Attractive Nuisance (Legally in Love Book 1)

by Griffith, Jennifer

  He got that crinkle at the side of his eye.

  Great.

  Zane Holyoake, hair all in place, suit impeccable, then aimed puppy dog eyes at the jury, who were crammed into too-small folding chairs up against one wall—man, this court needed a relocation. And some Febreeze. All eyes focused on Zane. What power did he have over them? It couldn’t be simple good looks. Sure, he looked good, but one of those out-of-town attorneys from Phoenix, what was his name? Nick Gallegos? Nick trumped this guy’s surface looks in every way. But Nick didn’t have whatever magnetic pull Zane Holyoake had over people. It held them spellbound. Uh, Camilla included.

  “As I was saying, there we were in the woods, just me and the fifteen Boy Scouts, looking for geodes and malachite out by Sedona, when what do we run across but a chunk of meteor. Now, I know this isn’t going to seem relevant, but hear me out, folks.”

  He was telling personal stories? To the jury? During a trial? Where was the opposing counsel to object? Camilla’s eyes strayed over to the warped little wooden card table where sat Felicia Pulsipher, who’d been reeled in just as surely as the jury had. Her chin rested on her palm, her elbow on the table, her head leaning to the side. Oh, and look-a there. So had Judge Overby. Like storytime at the library for preschoolers, everyone was completely sucked in.

  It might be a great story, the best story in all the world, but how rock hunting with Boy Scouts near Sedona could be relevant to whatever case was being tried here today, Camilla couldn’t begin to imagine. Magistrate court handled DUI cases and disorderly conduct and noise ordinance violations. Dog at large offenses? Could his rock hunting yarn be related to a dog at large—in the woods? Hardly.

  So how did he do it? Besides masterfully? Camilla settled back into her chair.

  “And so the kid chucks the hunk of meteor at me and says, ‘Hey, Mr. Holyoake. What’s that one made out of? A hunk of Mars?’”

  The jury and everyone else in the courtroom laughed. Camilla had missed either the setup or the punch line. Or else maybe it simply wasn’t funny and everyone was just trying to gain favor with the gorgeous guy by humoring him. Either way, Camilla was a lone reed in the non-laughing department. Unfortunately, Zane glanced at her and saw this. She pulled a smirk. A courtesy smirk. He shrugged a single shoulder. Ugh, why did he keep singling her out?

  “But seriously, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. What I want to point out with this story is how important it is to know what substance you’re dealing with in any situation. Whether it’s a rock in the woods or a bag of cat food, like Ms. Tyrese here got in trouble with.” He aimed his thumb in the direction of the table of opposing counsel, where sat a heavyset woman with spiked hair. “She knew full and well she’d laced her neighbor’s cat food with antifreeze and that the cat would be unable to resist its heavenly sweet scent.”

  Just like Zane Holyoake and his stories and charm. Irresistible? Possibly. But Camilla was going to have to find one of those cowboy hats with the brand name Resistol and put it on as a helmet. This guy wanted her job. Well, the job Camilla too wanted. And she refused to let him and his charming ways distract her from her quarry.

  Camilla had seen enough here. Zane was a stem-winder. He’d take a story—any kind of random story—and hook the courtroom full of people with it (along with his engaging grin and twinkly eye) and then make a point from it. Good tactic. It probably worked, at least in varying degrees, every time. Nice skill set. Maybe Camilla could conjure up some kind of old fishing story and chuck it at the jury during a case. Well, probably not. But either way, now she could go back and tell Falcon Torres she’d watched and learned like a good future deputy. Check.

  Camilla shimmied out of her chair and through the crack of the door to the hallway, which had much fresher air even if it did smell of a dank basement. “How do you stand it down here?” she asked the security guard on her way out. “It’s kind of musty, don’t you think?”

  The guard pulled a box of strong peppermints out of her pocket. “Just a spoonful of sugar helps the stinkum go down. Want one?” She proffered the open tin, and Camilla took one. “How was the trial? I overheard some of it. Who’s the new attorney? Have you met him yet?”

  “Zane Holyoake is his name. Out of Flagstaff.” Something in Camilla wanted to make him sound like an outsider, a city-guy. After all, futures were on the line. “Fancy suits.”

  “I like a fancy suit on a guy, myself. Especially a guy who learned my name already. Mm-mm. Zane Holyoake. He is fine.”

  A pang went through Camilla. How many times had she appeared in Judge Overby’s court and not learned this woman’s name—a woman who at first conversation shared an Altoids with her in kindness? A glance at the tag on her uniform showed the name Bizzy Jesperson. Bizzy. Camilla would have to remember that. After all, if Zane Holyoake could remember it, so should Camilla.

  “I bet he’s killing it in the courtroom. A face like that. The jury will trail along after him like a newborn calf after its mama.”

  “He told a story about being a Boy Scout.” Or was that about being a Boy Scout leader? The leader, she guessed, since a kid called him Mr. Holyoake. Huh. When as an attorney did he have time for something like that?

  “I’d like to see him in uniform.” Bizzy raised an eyebrow, and the mental image of Zane Holyoake in successive uniforms from Scout Master to Naval officer to Air Force pilot to everything else all flashed into her mind in a quick slide show. Yep, he looked “fine,” as Bizzy said, in all of them.

  Geez. What was she doing? She had cases to deal with. She couldn’t stand around all day mooning over some guy in a basement and eating mints. Ridiculous!

  Just then, the sound of a slamming gavel clapped from the courtroom, and a rumble of voices erupted. Camilla had to push herself against the wall to let the exodus of bodies pass by so she wouldn’t get jostled to the ground.

  “Well, now,” a middle-aged woman with frumpy clothes but great hair said to the person next to her. “Being on jury duty was a lot less painful than I expected.”

  “They can send me that letter anytime,” her cohort said.

  Huh. Camilla’s jaw would have dropped if she’d let it. Another person, a pierced twenty-something guy with a ball cap on backwards, mumbled something into a cell phone. “Yeah, it wasn’t that bad. It was fast. Cool stories. I’ll have to tell you one. Meet me at Tango?” His voice faded as he climbed the marble stairs out of this subterranean pit.

  Well, color her dumbfounded. When were frumpy women and pierced guys ever equally entertained—in a courtroom? If she’d been eating something she would’ve choked on it.

  “So, you didn’t leave.” Zane Holyoake loomed up beside her. Even in her high heels, he stood a good half-a-foot taller than Camilla. She backed up against the wall. Bizzy had gone into the courtroom to see about the judge’s needs, and only Zane and Camilla remained in the basement hallway. “I thought my dorky story about the meteorite drove you away. I should’ve thought of something better. That’s what I get for taking less than ten minutes to prepare, I guess.” He rolled his eyes and gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Next time I promise to be more on point—for you.”

  Wait a second. “Less than ten minutes of preparation time? You’re joking, right?” That was insane. “I mean, it’s one thing to fly by the seat of your pants, and I’ve had to do that a couple of times when a colleague was sick and I had to take over at the last minute. But you mean hours. Not minutes.”

  Zane looked to the side, in the same way a guilty person looks to the side when they don’t want to admit verbally to committing the crime. She’d seen it in client interviews when she did defense work before getting the job here working for Falcon.

  “Minutes. Okay, well, if that’s even fractionally true, I hate you just a little bit right now.” Camilla wouldn’t dream of going into a jury trial situation without thoroughly prepping every point. Unthinkable!

  “Don’t hate me because I’m a slacker. Hate me because I only have stupid merit ba
dge stories to tell in cat food poisoning cases.”

  “You’re racking up the marks against yourself here, Holyoake.”

  “Let me erase some of them.” He glanced at his watch. Oh, he had a nice wrist. Dang it, why did she notice that? “It’s almost lunchtime. You want to head over to Tango? I’ll buy you lunch.”

  “It’s ten-oh-seven. That’s not almost lunchtime. Unless you’re lying and you came in before four a.m. and have already put in six hours doing legal stuff.”

  He looked at the ceiling. Guilty of not doing so. Oh, he really was a slacker. Ugh. Nothing irked Camilla more than a person who didn’t take the cause of justice seriously. Of course, she probably took it more seriously than most, but still. Ten minutes of prep time? For a jury trial?

  “It doesn’t change the fact that I’m hungry now. And you are too. I can read it in your face. It’s a hungry face.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Her stomach growled just then. Traitor! “I had a bowl of Cheerios an hour ago.” Or she would have if she’d remembered to. The growl rumbled again. It had better shut up or she’d get it transplanted in revenge.

  “Cheerios. That’s not food. It’s oat-flavored air. Come on.” He took her hand and led her up the stairs. “I like those shoes, by the way. I saw them when you walked in, and they threw me out of my storytelling groove. Your legs look a mile long in them.”

  Camilla almost tripped on the top step of the staircase. If Zane hadn’t had her elbow she’d have been flat on her face.

  “Steady there. And no getting ticked at me for that comment. I’m a guy. I see stuff. Stuff I like. I’m going to get distracted by it. It’s a good thing you whacked the chair. It was like a gong that snapped me out of my leg-glance trance.” With the flat of his hand he steered her toward the exit from the main floor. His touch shouldn’t have sent heat through all the layers she was wearing, but it warmed her back and radiated out from her spine to the rest of her body. Oh, dear. She was in trouble. So much trouble. She’d better focus on something else.

  Out in the parking lot sat six vehicles, including one jacked up truck. It towered over the other cars and SUVs, looking ridiculous.

  “Look at that thing.” In spite of herself, she spoke to him friendly-like. “That sucker would never make it through an automatic car wash. What kind of person needs a truck like that? Someone with short man’s syndrome?” She’d seen things like this in legal disputes.

  “I don’t know. Let’s go check it out.” Zane took hold of her wrist, with that fabulously crusty hand of his, and led her over to it. They began circling it, checking out the tailpipe—all chromed out—the mud flaps á la Yosemite Sam, the KC lights decorating the roll bar. Somebody loved his truck.

  “Methinks he doth compensate too much.” She’d left her own sedan, the car of her dreams, over at the county attorney’s office parking lot. Sure she owed too much money on it to feel any measure of security in life, but she adored it. Was Zane Holyoake a car guy too? She could never be with anyone who didn’t at least accept her adoration for her BMW. Not that she was considering “being with” Zane Holyoake. No. In fact, she hadn’t even agreed to go to lunch—er, brunch—with him. Although, she might accept a ride back to the office. If he was nice.

  “Paint job could use a touch up around the running boards here, but I like it.” Zane reached in his pocket and jingled some keys. Camilla looked around for which car would flash its lights and beep when he pushed the automatic lock button. A decade-old Toyota? A station wagon? A half-totaled minivan?

  Instead, he stepped up on the running board of the passenger side door and jammed his key into the lock of the lifted truck. It turned. He opened the door. “I like digging. My friends and I went four wheeling last night, and I had to get it in at the car wash this morning before court. Did you know there’s an automatic car wash on Highway 89 that’s lifted-truck friendly? And they don’t mind mud. The owner went to high school with me. We spent time mudding back in the day.” He hoisted himself aboard and then reached down a hand to Camilla.

  She couldn’t move. Or speak—for quite a long moment. But when she did, she managed, “Oh, hey. I’m going to walk.”

  “All the way to Tango? In those shoes? When you could be riding in style?”

  His idea of style and hers were on opposite goal lines. Of the Forty-Niners and the Patriots.

  “Come on. They’re still serving their breakfast menu, but they start up the lunch grill at 10:30. We can get in at that magical moment of 10:35 where you can get a hamburger with an egg on it. Or a sausage patty, if eggs sound gross.” Eggs didn’t sound gross. She liked them. And sausage. And hamburgers. His hand still reached down toward her, beckoning to her growling stomach. Her toe inched forward.

  Then stopped. He was going to pump her for information about the office. He was using her as his stepping stone to the deputy job. She’d seen him manipulate a jury now—and she knew her own limitations.

  “Like I said, I had Cheerios not too long ago.” And she had work to do. Work to do, work to do, the mantra chanted in her head as she minced back to the office in her platform sandals and pencil skirt. Tomorrow she’d need a wider skirt to take longer, faster strides—away from Zane Holyoake.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Apprehended

  Camilla hunched over her files, trying to ignore the stunning show of sunset colors arraying themselves outside her cubicle window. The sun sank below the jagged desert mountain to the west, leaving bars of fiery orange rays shooting through the magenta-tinged clouds, and the sherbet-colored display out the second floor window of the Yavapai County Courthouse called to her.

  She had to cover her ears to not hear its siren song.

  Tinted glass. Not the best way to experience an Arizona sunset, but better than no view. She’d elbowed her way through the ranks to even land this cubicle with a view of the outside world—a lot of weeks the only way she got a glimpse of it during daylight hours.

  “You really should go home, Cami.” Sheldon hoisted his satchel over his shoulder to leave. “It’s Friday night. There’s one of those summer blockbuster movies coming out. Go watch it or something.”

  “It’s not summer anymore, Shel. We can’t call it a summer blockbuster.” Camilla tapped the file pile with the eraser on her pencil. “Gotta plow through this, but then I’ll head out.”

  “Fine. It’s fall. But in Arizona, fall is better than summer.” No arguments there. “Come on. There’s a lake. We live in the mountains. There are other places on earth besides this office.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “These criminals aren’t going to destroy the whole earth if you cut back to eighty hours a week.”

  “How do you know that? They might go free. They might destroy someone’s world.” Camilla took a sip of her Diet Coke. “I’ll leave the video clerk case on your desk. Can you check through it for me on Monday and see if I missed anything? I want to go before Judge Gilson prepared.”

  Sheldon plucked up the file and started to flip through it, setting his satchel on the ground. “Wow. The detective found this on Jimenez? You’re going to put this witness on the stand? I think it’s gutsy, but if you’re sure she’ll come through and not go all watery…”

  “She’s solid. And her testimony puts Jimenez at the scene—with the knife in his hand.”

  “Whoa.” Sheldon slid the file back onto Camilla’s desk. “Nice. If you’ve got this, you’re prepared. Now go home.”

  Sheldon was right. Camilla had put in the time and knew the case. Throwing more hours at it could potentially muddle her clarity of argument. But there was just one more thing she wanted to verify—

  As he put his hand on the door, Sheldon turned back. “It’s not like presenting yet another perfect case is going to sway Falcon’s opinion any more your direction. You know you’ve got the deputy county attorney job in the bag.” The current deputy had been headhunted off to a corporate position back in his hometown of Natchez, Mississippi, leaving this one vacant in just a few weeks’ ti
me. But Camilla grew up here, and she never wanted to leave. Prescott was the prettiest place on earth, and it ought to be the safest place in Arizona, even if it meant missing every single summer and fall blockbuster.

  “Did I hear my name in vain?” Falcon swooped in.

  “You’re still here too, sir?” Sheldon’s eyes strayed to the clock. It was after five-thirty, probably a record stay for the guy, at least on a Friday. Maybe Lydia, Mrs. Sheldon, was getting her hair done for their date. To the blockbuster.

  “I came back when I heard the news.” Falcon raised his voice. “Everyone? You all still here?” A few heads popped up above cubicles like a prairie dog town. Not many. To her vast shock, Camilla saw Zane’s well-styled hair appear, attached to his thick neck and broad shoulders. They came soaring around the corner from the hallway by the exit. Surely he’d gone home at three. This was Friday. When did the slacker-man get back? “You all need to hear this, if your news feeds haven’t told you already.”

  Staffers shambled into a loose circle near Camilla’s desk where Falcon stood.

  “Our local sheriff’s department has executed a major coup, one that will make national headlines.” He stood tall. He liked the sheriff’s department. They worked hand in hand to make Prescott a good place. “Sheriff Woodston himself, in a routine traffic stop, managed to nab by sheer cop instinct one of the most notorious criminals of the last several years.”

  “Who? The Mailbox Bomber?” one of the paralegals muttered. “Or the Dog Walker?” Lately there’d been a rash of thefts of registered dogs and puppies by a man posing as a dog walker for hire. It was unknown whether he resold them or did something more sinister to the pets.

  “I wish. I’m a dog person, myself.” Of course he was. Camilla was a cat person, through and through. “Nice guess. But think bigger.”

  “The Unabomber.” A throwback from the Eighties chucked out.