Damn it. I don’t want to scare her. She’s my intern, after all. I put a professional distance between us and flash her my most nonthreatening smile. “Not just yet. Let me show you my office.”
“Very well.” Not much she can do but agree. Last thing she wants is to get on my wrong side. I’m to supervise her work, after all. And she’s smart enough to know her grandfather will be checking with me about her progress.
The view from the big picture window that overlooks the city impresses her, going by her awed expression. No wonder. From this point, you can see the Washington Monument in the distance all lit up at night.
“It’s beautiful,” she says.
“Yes. It is.” I point out other landmarks. The White House roof with the American flag flying above it. The Ronald Reagan International Trade Center. Farther down, the Old Post Office building with its clock tower. “We have prime seats at every presidential inauguration, all enjoyed within the cozy confines of our offices, rather than the frozen tundra that usually exists outside.”
Her lips curl in amusement. “Yes. I know. I’ve been here for a few of them.”
Of course she’s viewed the inauguration from the firm’s windows. She’s Holden’s granddaughter, after all. “I’ve never seen you.”
“That’s because I spent my time in my grandfather’s office on the fourteenth floor.”
“To which only close family and top clients are invited.” And that’s never included me.
“I guess. Thanks for showing it to me,” she says, polite to the end.
“You’re welcome.”
“I better return to the reception. Gramps will be looking for me.” Her eyes spark at the mention of her grandfather. He’s someone dear to her. That much is clear.
Something aches within me. I have no one that close in my life. Except for Mitch. And he’s more mentor than friend. “You’re not tempted, are you, by any of this?”
“No.”
“Prosecutors don’t make that much money. Working here, you could.”
“Money is not an issue, Mr. Steele. To be perfectly frank, I’m only working here to make my grandfather happy.”
“As opposed to every other intern who would love to be extended a job offer at the end of the summer.”
“I’m not one of them. I’d be perfectly happy to spend the summer researching some esoteric point of law.”
I cock a brow. “Would you now?”
She tips her head to the side and grins. “That’s what you’ve planned for me, isn’t it?”
How the hell does she know that? Joss wouldn’t have told her, which means she figured it out on her own. My opinion of Madrigal Berkeley rises another notch. “Smart as well as beautiful.”
Something about the way I say beautiful sets her trembling. Her cheeks pink up. “I really have to go.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you for showing me the suite.” She can’t help but be civil; it’s been bred in her.
“You’re welcome.” I trail after her as she teeter-totters on her high heels toward the bank of elevators. She’s probably not used to them. That failing makes her more human, less of a goddess, endearing her more to me. As if I need another reason to be attracted to her.
After we climb into the elevator, I push the button for the third floor, home to the criminal law practice. Leaning back against the elevator wall, I tuck my hands in my pockets. Reaching for her just won’t do.
She pushes “6,” where the reception’s being held. “You’re not going back to the party?”
I shake my head and offer her a rueful smile. “I have work waiting on my desk.”
“Oh?” She sounds disappointed. Why, I have no idea.
When she steps off on the sixth floor, she offers her hand. “Thank you again for the tour, Mr. Steele. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Looking forward to it. Madrigal.” My voice’s gone gravelly. Can’t help it. “Good night.” I brush my thumb across her wrist before letting go.
She gasps and pulls back. But something flashes in her eyes. And for the first time, I see the heat there. Against all expectations, she’s attracted to me. Which ratchets this situation from inconvenient to a fucking disaster in the making.
CHAPTER 4
Madrigal
The next morning, the head of human resources shows me to my desk in the criminal law wing. The area is not as spacious as the one Mr. Steele walked me through yesterday. And my office is tiny compared to the others on the floor. But to my surprise, a surge of excitement streaks through me. Strange since this is the last place I wish to be. Maybe it’s because it’s my very own, or because it’s my first real job, or maybe, just maybe, something Trenton Steele said last night sparked my interest.
Most summer interns are asked to research a point of law and write a legal memorandum covering a particular issue. And last night Mr. Steele verified as much. But he’d also hinted at meaningful work. Don’t know why that possibility excites me since I’d be working on the other side of the law. Maybe it’s because I’d be helping to save someone’s life. But I’ll only work on a case if the person’s blameless. If the alleged perp did the crime, I have no interest in keeping such scum out of jail. Having reconciled that idea with my conscience, I take a deep breath. Maybe this internship will be a good thing after all.
God knows I’ll need something to occupy my time beyond spending the day in the library, because I won’t be making friends among the interns anytime soon. From the resentful glances thrown at me at the reception, most of them believe I’m only here because Gramps is a founding partner of the firm. But they’re wrong. Dead wrong.
I have as much a right to be here as they do. My grades were top-notch. I was recruited by plenty of top-ranked law firms. I could have gotten this internship on my own if I’d chosen to apply. Which I hadn’t. It’s not as if I want to work here. I already have a job. Come September I’ll be working as an assistant prosecutor for the Commonwealth Attorney’s Office in Arlington County, Virginia, putting criminals behind bars, something that’s been my goal since my parents were killed. So I’m not competing for a job at the firm.
In the meantime, I’ll be learning from Trenton Steele, one of the best criminal law attorneys in the country. Surely I can make the internship work. The problem is last night I sensed something between us, some undercurrent that is not the least businesslike. The look he directed at me during the cocktail party, not to mention the highly inappropriate remark he made, tells me he’s attracted to me. How did he know he could say such a thing to me? We’d only met that day. And yet he trusted me not to go running to my grandfather.
Did I signal that I’m attracted to him? No idea why I am. He’s not at all like the men I dated in college. All of whom were young and clean-cut, with a patina of wealth and breeding. Trenton Steele, on the other hand, is thirty-seven. Early gray peppers his hair. There’s no family money. He grew up poor, which explains his rough edges. Maybe it’s his brilliance as a lawyer I’m attracted to and not him per se. He’s never lost a case. How many attorneys can boast that? Maybe that’s all it is. I hope so, because I can’t afford to be sidetracked by him.
Just as I’m propping up a picture of Madison and me on my desk, Gramps appears at the door. “May I come in?”
“Of course. Please do.”
He waves his hand around the space. “Do you like your office? If it’s too small—?”
“It’s perfect. I love it.” Just as I say that, one of the interns walks by the open door and screws up her face.
“Good.” He clasps his hands behind his back, an old habit of his that tells me he’s about to say something important. “You know we pride ourselves on our pro bono work.”
“Of course.” The firm represents clients who can’t afford legal fees, handling child custody disputes and landlord–tenant issues. In the last
couple of years, they’ve taken on appeals of criminal cases as well.
“Steele’s handling a pro bono appeal on a death row inmate. He needs to travel to North Carolina to interview our client.”
“Oh?” I think I know where this is headed, and I’m pretty sure it’s not a good idea.
“I asked him to take you along.”
“But—”
He holds up his hand. “Before you object, this case hinges on a confession our client made.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“It was made before his Miranda rights were read to him.”
My stomach lurches. An inmate whose appeal revolves around violations of his Fifth Amendment rights. The same circumstances as those criminals who murdered my parents, except in that case their trial attorney successfully proved their rights had been violated. A conversation with that inmate might provide an avenue to follow to get to the truth of their deaths. “But if he voluntarily offered exculpatory evidence—”
“He should have been read his rights immediately after the cops took him in. They didn’t.”
Tempted as I am by the circumstances surrounding this case, I can’t help but hesitate. “Do you think this is a good idea, Gramps?”
“What do you mean?”
“Some of the interns already think I’m given preferential treatment because I’m your granddaughter. A trip to visit a prisoner on death row with the head of the criminal law practice group will set tongues wagging.”
“If anybody dares to criticize—” His face turns a sick, ruddy color, and he goes off into a coughing fit, signs I’ve been warned to watch out for.
I shake my head. “Never mind, Gramps. Of course I’ll do it.”
“Good girl.” He fetches a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes spittle from his mouth. “Damn lungs.”
Rounding the desk, I hug him. “Don’t get so excited, Gramps. It’s bad for you.”
He waves the handkerchief at me and strides away without saying another word. He’s pretty spry for an eighty-year-old, except for his lungs and his heart. Although he gave up smoking years ago, the damage was already done.
As soon as he leaves, Lucy Perkins, my newly assigned secretary, steps into my office and closes the door behind her. About my age, we met at a summer law firm picnic one year and hit it off. So when I was asked if I had a preference for a secretary, I chose her. “Heads up. Steele’s on the warpath.”
“Any particular reason why?”
“Well”—she gives me an odd look—“word has it your grandfather demanded he take you to North Carolina to interview a client, and he’s not too happy about it.”
Can’t blame him. I wouldn’t be either if I’d been asked to take along a wet-behind-the-ears intern to a prisoner interview. But there’s no getting out of it. I’d promised Gramps.
“Bummer.”
My phone rings. Caller ID tells me it’s Trenton Steele. I make a face. “It’s him.”
“Mr. Steele?”
“Yes.”
“Good luck, sweetie,” she says before dashing out the door.
“Hello.” My voice sounds shaky at best.
“For the record, Ms. Berkeley, you answer the phone with your name.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry.”
“Come to my office.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Now,” he barks.
Darn. I grab a yellow legal pad and a pen and head out. Except I don’t know where I’m going.
Lucy points to the corner office. Figures that’s where he’d be.
I stumble when I enter his office—darn heels—but manage to catch myself before I face-plant on the rug.
Other than pointing to the chair in front of his desk, he doesn’t react to my less-than-graceful entrance.
Feeling the heat rising in my face, I duck my head and drop into the seat.
“I need you to go with me to North Carolina on Friday.”
“Yes, sir.”
His left brow arches. “You don’t sound very surprised.”
“My grandfather”—I clear my throat—“said you’d like me to accompany you.”
“Is that what he told you?”
Kinda. Sorta. “Yes, Mr. Steele.”
“For the record, you make a lousy liar.”
I don’t dare say a word. What happened to the man I met last night? The one intent on charming me? Maybe he’s bipolar and missed his meds. Or maybe he has a Jekyll and Hyde personality. Whatever the reason, I need to tread carefully around this man.
“Your law school article, “Unraveling Miranda”?”
“Yes.”
“We’re representing a death row inmate whose appeal comes up next week. He’s a pro bono client. We’re arguing he wasn’t properly Mirandized. There was a lapse between the time the suspect was arrested and when the Miranda rights were read.”
“Didn’t his attorney argue that during trial?”
“The public defender who represented him was fresh out of law school. He got his ass handed to him by the district attorney who handled the case. The idiot never questioned the timing of the Miranda rights.”
“But what if he committed the crime?”
He glares at me. “Ms. Berkeley, the law needs to be followed to the letter. If it’s not, justice will not be served. Do you understand?”
I gulp. “Yes, Mr. Steele. I’ll be glad to draft some questions for the inmate, if you wish.” The look on his face silences me. He could care less about my assistance.
He rises to his feet, walks to his office door, shuts it.
Uh-oh. I feel a reprimand coming on. And on my second day on the job too.
He picks up his letter opener and points it at me. “Let’s get one thing straight, Ms. Berkeley. The one and only reason I’m taking you is because your Gramps issued me an ultimatum. Either I take you along or I can kiss my private suite good-bye.”
Well, that explains his about-face. My grandfather forced his hand, and he doesn’t like it one bit.
“Flight leaves at eight a.m. on Friday. A car will pick you up at six and take you to Reagan National Airport.”
“You don’t have to—”
His brow rises along with his voice. “I’m not picking you up. The firm’s sedan service will. Our travel office will issue your ticket.”
“Thank you.”
“I don’t expect you to say one word during the inmate interview. If I want your opinion, I’ll give it to you. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.” Haranguing me, berating me. Lashing out. I hate it. I hate him. How could I have ever believed I was attracted to him? “Are we done?”
“Yes.” He stabs the letter opener into his black leather desk pad.
On wobbly legs I emerge from his office, glad the big bad wolf didn’t take a bite out of me. Well, at least now I know where I stand with him.
CHAPTER 5
Trenton
I meet Mitchell Brooks for dinner at our usual haunt, an Argentinian charcuterie located on Pennsylvania Avenue. My mentor since I was a kid from the wrong side of the tracks, Mitch saw something in me all those years ago at the Boys & Girls Club where he volunteered to sponsor at-risk youth. Because of him, I got into a good college and a decent law school. Not Ivy League. Couldn’t afford the tuition, and my grades weren’t quite at the level they needed to be, but good enough.
As we follow the hostess into the main seating area, someone hails him. He stops long enough to introduce me and exchange pleasantries with the woman, a professional acquaintance of his. She’s not shy about tossing an appreciative glance in Mitch’s direction or chiding him for not giving her a call. Taking it in stride, he apologizes and promises to ring her up. Mitch may be in his midforties, and his gold hair may have strands of gray, but he still commands a great deal of attention from me
mbers of the opposite sex.
Given our hectic schedules, we haven’t seen each other for a month. After he bids his friend good-bye, the hostess leads us to our table, where we order our usual and settle into our catch-up phase.
“How are things at the firm?” he asks. Not a casual question. He was a partner there until three years ago. Something happened. Something he never shared with me that caused him to abandon a very lucrative career and move to the Securities and Exchange Commission. The SEC welcomed him with open arms. He’s always been a straight shooter with a reputation for honesty, intelligence, and hard work.
“Fine.”
He fiddles with the cutlery, a nervous habit of his. The man loves order above all things. “Heard Holden’s granddaughter is doing a stint as a criminal law intern.”
“Just for the summer. She starts work as an assistant prosecutor at Arlington in the fall.”
He steeples his hands over his plate. “The internship is Holden’s doing, I suppose?”
“Yes. He wants her to learn the defense side. He’s hoping she’ll give up on the prosecutor’s job and come work for him.”
“Ummm. Not so sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Holden likes to exert control over all things. Living in his house and working at his firm might stifle her professionally and personally. She’s young, impressionable. It would be better if she didn’t work in the same place as Holden.”
I’m surprised he knows so much about Madrigal. “You’re closely acquainted with her?”
A slight hesitation before he answers. “Yes. I know her and her sister, Madison. I attended the same prep school as her mother.”
“You never mentioned that before.”
“There was never a need to do so.” His tone implies a reluctance to pursue this particular subject, which makes me curious as hell. He and Holden’s daughter attended school during their teen years. Could there have been more than simple friendship between them?
The waiter appears with our appetizers—beef empanadas and chicharrones—interrupting my train of thought.
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