Tall, Dark...And Framed?

by Cathleen Galitz

  Her eyes shone with concern as she wrestled to find the best way to break the news to him. In the end she simply blurted it out.

  “New evidence has come to light. From inside Wescott Oil, I’m afraid…”

  Four

  The Wescott building cast a long dark shadow over its namesake, a man currently wearing a grim expression as he leaned in to hear what the pretty woman standing next to him had to say. Even the most disinterested observer could discern that Sebastian Wescott was engaged in a very serious conversation. Only the most foolhardy would dare to interrupt such an exchange.

  Or the most naive.

  The little girl who approached the couple with tears in her eyes clearly fit into the latter category. So involved was Seb in the discourse that it took a tug on his shirtsleeve to get his attention. The glower on his face disappeared as soon as he realized that the interloper was no more than five or six years old. Matching red braids were slung haphazardly over a pair of narrow shoulders that shook with every sob the poor child took. Her plaid uniform identified her as a parochial-school student. More than likely an escapee from nearby St. Matthew’s, Seb surmised, bending down to address her at eye level.

  “What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he asked.

  “Mister, have you seen my mommy anywhere?” the girl asked.

  Momentarily distracted from the impending legal crisis her client was facing, Susan joined the two of them in an uncomfortable—and what she was sure was an unladylike—squat on the sidewalk. Her skirt rode immodestly up on her thighs.

  “You’ve lost your mother?” she asked, wiping away the child’s tears with a decorative hankie she took from the breast pocket of her suit jacket. A light twill the color of daffodils, it was her favorite.

  The girl took the silk cloth Susan offered and blew her nose into it. Hard and long.

  “Uh-huh. She came to school with me today and talked to my class. It’s Mother-Daughter Day, but mine forgot to take me with her to work like some of the other mothers did. So after recess I decided to come on my own.”

  A smile twitched at the corners of Seb’s mouth when the little girl offered Susan back her hankie, soiled and soggy.

  “Why don’t you keep it in case you need it later?” Susan suggested. Folding the child’s tiny hand over the swatch of cloth, she seemed in no hurry to let go. “What’s your name, dear?”

  “Carlie,” replied the freckle-faced urchin. “Carlie Bachman. This is the building where my mommy works. She’s a bookkeeper here. Some days she says it’s a lot like being a zookeeper.”

  “Is that right?” Seb asked, unable to keep a note of amusement from creeping into his voice.

  “Uh-huh,” the child affirmed, turning her big green eyes skyward, as if by some act of magic these strangers would be able to pinpoint her mother’s office hidden in the midst of the impressive eleven-story building. Glass dominated metal in its construction in much the same way the structure itself overshadowed the usually sleepy town of Royal. For a lost child, it might as well have been the giant beanstalk that Jack had grown from magic beans. Climbing it certainly seemed more daunting up close than it had seemed from the distance and safety of her classroom. A fresh batch of tears welled up in Carlie’s eyes at the very prospect.

  “Cheer up, darlin’. I have a sneaky suspicion that we can just go right on inside and rustle up your mom for you,” Seb said with a reassuring smile. “What do you say we go find her right now?”

  A look of relief crossed the girl’s face as she threw her arms around Seb’s neck and dried her tears on his collar. Not one for wasting any more time, she commanded in a tiny general’s voice, “Let’s go.”

  Susan’s heart lurched at the sight of Seb picking the child up in his arms as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him.

  “Do you know my mommy?” Carlie inquired of her hospitable mount.

  “I sure do. In fact, I bet you’ve heard her refer to me as the head gorilla in this particular zoo,” he explained with a straight face.

  Seb did not stop at the front security desk to turn his ward over to someone else, as Susan had anticipated him doing. Rather, he strode right past, issuing a cordial “Hello, Jenkins,” to the fellow on duty.

  “Would you mind ringing Marilyn’s office and telling her that I’m on my way up with a package for her from the lost-and-found department?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jenkins replied.

  The smile the older man gave his boss seemed neither forced nor out of the ordinary. Susan was taken aback. Having initially figured Sebastian Wescott for the stereotypical cold corporate boss, she hadn’t expected him to be on a friendly basis with his employees, let alone take such a personal interest in their lives. That he had put his own life crisis on hold to help this darling little girl locate her mother deepened her budding respect for him.

  Like Seb, Joe had been both charismatic and highly resourceful. Resourceful enough to avoid paying his legal share of taxes and trimming employee benefits wherever he could, in fact. One thing her ex-husband lacked, however, that Seb seemed to have in abundance, was an innate sense of kindness. Just as his marvelous sense of humor lacked Joe’s sarcastic edge, Seb’s concern for others clearly was not based on his mood at the moment or on whether it advanced him personally.

  “Mommy!”

  The expression of joy that lit up Marilyn’s face at the sight of her daughter in her boss’s arms was swiftly followed by horror at the discovery of what her streetwise child had undertaken on her own.

  “I’ve got to call the school and tell them where you are, honey,” she exclaimed, clearly thinking of Carlie’s poor teacher combing the school looking for a truant kindergartner. “It will only take me a few minutes to drop her back off to school, if you don’t mind, Mr. Wescott. I’d be glad to make up the time after hours,” she offered apologetically.

  Sebastian shrugged off the suggestion as if somehow offended by it. “I understand that today is Mother-Daughter Day. Since she seems to have her heart set on it, why don’t you just let Carlie follow you around the job for a while, then knock off early for the rest of the day? Maybe you could take her to the zoo and show her the difference between the two places.” He cleared his throat. “That is, if you can find any.”

  Though Marilyn colored deeply at the comment, it was not because Seb’s teasing was in any way mean-spirited. In fact, everyone in the office within earshot roared as Carlie ventured an explanation.

  “Little pictures have big ears, you know.”

  “Pitchers, dear, pitchers,” her mother corrected.

  The comment had more far-reaching ramifications for Wescott Oil than appeared at first blush, Susan mused. For just as little Carlie had accidentally “leaked” information from her mother to her employer, Susan had the unpleasant task of explaining to Seb that someone in his company was leaking damaging information about him directly to the police.

  Once mother and child were properly reunited and settled into their adjusted schedule for the day, Sebastian directed Susan to accompany him to the tower floor, where they could “continue their conversation privately.” Rumor had it that the eleventh floor—also referred to as the executive floor—was reserved for Seb’s office. A tasteful plaque on a door of polished brass and glass announced to visitors that they were entering the domain of Wescott Oil’s CEO. Susan was duly impressed as she stepped into the walnut-paneled office.

  Elegantly furnished, it was open and airy. An entire wall of windows provided a panoramic view of Royal and the surrounding countryside. As in the construction of his home, Seb had somehow managed to bring a rural, comfortable feel to his sophisticated surroundings. A solid oak door situated unostentatiously behind a fully stocked wet bar gave no clue to what lay beyond.

  “That’s my private suite,” Seb explained, noticing her staring intently at the door, as if trying to penetrate it with X-ray vision. “It’s just a place to conk out when the midnight oil runs low. I’ve been offered my father’s old o
ffice, but I’m partial to this one.”

  He didn’t bother adding that the plush office suite was part of what Rosa blamed for his prolonged state of bachelorhood. “When a man makes a habit of sleeping with his business, what need has he of a wife?” she’d lamented on more than one occasion.

  Susan was too polite to inquire further. As much as she would have liked to satisfy her curiosity with a personal tour, it was enough to know that her client was no mere figurehead in the business his father had begun. That he explained his suite as a means of enabling him to work longer hours, rather than as the playboy’s love nest that rumor alleged it, was oddly comforting. Susan told herself that was only because representing a jaded playboy was much less palatable than representing an overly dedicated CEO—it was surely not that she had any personal interest in Sebastian Wescott.

  Still, the very thought of a bedroom strategically located behind this door was enough to rattle any woman’s composure. An image of Seb stretched out on a king-size bed wrapped in nothing but a silk sheet made her mouth grow dry and her palms sweaty.

  “Are you sure it’s safe to talk in here?” she asked abruptly, hoping to focus her wayward thoughts in a more appropriate direction.

  Seb looked startled by the question. “Do you have any reason to believe otherwise?” he wanted to know.

  Susan offered up the facts without bothering to sugarcoat them.

  “You mean, aside from the damaging e-mail with your name attached that was supposedly sent from here? The one so easily intercepted by the police? The one incriminating you in the murder of Eric Chambers?” she asked, arms akimbo. “Or maybe the discovery of substantial funds in a private account established in your name? Evidence, need I remind you, that was also discovered in this very office.”

  The man standing before her was suddenly transformed into a vision of a fierce modern-day warrior. Anger bunched the muscles beneath his shirt, balled his hands into fists and clenched his jaw. And those silver wolflike eyes narrowed into wounded slits of rage.

  Susan braced herself. Wanting to see how her client would react under pressure on the stand, she had deliberately goaded him. She had fully expected him to behave in a manner similar to Joe’s whenever someone called his controversial business practices into question. Invariably, Joe would adopt a threatening posture and launch into a defensive tirade, casting blame on everyone else, designed to make the person who had questioned his integrity eventually feel guilty for having done so.

  But contrary to her expectations, Seb turned icy in his fury. The glance he turned on her could have frozen the water in the crystal pitcher on the table next to her. Susan fought the urge to rub the goose bumps from her bare arms.

  “Do you mean to say that you suddenly find my case hopeless, or that you’ve simply decided I’m guilty as charged and would like to be relieved of the responsibility of defending me?” Seb asked her.

  Susan knew it was risky to continue pushing a man when he was so clearly outraged by her frontal attack upon his good name. But the risk had to be taken. Whether or not it cost her this case, it was imperative for Susan to gauge Seb’s reaction to her line of questioning. As frightening as the prospect was to her, catching him off guard was crucial to her strategy.

  “How do you feel about having a traitor in your midst, Seb? Tell me, is there anyone in this entire building you can trust?”

  Eyes the color of quicksilver captured her gaze and held it.

  “You,” he answered without hesitation.

  Susan felt her pulse quicken. For a man who was generally considered to be cool and calculating in business, Seb seemed to her far too trusting for his own good. Certainly he didn’t know her well enough to be putting such faith in her ability to clear his name. Especially when this case became more complicated with every question she asked. Was it any wonder someone had infiltrated the ranks of Wescott Oil? For all Seb knew, the charming bookkeeper he had just granted the afternoon off might be plotting to do him harm. Who knew what drove an employee to stab his employer in the back? Not to mention the enemies Sebastian might have in rival competitors in the industry.

  They couldn’t afford to disregard any potential suspects. But it certainly wouldn’t be easy enlisting Seb’s help in flushing them out. Seemingly disgruntled employees were unheard of here. After all, Sebastian Wescott was generally liked and respected in the community. Active in the Texas Cattleman’s Club, he was well-known for his generosity in contributing to needy charities. Moreover, a job at Wescott Oil was coveted in the town of Royal. Seb didn’t seem to begrudge paying his employees wages well above the average for the area. In addition, he offered one of the best benefit packages around. And having witnessed the easy camaraderie he displayed with his employees, Susan suspected he would be deeply hurt if any one of them was unmasked as a Judas.

  The hurt written on his features was unmistakable, but it wasn’t new, Susan realized with a start.

  “You already knew about the mole in your operation, didn’t you?” she asked, reading his body language correctly.

  “It isn’t hard putting two and two together,” he said, sinking wearily into his leather desk chair. “My compliments to you on coming to the same conclusion I did far quicker than the local police. I understand that they all but have me convicted down at the local doughnut shop.”

  His attempt at humor was halfhearted, but his respect for Susan’s astuteness was genuine. That she had pieced together crucial information in an incredibly short amount of time and made a leap of faith was nothing short of astonishing. And her refusal to take all those bits of incriminating evidence and convict him in her own heart—or to look for some technical loophole to get him off rather than accept his claim of innocence—did more than simply endear her to him. It made him believe without a doubt that she was the right person to represent him.

  “I am in my brother’s debt,” he said, meaning it.

  Susan accepted the compliment with a hesitant smile. Wishing she could help ease his worries, she fought the urge to slip behind him and knead the knotted muscles in his shoulders. It surprised her to think that the crisis in their tenuous relationship had passed over as quickly as storm clouds blowing across a Texas sky in April.

  “Did I hear my name taken in vain?” asked a disembodied voice preceding its owner into the room.

  Susan was startled to see Dorian standing in the doorway as if waiting for permission to enter. She thought she remembered Sebastian closing the door behind them earlier, and wondered just how long Dorian had been privy to their conversation. Dressed in a dark turtleneck and slacks, he was the picture of studied casualness.

  “Just thought I’d drop by and ask if you two would like to go to dinner with me,” he said, giving the impression that he had just now stumbled upon the two of them.

  Susan tried resurrecting an interest in Dorian rather than his brother as he stepped into the room. Unfortunately, with the two of them standing side by side there was no use denying that Seb overpowered Dorian in every way. A wannabe clone of his half brother, Dorian lacked not only Seb’s imposing physical presence but also his can-do, don’t-even-think-about-getting-in-my-way aura of assuredness that was so very compelling in the business world. Dorian might have a smoother, less-formidable exterior, but Susan wondered if he would have bothered taking the time to personally escort a lost child back to her mother.

  Feeling guilty about comparing the two brothers, she forced a smile for the man who had brought them all together. She, too, owed him a debt of gratitude for recommending her to Seb in the first place. Assuming that there was at least one, if not more, saboteurs employed by Wescott Oil, Seb would need all the support she could muster. That Dorian had access not only to workers’ computer files but also to their inner sanctum—the employee lounge—was a tremendous advantage. An employee himself, he had limited anonymity in not sharing his father and brother’s infamous last name.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything unusual from the other e
mployees in the building that might be helpful to your brother’s case, have you?” Susan asked him.

  The question appeared to catch him off guard. He stammered uncomfortably before admitting to Seb that “just about everyone seems worried about losing their jobs if you’re found guilty.”

  “Their loyalty is touching,” Seb muttered dryly.

  Although Dorian’s statement provided neither comfort nor insight into the case, Susan was not about to be dissuaded from her cause. She continued thinking aloud.

  “Who has access to this office?” she wanted to know. As far as she was concerned, Dorian’s own ability to simply waltz in unannounced didn’t speak well of security measures.

  “Do you know of any disgruntled employees who might want their boss behind bars? Anyone you can think of who would enjoy playing the part of a corporate mole?” she persisted.

  That Dorian didn’t look surprised at the very suggestion of such treachery was an ominous sign in itself.

  “If you’re asking me if I’ve been keeping my ear to the ground, of course I have,” he replied smoothly. A sympathetic expression on his features, he turned his attention to his brother. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, big brother, but it’s not going to be so easy narrowing down all the people who aren’t particularly thrilled with your management style.”

  For a suave businessman who was reputed to dine among the sharks, Sebastian Wescott didn’t hide his feelings very well. He looked surprised. And very, very hurt.

  Susan could understand his reaction. From everything she had heard and personally witnessed, Sebastian Wescott was an exemplary boss. Of course, one could never discount the resentment of an employee who had been let go for one reason or another. Also there was the general sense of bitterness so many people harbored toward the wealthy, targeting them as objects of hatred for no other reason than their success—regardless of whether they had come by their fortune honestly or not, and regardless of whether they spent it altruistically or selfishly.