Body of Evidence (Evidence Series)

by Rachel Grant

  “Don’t you get tired of being in control all the time?”

  “No.”

  She tossed him a challenging look. “Before we part ways in DC, I want to change that.”

  She might just be the woman to do it.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BEN SHERROD LED his client, former Vice President Andrew Stevens, out of the packed courtroom and down the hall to a private alcove where press and jury weren’t allowed. The proceedings had gone slowly as the extra-large jury pool learned the rules of the game. They’d just begun voir dire and already one potential juror had called a publishing house to ask for a book deal.

  “You can see why Aurora Ames is Dominick’s top assistant US attorney,” Ben said, referring to the AUSA who’d just gotten one of the more promising members of the jury pool ejected. The man had practically glowed every time he looked at the former VP. His answers on the jury questionnaire were a defense attorney’s dream, and AUSA Ames had gotten the guy ejected before strikes for cause had even begun.

  Shit. His first setback and Dominick wasn’t even here.

  Stevens pulled out his phone and turned it on. After a moment, he cursed. “Still no calls.”

  “Focus on jury selection, Andrew, not your damn niece. Did you see the look on number seventeen’s face when—”

  “I need to talk to her.”

  Ben stifled a heavy sigh. “You can’t. You’d have to call Dominick.”

  “It’s bullshit that he can be alone with her when he plans to put her on the stand.”

  “He’s alone with her because he saved her life, Andrew.”

  Andrew’s forehead wrinkled as he pursed his lips. “Dammed North Koreans should have asked me to get her.”

  Yes, that would have solved all your troubles with one tidy trip.

  “But they asked for Dominick,” Andrew continued. “I heard it was because of the TIME article. How the fuck did TIME learn Dominick identified her as a potential witness during discovery?” Andrew flushed red.

  Ben stood straighter, suspecting where Andrew was going with this diatribe. “Subpoenas are public record.”

  “If your office leaked it, I’ll sue your ass six ways from Sunday.”

  Ben fought the urge to roll his eyes. “We need to talk about the jury—”

  “That dammed article made Dominick look like a saint and me like a crooked politician.”

  Ben refrained from pointing out the accuracy of the article. Clients rarely liked that. Andrew wasn’t a stupid man, but he’d been spiraling as the trial neared. Ben had seen it before. The threat of real prison time caused a panic that lowered a defendant’s IQ by at least three points per day. Andrew would be a blithering idiot by the time the jury was seated if he didn’t get his shit together.

  “We can use the situation to our advantage,” Ben said.

  “How?”

  “I’ll impeach her as a witness. He saved her life—she’ll say anything to please him.”

  Andrew’s jaw clenched, and he looked like he wanted to punch somebody. “I don’t want my niece testifying. Period.”

  “You should have thought of that before you introduced your niece to a Sudanese warlord and conducted an arms deal right under her nose,” Ben said, revealing for the first time exactly what he’d figured out over the last months.

  The former vice president’s eyes bulged. “You’re fired.”

  Ben shook his head, feeling an indulgent pity for his client. “Judge Hawthorne will never allow that. And even if she did, you’d have one hour to hire a lawyer to face Curt Dominick without preparation. He’s the finest prosecutor I’ve ever squared off against, and I’m one of the few who has beaten him. You’ll get five—no, make that ten—years.” Ben took two steps toward the exit.

  “Can you have her barred from giving testimony?” Sweat beaded on Andrew’s upper lip.

  Ben smiled. “No. But I can destroy her if she does.”

  THEY SPENT THE morning inside a Honolulu Internet café not far from the airport. They couldn’t log into personal e-mail accounts without the potential to alert Raptor of their whereabouts, but, much to Mara’s delight, they could anonymously search the web for news. With hours to kill and nothing to do, browsing the Internet was a satisfying way to get caught up on what had happened in the world over the last three months, and something she usually did after a deployment anyway.

  Life felt almost normal.

  Except her companion was the US attorney who—according to Wikipedia—was the odds-on favorite to be named the next attorney general of the United States. And, because she was feeling naughty, from the moment she’d walked in the door, she’d begun behaving as though he were her boyfriend and he’d had to play along or make a scene.

  She glanced up from the screen. “You’re thirty-eight and you’ve never been married? What’s wrong with you?”

  He sent her a playful glare. “I’m married to my work.”

  “Oh, I get it.” She turned back to the monitor. “Good thing I know how to update Wikipedia. Do you prefer the term ‘Gay’ or ‘Homosexual’?”

  He laughed. “Gay, please.” Then he pointedly looked at his watch. “In another minute, you need to move on.”

  She grinned. “Just enough time.” They’d agreed not to look at any news story about either of them, her uncle, or Raptor for too long, for fear of raising red flags. It was crazy to think Raptor could monitor all Internet browsing in all of the Internet cafés on the island, and yet the desperation that led a man to blow up a jet on a Marine Corps Base couldn’t be underestimated. So in addition to catching up on the media’s take on her situation, she also learned more about tabloid celebrities than she’d ever wanted to know. She pulled up the People article from a year ago, when after a high-profile prosecution that involved Iraqi artifacts, an Indian Casino, and an engineering firm owned by a US senator, Curt had caught the public’s attention and made the magazine’s sexiest men issue. But Curt closed the page before she could read the article.

  “I was looking for pictures of Brad Pitt,” she said.

  A waitress refilled her coffee cup. “Honey, you don’t need pictures of Brad Pitt when you’ve a hot haole hunk sitting by your side.”

  Curt smiled at the woman. “She doesn’t appreciate me.”

  The woman perused Curt from head to toe. Clothed in Mara’s landlord’s T-shirt and shorts, with a day’s growth of beard and a baseball cap, he looked nothing like the polished US attorney. Today he was Matthew McConaughey hot. “Sugar, I’ll appreciate you.” She glanced sideways at Mara. “You pretty, honey, but you ain’t no Angelina Jolie. A man like him might stray if you don’t take care of him. And I’m just the sort of woman to take in strays.”

  Curt’s gaze fixed on Mara with surprising intensity. “Mar—nie is ten times more beautiful than Angelina Jolie.”

  Her belly fluttered. He sounded like he meant every word.

  The waitress chuckled. “Oh, you are a charmer. Marnie, honey, you get bored with him, you let me know. ’K?”

  Mara saw a perfect opportunity, and fixed her “boyfriend” with a challenging stare. “I’d be happier if he were a better kisser.”

  Curt’s eyes narrowed, promising revenge.

  The waitress’s jaw dropped. “A mouth like that and you’re complaining? Sweetie, you must not be doing it right, because his mouth was made for kissing.”

  “Oh, I’m doing it right. He’s the one who needs help.”

  The woman set the half-full coffeepot on the table between them and crossed her arms. “Well, c’mon. Let’s see. Kiss her. Auntie Shirley will tell you what you’re doing wrong.”

  Mara had always loved elderly hapa-women who called themselves by their first name, and vowed to make this one an honorary auntie for life. She sent him a victorious look, and her heart went wild at the heated, promising look the prosecutor couldn’t hide.

  Oh yeah. He was definitely going to extract revenge. She could hardly wait.

  Curt leaned forwa
rd and grabbed her chair, swiveling it so her knees met his straight on. Then, nudging her knees apart so he could get closer, he leaned toward her, his face set in a menacing scowl.

  “Oh honey. There’s your problem. You look like you’d just as soon bite her head off. Save biting for when you are alone.”

  Mara burst out laughing at the sideline coaching. “I tell him that all the time.”

  Curt’s shoulders shook with laughter as he closed the distance. Her heart pounded as his lips hovered over hers; then finally his mouth caressed her in a fleeting, sensual brush of soft lips and breath. Shivers raced down her spine.

  She parted her lips, but his mouth trailed along her cheek to her ear, where he whispered, “This is nothing compared to what a real kiss would be like.” Then he lifted his head and faced Shirley. “Good enough?”

  Auntie Shirley sucked in a deep breath and patted her robust bosom. “Yes. I don’t think the problem is you.” She fixed Mara with a stare. “You don’t like that kiss, you’re lolo.” Then she grabbed the coffeepot and marched away.

  Curt leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk on his face.

  Mara was anything but satisfied. She’d had a tiny taste and wanted more. How did he do that? Her libido had gone into overdrive. She wanted to jump him right here in the middle of a Honolulu café, based on nothing more than a tongueless, fleeting, wisp of a kiss.

  She stood. “Be right back.” She hurried to the ladies’ room, where she could gather her wits. This was not the way to make him lose control. As far as she could tell, the only one about to lose anything was her.

  In the restroom, she splashed cold water on her face and relived every second of the chaste but somehow still debilitating kiss. Then she squared her shoulders, pulled open the door, and stepped into the tiny corridor. And there was Curt.

  His smolder was on full blast as he corralled her into the alcove behind the pay phone. He planted a hand against the wall above her head, blocking her in. “You want a real kiss now? Without a scorecard from Auntie Shirley?”

  Her voice disappeared for a moment but eventually came out as a low rasp. “Yes, please.”

  And then his mouth was on hers, no longer soft or sweet, a hard pressure that had the power to melt all the bones in her body. His lips parted and—

  The cell phone in his pocket vibrated against her hip.

  He lifted his head.

  “You answer that, and I will knee you in the groin.”

  He leaned his forehead against hers. “It’s probably Lee, telling us our plane is landing.”

  “I don’t care. I will still hurt you.”

  He closed his eyes, then sucked in a deep breath. “Break’s over. Back to reality.” And he answered the call.

  TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES later, Curt pulled up to the guard gate at a secondary access road to Honolulu International Airport. Dread pulsed through his veins when he saw the guard’s uniform. The man was a Raptor-employed security guard.

  Crap. He’d gotten complacent and failed to plan for this scenario. The guard made one call after another. Each delay ratcheted Curt’s tension up another notch.

  Holy hell. They were so damn close to getting off this rock.

  At last the guard handed him back his ID and raised the barrier. Curt drove straight to the small terminal that handled charter flights and private jets. “The jet better be fueled up. We need to take off the moment we reach the plane.” Lee had assured him two well-rested pilots were ready to take over, but the refueling could take time. This jet lacked the range of the previous one, meaning they’d need to refuel before they crossed the Rockies—a complication they would figure out en route.

  Relief surged when he saw a fuel truck driving away from the jet with the name TALON & DRAKE emblazoned on the side. He bypassed the parking area and headed directly for the jet. A flagger waved his wands, frantically signaling for Curt to stop. He did, but not until he was only ten yards away from the waiting jet. Reaching into the backseat to grab their bags, he said, “Crouch low and zigzag, and above all, be fast.” Then, on impulse, he kissed her—a hard, fast meeting of mouths that was the least he wanted to take but the most he could give.

  The flagger jogged across the pavement, reaching the vehicle just as Curt climbed out of the car. “Sir, you can’t park there!”

  Curt tossed him the key. “Then move it. We’ve got to go.”

  Mara ran toward the jet, and Curt breathed a sigh of relief when she was safely up the short flight of stairs. He darted forward. A moment later, he was inside and hit the button to raise the steps and seal the door.

  A glance into the cockpit showed two pilots, a middle-aged man and a younger woman.

  “Let’s roll,” Curt said. The shooter from the previous day might not be able to get a shot at Mara, but yesterday had proven a fifty-caliber round could disable the jet. He wouldn’t feel safe until Honolulu was far below them.

  The woman responded, “We need clearance for takeoff.”

  Curt gave her the code for priority takeoff. Mara stowed the bags and dropped into a seat. The pilots called in to the tower. A jet already in position landed; then all commercial traffic at Honolulu International halted. Curt closed the door to the cockpit, took the seat next to Mara, and fastened his seat belt. Less than five minutes after clearing the guard gate, they were speeding down the runway.

  He held his breath. The nose lifted. At last they were airborne. If all went well, they’d be in DC in less than twelve hours. He studied his companion, the beautiful, amazing pixie he’d picked up in North Korea, and wondered how he’d ever be able to trust someone else with her safety.

  The answer came with gut-wrenching clarity: he wouldn’t.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  MARA SAT IN silence for the first few minutes after they were airborne. It was nutty to think Raptor might try to shoot them down, wasn’t it?

  But then, Raptor did have the best toys.

  Now that they’d left Oahu and weren’t too exhausted to talk or fearful of being overheard, it was time for her to admit to herself—and to Curt—that she agreed with his assumption that Raptor, not just Evan, was after them.

  Jesus, there was a hell of a lot they needed to discuss, starting with Agent Palea’s statement that Jeannie was a suspect in Roddy’s murder. But first, she needed to breathe. Just…breathe.

  Oahu was far below them when she finally looked around and said the first thing that came to mind. “The art was nicer on the other jet.”

  Curt laughed. “The other jet was owned by a billionaire. This jet is owned by JT Talon, who, while filthy rich, is not a billionaire.”

  “Do you think he’s embarrassed by his lower-class private jet? I mean, there’s not even a separate bedroom.”

  “I’m sure it’s a source of great shame.”

  “I’m surprised the jet is from Talon & Drake, after you handled the prosecution of the smuggling case last year.”

  “I’ve been friends with Lee Scott for twenty years. He arranged for the jet. And as far as the prosecution, the evidence was overwhelming. It was an easy plea agreement. The press made a big deal, because they didn’t want their big story to die.”

  “Erica Kesling is a hero among archaeologists,” Mara said, referring to the woman who’d been at the center of the Talon & Drake artifact-smuggling scandal. “She’s engaged to your friend Lee, right?”

  Curt nodded. “When we get to DC, I’ll introduce you. Up until you came along, she was the most famous—or infamous—archaeologist in the US. I’m sure she’s more than happy to pass the title on to you.”

  Mara frowned at the reminder of her loss of privacy. She’d been changed by her experiences in North Korea—who wouldn’t be—but she hadn’t really considered yet how much her detainment would alter the way others viewed and treated her. Maybe Erica could offer advice on how to handle the media’s relentless scrutiny.

  Curt unbuckled his seat belt and went to the bar, reminding her of the first minutes of their flight
after they’d escaped North Korea.

  “Do I get a real drink this time?” she asked.

  “I think we’ve both earned one.” He opened the fridge, grinned, and pulled out a can of mass-produced American beer.

  Mara shuddered. “I haven’t survived a firing squad, a bombing, a car accident, and an attempted shooting to have my first taste of beer in three months be that crap. Is there anything good in there?” She stood and crossed the aisle to his side.

  Curt laughed. “Lee stocked this for me. He won’t touch the stuff. He included several microbrews too.”

  “Good man.” She picked out a favorite.

  Curt popped off the cap, then clinked his can against her bottle and said, “To getting the hell off Oahu.”

  A mix of emotions flooded her. “And farther away from North Korea,” she added, then took a long swallow.

  The tension in her shoulders left in a rush. Feeling dizzy, she leaned against the counter. The swaying of the jet must have gotten to her. Or was it her first taste of alcohol in months? Or the reminder that her life—whenever she got back to it—would never be the same? Whatever the cause, her knees and spine had turned to jelly.

  Curt studied her, his hazel eyes full of concern. “You okay?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know what I am.”

  He cupped her cheek. “You’re amazing. That’s what you are.”

  Her breath caught, and she leaned toward him. He shook his head as though breaking a trance and stepped backward. “You are also dangerous.” He turned and opened one cabinet after another until he pulled out a suitcase and said, “Thank you, Lee.” To Mara, he said, “He sent me clothes. I’m going to change.” He disappeared into the lavatory, leaving Mara to sip her beer and wonder who he would be when he came out.

  She’d liked the casual, playful Curt, who’d flirted and teased and almost—damn, he’d been so close—given her the kiss of a lifetime in a Honolulu café. Now that they were alone, he’d likely put up barriers.

  Damn controlling bastard. Alone was when the game could get interesting.