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DIANE MARIECHILD
One
Campbell never forgot a face. Never.
Joe Campbell’s posh law offices with their sweeping views of the high bridge, port and bay were meant to impress and intimidate. The tall ceilings, the starkly modern ebony furniture, the blond hardwood floors and the Oriental rugs reeked of money and power and social prestige—all of which were vital to a man with Campbell’s ambitions. Not that he was thinking about anything other than the exquisite woman he was supposed to be deposing.
The case had been dull, routine; until she’d walked in. She was beautiful and sweet and warm—and scared witless of him.
This should be good. He rapped his fingers on his desk and tightened them into a fist that made his knuckles ache.
The minx had him running around in circles like a bloodhound that had lost a hot scent. His ears were dragging the ground, his wet nose snuffling dirt.
Minutes before the deposition, Bob Africa, one of the partners and a former classmate at UT Law School, had strutted through his door as if he owned the place—which he practically did. Bob specialized in class-action lawsuits and had just won big, having collected more than two million dollars in legal fees from a cereal company for a food additive.
There hadn’t been a shred of evidence any consumer had been injured. Africa’s fee had come to $2,000 an hour. Consumers had received a coupon for a free box of cereal.
Campbell was jealous as hell.
All smiles as usual this afternoon, a triumphant Bob had slapped him on the back and ordered him to win this one—or else. Salt in the wound—after the Crocker loss.
“I went out on a limb for you, buddy. I told the other partners you just had a run of bad luck in Houston and got a rotten hand here with that medical case.”
“Thanks.” Campbell hadn’t reminded Africa that he’d been the man who’d rammed that loser Crocker down his “buddy’s” throat and then he’d kept the more promising cases for himself.
Bob had smiled his wolverine smile and slapped his back again. “You’re the best, buddy. But, we don’t pay you to lose—”
Lose. Campbell had felt the blood rising in his face. Hell, at least Africa hadn’t reminded him about the death threats all the partners had been receiving ever since Campbell had lost the case. Hell, the incompetent quack had won. What was he so mad about? Crocker’s wife, Kay, maybe? She’d made a play for Campbell, a helluva play.
Today a letter from some crackpot, who said he was praying for Campbell, had arrived. The letter was in the same loopy handwriting as the death threats. Strangely, somehow it was even scarier. Mrs. Crocker had called three times this week, too.
But it was the woman across from Campbell who had him rigid with tension. He had to beat her—or else.
Her face was damnably familiar. Her husky voice was so exquisite and raw, it tugged at Campbell on some deep, man-woman level.
He hated her for her easy power over him even as his cold lawyer’s mind told him she was a fake. This was a staged performance. There was definitely something too deliberate and practiced about her lazy, luscious drawl.
To buy time he played with his shirt cuff. He’d asked dozens of questions and had gotten nowhere. She was a liar, and if it was the last thing he did, he would expose her.
“I—I swear I knew nothing, absolutely nothing about mo-o-old in the O’Connors’ house,” she repeated for the tenth time.
I think the lady doth protest too much.
When he shot her his most engaging smile and leaned toward her as if the deposition were over, she jumped. Her lovely, long fingers and unpolished nails twisted in her lap so violently, she almost dropped the damning photographs he’d jammed into her hands a few seconds earlier.
“I—I swear…no mold,” she pleaded.
Then why won’t you look me in the eye?
“Toxic mo-o-old,” Campbell drawled, pleased his o lasted even longer than hers. His mocking gaze drilled her.
She shook her dark head like a true innocent and began flipping through the photographs he’d made of the black muck growing inside the walls of the O’Connors’ mansion.
“There has to be a mistake,” she whispered.
No, you little liar. No mistake.
Campbell’s long, lean form remained sprawled negligently behind his sleek ebony desk. His beige silk suit was expensive. So was his vivid yellow tie.
Hannah Smith, her knees together beneath her full white skirt, sat on the edge of the black leather chair opposite him. Flanking her was the attorney from her insurance company, a mediocre, colorless little stick of a man. Hunkered low in his chair in an ill-fitting undertaker’s suit wearing smudged, gold-rimmed glasses Tom Davis looked about as dangerous as a terrified rabbit.
“No mistake,” Campbell said. “The O’Connors had to abandon their home. It’ll cost more to remediate it than they paid for it, which was a substantial sum—”
“More than a mill…But it’s not my fault!” she protested. “I was only the Realtor. I thought smart lawyers like you only sued rich people.…”
Didn’t she get it? The deep pocket here was her insurance company. Not her. So, why was she working herself into a sweat?
“Mold was not in your clients’ disclosure statement,” he said.
“There was no mold!” Her voice shaking, she began a boring repeat of her defense.
“Maybe you didn’t realize mold is a very serious issue on the Texas Gulf.”
“Because lawyers like you have made it into a billion-dollar industry?”
“I’m supposed to be asking the questions. And you are liable—”
She opened her pretty mouth and gulped for a breath.
Hannah Smith was lying. And she wasn’t all that damn good at it, either.
And yet he liked her.
This was bad.
Joe Campbell, or rather just plain Campbell, as he was known to most people, at least to those with whom he was on speaking terms, and there were fewer and fewer of those in this town since his line of work tended to alienate a lot of people, had been a trial lawyer too long not to be able to smell a liar a mile away.
He’d been screwed, glued and tattooed by the best liars in the universe—his ex-wife and his former best friend and boss had taken him to the cleaners.
Here we go again. The pretty little con artist across from him smelled warm and sweet. And thanks to his air-conditioning register that wafted her light fragrance Campbell’s way, he was too aware of that fact.
Chanel. He frowned, shifting his long legs under his desk as another unwelcome buzz of man-woman excitement rushed through him. By now he should have boxed her in. She was scared and pretty, and he should have had her on the run. And yet…she had him oddly off balance.
Her nervous fingers shuffled and reshuffled the photographs of the O’Connors’ estate. He caught glimpses of the abandoned pool, the empty hot tub, and the red brick path that wound through the strawlike remnants of formerly showy flower beds. Her slim, graceful hands trembled so badly when she came to his damning shots of the mold, she nearly dropped the whole bunch.
“Think how those images will affect a sympathetic jury, Mrs. Smith.”
“That’s not a question,” her lawyer said. “You don’t have to answer.”
Deliberately, she licked her lips with her pink tongue. “I’m sorry Mr. O’Connor’s sick, but…”
Hell. She sounded sorry. A jury would believe her, too. He almost believed her. When she began talking faster and faster, swallowing, and glancing everywhere but at him, Campbell found himself studying her wide, wet lips with obsessive interest.
Sexy voice, intoxicating scent…and that delectable mouth…Everything about her seemed soft and vulnerable and likable. She was too damned likable. Not like him.
Suddenly Campbell wanted her to shut up and just look at him, and that scared the hell out of him. His big house was lonely and empty, his footsteps echoed when he finally made it home and climbed the stairs to his bedroom alone every night.
Was anything about her for real? Was she sucking him in…as Carol had?
Mrs. Smith was damned attractive, too damned attractive, despite that shapeless white sack that concealed her figure, despite thick, inky bangs and huge dark glasses that masked her face. Her legs were long and shapely, her ankles slim…even though those low-heeled, stained canvas shoes did nothing for her calves.
Yes, she was pretty despite the fact that she’d gone to a lot of trouble not to be. Why had she done that? Most women liked to add pretty to their arsenal of weapons when they went up against him or a jury. For an instant, he remembered Mrs. Crocker’s slit skirts and shapely legs. She’d been built like a gymnast.
“Call me Kay,” she’d said the day Campbell had lost. “Better, call me…anytime.”
He’d been angry because he’d lost. “I don’t mess around with married women.”
“So, my husband’s wrong about you,” she’d purred. “You do have a principle or two. I like that.”
“No principle. I just don’t want to get shot by a jealous husband.”
“My husband’s a good shot, too. He’s a hunter.”
“This lawsuit wasn’t personal, you know.”
“So, why are you so sore you lost?”
“I’m sore about a lot of things.”
“So am I.” Her eyes had sparked.
Forget Kay. Concentrate on Mrs. Smith. Campbell ran a tanned hand through his jet-black hair and yawned, pretending he was bored by what Mrs. Smith was saying. Bored by her. If only he was, maybe he could concentrate on the O’Connors’ case and finish her off.
She was tall. From the moment she’d glided into his office, he’d been riveted by her exquisite lightness of being. Something sweet and vulnerable screamed look at me, love me, please. Her every gesture—her quick, nervous smiles at Tom—hell, even the frightened glances he got both charmed and maddened him.
A jury would be equally charmed.
Then there was the way she couldn’t seem to catch her breath when he got too close. She was playing the role of damsel in distress with a vengeance that should have infuriated him. And yet…Her fear felt so real and palpable, he wanted to protect her.
Damn it, he had to get her. Africa had made it clear, his ass was on the line.
If her accent was fake, he’d bet a year’s salary her black hair came out of a bottle. The harsh color was wrong for her fair complexion, the style too severe for her narrow face. He kept eyeing the thick, glossy mass, longing to undo the cheap plastic clip.
Hell, what were those white bits of dust that clung to her bangs? What had she been doing before she’d dashed late to his office.
“If the O’Connors are so concerned, why aren’t they here today?” she finished in that velvet undertone that undid him.
“They hired me to represent them.” His voice cut like ice.
“You mean to do their dirty work?” she finished, glancing out his windows like a trapped animal.
Damn it, Campbell felt sorry for her. Then Tom put a cautionary hand over hers, and Campbell felt a wild, really scary emotion.
“What’s all that stuff in your hair?” Campbell growled, wanting to rip Tom’s hand away.
“Oh!” Her eyes flew self-consciously to his. She gulped in another big breath, and he felt like the air between them sizzled.
This was bad.
She stirred her fingers through the mess of her purse and finally plucked out an elegant, gold-framed mirror. When she saw herself she wrinkled her nose. Quickly, she yanked at the hideous clip and shook out her long, thick hair.
When lots of little white bits showered onto his gray carpet, she smiled, revealing deep dimples, and he felt that damn buzz again. Despite a bad haircut, she was way sexier with her hair down. She studied herself in her mirror and wrinkled her nose again.
Campbell squirmed in his leather chair. He didn’t need this.
“Bits of Sheetrock,” she explained airily. Lifting her triangular chin, she shot him a pious look. “I was inspecting one of the waterfront properties I represent. For mold, Mr. Campbell.”
“Just call me Campbell.…”
“There was a suspicious stain on the ceiling.…I wanted to be sure.…”
She and Tom exchanged self-righteous glances.
“My expert didn’t find any,” she said.
Touche, Campbell thought grimly, even as some part of him cheered for her.
Again, her hands fluttered prettily as she reclipped her hair. She didn’t wear a wedding ring. For no reason at all he longed to remove those huge glasses that hid her eyes.
Were they dazzling blue or soft velvet brown? Or fiery black? He wanted to sweep her hair back, get a good look at her. Maybe then he’d remember where the hell he’d seen her.
Damn it. He grabbed one of the mold photographs from his own duplicate pile and forced himself to focus on his clients and their toxic-mold problem.
“Paul O’Connor is in the hospital barely able to breathe or think,” Campbell said.
“I’m so sorry he’s ill.”
You don’t give a damn about Paul and you know it.
And yet again, her face paled, and her voice went soft with husky concern that turned Campbell to mush.
Destroy her. Unnerve her.
Campbell fumbled awkwardly with the disclosure sheets of the sales contract. Then he rustled through his list of questions he’d deliberately structured to entrap her.
Somehow he had to get this smooth-talking actress to admit that she’d known all along about the mold and hadn’t disclosed it. Her shaky voice and hands meant she was highly agitated. Maybe if he got her really mad, she’d snap. He was famous for his Perry Mason moments.
“Back to this mold situation at the O’Connors’,” he murmured in a tight, low tone. “It was an old house on the water—”
