Attractive Nuisance (Legally in Love Book 1)

by Griffith, Jennifer

  Sheldon sat in the driver’s seat, and Lydia got right in beside him, but Destry crawled, catatonic into the crew cab seat and took up the whole bench lying down. With that, Camilla sat in the passenger seat. Lydia put her head on Sheldon’s shoulder as they started to drive. Camilla saw the wife look up at the husband with love—and ached inside, knowing she’d never be able to give anyone a look of love, of trust, like that.

  She drew a shuddering breath and swallowed hard.

  Why did life have to be so stinking lame?

  It took a while before Camilla could talk, and Sheldon respected that. But about halfway into the drive, Lydia put an arm around her. “Are you ready to talk about it?”

  Camilla wasn’t, but she owed them. These good people, who fed her dinner every Sunday and let her take a nap on their sofa, were sacrificing their night’s sleep for her, so she nodded and launched into the whole thing. She started with how irritating Zane Holyoake was, and what a thorn he’d been in her side for the last several months. Lydia looked over at Sheldon, and they exchanged knowing raised eyebrows, which kind of rankled, but Camilla didn’t let it stop her story. And suddenly, before she realized it, the story came with tears as a sideshow.

  The tears actually burned. Maybe it had been so long since she’d let any fall, since Burns Pilsington gave her the heave ho her senior year of college, that their salt content was so high it became corrosive. They seemed to cut rivers down the skin of her cheeks. Luckily, in the dark, neither Lydia nor Sheldon could see them. But then she sniffled, giving herself away, and pretty soon she’d told them all of it.

  Sheldon harrumphed. “Honestly, I doubt it. I doubt the whole thing. Doesn’t sound like Falcon’s way at all.”

  “That’s what makes it all the more painful.” Camilla hiccupped.

  Lydia patted Camilla’s arm, and they sat in silence for a while, until at last Lydia spoke.

  “I know it’s not my usual thing to diagnose you, especially in matters of the heart, Camilla. But will you indulge me? Because I think you might be missing something.”

  No, Camilla had a grasp of all the ugliness of it, and of all the uselessness of trying. She waited and finally Lydia whispered it in her ear with a little side hug.

  “Hope.”

  Hope? Camilla had all kinds of hope. She sniffled up her tears and let her lawyer’s arguing side jump in, even in her distressed state. “But I basically live on hope. I hope I’ll come up with the best argument. I hope I’ll put guys like the Beemer Bandit off the streets. I hope I’ll make the world a better, safer place with what I do.”

  “Right. All of that is true.” Lydia breathed deeply and then said, “But it’s more like faith. It’s belief put into action. And that’s good. You do all of those things based on the faith that you’ll achieve something. And it works. You’re a credit to the system.” It was nice to hear Lydia say this, but Camilla knew the other shoe was going to drop. “But I guess I’m thinking of it more in your personal life.”

  Of course. So Camilla defended herself again. “It’s not like I don’t go on dates. I’m doing my due diligence. I even went on dates with Zane Holyoake.” Whether it was fifty dates with Zane or one—that was still up for debate. And whether they’d been “dating.” Camilla had a thousand arguments lined up against that one.

  “I heard you were dating.”

  Boom.

  “But,” Lydia said, “that’s at the heart of what I’m aiming at. Sure, you are putting belief into action. However, hope. Hope means you believe the reward at the end of the faith-driven action applies to you.” She petted Camilla’s hair, and the salty tear-rivers flowed again. Camilla swiped at them, letting what Lydia said soak through her. The ideas sank like stones in her stomach.

  Hope. It was different from faith. It took faith and internalized it. It was more than belief turned into action. It was belief, turned into action, turned into belief—for herself. Lydia had hit a nail square on the head with her so-called diagnosis. And it slammed her with a hammer’s strike. Camilla did, indeed, lack hope, the hope that meant that good things like relationships, love, family—could belong to her.

  But they couldn’t. For so many reasons. She reminded them of the dirty deal between Falcon and Zane.

  “I know he said that, but are you sure he meant it?” A skunk crossed the road, bobbing its little tail, and Sheldon pushed on the brakes hard, almost making the RV behind them fishtail. But he pulled it out and resumed speed. Luckily no one else was on the mountain road this time of night in the fall. “Fine. I won’t question that. Honestly, I am so sorry.”

  “What are you sorry about? You didn’t do it.” Camilla didn’t want pity. She wanted … Well, she didn’t know quite what she wanted. Victory? Revenge? Vindication? Validation?

  “I’m sorry because I’m the one who put you up to the whole thing.”

  That was true. Without Sheldon’s encouragement, she would never have been in this situation. But she wanted to be here. “No. I put myself up to it. I wanted it. I still want it. But—”

  “But what? You deserve it. You work hard and know how to win cases. Like you always say, the bad guys are off the street because of you. Veldon Twiss won’t be stealing any more cars from sick kids when your arguments put him away.”

  “That’s just it.” Camilla didn’t know how to tell him what else she was concerned about. Because Lydia was here, she had to tread carefully, based on confidentiality issues. “What if… I mean, have you ever had to prosecute someone you thought might be innocent?”

  “I asked to be removed from a case once because I disagreed with the Falcon about something like that.” They could see the lights of town now. “Look, Camilla. If your integrity is bothering you, you have to do something. You know that. But keep in mind what’s at stake.”

  She knew. She knew all too well.

  “You’re going to have to tell Falcon.”

  “You know what he’s going to say. It’s too high profile. We can’t drop it on a technicality.”

  “Yeah, but he won’t want to be embarrassed on television. You’ve either got to get together a convincing argument to make Falcon win—against suspicions in your conscience—or you have to find a way to convince him he’s going to lose if he takes it to court.”

  Falcon Torres. He was a man with a strong mind, and an even stronger will. “He’s not the kind of guy anybody can ‘convince’ of anything. It’s got to be his own idea.” Camilla plopped her chin onto her hand, her elbow on the truck’s arm rest. Why did her boss have to be so stubborn? It was a coin with two faces. It got him where he was, it kept him in office, it made him a bulldog in the courtroom. But it also kept him from seeing what he didn’t want to see, even when it was necessary.

  “Yeah, his own idea or someone’s he respects and considers an equal. Or an almost-equal.” Sheldon offered this almost slyly.

  “Like whose?” Camilla asked this, but then the memory of Zane’s boots propped up on Falcon’s desk popped into her mind.

  “I think you know.”

  She knew. And there was no way he was going to help her.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Discovery

  She could quit her job entirely. That’s what she could do. Prosecuting an innocent man wasn’t ever on her bucket list. Plus, with the way Falcon treated her at the campout, she had several reasons she could cite that wouldn’t make it sound like she was shying away from the fight.

  But that was draconian. She’d lose all her credibility, and where else would she find a job that fit her life’s goals better and still let her live in Prescott, her only tie to home now that Mom and Dad had died? Nowhere. And living here and commuting to a different county seat, with distances what they were here in the West? Not feasible.

  The more appropriate thing would be to ask to be removed from the case.

  But that looked exactly like backing down from a fight. Like she was scared. And it would hand Zane the victory without even trying—not that he was plan
ning to try anyway. A guttural growl rose in her when she thought about the unfairness of it.

  He deserved her scorn. And there was plenty of it in a reservoir inside her. No trout would flourish in that poisonous lake for her to fly fish out. But she wasn’t stupid. Getting mad didn’t let her win. Nor did being angry or venomous. No, she had to beat him a different way.

  By manipulating him into helping her win. He may be the Jury Whisperer, and idiots might be bandying her name about as the Judge Whisperer (and she’d sock whoever she found out started that.)

  But let’s just see who the Lawyer Whisperer was.

  * * *

  “Hey, Zane. Can you help me with something?”

  “Oh, so you’re still talking to me?” Zane stood up when she walked over to his cubicle. Man, he was tall. She’d worn her sensible flats today, with no one left to impress. But now, looking up at how he towered over her, she wished she could stack up a few of those books of the Arizona Revised Statutes to see eye to eye with him. And she wished she hadn’t let her eye stray to his lips. They hadn’t gotten their crust back yet after she kissed it off the other night. Kissing him. Don’t think about that. “The way you left Horsethief Basin, I thought you’d never—”

  “This is business.” She forced herself to focus on the paper in her hand and not look at his brown eyes. “Look. It’s important enough to me that we get Veldon Twiss,” or whoever the culprit was, “put away, that I’m willing to cross enemy lines and make this happen.” She frowned like she meant it. “And since the carrot Falcon dangled in front of me to get me to do all the work is just some kind of fake plastic carrot anyway, I don’t have anything to gain or lose. Thanks to you.”

  Zane colored. “Hey, it’s not what you think. I mean, I’m really sorry about—”

  “I don’t care about your sorry feelings. I care about justice being served. And I’m being the bigger person, so that depletes some of the fury. Just let’s get this done.”

  “Right.” Zane washed all emotion from his face and took on a professional demeanor. “What do you have?”

  Camilla handed him the sales report. “I want to go see the shoe print for myself.”

  “Go to the scene of the crime? That’s the work of the sheriff’s office. They’re doing their job. They’re funneling evidence over here three times a week.”

  “I know. It’s all good stuff, too.” Not really. Nothing they’d sent had been conclusive or would be persuasive in a court of law. It was all stuff like Veldon’s house having a copy of Car and Driver magazine under the coffee table, and the magazine featuring an ad for BMWs on page eighty-six. Circumstantial. Unusable. “I just need to check it out with my own eyes. And if I get something good out of it, I’ll give it to you. Let’s just forget about Falcon’s stupid promotion and win this case.”

  Not that the promotion was even in play anymore, according to Zane. Or was it possible he’d said that just to throw her off her game, make her give up? Oh, she trusted him even less now. And hated him even more. Except, then he reached out his hand and took hers.

  “Camilla? Thanks for giving me another chance.” The words flowed over her like hot butter on toast. Second chances.

  Camilla grabbed a sweater, the address and a good camera. She wanted to be able to take pictures of the area for herself. Together they walked out of the County Attorney’s office to the parking lot. It was the first cold fall day, and she put on her sweater. The crisp air smelled of the tang of autumn and a far off wood stove fire. They fell into step beside each other. Without her highest heels, it was easy to keep gait with him.

  “I can drive if you want.” Zane jingled his keys.

  “I’m not sure I can…” The thought of being back in that truck where so many feelings had surfaced—she wasn’t ready for that.

  “Oh, I had to park Baby after this weekend’s road trip. She needed a tune up before my buddy Garrett comes back from the ’Stan next month. I’ve got my own car today.” He clicked his keychain and a chirp sounded. A familiar one. Lights flashed three cars down.

  What? No. “You drive a Beemer too?” There before them sat an older model 5-Series. It was in the classic silver color, and it had the perfect kidney chrome grille. Something sang in her heart.

  “I prefer the term Bimmer. We purists all do.” Zane’s eyes crinkled at the side as he got her door for her, and she slid in.

  “Purists!” The seat ensconced her. It might be an older car, but it smelled new. “You could have said something. How long have you had this?” It was fine. Very fine. She reached and gripped the gear shift. The Germans knew how to pay attention to detail and how to fit a shifter to a palm to perfection.

  “What, and tip you off that we had something in common? No way.” He started up and put the engine in gear, its hum immediately putting Camilla’s soul into a state of relaxation. She might forgive him if she wasn’t careful. This motor’s resonance might mesmerize her into it.

  “Bimmer,” she said under her breath with a roll of her eyes.

  The scene of the car theft only took a few minutes to get to in mid-morning traffic. “This is a nice neighborhood,” Zane said, looking out at the mini-mansions that lined the street. “But I’d rather croak than live here.”

  “What? Too pretentious for you?” He was the one driving the “Bimmer.” Camilla thought the houses were pretty, but though she’d grown up in upper middle class circumstances, it sometimes bugged her when people got all sour grapes about someone else’s money.

  “No. The houses are too close together. It just kills me when someone is willing to pay a million bucks for a house but only puts it on a tenth of an acre lot. It’s ridiculous. They could open their bathroom window and climb into the bathroom window of the guy next door. Might as well be living in some citified townhouse.”

  She looked again. The houses, for as nice as they were, ought to be on a five acre parcel, set back from the road more than five feet. “Huh. You may be right. This one might have claustrophobia.” She pointed to a red brick three story. A normal sized person couldn’t walk straight down the area between it and the stucco house on its flank—he’d have to turn sideways to squeeze through. “But it’s for sale, if you want it.” And it looked like it had been for a while. The real estate agent’s sign was missing, and only the Allen wrench shape of an iron arm hung empty out in front of it.

  “No, thank you. I’ll take the ranch I’m on anytime over that thing.”

  “Ranch?”

  “I guess it’s more of ranchette. But I hate that term. Too girly.”

  It did sound girly. “You’ve got yourself a half acre in Prescott Valley?” That was what everyone called ranchettes around here.

  “Hah. Right.” Zane harrumphed. “Look. We’re here.” A big house—on what had to be at least a triple lot—loomed up. They’d arrived. Time for Camilla to sleuth.

  Just three doors down from the claustrophobic house for sale, they found the house with the police tape. How annoying for them. A couple of months had nearly passed since the theft, and still they couldn’t use their carport.

  It’d been called a carport, but it was more of a porte-cochère. There was a garage proper attached to the house, a three car garage. Then, to the side, sat an additional carport with access to a back yard. That had the police tape draped around it. She guessed she didn’t feel too sorry for the people. They still had room to store plenty of transportation without use of this thing.

  “I’m going to go let the homeowners know we want to look around.” Camilla allowed Zane to get her door, and then she went to ring the bell. “What are you going to do?”

  “Oh, just look around the neighborhood.”

  “Right. But no house hunting. Remember: a small house is better than a big mortgage.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” He whistled and shoved his hands in his suit pockets as he left.

  The homeowner was a fifty-ish woman named Brandy. “My husband is the one who was dealing with the police. Bu
t no one wanted to listen to me.” She had on white pants and a floral blouse. Her hair had been teased into a thick birds’ nest of processed blond tangles.

  “Did you have something to add?”

  “Just that I didn’t think they caught the right guy.” She squinted her eyes against the morning sun. The fake lashes looked like multiple spiders’ legs on her eyelids.

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “A feeling. Deep inside me.”

  Right. And that’s why the police didn’t listen. “Can I just look around?”

  “Sure.”

  Footsteps clomped on the sidewalk, and Zane came jogging toward them in his sharp suit, his tie blowing in the breeze to the side of his broad chest.

  “Cowabunga. Who is that.” Brandy started to fan herself. “I never saw—”

  “He’s the prosecuting attorney.”

  “I’d let him persecute me day and night.”

  Prosecute, Camilla almost said, but decided it wasn’t worth it. He’s taken, she also stopped herself from saying. Because it wasn’t true.

  “Come here. You gotta see this.” He came up to Camilla full speed and took her by the hand. She ran alongside him, hand still in his, and not minding as much as she obviously should, for the length of four houses. “If this works, we’ve got him. Stick a toothpick in Veldon Twiss because he’s done.”

  “Fork.”

  “Oh, right. But look.” Zane pointed at thick bushes in front of the house.

  “At what?” Camilla didn’t see anything.

  “At the surveillance camera.” He kept pointing at the bushes.

  She squinted her eyes. She saw nothing. But she didn’t doubt Zane saw something. After all, he was the team member who spotted the IEDs and kept their HumVee safe in the Iraqi desert. “Is it in the ivy?”

  “Yeah. Let’s just go ask if we can look at what they’ve got.” He took her by the hand and up the steps where he rang the bell and charmed the owner of the camera, Honey Freeman, a strawberry blonde in a cashmere sweater dress and expensive boots. Within twenty minutes, they were sitting watching footage from the very day the BMW was stolen.