by Sandra Brown
“Well, you never… The marriage agreement and all…”
“Lauren, darling, when I thought I might lose you, I went crazy. I had never told you how much I love you. If you had died without knowing what you mean to my life, I…” He shrugged helplessly. Tracing her cheekbone lightly with his finger, he said, grinning, “Of course, you’re twenty thousand dollars poorer than you could be. Am I worth it?”
“I’ll reserve judgment. But it may take me forty or fifty years to decide.”
He pinched her earlobe lightly. “I think I started loving you when you marched so proudly out of the house wearing that ridiculous riding getup.” She too, laughed, at her own foolishness. “But you were haunting me even before then. I’ve no doubt that if Mother hadn’t speeded up the process, I would have married you just to get you into my bed. Exactly as Ben had expected me to. He knew me pretty well.” He smiled.
“Then you loved me just for my body.”
“Well, it was a start,” he said mischievously, his eyes glowing topaz. He kissed her then, sweetly and gently, on her mouth.
“Thank you for bringing out my piano,” she said softly as she caressed his eyebrows with her finger.
“You’re quite welcome.”
“What’s my other present?” she asked slyly.
He quirked one of the eyebrows so recently smoothed. “I can see that Gloria is great at keeping secrets.” Lauren laughed. “How would you like a palomino mare for your very own? She’s the color of honey and has a white mane and tail. Big brown eyes. Charger’s hotter’n hell.” He chuckled. “Come to think of it, I’m not sure I should entrust you with another horse.”
Lauren was stricken. “Oh, Jared—”
Her distress was obvious and he was immediately sorry for his tactlessness. “I was only teasing. Truly. The accidents weren’t your fault.” He outlined the veins on the back of her hand with his thumb. “About Flame, Lauren, I—”
“No need.” She covered his mouth with her fingers. “I understand you now.”
“I almost died that night I slapped you. It was an accident. I—”
“I know all of that, Jared.”
Silently they stared at each other, each dangerously close to tears.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. He hooked his thumbs under the straps of her nightgown and pulled it down over her breasts and lower until it bunched around her hips. He noticed the changes in her breasts brought on by motherhood and marveled at them. Her waist was still trim. He encircled it with his hands, his thumbs caressing her navel. Then he lowered his head and laid it on her stomach. His hair tickled, but she didn’t move. She ran her fingers through the unruly waves.
“My baby,” he whispered, and kissed her abdomen with an emotion deeper than passion.
“I love you, Jared,” she vowed.
He raised his eyes to hers and smiled ruefully. “You said that to me months ago, and I more or less ignored it.” His voice became gruff. “I’m listening now.”
“Then come to me.”
He seemed surprised. “You’re sure? Duncan and Vandiver in the cave…”
“Was something else entirely. I want you.”
He rose and undressed quickly. When he was settled under the blankets, he pulled her close and kissed her deeply. His hands traveled over her body, reacquainting themselves with the curves and textures he had missed for so long.
While still capable of rational thought, Lauren placed a cautious hand on the thick mat of hair covering his chest. “Jared, will it hurt the baby? Should we wait—”
“There’s no way. No way,” he said as he pressed her down deeper into the pillows, trying to capture her evasive lips.
“Jared,” she said with more emphasis.
Patiently he raised his head and sighed. “Didn’t I tell you once before that I would never do anything to hurt you? Would I lie about something as important as my own baby?”
She smiled teasingly. “Forgive me for thinking that at this moment your judgment might be somewhat clouded.”
Her hands locked behind his neck as his mouth melded with hers. Her fingers moved over his back and ended up stroking his shoulders as he lowered himself to fondle and kiss her breasts.
“You taste so good,” he murmured as his tongue flicked over her aroused nipples. “Our baby is going to be the fattest one around.” He stayed at her breasts to tell her of his loneliness of the past few weeks. “I wanted you so badly, Lauren. But I had to stay away from you for your own protection.” He raised his head and she saw the sincerity in his eyes. “Tell me you know that.”
In answer, she took him in her hand and guided him to the gate of her womanhood. Bathing the pulsating tip with the moistness of her own loins, she led him further into the welcoming folds of her body.
He stretched himself along her length, covering her completely. “Hold me tight, Jared,” she breathed.
“Entrap me, Lauren. Surround me.”
The sweeping tide of loving was carrying them away when she heard the soft, husky cry which was most precious to her. “Lauren, thank you for loving me.”
From #1 New York Times bestselling author Sandra Brown comes a gripping story of family ties and forbidden attraction.
Please see the next page for an exciting preview of
Friction
Prologue
The two stalwart highway patrolmen guarding the barricade stared at her without registering any emotion, but because of the media blitz of the past few days, she knew they recognized her and that, in spite of their implacable demeanor, they were curious to know why Judge Holly Spencer was angling to get closer to the scene of a bloodbath.
“… bullet hole to the chest…”
“… ligature marks on his wrists and ankles…”
“… half in, half out of the water…”
“… carnage…”
Those were the phrases that Sergeant Lester had used to describe the scene beyond the barricade, although he’d told her he was sparing her the “gruesome details.” He’d also ordered her to clear out, go home, that she shouldn’t be here, that there was nothing she could do. Then he’d ducked beneath the barricade, got into his sedan, and backed it into a three-point turn that pointed him to the crime scene.
If she didn’t leave voluntarily, the pair of patrolmen would escort her away, and that would create even more of a scene. She started walking back to her car.
In the few minutes that she’d been away from it, more law enforcement and emergency personnel had converged on the area. There was a lengthening line of cars, pickups, and minivans forming along both shoulders of the narrow road on either side of the turnoff. This junction was deep in the backwoods and appeared on few maps. It was nearly impossible to find unless one knew to look for the taxidermy sign with an armadillo on it.
Tonight it had become a hot spot.
The vibe of the collected crowd was almost festive. The flashing lights of the official vehicles reminded Holly of a carnival midway. An ever-growing number of onlookers, drawn to the emergency like sharks to blood, stood in groups swapping rumors about the body count, speculating on who had died and how.
Overhearing one group placing odds on who had survived, she wanted to scream, This isn’t entertainment.
By the time she reached her car, she was out of breath, her mouth dry with anxiety. She got in and clutched the steering wheel, pressing her forehead against it so hard, it hurt.
“Drive, judge.”
Nearly jumping out of her skin, she whipped her head around, gasping his name when she saw the amount of blood soaking his clothes.
The massive red stain was fresh enough to show up shiny in the kaleidoscope of flashing red, white, and blue lights around them. His eyes glinted at her from shadowed sockets. His forehead was beaded with sweat, strands of hair plastered to it.
He remained perfectly still, sprawled in the corner of the backseat, left leg stretched out along it, the toe of his blood-spattered cowboy boot pointing t
oward the ceiling of the car. His right leg was bent at the knee. His right hand was resting on it, holding a wicked-looking pistol.
He said, “It’s not my blood.”
“I heard.”
Looking down over his long torso, he gave a gravelly, bitter laugh. “He was dead before he hit the ground, but I wanted to make sure. Dumb move. Ruined this shirt, and it was one of my favorites.”
She wasn’t fooled by either his seeming indifference or his relaxed posture. He was a sudden movement waiting to happen, his reflexes quicksilver.
Up ahead, officers had begun moving along the line of spectator vehicles, motioning the motorists to clear the area. She had to either do as he asked or be caught with him inside her car.
“Sergeant Lester told me that you’d—”
“Shot the son of a bitch? That’s true. He’s dead. Now drive.”
Chapter 1
Five days earlier
Crawford Hunt woke up knowing that this was the day he’d been anticipating for a long time. Even before opening his eyes, he felt a happy bubble of excitement inside his chest, which was instantly burst by a pang of anxiety.
It might not go his way.
He showered with customary efficiency but took a little more time than usual on personal grooming: flossing, shaving extra-close, using a blow dryer rather than letting his hair dry naturally. But he was no good at wielding the dryer, and his hair came out looking the same as it always did—unmanageable. Why hadn’t he thought to get a trim?
He noticed a few gray strands in his sideburns. They, plus the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and on either side of his mouth, lent him an air of maturity.
But the judge would probably regard them as signs of hard living.
“Screw it.” Impatient with his self-scrutiny, he turned away from the bathroom mirror and went into his bedroom to dress.
He had considered wearing a suit, but figured that would be going overboard, like he was trying too hard to impress the judge. Besides, the navy wool blend made him feel like an undertaker. He settled for a sport jacket and tie.
Although the small of his back missed the pressure of his holster, he decided not to carry.
In the kitchen, he brewed coffee and poured himself a bowl of cereal, but neither settled well in his nervous stomach, so he dumped them into the disposal. As the Cheerios vaporized, he got a call from his lawyer.
“You all right?” The qualities that made William Moore a good lawyer worked against him as a likable human being. He possessed little grace and zero charm, so, although he’d called to ask about Crawford’s state of mind, the question sounded like a challenge to which he expected a positive answer.
“Doing okay.”
“Court will convene promptly at two o’clock.”
“Right. Wish it was earlier.”
“Are you going into your office first?”
“Thought about it. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“You should. Work will keep your mind off the hearing.”
Crawford hedged. “I’ll see how the morning goes.”
“Nervous?”
“No.”
The attorney snorted with skepticism. Crawford admitted to experiencing a few butterflies.
“We’ve gone over it,” the lawyer said. “Look everyone in the eye, especially the judge. Be sincere. You’ll do fine.”
Although it sounded easy enough, Crawford released a long breath. “At this point, I’ve done everything I can. It’s now up to the judge, whose mind is probably already made up.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. The decision could hinge on how you comport yourself on the stand.”
Crawford frowned into the phone. “But no pressure.”
“I have a good feeling.”
“Better than the other kind, I guess. But what happens if I don’t win today? What do I do next? Short of taking out a contract on Judge Spencer.”
“Don’t even think in terms of losing.” When Crawford didn’t respond, Moore began to lecture. “The last thing we need is for you to slink into court looking pessimistic.”
“Right.”
“I mean it. If you look unsure, you’re sunk.”
“Right.”
“Go in there with confidence, certainty, like you’ve already kicked butt.”
“I’ve got it, okay?”
Responding to his client’s testiness, Moore backed down. “I’ll meet you outside the courtroom a little before two.” He hung up without saying good-bye.
With hours to kill before he had to be in court, Crawford wandered through his house, checking things. Fridge, freezer, and pantry were well stocked. He’d had a maid service come in yesterday, and the three industrious women had left the whole house spotless. He tidied his bathroom and made his bed. He didn’t see anything else he could improve upon.
Last, he went into the second bedroom, the one he’d spent weeks preparing for Georgia’s homecoming, not allowing himself to think that from tonight forward his little girl wouldn’t be spending every night under his roof.
He’d left the decorating up to the saleswoman at the furniture store. “Georgia’s five years old. About to start kindergarten.”
She asked, “Favorite color?”
“Pink. Second favorite, pink.”
“Do you have a budget?”
“Knock yourself out.”
She’d taken him at his word. Everything in the room was pink except for the creamy white headboard, chest of drawers, and vanity table with an oval mirror that swiveled between upright spindles.
He had added touches he thought Georgia would like: picture books with pastel covers featuring rainbows and unicorns and such, a menagerie of stuffed animals, a ballet tutu with glittery slippers to match, and a doll wearing a pink princess gown and gold crown. The saleswoman had assured him it was a five-year-old girl’s fantasy room.
The only thing missing was the girl.
He gave the bedroom one final inspection, then left the house and, without consciously intending to, found himself driving toward the cemetery. He hadn’t come since Mother’s Day, when he and his in-laws had brought Georgia to visit the grave of the mother she didn’t remember.
Solemnly, Georgia had laid a bouquet of roses on the grave as instructed, then had looked up at him and asked, “Can we go get ice cream now, Daddy?”
Leaving his parents-in-law to pay homage to their late daughter, he’d scooped Georgia into his arms and carried her back to the car. She’d squealed whenever he pretended to stumble and stagger under her weight. He figured Beth wouldn’t take exception. Wouldn’t she rather have Georgia laughing over an ice cream cone than crying over her grave?
Somehow, it seemed appropriate to visit today, although he came empty-handed. He didn’t see what difference a bouquet of flowers would make to the person underground. As he stood beside the grave, he didn’t address anything to the spirit of his dead wife. He’d run out of things to say to her years ago, and those verbal purges never made him feel any better. They sure as hell didn’t benefit Beth.
So he merely stared at the date etched into the granite headstone and cursed it, cursed his culpability, then made a promise to whatever cosmic puppeteer might be listening that, if given custody of Georgia, he would do everything within his power to make amends.
* * *
Holly checked her wristwatch as she waited on the ground floor of the courthouse for the elevator. When it arrived and the door slid open, she stifled a groan at the sight of Greg Sanders among those onboard.
She stood aside and allowed everyone to get off. Sanders came only as far as the threshold, but there he stopped, blocking her from getting on.
“Well, Judge Spencer,” he drawled. “Fancy bumping into you. You can be the first to congratulate me.”
She forced a smile. “Are congratulations in order?”
He placed his hand on the door to prevent it from closing. “I just came from court. The verdict in the Mallory case? Not guilty.”
&
nbsp; Holly frowned. “I don’t see that as cause for celebration. Your client was accused of brutally beating a convenience store clerk during the commission of an armed robbery. The clerk lost an eye.”
“But my client didn’t rob the store.”
“Because he panicked and ran when he thought he’d beaten the clerk to death.” She was familiar with the case, but since the defending attorney, Sanders, was her opponent in the upcoming election for district court judge, the trial had been assigned to another court.
Greg Sanders, flashed his self-satisfied smirk. “The ADA failed to prove his case. My client—”
Holly interrupted. “You’ve already argued the case at trial. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to retry it for me here and now. If you’ll excuse me?”
She sidestepped him into the elevator. He got out, but kept his hand against the door. “I’m chalking up wins. Come November…” He winked. “The big win.”
“I’m afraid you’re setting yourself up for a huge disappointment.” She punched the elevator button for the fifth floor.
“This time ’round, you won’t have Judge Waters shoehorning you in.”
They were monopolizing one of three elevators. People were becoming impatient, shooting them dirty looks. Besides the fact they were inconveniencing others, she wouldn’t be goaded into defending either herself or her mentor to Greg Sanders. “I’m due in court in fifteen minutes. Please let go of the door.”
By now, Sanders was fighting the automation to keep it open. Speaking for her ears alone, he said, “Now what would a pretty young lawyer like you have been doing for ol’ Judge Waters to get him to go to bat for you with the governor?”
The “pretty” was belittling, not complimentary.
She smiled, but with exasperation. “Really, Mr. Sanders? If you’re resorting to innuendos suggesting sexual impropriety between the revered Judge Waters and me, you must be feeling terribly insecure about a successful outcome in November.” Without a “please” this time, she enunciated, “Let go of the door.”
He raised his hands in surrender and backed away. “You’ll mess up. Matter of time.” The door closed on his grinning face.
