by Celia Styles
Copyright@2015 by Celia Styles
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
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My Naughty Jaguar
By Celia Styles
Chapter 1
Amy stared at herself in the mirror, her calm image belying the knots twisting her burning stomach. Her mother used to tease her about her ability to hide her emotions. She said it took an army to pull a single thought out of her head when she didn’t want anyone to know what she was thinking. She hoped that was true today.
Who would have thought that her mother’s little girl would grow up to be lead prosecutor on one of the most notorious cases to hit their small town? Amy certainly dreamt of it, but never thought it would happen this early in her career. Granted, it wasn’t like they were in Dallas or Houston…Conroe wasn’t exactly a metropolis. But it was still a pretty big deal.
She ran her fingers through her long, black hair, twisting it into a knot at the back of her head, deciding up was better than down. It made her look older than her twenty-six years.
She’d heard the defense attorney was a big shot from San Antonio. The accused, a divorcee who’d moved to Conroe from Houston a year ago, had the money to hire just about anyone…she could have had Mark Geragos take the case—if she could talk him into coming to Texas—but she chose this guy. It made Amy wonder.
What was it about this one guy that made this wealthy, spoiled, accused murderer choose him? And why would he elect to accept a case like this, one that could be make or break for either side?
She was almost more curious about her opponent than she was nervous about facing the judge.
She leaned closer to the mirror to reapply her subtle, pink lip gloss, pleased with how it contrasted with her caramel colored skin. At least she looked good. It always gave her a boost of confidence to know she presented an attractive façade. And it didn’t hurt when her opposing counsel was a little distracted in the opening moments of court. She was hoping that would play in her favor today, too.
With a deep breath, and a quiet prayer—“Velar por mi, Senor,”—she made her way out of the quiet bathroom and into the chaos of the crowded courthouse hallway. It was only a preliminary hearing, but you would think the trial was beginning with the number of reporters trying to pile into the courtroom.
The sea of humanity separated as Amy approached the door. Word had already spread that she was the prosecutor on this case. A few of the reporters called her name, asking questions they knew she couldn’t answer, but most of them just watched her pass.
She felt like a celebrity.
The courtroom was slightly quieter, the spectators filling the gallery whispering instead of yelling. The defense table was empty, no sign of the mysterious San Antonio attorney. Jack, another assistant DA and her second chair on this case, was at the prosecutor’s table, organizing the paperwork they would have to hand over to the judge and the defense as they presented the bones of their case today.
“Morning,” Jack said as she settled in her seat.
“Are you ready for this?”
“I should be asking you that.” He set another file on the table, sliding it between a stack of others. “I’ve been through this circus before. You haven’t.”
“I’m good,” she said, ignoring the burn of indigestion begging for attention in her chest. “Defense is running late.”
“Yeah. The judge won’t like that.”
Amy agreed. Judge Thomas Fremont was not a patient man. The last time a lawyer showed up late to his court, Judge Fremont sentenced him to fifty hours of community service on a contempt of court charge.
Then, as though her thoughts had conjured him, Judge Fremont’s bailiff walked into the room.
“Please stand. The Honorable Judge Thomas Fremont presiding.”
The judge took the bench and his eyes immediately narrowed as they fell on the empty defense table.
“Counselor, you wouldn’t happen to know where your opponent is, would you?”
“No, your honor,” Amy said.
The words weren’t even completely out of her mouth when the doors at the back of the room burst open. Amy turned and found herself staring at what was probably the most handsome man she’d ever seen.
It caught her so by surprise that she nearly fell back against the table.
Tall—impossibly tall—with dark eyes, but hair so light that it was like sunlight at the brightest moment of the day, tan, muscular…he looked like he just stepped off the pages of some fashion magazine, only too masculine to even consider modeling in his underwear.
She was so taken by this walking god that she almost missed the beautiful—equally fashion magazine worthy—girls behind him. One was a brunette, the other a redhead.
What was life without a little variety?
“Jesus,” Jack whispered beside her.
“Sorry we’re late, your honor. We got stuck in traffic.”
“Traffic where?”
The god smiled and it was like the air went out of the room. Amy pressed a hand to her chest even as her knees weakened.
“San Antonio.”
The judge’s eyebrows rose. “You drove all the way here from San Antonio? You realize that’s more than a three hour drive, right?”
“Yes, sir. I’m afraid we miscalculated how much traffic there would be at this time of the day.”
The judge just shook his head, not yelling or lecturing about his precious time as Amy expected him to. It seemed the judge was a little distracted by the aesthetics sitting at the defense table, too.
“Fine,” he said, waving his hand, gesturing for everyone to take their seats. “Bring the defendant in.”
Amy slid a legal pad from her briefcase and scribbled, “Jeannette Huntington,” across the top. She looked up when the side door opened, but instead of looking at the defendant—another beautiful woman, thanks to her former husband’s money and her competent plastic surgeon—her eyes fell on the defense attorney. He looked her way at about the same time, their eyes meeting in the empty space between them. It was like a small earthquake centered just below Amy, the way her heart shuttered and her muscles tensed.
Damn, he was beautiful.
He leaned over and whispered, “Deacon Simons,” as he held out a hand to her.
“Amalia Hernandez.”
Her insides turned to jelly as he gripped her hand tightly in his own. His touch was gentle, but she could almost feel the power thrumming underneath. There was just something about him that was like an electric wire pulsing with so much voltage that it was barely controlled.
“I don’t suppose you’d have time for lunch when all this is done? I’d like to discuss the particulars.”
“That’s assuming the judge decides to hold her over for trial.”
“Are you already assuming you’ll lose?”
He smiled when he said it, a soft twinkle dancing in his eye.
Amy returned the smile. “Do you like barbecue?”
“Love it.”
She scribbled down the name and address of a local restaurant and handed it to him.
He nodded, straightening in his seat as the judge called the courtroom to order.
***
Amy was still soaring
from the high of her victory in court. The judge didn’t even wait to hear all the evidence she had to present. He ruled twenty minutes into the hearing, shutting the defense down before Deacon Simons could get more than a few words in. They were going to trial in less than six weeks. She had a lot of work to do over the next few weeks, but right now she was determined to revel in her first major victory as lead counsel.
“Good job,” the DA said to her as he passed her in the hall. Amy beamed…the DA rarely congratulated anyone, preferring to berate.
“Congratulations,” Amy’s mother said, her voice low and soft over the phone. “I just saw it on the news. They say you were brilliant, but I already knew you would be.”
“Gracias, Mami.”
“My daughter, la gran abogada. I am so proud of you, mija.”
“Thanks, Mami,” she said again as tears flooded her eyes.
She hung up a minute later and picked up the picture she always kept on her desk. It was taken years ago, when she was only three or four. She sat between her parents, her petite mother on one said, her massive father on the other. Her father always seemed larger than life to Amy—not just because he was over six feet tall and broad enough to intimidate even the toughest soldiers who ruled Cuba when he was a kid—because he was always so full of life, always so ready with a smile and a helping hand. Her mother never read Amy storybooks when she was a kid. At bedtime, she would tell Amy the story of how they met…how Papi swept her off her feet minutes after catching her eye in a crowded movie theater and married her a month later.
It was at times like this that she missed her father the most.
She sighed as she set the picture carefully back in its place. She had to go if she was going to meet Deacon Simons on time.
Traffic was light in the hot afternoon. She turned the radio up a little too loud and tapped her fingers to the rhythm as she tried to squash the nervousness that was beginning to wiggle its little head. You would think she would get used to nervousness, and find a way to combat it, after three years of law school and two years in the prosecutor’s office. She’d stood in front of Judge Fremont and the other two local judges dozens of times in those years, but she still felt like she was going to throw up, or have a heart attack, every time.
And then there was this.
This nervousness was different. She didn’t feel sick, exactly. She felt like something big was about to happen, like she was about to walk into something that would alter the course of her life forever. It was a sense of anticipation, like she was on a collision course with fate.
Don’t be stupid, Amy.
It was only a meeting with a defense attorney. She’d had these meetings a few dozen times before. They always went the same way:the defense attorney sweet talked her, trying to find out what she had up her sleeve, and she always ignored their attempts, ending the meeting by offering what was required by law and nothing more. It was a dance all lawyers knew better than their lovers. This meeting wouldn’t be any different.
At least, she didn’t think it would be.
Maybe it was just the memory of what he looked like that was bothering her so much. In a strange way, he reminded her of her father. She wasn’t sure what it was, exactly. They looked nothing alike. But there was something…
That smile was on his lips again when she walked into the restaurant. He was waiting for her in the small lobby, leaning casually against the wall.
“Ms. Hernandez,” he said, stepping forward with his hand outstretched.
“Mr. Simons.”
He held her hand a little longer than necessary for a polite handshake, his fingers stroking her palm as he slowly let go. His touch made her lower belly quiver in a way that even Joshua—her first, and only, love—hadn’t achieved.
She bit her lip as she stepped back slightly.
“And you can call me Deacon,” he said. “Mr. Simons seems a little too formal.”
She inclined her head, afraid to trust her voice. He seemed amused by that because his smile widened, showing a few perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth.
Was it her imagination, or were his incisors a little too long and sharp?
“Deacon, party of two?” the hostess called.
“That’s us.” He moved up beside her and laid a hand on the small of her back to guide her into the bowels of the restaurant, effectively destroying any chance she might have had of getting control over her nerves back.
The restaurant was crowded and loud, as it always was. But the food there was amazing, making it worth the hassle. Amy slid into one side of a rustic wooden booth and smiled as Deacon gave the bench on his side a cursory glance before he sat, too. He immediately shrugged out of his suit coat, exposing impressive biceps and triceps. Even the hostess inhaled a little noisily before catching herself.
“Teri will be your waitress,” she said, her eyes resting only on Deacon. “Enjoy your meal.”
Deacon watched her walk away, amusement written in the angles of his face.
“This is some place.”
“The food’s good.”
“Smells good.” He settled his elbows on the table and studied her over his interlaced fingers. “You come here often?”
Amy shrugged. “It’s close to both the office and the courthouse.”
“Convenience. I get that.”
The waitress approached, her pad already in her hand as she asked what they wanted. When she looked up, she took a startled step back as her gaze fell on Deacon. Amy was beginning to wonder if everyone had the same reaction to him, and if it ever caused him trouble.
“Are you married?” she couldn’t help but ask the moment the waitress turned her back.
“No,” he said, holding up his left hand so she could see it was free of any adornment. “Have yet to find my soul mate.”
“You believe in soul mates?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
Amy thought about Joshua, of the things they had whispered to each other in the dark all through high school and into college. She had believed in soul mates then. But that belief disappeared the day she walked into his dorm room—with a key he had given her—and found him with a girl he was ‘just tutoring’.
Yeah. He never tutored her quite like that.
“No,” she said softly. “I don’t.”
“That’s too bad.”
He seemed genuinely sad for her. His eyes had softened around the edges, his full lips slightly puckered. She could too easily imagine what those lips would feel like against hers when she looked at them…so she purposely focused on his forehead. There didn’t seem to be anything unusually erotic about his forehead.
Except the fact that it was amazingly smooth, like the porcelain on the side of a—
“Is this your first murder case?”
Amy cleared her throat, reaching up to smooth a piece of hair from her own forehead.
“No. I’ve been second chair on several murder cases over the last couple of years.”
“Really? I can’t imagine you get a lot of murder out here.”
“Some. About ten cases a year.”
He nodded slowly. “And I thought this was a friendly little town.”
“It is. But we get a lot of criminals passing through to Louisiana.”
“Makes sense.” Deacon leaned back and crossed his legs under the table as he studied her face a little too closely for comfort. “But this one’s different.”
“It is.”
“Mrs. Huntington claims that she wasn’t even home the night her housekeeper was killed.”
“Yes. But the police were able to establish that her alibi wasn’t true.”
“Yes, that’s unfortunate.” Deacon’s eyes fell to the table for a second as he picked at the smooth wood surface with the nail of his thumb. “I’ve seen the crime scene photos. They seem pretty brutal for someone as small as my client.”
“It’s amazing what a person is capable of when they’re angry enough.”
“T
rue. Some of us are capable of amazing things.”
Amy’s eyebrows rose. “Us?”
Deacon looked up and smiled. But before he did, she thought she saw something…she wasn’t sure what she saw, but it seemed like concern. Or anger, maybe? Whatever it was, it caused a little bit of a shiver to rush down her spine.
Their food came a minute later. Deacon dug into his ribs with a relish, but largely ignored his beans and potato salad. Amy chose sausage and brisket, something she could eat without risking barbecue sauce getting stuck to her fingers and the corners of her mouth. Deacon was pushing his plate away before she was even half finished with hers, sitting back and wiping his fingers with the wet napkin the restaurant provided.
“Did you like it?”
He nodded, his eyes moving over her plate. “You?”
Amy pushed her plate toward him. “Their portion sizes are a bit much for me.”
Deacon quickly tucked into her meat, too, once again ignoring the rest. When he was finished, he sprang to his feet like a restless cat, holding out his hand to her.
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
Amy was a little surprised. She had expected him to ask more about the case. But he seemed hardly interested, tossing a couple of bills on the table and gesturing for her to lead the way. She wondered for a minute if she had said something she shouldn’t have, if she had offended him in some way, but he chattered like a happy bird all the way to her car, mostly about the delights of visiting a small town.
“We had to take rooms at a bed and breakfast. I have never actually stayed in a B and B, but the nice lady who runs it assures me that it is much better than an impersonal hotel.”
“In this case, she’s probably right.” Amy pulled her keys out of her bag, pointing the fob at the car and pressing the door lock button. “Mrs. Willis goes to church with my mother. She’s probably the nicest woman in town, and she’s an amazing cook.”
“I just hope she doesn’t mind us keeping long hours.”
“I’m sure she’ll let you know if she does.”
Amy paused beside her car and looked up at Deacon, a little overwhelmed by how tall he was and how his size made her feel more petite than she really was. But it wasn’t just that…he made her feel vulnerable. And protected.
