The Christmas Target. Charlotte Douglas
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of the bed. “Bathroom’s through the door on the left. Closet’s on the right. Join us downstairs when you’re ready.”
“Thank you. I won’t be long.” Looking only slightly dazed, especially in light of all she’d been through, Jessica closed the door behind him when he left.
Ross hurried down the stairs and found Fiona in the living room in her favorite chair by the fire.
“Where’s Courtney?” he asked.
“She’s asleep,” Fiona said. “I fed her early. She was completely tired out.”
Ross gazed at his grandmother with concern. “I wish you’d let me hire someone to look after her. I’m afraid she’s too much for you.”
“The day a two-year-old is too much,” Fiona said with a grimace, “you’ll have to hire someone to look after me.”
He’d had this argument and lost many times before, so he went on to the subject weighing most heavily on his mind.
“You didn’t tell me Rinehart and Associates were sending a woman,” he said in an accusing tone, one he’d seldom used with his grandmother.
“Jessica Landon is the best at what she does, according to Max Rinehart,” Fiona replied easily, apparently unperturbed by his disapproval. She reached for the novel on the table beside her chair, her usual signal that the current discussion was closed.
“It’s not her accounting skills that concern me.” He paused, reluctant to report bad news. “It’s happening again.”
Her hand froze in midair at the grimness in his tone, and the color left her face. “You’re certain?”
Ross shrugged. “Not a hundred percent, but a man would be better able to take care of himself.”
Fiona closed her eyes as if gathering strength, then opened them again. “Another accident?”
“She was run off the road. Said a pickup slammed into her car twice and kept going. Didn’t sound like an accident. And she’d have frozen to death if I hadn’t come along.”
“You have to tell her. Warn her.”
Ross nodded. “But not tonight. She’s been through enough already today. And she’s perfectly safe here.”
Fiona compressed her lips and shook her head. “When is this going to stop?”
Ross sank into the seat across from her, weariness seeping through his bones. “Not until I catch the killer.”
Chapter Three
Jessica surveyed the pleasant room with relief. She’d had visions of sleeping in the rustic equivalent of a bunkhouse, but the McGarrett guest room would rival any suite in Miami’s finest luxury hotels. In addition to an arrangement of pale pink roses and stargazer lilies in a cut-crystal vase, a silver bowl filled with fruit, a box of Godiva chocolates and three books from the latest bestseller list topped the table between two inviting overstuffed chairs centered in front of the fireplace.
Judging from the expensive antique furnishings and the lavish appointments in the room, the McGarretts weren’t hurting for money, Jessica thought. Then she recalled how deceiving appearances could be. Many people who’d lost every cent often continued to put up a good front. Only time and the careful scrutiny of the ranch’s books would reveal the true status of the McGarrett finances.
She longed for a hot bath to soothe her bruises but was unwilling to keep her formidable hostess waiting. Wishing fleetingly for warm wool socks, Jessica changed her stockings, stripped off her sodden clothes and dressed in a navy-blue skirt, white silk blouse and a camel-colored cashmere cardigan. She slipped her feet into low-heeled shoes, which were blessedly dry.
A few minutes later, she joined Fiona and Ross in the living room downstairs. Fiona set aside the book she’d been reading and glanced up with a smile of greeting that reached to her brilliant green eyes.
The woman could have been a fashion model, even at her age, Jessica thought, with her magnificent white hair arranged in Gibson girl fashion that matched the period of her house. Fiona’s fine bone structure, easy grace and sense of style, even in casual clothes, would fit perfectly on any couturier’s runway in Paris or Rome.
Ross pushed to his feet from the opposite chair. The big man would have overpowered an average-size room, but not this expansive space with its ten-foot ceilings. Jessica was struck again by his attractiveness. Not the cultured beauty of his grandmother, but a raw, earthy appeal that set her senses tingling. His expression, like Fiona’s, was welcoming, but with a hint of reserve. Jessica wondered how the sheriff felt about having a stranger living in his house, scrutinizing his finances and making the ultimate recommendation on whether the Shooting Star would be his.
“Bring us a glass of wine, please, Ross.” Fiona gestured Jessica to sit in the chair across from hers.
Ross looked at Jessica. “What would you like?”
“Whatever Mrs. McGarrett’s having will be fine.”
“Call me Fiona,” the older woman said. “And tell me all about Max. How is he?”
“You know Max?” Jessica didn’t know why she felt surprised. Her amiable boss seemed to be acquainted with half the population of the United States.
Fiona smiled, and the expression softened the majestic planes of her face. “We grew up near each other in New York. Our families were friends.”
Ross handed Jessica a glass of white wine, and his big hand brushed hers. With dismay, she realized she not only hadn’t seen the last of the too-charming sheriff, but she was going to be living in the same house with him. For days on end.
Concentrate on business, she ordered herself, and Ross McGarrett won’t be a problem.
She returned her attention to Fiona, but remained aware of Ross, pouring himself a whiskey over ice at the antique sideboard that served as a bar.
“Max is well,” she told her hostess, “and looking forward to his grandchildren coming home for the holidays.”
“You understand your assignment here?” Fiona asked.
“Max explained everything,” Jessica said.
Ross sank onto a sofa nearby, stretched his long legs in front of him and sipped his whiskey. Although he seemed nonchalant, Jessica could tell he was taking in every word of their conversation. She struggled to concentrate on what Fiona was saying.
“Please indulge me,” Fiona said, “and let me restate what I want you to do.”
“You?” Jessica asked in surprise. “I’ve been hired by the trustees.”
“I am the trustee,” Fiona said.
“There’s only one?” Jessica asked.
Fiona dipped her head in her regal fashion. “Since my husband died ten years ago.”
“I see,” Jessica said, even though she thought the entire arrangement odd.
“I’m sure you find the circumstances of the trust…unusual,” Fiona stated, as if reading her mind.
Jessica glanced at Ross, who was studying the ice in his glass, before returning her gaze to Fiona. “It’s not my job to assess the legal contract, only to fulfill the financial obligations of it.”
Fiona nodded in approval. “Ross’s great-great-grandfather set up a trust to make certain the ranch remained intact and in the family. Every McGarrett’s done the same since. When the current owner dies, the heir goes through a period of…I guess you could call it apprenticeship for ten years. After that time, if he’s proved himself capable of operating the ranch to its maximum capacity, the trustees award him ownership.”
“And if he hasn’t?” Jessica asked.
“The