Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology

by Colleen Gleason

  No, she’d allowed him to lie to her.

  Diana rested her head in her hand, feeling as if blinders and shutters were falling away. Now all she saw was cold, empty realization. “I suspected as much in the last case. I knew something was wrong. And I got him off then—dammit. And someone died.”

  She sat there for a moment, furious with herself and with Roger Merkovitz, and stunned that she could have been so blind—or allowed herself to be. This was what gave attorneys a bad reputation.

  “What are you going to do?” Mickey asked after a long moment.

  Standing, Diana shoved her chair away from the desk and it rolled back into the credenza. Her heart was pounding, her world in flux...but she knew what she had to do. “I’m going to call him and tell him I can’t represent him in this case.”

  “You’re his attorney—you have to defend him even if he’s guilty. And you don’t know that he was at fault in the previous case. You could get disbarred for saying otherwise,” Mickey said. Her expression was serious, but not condemning. There was no judgment in the woman who’d worked closely with her on the previous case. She knew just as much as Diana did.

  “I won’t be his attorney any longer.”

  “He won’t like that. He’s our biggest client.”

  Diana’s stomach pitched. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t do this. I have to have some integrity.” She looked at her friend. For some reason, an image of the High Priestess flickered into her mind. “Even if I can’t pay the bills.” Her heart was pounding, her palms going slick. But she’d made her decision. She was listening to her instincts.

  “Word,” Mickey said, softly vehement. “I’m a hundred percent supportive. It’ll work out.” She stood and started to leave, then paused, her hand on the door. “Jonathan’s not going to be very happy.” Her steady gaze was both challenging and filled with question.

  “It doesn’t matter what Jonathan thinks,” Diana said shortly. She’d moved out more than two weeks ago, but hadn’t mentioned anything to Mickey. Although, clearly, her assistant suspected something was up—particularly since several bouquets of flowers had arrived at the office in the last few weeks. All from Jonathan.

  “It doesn’t?” pressed her friend. Her eyes had narrowed and were looking at her sharply. “Anything you want to tell me? Li-ike...the fact that you moved out?”

  Diana sighed. “Fine. I moved out. I told him it was over.”

  “Hot damn, woman! I knew it!”

  Diana blinked and looked at her. “You sound very pleased.”

  “You know I was never that crazy about him. There’s just something...off about him. Something that bugs me. And of course the fact that he’s a cheating asshole doesn’t help.”

  Diana didn’t even ask how Mickey knew about Jonathan’s indiscretion. She just gave her friend a look and said, “Get Merkovitz on the phone so I can end this.”

  * * *

  Late in the afternoon three days later, the intercom on Diana’s desk blared, interrupting a meeting with Mickey.

  “Diana, Jonathan’s on line three for you,” said Corey, the receptionist. “He says it’s urgent and he’s been trying to get your on your cell.”

  Damn. Yes, she’d been avoiding him. She sighed and capitulated. “I’ll take it.” Diana picked up the phone, and looked up just in time to see Mickey’s eyes roll. She shook her head and pushed the button for line three. “Diana Iverson,” she said in a businesslike tone.

  Jonathan didn’t even greet her. “I just got off the phone with Roger Merkovitz and he was so irate I could hardly understand what he was saying. It sounded like he said you’d dumped him.”

  Faintly surprised that he wasn’t calling about all of texts he’d sent, and the notes with the flowers, she replied calmly, “That’s correct. I had to drop his case. As you can imagine, he wasn’t pleased.”

  “You did?” Jonathan’s voice rose to a volume she’d never heard before. “Why would you do such a stupid thing? What’s going on?”

  Diana pulled the receiver away from her ear and stared at it. “I had to drop his case,” she repeated, falling back on her calm, emotionless persona that served as a thick shield in such situations. “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.” Her voice remained steady and cool, but inside, she was shocked and bewildered. Jonathan had never raised his voice in this manner—she knew he had a temper, but it had never yet, in the last year, been directed at her.

  “Why?” As if realizing his irrationality, Jonathan calmed his tones. “Diana, do you know what this will do to you? To your reputation? Merkovitz will have it in shreds. You won’t be able to practice law in this town—”

  “Stop it, Jonathan,” she interrupted. “Roger Merkovitz does not make or break my career or my practice. And if I make the decision to drop a case, it’s my decision, not yours. I’m sorry you’re friends with him, but I can’t represent the man. And might I remind you that we’re no longer a couple anyway, so it really shouldn’t reflect poorly on you—if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “But why?”

  Diana gripped the phone tighter. “Ask him. I was very up-front about my reasons. If he wants you to know, he can tell you himself. Now, I really have to get back to work. Good-bye.”

  * * *

  Ethan had been back in Princeton for more than three weeks. He didn’t mind being on campus so much, but he’d come to prefer Damariscotta. There weren’t any young fresh-faced, manipulative students trying to trick him into bed up there, nor the undercurrents of gossip related to Jenny and Bruce—but nor were there many other prospects for a man who’d been sleeping alone for much too long. Much as he loved his cabin tucked away in the woods, he was lonely.

  He’d left for New Jersey the Monday after Diana rushed back to Boston, looking for a change of scenery and to take care of some business regarding his latest co-published journal article. Aside from that, he didn’t want to have to be answering any questions from Helen Galliday or avoiding Joe Cap’s meaningful looks about Diana Iverson.

  He got back to his office after a long lunch with some of his friends and found the voice mail light blinking on his desk phone. And then he heard a soft buzzing sound, and realized he’d left his cell phone in his jacket pocket, and his jacket slung over his chair.

  Someone was trying to get in touch with him. A faint, derisive, ridiculous hope that it was Diana, begging to see him again, was quashed when he pushed the buttons to access his office voicemail and Helen Galliday’s sharp, unmistakable voice pierced his ears over the phone lines.

  “Ethan? Ethan Tannock, is that you? …. I tell you, I don’t like these confounded machines, you know …. Are you there?...Young man, I don’t know where you’ve been off to for the past few weeks, but there’s trouble brewin’ up here and you need to do something about it! …. Can you hear me? …. The autopsy’s come back an—”

  Something cut her off at that point, but the indomitable Helen was not about to be stopped, for the second message was the same strident voice. “...Ethan?...Ethan, this blazin’ voicemail of yours is abominable! Why can’t you answer your phone yourself? It turned off on me last time!...And I was tellin’ you somethin’ important!...You best get back here right away...They’re saying Belinda was murdered! Murdered in her bed!...D’you hear me?...I was going to say that in the last message but that infernal machine turned off...you come home right now!” And that second message had been terminated by the unmistakable sound of a phone receiver being slammed into its cradle.

  The third and final message was short and to the point: “Where the hell are you? Call me.”

  It was Joe Cap.

  * * *

  Boston’s on the way back here from Princeton, Joe had said. Cady’s having a great time here with me and Penny. You can stop off and give Diana the news. It’s better that she get it in person, Ethan.

  Yeah, right. And since when was Ethan a member of law enforcement, and required to deliver such bad news? But here he was, against his better judgment
, standing in the hallway in a high-rise in Boston’s financial district. It was just before five o’clock, later than he’d anticipated thanks to Friday afternoon traffic, but here he was. He knew she’d be there: a dedicated, workaholic lawyer like her wouldn’t be turning off the lights until she’d hit her 70-plus-hour a week billable time.

  Diana’s office suite was separated from the hall by a large, mahogany door and a discreet gold-lettered sign: Diana M. Iverson—Medical Malpractice. There was a narrow band of window running along one side of the door, and Ethan could see an efficient-looking receptionist busily answering phones. Of course—Diana would suffer nothing less than efficiency.

  He still couldn’t believe he’d agreed to help Joe. When Diana had driven away in her shiny gold Lexus, he told himself he’d be happy to never see her again. Manipulative, secretive, frosty Diana, who’d shut him down with a cool, lawyerly argument right on the front porch of Belinda’s house.

  But now, here he was, and he was already regretting it. He supposed he could just leave without seeing her, and tell Joe that he’d not been able to connect with her...then he stopped. Why should it bother him so much to talk to her? And he owed it to Belinda.

  That was the real reason he was there, he told himself. And that was the last twist of Joe’s knife that had convinced him to agree.

  He’d purposely chosen to come late in the day, and not to make an appointment. Since he had no desire to be there himself, he didn’t want to give her any choice in the matter either.

  Strangely nervous, he opened the heavy door and the young woman looked up with a pleasant smile. She was wearing a headset obviously attached to the phone, for she was talking with someone, and she nodded in greeting at him, holding up a pink-manicured finger to let him know she’d be right with him. Corey Geisoff, read her nameplate. She was seated at a desk behind a high counter that almost hid her face, but was of the right height for someone to stand at and rest one’s briefcase or planner atop it.

  While he waited for Corey to assist him, Ethan scanned the small waiting area, noting two black leather armchairs separated by a small mahogany table and a matching loveseat. A telephone, a calla lily, and several daily newspapers were within easy reach of anyone waiting to meet with Diana or her coworkers. Several old maps of Boston decorated the walls, and other than that, the area was comfortably plain.

  By the time he’d finished assessing the room, Corey had finished her phone call. Just as she looked up at him, a whirlwind of blond, neon green, and jangling silver bracelets shot around the corner from the back of the suite. “Corey—oh, excuse me!”

  The streak stopped short and Ethan smiled at the bundle of energy topped by an incredible mass of frizzy blond hair.

  “No problem,” he said as he flashed a charming grin, knowing he had to get them on his side if he was going to get in to see Diana without a fight. The woman returned his smile, slapping a stack of manila envelopes onto the counter. “Go ahead,” he offered, “I’m in no hurry.”

  She was wearing a suit of neon green, silver bangled earrings and bracelet, and chunky white shoes. Despite her state of activity—which equated, Ethan thought, to that of a tornado—she was the picture of trendy professionalism and efficiency. “Thanks,” she said, and he saw the hints of crow’s feet at her eyes and the lines in her cheeks and realized she was not the young, recent college graduate he’d assumed. She turned to Corey and gestured to the stack of envelopes. “Can you get these couriered over to the court a-sap? And let me know if Gerald Deets calls back—Diana wants to talk with him.”

  “Absolutely,” Corey replied, taking the envelopes and then turning her attention back to Ethan. “I’m sorry for the delay, sir, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m here to see Diana.”

  The receptionist smiled regretfully. “I’m sorry, but Ms. Iverson is tied up at the moment. Was she expecting you?”

  “No, she’s not expecting me.” Ethan lounged against the high counter. “Is she here? I’ll wait for her.”

  The older woman in the neon green suit had been listening to the conversation and now she stepped in. “I’m Diana’s assistant, Mickey. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Unfortunately, no. It’s Diana that I need to see.”

  “She is here, but she’s in a meeting. I’m not sure how long she’ll be—would you like to make an appointment to come back?”

  “That’s all right,” he replied, just as pleasantly. “I’ll wait.” He gave them both his most charming grin and walked casually over to the rounded leather armchairs.

  “You’re certainly welcome to wait until she’s free. In the meantime, could I get you anything? Coffee? Soda? Water?” she offered, her eyes scanning him with candid—very candid—interest.

  “No thanks. I’ll be fine.”

  Mickey started to go, then paused, looking at him again. “Can I let her know who’s waiting?”

  Again, his grin was meant to disarm. “I’d rather it be a surprise, but thanks.”

  * * *

  Ethan was only halfway through today’s Boston Globe when he heard her voice. It was low and sounded stressed, but he recognized it right away. He looked up in time to see Diana come around the corner and pause to talk seriously with Mickey.

  “...called as well. I’m sure Merkovitz is involved in all of this.”

  She didn’t see him at that angle, so he had a chance to observe her at his leisure. She was wearing a slim, short-skirted gray suit and black heels that showed off her shapely legs, and she carried a shiny, gold-plated pen that she flicked nervously against her palm as she spoke. Her hair was more tamed than he’d ever seen it—the thick, dark waves smoothed into a black helmet that cupped her chin and neck. She looked different...but not in a bad way. His lungs felt as if they’d constricted and he was shamefully aware that his heart thudded harder.

  Mickey, as though realizing they could be overheard, directed her boss’s attention toward Ethan. “He’s waiting over there.”

  “Hello—” Diana turned to face him and the greeting froze in mid-air. “Ethan.”

  He had to give her credit—she couldn’t have been more surprised, yet she handled the shock with cool aplomb. “Hi, Diana,” he said, rising to his feet.

  “I—have you been waiting long? I’m sorry about that, but we seem to be in crisis mode at the moment.” Her words were pleasant, but her face bore a tension and worry that concerned him. If this was what she was like in her work, he pitied her for having a job that wore on her so heavily.

  “I haven’t been waiting more than fifteen minutes. I’m sorry to drop in without an appointment,” he made certain his words didn’t sound too sincere, then continued, “but I was on my way home from Princeton and needed to talk with you. Actually, Joe Cap wanted me to stop by and talk to you.”

  “Oh.” The simplicity of her response indicated how confused and stressed she was. “It’s about—that. Why don’t you come on back.”

  Ethan followed her, getting his pulse under control as he watched the sway of her hips as she started down the hall into the depths of the suite. Mickey followed, once again offering him something to drink.

  “Coffee,” he replied this time. “Black, please.”

  “I’ll have some too,” Diana told her assistant.

  Her space was a large, corner office with a stately mahogany desk, large potted plants, a well-filled bookcase, and two walls of windows that looked into nowhere but the next buildings. Diana took a seat at her desk, which, although organized, was not clear of papers and folders, and gestured to him to take a seat.

  He chose one of the barrel chairs that faced her desk—that piece of furniture that she probably used to intimidate when the situation warranted it, or, in this case, more likely, to separate herself from her guest. There was silence for a moment and he looked her over easily, carefully, noticing that she seemed tense and tired. He took a moment to admire the curve of her mouth drawn tensely down, realizing that, yes, he still w
anted her—and he didn’t care that she might have used him to betray her commitment to another man, didn’t care that she might have done so in revenge or to assuage her ego—he just wanted. Damn it. He’d hoped whatever attraction he’d felt would have faded over the last month.

  Diana looked up as Mickey opened the door and brought their drinks, then nodded her thanks at her assistant. She was obviously bursting with curiosity, for she asked, “Did you need me to sit in?”

  “No, thanks. Ethan is here to speak with me—about Aunt Belinda’s death, I assume?” She directed this last part toward him, and he nodded once. “Hold my calls, please.”

  “All right.” Mickey gave him one last appraising glance, and with a sudden understanding in her eyes and a faint smirk curving her fuchsia lips, left the room.

  As the door closed, Diana spoke. “Well, Ethan, I don’t need to comment on what a surprise this is, as I’m sure you know it already. Have you joined Captain Tettmueller’s staff, or is it just curiosity that brings you here?” Her words were soft, unaccusing, but cool and steady.

  “I’m doing this as a favor to him—and to your aunt’s memory.” He noted with a perverse satisfaction that her face tightened at his words. Chalk one up for me, he thought to himself, determined to have and to keep the upper hand in this unwanted interview. Although with the way his mouth kept wanting to go dry, he wasn’t sure how easy that was going to be. All of a sudden, he was like a geeky teenager trying to talk to the head cheerleader. Did she have to look so coolly beautiful, even in the uniform of her profession?

  “Why didn’t Joe just call me himself?” She picked up that gold-plated pen and started flicking it again. “Ethan, I really don’t have time for this—whatever it is. I—oh.” Comprehension crossed her face and her eyes flashed to his. “It’s about the autopsy.”

  Ethan’s reserve melted at her apprehensive expression, at the sudden fear in her eyes. Joe had been right to ask that he do this in person. “I’m afraid it is. And I’m afraid the news isn’t good.”