Chapter Sixteen
A jagged bolt of lightning followed by the crack of thunder split the air, jarring Beau from a deep, troubled sleep. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Nine A.M. His hand shot toward the other side of the mattress but the sheets were cold, no sign of Cassidy. He dragged himself out of bed, surprised to discover he could still be tired after so many hours of sleep.
He yawned. Well, at least he’d slept off and on. After their nap, which had stretched into late evening and included another round of incredible sex, they had gone into the kitchen to find something to eat. While he’d rummaged through the pantry and found what he needed to make spaghetti, Cassidy had come up with the ingredients for a seriously delicious Greek salad.
There was always food in the house. His housekeeper, Marge O’Halloran, came by a couple of times a week. She and a helper took care of the cleaning and, like Flo, Marge made sure to keep his shelves well stocked, even resupplied the wine cellar if he left her a list of what he wanted.
After their late supper, they’d gone back to bed, made love again, and he’d fallen asleep. One bad dream had followed another, most of them hazy now, no longer disturbing. He’d finally gotten some rest, but unlike Linc, who was an early riser, Beau preferred late hours and rarely got into the office before nine in the morning.
There was another crack of lightning as he pulled on a pair of sweatpants and padded barefoot down the hall. One of his nightmares had been that Missy had lost her baby, which had jarred him awake in a cold sweat. He needed to call the hospital, make sure Missy and Evie were okay, make sure there was nothing they needed.
He continued along the hall in search of Cassidy, but she wasn’t in her bedroom. She wasn’t in the study. He found her in the kitchen, reading the Morning News on her iPad and drinking a cup of coffee. He owned a Keurig, but he liked the taste of freshly ground beans. The familiar rich aroma led him to the pot on the black granite counter.
“Looks like we’re getting a storm,” Beau said, pouring himself a mug, his gaze going from the dark clouds outside the window to the sexy brunette who had been in his bed last night.
She had showered but still wore the white terry robe she’d found hanging in the guest bathroom. Damp mahogany curls fanned around her shoulders, a stray lock clinging to the side of her neck. She looked beautiful and desirable, and a shot of lust hit him so hard, the muscles across his stomach clenched.
It was crazy. He’d made love to her for hours, yet he wanted her again. A faint streak of color rose in her cheeks and he knew she had read his thoughts.
“You . . . umm . . . need to call Charlotte,” she said. “See if you can convince her to talk to us.”
He took a sip of coffee, strong, the way he liked. “It’s after nine. I’ll give her a call. First I want to phone the hospital, see how Missy and Evie are doing.”
“I called earlier. The nurse said they were doing great. The doctor’s releasing them today.”
“That’s good.” But he wanted to check for himself. Padding across the kitchen, he picked up the wireless phone on the counter and dialed information. The hospital put him through to Missy’s room, and he smiled at the sound of her voice.
“It’s Beau,” he said. “How are my girls doing?”
Missy giggled. She was still such a kid. If his dad were alive, Beau would love to kick his ass.
“Evie’s fine. She’s so sweet, Beau. I have the sweetest little girl.”
Emotion filled his chest and his heart felt funny. “Yes, you do,” he said gruffly. “I’ll come see you both as soon as I can.”
She sniffed. He could hear the tears in her voice. “I’m not sorry, Beau. I’ll never be sorry.”
Beau cleared his throat. “I’m not sorry, either. I’ll see you both soon.”
He glanced over at Cassidy, caught her soft smile, and a rush of something hit him that he didn’t want to feel. He turned his attention to the next call he needed to make, found Charlotte’s cell number in the address book on the counter, and punched the numbers into the phone.
It rang three times before she answered.
“Charlotte, it’s Beau. I need to talk to you. I’m hoping I can come over this morning. It won’t take long.”
“All right. I’m available at noon. We could have lunch, or you could just come over to Betsy’s house.”
“I’ll come to the house. Is eleven too early? Cassidy’s with me.”
“Oh. Well, all right. Eleven is fine. I’ll see you then.”
He hung up the phone. When he turned, Cassidy was staring at his naked chest. He stayed in shape. Worked out with a martial arts trainer, still boxed a little, ate healthy food. Beau knew women. This one was different, but still easy enough to read.
He smiled. “Honey, I hope you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking. We can always put off our meeting for another hour or two.”
She jerked her gaze away, but the color returned to her cheeks. “We can’t do that. We have an appointment.” She got up from the kitchen table and headed for the door. “I’d better get dressed. With all the rain, traffic might be bad. It could take us a while to get there.”
He chuckled as she left the kitchen. Not only did he lust after this woman, he liked her. It was a rare combination.
It rained hard during the next hour, water slashing against the windows, pounding on the roof. By the time they were ready to leave, the wind had died down and there was a break in the weather, though the sky remained a dull, pewter gray.
It didn’t take long to reach the exclusive Highland Park neighborhood, which wasn’t that far away. It was exactly eleven A.M. when Beau drove the Beamer through the ornate, gilded gates of Chateau Durant.
With its mansard roof and manicured French gardens, the mansion looked as if it belonged in Versailles, not Texas.
“Plenty of room for guests,” Cassidy said sarcastically as he pulled the car around the circular drive. Beau figured twenty thousand square feet.
He parked in front of the steps leading up to a pair of massive carved front doors. “Betsy Durant is the queen of Texas society,” Beau said. “Her house is definitely fit for a queen.”
“I see her picture in the Morning News about once a week. Her husband’s death didn’t seem to slow her down.”
“Betsy had all the money. Albert was her second husband. He was just along for the ride.”
A butler formally dressed in black welcomed them into a marble-floored entry lit by a crystal chandelier.
“Mrs. Reese is expecting you. If you will please follow me.” Nose in the air, he led them into an elegant salon done in ivory and gold. Charlotte waited across the room, blond hair upswept, not a wrinkle in her floor-length, navy pleated wool skirt and matching sweater.
She rose from a gold velvet Louis XIV chair next to an antique rosewood table. “I’m afraid you just missed Betsy. She had a meeting with the garden society.”
“That’s a shame,” Beau said, barely able to hide the relief in his voice. “You remember Cassidy?”
“Of course. Hello, my dear.”
“Mrs. Reese.”
The door opened again and the butler wheeled a tea cart across the inlaid parquet floor, onto the thick Persian carpet in the seating area.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Charlotte was in her element. French nobility could live in Chateau Durant. The only problem was the house belonged to someone else.
“That would be lovely,” Cassidy said. She wore beige slacks, a cream silk blouse, a tweed jacket, and low-heeled boots. She was good at reading people, had guessed what would impress his stepmother. Cassidy looked as if she belonged in the house.
Charlotte poured and served, passing the delicate gold-rimmed porcelain cups around. Beau took a seat beside Cassidy on the gold velvet settee and worked not to fumble as he balanced the cup and saucer on his lap.
“We just have a couple of questions, Charlotte,” he said.
She sat back down in her Louis XIV chair, took a sip of tea and set the cup in its saucer. “Apparently you’re still investigating Stewart’s death.”
“That’s right,” Beau said.
“I saw you in the news. It seems your digging for clues has managed to embroil you in yet another murder. I wish you had listened to me, Beau. Now all you have done is make matters worse.”
“Maybe. But it isn’t going to stop me from finding Dad’s killer. I came here to talk about Jess Milford. He was the foreman of Alamo.”
“That’s right. I can’t believe someone killed him. But then I still can’t believe your father is dead.”
“Why did the senator fire him?”
Charlotte looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know. He was already working for Alamo when I married Stewart. Your father convinced me to invest my savings in the company and we became partners, but Stew made the decisions. I remember him saying something about Jess slacking off, no longer doing a good job.”
“When did Dad let him go?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Sometime in late November. I remember he gave the man a month’s severance, but Jess was still angry about it.”
“So Dad fired Milford just before the apartment fire that took down the business.”
She shrugged, but her eyes slid away. “I suppose that’s right.”
Cassidy set her cup and saucer down on the gilded table in front of the settee. “Which brings us to why we’re here. The fire was arson. There’s a good chance the building was destroyed so that you and the senator could claim the insurance money.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Beau leaned over and set down his tea. “Charlotte, you and I both know Dad was responsible for that fire. The rental market tanked and the project was going to fail. My father wanted out. He hired someone to make that happen. There’s no use lying about it.”
Charlotte’s lips trembled and her hand shook, rattling the cup in her saucer. He could see she was about to cave.
“Come on, Charlotte. Tell me the truth. If you don’t, I’ll just keep digging until I find out.”
She took a shaky breath, slowly released it. “I didn’t know Stewart was involved until later. I thought it was vandalism, just like the police said. I suppose I should have suspected. I knew he had borrowed a large sum of money from someone. But we were divorced. I didn’t put the pieces together until after we’d sold the company and he’d paid me my share.”
Her mouth thinned. “Well, slightly less than my share. You know how he could always manipulate things in his favor.”
Cassidy spoke to Charlotte. “Senator Reese hired me because he thought someone was following him, asking questions about him. He believed you might have had something to do with it. If you were no longer interested in a relationship, why did you hire those men?”
Charlotte’s spine went stiff. “For heaven’s sake! What makes you think—”
“This is all going to get worse before it gets better,” Beau said. “I’ll do my best to keep you out of it if you’ll just tell us the truth.”
Charlotte sat there for several long moments. She took a deep breath. “All right, fine. I hired a man to follow Stewart because I wanted to make him nervous. I wanted him to know I meant business.”
“In what way?” Cassidy asked.
“I needed money. I told him I knew he was involved in that fire. I told him if he would just give me a little more of the profit he made from the sale of the property, I’d keep quiet about it. Stewart only laughed. He said if his reputation was ruined, mine would be, too. He knew how I felt about that. He wasn’t the least bit afraid I would pursue it.”
Cassidy leaned forward. “You said the senator borrowed a large sum of money. Do you know who made him the loan?”
“No. I’m sorry. He was always borrowing money from someone, always robbing Peter to pay Paul. He was never good with money.”
“Thank you, Charlotte.” Beau rose from the settee. “As I said, I’ll keep you out of this if I can.”
Cassidy rose and Charlotte led them out of the salon, but it was the butler who showed them to the door.
“Well, we got answers,” Beau said as the door closed firmly behind them. “But not enough.”
Cassidy tugged on his arm, leading him down the wide front steps. “We need to talk to Malcolm Vaughn.” She smiled. “And I know where to find him.”
* * *
Cassidy buckled her seat belt as Beau drove the BMW around the circular drive, then out through the ornate gates of Chateau Durant.
“So tell me about Malcolm Vaughn,” Beau said.
Cassidy leaned back in the passenger seat. It started raining again, spotting the windshield, and Beau turned on the wipers. She loved the way his hands looked, wrapped around the steering wheel, the confident, almost arrogant way he handled the car.
“Vaughn owns a company called Equity Advance,” she said, settling back in her seat. The swish of the blades seemed somehow soothing. “They make nothing but commercial loans so they don’t fall under the same regulations as residential mortgage brokers.”
“Vaughn’s the sole owner?”
“That’s right. The company specializes in big-money loans to people who have credit problems or the project is something out of the norm. He charges eighteen-and-a-half percent interest, in some cases possibly more. The loans are usually secured by some sort of real estate, but from what I could find out, the notes aren’t always recorded. If the borrower falls behind in his payments, the company doesn’t hesitate to foreclose.”
“Sounds like Dooley Tate was right. He’s not a guy you want to piss off.”
“Of course we don’t know for sure the senator borrowed money from Vaughn since there was no construction loan recorded on the property. Even if Vaughn made the loan, he might not be willing to tell us.”
But Beau kept driving, heading for the address she had given him, an office in a high-rise building on Main Street in the downtown financial district.
They parked in a garage beneath the towering glass structure. Cassidy noticed there were security cameras everywhere and several uniformed guards. The elevator took them up to the twenty-second floor.
The office of Equity Advance was impressive, with dark wood furniture and deep cinnamon carpets. A busty blond receptionist seated behind the front desk rose to greet them.
“May I help you?” The woman eyed Beau up and down, taking in the fit of his dark blue jeans and navy tweed blazer, noticing the leather patches on the sleeves. The wind had ruffled his wavy black hair, giving him a rakish appearance that only made him better looking.
“We’re here to see Malcolm Vaughn,” he said. “My name is Beau Reese. This is Cassidy Jones.”
Beau got a smile that didn’t extend to her. “I’ll see if Mr. Vaughn is available. Please have a seat. Is there anything I can get you, Mr. Reese?”
“No, thanks, we’re fine.” They sat down on a dark gray leather sofa in front of a glass-topped coffee table. Beau picked up a National Geographic and began to thumb through the pages.
The blonde returned a few minutes later. “Mr. Vaughn is between appointments. He can speak with you for a few minutes.”
She gave Beau another exuberant smile. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you, Mr. Reese. Everyone in Dallas knows who you are. We’ve all watched you on TV.” Cassidy thought she might start drooling any minute.
“It’s been a while since I’ve been on the track,” Beau said, his return smile not encouraging.
“All right, then.” The blonde barely hid her disappointment. “If you will please follow me.”
She led them into a plush office done in the same dark wood tones. A tall, slender man in his late forties, attractive, with light brown hair and dark eyes, rose as they walked into the room. He came around to greet them.
“I’m Malcolm Vaughn. We’ve never met, Beau, but I knew your father. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Beau said, accepting the hand Vaughn offered.
“Ms. Jones.” He shook Cassidy’s hand, as well. “Please sit down. I’m afraid I don’t have much time. What can I do for you?”
They sat in stylish gray leather chairs in front of the desk and Vaughn returned to his ergonomic chair on the opposite side.
“I’m trying to clear up any of my father’s unresolved business. I understand he may have had dealings with you.”
Vaughn steepled his fingers. He seemed to be sizing them up. “If you’re asking if Equity Advance loaned him money, the answer is yes. On more than one occasion. The senator always paid it back.”
“So your company financed him on the apartment project in Iron Springs?”
“I didn’t say that. But as it happens, yes, some of the money he borrowed went into that project. It didn’t work out the way he planned, but I understand he survived the unfortunate fire without much of a loss.”
“And you got repaid?”
“That’s right.”
“Just to be clear,” Cassidy pressed, “the senator no longer owes you any money.”
He shot her a look, clearly not liking her interference. “No.”
“Is there anyone else you can think of the senator might have borrowed money from?” she asked. “Another company or individual, someone who might not have gotten repaid?”
Vaughn leaned back in his chair. “I understand the senator’s murder remains unsolved. I assume your questions have something to do with his death?”
“That’s right,” Beau answered. “I intend to find out who killed him. To do that, I need to know what was happening in his life at the time he was killed.”
Vaughn rose from behind his desk, a graceful man, almost effeminate. “The senator and I were business associates, nothing more. I wouldn’t know anything about his finances, aside from those that pertain to Equity Advance, nor would I have any idea who might be responsible for his death.”
His gaze remained on Beau. “After what I’ve read in the newspapers, I should think you would be wise to let the police handle the investigation.”
A muscle tightened in Beau’s cheek. He rose and Cassidy stood up, as well. “Thanks for your time,” Beau said. “I appreciate your seeing us on such short notice.”
Vaughn made no reply, but Cassidy could feel his dark gaze following them as they walked out of the room.