Читать книгу A Baxter's Redemption - Patricia Johns - Страница 9

CHAPTER ONE

ISABEL BAXTER’S STOMACH curdled as she glanced around the sunny living room of her childhood home—a rambling, three-story house just outside Haggerston, Montana. Coming home wasn’t the same since her father’s second marriage, the thought of which still left her angry. The house itself had stood the test of time, but the interior had not. The portrait of her parents was gone, replaced by a jarring abstract painting over the stone fireplace. The removal of that portrait was to be expected, of course, but it still felt like a betrayal to the family they used to be. The antique rocking chair that had belonged to Isabel’s maternal grandmother had also been removed, replaced by a modern monstrosity that looked like a dried orange peel, a cup waiting to embrace the hindquarters of unsuspecting visitors.

Her father, George Baxter, was balding and portly, and he sat in his same old spot in the leather armchair. The family lawyer loomed behind him—a young man with a steely gaze. She knew he was the lawyer the minute she stepped into the room, although she’d never met him. Lawyers all had the same look: well ironed and expressionless. Isabel eyed him for a moment, taking in his broad shoulders, his suit jacket tugging ever so slightly around a muscled chest. She sighed. This was the kind of family reunion she’d expected—the kind that required a lawyer. Baxters were nothing if not prepared.

“Do we really need a lawyer here?” she asked.

A slight smile flickered around the corners of the lawyer’s lips, and she met his gaze. He was muscular with chiseled features and an easy way of standing that made her suddenly more aware of her own appearance. There had been a time when Isabel would have flirted with him, just to see if she could get his attention, but those days were past. She knew better than to flirt since the accident.

“I’m glad you’re here, Princess,” her father replied, ignoring her tartness. “How are you feeling?” Was it her imagination, or was he trying not to look too closely at her face?

She knew what he was getting at. She wasn’t the same daughter that George Baxter had sent off to New York six years earlier. A year ago, she’d been hit by a car, leaving her severely scarred. After a bad reaction to anesthetic where she nearly died on the operating table, she declined further cosmetic surgery. She’d just have to carry on as she was. It wasn’t a decision her father had ever fully embraced.

“I’m fine, Dad. I assume you asked me here to talk business.”

“Yes.” Her father heaved himself to his feet with a grunt. “It’s about the money.”

“What money, specifically?” she asked.

“Your money.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “The doctor says I’ve got to slow down with my heart acting up this way, and I’ve decided to sign over your trust fund now, instead of when you turn thirty.”

“Why?” She pulled her hair away from her face. “What did the doctor say, exactly?”

“I’m not dying, if that’s what you’re getting at,” her father retorted.

“But what did he say?” she pressed.

“Hardening of the arteries. Some fibrillation. Nothing earth-shattering. Your grandfather lived to be ninety-five eating nothing but bacon and eggs, so I’m sure I’ll be just fine. All the same, I’m slowing down.”

“And you’re finally ready for me to run Baxter Land Holdings?” Isabel guessed, her pulse speeding up at the prospect. She’d been angling for this—preparing for it—since she went to college, not that her father had encouraged it. He’d suggested she take a degree in art history. She’d been the one to choose a degree in business, with a minor in marketing.

“Take over?” George shot her an alarmed look. “Heavens, no. But with your accident, and all that, I thought you could use some cheering up—”

Isabel pressed her lips together. Her father had a stranglehold on the family business, and in his eyes, she’d always be his princess—an endearment that came with as many strings as a spider’s web.

“I love you, too, but you know money won’t fix this, right?” she asked blandly.

George gestured to the younger man. She glanced uneasily toward the lawyer, and he smiled, then crossed the room. He wore a nicely tailored suit, but it wasn’t expensive. She knew suits, and this one was store brand.

“Hi, I’m Isabel Baxter,” she said. “George’s daughter, in case you weren’t up to speed there.”

“James Hunter.” He shook her hand, his grasp strong and warm. “Nice to see you again.”

Again? Isabel squinted at him. Have I met him before?

“So come take a look.” Her father went on, ignoring their personal introductions. He held a folder, which he opened. “I’ve requested that your funds be taken out of the investments. There was some good growth, so you’ll be comfortable.” He came to his daughter’s side and pointed to a dollar amount. “It takes a few days for the funds to be released, but I’ll give you the paperwork as soon as it is.”

“Sure.” She nodded. “That would be fine.”

There was movement in the doorway, and Isabel glanced up to see her young stepmother, Britney Baxter. Britney was two years younger than Isabel, and she wore yoga pants and a midriff-baring top, with a towel tossed around her neck as if she’d just finished a workout. If she had, she hadn’t worked up a sweat. To Isabel, Britney’s outfit spoke volumes about her maturity. Technically, this was Britney’s home and she could wander around it dressed as she pleased, but she still looked more like a high school cheerleader than a married woman. It was that tanned midriff that drew Isabel’s eye—a gently domed belly. Reality took a moment to sink in, then her gaze whipped back to her father in shock.

“You’re—” She cleared her throat. “You two are having a baby?”

When her father had married a woman forty years younger than himself, Isabel had considered the possibility of siblings, but somehow she still wasn’t prepared for this.

“Yes.” Her father shrugged. “I wasn’t sure how to tell you, so—”

So they thought they’d announce it with a sports bra and yoga pants? There were better ways to announce these things, and she was uncomfortably aware that this awkward family moment was being played out in front of James Hunter. She glanced in his direction irritably.

“Congratulations,” she said, her throat constricted. “That’s wonderful news.”

It didn’t feel like wonderful news, but she wasn’t going to confess her true feelings at the moment. Any lawyer would be pleased with that.

Her father smiled widely. He gestured toward his young wife. “Come on in, beautiful. We’re done with the business talk.”

Britney padded into the room on bare feet and slid into her husband’s embrace. She eyed Isabel cautiously.

“Well, I should be off,” Isabel said, sucking in a breath. She’d had enough surprises on her first day back in town.

“No, no. You’ll stay here, of course.” George patted Britney’s hip, then released her.

“No, Dad, that’s not a great idea.”

“Why?” her father demanded, glancing between his young wife and his daughter. “There is plenty of space. This is your home. You grew up in this house.” Britney and Isabel had exchanged heated words after the wedding, and they’d never actually made up afterward. But they were expected to forget about all that and act like one big, happy family. Not likely. Britney looked away, her cheeks pink.

“And I’m fully grown now.” Isabel shot her father a smile. “Thanks all the same, Dad, but I need a bit of privacy, too.”

“Fine, fine,” he muttered gruffly. “Suit yourself. You’re staying for supper at least, aren’t you? I asked James here so he could go over a few of the legalities with you. He’s got papers for you to sign, and we could start all of that now—”

“I have a hundred things to do still, so no. Next time. The legalities can wait until the money is transferred, I’m sure.” She smiled—not from happiness but from habit, an automatic coping mechanism she hadn’t stopped using now that her smile lost its power. “I’d better get going.”

Her father shrugged, then stepped forward and enclosed Isabel in a strong hug. “It’s good to see you, Princess.”

“I missed you, too,” she whispered, squeezing him back.

Turning toward the door, she heaved a sigh of relief. She’d been dreading this first visit home after her move back, and now she could tick that off her list of uncomfortable obligations. All she wanted right now was to get as far from this house as possible.

Dad’s having another child.

She knew things were different, but seeing Britney’s pregnant belly had hammered that fact home. Everything—absolutely everything—had changed.

* * *

JAMES WATCHED AS Isabel left the room, her low-heeled pumps tapping against the hardwood floor. Her long dark hair swung halfway down her back, a few inches above her close-fitting blue jeans. She hadn’t lost her ability to dress for her figure over the last decade, and James was reminded of the Isabel from high school—the girl with whom a hundred teenage boys fell in love from afar. He had, too, but she hadn’t been a terribly compassionate person back then. She’d known how much power she wielded over the male population, and she’d used it regularly. Sweet smiles or scathing criticism—she’d use whatever helped get her way. He’d recognized that smile she’d shot her father—he could still see Haggerston’s exploitive beauty queen beneath the scars.

The front door opened and shut, leaving the room in awkward silence.

“It looks like you won’t be needing me, after all,” James said, glancing toward Mr. Baxter. The older man shrugged.

“Actually, there is something you can do for me,” Mr. Baxter replied. He patted Britney’s shoulder, and the young woman hesitated for a moment.

“I’ll leave you boys to the business chatter,” she quipped, and headed for the door. “I thought I’d go shopping this morning, Georgie...”

“Good girl.” Mr. Baxter smiled fondly in his wife’s direction, but he waited until the door was shut before he spoke again. “I need you to keep an eye on my daughter.”

“Isabel?” James couldn’t hide his surprise. “Why?”

“She’s—” Mr. Baxter stopped, frowned. “How to say this... She takes after her mother more than me. She’s not exactly business minded.”

James swallowed a laugh. “Doesn’t she have a bachelor’s degree in business from Yale?”

That constituted some business sense in James’s mind.

Mr. Baxter batted his hand through the air in dismissal. “A degree and an actual instinct for business are two different things. She tried to start up a line of natural soaps and creams a couple of years ago, and it tanked. I’d told her that the market was saturated, but she wouldn’t listen. Hers would be better, she said. Even if they were, it didn’t matter. There was no more interest in skin-care start-ups by fashionistas. Before that, it was a line of scarves, I think—those wispy things women accessorize with. She insisted that all the girls wanted to be like her, and now they could—for the low, low price of thirty-five bucks. She spent a few weeks in front of a sewing machine until she realized she hated sewing, and apparently no one outside this town wanted to be just like her. I could have told her that much, but would she listen to me? Never. She needs guidance with the money I’m signing over to her, and she might not be willing to accept it from me—directly, that is.”

“So you want me to give her your advice?” James clarified.

“And keep me informed.”

This was very quickly inching beyond the scope of his job description, and James glanced around the room while he gathered his thoughts.

“I won’t follow her,” he said, bringing his attention back to Mr. Baxter. “I’m your lawyer, not a private eye.”

“I thought you’d be willing to be somewhat flexible.”

James smiled grimly. He’d never been described as flexible in anything, least of all matters of conscience. “Not that flexible, sir.”

Anger simmered in Mr. Baxter’s eyes, but he nodded and turned away for a moment. “Fine. But give her advice so that she doesn’t do anything stupid, would you?”

“That I can do,” James agreed.

“She wasn’t raised to survive in this world without that pretty face, James. I spoiled her, and I let her think that she was doing things on her own when she never was. I had friends buy two thousand dollars’ worth of scarves with my money. She needs more help than she realizes.”

James was more familiar with his boss’s daughter than the older man even realized. He’d been in her graduating class, and his cousin had dated her. Everyone knew Isabel Baxter.

“Understood, sir.” He glanced at his watch. “Now, unless you wanted to move into another billable hour, I’d best be on my way.”

Mr. Baxter shot him a grin. “All right then. I’ll be in touch.”

The housekeeper showed James to the door, and as he stepped out onto the spacious veranda, he was mildly surprised to see Isabel sitting in a shiny black sedan, the windows down and her head leaning against the headrest. She glanced toward him as he trotted down the stairs. He grimaced inwardly. While he was curious to see if Isabel had changed at all since her disfiguring accident, she still wasn’t high on his list of favorite people. He couldn’t just walk by, though, so he angled his steps toward her car.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

“My car won’t start.” She glanced toward the house. “And I can’t go back in there.”

He nodded. He could understand that, at least. The tension in there had been unmistakable.

“Want me to take a look?” he asked, jutting his chin toward the hood of the car.

She arched a brow—a look she’d perfected years ago, but when she did it now, it tugged at the damaged skin along her temple. “You fix cars, too?” she asked incredulously. “I thought you were the lawyer.”

“I am, but my dad’s a mechanic. I picked up a few tricks.” She really didn’t seem to recognize him, and he wondered why that even surprised him. She’d flirted her way into having him fix her car after a fender bender back in high school, too. But that was when she was “secretly” dating his cousin, Andrew. Of course, she couldn’t tell anyone about their relationship, but she could cash in on James’s skills to hide her bad driving from her father.

She leaned forward from the driver’s seat, stretching to reach something, then the hood clicked and released. She opened the door and got out, meeting him at the front of the car. A waft of vanilla perfume tickled his senses as he took off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He tossed the jacket over the side mirror and lifted the hood.

“So you’re a Yale grad,” he said.

“Hmm.” She leaned closer, watching as his fingers moved over the engine, looking for the issue. He spotted the loose wires almost immediately.

“How long are you back in town?” he asked.

“For as long as I need to. I don’t have a leaving date yet, if that’s what you’re asking.”

James raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything as he tightened the connections. So the prodigal daughter had returned—for now. He doubted that many people in this town would be happy to hear that. Isabel had been a beauty, but she’d also left her mark, Andrew being just one of her casualties. Andrew claimed they were dating for months, but there was no outward sign of it. James had thought his cousin was making it all up until he actually spotted them together one evening. Andrew was a math whiz, and Isabel had needed some tutoring. Apparently, it panned out, because she’d gotten into Yale. James had always suspected she got more than just the tutoring out of Andrew, because she’d continued with the relationship for a few months after the SATs. It was when her friends found out she was dating a poor boy from the raggedy side of town that she’d dumped him and told the school that it was nothing more than tutoring—that Andrew had made it all up. Andrew had been heartbroken and left for boot camp before prom. He was sent to Afghanistan and never did make it home.

We’ll take that road trip together before I go, his cousin had promised... It hadn’t happened.

“Your father hired me as the family’s legal counsel,” James said, dropping the hood back down with a bang. “That includes you.”

“I might be better off getting my own lawyer,” she said. “To protect my interests.”

“Against Britney, you mean,” he clarified.

“Yes.” A spot of color appeared in her cheeks. “You have to admit that things are complicated. I’m not entirely sure that my father has my best interests at heart right now.”

“My job is to offer you legal advice,” James said. “I’m not interested in playing sides. I’m a lawyer, and a good one. Your father is footing the bill. I’ll never tell you his private business and I’ll never tell him yours. If you hire another firm, legal fees will cut into that nest egg your father is signing over to you, but it’s up to you.” He straightened and nodded toward the driver’s seat. “Try again.”

Isabel got back into the car and turned the key. The engine coughed to life.

“Thank you,” she said, the old smooth voice again, a cool mixture of sweetness and indifference. She paused, cleared her throat and changed her tone. “What did you do?”

“Reconnected loose wires on the starter. It happens sometimes.”

“Well...” She smiled. “I’m grateful.”

“No problem.”

She eyed him for a moment. “What are they like?”

“Who?”

“My father and... Britney.”

“Happy,” he said with a shrug.

“You have to say that, don’t you?” Bitterness laced her tone.

“I don’t have to say anything,” he replied. “And I can’t say more than that. Like I said, discretion is part of the job.”

“Of course it is.” She smiled tightly. “Well, thanks again.”

She put the car into gear and pulled away, her tires crunching along the drive.

James was no longer a smitten teen. He’d never acted on his crush on Isabel because Andrew was dating her, but her cruelty was what doused his feelings for her. She was heartless and self-centered.

Would it have been different if she’d had the compassion to sit down and talk to Andrew instead of publicly mocking him? People broke up all the time, and it didn’t end their lives. Would Andrew have made different choices, maybe been more careful over there in the war zone, if her cruelty hadn’t pushed him out of town early? She hadn’t remembered him—and it made him wonder if Andrew had slipped from her memory, as well.

He’d do his job. He’d give her the advice her father wanted her to have, and he’d provide legal counsel should she require it. But after that, Isabel Baxter was on her own.