Michael Matheson finished signing his name to the document on his desk, and stood up at the sound of tapping on his office door. It wasn't unusual for new investors to request a meeting with him, but he was pleasantly surprised when this particular investor opened the door and stepped into his office.
She stood there, her hand on the doorknob, staring at his face, looking considerably confused. While she attempted to sort through the sudden questions plaguing her, Michael was trying to stop staring. She was the most beautiful woman to walk through that door since he took over running the bank. Meticulously groomed, she looked like someone out of a glamour magazine. Her clothing was tasteful, expensive, and very feminine on her shapely figure.
She was beautiful—more than beautiful, he thought. She was exquisite.
“Please come in,” Michael said.
Rochelle remained where she stood, gazing questionably at him.
“There's been a mistake,” she said with a slight quiver in her voice.
“I was looking for a Mr. James Matheson.”
Michael slipped from behind his desk. Seizing the doorknob from her hand, he pushed the door shut. Placing his hand lightly upon Rochelle's back, he guided her to a chair. “James Matheson was my father,” he informed her.
His use of the word was, passed right by her attention. “Your father?” she questioned, taking a seat and sitting on the edge of the chair. She gazed up at his more than six foot height, tilting her head back on her shoulders to better view his face. “I thought he was the bank president,” she continued, watching Michael move around his desk and lower his muscular form into his leather-upholstered executive chair. She observed his darkly tanned face. She clutched the handle of the duffel bag she had set on the floor next to her chair.
Michael reached for a pen, which he toyed with distractedly, and leaned back in his high-backed office chair. “My father died nearly two years ago,” he explained.
The information jolted Rochelle, and she suddenly looked shocked and worried.
“That can't be,” she exclaimed, clearly disturbed at the news.
“What I mean is…” she paused in mid-sentence. “I'm sorry about your father's death.”
Her voice quivered and Michael nearly reached for a tissue to hand her, thinking she was about to cry. He held back, however, watching her take a deep steadying breath.
“Why don't you tell me who you are, and what business you required of my father,” Michael suggested.
“Your father was a friend of my father. Before dad died, he deposited some money in this bank for me, and told me to come see Mr. James Matheson when I needed to access the account.”
Michael was clearly startled. He knew immediately who she was by the amount of money her father had deposited in his bank for her. “I'm Michael Matheson, James's youngest son. Perhaps I can help you, Mrs...”
Rochelle glanced at her lap where her left hand curled into a tight fist. The large diamond-encrusted wedding rings on her finger glittered brilliantly beneath the fluorescent lighting. Realizing all at once how careless she had been not to remove the rings, she did so now. Unobtrusively, she slid them from her finger, dropping them into a tiny zippered pocket of her purse.
“I'm Rochelle Rathbone,” she said, using her maiden name that would be on the accounts her father set up in the Matheson bank. “I suppose you don't remember my father, Joshua Rathbone?”
Michael's forehead creased into a thoughtful frown, as he reached across his desk and shook her hand. “As a matter of fact, the name is familiar. I believe your father visited here about five years ago. I recall that particular visit because I made a special trip here to Windy Point to participate in a birthday celebration for my dad.
Your father and mother's visit coincided with the occasion and they joined us.”
“Then you do remember him,” Rochelle stated, pleased. She shifted her weight closer to the edge of the chair and bent forward expectantly.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. He spoke of you a number of times.”
Michael could not take his eyes away as her shoulders slumped with relief and she let out a long sigh. Her coral lips parted into a sad little smile. She pushed herself back in her chair, which set at one end of his desk, giving him a full, clear view of her. She crossed her knees to expose long shapely legs. Her skirt rode high up her silky thighs. He purposely moved his eyes to her right hand that continued to clutch the handle of the duffel bag.
She sighed with relief. “For a moment there I was afraid…”
She cut her sentence short, and Michael was wondering now what it was she wanted with him. He was aware of the account her father had established. Everyone at the bank was. It was one of their largest accounts. The fact that it set idle for the past years in a money market account with low interest rates had drawn the questionable curiosity of a number of his bank employees.
“Are you moving here to the area, Miss Rathbone?” he asked in his best businesslike manner.
She uncrossed her legs, and then crossed them again with the other leg. Her white skirt rode up a little higher leaving lace peeking from beneath the hem. Michael's breath caught in his throat as he subconsciously leaned forward in his chair, his eyes lingering just long enough on her silky legs to bring a blush to her cheeks. She raised her hips and self-consciously pulled down her skirt, lowering her eyes behind long lashes as she answered him. “Yes, I do plan to move… live here,” she corrected. “I wish to establish a checking account with your bank.”
Her voice held a light quiver again, and Michael's eyes studied her hand holding the duffel bag, wondering why it seemed so important to her. She nervously clasped and unclasped her fingers around the handle.
“Are you okay, Miss Rathbone? You seem rather apprehensive,” Michael said just before his phone rang. He lifted it, listened, and then informed the caller he didn't want to be disturbed.
He put the phone down, watching Rochelle, and quietly deciding to string this meeting out as long as possible. It wasn't every day someone so beautiful wandered into his office.
“I've been traveling, and I'm extremely tired.”
“From where have you traveled?”
Her brows knitted, and she looked at him with a note of hesitancy in answering. This meeting was not going the way she hoped. The impression that she could simply walk into the bank, see Mr. James Matheson, and put everything in his capable hands had backfired. Instead, Michael Matheson seemed intent upon conducting an interview with her, which she wanted to avoid. The less information she disclosed about herself, the safer she would feel. Her aim was to bury Rochelle Chandler and become Rochelle Rathbone again.
“If you don't mind, I would like to access my accounts,” she told him, instead of answering his question.
“I believe you only have one account,” he replied.
“There's also money in a safety deposit box.” She reached inside her purse and pulled out the safety-deposit box key, handing it across the desk to him.
“I see,” he replied, leaning forward to retrieve and examine the key. “I will need identification, of course.”
“Isn't the key sufficient? I wouldn't have it unless I'm who I say I am.”
“Asking for identification is standard procedure, Miss Rathbone,” he said with a faint shrug.
“What if I don't have identification?” she inquired, suddenly uncomfortable with this meeting, and the prospect of having to share her driver's license, which had Tobias's Miami address on it. She didn't know Michael Matheson and didn't trust him with information that might inadvertently find its way back to Tobias.
He stood up. “I tell you what, why don't we go across the street for a cup of coffee. We can talk there.”
Suddenly she was angry. “Mr. Matheson, I came here hoping to meet with a man who knew my father and whom I could trust, and who would help me handle my financial affairs. Instead, I have no choice but to deal with you, in which case, I need to establish a checking account. Will you, or will you not, let me access my savings account and the safety deposit box?” She gripped the handle of the duffel bag tighter, afraid for him to know what was inside it until she felt more trusting of Mr. Michael Matheson.
“Your father left some information concerning his estate? Do you know who the executor is?” Michael asked.
“Yes. He's my Godfather, Bentley Harrison.”
“Then call him, and he can corroborate your identity.”
“I don't want to call him.” She jumped to her feet, entirely edgy and nervous now. She turned toward the door, prepared to leave, but as soon as she grabbed the doorknob, it dawned upon her that she would have to deal with Michael Matheson unless she planned to carry around a duffle bag filled with money. She knew how dangerous that could be, so undoubtedly, she would have to compromise by supplying information about herself.
Michael remained sitting in his chair while he watched Rochelle preparing to leave. He parked one ankle on his knee, leaned far back in his chair, and clasped his hands and fingers behind his head, knowing that whatever she did, she would have to come back eventually. “That offer of a cup of coffee is still good,” he remarked unconcernedly, as she paused at the door.
“Very well, I accept,” she said a bit icily, realizing that trusting Michael Matheson was her only option.
Michael rose from his chair joined her at the door. They walked past the tellers windows on their way out, and he did not miss the eager, quizzing glances that flew their way. Seeing someone new in town, especially someone as beautiful as his new client brought the gossips out of the woodwork. Everyone he knew would note any contact, business or personal, which he had with Rochelle from now on. Once her name was recognized as the one on that huge account her father set up for her, she would become a kind of celebrity and wouldn't be able to go anywhere without people staring and watching her.
Gossip was characteristic of small towns and Windy Point was notorious for it.
“MR. MATHESON, I'M AT A TERRIBLE disadvantage,” Rochelle admitted when they were outside the bank and her lungs had filled with several puffs of fresh spring air. It smelled differently here than in Miami where exhaust fumes and other thick odors punctuated the atmosphere of the entire city. Here it smelled of mountains, of hills and valleys that wore a cloak of bright green as new blades of grass greeted a breathtaking spring.
“And how is that Miss Rathbone?”
“My father obviously trusted your father a great deal, and I was prepared to extend my trust to him as well. Discovering I will be dealing with someone else, I'm having reservations about whether I can place my trust in you as I was prepared to do with your father.”
He gave her a sidewise glance, looking vaguely slighted. “I assure you, Miss Rathbone, that all bank accounts are handled with the utmost privacy and discretion. Our customer relations and confidentiality have never been questioned before.”
Rochelle tilted her head back and stared toward a beautiful blue sky, her long auburn-gold curls falling down her back nearly to her waist. A white puffy cloud floating across the sky caught her attention a moment before she diverted her attention back to Michael and his nicely tanned profile.
“I'm not speaking of professional confidentiality. My situation is unique, and I need to know I can trust you explicitly before I start producing identification such as you requested earlier.”
“Surely you must know that I cannot run a bank efficiently or successfully if the people I do business with aren't able to put their trust in me.”
Rochelle stopped in her tracks. “I don't think you're following me. Have you ever been afraid for your life, Mr. Matheson?”
“Do you fear for your life, Miss Rathbone?” He touched her back with his fingertips, and they continued strolling.
His articulate evasiveness exasperated Rochelle. “Yes, I do fear for my life,” she answered forthrightly.
He halted at the door of the restaurant. He stared into her tired eyes that resembled moist green pools reflecting deep melancholy. It reminded him of a time not so long ago when he could measure his own life by broken dreams, crushed hopes, and frustration-filled days. The ordeal after his arrest, the time he had spent in jail, and the long days of his trial had all been akin to dying by slow degrees.
“Let's discuss it over coffee, and see if we can't make things easier for you,” he informed her.