local Macy’s. It was nearly four by the time she made it back to New Dawn to go over the books. Her eyes darted about, on high alert for any signs of John Fairweather. But she didn’t see his imposing form anywhere. He wasn’t in the lobby or the elevator. Or leaning over someone’s cubicle on the office floor.
He also wasn’t in his office, where she sat at the round table, which was inconveniently at coffee table height, and resumed her journey through the files. Where was he? He might be angry that she’d blown him off at lunch. Still, he needed to realize that she was here to do a job, and they’d already spent way too much time together. It would probably be more appropriate to the situation if they weren’t interacting at all. On the other hand, her BIA contact had said that often the best information came during an inadvertent slip in casual conversation, so she should spend as much time as possible with the tribal members.
She shook her head. This whole situation was far too confusing for her. Just the fact that Lynn could encourage her one minute and warn her off the next proved that nothing about it made sense. She’d rather be surrounded by quiet and predictable columns of figures.
Which, supposedly, she was right now. Unfortunately the atmosphere vibrated with the absence of John Fairweather.
Constance stayed until seven-thirty and pored over the files he’d shown her and plenty he hadn’t. Nothing aroused her suspicion. If anything, John’s accounting methods were somewhat redundant and labor-intensive, and could benefit from some streamlining and a software upgrade.
Relief mingled with disappointment as she descended to the lobby without encountering him. Apparently he’d already forgotten about her and moved on to new pastures. He was probably out on the town right now with some willowy model.
She strode through the lobby, challenging herself not to look around for him. Why did she want to see him? All he did was get her flustered. As Lynn had pointed out, he was a notorious playboy and Constance was peering behind the curtains of his successful operation.
Still, it had been nice of him to personally bring her to the hotel last night, and to pick up her car this morning. On the other hand, if he had her car moved, why hadn’t they brought it right to the hotel instead of to some expensive restaurant, where he had apparently intended to continue his inappropriate seduction?
She made her way through the parking lot to her car, brain spinning. Was she upset that he wasn’t here to flirt with her and harass her? She should be appalled and disgusted—and suspicious—of his attempts to seduce her. Red flags stuck out of this mess in every direction. Her career at Creighton Waterman would be ruined, and she could lose her accounting credentials, if anyone learned about that kiss. Yet she’d as much as told Lynn that she was attracted to John.
Now she was thinking about him as John?
What was happening to her?
* * *
The next morning she arrived early enough to be the first person in the offices. She’d just settled into browsing through some figures, when John’s deep, melodious “Good morning” made her jump. Which was ridiculous since she sat in his office.
“Hello, Mr. Fairweather.” She said it as primly as possible. She didn’t want him to have any idea of what he’d been doing to her in her dreams last night.
“Mr. Fairweather? Don’t you think we’re a little beyond that? In fact, I was thinking I should call you Connie.”
She blinked rapidly. “No one calls me Connie.”
“All the more reason.” He sat down on the opposite side of the round table. “What’s your nickname?”
“I don’t have one.”
“I don’t believe you.” He leaned back. “What do your folks call you?”
“Constance. It’s what they named me, so I guess they like it. What do yours call you?”
“John.” His eyes twinkled. “So you do have a point. You look great this morning. Did you finally get some sleep?”
Constance felt heat rising to her cheeks. “I did, thank you. The Holiday Inn is very nice.”
“I’m sure it is.” He cocked his head. “Shame about the twenty-minute drive.”
“I don’t mind.” Why was she getting flustered?
“I’ll try not to take it personally.”
Of course she was getting flustered. He was staring right at her and flirting.
She watched as he rose from the chair, bowed slightly and left the room. She stared after him, through the open door. Part of her wanted to slam the door and sag against it; another much less reliable part of her wanted to run after him and call, “But wait!”
She closed the door quietly, but resisted turning the lock. As soon as she sat down again, her phone rang and she jumped as if she’d been stung. It was Nicola Moore from the BIA, according to the display. She answered it with as much professional dignity as she could manage.
“Hello, Constance. How are things?”
“Fine. Everything’s fine.”
“I heard about the fire. I hope that hasn’t shaken you up too much.”
“It was a shock, but luckily there was no loss of life.” She kept quiet about John’s role in helping at the fire. There was no need for Nicola to know how much time they’d spent together.
“Have you had a chance to get to know some of the key players yet?”
She hesitated. She wanted to say, I’m an accountant. I’m better with numbers than people, but she knew that would be unprofessional. “Sure, I’ve spoken with several.”
“Don’t be afraid to get a feel for their personal business. That can often be the most revealing information.”
“Uh, sure.” Her response wasn’t too professional. Still, the request seemed odd. Maybe she just wasn’t familiar enough with this kind of work. She knew the BIA regularly conducted audits of various Indian ventures, so they must know what they were doing. “I’ll do my best.”
She frowned as she hung up. John had done a pretty good job keeping her safely sequestered in his office and away from people. Maybe it was a good idea to move around and take a look at the numbers from the casino floor. There was no reason she couldn’t observe the tellers in action, taking people’s hard-earned money. It might help stir up her righteous indignation, which seemed to have cooled a bit. She needed to remind herself what this whole enterprise was all about. From an early age, she’d been taught that gambling was wrong, and she still didn’t like it much.
She shoved the cap on her pen and put away the latest files she’d looked at. All predictably clean and tidy and all columns adding up to the right amounts. Maybe she was taking John’s operation too much at face value. Time to get out there and look under the hood. Feeling like an intrepid reporter, she lifted her bag and headed for the door. She scanned the floor quickly to make sure John wasn’t around. Nope. Just two employees sitting quietly at their computers, so she headed downstairs.
She approached the area where the cashiers sat with some trepidation. They were behind a barrier,
