by Carol Devine
His hair was slicked back, emphasizing the rugged planes of his face. She noted the smooth fit of his jacket, how it failed to bunch or roll or show the tell-tale signs of padding. Either the suit was custom cut, or he fit a certain size perfectly. Given the enormous salary she'd discovered he'd earned last year, Amanda suspected the former.
"What can I do for you?" she asked pointedly.
The look he gave her sent a quiver down her spine. Amanda remembered the look of the tiger, sleek and hunter sure. Dangerous. The same look gleamed in Masterson's eyes. A look so intense, she couldn't know when he planned to pounce. But pounce he would.
"Drop the lawsuit," he said.
Amanda raised an eyebrow. "I'm surprised you've been served. I instructed my attorney to proceed only yesterday afternoon."
"The speed of my response should tell you something. I'll make it worth your while if we can make this thing go away right now."
"I appreciate your directness, Mr. Masterson. I hope you'll appreciate mine. The answer is no."
"What do you hope to gain by dragging me into court? You won't win. The charges are ridiculous. Assault and battery? Intentional infliction of emotional distress? You've got to be kidding."
"Then you have nothing to worry about." Amanda lifted a file from the inbox on her desk and opened it. "Unless there's something else ..."
“Given your name and the fame of your family, the news and entertainment media will turn this into more of a circus than it is already. You must know the publicity will hurt your credibility. 'District Attorney Wrestles the Beastmaster' can't be your idea of positive press. You'll be the laughingstock of this office."
"I’m paying the price, it’s true. But at this point, I'm more concerned about the welfare of your tiger than anything else. How is the animal, Mr. Masterson?"
"Don't try to change the subject. Lawyers cost money as you well know. Money I can't afford. Neither can I afford the time spent in court appearances, defending myself. I want a settlement." He pulled out his wallet, plucked out a wad of bills and fanned them in front of her face. "Five thousand in cold, hard cash. All yours if you drop the suit right now."
Amanda gasped in alarm. If anyone saw him trying to give her cash, she was in bribe territory.
"Is that a yes?"
The gall of the man astounded her. Fists on her desk, she leaned forward. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
"What's the matter? Not enough money for you?"
Amanda sat to keep the tremor in her legs from betraying her. "Nice bluff. You sure you're not a litigator? If not, you missed your calling."
"I'm not bluffing, I'm not an attorney and no, I didn't miss my calling.” He stacked the bills on her desk. "Well?"
"The answer is no."
His expression hardened. "Name your price."
"I'm not interested in money, Mr. Masterson."
"Really?" He clearly didn't believe her. "Would ten thousand dollars up your interest?"
"No," she snapped. "Furthermore, we have nothing left to say to one another. Please leave."
Several seconds ticked by as he studied her with narrow eyes. "You agreed to see me. There must be a reason. This lawsuit is merely a result of a disagreement between you and me. A frank discussion could save both of us a bundle in lawyer's fees."
"I hardly think a man who carries five thousand dollars in his pocket is worried much about lawyer's fees. Goodbye."
"If you don't want money, what do you want?"
She held herself rigid, glaring at him. "What I always want. Justice."
A smile played around his mouth."I didn't realize I was dealing with a woman of principle. I see I will have to rethink my approach."
"If you think at all," she retorted.
"Ah, the cat shows her claws." He glanced around the room as he put away the cash in his wallet. "Tell me, how long have you worked in the D.A.'s office?"
"I don't have time for chitchat. My secretary will show you out."
"That's my final cue to leave, I take it."
"How did you guess?" She met his amused chuckle with an unamused glare.
"I feel like I'm back in grade school facing down frowny Miss Downey. Except …” Their eyes met, held. "You're much prettier than she ever was.”
Bait and trap. Amanda avoided the familiar ploy with practiced ease. "Thank you for the compliment. Goodbye, Mr. Masterson."
He leaned forward, pinning her with those penetrating eyes. "Do you remember our kiss, Amanda?"
She tilted her head and studied him, just to let him know she knew a raised stake when she heard one. "Memory is a tricky thing. Seldom is it accurate. I've tried hundreds of cases and I can't tell you the number of times I've had the suspect nailed until a witness's memory got shaky. That's why I'm careful about how I do my job. A voice or video recorder is especially useful," she hinted.
"A recorder?"
She sobered, tired of playing games. "Not that I expect you to tell me the truth, but... are you recording this or wearing some kind of camera?"
He had the grace to look surprised. "Whatever my answer, I can see you wouldn't believe me."
He stood and Amanda came to her feet, her speed making the movement awkward. She tried not to show her relief. Since the moment she'd met him, he'd somehow managed to get the better of her. It was a new sensation, one she didn't like at all.
She punched Valerie' s call button on her intercom. "Contact my lawyer next time you get the urge to ‘talk'.”
"Not so fast. I'm not ready to go, not yet." He put his cell phone on her desk, showing it was not recording, shrugged out of his jacket and loosened his tie.
"What are you doing?" she demanded as he began to unbutton his shirt.
"Proving my innocence. I'll show you I'm not recording this or wearing a camera."
“Mr. Masterson!” With his shirt hanging open, she could see the results of millions of sit ups. His torso rivaled Arnold Schwarzenegger’s in his prime.
He pulled his shirt tails from his waistband and opened his shirt to reveal his naked chest. The blue shirt contrasted against skin like hammered gold. Pressed and pleated navy flannel trousers cut a sharp line across the middle. Dangling above, the elegant silk tie skewed to one side. The picture of understated GQ style had staged a complete and utter disappearance. Yet to Amanda, the effect of elegance was heightened. His body was a living sculpture, made of planes and shadows, polished as the finest marble.
"See?" he insisted, opening his shirt wider.
"I see," she managed. Barely. Her lungs were operating at minimum capacity. All because this man started a striptease. Emphasis on the tease. Amanda sank into her chair.
He cocked a suspicious eye. "I can tell from the expression on your face that you're not convinced." He ripped the knot from his tie, yanked the shirt completely off and presented his naked back. "Satisfied? Or do I need to give you my belt and drop my pants?"
The muscles of his back entwined in two symmetrical halves. How could such broad shoulders taper to such a trim waist? The question made her want to reach out and touch. Amanda gripped the sides of her chair.
"Put your shirt back on," she ordered. “And don’t you dare drop your pants.”
"Not until you're convinced I'm telling the truth."
"I'm convinced. "
He twisted around to search her face. He must not have found the answer he sought because he crossed the room in two seconds flat. Strong fingers tipped her chin. A stray thumb grazed her cheek in a touch so gentle she misread it at first. Until she saw the gleam of challenge in his eyes.
"You like to believe the worst about me, don't you?"
Behind him, the door opened. "You buzzed, Ms. Tarken-- oh, dear. Excuse me."
Amanda swatted at Masterson's hand. "Valerie," she gasped, shrugging off the naked arm which came to her aid as she lurched to her feet. "This isn't what it looks like."
"Oh, yes it is, Val." Chuckling, he swept Amanda close to his side. "This is exactly what
it looks like. Now run along."
The round-eyed secretary disappeared.
"Valerie, wait." Amanda jabbed Masterson with her elbow. He felt like a brick wall. She jerked and the wheel of her chair rolled over her toe. Unbalanced, her shin banged against a desk drawer handle. She would have fallen if he hadn't steadied her .
"Graceful as a swan."
"Get your hands off me!"
"I was only trying to help."
His good-natured grumble contributed to her chagrin. So did the hands which remained at her waist. His ready support destroyed what little equilibrium she had left. Up close, he smelled of soap. There was no hint of aftershave, although she inhaled deep. Just clean, unadulterated male. Heart hammering, she peered up at him, knowing that a physical struggle would be futile. He made her feel tiny and delicate and, blast the man, weak in the knees.
Even with heels, the top of her head barely reached his chin. The barest shadow of beard lined his jaw. Spare smile lines bracketed his mouth. His lips curved, amused. The offcenter grin showed white, even teeth. A shiver spiraled within her which had nothing to do with fear.
"How tall are you?" she asked irritably.
"Six foot, six. You?"
"Five-eight."
"If I had to guess I would have said you were smaller. You've got the bone structure of a bird."
"Hold it right there!" A straight-armed man in a collared shirt and jacket burst through the doorway, gun in his hands, the barrel aimed straight at Masterson. "Let go of the lady and put your hands behind your head."
Bram laughed. "Did you stage this? Is this the morality patrol?"
"Freeze! Police!" A second man dressed in a cop uniform sidled in, his weapon similarly trained.
Amanda bit her lip, realizing Valerie must have called security, probably at Julie's insistence. "They are, indeed, the police. I recommend you do what they say."
"Thanks for the free legal advice." Bram raised his arms.
"Hands behind your head!"
"You boys don't have to yell," Bram said mildly as the officers shoved him toward the wall.
Amanda watched, uneasy. Masterson might be guilty of being overly persistent but she certainly wasn't blameless either. She'd agreed to see him, not out of a sense of fairness, but out of ego and, face it, curiosity. She averted her gaze as one of the officers frisked him.
"Hey, is this really necessary?” he asked. “The lady and I were having a simple conversation. We go way back. Tell him, Amanda."
She glimpsed the braced legs encased in creased navy wool, the broad bare back, the sleek black hair and felt the pull of a dark and dangerous attraction. It was something she couldn't admit, much less allow. Not with someone like him.
Swallowing hard, she said, "I filed a lawsuit against this man, Abraham Masterson, on a matter unrelated to work done through this office. As you can see, he won't leave me alone. Charge him with harassment."
Bram whirled. "What the hell?"
What she saw on his face made her flinch. She suddenly knew that his vivid green eyes were not enhanced by contact lenses at all. Emotion colored them. His anger was a tangible thing, bunched in his jaw, stored in the strong cords of his neck.
Both officers wasted no time in jerking him back. His harsh grunt stabbed Amanda's conscience. She hid her idiotic trembling and stooped to gather the discarded shirt, jacket and tie. They smelled crisp, a combination of starch and laundry soap. "Here are his shirt and jacket. And his phone," she added, picking it up and adding it to the pile.
One of the officers holstered his gun and snapped the cuffs around Bram's wrists before taking the bundle she held. The other officer shoved Bram forward. "You heard the lady, mister. You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent..."
Chapter Five
Amanda stretched her arms over her head, tipped back her desk chair and sighed. Outside her office window, light from a dying sun streaked the dark sky, spilling graduating degrees of orangy pinks across deep twilight blue. Silhouetted black mountains hunkered beneath, running the width of the horizon, reminding her that some things never changed.
Things like her workload. Because her boss had dismissed her from litigating in person at the courthouse, she was now assisting her colleagues with a dozen new cases, all from her desk chair, hidden away from the ever present paparazzi that hung out on the public sidewalks by the front and side doors.
Dismissing the sunset with regret, Amanda scooted back to her desk and went over what she still had to do. Her review of the Nelson deposition was finished, but she'd yet to read the investigator's report. Then came next week's schedule and research on the latest Miranda ruling. Not to mention keeping up with her regular cases and the new ones on top of that.
All told, it spelled another five or six hours of solid work. Of course, tomorrow was Saturday, her usual catch-up day, but she'd signed up to attend a two-day seminar on plea-bargaining and mediation skills. Which left Sunday evening, her one free night, free no more.
Amanda gritted her teeth. She admitted to being a workaholic, but even her workaholic father had taken off Sundays. Between her continuing education requirements and her job, she couldn't remember the last time she'd done the same.
Her stomach rumbled, a reminder she'd skipped dinner. Reverie broken, she glanced at her watch. Quarter to nine. If she didn't get home soon, she'd be utterly worthless tomorrow. With the way her luck had been running lately, a lurking paparazzo would catch her asleep in her chair, the seminar leader droning on in the background.
Amanda tossed the files surrounding her into a large briefcase, concentrating on her hunger, on what frozen meal she could microwave for dinner. Orange glazed chicken or fillet of fish almondine? And exercise. She had to find a way to squeeze in some extra running time. Maybe an extra twenty minutes on her treadmill. She hadn't gotten a decent night's sleep in weeks.
Her hand closed around the last file at the bottom of the pile. She hefted it and closed her eyes, fighting the impulse to open the cover. It wasn't as if she hadn't read the contents.
She had, a good dozen times. It contained copies of the legal briefs filed a month ago in connection with the lawsuit, the police report, transcripts from Masterson's hearing, results of the private investigation her lawyer had ordered, and pictures. Lots of pictures.
The images rose, unbidden and unwanted in her mind. A publicity pose of Abraham Masterson clad in leopard skin, with a black panther draped over his shoulders. Another of him and his tiger, wrestling. Action photos from GWL magazine. Newsfile head shots. There was even the official police photos taken after his arrest, now available on every media outlet known to man.
Instead of weeks ago, it seemed like he'd visited only yesterday. His scent lingered no matter how much Lysol she sprayed, along with the vivid memory of the officers hustling him out the door. She'd tried to banish her guilty conscience by insisting on a restraining order at the preliminary hearing in exchange for her waiving the charge of criminal harassment.
Out of sight, out of mind, she'd figured. Only it hadn't worked.
She couldn't stop thinking about him.
Amanda riffled through the file and spied Masterson glowering from a news file close-up, his features all the more chiseled in black and white. BEASTMASTER vs TARKENTON read the old-fashioned tabloid headline, dated a week ago today. The publicity detailing the lawsuit and subsequent incidents were finally beginning to die down. Amanda had known the continual attention would affect her career at the politically sensitive D.A.'s office. What she didn’t know was how long said publicity would go on.
Fortunately, her work record held up under review. She'd been a victim's rights advocate for a long time and her conviction record was outstanding. Enough people said she was simply standing up for what she believed in. Her civil lawsuit even had a website built by fans, lauding her stance on animal rights and anti-bullying statutes.
Her mother had mentioned the matter in passing, intoning in her Beacon street accent
that there were better ways for a Tarkenton to garner a national following. Privately, Amanda agreed, but she had to admit her run-ins with Masterson had served a useful purpose.
Because of the pending legal action, the wrestling league and been forced to suspend him. He was no longer performing at all. That triumph alone justified her position as avenging angel but given the risk to her professional reputation and her goal of furthering her career in public service, she had to wonder at the wisdom of pursuing him at all. What was it about the man that irritated her so? She dealt with the lowest common denominator all the time.
Amanda sighed. Therein lay the problem. Unfortunately, he did have some virtues to recommend him. The private detective's final report on Masterson had been delivered in her email account today. She'd had just enough time to print it out and look it over while she wolfed down a salad at lunch.
Her most pressing concern was the tiger, so she read the section about Natasha first. According to the detective, Masterson used several big cats in his act, leopards and panthers and Natasha mostly, rotating them in turn so they weren't continuously on the road. His ownership of the animals was perfectly legal. In fact, he possessed a dozen more exotics of various descriptions, including a jaguar, two cougars and several lions. A licensed exhibitor, he'd complied with all federal regulations regarding care and housing. Her allegations of abuse had turned up nothing.
Amanda skimmed the rest of the report. He’d grown up on a ranch north of Boulder and kept the animals there, although he spent more than three hundred days on the road last year. A graduate of Fairview High School, he had no criminal record, which, she had to admit, surprised her. Not even a traffic ticket. He’d registered to vote and belonged to the same political party she did.
At eighteen, he won a football scholarship to UCLA, ruined a knee in his sophomore year and dropped out a year later, fifteen credits short of a degree. His major had been in business. The transcript of his classes indicated a broad mind, although judging from his low grades in astronomy and physics, Einstein didn't have to worry. Next came a gap of two years. No FICA trail, no income tax filings. Then he’d shown up in Colorado again, and moved into a house close to his family’s ranch. From that point on, he'd wrestled professionally, working his way up the ranks.
