underground
banking network able to transfer millions of dollars in a matter of
hours, the kingpins with their harems of mistresses, the gambling,
the drinking, the drugs.
Whatever Cooper Daniels’s new project turned
out to be, she was drawing the line at mistresses, gambling,
drinking, and drugs. Money was her forte, not vice.
She shuffled the top article to the bottom
of the pile and started in on the next, one printed in the
London Times
. She found little new information in the
four-column spread until she reached the second-to-last paragraph.
There was enough information there to make her sit up in her seat
and take notice.
She carefully read the long paragraph twice
before letting the article drop back on the pile in her lap. No one
in the shipping industry liked to publicize piracy, so most thefts
and hijackings were not reported by the news media. The
Times
article was no different in that respect, but to
illustrate a point, it did summarize a story about a shipping line
started in San Francisco in the 1880s that had gone bankrupt in the
1970s because of repeated pirate attacks. The line had been the
Daniels American Line, more commonly known as the DanAm Line, and
even more commonly known as the Damn Line.
The story made her realize two things: She’d
been remiss in her original research into Daniels, Ltd. when she’d
accepted it as the five-year-old international investment firm it
purported to be. She also realized that even when sitting across a
pub table from George Leeds, listening to all his wild stories,
she’d underestimated her employer’s ties to piracy.
“Damn Line,” she murmured, skimming the
article again and shaking her head.
“The old man loved that name,” Cooper said
around a yawn, his voice bringing her head around. “He thought it
made him sound invincible.”
He dragged his hands through his hair, and
she watched the silky fall of it slip back into place, brown
strands and blond finger-combed together.
“Ship with Daniels,” he continued, grinning
wryly. “Best Damn Line in the Pacific.” He turned his head and
leveled his gaze on her. “It wasn’t, of course. Matson was the best
damn line in the Pacific, and it galled the hell out of the old
man.”
“Your father?” she asked.
Cooper shrugged, relaxing back in his seat.
“He preferred to be called Mr. Daniels, or sir. Mostly I just
called him the bastard.”
Jessica let the information sink in before
she hazarded a guess about the painting in the San Francisco
office. “You don’t look much like him.”
His grin returned, wryer and broader than
before. “If I wasn’t already overpaying you, that would get you a
raise, Ms. Langston.”
“You’re not overpaying me by that much,” she
said in her own defense, then added, “If you didn’t get along all
that well with him, why do you keep his portrait in the
office?”
“To keep his memory sharp and clear in my
mind. It never pays to forget your enemies, Ms. Langston, not in my
business.”
“You considered your father an enemy?” she
asked, not quite believing anyone’s paternal relationship could be
so bitter.
“Don’t sound surprised, please,” he said
drolly, glancing over at her. “God, you are an innocent.”
He had an infuriating way of delivering an
insult.
“You make innocence sound like the kiss of
death,” she said, not bothering to hide her irritation.
To her surprise, he laughed. The sound
wasn’t sardonic, sarcastic, or wry, but a true laugh, a
transforming sound that melted the weariness from his face and made
her realize he was younger than she’d thought—younger and even more
intriguing.
When he was finished chuckling, he looked at
her again, his eyes alight with mischief. “Just so you know, Ms.
Langston. A ‘kiss of death’ is something a sailor buys from a
prostitute on the streets of Bangkok and it’s about as far from
innocent as you can get.”
“Oh,” she said, trying to maintain her
dignity while her face
banking network able to transfer millions of dollars in a matter of
hours, the kingpins with their harems of mistresses, the gambling,
the drinking, the drugs.
Whatever Cooper Daniels’s new project turned
out to be, she was drawing the line at mistresses, gambling,
drinking, and drugs. Money was her forte, not vice.
She shuffled the top article to the bottom
of the pile and started in on the next, one printed in the
London Times
. She found little new information in the
four-column spread until she reached the second-to-last paragraph.
There was enough information there to make her sit up in her seat
and take notice.
She carefully read the long paragraph twice
before letting the article drop back on the pile in her lap. No one
in the shipping industry liked to publicize piracy, so most thefts
and hijackings were not reported by the news media. The
Times
article was no different in that respect, but to
illustrate a point, it did summarize a story about a shipping line
started in San Francisco in the 1880s that had gone bankrupt in the
1970s because of repeated pirate attacks. The line had been the
Daniels American Line, more commonly known as the DanAm Line, and
even more commonly known as the Damn Line.
The story made her realize two things: She’d
been remiss in her original research into Daniels, Ltd. when she’d
accepted it as the five-year-old international investment firm it
purported to be. She also realized that even when sitting across a
pub table from George Leeds, listening to all his wild stories,
she’d underestimated her employer’s ties to piracy.
“Damn Line,” she murmured, skimming the
article again and shaking her head.
“The old man loved that name,” Cooper said
around a yawn, his voice bringing her head around. “He thought it
made him sound invincible.”
He dragged his hands through his hair, and
she watched the silky fall of it slip back into place, brown
strands and blond finger-combed together.
“Ship with Daniels,” he continued, grinning
wryly. “Best Damn Line in the Pacific.” He turned his head and
leveled his gaze on her. “It wasn’t, of course. Matson was the best
damn line in the Pacific, and it galled the hell out of the old
man.”
“Your father?” she asked.
Cooper shrugged, relaxing back in his seat.
“He preferred to be called Mr. Daniels, or sir. Mostly I just
called him the bastard.”
Jessica let the information sink in before
she hazarded a guess about the painting in the San Francisco
office. “You don’t look much like him.”
His grin returned, wryer and broader than
before. “If I wasn’t already overpaying you, that would get you a
raise, Ms. Langston.”
“You’re not overpaying me by that much,” she
said in her own defense, then added, “If you didn’t get along all
that well with him, why do you keep his portrait in the
office?”
“To keep his memory sharp and clear in my
mind. It never pays to forget your enemies, Ms. Langston, not in my
business.”
“You considered your father an enemy?” she
asked, not quite believing anyone’s paternal relationship could be
so bitter.
“Don’t sound surprised, please,” he said
drolly, glancing over at her. “God, you are an innocent.”
He had an infuriating way of delivering an
insult.
“You make innocence sound like the kiss of
death,” she said, not bothering to hide her irritation.
To her surprise, he laughed. The sound
wasn’t sardonic, sarcastic, or wry, but a true laugh, a
transforming sound that melted the weariness from his face and made
her realize he was younger than she’d thought—younger and even more
intriguing.
When he was finished chuckling, he looked at
her again, his eyes alight with mischief. “Just so you know, Ms.
Langston. A ‘kiss of death’ is something a sailor buys from a
prostitute on the streets of Bangkok and it’s about as far from
innocent as you can get.”
“Oh,” she said, trying to maintain her
dignity while her face
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