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“Later. Right now, let’s concentrate on James.” Monty glared at her. “Which brings me back to the original subject.”
Devon rolled her eyes. “Drop it, Monty. My relationships are off-limits.”
Monty ignored her protest. “I like Blake. He’s a smart, decent guy. But the jury’s still out on whether he’s good enough for you.”
“Well, I’m the jury.”
“And I’m the judge. I can overturn your verdict.”
Devon couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m glad I lived with Mom during my teens.”
“Me, too. I might have shot one of your dates and wound up in prison.”
Monty’s cell phone rang.
“It’s Jenkins,” he announced, checking the caller ID. “I told him to call ASAP if he turned up anything else we could use tonight.” Monty punched on the phone. “Yeah, Jenkins, what’ve you got?” A long pause. “You’re sure? Damn straight it’s good. It’s exactly what we need. Thanks.” He disconnected the call and gave Devon a thumbs-up. “Bingo. We hit pay dirt.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Seems our friend Gerald Paterson has a gambling problem. Not with horses, with casinos. He’s in the hole for thousands, and that’s just from the preliminary info Jenkins has dredged up so far. Also, he’s managed to pay back some creditors in substantial chunks. The dates of those payments coincide with the dates payments were issued to him from that offshore account.”
“So we’ve got motive and opportunity.” Devon pursed her lips thoughtfully. “That helps. It gives me direction when I broach that part of my conversation with James.”
“Right.” Monty glanced at the wall clock. “It’s seven thirty. Golden Boy should be here in an hour. Anything you want to go over?”
“Nope. I’ll just fix my makeup, put out the fruit and cheese platter I ordered, and do some deep-breathing exercises. Wish me luck.”
Monty shot her a quick wink. “No luck’s necessary. The guy’s toast.”
EIGHT THIRTY ON the nose.
Devon carried out a tray of crackers and placed it beside the fruit-and-cheese platter. She then stood back to assess her handiwork. Everything was set. The food, the wine, and her.
She adjusted the neckline of her sweater, reaching around back and groping beneath it until her fingers brushed the transmitter. It was firmly in place. It wasn’t going anywhere. Neither was the microphone. She’d checked it five minutes ago.
The rest of the stage was set, too. Lane and Merry had left for a local concert, Monty was poised outside in his car, and James had called to say his plane had landed.
Now it was up to her.
She mentally reviewed the topics she had to delve into. Getting at them was only part of the challenge. She had to come across as relaxed, casual, not suspicious or prying. James was a shrewd guy, one who was used to manipulating others. He’d see through her in a minute if she didn’t play this exactly right.
The doorbell rang.
Devon turned, inhaling slowly, then blew out her breath. “Okay, Monty,” she muttered into the scooped neck of her sweater. “It’s showtime.”
She walked to the door and pulled it open.
James was leaning against the doorjamb, wearing a cashmere overcoat and leather gloves, his collar turned up against the cold. He was carrying an overnight duffel.
“Hi,” Devon greeted him.
“Hi yourself.” Giving her an appreciative once-over, James smiled his approval. “You look beautiful. Worth braving the frozen tundra for.”
“It is freezing,” Devon agreed. “Come on in.” She stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter.
He stepped into the house, dropping his bag. He captured her shoulders in his hands and bent down to kiss her. Devon was prepared. She kissed him back—lightly—breaking away when he tried to deepen the kiss.
“The weather must be quite a contrast to Florida,” she said, plucking a hanger out of the hall closet. “I don’t know how you tore yourself away.”
