Shattered Virtue

by Magda Alexander

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  Her spoon clatters to the bowl. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Too bad the devil in me does. “You know what the best part was?”

  Her eyes panic as she glances around the diner. Everyone’s busy getting food in them. Something survivors do after a storm. “Stop talking.”

  She doesn’t want me to remind her about last night. Acting like it never happened is the right thing to do. But it rankles that she wants to put the passion we shared behind her. Because, yes, it was that good. I’ve fucked plenty of women in my life. But I never enjoyed a woman’s body as much as I enjoyed hers. Something that will haunt me the rest of my life. Because I know I can never fuck her again. So I’ll be damned if I allow her to forget what we shared. “That ‘please’ you whispered. I wasn’t quite sure what you meant. Please stop. Please, sir, I want more. I think the latter. I think you not only liked it, you loved what I did to you. And now you’re sitting here back in your pumps, trying hard to forget it ever happened.” I lean forward to drill what I have to say into her. “I have news for you, Ms. Berkeley, you won’t forget. I warned you. Once you experience passion, there’s no going back.”

  “Yes. There is.”

  I sip my coffee. “We’ll see.” I’m a bastard to taunt her with her newly discovered sexuality when I should fear the effect she’s had on me. Something tells me she’d be a hard habit to break.

  CHAPTER 12

  Madrigal

  As luck would have it, I don’t get home until after seven. A trip that should have taken us no more than four hours took far longer, the result of a flat tire and an accident on I-95 that forced traffic to a crawl. All I want is a hot shower and clean clothes. Once I feel half human, I’ll go check on Madison. Hoping to reach my room before anyone sees me, I make a beeline for the stairs. But before I take the first step, I run into my sister, who’s clutching a bowl of chocolate pudding.

  “Maddy, how are you doing?”

  She shrugs. “Fine. Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Two nights ago, you”—I don’t know who’s near, so I have to couch my question in general terms—“you weren’t feeling well.”

  “Feeling fine now.” Her nose wrinkles. “What happened? You look like an outcast from a refugee camp. And smell worse.”

  “A hurricane. That’s what happened. We got caught in it.”

  She licks pudding from the spoon. Her love affair with the sweet is well known among the kitchen staff. Cook makes a point of having a batch available at all times. Starving as I am, I’d love to ask for some. Instead, I scrutinize her for signs that she is as fine as she claims.

  Climbing the steps right along with me, she waves the spoon at me. “I heard, but that doesn’t explain this.”

  “The car got a flat tire. While Steele changed it, I managed to slip in the mud. My hair’s caked with something I’d rather not identify, my clothes reek, and the only good place for my shoes is the rubbish bin.”

  “Well, that explains the eau de garbage.” She pronounces the last word with a French accent.

  I don’t see any signs of her earlier distress, but I have to ask. Again. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  She stops licking the spoon to glare at me. “Once and for all, Madrigal. Yes. Give it a rest. I shouldn’t have gotten as upset as I did. I’m not a child anymore.”

  “Anybody would have gotten upset seeing those pictures for the first time.”

  She stuffs the spoon into the bowl. “I’m trying to forget about it. Let it go.”

  Not wanting her to suffer any more than she has, I honor her wish. “Fine.”

  She follows me into my room where I dump the briefcase on my Queen Anne desk.

  “So you stayed in a motel?” she asks.

  I kick my ruined shoes off into the closet. “A fleabag one, close to Emporia. We hunkered there for the night.”

  “We?”

  “Steele and I.”

  “Ah, the big bad wolf.” I turn back just in time to see her load up the spoon and stuff her face.

  That’s it. Starving, I reach for the bowl. “Give me some.”

  “No.” She whisks it out of my reach, not a hard thing to do since she’s several inches taller than me.

  How I ended up with a younger sister who’s taller and more slender, I’ll never know. She’s got the metabolism of a hummingbird. She can eat anything and not gain weight.

  “It’ll spoil your dinner. Cook made pot roast and those golden potatoes you like so much.”

  My stomach rumbles at the mention of the pot roast. The sooner I shower, the sooner I eat. I go for the buttons of my jacket, practically ripping them off.

  “He’s quite yummy-looking,” she says.

  Well, that stops me in my tracks. “How do you know what he looks like?”

  She grins. “From his picture, silly. The firm’s prom book in Gramps’s library?” The prom book is the album that contains the photo of every employee at my grandfather’s law firm. A long time ago, someone referred to it by that name and it stuck.

  I don’t glance in her direction while I strip off my skirt and blouse. Down to my underwear, I look for a place to toss my clothes so they won’t contaminate anything in the room. My only choice is the tiled floor in the bathroom.

  She waves her spoon at them. “You going to get those cleaned?”

  “No.” I huff. “I’m going to have them burned.”

  “You can donate them to the Young Women’s Project, you know. After you have them, err—”

  “Fumigated?”

  “Dry-cleaned.”

  “Good idea.” I make a mental note of doing just that. When I step into the bathroom, Madison yells out, “Leave the door open so we can talk.”

  “Okay.” Climbing into the tub, I grab the handheld shower and hose off the dirt. It will take several washes and rinses to get the muck out.

  “So did you sleep in the same room?”

  “Of course not. We had separate rooms, squirt.”

  “Uh-huh. Then how come you don’t have a receipt in your purse?”

  What? Soaking wet, I fly out of the shower, wrap a towel around my middle, and dash into my room. Sure enough, she’s searching through my bag, examining every item there. I snatch it from her. “Give that to me. You’re not to do that, you hear me?”

  “How am I supposed to know what you’re up to unless I dig through your purse?”

  “You’re not.” Steam is practically coming out of my ears. “My private life is just that, private.”

  Before I can murder her, Olivia strides into the room with her hands propped on her hips. “Girls, stop arguing. I can hear you clearly down the hall.”

  “Sorry.” My sister hangs her head, presumably in shame. But she’s fighting back a smile. She’s not the least bit sorry, the wretch.

  “Madison, don’t you have something better to do than bother your sister?”

  The grin escapes. “No. Not really. No.”

  “Then I suggest you find something to keep yourself occupied.”

  “Okay.” She takes a step toward the door, but then turns back. “Just so you know, Mad, I don’t believe you. About the room.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because you hate staying anywhere by yourself.” She knows how scared I am of living alone. “And you blush every time you say his name. Something happened last night. And I”—she thumps her chest—“am going to find out what.” Waving the spoon in the air in a gesture of farewell, she breezes out of the room.

  “Don’t mind her,” Olivia says. “Should I have a dinner tray brought up to you? You look all tuckered out.”

  “Yes, I think that would be best.” Last thing I want is to run into Gramps. He’s bound to have questions about last night. If I’m that transparent around Madi
son, God knows what I’d reveal to him. Better to stay hidden until tomorrow. By then, enough time will have passed to get my composure back.

  Monday morning on the way into work, I manage to satisfy my grandfather’s curiosity about our stay at the motel. But I’m not so lucky that afternoon.

  After lunch Joss Stanton knocks on my office door. “Madrigal?”

  “Hi.”

  “May I come in?”

  “Of course.” Wonder what she wants?

  She closes the door behind her.

  Uh-oh. “Anything wrong?” A thought occurs to me, an alarming one. “Did something happen to Gramps?” I’m fully aware of the close relationship between her and my grandfather. Not that they flaunt it. They’ve been together so long I’ve come to think of her as an aunt. They should have married, but for some reason they’d decided to lead separate lives. I never understood why.

  “No, he’s fine. I just wanted to . . . chat.”

  I gulp back my fear. “Chat?”

  “About your trip to North Carolina.” Easing into the chair in front of my desk, she crosses her knees.

  “Okay.” What does she know? With tension riding my shoulders, I drop into my own seat.

  “You submitted your expense report this morning.”

  “Yes, to Lucy.” I’d included the airfare and the bagel I grabbed at Reagan National before I got on the plane. “Something wrong with it?”

  “I supervise the summer interns, so she routed it by me to get my approval. I noticed there was no charge for your motel room.”

  My stomach clenches. Why didn’t I think of this? Why didn’t he? If I reveal the truth, she might tell Gramps, and that might adversely affect Steele. I’ll have to fudge my way out of it. “Tren . . . Mr. Steele put the rooms on his credit card.” Well, he had.

  “I thought that might be the case, so I pulled his expense account. He paid for only one. Did you share a room, Madrigal?” Clasping her hands, she leans forward, a gesture meant to instill trust, encourage my confidence.

  In panic mode, I lie. “Maybe the motel clerk made a mistake. It was kind of crazy when we checked out.”

  She shakes her head. “I called the motel and talked to the manager. He remembers the two of you quite clearly.”

  The clerk would. When I’d learned only one room was available, I’d argued for another hotel, but Steele shot down my idea, explaining the roads were too dangerous to venture out on them. I’ve never been good at lying. And clearly I’ve been caught. Heaving a sigh, I come clean. “We had no choice. There was only one room available. Please, please, don’t tell Gramps.” There was no telling what he’d do.

  She reaches out and squeezes my restless hands with her own. “Honey, that’s the last thing I’d do.”

  “Thank you.” The words spill from my lips.

  “I’m not going to ask if anything happened between the two of you. It’s none of my business, and frankly, I don’t want to know.”

  I get it. Plausible deniability. If Gramps questions her, she won’t be lying when she says she knows nothing about Steele and me.

  “Trenton is a . . . difficult man. Difficult and complex. I may be stepping over the line here. But I want to caution you. Don’t get involved with him, Madrigal.”

  Avoiding her gaze, I twist my hands in my lap. “I haven’t.” I only had sex with him, that’s all. Can she tell I’m lying?

  She studies me for several seconds, and I return her scrutiny with as much honesty as I can muster.

  “Trenton is brilliant, beyond brilliant. But he’s . . . damaged,” she says.

  Okay. I admit it. I’m eager to know more about Steele. I shouldn’t be, but I am. And Joss is my best shot at finding out about him. “Damaged? What do you mean?”

  Her gaze darts to mine. “You’re curious about him.”

  “Yes.” I have to come up with a logical reason to learn more about the person who’s arguably my boss. “I wonder why he chose criminal law.”

  “What I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this office. Deal?”

  I nod. “Deal.” Anything to get her to open up.

  “His family was the stuff of nightmares. When he was five, his mother abandoned Trenton and his younger brother. Their father retaliated by beating the boys. They suffered through hell before the city stepped in and put them in foster care. But no one wanted two troubled boys, one of whom started fights every chance he got while the other liked to set fires.”

  I gasp. “Who was the firebug?”

  “His brother, Reece. While Trenton found a mentor who helped him straighten out, Reece was not so lucky. He fell in with the wrong kids, joined a gang. Trenton tried to get him out. But they beat Trenton so badly he almost died. After that, his brother told him to stay away. Reece was caught selling drugs and ended up in juvie jail. The cops talked him into turning state’s evidence against the drug dealer in exchange for his freedom. He testified, but before they could find him a safe place to live, he was killed. Trenton blamed himself for what happened. So he became a defense attorney to help those the system has failed.”

  “Not every client is innocent,” I feel compelled to say.

  “You shouldn’t judge, Madrigal. Everything isn’t always what it seems. And the fees generated by his more affluent clients allow Trenton to represent the wrongly accused who can’t afford his services.”

  She’s right. I need to stop making snap judgments about cases I know nothing about. “Sorry. It’s just . . . he’s a complex man. I get that. But I want to understand him.”

  “I get the attraction, Madrigal. I really do. He’s brilliant, handsome. Many women find him irresistible. They love that edge of danger he carries around. But that edge has hurt many women. Most of them knew the score when they got involved with him. But you’re younger than his usual type and far more innocent. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  Innocent. There’s that word again. I’m not, especially after what happened last night. But of course I can’t share that with her. “Trenton took the couch. I took the bed. He was a perfect gentleman.” It’s the truth, as far as it goes.

  “Good. I would hate for Holden to find out the head of his criminal law practice seduced his granddaughter.”

  “Tr . . . Mr. Steele didn’t seduce me.” He didn’t have to. I threw myself at him.

  “Very well. Don’t worry about the credit card charge. I talked to the motel manager and asked him to charge us for two rooms. As you can imagine, he was more than glad to comply. Trenton’s business expense will reflect those two rooms.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Next time, you might want to think things through.”

  “What could I have done differently?”

  “You could have insisted on renting a hotel room in Raleigh. I’m betting he would have given in if you had.”

  The rental car had been on its last legs and the storm’s arrival imminent. Yet I had voiced no objection to his plan. Why? Because it was my walk on the wild side, that’s why. I’d wanted to brave the elements by his side and see if we’d win. We hadn’t. Instead, we’d ended up in a motel where I shamelessly offered myself to him. Maybe Madison is not the only wild child in the family. The difference being until yesterday I’d kept that side of me well hidden. My phone rings. Talk about the devil. “It’s him.”

  “He probably wants to talk about that research assignment he handed you.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  Except she isn’t. When I arrive at Steele’s office, he has someone he wants me to meet. Charlie White. An ex-detective from the Metropolitan Police Department, now an investigator Steele uses for criminal law work.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. White,” I say, taking a seat on Steele’s couch.

  “Please. Call me Charlie.” He’s in his fifties, grizzled hair, chocolate-brown skin. Kind smile.
He pulls out a spiral notebook and a pen. Guess he’s old-school. “Tell me the details of your parents’ deaths.”

  “Very well.” I clasp my hands on my lap. “They were killed April 8, 2002.”

  “Where?”

  “In our home. My mother—”

  Steele interrupts. “I told him about that, Madrigal. No need to go over it again.”

  “Did they charge anyone, Ms. Berkeley?”

  “Yes. Two handymen. They’d been doing work around the house. My mom was throwing a party and needed some things done—painting, sprucing up, that kind of thing.”

  “Do you recall their names?”

  They’re permanently etched in my memory. “Bill Johnson and Michael Haynes. They’d been working for North Dominion Handymen for maybe a month when my mother hired them. Both had records. The company was supposed to bond their employees, but it was their busy season, and they never got around to submitting their names to the bond company. So their references were never checked.”

  “Were you home the night it happened?”

  “No. A friend was having a birthday party. It was my first party with boys. I remember being very excited.”

  “Were adults present at the party?” Steele asks.

  “Of course. Her parents. No alcohol, no drugs, nothing the slightest bit out of line.” Except one boy had managed to kiss me. On the cheek. How strange. I’d blocked that out until now. “My friend invited three of her best friends to sleep over. We talked late into the night. It was the last happy thought I had in a while. The next morning, my grandfather showed up at the door. He’d aged ten years overnight. When he told me what happened, I fainted. For the next few days, I barely ate or slept, couldn’t deal with the funeral, with any of it. I insisted on seeing my mother, so they opened the casket. She’d been beaten so badly, I hardly recognized her. After the funeral, I escaped into my own world. Our family doctor recommended a program where I could stay until I healed. I didn’t leave there for an entire year. And the worst part was they kept Madison from me.”

  “Who’s Madison?” Charlie asks.