I’m due in court in ten minutes.”

      “Name your time,” he finally said. “I’ll be there, so long as you keep our meeting discreet. Being out in public can cause difficulties for me.”

      “Believe me, I’m as anxious as you to keep this thing under wraps. Two o’clock tomorrow? I can reserve the conference room.”

      “I’ll be there.” Come hell or high water. He hadn’t heard any flooding forecasts for South Texas, but hell was a definite possibility.

      The board meeting broke up at close to noon. After seeing everyone out to their cars, Jillian returned to Daniel’s office to go over his afternoon schedule.

      “It’s nice poolside, if you’d like to take your lunch there. You haven’t breathed any fresh air in a couple of days.”

      He resisted the urge to remind Jillian that the filtered air in his home was nine times cleaner than the smog-infused air of Houston. “Good suggestion.” Dirty air or not, he liked sitting outside when he could, looking out over his swimming pool and listening to birds and wind in the trees. It helped him think, and he had a lot of thinking to do. And it reminded him he was a free man.

      “Also, Jillian, please have the limo ready tomorrow at 1:30—no, 1:15. I’m going downtown to meet with Jamie McNair… What?”

      The unflappable Jillian’s mouth gaped open. “You’re going downtown?” she repeated.

      “Yes. Maybe not in the limo, I don’t want to draw attention. The Bentley might be better.”

      “You are going downtown,” she said again.

      “It’s the Christopher Gables case. Ms. McNair is willing to talk, which is frankly more than I expected at this stage.”

      “But… you’re going to a meeting? Personally?”

      “Jillian, have you gone hard of hearing? I’m perfectly capable of attending a meeting off-site. I’ll admit, I usually choose not to, but this is important.”

      “With all due respect, sir, you haven’t left the estate in three years.”

      That stopped him. “Three— Oh, surely you’re mistaken.”

      “Your grandmother’s funeral in Miami. October 3, two thousand—”

      “It doesn’t matter. I’m going. I have to go.”

      Jillian’s face softened. “Do you want me to come with you?”

      The tightness in his chest eased slightly as he pictured Jillian sitting next to him, dealing with pesky details. But when he pictured himself meeting with Jamie, he saw the two of them alone.

      Hell, he didn’t need Jillian to hover and fuss over him. He could handle this mission on his own. He had taken on the responsibility of being Christopher Gables’s champion, and he needed to see it through.

      “No, thank you, Jillian. I’ll bring Randall for security. That should be sufficient.”

      Jillian looked as if she wanted to argue, but in the end she nodded her head and turned. “Yes, sir.”

      THE FOLLOWING DAY, Daniel sucked up a monumental case of nerves and strode to his limo parked in the driveway. He’d opted for the larger, more ostentatious car after all; it seemed safer.

      He had a briefcase full of information about the Sissom/Gables case as well as the Andreas Musto murder—the parallels between the two cases simply could not be coincidence. He’d even drawn up a chart, with graphics, showing similarities. And if there was a remote chance that he could find the person who’d stolen six years of his life…

      Daniel wasn’t a violent man, as his lawyers had so tirelessly reminded the jury. But if he ever came face-to-face with the man who’d framed him, he could easily kill with his bare hands. That thought had provided comfort during many sleepless nights.

      His special-order Mercedes limousine was familiar and comforting, and he breathed in the scent of well-tended leather. But the car must be at least four years old now.

      “Randall,” he said just before his driver and bodyguard closed his door, “order a new limousine.”

      “Is something wrong with the car?” Randall asked, concerned. He was the one who insisted on personally keeping the vehicle in perfect condition, mechanically and cosmetically.

      “No, it’s just time.” Keeping up appearances didn’t really matter much to him, but others depended on his maintaining a certain image. The slightest show of weakness—financial or otherwise—could give rise to rumors that could affect Logan Oil & Gas stock prices, and the well-being of countless investors who’d risked their retirement to his care.

      Moments later, the car eased down the driveway and the wrought-iron gates opened noiselessly.

      And Daniel felt sick to his stomach.

      The car was as safe as any presidential limo, with triple-thick steel doors and bulletproof tinted glass. Randall was a former Secret Service agent, an expert in every sort of bodyguard skill on the planet, including evasive driving, marksmanship and hand-to-hand combat. But that didn’t stop Daniel from envisioning everything that could go wrong—car accidents, breakdown, traffic snarls, Randall suddenly falling ill…

      Daniel told himself it was because he was nervous about meeting Jamie. She’d opened the door