by Diana Palmer
PRAISE FOR DIANA PALMER
“Nobody tops Diana Palmer when it comes to delivering pure, undiluted romance. I love her stories.”
—New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz
“Diana Palmer is a mesmerizing storyteller who captures the essence of what a romance should be.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Diana Palmer is a unique talent in the romance industry. Her writing combines wit, humor, and sensuality; and, as the song says, nobody does it better!”
—New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard
“No one beats this author for sensual anticipation.”
—Rave Reviews
“A love story that is pure and enjoyable.”
—Romantic Times on Lord of the Desert
“The dialogue is charming, the characters likable and the sex sizzling…”
—Publishers Weekly on Once in Paris
Diana Palmer has published over seventy category romances, as well as historical romances and longer contemporary works. With over forty million copies of her books in print, Diana Palmer is one of North America’s most beloved authors. Her accolades include two Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Awards, a Maggie Award, five national Waldenbooks bestseller awards and two national B. Dalton bestseller awards. Diana resides in the north mountains of her home state of Georgia with her husband, James, and their son, Blayne Edward.
Love on Trial
DIANA PALMER
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
One
The little coffee shop was crowded, its spotless white linen tablecloths and tempting aromas drawing a maximum crowd, but the two stubborn young women weren’t discouraged. They managed to find one empty table and collapsed into the dainty chairs, spilling their packages onto the floor with weary sighs.
“I thought you said the stores would all be empty on a day this hot,” Marty reminded her friend with a glare over the single rose in its ceramic budvase.
The slender young blonde only smiled, her amber eyes sparkling. “I didn’t say empty of what,” she laughed.
“Oh, Siri,” her friend moaned, “you’re just impossible!”
Cyrene Jamesson studied the oversized menu with silent amusement, warming to the sound of her nickname. No one called her Cyrene except Mark; but, then, her conservative-minded boyfriend never called anyone by a nickname.
She put the menu aside after making an instant decision, and watched Marty frown uncertainly over the varieties of coffee and pastries.
“Why not close your eyes and point at one?” Siri suggested helpfully.
“That’s easy for you to say,” came the reply. “You don’t have to watch your weight.”
She sighed. “At the speed I move, it’s impossible to gain weight.”
“You didn’t have to be a reporter, you know,” Marty reminded her.
Siri looked thunderstruck. “You mean,” she said in mock astonishment, “there are other professions that cater to crazy people?”
“You’re not crazy.”
“No,” Siri agreed. “Most people run river races in inner tubes, hang out of airplanes with 35 mm cameras, lie down behind cars while police tear-gas snipers, and chase bank robbers down back streets.”
Marty closed her eyes. “Deliver me,” she whispered.
Seconds later, a young, harried waitress darted toward them with her order book in hand, almost panting with the effort. “Sorry I took so long,” she apologized. “We’re swamped today!”
“Only because the coffee’s so good.” Siri smiled.
The waitress beamed and took their order, darting off again in a flurry of ruffled apron.
“Miss Diplomacy strikes again,” Marty laughed, tossing her dark hair.
“It doesn’t cost anything to be nice to people,” Siri reminded her.
“Reporters are supposed to be hard, uncompromising and stubborn,” Marty remarked. “Aren’t they?”
“That’s only a stereotype. You can’t lump people into groups and label them anymore, it’s too complicated.”
“Thanks for the benefit of that priceless bit of wisdom from Psychology 102,” Marty laughed.
“Wait till we get the pastries and coffee,” Siri threatened, “and I’ll treat you to a lecture on Glasser’s theories.”
“Please, we don’t all share your fascination with abnormal psychology,” came a moan from the other side of the table. “How does your poor old Dad stand it?”
“He likes it.”
“He would,” Marty grumbled. “Does Hawke?”
The light went out of Siri’s rosy complexioned face.
“Don’t mention that savage to me,” Siri growled.
“Siri, what’s wrong with you?” her friend wondered. “Half the women in the country would give their eye-teeth just to meet that gorgeous man. And there he is, your father’s partner, one of the most famous criminal lawyers alive, and you don’t even like him!”
“Hawke doesn’t go out of his way to be likeable,” she replied quietly. “He thinks all women should be locked up in harems and only let out once a year to have their hair trimmed.”
“While you, my dotty friend, are the world’s foremost libber.”
“Guilty as charged.” Siri smiled. “Hawke’s too macho for my taste. We’ve always knocked sparks from each other, ever since Dad took him on seven years ago.”
“Not all the time, though.” Marty grinned. “I’ve seen a few pictures of the two of you together at parties.”
“He can be pleasant enough. There are times when I feel almost comfortable with him. And the very next minute, he’ll say something to get my back up and laugh when I lose my temper.” Siri shook her head. “It’s never dull, I’ll give you that.”
Siri got a brief respite while the waitress set two cups of Kaffee mit Schlag in dainty wineglasses before them, along with delicate French cream cakes.
“Two thousand calories a bite,” Marty moaned.
“Only,” Siri remarked, “if you eat it. Why not just sit there and gaze at it lovingly?”
Marty glared at her and dug into the cream cake with a vengeance.
“That was delightful,” Siri sighed as she finished the last drop of her strong coffee. “This is the best day off I’ve had in months.”
“Naturally. It’s the only day off you’ve had in months. How did you manage it?”
Siri laughed. “Because of the Devolg murder case.”
Marty blinked at her. “Huh?”
“You’ve heard of it? The young boy who was accused of the knife murder of Justin Devolg?”
The brunette’s mouth flew open. “You mean the case that’s been on the front page…”
“The same. Hawke’s counsel for the defense,” she added.
“I still don’t get it. Why did that get you a day off?”
“Because,” Siri said calmly, “Bill Daeton wants me to go to Panama City with Hawke to track down a witness in the case.”
“Oh, you lucky little devil.” Marty smiled. “Panama City, all expenses paid, and Hawke Grayson!”
“Hold it right there. I said Bill wants me to go, not that I plan to do it.”
Marty lifted her eyes. “And why, pray tell, aren’t you going? Doesn’t Hawke want you along?”
“You’re getting warmer. Bill asked Dad to approach him about it,” Siri explained, “because he knew I’d refuse. So Dad asked him.”
Marty leaned forward earnestly, moving the budvase aside. “So?”
“Hawke told
Dad he had enough to do without playing chaperone to an adolescent.”
“Adolescent! Siri, you’re twenty-one years old!”
“To a man of Hawke’s advanced years,” the blonde said maliciously, “I probably do seem underaged.”
“I thought he was in his middle thirties.”
“Late thirties,” Siri corrected, “or early forties. I’ve never asked. He’s too old for me, and that’s a fact. Anyway, he said it was fine if Bill wanted to send a male reporter along, as long as Hawke had some control over the story to make sure the facts were presented accurately. How do you like that? A male reporter was welcome, but I can go hang.”
“What did Bill say?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t asked him.” She fished in her purse for a five dollar bill. “Hawke really burns me up. It isn’t that I wanted to have to go with him, it’s just the principle of the thing. I guess it’s just as well, though, you know how Mark is.”
“Don’t I just?” Marty said venomously. “That pompous little…!”
“Now, Marty.”
“Don’t you ‘now, Marty’ me!” the other girl grumbled. “Why you put up with him is beyond me.”
“Because he’s good company most of the time, and he doesn’t make demands,” Siri said quietly. “I don’t have to fight him off, and we do enjoy each other’s company.”
“How exciting!”
“I don’t want excitement in my private life,” Siri said. “I get enough of that during the day running from fires to murder scenes.”
“I’m waiting,” Marty said.
“For what?”
“For that old ‘eyes and ears’ of John Q. Public routine,” she laughed. “Honestly, Siri, I think you bleed ink!”
“Of course!” she replied with a smile. “It’s required.”
She took the Marta bus to the corner of Peachtree and 10th Street, and got off there. It was such a pretty day, she felt like walking the rest of the way to her father’s law office. She sighed, studying the Atlanta skyline, the new construction, and the mingling of old architecture with modern innovation. It was difficult to picture what this great city must have been like in 1864 when it was ravaged by Sherman’s army. For an urban area, it was strangely small-townish. There was a community feeling among the people who lived in the old elegant apartment houses along the wide street, among the merchants who ran small shops there. Siri always felt comfortable in this stretch of the city, despite the alarming crime rate. Of course, she had the good sense not to venture out alone at night.
She turned into the office building where her father had his practice, and took the elevator to the 10th floor, which was occupied by the law firm of Jamesson, Grayson, Peafowler, Dinkham, and Guystetter.
Her father’s middle-aged secretary, Nadine, greeted her with a smile.
“He’s here,” she said before Siri could ask. “Shall I warn him, or do you prefer to have the element of surprise?”
Siri smiled from ear to ear. She liked the trim, little brunette who was so like her late mother. If only Jared Jamesson would notice what a jewel of a woman his secretary was…Siri shrugged mentally.
“I think it might be safer if you announce me,” Siri told her with a wink. “I’ll know if I’m in the doghouse before I walk in.”
Nadine nodded and pressed the buzzer. “Mr. Jamesson, your daughter’s here to see you. Shall I send her in?”
“You’re mistaken, Miss Green,” came the deep, sharp reply, “I don’t have a daughter. My daughter wouldn’t let herself be shoved aside from a juicy assignment like the Devolg murder case.”
Siri leaned over the intercom. “She would if Hawke Grayson has his way,” she said into it. “You can’t argue with a brick wall, Papa dear.”
There was a deep chuckle in the background, joined by her father’s muffled laugh.
“Come on in, Siri. I think I’ve convinced the brick wall for you.”
Siri straightened with an apprehensive look at Nadine. “Is Hawke in there?” she asked with irritation.
“If I say yes, are you planning to dive for the elevator?” Nadine asked.
Siri shook her head. “I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction,” she replied. She straightened her shoulders and opened the door to her father’s plush office.
Jared Jamesson was stretched back in the swivel chair behind his desk, with his elbows jutting out to either side behind his head. Hawke was perched on the edge of the big oak desk, looking, as usual, dark and formidable.
“Do you still want to go to Panama City?” Jared asked his daughter, swinging forward to rest his forearms flat on the desk.
Siri shrugged. “Not if it’s going to mean giving up my bubble gum and my Barbie doll,” she said with a pointed glance in Hawke’s direction.
She could see the tiny dark flames that began to smoulder in her target’s eyes, as he folded his arms across his massive chest and raised an eyebrow. He didn’t smile at the dig. But, then, Hawke almost never smiled.
“Someday, sparrow,” he told her, “I’m going to make up for a noticeable omission in your upbringing. Jared ruined you.”
She tossed her thick blond hair, making a face at the nickname. “No, he didn’t,” she defended her parent, “every good father gives his children champagne for lunch and takes them to girlie shows at night.”
“Siri!” Jared burst out, horrified.
She laughed. “It’s okay, Dad, I didn’t mean it. Hawke, we never had champagne for lunch; only for supper,” she added, and ignored Jared’s groan.
“No wonder your father’s hair is gray,” Hawke remarked in that deep, resonant voice that carried so well in a courtroom. “Well, do you want to go with me, or don’t you?”
She didn’t but she’d have died rather than admit it. She really wasn’t prepared to find an explanation.
“I thought you hated reporters,” she recalled. Her fingers tightened around the full shopping bag and her purse.
“Only certain unscrupulous ones,” he corrected. “In this case, if I give you an exclusive, at least I can be sure the facts you release are accurate. And,” he added, reaching for a cigarette, “you won’t be able to print a word of it until I say so.”
“Or what?” she challenged.
He lit the cigarette before he replied. “I’ll sue the hell out of your paper. And I’ll win.”
That wasn’t conceit. It was a statement of fact, just as if he’d made a comment on the weather, and she knew it. His deep, slow voice sent shivers down her spine.
“Does Bill Daeton know you get the final word on the release date on my copy?” she asked.
He blew out a cloud of smoke. “What do you think?”
She glanced toward her father, who was listening to the exchange with amusement sparkling in the amber eyes that his daughter had inherited from him.
“Do you want to go or not, Siri?” Hawke asked pointedly.
“Well, if I can get somebody to take my assignments for a few days,” she mumbled. “I’ve got that interview with…”
“Excuses?” Hawke prodded. “Or is it that Holland doesn’t approve?”
She bristled at the sarcastic reference to her boyfriend. “Mark does have some say in what I do.”
“Why should he?” came the harsh reply. “Do you tell him how to do his job at the accounting agency, or where he can travel in connection with it?”
“You don’t understand, Hawke…!”
“The hell I don’t!” he growled.
“Now, now, world tensions are bad enough without World War III erupting between you two,” Jared remarked, moving to stand between them. “And I don’t have time to referee.”
Siri and Hawke exchanged glares, but her eyes fell first. He always managed to back her down, and it burned her up inside that she yielded so easily.
“All right, I’ll go home and pack,” she grumbled, turning away.
“I won’t be able to get away before Thursday,” Hawke said coolly. “Criminal court’s in sessi
on all week, and I’ve got two clients to represent. If the jury doesn’t get deadlocked, I should be able to leave Friday morning. Check with me later in the week.”
She nodded. “See you at home, Dad,” she called over her shoulder.
“Don’t trip over your mouth on the way out,” her parent called after her.
“You should have gone into comedy instead of court,” she called back, and closed the door behind her with a flair.
“How’d it go?” Nadine asked as she headed toward the elevator.
Siri paused, thought for a minute, and smiled. “I lost.”
“You have to stay home?”
Siri shook her head. “I have to go.” She grinned.
The smile faded when she was in the elevator, alone, going down to street level. How in the world was she going to explain to Mark, who didn’t trust her past his heel, that she was going away for a week with the most notorious man in local legal circles? From one battle to another, she thought resignedly. But at least with Mark, she’d have a chance of winning, which was more than she’d ever had with Hawke Grayson.
Two
Siri fumed around the house like a steaming clam, and every time she saw that arrogant dark head, she fumed even more. The trouble with Hawke, she told herself, was that he was too used to feminine adulation. He was accustomed to getting his own way about everything. But, even so…why did she always yield?
“He makes me feel like a spoiled brat,” she grumbled, as she headed for the shower. “That’s why I don’t like him!”
Not that she was spoiled. Jared had seen to that. When her mother died, just before Siri’s sixth birthday, he’d made sure she had enough love to make up for both parents. But he hadn’t indulged her to any great extent. His law practice took up a great deal of his time, and Siri had to settle for odd moments of togetherness. Jared didn’t spoil her; he forced her to fight her battles on all fronts. Even now, he only interfered when things got blazing hot between Hawke and his daughter. Which was another curious thing, Siri thought as she undressed and stepped under the spray of warm water.
