Jackson slid a look at the tape recorder sitting beside Law’s notepad. During those summers he’d worked at the D.A.’s office he’d learned never to underestimate cops. Now that he knew where the shooter had stood, he realized Law’s seemingly harmless questions were designed to get his taped admission that he was in nearly the same location as the person who made the attempt on his uncle’s life.
Which he had been. And, Jackson reminded himself, a certain gorgeous, sexy woman could place him in that exact location until he’d dropped out of sight.
His thoughts went back to the instant he’d spied the woman whose fall of blue-black hair and bronzed complexion attested to her Native American heritage. As if drawn to her by some unseen force, he’d made his way through the milling birthday crowd. When he reached her, he’d discovered she was nearly as tall as he, and wand-slim in the black slide of a dress that hugged her delicate curves. Her nose was slender, her cheeks softly curved, her eyebrows finely arched above eyes the color of rich earth.
When he introduced himself, she’d smiled coolly while the candlelight flickering around them transformed her face into a compelling play of light and shadow. He’d been surprised to discover she was Cheyenne James, sister of River James who’d been Hacienda de Alegria’s foreman for years. Throughout the night, he and Cheyenne had talked, drifted apart, yet always seemed to wind up back together. They’d been chatting with River and Jackson’s cousin, Sophie, when Cheyenne had turned his way, her mouth curving in a smile he found beguiling. She asked him to get her a drink, then she excused herself to greet a friend. Just then, the band played a flourishing crescendo. Then Jackson’s father stepped into the center of the makeshift dance floor and announced it was nearing time to toast the evening’s guest of honor. With no waiter hovering to refill their empty glasses, and guests lined up three-deep at the small bars set up around the courtyard, Jackson had decided he would make better time getting drinks from the small wet bar in his uncle’s study. With Cheyenne’s subtle, haunting scent in his lungs, he wove his way across the courtyard toward the service hallway—the shortest route to the study.
Just before he’d stepped out of sight, he glanced back through the crowd and saw that Cheyenne’s gaze had tracked his movements. That she was interested sent a primitive streak of male satisfaction through him. He, too, was interested and he planned to learn a lot more about her than just the fact she was River’s younger sister. Maybe, if the chemistry between them was right, he would find out before the night was over exactly what she wore under that curve-baring dress.
Hearing the gunshot’s thunderclap moments later changed all that. With a dry mouth and hammering pulse, he’d dashed out of the hallway into the panicked crowd. Keeping one eye out for Cheyenne, he’d shoved toward the dance floor to check on his family. To Jackson’s relief, the shot fired at his Uncle Joe had shattered his champagne glass and grazed Joe’s cheek, then lodged harmlessly in an ivy-wrapped column behind him. In the resulting confusion, Jackson had tended his shaken family and the panicked guests, then dealt with the swarm of police that had descended on Hacienda de Alegria. He hadn’t seen Cheyenne again that night.
Two harried days later, when no leads developed on the investigation, urgent Colton business had required him to return to his office in San Diego. Although he’d felt an innate curiosity about Cheyenne, he’d told himself that getting to know the dark-haired beauty simply hadn’t been in the cards. Still, hers wasn’t a face a man could easily forget, and he hadn’t. Over the eleven months since the party, he’d discovered he had memorized it, feature by lovely feature.
Jackson scowled. As with each time he thought of Cheyenne, he felt the now-familiar restlessness stir inside him, as if everything in his world was a half beat out of sync.
Maybe it was. After all, he hadn’t returned to Prosperino three weeks ago only to attend his sister’s wedding. He’d taken extra time off from the law office at Colton Enterprises so he could stay in Prosperino until he made a decision about his life. A decision that wasn’t going to get made while he cooled his heels at the cop shop.
Tiring of Detective Law’s innuendoes, Jackson locked his gaze with the cop’s. “Okay, we’ve established I was at the ranch both times someone took a shot at my uncle.”
“You were more than just at the ranch both times. We also recovered the slug from the second attempt when someone fired a shot into your uncle’s bedroom. We know that the shooter was positioned on the south side of the house.” Law angled his chin. “I responded to the call, I found you outside the door. Your Porsche—its engine still warm—was parked near the garage. Which just happens to be on the south side of the house. You say you drove in alone from San Diego and parked there right after the incident. That puts you in the shooter’s vicinity that night, too.”
“Believe me, Detective, I wish I had seen whoever it was who tried to kill my uncle. I didn’t, so I can’t help you.”
A thought occurred to Jackson and he gave the cop a sardonic look. “You jealous, Law? Is that what this is about?”
Law scowled. “I take it you’re talking about Heather,” he said, referring to the daughter of Peter McGrath, the CFO of Colton Enterprises. And the woman who was now Law’s wife.
“That’s right. She was staying at Hacienda de Alegria when the second attempt occurred. As I recall, you weren’t exactly happy that she and I kept running into each other while I was there. We’re friends, Law. That’s all.”
“Yeah, that’s what my wife says.” Law leaned in, his eyes stony. “The fact that you’re here has nothing to do with her, so leave Heather the hell out of this.”
“Fine. Are we finished?”
“Do you own a handgun, Colton?”
Jackson let out a slow breath. “I keep a .32 Walther in my nightstand at home. It’s registered in my name. I expect you’ve done a records check and already know that.”
“Do you have any other handguns, registered or otherwise?”
That Law hadn’t obtained a search warrant for the Walther told Jackson that the slugs recovered from both crime scenes indicated a different model of gun had been used in the two attempts on his uncle’s life. “No, only the Walther.”
“I understand several Colton Enterprise subsidiaries have buy-out clauses. Which means if your Uncle Joe died, you’d be closer to inheriting a fortune.”
Jackson hesitated. He knew Law’s change in rhythm had been intended to throw him off. “My father, Graham Colton, would inherit.”
“I said you’d be closer to the money,” Law countered, then cocked his head. “Are you familiar with a court case titled Amalgamated Industries vs. Jones?”
The hand Jackson rested against his khaki-clad thigh curled into a fist. Knowing Law had checked so deep into his background that he’d found the obscure, years-old case sent a ripple of unease down his spine. “Since you brought up the case, you know I am.”
“Yeah.” Law tapped a finger against his pad. “A CEO’s son has his drug-dependent father declared incompetent and removed from the company’s leadership. Then the son steps in and takes charge. You, Mr. Colton, are listed as the attorney of record on Amalgamated Industries vs. Jones.”
“Make your point, Detective.”
“That case proves you know how to use the law to remove a father from a company and put a son in control. It’s no secret Joe Colton is both the brains and muscle behind Colton Enterprises, not your father. It’s also no secret that Graham Colton likes to drink and party. A lot.”
Jackson learned long ago how to keep his face unreadable, and he did so now. It would only cement the cop’s theory if he found out about the blackmail money his father had been paying to his aunt. According to an unrepentant Graham, the money was in exchange for Meredith Colton’s promise not to reveal to Joe that Graham had fathered the son