Leanne Banks: Trouble in High Heels

He shifted his heavy briefcase to his left hand and pressed the doorbell. Within a moment, a woman in a uniform answered the door. “You’re the accountant?” she asked.

He nodded and extended his hand, a memory of his mother flashing through his mind. She had been a maid, and she’d told him everyone, including the garbage man, deserved courtesy. The lesson had stuck. “I’m Jackson James, thank you. And you’re?”

She blinked in surprise. “I’m Mabel, thank you very much.” She accepted his hand and shot him a considering glance that gave him the odd sense that she could see everywhere he’d been since he was born. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

“New to Miss Granger,” he said.

“I thought so. Please come into the parlor. Miss Granger will be right down.”

Hearing the echo of his shoes on the gleaming marble entryway, he shot a quick glance at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling and the double stairway leading to the second floor. He followed the housekeeper into a room furnished in cherry and walls lined with oil paintings and mirrors.

“Tilly, I have your favorite drink,” a young woman said in a musical voice just before the body attached to the voice entered the room. “Whiskey, a double-” Big blue eyes met his in consternation as the woman carried her prissy dog tucked under her right arm and in her left hand Tilly’s drink. “You’re not Tilly.”

Whoa! He inhaled and caught a draft of a scent that reminded him of the sweetest tease. So this was Lori Jean Granger in the flesh. She looked and smelled good enough to eat. He could see why those doddering old fools would be falling all over themselves. But he wasn’t a doddering old fool. Her skin looked like cream, her lips a deep pink rosebud currently set in a moue of unhappiness. Her blonde hair hung just past her shoulders like a silk curtain. Her white cotton dress with tiny red dots skimmed over breasts that reminded him of ripe peaches and down over the feminine curves of her waist and hips to just above her knees. She wore red high heels, the kind of heels that could give a man wicked fantasies. They were the kind of shoes a man wanted to see a woman wear when she wore nothing else.

Jackson pulled his brain out of its death spiral headed straight for his crotch and hardened his heart before another part of him turned hard. He met her gaze and extended his hand. “I’m Jackson James. I’ve been assigned to handle your account. Mr. Till has retired.”

She frowned. “I didn’t realize.”

Jackson nodded. “It was a surprise to a lot of people.” But not to the partners, since Mr. Till had royally screwed up.

She shot him a troubled glance. “Oh, well, would you like some whiskey?”

She looked as if she could use it. He shook his head. “I don’t drink on the job.”

“Oh, that makes sense.” She glanced around and set the drink down on a table and turned back to him. “Mr. James, then.” She shifted the dog to the other arm and shook his hand. “I’m Lori Jean. It was kind of you to make a house call. I do need to arrange for some additional funds.”

“We should discuss the status of your trust. You’ve talked to your attorney?” he asked.

She gestured toward a chair. “Please have a seat. Yes, I talked with Clarence. He said something about the possibility of a more recent will.”

“That’s right,” Jackson said, wondering if she was truly in the dark or if she was acting. It didn’t matter, he thought as he opened his briefcase and pulled out three fat files. He was ready to turn on the light. “A more recent will has been found, and your father stipulated that half of the trust will be given to you when you’re thirty and the other half when you reach fifty-five. Until then, you’ll be given a sizable annual allowance. Unfortunately, you’re twenty-four years old and you have spent your allowance through your twenty-eighth birthday. Some adjustments will have to be made in your spending.”

She blinked at him. “Are you sure? I probably spend too much on clothes, but most of my money goes to charitable foundations.” She lifted her shoulders and smiled. “I’m a philanthropist. Tilly always found a way to squeeze some money out of the trust for me.”

That was why Tilly had retired. Tilly had skated a fine line of getting the firm in trouble over how much he had allowed the Granger babe to get her well-manicured fingers on.

“Mr. Till didn’t have the information regarding the final will.”

“So are you saying that my father left me all this money, but I can’t touch it even for a good cause?”

“Exactly. You may live in the house and you will be taken care of, but there is a limit to the amount you are allowed to spend.”

Her eyebrows furrowed and she absently stroked her dog. “But what if it’s for charity?”

“There is still a limit.”

She gave a sigh of impatience. “But this is what I do. I’m a philanthropist. I fund worthy causes.”

“Not when you don’t have the funds.”

“What am I supposed to do until I turn thirty?” she demanded.

“You still have two years’ worth of allowance. If you budget your money-”

“Budget!” she echoed. “My father had so much money he couldn’t spend it fast enough. I can’t spend it fast enough.”

“You’ve made an impressive start,” Jackson muttered.

“Budget,” she said again. “I can’t believe this.”

“I can help you. That’s why I’m here.” It hadn’t taken long for Jackson to figure out exactly what his job was and why he had been chosen. His job was to say no to Lori Jean Granger because no one else could. His job was to teach the woman some real-world restraint, and the reason he had been chosen was because his bosses knew that when it came to heiresses who spent money with the same ease most people sent water down the drain, Jackson had no heart at all.

Lori didn’t like this accountant. She frowned as she watched his face, all stern lines and no-nonsense scowls. She wanted a different one. She wanted sweet old Tilly back. Tilly had chastised her about her donations, but after a double shot of whiskey, he’d always found a way to loosen the purse strings.

The attorney, Clarence, had left her several messages, but Lori had been away visiting one of her sisters and her brother in Philadelphia. Ever since Harlan died, she’d been trying to fill up the empty space inside her, but so far, nothing had worked. Being with her sister Katie and her family had helped a little, but Lori felt useless unless she was helping to fund her charities.

She had felt useless since her horrible horseback riding accident in college several years ago. She’d nearly died, and it had taken three surgeries and months of rehabilitation to put her back together again. Riding had been the passion of her life, and she hadn’t ridden a horse since. First, her father had forbidden it. Now, without him, she was too frightened. Scaredy-cat is what her sister Delilah would have called her, and Delilah would have been right.

Lori bit her lip and felt the beginning of an unwelcome but familiar edgy sensation. She was one of four offspring, and she’d gotten lucky with the sperm donor. She’d won the lottery when it came to fathers. Her father had not only loved and adored her, he’d also been loaded. The only thing he’d requested in trade for his devotion and riches was that she leave her mother, half sisters, and half brother behind. She’d been willing to hide her contact with her half sisters and brother until the accident. After that, she just couldn’t hide her desire to connect with them anymore, and she feared that was what had broken Harlan’s heart.

She’d felt guilty most of her life. Guilty for having a wealthy father. Guilty for having siblings he didn’t approve of.