Windswept

About the Book

A terrible secret lurks in the papers of the Windswept Plantation and its revelation will ruin the Jamison name, or so family memories claim.  To Barrett Browning, however, the collection of correspondence, ledgers, and journals is a treasure trove of potential publications sure to gain her a valuable promotion at her university.  As a historian, her job is to root out secrets from the past and hold them up to the light, no matter the cost.  The farthest thing from her mind is getting involved with the papers’ owner—much less falling in love with him.

To venture capitalist Davis Jamison, the pile of boxes is a headache he must deal with to protect the family.  What better way to solve the mystery than to have an expert inventory the papers in his own house?  He expects neither his cousin’s frantic obsession to keep all family sins hidden from view, nor the fierce need he comes to feel for Barrett.  He’s sworn never again to trust a woman with his property or his heart.  Can he rely on Barrett to guard both?

A secret will out, however, and it’s found in the journal of the first Jamison plantation mistress.  Hiding the truth brings Barrett to a difficult choice:  success with her career or a life with Davis.  Revealing the truth brings Davis to an equally hard decision:  ruin the family reputation or risk all to have Barrett forever.

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Chapter One

The Journal of Mary Maude Davis Jamison

Windswept Plantation

St. Gregoryville, Louisiana

June 1, 1830

A warm summer day with no rain.

            My name is Mary Maude Davis Jamison and this is my journal, a present from my beloved husband, Edgar.  He tells me it is customary for plantation masters and mistresses to keep written accounts of the events occurring on their property.  I am looking forward to recording my life so our children and grandchildren will know of us and our perfect love.

            I shall begin by describing myself and Edgar.

            I am nineteen years old and have been married to Edgar John Jamison since April 1, 1830.  I am slender, of medium height, with black hair and blue eyes.  I have never considered myself to be pretty--never, that is, until Edgar taught me how to see myself through his eyes.

            Edgar is a tall, handsome man, twenty-eight years of age with dark brown hair and hazel eyes.  The blade of his nose has a small hook, but instead of detracting from his beauty, it only enhances his attractiveness--at least to me. 

            The first time I met him at a party in Mobile, I was struck by the elegance of his posture, the width of his shoulders, and most especially by his gentlemanly demeanor.  He is already a man of substance and property, but there is a playful aspect to his nature I didn’t expect as he was quite serious to begin with.  He now laughs easily and often, even at my puny attempts at humor.  I doubt I will ever meet a more pleasant and easy-to-get-along-with individual.  Thank goodness he is not like those arrogant, overbearing men so prevalent in society.

            As I have come to know Edgar, I have realized he is a truly kind man, solicitous of my well-being and my feelings, with never a harsh word.  Neither does he have, as I have noticed in other men, the imperious attitude that assumes a woman has the intellectual capacity of a grain of rice and must be controlled by her “lord and master” in every endeavor.

            We spend hours simply talking with each other, conversing at length on all sorts of subjects.  He speaks very well and has plans for political service.  He is not put off at all by my education--or by my opinions, even though Mama often told me gentlemen did not like ladies who talked about such manly matters as politics.  Well, it is her and Papa’s fault I have them since they educated Belle and me just as they did our brothers Rob and Harry.

            At my parents’ home in Mobile, Edgar courted me as if I were a princess, and he quickly drove thoughts of any other suitors completely from my mind.  Our honeymoon to New Orleans was like being in heaven.  I should probably not write such a thought in this journal, but my memories of the glories of the marriage bed and his introduction to it still make me deliriously giddy.  I love him so much.  I foresee many days of utter happiness stretching ahead of us into eternity.  Growing old with this man will be such a pleasure.

###

Present Day

Houston, Texas

Friday, May 4

      “Tell me, Dr. Browning, why should I hand over the Windswept papers to you?”

      “Because, Mr. Jamison, I’m the best person for the job and because I had an agreement with your grandfather.”  Barrett Browning put all the confidence, sincerity, and honesty she had into her words and tone, but she couldn’t help gazing warily at the man sitting behind the large ebony-and-teakwood desk across which papers, files, and pens marched in ordered precision.  She wondered if he could see her tension. 

      E. Davis Jamison looked like a mid-thirties, taller, harder version of his grandfather--much harder.  Where Edgar Preston Jamison’s soft greenish-brown eyes held a roguish glint, Davis’s were hazel granite, and the glint was suspicious.  Where Edgar had the appearance of a benign elderly bald eagle with bushy white brows and silver hair, Davis personified the alert, vigilant bird in his prime, a black eagle if there was such a beast, with straight black brows, straight black mustache, and black hair combed--how else?--straight back.  To complete the family, and avian, resemblance, Davis had inherited Edgar’s slightly hooked nose--a direct bequest from Edgar John Jamison, family progenitor and Windswept’s first master.

      Davis did have the same soft, deep, Southern drawl of his grandfather, but the grandson had made his into a voice of command.  Barrett simply understood the second the man spoke, he did not need to raise his volume to be heard--or obeyed.  Neither did he need his six-foot-plus height or his charcoal-gray power suit to command.  Authority radiated off him in waves.

      She could handle the type.  She was used to dealing with large overbearing men--even ones whose voice and glance sent little shivers up her back.  Her reaction must come from the importance of the situation.  Now if he would come quickly to the decision she needed.  He wasn’t going to be easy to convince; she could tell from his posture and his hooded stare.  He didn’t appear to be actively hostile, but he wasn’t going to let anybody put something over on him either.

      She wasn’t trying to do anything of the sort, of course, but, as she waited for Davis Jamison’s reply, she couldn’t help thinking, and not for the first time, how sorry she was Edgar had passed away in early April.  The old man’s lawyer had reported his death to her, per his deathbed instructions.  She had gone to the funeral in Louisiana, but, not wanting to intrude on the family’s grief, had not introduced herself there. After all, she’d met only a couple of Edgar’s relatives in passing, and a funeral was not the time to be pushy.  Instead she had waited until later in the month to ask Davis for an appointment about the plantation papers. 

      The man had proved difficult to pin down.  He seemed to be on the go a great deal, either traveling on his own business or over in Louisiana tending to the estate.  She had persevered, however, and now, here she sat, in a downtown office building in Houston on the first Friday morning in May, hoping to make the same agreement, a contract that could make or break her career, with another Jamison.

      Davis had accepted her condolences and then sprung his question with no preliminary chit-chat.  She could not read the thoughts in his half-closed eyes as he listened to her answer and studied her for a long moment.  He leaned back in his big, black leather chair, tented his fingers under his mustache, and said in his soft deep voice, “Tell me about this agreement.”

      Edgar had not told her much about this particular grandson, but she had researched him carefully after finding out Davis was the executor of the estate.  His venture capital firm, Jamison Investments, was known for its integrity and trustworthiness, as well as its ability to make global deals without any information leaking to the press before the formal announcement.  Jamison moved quickly, quietly, and successfully in financing new companies and bringing existing companies to rewarding partnerships.  At the same time, he was reported to be a shrewd judge of projects and their proponents--and an expert negotiator.  All right, appeal to his instincts and show him the profit.

      “Your grandfather and I were collaborating on a history project using the records from your family home, Windswept Plantation,” she explained.  “I believe you and I can be of mutual assistance to one another if we finish the project.  Had he mentioned it at all to you?”

      Davis nodded affirmatively, but said nothing.

      “To find the complete records of a plantation is rare, especially in an area occupied by the Federal Army during the Civil War, and even more so when the place is prone to hurricane and flooding damage.  Your grandfather said your family was blessed with a roof that stood up to storms and with ancestors who stood up to Yankees and who couldn’t throw even a newspaper clipping away.”  She couldn’t help smiling as she remembered.

      Davis did not respond.  His stare reminded her of the ones she received from students who did not want to volunteer an answer to a question.  If he thought he could rattle her with such a tactic, he was mistaken.

      “He wanted me to work with him to inventory the papers,” she continued, “to look at them with an eye to their historical value, to see if enough data existed to put together a family or plantation history.  In return, I could use any of the information I found to write academic articles about life at Windswept or other subjects that came to light from our research.  We would discuss my writing a book or books, possibly the family history, after we had assessed the records.  I was to spend this summer with him at Windswept to catalog the collection.

      “My personal goal in this project is to produce scholarly, well-documented work.  Any article or book I publish would be in professional journals or by reputable academic publishing houses.  Your grandfather and I discussed our plans in a number of letters.  These are copies of our correspondence and will give you a more complete idea of our plans.”  She rose to hand him a file folder, then resumed her seat.

      Barrett made herself keep quiet and wait while Davis looked at the letters.  This was not the time to run off at the mouth as her brothers had often accused her of doing.  Besides, she wanted to see how he liked being on the receiving end of the silent treatment.

      She used the opportunity to glance around for the first time since she walked into his office high in the tall building.  Up to now, she had concentrated her gaze on him and it was something of a relief to break eye contact.  Except for the colorful abstract art on the walls, the office was what she had expected for the CEO of an investment firm--rich woods in the furniture, darker reds and blues in the upholstery and carpet, and a view to the north stretching so far, you’d think you could see all the way to Dallas.  The place even smelled rich, a blend of leather and furniture polish and something else she couldn’t quite pinpoint--but it caused her to shiver again.  Resolutely clamping down on her reaction, she turned back to him and watched him read.

      After reading the first three letters, he riffled through the remainder.  Closing the folder, he leaned back again and said in his low drawl, “My grandfather did mention the project to me before he died.  Let me ask you a question about the papers themselves.  What value do you think is in them?” 

      Ah, she was correct, he was interested in profit.  The problem was, her definition of profit would not be his.  All she could do, however, was make her case.

      “Value?  Monetarily, I don’t know,” she shrugged.  “Piecemeal, probably little unless Abraham Lincoln or Jefferson Davis or some other famous person wrote or signed a letter.  I have no idea what the going rate among signature collectors would be.  Some institutions may be willing to purchase the collection, but to receive the best price, you need to know what’s in there before putting it on the market.  To take a tax deduction for a donation of the papers, well, again, you need to know their contents.” 

      She stopped, but he asked no follow-up question.  He didn’t look bored, thank goodness, so she continued--with her definition of profit.  “Historically, the records are priceless.  From what Mr. Jamison told me and showed me, they are, for all practical purposes, complete from the time the first Jamison inherited the property to the present day.  The pictures one hundred and seventy years of records could draw, the new light they could shed, the understandings they could lead to, in all branches of history--political, economic, social and cultural, local and national--are incalculable.”

      “Aren’t you being extremely optimistic?”  Davis asked with a skeptical lift of one dark eyebrow.

      Barrett shook her head.  “No, sir, I don’t believe I am.  When I visited your grandfather over the past school year, and especially when I spent some of Christmas vacation with him, we started the work.  I read part of Edgar John Jamison’s journal from the eighteen thirties.  That book alone holds numerous commentaries on political and economic events as well as recording the day-to-day plantation activities.”

      She had to smile with joy as she remembered reading some of the correspondence.  “And the letters between his wife Mary Maude and her family were absolutely wonderful, full of long descriptive passages about everything from the children’s schooling to slave activities to local gossip.  I see no reason to think the remainder of the papers won’t be just as rich.  Or richer.”  The recollection of the wealth of information in just those few letters made her almost giddy, and she stopped talking so she didn’t babble.

      “What’s in this for you?”

      Well.  His question brought her back to earth with a thump.  She couldn’t, wouldn’t, tell him all of what was in it for her.  How much did he already know, she wondered, and what exactly?  What was he seeing when he looked at her?  Damn, she was having trouble reading this man.  She was beginning to feel like she was back in grad school, taking her oral comprehensive examination with profs who wouldn’t indicate what they thought of her answers.  She’d give him the expurgated version.

      “First, the chance to write real history, to contribute to our understanding of how people, especially women, lived, what they thought about, their hopes and fears, how they were affected by major events like wars, depressions, and minor things in everyday life.”  Barrett knew she sounded idealistic and more than a little pompous, but she was being truthful; she loved delving into the lives of real people.

      “Second, quite frankly, promotion to associate professor and tenure.  Research and publications are the path to success and a permanent appointment as defined in the academic world.”  She wasn’t about to discuss what--or who--else was involved in her promotion, so she changed the subject under the guise of answering his question.  “No money was changing hands here, Mr. Jamison.  I wasn’t paying your grandfather and he wasn’t paying me.  I look at this as pure research, part of my job as a historian.”

      “What’s in it for me?”

      She counted off her points on her fingers.  “First, the opportunity to contribute to the historical record, to help us understand the past.  Windswept and its inhabitants played an important role in Louisiana and Southern history in general.  Its story should be told.   

      “Second, completing the inventory with a professional appraisal is also a way to find out what’s in your family’s records.  I know whom to call for help in the event we find some information of more than usual historical interest outside my field of expertise.”

      She realized she had gone into teacher mode, enumerating points just as if she were lecturing, but it was too late to stop now.  “Third, I can help determine the appropriate place for the papers if you choose to donate them to an institution such as a library or archives.  If you wish to sell them, then you will have the catalog records to secure the best price.  No matter what you decide for a permanent disposition, I do recommend you place them somewhere where they’ll be open to scholarly investigation.” 

      She couldn’t help grinning at her next point.  “And fourth, if you’re looking for adulation, there are numerous historians and archivists who would be happy and willing to grovel at your feet for access to the papers.”

      “Are you one of them?”  He returned her grin with the smallest of smiles.

      She drew herself up and looked him straight in those hard, appraising eyes.  “No, sir.  I don’t grovel.”         

      Davis just bet she didn’t.  He smiled to himself, but was careful not to let his amusement show.  The determined tilt of her firm chin told him she wouldn’t beg, but he would also wager she could wear you down with any number of cogent arguments until you agreed with her point of view.  She’d tick them off with all her fingers and some of her toes to make him listen.

      When he’d agreed to this meeting, he hadn’t known exactly what to expect.  During his last days, Granddaddy had told him about the bequest of the family records solely to him, and the will explicitly instructed him not to leave them with the house, but to take immediate personal possession.  When he’d tried to talk to the old man about the collection and his plans for it, however, Edgar had said only, “Protect the records.  You’ll understand later.”  Of the professor, he hadn’t said much beyond, “She’s the one for the job and she knows what to do.  Talk to her.”  And he’d grinned when he’d said it--the same grin he used when about to trounce his grandsons at chess.  Then he’d changed the subject and refused to discuss the records matter further.

      Davis remembered the professor as the woman he’d noticed at the cemetery during his grandfather’s funeral.  He’d wondered who she was, but she’d disappeared before he had the opportunity to introduce himself.  She hadn’t come by the house afterward.

      Professor E.B. Browning.  She’d shaken his hand with a firm grip when she introduced herself as Barrett Browning, and she’d looked him over with big, intelligent, dark blue eyes --with a measuring look about them.  He wondered if he met her standards. 

      Professor Browning met his, at least in physical appearance.  Her features were regular, with a small nose and a slightly wide mouth to balance her large eyes.  When she smiled and especially when she talked about her work, she seemed to glow from within.  Her prim outfit, a conservative navy business suit with a knee-length skirt and a white silk blouse, contrasted wildly with her unruly dark brown hair.  It was a veritable riot of large curls, silken tangles calling to a man’s hands.  Five-four or five-five, if he measured correctly, probably twenty-eight to thirty years old.  She had trim ankles and small feet.  The rest of her was slim but not straight.  In fact, she curved enticingly.

      Her looks and intelligence, her response to his questions, and those eyes made him want to know her better.  But he suppressed his interest behind a façade of polite inquiry. 

      He reminded himself she was here because of Windswept and those damn plantation records.  Just one more problem, as if he didn’t have enough to do, running his own business, making sure the estate was settled, and dealing with the family, both close and extended.  He’d planned to contact her in the future, but she’d called and asked for an immediate appointment.

      He had agreed to the meeting mainly to get some answers, especially to the question of his grandfather’s motives for the bequest to him alone, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask her about Edgar’s purpose.  To do so would place him in the disadvantageous position of her knowing he didn’t have all the facts--a location he never inhabited in a negotiation.

      And this discussion was definitely a negotiation.  He realized he had gone into his usual stance when being introduced to a new project:  Listen and watch.  Give away nothing.  Say as little as possible.  People often let slip important details when they were trying to fill silences.  In this particular instance, he did occupy the high ground, however, since he was asking the questions. 

      Curious to see how she’d like the next one, he said, “Are you going to try to prove a thesis with this research?  For example, the downtrodden nature of women’s lives and how beset they were by men and the system?  Or another feminist polemic?”  He kept his tone bland, but he watched her reaction.

      She returned a look revealing several of her thoughts at once: speculation about his reason for those particular questions, exasperation at them, and determination to convince him.  Davis was correct about that chin of hers.  She wanted the access Edgar had agreed to, but she wasn’t going to beg. He thought he saw her clench and unclench her jaw before answering, but her voice was mild and reasonable.

      “If you read the correspondence, you’ll see your grandfather and I went over what I might find and how I would use it several times.  We had a great deal of fun discussing in writing and in person what I would do and how I would do it.”  She paused and gave a little shrug.  “I will miss our talks and his letters very much.”  Her sorrow at losing his grandfather showed through for a moment, then she returned to her point. 

      “My goal is to find out what happened on and to Windswept and its inhabitants and how they fit into their times.  No more, no less.  This is very basic, very personal history.  Any interpretations or conclusions I come to will be from the material, as free from cant and bias and preconceived notions as I can make them.”

      She skewered him with a direct blue gaze. “Now, I can’t prove otherwise to you until I do the work, except by referring you to my published articles, my peers and colleagues, and my major professors, but I must tell you, my conclusions will be my own. I will not be pushed into anyone else’s thesis, including yours.  I respect it’s the history of your family, but I won’t whitewash or embellish it.”  She raised her stubborn chin.  “Mr. Jamison respected my professional integrity.  I hope you will also.  I’m passionate about my work but dispassionate in doing it.” 

      And what else are you passionate about, Davis asked himself.  He might like to have the answer to that question, and his body twitched in response.  He ignored both his mental and physical reactions.  “That’s acceptable.”

      Her lips firmed for a second, then she looked at him rather anxiously.  “May I ask where the records are now?  I hope you didn’t leave them unprotected at Windswept.”

      “As we speak, they are being delivered to my home here in Houston.”

      “Oh, good.”  Barrett almost slumped with relief.  For some reason, she felt immensely better knowing the papers were in Houston and not back in Louisiana.  Certainly it was because coming down here from the Dallas-Ft. Worth area would be easier than the long drive to the plantation.  Assuming, of course, he’d honor the deal. 

      Despite the vulnerability it revealed, she could think of nothing to do but be straightforward and hope for a similar response from him.  She’d been answering his questions; it was time he answered some of hers.  She leaned forward but kept her hands loose on the chair armrests so her nervousness wouldn’t show.  “May I ask if you have decided what to do with them?  May I have the access your grandfather agreed to?”

      He subjected her to another long look without words.  She had to fight not to move, not to at least to clench her fists, not to elaborate on her question, especially not to think of how much of her life depended on his next words.

      “Honestly, I don’t know what I’m going to do with them,” he answered finally.  “Dealing with the various bequests has taken more time than I realized.”

      “Yes, I understand,” Barrett said to fill time while her brain whirled.  She was discouraged by his statement, but hoped she still had a chance.  He hadn’t answered her second question, so she tried again.  “Now, I know I don’t have any right to ask this, but I’m under a time crunch.  Would it be possible for you to come to a conclusion fairly soon about my access to the papers?  You can always make final disposition of them later.  But in my case, the school year will be over in three weeks, and if I’m not going to be working on Windswept, I need to arrange other research projects.  I’ll be happy to work under any schedule you set up.”

      He nodded and murmured, “Let me review your correspondence and get back to you.”

      His words were a clear dismissal.  She bit her tongue to keep from pleading and pulled a pen and her card from her purse.  She quickly jotted phone numbers on the card and rose to hand it to him across the desk.  “Here’s my office number on the front.  The first number on the back is my home in Grand Prairie.  The second is where I’ll be after five tonight and until noon on Sunday, if you have any questions.”  She tried to smile encouragingly and convey at the same time the underlying message to make up his mind and quickly.

      “Fine.”  He rose and came around the desk to shake her hand.  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Browning.  My grandfather told me you brought him a great deal of joy over the past year, and I’m grateful for that.”

      He smiled when he said it.  With her hand in his, Barrett looked up at his face and felt a tremor run up her arm and down her body as if a great seismic upheaval had just shaken her foundations.  His stone covering had crumbled and another Davis Jamison shone through--a thoroughly charming, extremely attractive man.  His eyes even softened and she could see gold flecks in them.  He looked more like his grandfather than ever.

      “Thank you,” she managed to say through the lump suddenly forming in her throat, “it was a pleasure meeting you too.  I will miss him.”

      “I will also.”  He ushered her out of his office and walked her to the reception area.

      “Thank you for your time,” she said.

      “Thank you for your explanation of the situation,” he answered.

      She walked across the broad expanse of deep blue carpet and opened the outer door.  She could feel his gaze on her, and she couldn’t help turning back to him.  Their eyes locked and she felt the impact in her bones.  She froze for the barest second before she forced herself to blink and break the contact.  She could not muster a smile or a word, only a nod, and she somehow made her feet take her out the door.  As it closed behind her, she almost fled down the corridor.

      Once in the fortunately empty elevator, Barrett let herself release some of her tension by shaking her fists in the air.  She satisfied her need to scream with a closed-mouth “Mmmmmmmgh!”

      She felt like she’d just run from one end of campus to the other in the middle of a Texas summer heat wave, only to be bowled over by a blue norther roaring out of the Panhandle.  What an imposing, intimidating, challenging man to deal with, she thought.  A shiver ran down her back, and she shook herself.  What a difficult, gorgeous, hard man. 

      He was a hell of a negotiator.  Look at how he had asked all the questions, let her ramble on, and given her no real clue about his own opinion. 

      So, where did the visit leave her?

      She’d blown it; her career was over.

      Her one chance to plumb unbelievably rich historical sources, to make career strides quickly, to get out from under the grasping, obnoxious fingers and vindictive nature of Horace Glover, and she’d slammed right into the impervious smooth marble of Davis Jamison.  He wasn’t going to honor his grandfather’s agreement.  He didn’t give a flip about his family history, much less history in general.

      He didn’t have the time to think about the papers.  What was there to think about?  What time did he need to give to the project?  All he had to do was turn her loose on them and go away.  He wasn’t his grandfather, who could supply hours of family tales, legends and relationships.  She and Edgar had already put a family tree together.  She didn’t need Davis for that kind of information.  All she needed was access, but he didn’t want to be bothered, either with the papers or her.

      What was she, who always had planned out her life, every step of her career, going to do now?  She had been relying too much on the plantation research project to even consider other possibilities.  She needed to have at least one paper ready to submit to a professional journal by the end of the summer, and she didn’t have a clue what to study if she didn’t have Windswept. 

      She had to keep her goal in mind: an associate professorship with tenure, a permanent position at her university.  Then she wouldn’t have to worry about looking for another place, another college, and could concentrate on what she loved to do--teaching, research, and writing.  But first, department promotion rules required she publish at least two more articles; the informal grapevine, however, claimed a book contract would clinch the deal.  And she only had a couple of years to do it.  Windswept could have given her all that and more.  Assuming she could conquer department politics, especially those involving Full Professor Glover.

      She had two tasks now.  First, convince Davis Jamison of the worth of and need for the inventory.  She’d send him a persuasive, comprehensive letter delineating all the reasons why he should give her immediate access to the papers.  She’d talk to some archivist friends for more reasons not to let old records deteriorate.  Call on a couple of her former professors to bolster her arguments.  Just knock his socks off with the need to settle it now.  If he had so much to do, she could reduce his workload by handling this matter for him.

      Second, come up with another research topic, another plan, just to be on the safe side.

      “You can do it,” she muttered to herself.  “Let it percolate in your brain for a while.  Think about it all the way back to Grand Prairie and you’ll have ideas coming out of your head.  And you have friends to be with tonight and a party tomorrow to get your mind off your troubles.” 

      The doors opened.  She threw her shoulders back, pulled her jacket straight and strode off the elevator, head high.

###

      Feeling a jolt of awareness to the soles of his boots from their brief locking of eyes, Davis watched the door close behind Barrett.  He regretted for a moment she lived so far away.  His first impression had been correct; he would have enjoyed her company on a personal basis. 

      And the reaction he’d seen in her eyes told him she was not immune to the attraction either.

      She would certainly be a contrast to his usual companions, fashionable trust-fund society types or driven women in corporate careers.  The former had never worked a day in their lives and had read few books of any consequence--or few books, period.  The latter read the Wall Street Journal, Business Week, and Forbes. 

      All of them were useful for socializing, for maintaining an appearance, even for some relaxation--all he wanted from any woman these days.  Most of them were not interested in or capable of carrying on a complicated conversation about anything other than their main pursuits; the good professor, he was sure, could converse on a number of subjects--and would probably talk his ear off in the process. 

      He shook his head.  He didn’t have the time to daydream about what wouldn’t be.  He had just returned from a trip, first to Washington and then to Louisiana.  He had work to do.

      Intent on plowing through the pile of accumulated papers, phone messages and e-mail, Davis returned to his office, taking off his coat on the way.  When he sat down, however, he picked up her file folder first and turned to the pages at the back where Barrett had included her curriculum vitae. 

      Her full name was Elizabeth Barrett Browning.  No wonder she went by Barrett--probably had been teased all her life about having the name of the poet.  He himself did not care for his own first name, but he was named after his grandfather, so what could he do except go by his middle one as she did?

      She had done her undergraduate work over at Rice University and received her masters and doctorate from the University of Virginia.  Now she was an assistant professor for women’s studies at the University of Texas at Grand Prairie.  He noted her degrees, honors and publications.  She certainly appeared to have the qualifications to work on the Windswept papers, but then Granddaddy wouldn’t have picked her if she hadn’t.

      He sat back in his chair and rubbed his right forefinger along his mustache.  Suppose he agreed to his grandfather’s deal.  She’d have to work in his home.  He didn’t like the idea of a stranger being there when he wasn’t, even with his household staff present.  He liked even less sharing his space with said stranger.  The house--to be exact, his office there--had become a welcome retreat, a place where he could think and plan without interruptions, without pressure, without . . . distractions. 

      If she came, she’d be a distraction, all right.  A big one, both to his work efficiency and, to be honest, to his libido, if her parting look were any example. 

      What about the job she would be doing?  Would he have the time to supervise her?  Would he need to?  Could he trust her to do the work alone?  He didn’t know.  After all, Edgar would have been right there with her all the time.  Could he trust her with his family history? 

      Could he trust her, period?

      He’d trusted a woman before, and look what it got him--a kick in the face.

      He also distinctly remembered the words of his grandfather during their last visit together.  “You’re the protector of the family now, Davis,” the old man had stated.  “I know you’re not the oldest of the cousins, but you’re the one with the most sense.  The one I could always count on in a pinch.  That’s why I’m leaving our real heritage, the papers, to you.  They tell our story.  As for the rest of the family, some of them bear watching, need a helping hand from time to time.”

      The task of protecting the family was his true inheritance, he realized and shook his head.  It was not going to be easy.  Some members of the extended group were fractious at best, bellicose at worst.  Some required frequent attention, others were perfectly happy to maintain contact through annual Christmas cards.  But making sure they were all safe was his job now—and not an unknown responsibility, thanks to his own father’s early death.  “All right, Granddaddy,” he murmured to himself, “I’ll do my best.” 

      As for the Windswept papers . . .  He looked at the work stacked on his desk, then at his crowded calendar.  Pending deals demanded his immediate attention.  He needed to go to Washington and New York soon.  He really didn’t have the time to bother with the family history now.  Or with the good professor.  The papers would keep.  They’d sat there for all those years; they could continue to sit.  It wasn’t like they were going anywhere. 

      He’d let her know his decision tomorrow; he owed her at least a quick resolution of the question.  She’d appeared to have a professional approach to the situation; surely she’d understand.  With a small, vague feeling of missing some vital point, he put her card in the folder, closed it and added it to the stack to take home.  Then he rolled up his sleeves, picked up the first set of files on his left and dug in.

###

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