Windswept (40 page)

He had to get hold of himself. Surely there was a way out of this quagmire.

He looked at the numbers again. Started another column on the spreadsheet. Maybe if he moved this money from here to here, sold that set of apartments, got rid of this other house and the vacant lot next door, and wrestled this amount out of his fool client, he could hold on financially.

The only thing left then was the murder scandal. He had to regain Grace’s confidence in him, had to make her realize he could protect the family just as well as Davis. He had to destroy those journals. From what Davis said, without them, nobody could prove Mary Maude did anything to Edgar Sr.

But how would he get inside the house? How could he force the professor and Davis to give him the journals?

He pushed back a little from his desk, leaned down, and opened the bottom right-hand drawer. Here it was. This would certainly help.

***

Where was she? It took Barrett a minute to realize she was in her room, not Davis’s. The alarm clock had not buzzed, but the sun was shining brightly, so she must have slept late.

She was lying on her back. Davis was next to her, but on his stomach with an arm flung out across her abdomen. What was he doing here? He’d come in after she’d fallen asleep . . .

And then what?

She remembered waking up when he joined her. He’d muttered something about needing to get some sleep and pulled her into his arms and cuddled.

No kiss, nothing else.

She’d gone right back to sleep. She wasn’t sure she’d really woken up. But the event wasn’t a dream, because here he lay. She remembered searching for him in the bed before she slept. He must have been having some problems, too. Only his must have been worse to bring him all the way to her.

She tilted her head and looked down at his arm. Usually they were not so close together when they woke--they might be touching, but not this . . . what? The way his arm lay across her with his hand on her hip looked like he was reassuring himself of her presence. Or was he keeping her there?

So much for her idea to put some physical distance between them. She still didn’t know if he had made a decision or what it would be. She looked at the light filtering through the sheer curtains. Did she really want to face those questions the first thing in the morning? Before she’d had a cup of coffee? No way. She needed her wits about her when negotiating with the man beside her.

Neither did she want to make love--the way they had on past mornings--without knowing what her future held. With regard to the Windswept papers at least. The question of his trust for her would resolve itself when she knew his decision. Wouldn’t it? Or was it the other way around?

She turned her head to look at him. He was facing her, but appeared to be deeply asleep. With his morning beard growth and mustache, he really did look like a pirate--and she was the booty he’d captured from a merchant ship.

A pang of longing ran through her, and she had to fight to stay still, not to snuggle closer. Oh, God, how she loved this man. But here she was again, right where she started, yearning for him and having no clue--well, leaving the sex out of it--as to what he really thought of her, if he really trusted her, if he loved her back.

She had to get out of this bed. Thinking those thoughts led to madness.

Carefully, smoothly, she slid out from under his arm. He grunted, grabbed her pillow and pulled it to him, took a deep breath and subsided. She tiptoed to the closet, gathered something to wear, and headed for the bathroom. He was still asleep when she carefully closed the door behind her. Despite her efforts, the door made a sharp snap when it shut.

Davis opened his eyes. What had woken him? Some sort of click.

Where was Barrett? He was clutching a pillow smelling like her, but it was a poor substitute for a warm woman.

He sat up, tossed the pillow to the head of the bed, and stretched. At least he’d gotten a good night’s sleep and he felt ready to face more phone calls from his family. And to discuss the ramifications with Barrett. As he ran through the situation between them in his mind, he grinned. His head was functioning again, his path was straight and true. He knew exactly what the problem was now with Barrett. And how to solve it.

He got out of bed, looked around. No robe. He’d been so pissed about not being able to get to sleep last night, he’d come here stark naked.

He walked out to the balcony, leaned over, and listened. The dining room door was open and he could hear Eva and Barrett talking in the kitchen. Good. Now he knew where she was. They had to talk this morning. But first he needed to shower and shave--and to let Peggy know he wouldn’t be in today. Then he needed some coffee. He wanted to be wide awake when he made it crystal clear to Barrett how things were going to be between them.

Chapter Thirty

Barrett sat at the kitchen table finishing her second cup of coffee and reading the paper when Davis walked in and took a seat across from her. She flashed a glance at him. Dressed in jeans and a knit shirt, he was evidently not going to the office today.

He wore his negotiating face, but he didn’t say anything. Neither did she.

Eva bustled to bring him his juice. “The usual, Mr. Jamison?” she asked.

“Fine,” Davis said, drank the juice, and looked at the Chronicle’s front page.

Gonzales came in from the dining room, looked from Barrett to Davis and back, and raised his eyebrows. “Good morning, Mr. Jamison,” he said, then turned to Eva and asked, “Do you have the grocery list ready?”

The Gonzaleses knew something was up, Barrett thought, but they had the good sense to ignore it. Too bad she couldn’t do the same. She’d wait until they left on their shopping trip before asking about Davis’s decision. She felt alert and rested, ready to take on the eagle across the table. Good or bad, she needed to know where they stood.

Eva served Davis and the Gonzaleses left. Davis didn’t say anything, only picked up the business section and read it while he ate.

Barrett finished the comics and started on the first section--or let herself appear to be reading as she ran through scenarios about where to begin the discussion. She made herself keep calm, but she couldn’t help clasping her hands tightly together in her lap below the table top while she read. When she turned a page, she watched him out of the corner of her eye.

He sat there reading and eating. Didn’t look up, didn’t give her a clue as to his thoughts.

Finally he put down the paper, finished off his coffee, and sat back.

And looked straight at her. With that granite hazel gaze of his. She met it with, she hoped, just as much determination in hers.

“Davis,” she said at the same time he said, “Barrett.”

She shut her mouth. He waved a hand and said, “Go ahead.”

“I’d like to talk about trust first,” she said. If it was the core problem, as she had come to think, they needed to start there.

“Good. So would I,” he said, bending forward with his elbows on the table. “Why don’t you trust me?”

“What?” She sat straight up. In all her plans for their discussion, she hadn’t expected that question. “I don’t trust you? No, it’s the other way around.”

He shook his head. “Not the way I see it.”

“I can’t imagine how you could come to such a conclusion. You’d better explain it to me,” she said.

He leaned back in his chair and ticked off his points on his fingers. “First you tell me the matriarch of my family is a murderess. Then, before I can absorb the facts, properly inform my family, and decide how to manage the situation so the family won’t get hurt in the coming media brawl, you accuse me of going back on my word and ignoring my grandfather’s wishes. You don’t trust me enough to give me the time to come to terms with this mess before you leave my bed without so much as a discussion.”

His bed? This wasn’t about sleeping with him. Or was it? No, she couldn’t let him sidetrack her, and she countered, “You asked me to leave out the murder! You don’t trust me enough to write a story sensitive to your family and its concerns. You don’t know me well enough to trust my integrity and honesty and know I wouldn’t do anything to intentionally hurt you or your family. But I can’t and won’t lie, even by omission, about what happened in the past.”

“I didn’t ask you to leave out the murder, only to give me some time to think.”

True, he’d asked her what she’d do if he did ask.
Had she jumped to another conclusion? No, because underneath, the question had not been hypothetical, and the result was the same. “I’m giving you the time. But Davis, I didn’t know where I stood with you last night--if you’d abide by our agreement or kick me out of your house, if you trusted me as a historian and a person or thought I was good for sex and nothing else. How could I share your bed under those circumstances?”

Before he could answer, a loud noise outside drew the attention of both of them. A big dirty Cadillac screeched to a halt on the driveway by the back door.

“God damn it,” Davis muttered and stood, but didn’t move from his place by the table.

Barrett felt her eyes widen when Lloyd got out and stalked around the car to the kitchen door. It must have been left unlocked because he just barged in and slammed it behind him.

She rose as he entered. She had been sitting on the side of the table closest to the door and she turned around to face him.

Lloyd looked pale and gaunt, with bloodshot eyes behind his crooked glasses, beard stubble on his chin, and a rumpled suit on his body. She was close enough to smell him, a sour odor reeking of anger and fear. She took a step backward toward Davis several feet behind her.

“What do you want?” Davis asked in a deadly calm voice.

Lloyd drew himself up and glared past her at his cousin. “I am not going to let you ruin the family. I’m here to burn those journals.”

“I’m not going to hurt the family, and I’m not going to let you destroy anything. You’re being irrational and you know it. Now come sit down and we’ll talk about it.”

“Irrational? I’ll show you irrational.” Lloyd opened his jacket and pulled a gun out from his belt.

Barrett froze. She was used to seeing her policeman brother Greg with a gun, but Lloyd held a huge, old, black six-shooter with a bullet probably big enough to take down an elephant. She couldn’t see Davis, but she heard him shift his position.

“Back up, Barrett,” Davis said, speaking now with a low, soothing tone. “Give me the gun, Lloyd. You’re not helping your case.”

Lloyd waved the pistol back and forth, then aimed it at her. “You stay still, professor. You’re going to show me those writings. Then we’re going to burn them.” He moved to her, grabbed her arm, and spun her around to face Davis, who took a step toward her.

“Uh-uh, Davis,” Lloyd said. “I’m in charge here. Back up.” After Davis did what he ordered, Lloyd held on to her right arm with his left hand and pulled her closer. He kept the gun pointing at his cousin.

“If you’re in charge,” Davis said, “do you expect me to sit here and do nothing while you take Barrett to the office?”

Lloyd was silent for a moment, and Barrett turned her head enough to see his face. He was sweating and looked confused. Then he scowled and said, “No. I expect you to come with us. I want you where I can keep an eye on you. And remember, I’ve got hold of the little bitch.”

Tightening his grip, he gave Barrett a shake, but she refused to wince. She was too angry and frustrated. Just as she and Davis were getting to the crux of the matter between them, here came his cousin.

“All I care about is getting rid of those papers,” Lloyd snarled. “I’m going to be the one who protects the family this time. You think you’re so high and mighty. I’m--”

Barrett tuned out his ravings. What could she do? Davis was too far away to rush him without getting shot, and Lloyd sounded like he was about to explode. Well, she wasn’t about to stand there and let him. As if she were interrupting a normal conversation, she said, “Lloyd.”

He paid no attention and kept ranting, his voice rising in pitch and volume. “--the one they’re all going to look up to now. I don’t care what Granddaddy thought. I’m--”

“Lloyd,” she repeated, a little louder.

“--taking over now and there’s nothing you can do--”

“Lloyd!”

“What?” He didn’t look down at her, but shook her again. His movement caused the gun to wobble in his hand.

“Do you have any sisters?” she asked in a sweet voice as though speaking to a child.

“What? No. Hellfire and damnation, woman! What’s that got to do with anything?” He still kept his eyes on Davis, and she felt his grip on her arm loosen.

“This.” She reached out with her left hand, thrust the gun away to the right toward the windows, and smashed her right fist up against the bottom of his nose.

“Oowwww!” Lloyd yelled as Davis snatched the gun with one hand and punched him in the jaw with the other. He staggered backward, hit the door and slid to the floor. Holding his nose with both hands, he sagged to the side and started crying.

Davis put the gun on the table, grabbed Barrett by the shoulders, and shook her. “What do you think you’re doing? He could have shot you!”

“I didn’t want him to shoot you!” For emphasis she poked him in the chest with a finger.

“Oh, hell, Barrett!” An expression of complete exasperation on his face, he pulled her into his arms and held her tight. She held on right back as an enormous sense of relief struck her. She could feel his heart beating as rapidly as hers.

After several seconds, Davis let her go, and she turned around to look at Lloyd.

He sat, still on the floor, still crying. “Oh, God,” he blubbered, “I’m ruined. I’ve lost everything.”

Davis gazed down at his cousin and sighed. As much as he’d like to leave Lloyd to solve his own problems, he couldn’t do it--the man needed help if he was willing to go to these lengths. But how to give it and convince him to leave the papers alone? Back to negotiating.

He gave Barrett a quick squeeze and released her. They’d discuss her conduct and the matter of trust later. First, he had to take care of his cousin. “C’mon,” he said as he hauled Lloyd up and plopped him in the chair Barrett had vacated.