by Laura Kenner
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Title Page
Dedication
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Copyright
It had been a long time since he’d gotten so wrapped up in a woman…
He’d paid for his misdirected attention with a cut that might leave a scar, too. Will found a mirror, getting a better look at his injury. Hadn’t today’s sacrifices deserved more than Sara’s chaste kiss of thanks? He shut his eyes, imagining…
“I didn’t thank you for saving my life.” Same words as before but this time Sara’s gaze would hold his longer. He’d make no effort to touch her. It was up to Sara. “Will…” Her voice was a low, throaty purr. “Thank you.” She leaned forward and kissed him….
It might be a fantasy, but such a kiss would shake him to his core. Under its influence, their roles in life would be reduced to the simplest common denominator: the hunter and the hunted.
Dear Reader,
They’re rugged, they’re strong and they’re wanted! Whether sheriff, undercover cop or officer of the court, these men are trained to keep the peace, to uphold the law. But what happens when they meet the one woman who gets to know the man behind the badge?
Twelve of these men are on the loose…and only Harlequin Intrigue brings them to you—one per month in the LAWMAN series. This month meet Will Riggs, P.I., in Hero for Hire by Laura Kenner.
Born and raised in Alabama, Laura now calls northern Virginia/Washington D.C. home—that is, until Uncle Sam tells her otherwise. A military dependent, she sees each new assignment as not only an opportunity to guess how many cardboard boxes it takes to pack up her family (at last count—214), but as a potential location for new books. She extends an invitation to all to visit her newest “home,” the one on the World Wide Web: http://www.erols.com/lhayden
Be sure you don’t miss Will’s exciting story—or any of the LAWMAN books coming to you in the months ahead…because there’s nothing sexier than the strong arms of the law!
Regards,
Debra Matteucci
Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator
Harlequin Books
300 East 42nd Street
New York, New York 10017
Hero for Hire
Laura Kenner
To Alison Ramsey for being ready, willing and able to fan the idea when it first sparked and to the Wyrd Sisters for keeping it burning, even when I smoldered.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Sara Hardaway—She had the perfect man and the perfect job, and the last thing she needed was a perfect stranger to walk into her life.
Will Riggs—The perfect stranger made it his business to turn himself into any woman’s perfect match.
Raymond Bergeron—The divorce lawyer who knew things are never as perfect as they seem.
Celia Strauss—The woman who proved that practice makes perfect.
Judge Michael F. Russell, Retired—He used to find perfection in justice; now he finds it in food.
Martin and Lucy Hilliard—The perfect partners.
Diane Howard-Barnes—She was seeking the perfect divorce.
Anita Rooney—A perfect tool.
Blazer Barnes—A perfect specimen.
Archie Koeffler—A perfect square.
Mimi and Joanie—The perfect secretaries.
Chapter One
Friday, late morning
The elevator door opened and conversation spilled into the quiet foyer. “—one to screw in the light bulb and five to sue for deprivation of darkness.”
Sara Hardaway spared the two women standing in the elevator car only a cursory glance as she juggled her boxes and stepped in. To her relief, the eleventh-floor button was lit, eliminating the need to free a hand or ask for assistance. Somehow, she didn’t think either of the women would think to offer some help. They were already deeply mired in soft conversation, ignoring her.
The woman in the navy suit lowered her voice. “You’re supposed to laugh when someone tells you a joke.”
“I don’t feel like laughing.” The other woman crossed her arms and her bottom lip trembled for a moment. “And I wish you’d have given me time to change.” She looked decidedly self-conscious as she adjusted the skirt of her teal silk dress. “I don’t think this is the right outfit for such a serious situation.”
Was it Sara’s imagination, or did the women glance at her as if assuring themselves that no matter what, at least they looked better than she did? She winced inwardly, not willing to give them the satisfaction of knowing they’d made her feel uncomfortable.
Sure, she was wearing jeans, a sweatshirt and a Redskins baseball cap to cover her dirty hair, but there was a good reason to look so…so bad. A really good reason, she wanted to tell them. After all, it wasn’t fair; even when she dressed nicely, she usually took the freight elevator and slipped in the back of the office. But just her luck—the one day when she didn’t want to be seen by anyone, the freight elevator was broken. The Otis Elevator Corollary to Murphy’s Law?
She’d had no other choice but to walk around to the elegant marble foyer and use the regular elevator, doing her best impression of a messenger making deliveries. She shifted uncomfortably, wishing the hole in the knee of her pants wasn’t so big or so frayed.
The women in the elevator spoke around her as if she didn’t exist. The one in the navy suit performed an elegant, careless shrug. Her shoulder pads didn’t even shift out of place. “It’s only a preliminary meeting. Consider it the weigh-in before the big match. Both camps check each other out, sizing up their candidates, wanting to know if both competitors can go the distance.”
The woman in the silk dress shuddered. “You make it sound like a boxing match.”
“That’s exactly what this is.”
Sara couldn’t help but glance at the woman in the navy suit. With her slightly wide stance and one hand curled into a fist, Sara had no doubt this female could have stood toe-to-toe for several rounds with Muhammad Ali in his prime. Maybe even go the distance.
“Divorces are all like that,” she continued. “You spar a little, size up the competition, figure out their weakness and then go in for the kill.”
Bingo! A divorce lawyer and her client. Sara knew she should have recognized the look of steely determination on one face and the caught-in-the-headlights look on the other.
“And remember—” the woman in the navy suit lowered her voice a notch “—if his lawyer asks about the ’91 property purchase, we show both the original deed of trust, the California tax records and the affidavit from the insurance company.” She patted her expensive leather briefcase. “But we don’t volunteer any information about the property in Arizona. Understand?”
The female in the silk dress nodded, tugging at the collar of her outfit. “Okay. But I still think—”
The elevator dinged, signaling their arrival. As the doors slid open, all three started for the exit at the same time. Sara paused, taking a deferential step back, but she received no acknowledgment from the two women. Typical. They pushed ahead, having assigned her to the ball-cap-and-jeans level of the hierarchy of life. Ball cappers evidently ranked right below waitresses with beehive hairdos and above flower children still living in tie-dy
ed VW buses.
The woman in the silk dress turned to the other female. “Have you ever met this attorney before? This…R. S. Bergeron?”
A chill zipped up Sara’s spine.
The one in the navy suit shook her head. “I’ve heard of him. Do you know him?”
Sara strained to hear the answer. It would be much too obvious if she followed them right to the office door. Wouldn’t it put a nice snag in their panty hose to know they were headed for the same place? Instead, Sara went to the service corridor and rang the back-door bell with her shoulder as she balanced the boxes of food.
“Yes?”
“It’s me, Joanie,” she called into the intercom. “I have lunch for the huddled masses.” She paused for emphasis. “And baklava for you.”
The door buzzed in response. Sara headed straight for the conference room, hearing Joanie thunder in from the vestibule. They arrived at the same time.
“Thank heavens, you’re here. Raymond called earlier to say he might be running late, and his clients just arrived.” She helped to pull the food containers from the box.
Since the conference room was used as much for entertaining clients at lunch meetings as anything else, Sara pulled out the china she and Raymond had selected expressly for such occasions. She began to set the table for four. “I know they’re here. I rode up the elevator with them.” Pausing to check one of the knives for spots, Sara tried to ignore the distorted reflection of the woman in a baggy sweatshirt and faded cap.
“Is it dirty?” Joanie nodded toward the knife.
Sara dragged her attention from the utensil back to the task at hand. “No. I was just marveling at how bad I look. It also makes me wonder if the lawyer I saw in the elevator was one of those people who can’t see their reflection in the mirror.”
Joanie giggled. “A real Vampira? Funny…she didn’t strike me that way.”
Sara shrugged. “Maybe I saw her true personality because to her, I was just some old bag lady in the elevator. But she certainly makes a person wonder if part of the attorney-client privilege means surrendering information about your blood type.” Sara stuck a finger in her sweatshirt collar and pulled it out to demonstrate where a vampire might strike. “It gives a new meaning to the concept of a working lunch.”
A stentorian voice echoed throughout the room. “Don’t give me any ideas….”
Sara spun around and spotted her fiance, Raymond Bergeron, standing in the entrance to the conference room. Well over six feet tall, he filled the doorway as easily as he filled the room with his smiling charm.
“Ah, Sara…my sweet And speaking of a tasty morsel—” he swooped toward her, his arm raised as if he held a cape at his face “—what’s on the menu today? Besides you, that is?” He leaned down, pretending to nibble her neck.
She batted him away. “You didn’t give me much prep time so I had to go with what was available. It’s your basic soup, salad, sandwich and dessert combo. White chili with chicken, house salads with walnuts and honey-mustard dressing, turkey club sandwiches and a chocolate cheesecake. And baklava for Joanie.” Sara smiled at Raymond’s secretary. “I know you don’t like cheesecake.”
Joanie pulled the small container of Greek pastries toward herself with a possessive gleam in her eye. “Boss, I hope you realize it’s a rare and wonderful woman who’ll go into work on her day off just to make a meal for her forgetful fiance.”
He crossed his arms and narrowed his gaze. “Like I told you—I didn’t forget this meeting. It just came up suddenly.” When he saw Joanie’s silent censure, his expression melted into a hesitant grin toward Sara. “And I really appreciate this, sweetheart. It’s more of a help than you could ever really know.” Although he wasn’t usually a demonstrative person in front of others, Raymond surprised Sara with a hasty kiss. Before her shock could subside, he broke away. A slight red tinge colored his cheeks as he turned to Joanie. “Is everybody here, now?”
She raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Mrs. Howard-Barnes and Ms. Rooney are already in your office and Mr. Barnes is on his way up.”
“Good. We’ve forced her into making the first concession.” Raymond rubbed his hands together in obvious satisfaction. He elaborated, as was his usual custom. “Ms. Rooney has a reputation for trying to play hardball on first contacts. I’m sure she expects lunch with the infamous Blackwater Barracuda to be a matter of either raw fish or, at the very least, rare meat, not a froufrou girlie meal like this. It ought to really throw her off-balance.”
“Froufrou? Girlie?” Sara picked up a towel and snapped it toward him. “I’ll have you know, Mr. Barracuda, that the Honorable Judge Michael Russell came by the restaurant just last night and tried to charm the recipe out of me for my white chili. Again.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t try to serve you a subpoena to get it He still thinks he’s on the bench.” Raymond’s face tightened a little, a warning of something unpleasant yet to come. “And speaking of Judge Russell, I have a small problem.”
“Problem?” It was her turn to give him a narrowing gaze. “What kind of problem?” She could see the answer in his body language, which read I don’t want to tell you this but—
“I don’t want to tell you this, but it’s about dinner at his place, tonight”
There goes our dinner date. Disappointment flooded through her. It had taken almost a court order for her to get a Friday night off. Schedules had to be juggled, shifts covered, bribes made, promises exacted, everything short of donating a heart, lung and kidney so that she, the boss, could have a rare but leisurely Friday night out with her fiance at their favorite restaurant. And now?
“Oh, Raymond…”
“Don’t ’Oh, Raymond’ me!” He leaned forward and pecked her cheek. “I’m not canceling it I simply have a short meeting scheduled at six and may be running a little late. Why don’t you go ahead to the judge’s restaurant and I’ll meet you there around seven-thirty. Okay?”
She looked down at the polished conference table. In its reflection, she saw two business professionals with busy lives, trying to balance work with love and love with work. And to complicate things, they both loved their work. So far, they’d been successful, juggling it all. And in the Great Book of Potential Disappointments, being a little late for a special night out didn’t rank up there with earthquakes, volcanic explosions and forgetting an anniversary.
After all, she reminded herself, he’d anticipated her disappointment; based on her experience with men, most of them didn’t usually think that far ahead.
She adopted her best “I’ll survive the disappointment” smile and faced him. “Promise you won’t be too late?”
He drew a cross over the red handkerchief peeking from the pocket of his charcoal suit. “Promise.”
Friday evening
“PROMISE.”
Sara wadded her cocktail napkin into a sodden ball and sneered. “Some promise.” Taking careful aim, she tossed the ball, beaning the man behind the bar who had bent over to retrieve something from the bottom shelf.
“Hey!” The Honorable Judge Michael F. Russell, retired, straightened and plucked the damp wad of paper from his collar. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it wasn’t nice to shoot spitballs in school?”
Sara held out her empty hands, demonstrating her lack of ammunition. “One. It’s not a spitball. Two. This is a bar, not a school. And three. I wasn’t aiming at you.” She smirked at him. “I was aiming at the trash can.”
Mike flipped the paper into the trash can several feet away. “I find it difficult to believe you missed such an easy target.” He picked up her empty glass, wiped away the damp ring beneath it with a clean cloth and placed a new drink in front of her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were taking out your frustrations on the nearest man.”
“Hardly.” She took a tentative sip and allowed herself a reluctant smile. The drink, nicknamed a “Public Defender” was the judge’s trademark, a secret concoction that reputedly relied less on alcohol
than on special mixer ingredients. She suspected that he was playing his usual fatherly role and that this third drink was most likely a virgin Public Defender. Of course, some of the less reputable characters who hung out at the bar always proclaimed that you couldn’t use the word virgin with anything remotely connected to the law profession. Sara refused to use the unsavory nickname they’d coined for the virginal version of the drink—something about defending a woman’s anatomy….
She contemplated the orange-pink concoction, then lifted her glass in salute. “Here’s to conscientious divorce lawyers who seem unable to divorce themselves from their work.”
The judge lifted his bottle of Evian water. “To divorce lawyers.”
“To conscientious divorce lawyers,” a voice corrected.
Sara spun around on her stool and stared at the source of the intrusive voice. It belonged to a man who stood a few feet down the bar.
He didn’t look like a typical bar patron.
Although all the other male customers had loosened their requisite power ties, they still wore the stamp of regimentation that branded District patrons who used Friday nights at their local watering holes to wind down a long week. Mike had once quipped that Friday night was Stupid Tie Night and he gave a weekly award for the bravest attempt to induce a little originality in the otherwise-staid politicians’ dress code.
But this man standing by her at the bar wore no tie. Unlike the other male patrons, he was dressed in a white sweater over jeans as if he’d spent a casual afternoon playing Frisbee on the Mall rather than playing political hardball on a federal court.
She supposed most women considered him handsome…not that she noticed or anything. But it was evident at first glance that it was his infectious smile that animated his basic features. He was definitely not a politician. Their smiles never reached their eyes. His did.