CHAPTER ONE

      “ONE hundred twenty-three thousand dollars sitting in a dormant account?” Tilting back in the executive chair, Mr. Waterman raised a silver eyebrow. “I see you’ve been your usual diligent self, Jayne.”

      “Just doing my job.” Until recently—until last night, in fact—the dry acknowledgment from Jayne Nelson’s boss would have made all the sacrificed evenings of the past week worth it. But yesterday had been her twenty-eighth birthday, and she’d spent it working overtime instead of celebrating with her friend Sylvia.

      The thrill of getting faint praise from the senior partner at Pace Waterman Accountants was gone, vanishing about the same time she bit into her fourth chocolate-frosted cupcake, left over from the ones Sylvia had brought to the coffee room to mark her birthday. They’d gone stale, rather like her life.

      “Nevertheless, Brock Neilson’s widow has every reason to be grateful I designated you as her accountant.” Mr. Waterman casually tossed the file he’d been examining onto the desk.

      Jayne tried to remain detached, difficult since the file represented hours of tedious work.

      “How did you know to look for those CDs when no one else did?” he asked.

      No one else had wanted to put in the effort of auditing the past tax returns. It was a waste of time, the other accountants had told her. But Jayne had suspected something was wrong and decided to pursue her hunch on her own. It wasn’t the first time she’d done so, and it wouldn’t be the last, which was why, at the relatively tender age of twenty-seven—make that twenty-eight—Jayne found herself poised on the threshold of a vice presidency. Unfortunately Mr. Waterman didn’t want to open the door.

      The unsettling thing was that she didn’t care as much as she had yesterday. Maybe it was the cupcakes she’d eaten for dinner.

      Jayne picked up the file she’d brought to his attention. “In 1992, there was a steep drop-off in Mr. Neilson’s reported interest income, which his former accountants explained by maturing certificates of deposit. I checked and there was never any record of the CDs in his subsequent financial statements, nor was there an investment made using those funds.”

      Mr. Waterman shook his head. “He had two in college and one in medical school about that time. My guess is he planned to use the cash for the kids.”

      Jayne withheld her comment on the financially questionable decision to leave a chunk of cash sitting without drawing interest. “Anyway, there wasn’t a record of this money in his financial assets when he hired Pace Waterman,” she assured him.

      Again Mr. Waterman shook his head. “Remarkable piece of detective work. My congratulations.” He stood and offered Jayne his hand.

      Just remember this at my annual review, she thought as she shook it and returned to her office.

      “Amazing Jayne strikes again,” said a familiar voice behind her.

      Jayne grinned. “Listening at the door, Sylvia?”

      “Naturally. It was open.” Sylvia Dennison, a secretary with the insurance company three floors above Pace Waterman, and Jayne’s best friend, fell into step beside her. She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “Hey, that sounded pretty good back there. What did you do this time?”

      Jayne tapped the file folder. “Found money for a widow.”

      “That was noble of you.”

      “And not just any widow—the widow of one of Mr. Waterman’s oldest and dearest friends.”

      “Way to go, Jayne! Noble and self-serving at the same time.” Sylvia gave her a look of approval.

      Jayne pushed open the door to her office. “Must you make everything sound sordid?”

      “Oh, please. Don’t tell me you didn’t think of it.” Sylvia followed her into the office, flopped over the arm of Jayne’s leather couch and swung her leg back and forth. “Anyway, I suppose it was worth spending the whole week and your birthday with a calculator instead of with me.”

      Jayne was busy clearing off her desk, but didn’t miss the petulance in Sylvia’s voice. “You wouldn’t have noticed, except that you’re between boyfriends.”

      “I noticed because days ago you promised to help me put that aubergine rinse in my hair.” Sylvia patted her raven tresses.

      Jayne had doubts about the aubergine, especially after the home perm Sylvia had insisted on giving her. Instead of full, shiny bouncy hair, she had brown dandelion fluff. Women accountants didn’t look particularly professional with dandelion fluff for hair.

      “Well, anyway, we should celebrate tonight.” Sylvia bounced to her feet. “Shall we go to that new club on Richmond where the brokers hang out? Or how about the sports bar with the lawyers?”

      “I can’t tonight.” And Jayne was glad because she hated trailing after Sylvia on her manhunting excursions into Houston’s stylish restaurants. “I’m