Читать книгу Risking It All... - Yvonne Lindsay, Brenda Jackson - Страница 13
ОглавлениеShe picked up a couple of suits and blouses and a pair of shoes at a local Macy’s. It was nearly four by the time she made it back to New Dawn to go over the books. Her eyes darted about, on high alert for any signs of John Fairweather. But she didn’t see his imposing form anywhere. He wasn’t in the lobby or the elevator. Or leaning over someone’s cubicle on the office floor.
He also wasn’t in his office, where she sat at the round table, which was inconveniently at coffee table height, and resumed her journey through the files. Where was he? He might be angry that she’d blown him off at lunch. Still, he needed to realize that she was here to do a job, and they’d already spent way too much time together. It would probably be more appropriate to the situation if they weren’t interacting at all. On the other hand, her BIA contact had said that often the best information came during an inadvertent slip in casual conversation, so she should spend as much time as possible with the tribal members.
She shook her head. This whole situation was far too confusing for her. Just the fact that Lynn could encourage her one minute and warn her off the next proved that nothing about it made sense. She’d rather be surrounded by quiet and predictable columns of figures.
Which, supposedly, she was right now. Unfortunately the atmosphere vibrated with the absence of John Fairweather.
Constance stayed until seven-thirty and pored over the files he’d shown her and plenty he hadn’t. Nothing aroused her suspicion. If anything, John’s accounting methods were somewhat redundant and labor-intensive, and could benefit from some streamlining and a software upgrade.
Relief mingled with disappointment as she descended to the lobby without encountering him. Apparently he’d already forgotten about her and moved on to new pastures. He was probably out on the town right now with some willowy model.
She strode through the lobby, challenging herself not to look around for him. Why did she want to see him? All he did was get her flustered. As Lynn had pointed out, he was a notorious playboy and Constance was peering behind the curtains of his successful operation.
Still, it had been nice of him to personally bring her to the hotel last night, and to pick up her car this morning. On the other hand, if he had her car moved, why hadn’t they brought it right to the hotel instead of to some expensive restaurant, where he had apparently intended to continue his inappropriate seduction?
She made her way through the parking lot to her car, brain spinning. Was she upset that he wasn’t here to flirt with her and harass her? She should be appalled and disgusted—and suspicious—of his attempts to seduce her. Red flags stuck out of this mess in every direction. Her career at Creighton Waterman would be ruined, and she could lose her accounting credentials, if anyone learned about that kiss. Yet she’d as much as told Lynn that she was attracted to John.
Now she was thinking about him as John?
What was happening to her?
* * *
The next morning she arrived early enough to be the first person in the offices. She’d just settled into browsing through some figures, when John’s deep, melodious “Good morning” made her jump. Which was ridiculous since she sat in his office.
“Hello, Mr. Fairweather.” She said it as primly as possible. She didn’t want him to have any idea of what he’d been doing to her in her dreams last night.
“Mr. Fairweather? Don’t you think we’re a little beyond that? In fact, I was thinking I should call you Connie.”
She blinked rapidly. “No one calls me Connie.”
“All the more reason.” He sat down on the opposite side of the round table. “What’s your nickname?”
“I don’t have one.”
“I don’t believe you.” He leaned back. “What do your folks call you?”
“Constance. It’s what they named me, so I guess they like it. What do yours call you?”
“John.” His eyes twinkled. “So you do have a point. You look great this morning. Did you finally get some sleep?”
Constance felt heat rising to her cheeks. “I did, thank you. The Holiday Inn is very nice.”
“I’m sure it is.” He cocked his head. “Shame about the twenty-minute drive.”
“I don’t mind.” Why was she getting flustered?
“I’ll try not to take it personally.”
Of course she was getting flustered. He was staring right at her and flirting.
She watched as he rose from the chair, bowed slightly and left the room. She stared after him, through the open door. Part of her wanted to slam the door and sag against it; another much less reliable part of her wanted to run after him and call, “But wait!”
She closed the door quietly, but resisted turning the lock. As soon as she sat down again, her phone rang and she jumped as if she’d been stung. It was Nicola Moore from the BIA, according to the display. She answered it with as much professional dignity as she could manage.
“Hello, Constance. How are things?”
“Fine. Everything’s fine.”
“I heard about the fire. I hope that hasn’t shaken you up too much.”
“It was a shock, but luckily there was no loss of life.” She kept quiet about John’s role in helping at the fire. There was no need for Nicola to know how much time they’d spent together.
“Have you had a chance to get to know some of the key players yet?”
She hesitated. She wanted to say, I’m an accountant. I’m better with numbers than people, but she knew that would be unprofessional. “Sure, I’ve spoken with several.”
“Don’t be afraid to get a feel for their personal business. That can often be the most revealing information.”
“Uh, sure.” Her response wasn’t too professional. Still, the request seemed odd. Maybe she just wasn’t familiar enough with this kind of work. She knew the BIA regularly conducted audits of various Indian ventures, so they must know what they were doing. “I’ll do my best.”
She frowned as she hung up. John had done a pretty good job keeping her safely sequestered in his office and away from people. Maybe it was a good idea to move around and take a look at the numbers from the casino floor. There was no reason she couldn’t observe the tellers in action, taking people’s hard-earned money. It might help stir up her righteous indignation, which seemed to have cooled a bit. She needed to remind herself what this whole enterprise was all about. From an early age, she’d been taught that gambling was wrong, and she still didn’t like it much.
She shoved the cap on her pen and put away the latest files she’d looked at. All predictably clean and tidy and all columns adding up to the right amounts. Maybe she was taking John’s operation too much at face value. Time to get out there and look under the hood. Feeling like an intrepid reporter, she lifted her bag and headed for the door. She scanned the floor quickly to make sure John wasn’t around. Nope. Just two employees sitting quietly at their computers, so she headed downstairs.
She approached the area where the cashiers sat with some trepidation. They were behind a barrier, like at a train station, but it was decorated to look more like an elegant bar than a check-cashing joint. To gain entrance she’d have to go in through the back, and she wasn’t sure if they’d let her.
She opened a door marked “staff only,” rather surprised that it wasn’t locked.
“Can I help you?” A pretty girl with long, curly black hair stood in the hallway behind the door.
“My name’s Constance Allen, I’m—”
The girl thrust her hand out. “I know exactly who you are. John told us you might want to see back here. I’m Cecily Dawson. Come in.” She smiled, though Constance saw a hint of suspicion in her eyes. Hardly surprising under the circumstances.
“Is it okay if I watch the cashiers for a while?”
“Sure, follow me.” She led Constance into the large room, where all the cashiers sat along one wall facing out. Cecily beckoned to a dark-skinned man standing behind the row of cashiers, tapping something into his phone. “Darius, this is Constance Allen.”
He pocketed his phone and walked toward her. “A pleasure to meet you, Constance. John told us all about you.” His handshake was firm and authoritative. He held her gaze, and her hand, with confidence. He was almost as dangerously handsome as John.
“Is there somewhere I can sit down, out of the way?”
“No need to be out of the way.” He touched her arm, and she stifled the urge to flinch. “Come stand with me and watch the whole operation.”
“Darius manages the cashiers. He’s always on the lookout for trouble.”
“In whatever form it may arrive.” He shot her a dark gaze filled with mischief.
Constance blinked. “I don’t want to get in your way.”
“If you’re in my way, I’ll move.” His half smile contained a hint of suggestion. He was flirting with her, too? Maybe this was part of their shtick at the casino. Constance was beginning to regret coming down here. “Each cash register records a sale in our central system and all the records are checked four times a day against the takings. I watch the customers to see if anyone’s acting suspicious. It’s my job to look for cracks in the system, too, so let me know if you think we could improve upon anything.”
“Do you get a lot of suspicious activity?”
“Not so far. We have a lot of controls in place to prevent employees from getting tempted to put their hand in the till. That’s more of a problem than the customers at some casinos.”
“Are you all members of the Nissequot tribe?”
“Cecily and I are, and Brianna at the end.” He pointed to a blonde girl counting out cash at high speed. “Frank, Tessa and Marie are just hoping to marry into the tribe one day.” He grinned when Marie, a middle-aged woman in a conservative suit, turned to blow him a kiss. “But we’re one big happy family.”
His phone beeped and he checked the screen. “Our fearless leader is heading this way,” he said to the cashiers. “Look like you’re working.” He winked at her.
Constance pretended she hadn’t seen it. And now John was coming? She braced herself. The cashiers dispensed money with warm customer service and brisk efficiency. They joked and seemed to be enjoying themselves. It wasn’t like this at Creighton Waterman. Joviality was frowned upon. In fact, one junior accountant, Daniel Bono, had recently been let go for smiling too much in meetings, or at least that was the rumor.
Customers were streaming into the casino, which struck Constance as a little odd since it was a Wednesday morning. “Why are so many people here at this time of day?”
“We have tour buses pick them up in Boston, Worcester, Springfield. We’re adding more routes all the time. A lot of our customers are retirees. We run a brisk trade at the nursing homes.”
“Should the elderly be gambling with their life savings?” She felt her brow rise.
Darius’s wicked smile reappeared. “Maybe their heirs don’t think so, but it’s their money, right?”
She shook her head. “I don’t get why people want to do this.”
“It’s fun. Like buying a lottery ticket.”
“Do you gamble?”
He shook his head. “John discourages us from gambling. He thinks it’s better to put your money in the bank. As far as I know, Don Fairweather is the only gambler in the family. Have you met him?”
“I have. He seems like quite a character.”
“I heartily agree.”
John burst into the room at that moment. His piercing gaze zeroed in on her. “I was looking for you.”
“Now you’ve found me.” She tilted her chin up, proud that she managed to sound so calm. “I was just observing how the cashiers work.”
“I see you’ve met my cousin Darius. He only graduated from college two years ago and he’s turning into my right-hand man.”
Darius smiled. “I’ve learned everything from the best.”
John put his arm around Darius. “He moved here all the way from L.A. to join the tribe. We’re working on the rest of his branch of the family.”
“They’re not quite ready to move into the backwoods.” Darius shrugged. “But the way things are going, this won’t be the backwoods for long.”
John looked at Constance for a moment. “I’d like to show you around some more.”
“I think I’ve seen everything there is to see. I came through the gaming rooms and passed the slot machines on my way over here.”
“Not just the casino and hotel. The whole reservation.”
She felt herself frown. Was he trying to shunt her away from here for some reason? She’d barely had time to observe anything. Suspicion crept over her.
On the other hand, she had a feeling Nicola Moore would want her to see as much of the place as possible. “Okay.”
“Excellent. We’ll start with the museum. Darius can tell you what a passion of mine that has become.”
Darius nodded. “It’s a labor of love, all right. And thousands of hours of expert research.”
“It’s not easy to uncover history that’s been deliberately buried. Let’s go.” John gestured toward the door, and she went ahead of him, nodding and smiling to the other employees, and grateful that John hadn’t tried to take her hand or put his arm around her.
They walked back through the gaming rooms to the lobby. Retirees were busy wasting their savings in the slot machines, and a surprisingly large number of other people were hunched over the tables as well.
“I didn’t know you had a museum.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know.” He smiled mysteriously. “All of it good, of course.”
“If you’re covering up a fraud, you’re doing it very well.”
“I take pride in everything I do.” He lifted a brow slightly, taunting her.
“Are you trying to make me suspicious?” She was conscious of matching his stride as they strolled out of the gaming room and across the lobby.
“Nothing could be further from my mind.” Then he touched her. Her stomach drew in and her pulse quickened as he rested his hand at the base of her spine and ushered her though a doorway she’d never noticed before, marked “Hall of Heritage.”
It led into a large, gallery-like room with polished wood floors and high walls. Glass cases held artifacts and sleek, printed text and pictures decorated the walls. “It looks like a real museum.” She walked ahead of him, curious. One of the first exhibits was a glass case containing a sheaf of age-tinted pages and a quill pen. There was a blown-up photograph of the front page on the wall next to it.
“That’s the original treaty between the Nissequot and the governor of Massachusetts in 1648. Two thousand acres of land was given to us then.”
“Two thousand? I thought the reservation was less than two hundred.”
“They chipped away at it bit by bit over the years.”
“The state?”
He shook his head. “Mostly private individuals, farmers, businessmen, greedy people.”
“Your ancestors must have sold it to them.”
“I could say that greedy people come in all creeds and colors, but research has taught me to give my ancestors the benefit of the doubt and respect that they were just trying to survive.”
“You can’t really fault them for that. Apparently they managed.” She smiled at him. The museum didn’t have that many items, but they were carefully arranged and displayed with a good deal of written information accompanying them. A long green cloak in one case caught her eye. It didn’t have feathers or beading, but an embroidered trim in black brocade.
“Not what you’d expect, is it?” He looked at her curiously.
“I don’t know what I’d expect.”
“People seem to want baskets and moccasins and old pots. Precontact stuff. They forget that the history of the Nissequot continues after the settlers arrived. That cloak was worn by Sachem John Fairweather, the man I was named after, when he opened the doors to the first free school in this part of Massachusetts. It remained open until 1933, when the last pupil dropped out to look for work during the Depression.”
“Is the building still there?” She could see a grainy photograph of six people in Victorian-era clothing standing outside a neat white building.
“It is indeed. I’m restoring it along with my grandparents’ old farmhouse.”
“That’s very cool. I have no idea of my own family’s history before my grandparents’ generation.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “I don’t suppose any of us thought it was that interesting.”
“Where is your family from, originally?”
“I don’t know. All over, I suppose. Maybe that’s the problem. It’s easy to get excited about ancestry when it’s all from one place with a distinct culture. If one person’s from Poland and another from Scotland and another from Italy or Norway, no one really cares.”
“Well, the truth is that the Nissequot are from all over the place, at this point. I don’t even know who my own father was. The Fairweathers are my mother’s family. Sometimes you just have to pick a common thread and go with it, and that’s what we’re doing here. We did find an eighteenth-century Bible with the New Testament written out phonetically in the Nissequot language, though. That’s our biggest coup so far. A scholar at Harvard is putting together a Nissequot dictionary by comparing it with a contemporary English version.”
She looked up at an enlarged line drawing of a man and woman in more traditional-looking dress. “Is that how you imagine your ancestors looked?”
“Nope. That’s a real drawing done by the daughter of one of the first governors of Massachusetts in her personal journal. It was found by relentless digging through old records and hoping for the best. It’s time-consuming and way outside my realm of expertise, but it’s all coming together piece by piece.”
“Impressive.”
He led her through the gallery, then disarmed the emergency exit with a key code and pushed through an exterior door out into the bright sunlight. A large black truck was parked right behind the building. “My unofficial vehicle. Get in.”
“Where are we going?”
“To meet my grandparents.” Curious, she climbed in. His truck wasn’t quite as pristine as his sedan. He lifted a pile of papers off the passenger seat so she could sit down. There was an unopened can of soda in the cup holder, and music—the Doors—started as soon as he turned on the engine. There was also a Native American–looking thing with feathers on it hanging from the rearview mirror. “They’re going to like you. I can tell.”
“Why?” They were hardly likely to appreciate someone who was there for the express purpose of digging up dirt on their reservation.
“You’re nice.”
“Nice? I’m not nice at all.”
His loud laugh echoed through the cab. “True, it was cold of you to blow me off at lunch yesterday. But they’ll think you’re nice.”
She glanced at her reflection in the wing mirror nearest to her. She wasn’t sure anyone had accused her of being nice before. Organized, efficient, polite, helpful, exacting, prim, persnickety...a range of flattering and not so flattering words sprang to mind, but nice was not among them. “I’m not sure that nice is good in my line of work.”
“Maybe you’re in the wrong line of work?” He shot her a challenging glance.
“Look who’s talking.”
“I’m nice.” He glanced in the rearview mirror, then over at her. She jerked her eyes from his gaze and stared out the window, taking in how they were traveling along another featureless wooded road to nowhere. “Ask anyone.”
“I’m not sure that’s the first word that would spring to mind if I asked someone to describe you. I’d think bullheaded, relentless and determined would be right up there. And that’s just going from the newspaper articles I read about you.”
“Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.”
“I don’t, but where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire.” That was one of the first tenets of forensic accounting. The tricky part was finding a live ember after someone had carefully tried to put the fire out.
“They do say I’m an arrogant SOB. I’m guessing you’d agree with that.” She saw the corner of his mouth lift in a smile.
“For sure.” She felt her own treacherous mouth smile along. “And they say you cooked up the entire Nissequot tribe just so you could open a casino and rake in billions.”
“That’s pretty much true.” He turned and stared right at her. “At least that’s how it started, but it’s snowballed into a lot more than that.”
“Don’t you think it’s wrong to exploit your heritage for profit?”
“Nope.” He looked straight ahead as they turned off one winding road onto another. “My ancestors survived war, smallpox, racism and more than four hundred years of being treated like second-class citizens. Hell, they weren’t even American citizens until 1924. The powers that be did everything they could to grind us out of existence and they very nearly succeeded. I don’t feel at all bad about taking advantage of the system that tried to destroy us.” His voice was cool as usual, but she could hear the passion beneath his calm demeanor. “If I can do something to lift up the people who’ve survived, then I feel pretty damn good about it.”
Constance had no idea what to say as they pulled up in front of a neat yellow neocolonial house with a front porch and a three-car garage.
John had jumped out of the car and opened her door before she managed to gather her thoughts. “What’re you waiting for?”
“Uh, I don’t know.” She’d never felt more lost for words around anyone. “Is this the original farmhouse?” she asked, taking advantage of his offered hand as she climbed down from the cab.
“Oh, no. We just built this three years ago. The old place was kind of a wreck. No insulation, no real heat and A/C. My grandparents were ready to move into someplace shiny and new.”
The front door opened and a white-haired man appeared on the front porch. “Hey, Big John.”
“His name is John as well?”
“Yes.” They walked up the slate front path.
“Does that make you Little John?”
He smiled. “I suppose it does. But if you call me that I won’t be responsible for my actions.”
She wanted to laugh. As they climbed the steps she could see that the younger John towered over his grandfather by at least eight inches and was fifty-plus pounds heavier, all of it solid muscle.
“This is Constance. She’s come here all the way from Ohio to be a thorn in my side.”
Big John stuck out a gnarled hand. “Pleased to meet you, Constance.” He shook her hand with warmth, using both hands to embrace it. “It’s not easy to be a thorn in this man’s side. His hide is too tough. Come in.”
She followed him into a sunlit foyer, where they were greeted by a tall, rather beautiful woman of about seventy. “This is my mom, Phyllis. She’s actually my grandmother, but she raised me so I’ve always called her Mom.”
“Hello, Constance.” She also had a firm handshake. Constance could see where John got his inquisitive gaze. She thought it was cute that he called her Mom. “It’s not often that John brings a young lady to visit us.” Her bright eyes scanned Constance from head to toe.
“Oh, I’m actually not...” Not what? A young lady? She glanced nervously at John.
“Not what?” he said unhelpfully.
“I’m here on business.” She glanced from his grandmother to his grandfather. “For the Bureau of Indian Affairs.”
“Is that so,” said Big John. His expression hardened. She was beginning to get the impression that the BIA was not a much-loved organization.
“I was just showing her our museum. Since she’s interested in Indian affairs and all.” Constance saw a smile tugging at the corner of John’s mouth. “Then I thought she should meet the real reasons we’re all here. My mother died when I was young,” he told her, “and my grandparents brought me up to be aware of our Nissequot roots. I have to admit that when my friends played cowboys and Indians I wanted to be a cowboy so I could have the gun.” He smiled mischievously. “And I wasn’t all that interested in hearing stories about how the world was created on the back of a turtle.”
His grandfather laughed. “He just wanted to know if the Nissequot liked to fight.”
“But they stubbornly persisted in teaching me everything they knew, and it must have taken root somewhere under my thick hide, because I remembered it all.”
“How did you know the legends yourselves? Are they all written down somewhere?” Constance couldn’t help her curiosity.
“Some stories are. Others are recited or sung,” replied Phyllis. “As long as there’s one person in each generation left to pass the stories along, they don’t die out. Even the family members who’ve come back to us from places like Chicago and L.A. knew something about their heritage—a song their grandmother used to sing, or just that they were from the Nissequot tribe, even though no one else had ever heard of it. We’re so blessed to have John. He’s the kind of leader needed to bring the tribe back from near extinction and make it flourish again.”
“And there I thought I was just trying to make a buck.” He winked at Constance.
“The spirit moves in mysterious ways,” said his grandfather. “Sometimes none of us are sure what we’re doing until we can look back later. We thought we were trying to run a dairy operation, but we were really keeping our claim on the land going until John was ready to take over.”
“John bought us eight cows last Christmas as a present.” Phyllis smiled at him.
“Beef cattle,” John cut in. “Aberdeen Angus. No more milking.” He shrugged. “The place didn’t feel right with no cattle on it.”
“He missed the sound they make.”
“They’re an investment. Good breeding stock.”
Phyllis smiled at Constance. “He’s a lot more sentimental than he’d have you believe.”
John huffed. “Nonsense. We’d better get going. I wanted Constance to see that we’re not just numbers on a balance sheet or names on a census.”
“It was nice to meet you.” Constance smiled and waved goodbye, then followed John, who was already halfway out the door. His grandparents stood looking after them, amusement glowing on their faces. He bounded down the front steps and jumped back into the car. The engine was already running by the time she maneuvered herself into her seat.
“They seem very nice.”
“Like me.” He winked.
“I have to admit that you do seem nicer than all the media stories make you out to be.”
“I told you not to believe everything you read. Don’t start thinking I’m a pushover, though. I’m as ruthless as I need to be.” He tilted his stony jaw as if to prove it.
“Ruthless, huh?”
He focused his dark eyes on her as they paused at the end of the driveway. A shiver of arousal jolted her and she remembered the alarming power he had over her. “Merciless.”
John Fairweather knew exactly what he was doing at every moment. Including when he’d kissed her. And she’d better not forget that.
