A HIGH STAKES SEDUCTION Page 6

  “I could say that greedy people come in all creeds and colors, but research has taught me to give my ancestors the benefit of the doubt and respect that they were just trying to survive.”

  “You can’t really fault them for that. Apparently they managed.” She smiled at him. The museum didn’t have that many items, but they were carefully arranged and displayed with a good deal of written information accompanying them. A long green cloak in one case caught her eye. It didn’t have feathers or beading, but an embroidered trim in black brocade.

  “Not what you’d expect, is it?” He looked at her curiously.

  “I don’t know what I’d expect.”

  “People seem to want baskets and moccasins and old pots. Precontact stuff. They forget that the history of the Nissequot continues after the settlers arrived. That cloak was worn by Sachem John Fairweather, the man I was named after, when he opened the doors to the first free school in this part of Massachusetts. It remained open until 1933, when the last pupil dropped out to look for work during the Depression.”

  “Is the building still there?” She could see a grainy photograph of six people in Victorian-era clothing standing outside a neat white building.

  “It is indeed. I’m restoring it along with my grandparents’ old farmhouse.”

  “That’s very cool. I have no idea of my own family’s history before my grandparents’ generation.”

  “Why not?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t suppose any of us thought it was that interesting.”

  “Where is your family from, originally?”

  “I don’t know. All over, I suppose. Maybe that’s the problem. It’s easy to get excited about ancestry when it’s all from one place with a distinct culture. If one person’s from Poland and another from Scotland and another from Italy or Norway, no one really cares.”

  “Well, the truth is that the Nissequot are from all over the place, at this point. I don’t even know who my own father was. The Fairweathers are my mother’s family. Sometimes you just have to pick a common thread and go with it, and that’s what we’re doing here. We did find an eighteenth-century Bible with the New Testament written out phonetically in the Nissequot language, though. That’s our biggest coup so far. A scholar at Harvard is putting together a Nissequot dictionary by comparing it with a contemporary English version.”

  She looked up at an enlarged line drawing of a man and woman in more traditional-looking dress. “Is that how you imagine your ancestors looked?”

  “Nope. That’s a real drawing done by the daughter of one of the first governors of Massachusetts in her personal journal. It was found by relentless digging through old records and hoping for the best. It’s time-consuming and way outside my realm of expertise, but it’s all coming together piece by piece.”

  “Impressive.”

  He led her through the gallery, then disarmed the emergency exit with a key code and pushed through an exterior door out into the bright sunlight. A large black truck was parked right behind the building. “My unofficial vehicle. Get in.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To meet my grandparents.” Curious, she climbed in. His truck wasn’t quite as pristine as his sedan. He lifted a pile of papers off the passenger seat so she could sit down. There was an unopened can of soda in the cup holder, and music—the Doors—started as soon as he turned on the engine. There was also a Native American–looking thing with feathers on it hanging from the rearview mirror. “They’re going to like you. I can tell.”

  “Why?” They were hardly likely to appreciate someone who was there for the express purpose of digging up dirt on their reservation.

  “You’re nice.”

  “Nice? I’m not nice at all.”

  His loud laugh echoed through the cab. “True, it was cold of you to blow me off at lunch yesterday. But they’ll think you’re nice.”

  She glanced at her reflection in the wing mirror nearest to her. She wasn’t sure anyone had accused her of being nice before. Organized, efficient, polite, helpful, exacting, prim, persnickety...a range of flattering and not so flattering words sprang to mind, but nice was not among them. “I’m not sure that nice is good in my line of work.”

  “Maybe you’re in the wrong line of work?” He shot her a challenging glance.

  “Look who’s talking.”

  “I’m nice.” He glanced in the rearview mirror, then over at her. She jerked her eyes from his gaze and stared out the window, taking in how they were traveling along another featureless wooded road to nowhere. “Ask anyone.”

  “I’m not sure that’s the first word that would spring to mind if I asked someone to describe you. I’d think bullheaded, relentless and determined would be right up there. And that’s just going from the newspaper articles I read about you.”

  “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.”

  “I don’t, but where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire.” That was one of the first tenets of forensic accounting. The tricky part was finding a live ember after someone had carefully tried to put the fire out.

  “They do say I’m an arrogant SOB. I’m guessing you’d agree with that.” She saw the corner of his mouth lift in a smile.

  “For sure.” She felt her own treacherous mouth smile along. “And they say you cooked up the entire Nissequot tribe just so you could open a casino and rake in billions.”

  “That’s pretty much true.” He turned and stared right at her. “At least that’s how it started, but it’s snowballed into a lot more than that.”

  “Don’t you think it’s wrong to exploit your heritage for profit?”

  “Nope.” He looked straight ahead as they turned off one winding road onto another. “My ancestors survived war, smallpox, racism and more than four hundred years of being treated like second-class citizens. Hell, they weren’t even American citizens until 1924. The powers that be did everything they could to grind us out of existence and they very nearly succeeded. I don’t feel at all bad about taking advantage of the system that tried to destroy us.” His voice was cool as usual, but she could hear the passion beneath his calm demeanor. “If I can do something to lift up the people who’ve survived, then I feel pretty damn good about it.”

  Constance had no idea what to say as they pulled up in front of a neat yellow neocolonial house with a front porch and a three-car garage.

  John had jumped out of the car and opened her door before she managed to gather her thoughts. “What’re you waiting for?”

  “Uh, I don’t know.” She’d never felt more lost for words around anyone. “Is this the original farmhouse?” she asked, taking advantage of his offered hand as she climbed down from the cab.

  “Oh, no. We just built this three years ago. The old place was kind of a wreck. No insulation, no real heat and A/C. My grandparents were ready to move into someplace shiny and new.”

  The front door opened and a white-haired man appeared on the front porch. “Hey, Big John.”

  “His name is John as well?”

  “Yes.” They walked up the slate front path.

  “Does that make you Little John?”

  He smiled. “I suppose it does. But if you call me that I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

  She wanted to laugh. As they climbed the steps she could see that the younger John towered over his grandfather by at least eight inches and was fifty-plus pounds heavier, all of it solid muscle.

  “This is Constance. She’s come here all the way from Ohio to be a thorn in my side.”

  Big John stuck out a gnarled hand. “Pleased to meet you, Constance.” He shook her hand with warmth, using both hands to embrace it. “It’s not easy to be a thorn in this man’s side. His hide is too tough. Come in.”

  She followed him into a sunlit foyer, where they were greeted by a tall, rather beautiful woman of about seventy. “This is my mom, Phyllis. She’s actually my grandmother, but she raised me so I’ve always called her Mom.”

  “
Hello, Constance.” She also had a firm handshake. Constance could see where John got his inquisitive gaze. She thought it was cute that he called her Mom. “It’s not often that John brings a young lady to visit us.” Her bright eyes scanned Constance from head to toe.

  “Oh, I’m actually not...” Not what? A young lady? She glanced nervously at John.

  “Not what?” he said unhelpfully.

  “I’m here on business.” She glanced from his grandmother to his grandfather. “For the Bureau of Indian Affairs.”

  “Is that so,” said Big John. His expression hardened. She was beginning to get the impression that the BIA was not a much-loved organization.

  “I was just showing her our museum. Since she’s interested in Indian affairs and all.” Constance saw a smile tugging at the corner of John’s mouth. “Then I thought she should meet the real reasons we’re all here. My mother died when I was young,” he told her, “and my grandparents brought me up to be aware of our Nissequot roots. I have to admit that when my friends played cowboys and Indians I wanted to be a cowboy so I could have the gun.” He smiled mischievously. “And I wasn’t all that interested in hearing stories about how the world was created on the back of a turtle.”

  His grandfather laughed. “He just wanted to know if the Nissequot liked to fight.”

  “But they stubbornly persisted in teaching me everything they knew, and it must have taken root somewhere under my thick hide, because I remembered it all.”

  “How did you know the legends yourselves? Are they all written down somewhere?” Constance couldn’t help her curiosity.

  “Some stories are. Others are recited or sung,” replied Phyllis. “As long as there’s one person in each generation left to pass the stories along, they don’t die out. Even the family members who’ve come back to us from places like Chicago and L.A. knew something about their heritage—a song their grandmother used to sing, or just that they were from the Nissequot tribe, even though no one else had ever heard of it. We’re so blessed to have John. He’s the kind of leader needed to bring the tribe back from near extinction and make it flourish again.”

  “And there I thought I was just trying to make a buck.” He winked at Constance.

  “The spirit moves in mysterious ways,” said his grandfather. “Sometimes none of us are sure what we’re doing until we can look back later. We thought we were trying to run a dairy operation, but we were really keeping our claim on the land going until John was ready to take over.”

  “John bought us eight cows last Christmas as a present.” Phyllis smiled at him.

  “Beef cattle,” John cut in. “Aberdeen Angus. No more milking.” He shrugged. “The place didn’t feel right with no cattle on it.”

  “He missed the sound they make.”

  “They’re an investment. Good breeding stock.”

  Phyllis smiled at Constance. “He’s a lot more sentimental than he’d have you believe.”

  John huffed. “Nonsense. We’d better get going. I wanted Constance to see that we’re not just numbers on a balance sheet or names on a census.”

  “It was nice to meet you.” Constance smiled and waved goodbye, then followed John, who was already halfway out the door. His grandparents stood looking after them, amusement glowing on their faces. He bounded down the front steps and jumped back into the car. The engine was already running by the time she maneuvered herself into her seat.

  “They seem very nice.”

  “Like me.” He winked.

  “I have to admit that you do seem nicer than all the media stories make you out to be.”

  “I told you not to believe everything you read. Don’t start thinking I’m a pushover, though. I’m as ruthless as I need to be.” He tilted his stony jaw as if to prove it.

  “Ruthless, huh?”

  He focused his dark eyes on her as they paused at the end of the driveway. A shiver of arousal jolted her and she remembered the alarming power he had over her. “Merciless.”

  John Fairweather knew exactly what he was doing at every moment. Including when he’d kissed her. And she’d better not forget that.

  Five

  That afternoon, back in John’s office, Constance focused on expenses and other outgoings. Expenses were large, as would be expected, and there were definitely some extravagances, but nothing she hadn’t seen at other booming corporations.

  Around six o’clock she emerged from John’s office, ready to head for her hotel. She was relieved that she could be done here in a day or two. Everything was checking out and she and John would no doubt both be relieved to see the back of each other.

  Speaking of John’s back, there it was, barring the hallway to the elevators. Her heart rate rose just at the sight of him, which was ridiculous. He stood in conversation with a young payroll employee named Tricia.

  “Good night,” she muttered as she skirted carefully around them.

  “Constance!” His voice boomed through her consciousness. “Come down and watch the action on the floor with me. It really picks up in the evenings. You should see the place when it’s busy.”

  “No, thanks. I need to get back to the hotel.” She kept her eyes focused on the far end of the hallway. But he moved past her and pressed the button for the elevator before she reached it.

  “You’re knocking off work to relax when you should be examining the details of our operations? I’m shocked, Constance.”

  Her gaze darted to him as an urge to defend herself rushed over her. “It’s really just the paperwork that interests me.”

  He lifted a dark brow. “I think you’re being remiss in your duties. I’d think the BIA would want to know all the gory details of how we operate. I wouldn’t be surprised if they wanted a full report on everyone who works here.”

  “They’ll need to hire a private investigator for that. I’m an accountant.” The elevator opened and she dived in. Of course he came right after her.

  His proximity did something really annoying to her body temperature. Suddenly she was sweating inside her conservative suit. Maybe her new blouse had too much synthetic fabric in it. She felt a frown form on her brow and attempted to smooth it away. She didn’t want him to know that his presence rattled her so much.

  “You’ve only observed the casino during the day so far. We’re virtually empty then. You should really take a look at the place during the evenings, when most of our customers are here. It’s the best way to see how we do business.”

  He did have a point. If she were her boss, she’d tell her to stay. Should she really let her inappropriate attraction to John Fairweather prevent her from doing her job properly? “I suppose you’re right. There’s no need for you to accompany me, though. I don’t want to bother you.”

  Constance saw that familiar sparkle of mischief in his dark eyes. “On the contrary. It would be my pleasure.”

  When the elevator doors opened, she prepared for him to try to slide his arm through hers, or take her hand, but he simply gestured for her to go first. She walked ahead of him toward the game rooms. Was he looking at her behind? She felt her hips swing a little more than usual, and immediately tried to prevent it. She was probably letting her imagination run away with her, which she confirmed when she turned to find him texting on his phone.

  He’s not attracted to you, Constance. Why would he be? He just kissed you because he could. He’s that kind of man.

  “Let’s get you a drink.”

  “No!” The protest flew from her mouth so loudly it made her glance around.

  He smiled. “We have fresh-squeezed fruit juice at the bars. Leon does an amazing concoction of fresh pineapple juice with fresh coconut milk and a dash of his secret spices. Totally nonalcoholic.”

  “That does sound good.” Coconut milk was supposed to be healthy and she’d never tried it.

  He ordered two of the drinks, which arrived in large glass goblets with the casino’s sunrise logo on them. He lifted his glass. “Here’s to you discovering everything there i
s to know about us, and liking what you see.”

  She merely nodded. She wasn’t supposed to hope that she’d like everything she saw. That would discourage her from looking for problems. She sipped her drink, though, and found it creamy and delicious. “I admit this is really good. I usually just drink soda when I’m out. I guess I’ll have to branch out.”

  “I’m always asking them to invent new beverages. There’s no reason why us nondrinkers should be left out in the cold.”

  “You don’t drink alcohol?”

  “Nope. I steer well clear of it. It killed my mom.”

  “What? I thought she was really young when she died.”

  “She was twenty. She died in a car wreck. Drove off an overpass. It would never have happened if she’d been sober.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Me, too. I don’t remember her at all. I was only six months old when she died. Luckily for me, she’d left me with a friend for the night. My grandparents made me swear never to touch the stuff and I’ve never seen a reason to defy them.”

  “Very sensible.” Her prim reply embarrassed her. John had endured a devastating loss. It must be so odd to grow up not knowing the woman who gave birth to you. “Do you get mad at her for not being there for you?”

  He paused, and looked right at her with a curious expression in his eyes. “Yes. When I was younger I was angry with her for not being more careful. Seems crazy, really. It does make me keep a close eye on the younger kids here, though. Especially the ones who’ve moved away from family to join us. I’m a big fan of stern lectures.”

  She smiled. “You sound like my parents. I grew up on a steady diet of stern lectures.”

  “And look how well you turned out.”

  “Some would say I’m far too conservative for my own good.”

  “And I’d be one of them.” He winked. “Still, that’s better than some of the alternatives. Let’s go watch the roulette tables.”

  “You’re not going to make me play, are you?”

  He laughed. “I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to.”

  * * *