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