Читать книгу Wed To The Witness - Margaret Price - Страница 11

Jackson knew the drive along the dark coastal highway should have calmed him, helped his thoughts steady. Instead, his mind was as restless as the sea that churned against the ragged cliffs edging the shoreline.

How many women had he kissed? Slept with? He neither knew nor cared. He’d indulged in nights of mutual pleasure, then walked away unscathed. Tonight he and Cheyenne had shared a few kisses, nothing more. They’d been exceptional kisses, but kisses all the same.

Why, then, while he held her in his arms, had he been hit with aching desire when he had expected to feel the usual careless, carefree passion? The memory of her hot, unrestrained mouth pressed against his crept into his mind like a seductive phantom. He wanted her taste again. Wanted to hold her. Wanted her. Just her.

“Dammit.”

Something was happening inside him. Because he wasn’t precisely certain what that something was, he felt a tug of worry. He’d always been sure of his ground when it came to the opposite sex, yet he could have sworn he’d felt the earth move beneath his feet when Cheyenne’s mouth opened beneath his, inviting him in.

He just needed to get his balance back, he told himself as he steered the Porsche off Highway 1 onto Colton land. After all, his usual afternoon and evening didn’t include having the cops accuse him of two attempted murders, then running into—and ravishing—the woman whose testimony could place him in almost the exact spot a wannabe killer had stood during one of those attempts.

No matter how perverse, right now dealing with the dilemma of how to keep his butt out of jail was preferable to trying to figure out what was going on inside him where Cheyenne James was concerned.

In Jackson’s mind, the first order of business was to tell his uncle that the cops suspected he was the person who’d tried to put a slug into him. Twice.

“Can’t wait,” he muttered.

Blowing out a breath, he swung the Porsche around a corner. In the distance, the barn, stable and bunkhouses huddled in shadowy outlines against the starry night sky. The neat white-railed fence that lined the two-lane road stood ghostlike beneath the moon’s silver glow. Beyond the fence, shadowy trees dotted the hillside pastures. Jackson knew the security cameras his uncle had installed after the second attempt on his life were recording the Porsche’s progress along the private road. Monitors had been installed in his uncle’s study that displayed the views picked up by the cameras placed in strategic spots across Colton property.

Moments later, Jackson eased to a stop in the driveway that curved in front of the sprawling two-story house painted in soft white with jutting balconies, a terra-cotta roof and high-columned porch. Colorful lakes of flowers and shrubs pooled nearby. Swinging open the car door, he breathed in the salty tang of the ocean that lay just past the steep face of rough rock bordering the house’s manicured back lawn. The beat of his footsteps against the driveway mixed with the pounding of the surf.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement at the right of the porch. An armed security guard nodded to him, then melted back into the shadows.

Twin carriage lamps on either side of the towering front door cast overlapping puddles of light onto the porch. Twisting his key in the lock, Jackson pushed open the door, closed it behind him, then veered across the tiled foyer. He paused beneath the arched doorway that marked the entrance to his uncle’s beamed study.

As always, Jackson was struck by the coziness of the room with its leather sofas and chairs, polished brasses and thick rugs that spread vibrant color across the wood floor. The walls were paneled in oak mellowed by time, housing row after row of shelves lined with leather-bound books. Across from the stone fireplace in which flames ate greedily at logs to ward off the cool night air was a mahogany desk almost as imposing as the man who sat behind it.

Joe Colton was over six feet of solid muscle with a linebacker’s shoulders and a square-jawed face softened by kind blue eyes. The gray that had begun peppering his dark brown hair only a few months before his sixtieth birthday lent the Colton patriarch a distinguished air.

As a rule, his uncle worked alone in his study after dinner. Tonight was clearly an exception, Jackson noted. On the far side of the room, his Aunt Meredith curled like a cat on the leather sofa, her beautiful face framed by the wavy, golden-blond hair that cascaded to her shoulders. As she thumbed idly through a magazine, the diamond broach on the lapel of her sleek black jumpsuit caught the flash of the flames in the fireplace.

Jackson remained in the doorway, his brow furrowed. He remembered other long-ago nights when his aunt and uncle sat in silence together in this room. Then, an unspoken contentment had existed between them. The sense of companionship they had once shared had vanished years ago. Even now, Jackson had a hard time accepting that the woman who’d lavished so much love on him and his sister was the same person he’d confronted weeks ago and warned he would go to the police if she didn’t stop blackmailing his father.

As if sensing his presence, Meredith raised her bored gaze from her magazine and glanced toward the doorway. Annoyance flashed in her eyes like lightning, then was instantly replaced by concern.

“Jackson,” she said, laying her magazine aside. “Thank goodness.”

Joe Colton snapped his gaze from the panel of security monitors installed in the wall near his desk. “Glad you made it back, son,” he said, his voice booming across the study.

“Finally,” Meredith added as she uncurled off the couch. “We’ve been worried sick about you.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Meredith repeated, arching a perfect blond brow. “It’s not every day a Colton gets called to police headquarters for questioning.”

Jackson winced. “River wasn’t supposed to tell you about that phone call.”

“River didn’t.” When Joe leaned back in his leather chair, Jackson noted the shrewd assessment in his uncle’s eyes. “Sophie overheard you tell River that the police called and asked you to come to the station. She blurted it out at dinner.”

“Good going, cousin,” Jackson muttered. When he stepped into the room the scent of leather and wood smoke settled around him.

Meredith flicked a wrist. “Never mind about Sophie, Jackson. We’ve been worried to death about you.”

“Sorry. If I’d known, I would have called.”

“You’ve been gone for hours,” she persisted, glancing at her husband. “Joe wouldn’t let me phone the station to check on you. He kept saying you’re a lawyer and if you needed us, you’d call.”

“That’s right, I would have.”

She took another step toward him. “Have the police been questioning you all this time?”

“No. After I left the station, I went to a movie. Then I…”

With thoughts of Cheyenne crowding in on him, Jackson hesitated. It was impossible to pin down what he thought about her, what he already felt about her. Instinct told him she was capable of igniting a spark in him that he wasn’t sure he wanted stirred to life.

“Then you what?” Meredith prodded.

“Stopped and had coffee.”

“You saw a movie,” Joe said, tilting his head. Jackson knew his uncle was aware of his penchant for losing himself in heavy thought while a movie played on the big screen. “Is everything okay?”

“I handled things.” Shrugging, Jackson walked to the desk, slid one hip onto the front edge. “Uncle Joe, there’s no easy way to tell you this, so I’m just going to say it. Thad Law thinks it’s possible I’m the person who tried to kill you. Both times.”

In the silent seconds that followed, Jackson watched the initial shock in his uncle’s eyes veer to anger.

“Has the man lost his mind?”

“I didn’t get that impress—”

“I don’t care if he is married to my foster brother’s daughter, he’s crazy,” Joe protested. “There’s no way Law has reason to even look at you. I’ve got a good mind to call Peter McGrath and tell him his Heather has married a blockhead. Then I’ll call Mayor Longstreet and let him know exactly what I think about his police force.”

“His police force is doing its job,” Jackson countered. “And Law isn’t a blockhead. He has what he believes are solid reasons to suspect me.”

“What reasons?” Meredith scooted behind the desk to stand beside her husband. “You mean evidence? Thad Law claims he has some sort of evidence that proves you’re the one who shot at Joe?”

“He doesn’t just claim to have evidence,” Jackson stated, then told them about the insurance policy on his uncle’s life and the years-old court case the detective alluded to.

As Jackson spoke, a log in the fireplace broke apart and fell with a shower of sparks. “At the birthday party,” he added, “I was a couple of feet from where the suspect stood only seconds before he or she fired the shot.”

“Can someone say they saw you there?” Joe asked. “In that spot?”

“Yes.” Jackson thought about the undercurrents that had pulled at him while his mouth ravaged Cheyenne’s. Undercurrents, he reminded himself, had a habit of dragging in the unwary. He had spent his life avoiding just that.

“Who?” Meredith asked. “Who told the police they saw you in the same spot as the person who shot at Joe?”

“Actually, I told Law I was near that spot.”

His aunt’s eyes widened. “You told him? Why?”

“Because that’s where I happened to be,” Jackson said, giving her a mild look. “I’d cut through the service hallway to get a drink refill. I was there when I heard the shot.”

Joe shook his head. “Did it occur to Law that hundreds of other people were milling around the house and courtyard that night?”

“I pointed that out. It didn’t seem to make a difference.”

“The man ought to stop harassing innocent people and find some real evidence.” As he spoke, Joe stabbed holes in the air with an index finger. “Like the gun the bastard used to take those shots at me. Find that, and you’ve got some real proof.”

“I agree.” Jackson raised a shoulder. “Meanwhile, someone appears to want me as the scapegoat for the shootings. He or she has done one hell of a job of setting me up. I have a real problem with that.”

“You’re not alone,” Joe huffed. “And we’re not going to stand for it.”

“Of course we’re not,” Meredith said with a flip of her slender, flame-tipped fingers. “Jackson, pour us all a brandy. Joe, we need to get Jackson the best criminal lawyer money can buy.”

Joe’s gaze shot up to meet hers, his brow creased in annoyance. “If you’re referring to our eldest son, I doubt Rand will send us a bill for services.”

“It was just an expression, darling.”

Jackson noted the way his aunt’s shoulders had gone rigid beneath her black jumpsuit. It was as if he could almost see the wall of tension shoot up between husband and wife.

“I don’t need a lawyer.” Rising off the front of the desk, Jackson walked to the wet bar built into a small alcove between bookcases. He poured two snifters of brandy, reached for a third glass, then changed his mind. The last time he’d tasted alcohol was two weeks ago at Liza’s wedding reception. The one drink he’d had hit him like a ton of cement. He didn’t want to chance that happening again, especially now when he needed to keep a clear head.

“At this point, I’m not charged with anything.” He crossed the room with the two snifters of brandy. “Yet,” he added as he offered a glass to his aunt.

“It might be a good idea for me to call your cousin and put him on notice,” Joe said, accepting the snifter Jackson handed him. “Just in case.”

“That’s not necessary,” Jackson said. “Rand has his hands full in D.C. trying criminal cases. Besides, there’s nothing for him to do, except tell Law his evidence isn’t solid enough to make an arrest. I already delivered the message.”

Joe inclined his head Jackson’s way. “If you don’t feel like brandy, I can have Inez bring in coffee,” he said, referring to the longtime housekeeper.

“No thanks.”

“Bam! Bam!” The shouted words echoed off the high ceiling just outside the study. “You’re gut-shot, slime-ball!”

Meredith rolled her eyes, then looked at Joe. “Those boys were supposed to be in bed an hour ago.”

Joe’s mouth curved. “Sounds like another war interrupted their sleep. Joe! Teddy!” he said in a booming voice. “Get in here now!”

Seconds later, two barefoot boys clad in camouflage pajamas and toting toy rifles skidded through the door side-by-side.

“Yes, sir?” they asked in unison.

Joe sent a stern look across the desk. “Your mother informs me you were supposed to be in bed an hour ago.”

“Aw, Dad, we just needed to see who wins the war,” Joe, Jr. said, his sandy brown hair looking as if it had been combed by a hurricane.

Jackson held back a smile. Nearly ten years ago, Joe, Jr. had been abandoned on the Coltons’ front porch. His uncle and aunt had taken in the infant and raised him as their own. As far as everyone was concerned, the kid was one hundred percent Colton.

“Yeah, and I’m about to win,” Teddy boasted.

Joe, Jr.’s gaze swung sideways, his green eyes flashing. “It’s not over till it’s over, as Mama always says,” he commented, then gave his mother a knowing grin.

“I’m glad someone around here listens to me,” Meredith murmured, then checked her slim gold-and-diamond watch. “All right, you two, pay attention. The war must be won in five minutes or this general is calling a draw.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Teddy replied, giving her a military-precise salute. Shifting his gaze, the boy flashed Jackson a grin. “Hi ya, cousin.”

“General Colton,” Jackson replied mildly. “It appears the war is going well for you.”

“Yeah, I’m winning.”

“Are not!”

Jackson had known for three weeks that Teddy was the product of a one-night stand between his father and his aunt. Still, Jackson couldn’t quite get used to the idea that the mischievous eight-year-old standing before him with tousled blond hair and sparkling blue eyes was his half brother.

The thought had Jackson glancing at his uncle in time to see Joe beam at both boys as they raced out of the study, their bare feet slapping against the wood floor.

Years ago a bout of mumps had rendered his uncle sterile. What had it done to him, Jackson wondered, when he found out Meredith had been unfaithful? That she’d conceived another man’s child? What inner strength did Joe Colton possess that had compelled him to continue his marriage with Meredith and raise Teddy as his own son?

And what, Jackson wondered as a fist knotted in his gut, would the family patriarch do if he ever found out his brother, Graham, was the boy’s father?

“I’d better make sure our troops brush their teeth,” Meredith said. Setting her snifter on the desk, she met Jackson’s gaze. “I’m sorry to hear about your problems with the police, Jackson. No one should have to endure something like that.”

He slid a hand into the pocket of his khakis. It didn’t take a genius to figure out she was referring to his promise to turn her in to the cops if she didn’t stop blackmailing his father.

“Not when they haven’t done anything wrong,” he commented. “I’ll get it resolved, Aunt Meredith. One way or the other.”

“I’m sure you will.” She dropped a kiss on top of her husband’s head, then walked toward the door, her grace perfect in her black spiked heels.

Remaining silent, Jackson watched his uncle’s expression while his gaze tracked his wife out the door. He felt a twist of sorrow at the dull resignation that clouded the man’s eyes.

“Well,” Joe said after a moment as he leaned back in his chair and swirled the brandy in his glass. “I figure while you sat through that movie you came up with a plan on how to deal with this mess?”

“The start of one.” Jackson dropped into one of the leather visitor chairs in front of the desk and stretched out his long legs. “First thing in the morning I’ll call Adam Jones at Amalgamated. I want to know if someone’s been asking questions lately about the lawsuit I filed for him against his father. If so, I want to know who that person is.”

“Good. After that?”

“I need to go to L.A. I plan to pay a visit to the insurance agent who’s ready to swear I was the one who took out the policy on your life. It wasn’t me, and I’m hoping his seeing me in person will convince him he’s wrong.”

“Take the corporate jet.”

“I planned on hopping a commuter.”

“Nonsense.” Joe sent a wry smile over the rim of his snifter. “I’m not only your uncle, son, I’m your boss.”

“Who’s talking to an employee taking a leave of absence to decide if he wants to continue in his job.”

“You’re a fine lawyer, Jackson, and I’m proud you’re a part of Colton Enterprises. But if it’s not a job you can put your heart into, you’ll never be happy.” Joe shrugged. “Until or unless something changes, you work for me and I’m ordering you to take the corporate jet tomorrow. Is your mother in L.A. these days?”

Jackson frowned. “Last I heard.” His parents had always maintained an arrangement that suited them. Graham lived near Jackson in San Diego; Cynthia Colton, a high-powered entertainment attorney, kept an office and condo in L.A. Throughout their marriage they had led their lives, together and separately. Mostly separately.

“If Cynthia’s there, take some extra time if you want and drop by to see her.”

Jackson thought about the impersonal air kiss and polite “how are you?” he’d received when his mother arrived at Hacienda de Alegria for his sister’s wedding. That had been the first time he’d seen her in nearly a year. He didn’t see a point in stopping by her office for another token kiss and disinterested greeting.

“I’ll take the jet, Uncle Joe. Thanks.”

“No need to thank me, son. We’re family. Family sticks together.”

“Yeah.” Jackson rubbed at the muscles knotted in the back of his neck while his gaze drifted to one of the bookshelves where picture frames and books vied for space. A woman with a wavy mane of chestnut hair and dimples smiled out from a pewter frame. Emily Blair Colton, the youngest of Joe and Meredith’s daughters, adopted as a toddler, had disappeared months ago in what had initially been thought of as a kidnapping. After receiving a ransom note, Joe had paid a heart-stopping amount of money for Emily’s return. Days later, Joe had informed the family that he’d heard from a trusted source that his adopted daughter had fled Prosperino after an intruder tried to kill her. All Joe would tell anyone was that Emily was safe. If he knew her whereabouts, he wasn’t saying. The FBI was still trying to get a lead on the person who had sent the fake ransom note and collected the money.

“Uncle Joe, I’m sorry to bring my problems to your doorstep,” Jackson said quietly. “You’ve got enough to worry about with someone taking potshots at you and all that’s happened to Emily.”

“I’d have been hurt and insulted if you hadn’t brought your problems to me.” Joe ran a hand through his thick hair. “I want Emily home. More important, I want her safe.”

“We all want that.”

“Everyone, except the person who tried to kill her.”

“True.”

Joe plucked a brass paperweight shaped like an oil rig off his desk blotter. “Emmett Fallon gave this to me when the first wildcat well we dug in Wyoming came in,” he said, hefting the paperweight in his palm. “Back then, I was young, headstrong and arrogant enough to think nothing bad could happen to myself and the people I cared about.” Sighing, Joe resettled the paperweight on the blotter. “These past ten years, life has proved me wrong.”

The look of genuine sorrow in his uncle’s face prompted Jackson to veer the subject in a different direction. “Speaking of Emmett, I ran into a woman tonight who works for his son, Blake, at Hopechest Ranch.”

“Who?”

“Cheyenne James.”

“River’s little sister,” Joe said, his face instantly brightening. “I used to pick her up from the reservation and bring her to stay here on the weekends. She was so shy, she barely spoke to me. Would hardly even look at me. Years went by and I didn’t see her. When she walked up to me at my birthday party and introduced herself, you could have knocked me over with a fingertip. She’s a beautiful woman. Took my breath away just looking at her.”

“Yes,” Jackson agreed quietly.

Joe stared down into his drink, his brow furrowing. “Later at the party, I saw the two of you talking. I remember thinking I wasn’t surprised, seeing as how you’d never been one to bypass a gorgeous woman. That wasn’t too long before all hell broke loose.” Joe’s gaze rose slowly to meet Jackson’s. “Is Cheyenne the one who saw you a couple of feet from where the person who shot at me stood?”

“Yes. Although I doubt she’s aware of the suspect’s location.”

“Did you tell her the police questioned you?”

“No.” Jackson raised a shoulder. “Maybe I will.”

Joe’s mouth curved. “So, you plan to see her again?”

“We’re having breakfast the day after tomorrow.”

“Can’t say that surprises me. Like I said, I’ve never known you to let a beautiful woman get away.”

He’d let Cheyenne get away once, Jackson acknowledged silently. Then spent months with thoughts of her chasing through his brain. No other woman had ever had that effect on him, ever captured his thoughts for so long. Maybe that was why—until his sister’s wedding—he’d made only one short visit to Prosperino. Maybe somewhere in his subconscious he’d known if he had stayed in Prosperino for any length of time, he would seek out Cheyenne. And maybe, just maybe, he harbored a small lick of fear that she was the one woman he couldn’t walk away from unscathed.

So, he’d avoided her. Successfully. Until tonight when he walked out of a dark movie theater and found her in the lobby. It was as if she’d been waiting for him. Just him.

Dammit, he could still taste her. And he wanted to taste her again. Soon.

Jackson let out a long breath. What in the hell was he going to do about Cheyenne James?

Patsy had watched the climactic end of Joe, Jr. and Teddy’s war game, then kept a sharp eye on both boys while they brushed their teeth. After that, she’d herded them into their separate bedrooms in the north wing and kissed them good-night, leaving them both with a prediction of dire consequences if they didn’t stay in bed this time.

Now, an hour later, dressed in a robe of shimmering white silk, she stood in her dark bedroom before the expansive wall of windows that faced the sea. The moon was full and high, cutting a swath of light across the black water.

“What do you mean you’re going underground?” Patsy hissed into the cell phone she’d crammed between her shoulder and cheek. She wasn’t concerned over the prospect of Joe walking in during her phone call. He hadn’t stepped foot into her bedroom in years. “I’m paying you to kill Emily Colton, not lay low while she disappears again,” she added.

“Look, the sheriff in this fleabag town—Atkins is his name—has his men working overtime trying to find the bitch’s attacker,” Silas Pike answered. “I show my face in Keyhole, Wyoming, I’m dead meat.”

“What you are is incompetent. I hired you to kill Emily in her bed, in this house. You screwed that up and let her get away. Then, you chased her across the country for heaven knows how many months. By some miracle of God you stumble on her whereabouts, attack her, yet still can’t manage to kill her. Now, you expect me to continue to pay you while you hole up somewhere for who knows how long?”

“Ain’t gonna be that long,” Pike countered. “Just long enough for that sheriff to figure some dude just passing through town is who jumped her. Once that happens, I’ll go back for her.”

“And fumble things again.”

“And kill the bitch. You don’t want to pay me to lay low for a while then finish her off, just say the word and I’ll go home. Makes no never mind to me.”

Patsy closed her eyes, blocking out the moonlight that shimmered on the dark water.

Dammit, was she the only person who could do anything right?

Silas Pike couldn’t kill Emily, the private investigator she’d hired to track down her twin sister Meredith had run into a dead end, and the other investigator hadn’t been able to locate her sweet baby, Jewel. No, Patsy corrected herself. Not a baby. Jewel was a grown woman now. It had been so long, she thought. So many years since she’d held her darling daughter.

“You still there?”

Pike’s voice set Patsy’s teeth on edge. Joe Colton had her on such a tight budget she couldn’t afford to hire anyone else to find Emily. She didn’t have time to hire anyone else. It was as if a force had been set in motion that she couldn’t control. She could feel all of her carefully laid plans coming apart, slowly, thread by thread, yet she couldn’t seem to pull them all back into place.

“I’m still here.” She kept her voice calm and even. “I’ll wire you more money in the morning. I warn you, Pike, I’m tired of paying for nothing. I want results, positive results. Soon,” she added, then clicked off the phone and dropped it on the French directoire reading table that sat to one side of the windows.

All of her senses screamed it was a matter of time before the police closed in on her. Meredith was her sister, her twin. If she’d died years ago a homeless vagrant like the P.I. had tried to convince her, Patsy would feel it. Bitter regret flooded over her. If only she had gone through with her initial plan and killed Meredith on that long-ago day when she’d run her sister’s car off the road and assumed her identity. If only seeing the mirror image of herself after so long hadn’t stirred some emotion deep inside her.

Instead, when Meredith came to and Patsy realized a blow to her head during the accident had left her with amnesia, she’d dumped her twin on the grounds of the clinic where Patsy had finished the twenty-five year sentence she’d served for murder. Where the hell had Meredith gone after she’d left the clinic? Patsy wondered for the thousandth time. And how long would it be before Emily, who had been in the car with Meredith on that fateful day remembered what she’d witnessed?

Emily had been a child then. Now, she was a woman whose nightmares about seeing her “two mommies” right after the accident had intensified over the years. Months ago, Patsy had heard Emily sobbing for her real mother during a nightmare. Patsy had jolted into action, knowing it was inevitable Emily would soon realize the truth of what she’d seen.

And eventually share that truth with the police. As far as Patsy was concerned, that nightmare had sealed Emily’s fate.

Patsy dragged in a shaky breath. All Thad Law had to do to discover her deception was run her fingerprints. He would then know she wasn’t Meredith, but the twin sister who’d served time for murdering the man who’d fathered—and sold—their daughter, Jewel. And that, for the past ten years, Patsy Portman had deceived the entire Colton clan.

Patsy suspected the clout carried by the Colton name was why Law had yet to request her fingerprints. He had to know she wouldn’t have consented willingly to being fingerprinted. And it was doubtful any judge in the state would force her to do so. Still, Law wasn’t the type of cop who gave up.

With unsteady hands, she snatched the gold pill case off the table beside her, popped open the lid and scooped up two Valium. She lifted a crystal tumbler full of vodka, and washed down the Valium with one deep swallow. She’d been a fool for not killing both Meredith and Emily that day, Patsy chided herself viciously, slamming the pill case back on the table. If she had, maybe she wouldn’t now feel the sickening sensation that they were both getting closer. So close she could almost feel them breathing down her neck.

More money, she thought, fighting back a wave of panic. She needed more money in case she had to leave Prosperino in a hurry. She couldn’t support Joe, Jr. and Teddy by herself.

Her eyes narrowed as her thoughts focused on Jackson Colton. He’d been so damn cool and forthright when he’d confronted her about blackmailing his father. Even as Jackson assured her he would go to the police if her extortion didn’t end, she had seen a flash of regret in his eyes. It was as if he couldn’t believe his Aunt Meredith had stooped so low.

Meredith, who had refused to cover for her own sister when Patsy had killed Jewel’s father in a fit of rage. Meredith, who’d been too good to lie to the cops. Instead, she’d let her twin rot in prison for twenty-five years.

Patsy wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging the silk robe closer to her flesh. She would show Jackson Colton just how low she could stoop when she went after what was owed her. His father, Graham, had sniffed around her for years trying to bed her before she’d given him what he wanted. Now she intended to see that he continued to pay her the money he’d agreed to.

She had no doubt that, with his son cooling his heels in prison, Graham would continue making the payments she’d demanded. He would most likely do anything to keep her from telling Joe that his brother had sired Teddy. After all, the two million Graham had agreed to pay for her silence was peanuts compared to what he would lose if Joe wrote him out of his will.

“Evidence,” she said, her voice a whisper on the still, night air. The evidence she’d already collected and sent anonymously to Thad Law had clearly caused Jackson some bad moments this afternoon.

She intended to cause him a lot more.

Gone momentarily was the feeling of impending doom that had dogged her for months. Having a good, solid plan—along with the Valium and alcohol that had just begun creeping into her system—calmed her nerves.

She smiled as she pictured the scene earlier in the study when Joe stabbed the air with his finger while he pronounced, “Like the gun the bastard used to take those shots at me. Find that, and you’ve got some real proof.”

“No problem,” Patsy murmured.

She had the proof. It was a matter of time before she could deliver it to the police.

Then she would have Jackson out of her way and his father’s money would start flowing back in.