She really is slumming, he grumbled inwardly as he jogged over to her car. He got there just in time to see her settle in behind the wheel and blocked the closing of her car door with his body.
When she angled her head up at him, Conner felt his annoyance double at the exasperation plainly visible in the tiny lines at the corners of her full lips.
“Stop being a jerk,” she warned, impatient.
“A jerk?” he parroted.
“Okay,” she amended, batting her long lashes at him. “Stop being a complete asshole.”
Her condescension didn’t bother him so much as her voice. This woman had a cultured cadence, the kind of speech pattern learned only in the finest schools. It was the kind of speech that didn’t usually include the names and expletives she had so easily tossed at him.
“If I’m such an asshole, how come you’re looking to get laid in a dive like this?”
She blinked once. “And who told you I was looking to get laid, as you so coarsely put it?”
“Why else would a woman like you come to a place like this?”
“For a beer?” she suggested.
“Were they all out at the country club?”
“I’ve got news for you,” she said as she reached for the door handle. “I don’t belong to any country clubs, but I do enjoy a beer now and again.”
“I would suggest you enjoy it someplace other than here.”
“Oh, I get it!” she said in a breathy, sarcastic rush. “This is one of those quaint ‘men only’ places.”
“You could say that.”
She gave him an exaggerated dumb-blonde sigh. “Gee, I guess I should have checked the corners of the building for urine. Isn’t that how most lower animal species mark their territory?”
Conner chuckled. She was quick. “Would you have liked it better if I would have let ’ol Frankie have you?”
“Frankie would not have had me.”
“There’s not a whole lot of you, sweetheart. That bottle trick would have protected you for a while, but not forever. Frankie and his friends would have seen to that.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But I still believe I could have handled it myself.”
Placing his palms on the polished roof of the fancy car, Conner leaned down. The red interior of the car smelled new. She smelled fresh, like the air after a shower.
“I’m willing to concede that you might have been able to pull it off, if you’re willing to concede that it was damned neighborly of me to intervene on your behalf.”
Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks. The action caused his body to respond with alarming speed. Her skin was pale, flawless, and slightly flushed from the cool evening air. She was a tiny thing but the word “vulnerable” didn’t even enter his mind.
She hesitated, then said, “Okay. Thank you for being neighborly, Mr.—”
“Conner Kavanaugh. Conner to my friends.”
“Mr. Kavanaugh,” she said. A small smile curved the corners of her mouth.
“And you are?”
“About to leave,” she answered, gently tugging on the door.
Ignoring the feel of metal against the backs of his calves, Conner remained planted in the spot. “I’d like to know your name. Telling me would be the neighborly thing for you to do.”
“I guess I’m just not as neighborly as you are.” Some of the annoyance had returned to her eyes.
“I don’t know,” he drawled. “You impress me as a lady with potential.” Conner gave her his best grin. The one that had talked his fair share of women out of their panties.
She looked as volatile as a fast-approaching tornado. “Potential?”
He nodded. “Knew it the minute I set eyes on you.”
The lips he’d been admiring pulled into a tight smile.
“I get it. You’re under the impression that since you defended my honor—so to speak—I’m now fair game?”
“I’m game if you are,” he teased, hoping to get her to lighten up.
“I hate to disappoint you,” she said in a tone that told him she didn’t mind disappointing him at all.
“I wasn’t interested in spoils,” he insisted.
“And I’m not interested, period.”
“Sure you are,” he told her without conceit. “Or your eyes wouldn’t be flickering between my face and my—”
“My eyes have not flickered.”
Her voice was stiff and haughty. Still he sensed just a trace of wariness behind her brave words. The lady wasn’t as immune as she was letting on. That knowledge filled him with a hefty dose of male pride.
“Suit yourself. But I’d be right flattered if they did.” Conner moved and she closed the door. She surprised him when she lowered the window.
“You’re either desperate or a bigger jerk than I originally thought.”
“Careful, sweetheart,” he said as his fingers reached out to brush the soft underside of her chin. Her skin was silky soft and he wondered what the rest of her body felt like. He also wondered why she hadn’t so much as flinched at the contact. Perhaps this lady liked games. Specifically the “convince me” game. “You don’t want to hurt my feelings, do you?”
“I really don’t give a flaming hoot about your feelings, Kavanaugh.”
His fingers traced the delicate outline of her throat until he encountered the edge of her collar. His eyes followed his hands, inspiring all sorts of fantasies.
Then he heard an unmistakable click.
His gaze moved toward the sound. His fingers stilled as he found himself looking down the barrel of a small-caliber gun.
“Take your hand off me,” she said calmly.
The fingers gripping the gun were as steady as her gaze. Conner wondered how he had managed to get himself into such a mess. So much for chivalry, he thought as he slowly pulled his hand back. He knew the answer; he’d been thinking with the wrong part of his anatomy. Stupid.
“Do you always use a gun as persuasion?” He was careful to keep his tone conversational. Apparently she didn’t like that. He could tell by the flash of surprise in her eyes. She must have thought her little Annie Oakley moment would have had a more intimidating effect. Of course, he still wasn’t sure she wouldn’t shoot, but he’d gnaw off his own tongue before admitting that to her.
“If you’ll recall, Kavanaugh, I asked you nicely first.”
“I guess I wasn’t listening right,” he said, stepping away from the car.
He heard her start the engine. She propped the gun on the window frame. Her eyes never left him. Not for an instant.
“Perhaps in the future you’ll remember that no actually means no.”
CHAPTER TWO
Damn it to hell.” This was the second time Emma McKinley had had to wipe off and redo the eyeliner on her left eye. “Come on!” The more she hurried so she wasn’t late for her first day, the more she screwed up her makeup and had to start over. “Breathe. Less haste, more speed.” Good pep talk.
It was nearly eight o’clock by the time she finished dicking around with her makeup. Standing back from the full-length mirror, she gave herself a critical head-to-toe, toe-to-head inspection; Makeup—after three attempts—perfect. She’d chosen the pale gray suit and soft white silk blouse with calculating care the night before. She knew how to play the game. Two years in the Manhattan P.D.’s Office, followed by the fiasco at Gunderson-Halloway and Belk had served as excellent training. After New York, this backwater place in Florida would be like returning to kindergarten.
She’d woven her streaky blond, shoulder-length hair into a neat, efficient French braid. Classic, classy, and businesslike, she expected to be taken seriously. Looking professional was a lesson she’d learned long before graduation. Contrary to its public appearance, the legal system, in many ways, was more sexist and elitist than the real world.
In order to play down her looks, she followed a few simple rules. No bows of any kind, anywhere. No jewelry, except for her watch. Minimal cosmetic enhancements—lin
er and a touch of blush, some mascara and a hint of gloss on her lips.
Definitely no perfume. It was a Catch-22. If she smelled like a cosmetic counter, her credibility stunk. But this was her reality. A reality she detested.
Minutes later, keys dangling from between her teeth, she carried a travel mug of hazelnut coffee and her briefcase in one hand as she pulled the door closed behind her with the other. An insect chirp hung in the cool, already muggy, early morning air. A low-level mist floated just above the ground, making her secluded lawn and drive look like a dry ice special effect. There was a fragrance in the late March breeze; something sweet that could have come from any of the dozen or so flowers battling for space in her untended flowerbeds.
“Note to self,” she said after taking her keys from her mouth. “Get a book on gardening after unpacking the house.”
Emma slipped into her racing-red Lexus. The car was just one of her trophies. More like a consolation prize, she acknowledged as she started down the still-unfamiliar streets of Purdue. For some reason, her victory over Gunderson-Halloway and Belk didn’t seem to matter so much anymore. Grimacing as she swallowed, she made another note to self: “Find someplace that sells coffee without chicory!” Even the hazelnut flavoring she’d added couldn’t mask the bitterness.
Located northeast of Tampa, the town was home to about seven thousand residents. It was nestled in the swamps and bayous that few people thought of when they thought of Florida. No, most people thought sandy beaches or Disney magic—but in truth, North Florida was mostly pine swamp and was more like Louisiana than the postcard version of Florida.
Emma was definitely an outsider. Being raised in the north Georgia mountains wouldn’t count for much in these parts. The townsfolk of Purdue were proud of their land, their heritage, and their secrets. Well, she thought as she pulled into the rutted parking lot adjacent to the Purdue Municipal Building, she might just have to do something about those secrets.
Her attaché case was more for show, as much of a prop as her tailored suit. The heels of her gunmetal pumps clicked a melodic rhythm against the polished, square-tiled floor of the building’s lobby. Every time the exterior door opened, cigarette smoke joined the smell of musty papers, bacon, and stale coffee.
A rotund man in his mid- to late fifties sat perched on a stool just inside the lobby. The floor beneath his feet was scuffed, indicating he might have occupied that exact post since the dawn of time. An overhead light reflected off the small bald circle at his crown. Reading his name tag, Emma offered a polite smile.
“Good morning, Mr. Posten, I’m Emma McKinley.”
“The new girl,” he stated with a nod.
Swallowing the annoying memory of Kavanaugh calling her a girl, she said, “I have an 8:30 meeting with Elgin Hale.”
“Take the elevator to the third floor. Double doors will be to your left.” He flipped his head in the general direction, then went back to reading his newspaper.
She felt Posten’s small, brown eyes on her back as she walked away. She wondered if she could expect the same sort of politically incorrect treatment from all the men in Purdue. She hoped not; she’d already slayed the dragon of the narrow-minded power brokers in New York. If she had to do that again, she’d probably opt instead for a quick falling on her sword.
The upper floor of the building was only slightly more plush than the lobby. The carpet was a godawful shade of beige, but it was clean and cushiony beneath her feet. Hearing no sounds as she made her way down the narrow hall, she passed about five closed doors inscribed with names of assistants in the office before she got to the one marked RECEPTION.
At the very end of the hallway, she found her target. ELGIN HALE, COUNTY PUBLIC DEFENDER was painted on the center panel of a set of massive doors. The gold paint was beginning to flake.
She peered into the office but saw no signs of life. Sucking in a breath of fortification, Emma knocked three times.
Nothing.
She tried again; this time she put more force behind the action.
Still nothing.
Irritation rumbled in her empty stomach. The man had said 8:30 sharp. So where was he? To her, tardiness was a freaking sign of rudeness.
Grabbing the polished brass knob, she was a little startled to find the door unlocked and pushed it open.
A large, cluttered, rectangular desk covered with listing stacks of file folders dominated the office. A multi-line telephone sat dormant. A dated computer and its peripherals sat on a nicked credenza behind the desk. The rest of the space was devoted to a montage of photographs. The faint smell of Old Spice hung in the air.
“Hello?” she called. There were two closed doors on the far side of the room.
“Damn it, Bill!” she heard a male voice yell. “Can’t your wife stay home today? I can’t be in two places at one time. The new chick starts today!”
A chick and a girl. Emma checked her watch. And all before nine in the morning. This day just gets better and better. Plastering a smile on her face, Emma knocked on the bellower’s door. “C’mon in, Jenny,” he barked. “And I hope you’ve got the coffee started. Oh, and let me know when that bro—”
Crossed at the ankles, his sock-covered feet were perched on the edge of the desk. He’d been tapping them to some unheard tune as she stepped through the door. Elgin Hale, phone cradled between his shoulder and ear, stared at her with his mouth open. His blue eyes fixed on her face.
Pulling the receiver away from his mouth, he asked, “What can I do for you, honey?”
Chick, girl, honey? Didn’t anyone in Tarrant County understand political correctness and/or basic feminist protocol? “I’m Emma McKinley.”
Hale lowered his legs and she heard noises suggesting he had found his shoes. One large hand fumbled with the receiver, then he sat straight in his leather swivel chair. “Right, Bill,” he said into the phone. “See what you can work out and call me back.” There was a pause, then he said, “Make it quick. Judge Crandall isn’t likely to grant a postponement on this one. You know him. Call back when you’ve gotten your shit together.”
While Hale finished his call, Emma deposited her attaché and purse in one seat, then sat in the other directly across from her about-to-be new boss. Her eyes scanned the walls behind him. Generic undergraduate degree, generic law school, and none of the gold and black magna cum laude ribbons that edged her own diplomas. However, the man across from her had a decent reputation. She knew; she’d checked before making the trip to Purdue. Not that his credentials made any difference to her decision.
He could have had a degree from eBay. She’d still have come. In his twenty-plus years in practice, Hale had earned some amount of respect among his peers. There were several framed commendations as well as some framed news articles praising him cluttering his walls. Most of the frames were crocked, and all of them were dusty.
“Miss McKinley.” He rose from behind his desk and stretched out a beefy hand. “Glad to finally meet you.”
“Thank you.” She shook his outstretched hand. Pleasantly, she added, “Though it sounds as if you’d be happier if I was Bill.”
His weathered face softened under a smile. Expelling a breath of frustration, Hale explained. “Bill has a full court calendar and a kid with the chicken pox. He says it’s his turn to stay home. Christ,” Hale groaned, then ran his stubby fingers through the shock of his thick, white hair. “What the hell ever happened to a mother staying home with her sick kid?”
A new century? Emma thought, yet held her tongue.
Shuffling through a stack on his desk, Hale extracted a file and set it in front of him. Without looking up he asked, “You don’t have kids, do you?”
“No.” But thanks for asking question number one on the “Do not ask applicants this question” list.
She listened to the ticking of a naval clock perched on an overcrowded bookcase as Hale continued to shuffle files and papers. His brows were drawn together when he looked up at her. Meeting her eyes, he
half-asked, half-said, “Larry Grisom recommended you for this job?”
“Yes. Larry was one of my professors in law school. He taught several courses on criminal law.”
“At Harvard?” His tone was a blend of admiration and mild amusement. “Larry should be in a courtroom, not a classroom.”
She nodded. “He was a wonderful litigator. I learned a lot from him.”
“Then if you don’t mind my asking, why is a Harvard grad who—according to your résumé—did a great job for the New York Public Defender’s Office and a swanky New York defense firm interested in a low-paying job as an assistant PD in Purdue?”
“I’m something of a pariah in New York these days. I came to Purdue to practice law. It’s something I do very well.”
“So I read,” Hale acknowledged. “But why here?”
“Why not?” she responded. She punctuated her answer with a bright smile she hoped would end the mini-inquisition.
“Fair enough,” he said, reclining to stroke the second of his three chins.
He sized her up. The PD may have donned the relaxed air of a simple country lawyer, but the clear intelligence she read in his eyes belied the façade.
“Then,” Hale began as he dove into the stacks of files, “since you’re here and Bill isn’t, you can take care of this.” He passed her a rather thin file. “You have been admitted to the Florida State Bar, right?”
“Last week,” she informed him.
Hale stood. “The courthouse is across the street. You’ll find your client in the basement floor holding cell. Judge Crandall takes the bench at ten. Calls the first case at ten-o-one.”
* * *
Six minutes later, she was on her way to meet her first client. The courthouse was a stately old building with iron railings and Georgian columns. It was warm inside, making Emma wonder what it would be like in the heat of summer.
With any luck, I won’t be here in the summer.
After she displayed her credentials to him, a tall, young deputy escorted her down into what he called the “dungeon.” The name was apt. The air was stagnant and damp. It smelled like an old tennis shoe. Following him down the cinderblock, canyonlike hall, Emma tuned out the muffled voices from the prisoners within the locked, dank cells.
Abandoned Page 2
