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“I won’t accept that.”
Jamie sat up straighter and looked at him. “Yes, Daniel, you will have to accept that. There are some things in this world that your money can’t buy, and I’m one of them.”
“Did I say anything about money?”
“It’s implied. You’re so used to getting your way that you forget other people have free will.”
“Let me rephrase, then. I don’t accept that you don’t want to find the man who took two lives and ruined two others… That doesn’t excite you?”
She took her time answering. “I would be pleased to prosecute that man as part of my job. But for me, it’s not personal.”
“So this case is nothing personal? Just business?”
She nodded curtly.
“What was that kiss all about, then?”
Her gaze locked with his. Jamie licked her lips and swallowed. “Th-that kiss is immaterial to this discussion. We were talking about the justice system. Our work.”
“You’re right. Immaterial. Completely out of line for me to even bring it up.” With that, he leaned in and kissed her again.
Dear Reader,
Revenge is an ugly thing. I guess that’s why it works so well as a motivation in a novel—it creates instant internal conflict. If the author does her job, the reader will share the character’s outrage and totally understand the desire to strike back; at the same time, the reader knows that taking the law into your own hands is wrong.
Creating that inner conflict is why I write novels. I find it delicious!
In this story, my hero, Daniel, feels a strong desire to strike back at the person who framed him for murder, causing him to spend six miserable years on death row. What better heroine to give him than a law-and-order prosecutor? I hope you enjoy the long journey each of them has to make before they can be together for the long haul.
Best,
Kara Lennox
A Score to Settle
Kara Lennox
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kara Lennox has earned her living at various times as an art director, typesetter, textbook editor and reporter. She’s worked in a boutique, a health club and an ad agency. She’s been an antiques dealer, an artist and even a blackjack dealer. But no work has ever made her happier than writing romance novels. To date, she has written more than sixty books. Kara is a recent transplant to Southern California. When not writing, she indulges in an ever-changing array of hobbies. Her latest passions are bird-watching, long-distance bicycling, vintage jewelry and, by necessity, do-it-yourself home renovation. She loves to hear from readers; you can find her at www.karalennox.com.
For my sister Pat.
You are so good at everything.
I wouldn’t be the person I am today if I hadn’t
tried so hard to keep up with you.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
JAMIE MCNAIR FUMED SILENTLY as she crawled along a traffic-clogged Houston freeway. Who did Daniel Logan think he was, summoning her as if she was one of his lackeys? When she’d heard that the billionaire wanted to overturn one of her verdicts, she’d been anxious to talk to him and set him straight. But on her terms, not his.
Unfortunately, he’d gone over her head, which tweaked her all the more. Now, because her boss was scared of Daniel and his charitable foundation, she had to make a command performance.
A meeting at the Project Justice office would have been tolerable. But no, Logan had decided he wanted to meet her at his home.
She hated being manipulated. But since Logan had forced her into this meeting, she intended to make it count. In her briefcase she had every piece of information she needed to convince Logan that Christopher Gables was right where he belonged—on death row for brutally killing his business partner.
She had far better things to do than cater to the whims of a spoiled, supposedly do-gooder billionaire. Logan might be wealthy and powerful, but he was also a convicted murderer himself. Her own father had prosecuted Daniel many years ago, and her dad hadn’t been one to make mistakes.
To prepare for the meeting, she had learned everything she could about Logan. She’d found lots of data about his arrest and trial, as well as his family’s oil company. Unfortunately, personal information was in short supply.
The most recent picture she had found was a blurry wire-service photo of him the day he was released from prison six years ago. Back then, he’d been a tall, thin, pale man with a bad haircut. In photos from his trial—more than twelve years ago—he’d looked like a handsome but scared frat boy.
A few minutes later she pulled up to a set of ornate wrought-iron gates in tony River Oaks, one of the richest zip codes in America. She was steamed, but she couldn’t deny a certain curiosity to see the inside of this place. From the outside, it looked like a nineteenth-century English estate home, something that might be found in a Jane Austen novel, complete with ivy-covered walls and worn cobbles forming the driveway.
Jamie was about to get out of her car and walk up to the intercom when the gates opened quietly on well-oiled hinges. She pulled her car—an aging Subaru that must have looked as out of place as a donkey in church—down the cobbled driveway toward the house.
When she got out, one of her heels caught in the cobbles and she turned her ankle. Good night. Who made their driveway out of real cobblestones? Limping slightly and silently cursing at the added annoyance, she made her way to the front door; two huge panels of carved oak that looked as if they belonged on an ancient castle.
She reached for the bell, but before she could press it the door opened.
“Ms. McNair, please come in.”
Standing in the doorway was a beautiful young woman with a sleek, blond bob. She wore a snug lavender cashmere sweater, skinny black pants and pointy-toed boots. Though Jamie wasn’t exactly a clotheshorse, she knew quality when she saw it.
Even Daniel’s servants were well-to-do.
“Thank you. You must be Jillian.” Jamie had recognized the slight British accent as belonging to Daniel Logan’s personal assistant.
Inside, the foyer was no less impressive than the outside, soaring three stories to a peaked roof with stained-glass windows that shot beams of colorful light to the white marble floor below. At the center of the foyer was a fountain in the shape of a boy riding a sea horse, like something one might find in ancient Greece. On the walls were oil paintings in gilt frames, museum-quality portraits and landscapes.
Holy mother of…was that a Van