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  “I want to make a difference.” Kristine knew she’d screwed up, big time, blown her chance.

  “You will. Now do you think you can go back to court and handle the rest of this trial like the professional you are?”

  “I’ll handle it,” Kristine said, and for a moment she let herself believe she still might get Garcia convicted.

  * * * * *

  That night she sat at her home computer, searching in vain for precedents that would help her convict Garcia, while she munched on a pizza that had about as much flavor as the box in which it had been delivered. The image of the drug lord’s tall, drop-dead gorgeous lawyer with an incongruous little-boy dimple on his cheek kept distracting her.

  She sensed he’d be as skilled a lover as a defender, that he would know how to play a woman the way he played a jury. Her skin burned, though the regular hum of the air conditioner reminded her the temperature couldn’t be much over seventy degrees. Nothing, not even telling herself that Landry was almost as bad as the clients he defended, dispelled the fascination she felt for him.

  This was crazy. She didn’t fantasize about men, ever, and here she was, imagining doing all kinds of unimaginable things with the man who was figuratively ripping her to shreds in court. Kristine tried to put Landry out of her mind.

  She didn’t want to give up looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack that might help her win her case, but the logical part of her brain assured her she wouldn’t find anything. Angry at herself, she shut down the computer. At least, Kristine figured as she crawled into bed, she could start the morning rested. As she tried to sleep, though, visions of Tony Landry tormented her.

  Not since high school had Kristine felt so drawn to another human being. Never to a man like Landry, who should repel her as thoroughly as it seemed he was attracting her. She imagined how he’d feel, all tough sinew and sex appeal, when he stripped out of his elegant courtroom attire. He’d have a hard, fit body, satiny, tanned skin, soft except for cheeks and jaws roughened by the hint of a beard. Never mind that she’d never seen him late in the day. She could almost feel the rasp of his five o’clock shadow against her fingers.

  She imagined those dark eyes raking her with interest, interest much more personal than the visual caresses he gave the jurors. Not just interest, but desire. His big hands would touch her everywhere, make her hot and wet and ready for sexual adventure. Real sexual play, as different from the adolescent groping she remembered as the Gulf of Mexico during a hurricane from calm, protected Tampa Bay.

  Finally she fell into a restless sleep, but he stayed with her, even in her dreams.

  He was hot, so hot. His mouth took hers, his tongue tangling with hers while he used his hands to stroke her breasts, her belly…between her legs where she was becoming wet from his sensual assault.

  Groping blindly, she reached for him, needing desperately to touch him as he was touching her. His tanned skin felt silky, yet beneath it lay hard, fit muscle pulsing with life. When he nudged her legs apart and knelt between them, she grasped his butt cheeks, drawing him close, closer. Into her wet, aching flesh.

  Filling her. Stretching her. Moving slow at first, then faster. It felt so good…so real, the small, intense climax that left her trembling, wanting more. What was she doing? She had to stop, send him away before he stole her will to resist.

  But when she opened her eyes, he wasn’t there. Her legs lay tangled in the sweaty top sheet that she clutched tightly in her own clenched fists.

  * * * * *

  Tony tossed the covers in a heap on the empty side of his bed, shivering at the cool air that blew over his bare body from the open vent. For a minute he sat there, shivering. Then he got up, pulled on a pair of running shorts, and stepped onto his open balcony. He picked out the building where he worked from the other high-rises on the horizon, just across the arched bridge between the convention center and the Wyndham Harbour Island Hotel complex.

  Stretching, he breathed in the warm, salty air and coughed when he got a whiff of acrid phosphate waste that had caught a ride on a westerly breeze. No matter. He would put up with a lot of irritating odors before he’d complain. Overall, he was damn satisfied with the sweet life he’d made for himself.

  A trio of pelicans fished next to a deserted pier, squawking at each other as they dived for some underwater prize. Gulls’ flapping wings and soft chatter punctuated the silence of an eastern sky painted pink by the rising sun. A long way down the beach, Tony spied a couple walking arm in arm, seemingly oblivious to everything but each other.

  They were in for another scorcher of a day. Not a cloud in sight. Maybe with a bit of luck he’d finish work early enough to take Miss Trial for a spin before dark—that is, if he could wind up Garcia’s defense, and if Granger rested her flimsy case instead of pulling some shenanigans on redirect. Hell, if the trial wound up, maybe he’d ask her to join him for a moonlight cruise around the bay.

  The couple drew his gaze again. Backlit by the soft colors of the morning sky, they kissed, and Tony imagined himself out there on the cool, damp sand with Kristine Granger in his arms.

  Would her kiss be shy or as audacious as her prosecution of Manny Garcia? Would she be soft, the way he pictured her, or hard-bodied like so many assertive women he’d known? Blood rushed to Tony’s cock when he watched the man on the beach cup his lover’s ass cheeks and draw her to him.

  Did Kristine have a lover? Could she be strolling with some faceless man now on some expanse of beach? Or was she in bed in that man’s arms? Tony didn’t think so. He’d sensed an aloofness about her, a sense of singularity—and his impressions of people usually hit the mark.

  He had to shave. And if he didn’t quit fantasizing about his courtroom opponent, he’d need a cold shower, too.

  He didn’t have time to moon over any woman, and Kristine Granger was too ordinary, too young. Too conservative for his taste, though she’d looked damn hot in court yesterday, wearing that bright pink suit that bared just enough of her shapely legs to make his cock stand at attention.

  Still, she was too different from the flashy brunettes he favored. He would do well to remember that.

  * * * * *

  When he strolled into the courtroom an hour later, Tony shoved his unruly thoughts to the back of his mind and got busy, doing what his client was paying him to do. He questioned his first witness before he spared a glance at the woman who’d kept him from sleeping the past few nights without even giving him the pleasure of a willing pussy while she’d been doing it.

  This morning she had on another outfit sedate enough for the most traditional nun, a baggy-fitting gray dress with a loose jacket that came down past her hips. Still, she made his cock stand up and take notice. How she wrapped the package didn’t seem to matter a lot to his libido, though he still couldn’t figure exactly why.

  Her tone changed from soft to strident as she cross-examined his witness, drawing his full attention even before her words registered. Oh, no, he thought, she was at it again.

  “Objection. Immaterial,” he said politely for what he figured had to be the hundredth time in the past twenty-four hours.

  “Sustained. Ms. Granger, if you continue this line of questioning, I’ll be forced to jail you for contempt.”

  Tony had heard that before, too. What was it with her? He could certainly understand her wanting to win her first case. He could even see how she might justifiably want to see his client convicted, but not why she would risk her career to do it when the evidence just wasn’t there.

  Her shoulders drooped when she met Judge Harrison’s stern gaze. “I apologize, your honor. I have no more questions of this witness.”

  While the jury deliberated, Tony paced the courthouse corridor wondering if he’d ever been as dedicated as his young opponent seemed to be. No. Eight years ago, when he imagined he’d been about Kristine Granger’s age, his main concern had not been his clients’ innocence or lack thereof. He’d focused on making a name for himself and movin
g up in the firm, gaining the security he craved. He’d taken on every paying client Winston Roe had thrown at him. And he’d done his damnedest to get each one off, innocent or not.

  As he did every time he felt twinges of remorse about defending the occasional sociopath, Tony focused on the good he did for innocent defendants, including a few who couldn’t pay. Will Quinn, his last pro bono client in Miami, was free now because of his efforts, after having spent six years in prison for a murder someone else had committed.

  If he didn’t defend clients like Manny Garcia and defend them well, Tony couldn’t talk the firm’s managing partners into letting him take on more than a token amount of pro bono work.

  Hank tapped him on the shoulder. “Jury’s coming in.”

  “Good.” Tony fell in beside Hank and Garcia, and they made their way into the courtroom. After he sat down, he glanced at the prosecution table where Kristine waited alone, her head held high.

  “Has the jury arrived at a verdict?” Judge Harrison asked. He sounded bored.

  “We have, your honor.”

  “Will the defendant please rise and face the jury?”

  Tony, Garcia, and Hank stood together to hear the verdict.

  Chapter Four

  “We, the jury, find the defendant Manny Garcia not guilty.”

  Kristine had lost. Lost what Andi had assured her might be her only chance to see a dope dealer convicted and sent to prison. She swallowed a sob. Tony Landry, with his army of assistants, his custom-made suits, and his devil smiles, had managed to set a criminal free. Blinking away tears, she looked his way, expecting to see him gloating over his victory.

  He met her gaze, his expression sober—she’d almost say sympathetic. Then Garcia slapped him on the back, and Landry turned away. They left together with the rest of the defense team, victorious attorneys with a client who’d been vindicated by a jury of his peers.

  Kristine sat at the prosecution table until she felt strong enough to face reporters’ inevitable questions. Then she picked up her briefcase, started the long walk from the courtroom to the courthouse steps, and steeled herself to face the press.

  “How do you feel about the trial, Ms. Granger?”

  “No comment.” Kristine kept walking.

  “Did you think you’d win?”

  Stupid questions deserved stupid answers, but Kristine forced a tight smile and made herself murmur, “No comment.”

  “Ms. Granger, will you tell me about your sister?”

  Questions. Each one more cutting, more prying. “No comment,” she said again and again as she pushed her way through the hoard of reporters blocking the steps. Tears stung her eyes and blurred her vision. By the time Kristine reached the sidewalk, she could hardly breathe.

  She walked fast, faster. Then she started to run. Only a couple of reporters followed now, but she recognized the one with greasy brown-black hair. The one who had asked about Helen. Intent on escape, Kristine missed the curb and tumbled headfirst into the street.

  A horn blasted. Rubber burned. Brakes squealed, the sounds reverberating off nearby buildings.

  Then Kristine heard the hum of an idling engine, smelled sweet-pungent, high-octane gasoline. She was still alive.

  Lean, strong fingers dug into her underarms, lifted her off the blistering pavement and steadied her against the car.

  She recognized that voice. Deep, sexy, persuasive. Hoping she was mistaken, she opened her eyes.

  “Oh, no. Not you.” She’d escaped death by car and by reporter. Now, she thought embarrassment might do her in. Her cheeks burned, and it had nothing to do with the heat of the noonday sun.

  “Yeah. It’s me.” He sounded amused. “Can you walk?”

  Could she? When she put weight on her left foot, pain shot up her leg. She spotted the dark-haired reporter not twenty feet away, her camera poised. Again, she tried to stand. She couldn’t.

  “Please. Help me get away,” she said, tears stinging her eyes.

  Hard muscles flexed against her back and thighs as he scooped her up and set her on the passenger seat. The fabric of his jacket brushed her cheek as softly as a fleeting kiss.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he muttered from behind the wheel as he gunned the engine and took off.

  Kristine couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop thinking she had just nearly died. Eyes closed, she concentrated on feeling the sultry wind whip through her hair. The smell of saddle-soaped leather from the seats mingled with the citrus and musk scent of his cologne.

  “Hey. You’re safe now. You can open your eyes.”

  Blinking at the sudden brightness, Kristine forced her eyes to focus. She was riding in a sleek, black Ferrari. Tony Landry’s Ferrari. It fit him. His dark hair blew in the wind, giving him a rakish look as he maneuvered the powerful machine west on Kennedy Boulevard. “There’s the county office building,” she said as he approached the spot she’d been seeking for refuge.

  “That’s a bunch of vultures from the press standing outside, if I’m not mistaken.” He made no move to stop. “You don’t want to talk to them, do you?”

  “No, but I need to get back to work.”

  “What you need right now is to get that foot looked at.”

  He was right. Her ankle hurt like crazy, and she felt swollen flesh ballooning out over her shoe. “I need to call my office.”

  Landry gestured toward the car’s satellite communications system. “Use this. Tell your boss you won’t be back today. Hold on while I turn it on, then speak the number slowly.”

  Trust him to have the best, Kristine thought as she spoke to the state attorney’s receptionist. “I’m done,” she told him when the woman hung up.

  When he shut the gadget off, she glanced his way. “By the way, thanks for saving me.”

  “You may not be thanking me when you see the six o’clock news.”

  “Why?”

  Stopping at a light, Landry turned and looked at her. “Because they got some footage of us when I was scraping you off the street back there. Unless something big happens, we’ll probably be the lead story.”

  That didn’t bother her too much. Not when the alternative to his stopping would have meant she’d be dead or close to it. “I’ll still thank you, Mr. Landry.”

  “Tony.”

  His honeyed voice affected Kristine like a caress. Did he feel it, too, that sensual pull she’d experienced the first time she really looked at him? “Thank you, Tony.”

  “You know, you scared me shitless. For a second there, I didn’t think I was going to be able to stop in time.”

  Cheeks still burning, she looked his way. “I’m glad you did. It was bad enough, your killing me figuratively in court. The other—”

  “I don’t even want to think about it.” Tony pulled to a stop at the corner of Hyde Park Boulevard. “Is Tampa General okay? You need to get that foot X-rayed.”

  Apparently he’d made up his mind, because by the time she could say yes, he had made a quick left. In less than a minute they were on the bridge, headed to Davis Island. She’d have opted for a walk-in clinic somewhere, but it didn’t really matter.

  He stopped at the emergency room entrance and helped her into one of the wheelchairs lined up outside the door. “I’ll park and be right back.”

  Kristine had taken care of herself for a long time. She didn’t need a keeper now. “You don’t need to stay,” she protested.

  He took off his sunglasses and shot her a determined grin. “Yeah, I do. I don’t do rescues halfway. Besides, you’re going to need a ride home.”

  At the moment she didn’t feel up to arguing. Her ankle throbbed more intensely than an impacted wisdom tooth. Anyhow, she doubted she would win an argument with Tony any more easily here and now than she had earlier in the courtroom. Maybe by the time she saw a doctor and got something to dull the pain, she’d summon the spunk to send him on his way.

  She tried to concentrate on the throbbing in her ankle to get Tony off her mind. I
t didn’t work, though. The man was a steamroller, and not just in court. She spied him coming through the emergency room entry door less than five minutes after he went to park his car. He also must have been a magician to have found an empty space so quickly in the crowded lot.

  As soon as he settled into the chair next to her wheelchair, a nurse came to wheel Kristine off to the X-ray department. When she came back an hour later, her sprained ankle in a splint, Tony met her at the desk and snatched the prescriptions from her hand.

  “Tony, I can get a cab home,” she said, wishing the smiling cashier would take herself somewhere else so they could have this conversation in private.

  “Not on your life.”

  “I can get around just fine. I’ve used crutches before.” She reached for the crutches the nurse offered, but not quickly enough. Tony had them.

  “Save your energy. You’re not going to win.”

  She wanted to be angry, but she found his little-boy grin too endearing to fuel her temper, until he commandeered her wheelchair and started pushing her out the door. “Stop. I told you I’d take a cab.”

  “Quit arguing. We’re not in court.” Tony kept walking, pushing her along at a brisk pace, until he came to a concrete island. With what seemed like very little effort he wrestled her and her chair up and over the curb, and locked the wheels.

  “Wait here,” he told her unnecessarily before taking her crutches and trotting off across the parking lot. Perched as she was, on this concrete island that didn’t have a wheelchair ramp, she might as well have been in a cell.

  Kristine’s tension began to ebb as she sat there helplessly waiting. Why shouldn’t she let him pamper her? It seemed too much of an effort to protest, almost too much even to hold her eyes open.

  Tony returned in his fancy car. A black bullet, racy and elegant at the same time. Like him. Sex personified. Then as he strolled over to get her, Kristine remembered how he’d paid for this hundred-thousand-dollar toy and the custom-tailored suit that draped perfectly over his lean, muscular frame.