The Uneven Score Read Online Free Page A

gun didn’t move a fraction of an inch; neither did his eyes. They were, Whitney observed in spite of herself, an engaging shade of sea green. She wished his expression was engaging, too, but it wasn’t. It was grim and suspicious and not at all reassuring. Paddie had said he was “terribly handsome,” hadn’t she? Handsome and chivalrous. Only Whitney had yet to see any indication of chivalry.
    “All right, all right,” she said. “If you must know, it’s a bomb. It’s set to go off in ten minutes, but you’ve probably tripped the timer. Why don’t we make our exit? You take the stairs; I’ll take the elevator.”
    He gave her an incredulous look, the sea-green eyes narrowing, and turned the case over. On the other side were frayed Tanglewood and Saratoga Performing Arts Center stickers—dead giveaways. “You’re a musician,” he said. “All right, what’s going on? What is this—a horn?”
    “Oboe.”
    “I’ve seen an oboe case before. This is a French horn.”
    “Is it?” Whitney shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. It’s not mine.”
    “You did say I’d bent your bell, didn’t you?” His voice was curiously mild, almost as if he were enjoying himself.
    “I don’t know, did I? I was in hysterics. Look, I’m unarmed, so would you mind putting your gun away? It’s making me nervous.”
    “I hadn’t noticed.”
    Nevertheless, he laid the gun and her horn on the edge of his desk and folded his arms across his broad chest. With a growing sense of doom, she realized he looked every bit as threatening without his gun as with.
    “Well, what are you doing here?” he demanded,
    “Visiting. My sister works two floors down. I got lost.” She tried not to wince at her own lie. But who would visit her sister in downtown Orlando dressed in sweat pants and pink ballet slippers? Maybe she should have kept on her raw silk suit.
    “I see. And you just happen to play French horn and I just happen to be chairman of the CFSO.”
    Whitney blinked. “Of the what?”
    He heaved a sigh and rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek. If he meant to indicate a certain impatience, he had succeeded, she thought. She could just see him dragging Harry off. “The Central Florida Symphony Orchestra. I suppose you’re going to tell me you’ve never heard of it.”
    “No, of course I’ve heard of it. But I had no idea you were the—what?”
    “Chairman of the board of directors.”
    “Are you really? My, what a coincidence.” Paddie’s going to kill me, Whitney thought, unless I kill her first or unless Daniel Graham gets us both. “Look, Mr.—um—”
    “Graham,” he said, indulging her, but not patiently or with any amusement “Daniel Graham.”
    “Oh, well, I guess that stands to reason, this being the offices of Graham Citrus and all.” She smiled and went on in her most convincing tone, despite the gnawing uneasiness in the pit of her stomach. “My sister said I could use the ladies’ room up here. I guess I lost my way. I’m sorry if I caused you any alarm.”
    Graham, however, did not appear to be convinced.
    “Anyway, Mr. Graham, suppose I just take my horn and go and don’t come back?”
    He leaned against his desk. “You’re not a particularly convincing liar,” he said.
    I’m not a particularly convincing burglar, either, she thought. “You have a suspicious mind, Mr. Graham.”
    “Only when I find strange women in my closet. What’s your name?”
    “Jones. Sara Jones.”
    “I see. With an h?”
    “No.”
    He smiled. “You’re improving.”
    “But you still don’t believe me.”
    “Hardly. How did you get in?”
    “Into your closet?” She shrugged, purposely obtuse. She knew what he meant. “I just crawled in. I was mindful of the tennis rackets, don’t worry.”
    The muscles in his forearms tightened impressively. “Into my office—how did you get into my office?”
    She tried to look both innocuous and reasonable, an elusive combination at best, but, under