"We need to win as a team more often," Grant said contentedly, giving Beverly another long kiss.
She kissed him back and climbed off him. "That may not be possible," she teased, "if you're a judge."
"True," he said, removing the condom and zipping his pants. "But look at the bright side, baby. When and if that day ever comes, just imagine what fun you and I could have in the judge's chambers."
Beverly pushed him playfully. "You're insatiable!" She put her clothes back into place; then brushed her hair.
He laughed. "And you're not?"
She blushed. "Maybe it's the effect you have on me, darling, that makes me crave your body."
He chuckled again. "I have been known to have that effect on women."
"Oh, really?" Beverly met his eyes with a touch of jealousy. As far as she knew they were exclusive. If they weren't on the same page there, she wanted to find out before this went any further.
Grant sensed that he'd used the wrong choice of words and quickly sought to rectify that. The last thing he wanted was to ruin this relationship, something he'd managed to do too easily in the past. Only none of the previous women in his life could hold a candle to Beverly Mendoza and he wouldn't have it any other way.
"What's important is that this is the first time it's really meant something to me," he said in earnest. "I don't take that lightly, Bev, and I'm definitely not looking at anyone else."
She smiled, feeling a sense of relief and maybe a little left over insecurity. "But you will tell me if you change your mind."
"I won't change my mind," he promised. Not as long as there's the possibility that we can really go somewhere with this.
"Neither will I," she added. She was enjoying his company more than she had any man's company in some time. She was in no hurry to ruin a good thing.
Grant straightened his tie. "So how about if I take you out to dinner for a victory celebration? Sex always leaves me famished."
"Can't," Beverly said apologetically, putting fresh lipstick on after he had taken it all off. "I promised Jaime pizza tonight." She couldn't help but think that though only twelve, her son sometimes seemed like he was twenty-five with his maturity and rapidly growing body.
Grant grinned wistfully. "Did I tell you that I love pizza?" And would love to get to know your son better, if you'll let me.
Beverly squirmed guiltily, knowing he wanted more than what they had. And so did she. But right now her son was still her top priority. As were his feelings on the subject.
"Jaime just needs a little time adjusting to someone else in my life," she offered contritely.
Grant looked like a wounded puppy. "How much time does he need—the rest of your life?"
Beverly touched her nose thoughtfully. "Not much longer, Grant," she hoped. "It's been just the two of us for so long, he's trying to come to terms with the fact that someone else is now in my life who's very important to me."
Beverly realized that along with wanting to protect Jaime, she was also trying to protect herself, from being hurt and abandoned, as they had been by his father.
Grant furrowed his brow while trying to be understanding. "Seems to me it's time you let someone else take down that wall you've built around the boy."
"Please be patient, Grant," Beverly implored softly, not wanting to spoil what just happened by applying too much pressure either way. "I just want what's best for everyone—you included." She kissed him on the mouth. "Call me."
Even as she said that, Beverly knew that it sounded like she was afraid of commitment. Was she? Not that Grant had ever suggested he wanted a commitment in so many words. Or maybe she was confused over the terms commitment and exclusivity. Didn't they mean the same thing in a relationship? Like her, Grant had been married once before. He had no children and didn't seem entirely comfortable at the prospect of ever marrying again. But she was pretty sure he cared for her, beyond their sexual compatibility.
Beverly wondered if that was that enough to constitute a real and trusting relationship at the end of the day—a relationship that included her son as an intricate part of the team.
Would it ever be enough?
* * *
Grant showed Beverly out the door, waved good-bye, and settled back into his office musingly. She was the first woman he'd been with who gave as much as she took—both sexually and as a prosecutor. He was damned glad to have her on his side in both departments.
Should he be offered a judgeship, as expected, it would be all the more reason for them to mesh, without the competitive thing as trial lawyers that brought them together and could potentially tear them apart.
Grant's focus shifted to other issues on his mind. He picked up the phone and buzzed his secretary.
"Get the D.A. on the line," he ordered.
A moment later, the heavy voice said, "Yeah, Grant, what's up?"
He sighed and glanced out the window musingly. "We need to talk—"
# # #
Following is a bonus excerpt of the bestselling legal thriller eBook, PERSUASIVE EVIDENCE, by R. Barri Flowers. Available in Kindle, Nook, and iTunes.
PROLOGUE
The woman was in a playful mood as she sashayed sexily around the room, aware that her audience was watching her every move, as though to turn away might result in missing something that might not occur again. She made no attempt to come to the bed, content to tease him and relish in her own stunning physical beauty and sexuality. A high-pitched, self-satisfied laugh erupted from her throat as she tilted her head seductively to the side, causing her golden mounds of shimmering hair to float aimlessly before seductively landing across her bare white shoulder.
She licked a finger coquettishly and moved it up along the inside of her shapely thigh and underneath her dress, bringing it between her legs. She then caressed herself, allowing only a moment of personal satisfaction, before turning her attention back to him with a brilliant smile. His dark eyes were hungrily glued on her, darting up and down as if unable to resist any part of her.
She began to dance for him, moving her voluptuous body to her own imaginary beat in a series of blatantly sexual gyrations designed to drive him crazy with want. When she got within touching distance, he grabbed at her with outstretched muscular arms, but she stepped back adeptly in practiced quickness, avoiding his desperate hands. Disappointment contorted his face like a shadow, yet he did not try to corral her.
That wasn't part of the game. She made the rules. She decided when it was time, and not a moment before.
It turned her on to be in total control. In the driver's seat in the game of seduction and sex.
Never again would she let a man call the shots.
She slowly slid the ruby red tube dress down the curves of her body, revealing her alabaster nakedness in all its magnificence as the dress fell to the floor. Cupping her ample breasts, she played with her nipples, watching them swell. He salivated with desire as she approached the bed again wearing only red high heels.
She pushed him back on the bed so that he fell on his back. He allowed this, content to be her slave of passion and promise. She climbed atop him, straddling him between her legs; then ran long red-nailed fingers through the thick curly hair on his chest. Leaning forward, she pressed her breasts against his chest and licked the bridge of his aquiline nose. She felt the throbbing of his manhood wedged between her thighs. He would explode at any moment now, she sensed, excited at the prospect, but glad to prolong his torture for a little bit longer—though it also meant depriving herself of the pleasure that was sure to come.
She licked his cheeks and chin before planting a very wet kiss on his lips, all the while reveling in her power and sexuality.
Finally, not able to stand it any longer, she grabbed the length of him, arched her back, and lowered herself till she was fully impaled. Burying his face with her breasts, she squeezed her legs together and rode him like a palomino.
Her orgasm came and left nearly as soon as he climaxed inside her. With that, he
r desire for him ended almost instantaneously. It was that way with every man she had ever been with. The thrill lasted only as long as she wanted it to, though sometimes far less. Then she hated the thought of them even touching her.
He begged her to stay longer, his hands reaching out and touching her all over—clearly in the mood for much more than she wanted to give.
She laughed in his face. Men were like little boys. They always wanted what they couldn't own. And they were willing to humiliate themselves to have it.
Even powerful men could be brought to their knees by their lustful appetites and weakness for the flesh.
She slipped back into her dress and eyed the three slightly crooked lines of cocaine on the table. The high was still present in her head, body, and sex organs.
She took another hit up her nose, relishing its euphoric effects. She left him still wanting her, knowing he would never have her again.
CHAPTER ONE
The jurors listened intently as the female prosecutor delivered her dramatic closing arguments. She was stunningly attractive without fully appreciating it. Long, brown, wavy tresses with blonde highlights framed the fine bone structure of her caramel-colored face that was composed and focused. At five-nine, she was the picture of lean perfection in a gray suit, pink silk blouse, and low-heeled gray pumps. Her voice was clear and precise, and she pulled no punches assaulting the defendant with well-chosen words designed as much for their sting as their shock value.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she said in a folksy way, "we are not talking about a Sunday school teacher here, but a ruthless killer who stalked his victims, raped them, and then bludgeoned them to death... The last victim was literally on the floor begging for her life"—in a theatrical and spontaneous performance, the prosecutor dropped to her knees and began flailing her arms into the air as if to ward off an attacker—"and doing everything humanly possible to prevent him from hurting her anymore.
"But you know what? He just didn't give a damn. In fact, this plea for mercy gave him even more pleasure as he raped her again, and then beat her to death..."
Springing back to her feet effortlessly, she hung on that last note while refusing to look at the defendant. Not yet anyway. She wanted to maximize the moment. She looked squarely at each member of the jury one by one, seeking to detect any signs of leniency for the monster on trial. There were five women and seven men in the box. Six of the jurors were white, four African American, and two Hispanic.
They would decide the fate of one Raymond Allen Wilson, a thirty-eight-year-old man who had been charged with killing seven prostitutes in Portland over a three-year period. The trial had lasted almost four months, and had now come down to the nitty-gritty. In spite of the overwhelming evidence against the defendant, the prosecutor knew full well that a conviction was no sure thing. Much less the death penalty. The defense attorney had done a masterful job, using the child abuse excuse in combination with a history of mental illness, to paint a picture of a sick and pitiful victim rather than a cold-blooded sexual serial killer.
She wondered with dread if the jury would buy it. Or would they see through the subterfuge as if a soiled window to his evil soul?
The prosecutor glared at the twelve jurors as though they were the enemy, then just as easily left them hanging with a flawless flip of her head, causing the trendy locks dancing on her shoulders to change direction in mid air. In what had become a well-practiced move, she took three measured steps with the grace of a ballerina so that she now stood before the defense table. She looked into the chilling coal-black eyes of the smug-faced defendant with her own ferocious gaze as she said to the jury: "This man—if you can call him that—deserves about as much sympathy from you as he gave to his victims. If you allow what he has done to go unpunished adequately, then you'll be sending a message to every sexual serial murderer who comes along that it's perfectly okay to hand pick your victims, rape them, and do whatever the hell else you want to them, and then cry, But it ain't my fault. It's everybody else's."
She snarled at the accused, then risked a furtive peek at his attorney, whose fierce competitiveness matched hers. Once again, the prosecutor, always in control, smoothly made her way back before her main audience. She planted her hands firmly on the wooden railing of the jury box, leaned forward, swallowed a quiet sigh, and said demandingly: "There can be only one justice in this trial. You must find the defendant guilty as charged and sentence him to death. Anything else would be a travesty and a victory for the defense—and defendant. Thank you."
Only then did she allow herself to offer a sanguine smile to the jurors. It was not a real smile but a thank-you-for-all-your-trouble smile, now do your job right and let's get on with our lives.
* * *
It took the jury exactly thirty-five minutes to deliberate, before returning a verdict of guilty on all counts.
A week later, during the penalty phase, Raymond Allen Wilson was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.
Feeling somewhat less than victorious that the killer's life had been spared, Deputy District Attorney Jordan La Fontaine left the courtroom, briefcase in hand. Alongside her was co-counsel in the trial, Assistant D.A. Andrew Lombard. Six feet tall and naturally trim, the thirty-year-old looked dapper in a crisp navy suit. Dark curly hair lapped at his forehead, and his close-set blue eyes seemed to sparkle when you looked at them. Which was what Jordan found herself doing at the moment, even though she felt he was a bit too young for her. Her mind returned to the trial.
A couple of minutes earlier, Raymond Allen Wilson's attorney, Simon McNeil, had stormed out of the courtroom without comment. Jordan could almost read his unprintable thoughts, knowing how he hated to lose almost as much as she did. But he would at least be able to go to sleep tonight knowing that his client did not have a date with death—unlike those whose lives Wilson had taken.
"If you ask me," Andrew said with a Brooklyn accent, "I'd say we got the best we could from that jury. I mean, hell, at least that bastard's off the streets for good."
"Try telling that to the families of the victims," Jordan said almost apologetically. "We promised them true justice would be served—meaning an eye for an eye. Make that two eyes for the fourteen he shut permanently. You know as well as I do that Wilson could live at least another fifty years in prison. That's not exactly the Christmas gift the families were hoping for."
"Maybe not, but I'll guarantee it won't be a picnic for Wilson in his new home," Andrew said. "Do you know what they do to baby-faced, men like him on the inside? The asshole may end up wishing the State had given him a lethal dose of poison when all is said and done."
Jordan had her doubts about that. In her thirteen years with the Multnomah County D.A.'s office, she found it ironic that the one thing killers seemed to fear more than anything else was dying. It was an odd case of jitters under the circumstances.
They rounded the corner in the wide corridors of the Criminal Justice Center. The marble flooring shone as if it had been polished, in spite of the fact that traffic in and out of the building seemed nonstop. There were several trials in various stages, as judges and lawyers scurried to wrap up the better part of cases before the year 1995 came to an end.
Andrew eyed Jordan. "There's a rumor floating around that you and Jerrod Wresler are right at the top of the list for the Homicide Division Bureau Chief opening..."
I've heard it too. Jordan tightened her fingers around the handle of her black leather briefcase. But then she had heard it all before. Only to see herself passed up by someone else—usually a man—less experienced or qualified. Although she and Wresler were roughly equals in terms of time served, being a woman of color would likely work against her once more, even though she had proven herself time and time again. She had learned long ago not to get her hopes up too high.
"If I were you," she said, "I wouldn't pay much attention to rumors."
Andrew laughed uneasily. "That means it's probably true. And, lady, like it or
not, you're the hottest thing the D.A.'s office has going for it right now. They need this more than you do. I'd say you're a cinch for the job."
Wishing she could be just as optimistic, Jordan put on her best face. "Only time will tell."
Speaking of which, she glanced at her watch. Damn! It was almost five-thirty. It was Christmas Eve and she still hadn't bought gifts for her kids.
"I have to go," she said abruptly, while stopping in her tracks as if lost. The reality was that she wasn't really sure where to get started in her search for the right presents.
Andrew frowned. "A few of us are heading over to The Ranch for a little Christmas Eve celebrating. You're coming, aren't you?"
Jordan gave him a well-meaning smile. "I'll try," she promised, doubting she'd be missed too much if she didn't show. "But first I have some unfinished business." She gave him a friendly peck on the cheek. "If I don't see you before then, have a Merry Christmas. And tell everyone else the same!"
She darted off, her mind swirling. What the hell does one buy for a precocious fourteen-year-old and mature nineteen-year-old these days?
Buying gifts was especially important to Jordan this year. It was a good way to bring the family together when they needed it most. This was the first Christmas her late husband, Eric, would not be sharing with them.
# # #
Following is a bonus excerpt of the bestselling legal thriller eBook, JUSTICE SERVED, by R. Barri Flowers. Available in Kindle and Nook.
PROLOGUE
She hid under the bed, carefully controlling her breathing. She didn't move, not even a twitch. Her pink dress was dirty from the pine hardwood floor and her pink shoes were scuffed. The curls of her raven hair billowed around her head like a halo. She could see their shoes, moving around as if dancing to a tender love song.
The Jury Has Spoken Page 3
