“Do you always call your grandmother Fiona?” Jessica asked.
Ross nodded. “She never liked to be called grandma. Said it made her feel old and dowdy.”
“She’s definitely neither,” Jessica noted. “She’s an impressive woman.”
He placed Jessica’s bag on an eighteenth-century blanket chest at the foot of the bed. “Bathroom’s through the door on the left. Closet’s on the right. Join us downstairs when you’re ready.”
“Thank you. I won’t be long.” Looking only slightly dazed, especially in light of all she’d been through, Jessica closed the door behind him when he left.
Ross hurried down the stairs and found Fiona in the living room in her favorite chair by the fire.
“Where’s Courtney?” he asked.
“She’s asleep,” Fiona said. “I fed her early. She was completely tired out.”
Ross gazed at his grandmother with concern. “I wish you’d let me hire someone to look after her. I’m afraid she’s too much for you.”
“The day a two-year-old is too much,” Fiona said with a grimace, “you’ll have to hire someone to look after me.”
He’d had this argument and lost many times before, so he went on to the subject weighing most heavily on his mind.
“You didn’t tell me Rinehart and Associates were sending a woman,” he said in an accusing tone, one he’d seldom used with his grandmother.
“Jessica Landon is the best at what she does, according to Max Rinehart,” Fiona replied easily, apparently unperturbed by his disapproval. She reached for the novel on the table beside her chair, her usual signal that the current discussion was closed.
“It’s not her accounting skills that concern me.” He paused, reluctant to report bad news. “It’s happening again.”
Her hand froze in midair at the grimness in his tone, and the color left her face. “You’re certain?”
Ross shrugged. “Not a hundred percent, but a man would be better able to take care of himself.”
Fiona closed her eyes as if gathering strength, then opened them again. “Another accident?”
“She was run off the road. Said a pickup slammed into her car twice and kept going. Didn’t sound like an accident. And she’d have frozen to death if I hadn’t come along.”
“You have to tell her. Warn her.”
Ross nodded. “But not tonight. She’s been through enough already today. And she’s perfectly safe here.”
Fiona compressed her lips and shook her head. “When is this going to stop?”
Ross sank into the seat across from her, weariness seeping through his bones. “Not until I catch the killer.”
Chapter Three
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.”
Ross glanced at Jessica over the rim of his glass with a sympathetic smile and an it-won’t-help-to-argue look.
At the same time, an elderly man with Far Eastern features and wearing a white chef’s jacket appeared in the doorway.
“Dinner is served, Mrs. McGarrett,” he announced in a heavily accented voice, then disappeared down the hallway toward what Jessica assumed was the kitchen.
Jessica set her wineglass aside and stood when Fiona did. If the woman insisted on treating her like a guest rather than an employee, Jessica didn’t know how she would get any work done. She wanted to finish her assignment and go home. Back to the warmth and familiarity of Miami.
And away from the alluring charm of Sheriff Ross McGarrett before she broke her own rules about emotional involvement.
FROM HIS PLACE at the foot of the mahogany dining table, Ross studied his grandmother, seated at the head of the table, and tried to assess her motives. Fiona’s gracious hospitality was usually tinged with a subtle aloofness, but she’d dropped her customary reserve around Jessica. Maybe her warmth toward their guest was the result of sympathy for Jessica’s harrowing experiences. Or simply an extension of her friendship with Max Rinehart, her childhood friend. Whatever the reason, his grandmother was treating Jessica as if she were practically a member of the family.
Ross hadn’t become successful as a sheriff without learning to read people well, however, and he couldn’t help feeling something else besides sympathy or old friendship was going on behind his grandmother’s bright green eyes. Fiona was up to something, and not knowing what she was scheming made him uneasy. When Fiona set her mind to something, the rest of the world—and Ross in particular—had better watch out.
“My compliments to your chef. The sirloin tips are extraordinary.” Jessica, seated between Ross and Fiona, was the epitome of politeness, but Ross could sense undercurrents in her, too. Remarkably self-possessed, even after a day that would have driven a strong man to some serious drinking, she couldn’t quite hide her impatience to be about her work.
Maybe she had a family at home in Miami and she was anxious to return to them for the holidays. She wasn’t wearing an engagement or wedding ring, but that fact meant nothing in today’s business world. It seemed improbable such a gorgeous creature didn’t have a husband or a lover eager for her return.
Jessica Landon was definitely a contradiction in terms. A strong personality resided in that tiny, fragile form. She’d handled being shot at, then sideswiped and stranded in near-zero temperatures without hysterics. With her sun-streaked auburn hair, startling blue eyes and honey-golden tan, she was a living work of art. With a mind, evidently, judging from her competency in her profession, as efficient and analytical as any computer. Her strictly business manner was certainly at odds with the emotions she generated in Ross. With a blink of surprise, he found himself remembering how she’d felt in his arms and wondering whether he’d enjoy kissing her.
He squelched that thought instantly. Just being in the McGarrett employ was dangerous enough for Jessica. Ross didn’t want to endanger her further by having anyone believe he had feelings for her. Which he didn’t, he assured himself. He hardly knew the woman.
But he’d sure like to know her better.
“The storm should pass by morning,” Fiona was saying, “and crews will have the roads cleared by the next day. Saturday’s Ross’s day off, so he can show you the ranch.”
Alarm flashed across Jessica’s heart-shaped face, and Ross took pity on her. “Not on horseback,” he assured her. “We’ll take the SUV. It has four-wheel drive.”
“I can ride if you’d rather,” she said.
“Didn’t know folks went in for horses in Miami,” Ross commented, unable to hide his surprise.
“I learned at boarding school,” Jessica said. “If I seemed reluctant, it isn’t about riding. It’s about taking time away from my work.”
“Nonsense,” Fiona insisted. “Seeing the ranch and how it operates is part of your job. And Ross will be happy to show off the Shooting Star.”
“You must be anxious to get home for the holidays,” Ross said.
Jessica patted her mouth delicately with the fine linen napkin. “Not really.”
His statement hadn’t prompted any revelations so he tried again, this time taking a more blunt approach. “Is your family in Miami?”
“My mother and father both live in Europe,” Jessica said, adding with a small grimace, “although, not together.”
“I think,” Fiona commented with a wicked gleam in her eyes, “what my grands
on wants to know is if you’re married.”
Ross choked on a bite of sirloin and coughed to clear his throat.
Jessica, cool as a mountain spring, turned her blue-eyed gaze on him and waited for his spasm to pass.
“Is my marital status relevant to my assignment?” she asked with seeming innocence.
“It’s the law officer in me.” Ross hoped his excuse would cover his grandmother’s bluntness. “Makes me curious about people.”
Jessica’s eyes twinkled and a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, resurrecting Ross’s thoughts of kissing her. “I don’t have a rap sheet, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I should say not,” Fiona said heatedly. “Max Rinehart wouldn’t stand for it.”
Turning from Ross to Fiona, Jessica launched into an anecdote about Max teaching his oldest grandson to windsurf. Ross was so entranced by the lilting cadence of her voice, he didn’t realize until long after she’d concluded her story that she’d effectively sidestepped both his and his grandmother’s inquiries.
Jessica was a paradox. And a puzzle. He’d never met a woman who so willingly passed up an opportunity to talk about herself. He considered her reticence a challenge, one he was ready to meet.
“We’ll need the name and number of your next of kin,” Ross told her. “Just in case of an emergency while you’re staying with us.”
“An emergency?” She smiled so sweetly, he knew without a doubt she was toying with him. “You mean like being shot at by bank robbers or run off the road and left to freeze to death? How many more emergencies can I expect?”
“We really live a very quiet life here,” Fiona said quickly. “The emergency number is just routine.”
“You can always contact Max.” Jessica had smoothly avoided once again revealing any personal information.
Just as Ross was beginning to wonder if she had something to hide, she spoke again. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to appear rude, but I always make a point of separating my professional and personal life. Your hospitality is gracious and appreciated, but I have to remain impersonal and objective to do my job appropriately.”
The Christmas Target Page 4