Sensuous Burgundy

by Barbara Delinsky

  BARBARA DELINSKY

  Sensuous Burgundy

  To my husband, Stephen

  Contents

  ONE

  She was the image of composure as she entered…

  TWO

  Maxwell kraig had been right. he was…

  THREE

  By the middle of the week Laura congratulated…

  FOUR

  On one thing Laura and Max were in…

  FIVE

  As luck would have it, though Laura suspected…

  SIX

  Her only consolation as she returned…

  SEVEN

  Never had Laura taken such care dressing.

  EIGHT

  Laura passed the week before the trial in…

  NINE

  In actuality it was a sizeable legacy he left…

  TEN

  “Are you all right?” the concern in his…

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PRAISE

  BOOKS BY BARBARA DELINSKY

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  one

  SHE WAS THE IMAGE OF COMPOSURE AS SHE ENTERED the crowded courtroom and started toward the prosecutor’s table. Her gray suit, straight-skirted and seasonally chic for January in New England, made its intended understatement. Her sleek black hair was drawn into a sedate coil at the nape of the neck. She wore a minimum of makeup, highlighted by the deep burgundy tone on her lips, which matched that on the tips of her tapered fingers. The briefcase which swung by her side as her slim legs carried her forward, past row after row of hardwood benches, spoke of the efficiency for which she had become known. Yet the slight hush which Laura Grandine’s appearance caused reminded her that as a woman, no less a lawyer, she was as much on trial as the accused.

  “Some crowd for a simple arraignment,” she observed under her breath to Sandy Chatfield, as she slid into a chair beside him. Darkly blond as his name suggested, the good-looking state trooper, assigned to the case from the start, was an invaluable assistant as well as a friend. Now Laura cast him a questioning glance, her blue eyes reflecting surprise at the turnout of students, family, press, and others to witness the brief proceeding.

  Sandy looked at Laura with unabashed admiration. “They’ve braved the ice and wind just to see you in action, Laura.” He grinned, winking in his boyish way, then growing more serious as he leaned closer. “Actually, there is word going around that the boy has retained a new lawyer.”

  Immediately, Laura gave him her full attention, ignoring the notes which she had begun to remove from her briefcase. “Are you serious? You mean, Fritz MacKenzie won’t be representing him?”

  “Looks that way.”

  In a spontaneous gesture she put a hand on her friend’s sleeve. “But why? MacKenzie is one of the more capable lawyers in western Massachusetts. What happened?” Amazed as she was by the turn of events, Laura’s face remained calm.

  The trooper arched an eyebrow in echo of his shrug, his voice hardening. “Who knows! Rumor has it that the family has turned to some high-powered guy from Boston—”

  “Excuse me.” A deep voice interrupted the interchange. “Assistant District Attorney Grandine?” The velvet-smooth sound brought Laura’s head up with a start, her eyes riveted to the chocolate-brown orbs which were studying her.

  Sheer force of habit drew her out of her chair, impelling her to offer her right hand to the stranger. Instinctively, she knew that the figure before her, towering over her in spite of her three-inch heels, was something other than the traditional court officer, visiting observer, or press representative. The attitude of self-command, conveyed by the firm set of his square jaw and the studied relaxation of his features, held a special significance, as did the vague familiarity of the ruggedly handsome face itself. As Laura struggled to make the identification, she was unaware that her brow had furrowed lightly. In response, the man before her broke into an open smile, his hand retaining its warm grip long after the handshake had stilled.

  “I’m Maxwell Kraig. I’ll be representing Jonathan Stallway.” Dazzled by the even whiteness of his powerful smile, Laura steadied herself to cope with this revelation of his identity.

  Denying the pulsing knot that had suddenly formed in her stomach, she returned his smile with her own, equally as open and conveying a self-confidence she was far from feeling. “This is an honor, Mr. Kraig,” she said softly and evenly, as she had willed. “Your reputation precedes you. I look forward to working with you.” Then, abruptly remembering that they were not alone, and momentarily disturbed to have forgotten it in the first place, she disengaged her hand from his and gestured to her left. “I’d like you to meet Sandy Chatfield. He is my state trooper assigned to this case.” Her use of the possessive had been subconscious, though she was to later regard Sandy as a bodyguard of sorts. Now, however, it was peripheral vision that told her that Sandy had risen, her eyes held entranced by those before her as she made the introduction. “Sandy…Maxwell Kraig.”

  Only then did the attorney’s gaze flicker, his scrutiny more shrewd as he extended his hand. “Trooper Chatfield, it’s my pleasure,” he acknowledged politely, his eyes sharp and assessing. Laura had always thought of Sandy as a tall man, yet, standing opposite Maxwell Kraig, he seemed suddenly smaller.

  “How do you do, Mr. Kraig,” Sandy responded tautly. “Welcome to Northampton. You must have just arrived.” He spoke quickly, his distrust of the suave lawyer’s lawyer not hidden by the thickness of his New England twang.

  This time there was a suspicious slash to the corners of his well-formed mouth when Maxwell Kraig grinned. “I didn’t think you fellows would miss much,” he granted. “I drove out from Boston this morning. It’s made for an early day, but I was able to use the travel time to plot my defense. I understand—” he switched his view, with instant effect, to Laura’s deceptively composed features—“that Miss Grandine is a formidable adversary. It’s not every day that I have the opportunity to try a case opposite a woman, let alone such a distractingly beautiful one.”

  Impaled once more by his gaze, Laura felt herself stripped of all defense, sensing immediately the strength of his physical mien on his victims—witness and juror alike. Yet, something in his words, a subtle challenge just short of patronization, spurred her on.

  “Flattery will get you nowhere with this particular woman, Mr. Kraig, though a few more smiles like that will tip me off as to your charm before the jury. You wouldn’t want to reveal all your secrets, now,” she chided softly, any anger at his reference to her sex having melted beneath the glow of his warm brown eyes.

  A darker eyebrow arched mischievously. “I doubt there’s much chance of that, though I will take your warning to heart,” he jibed, a vaguely sensuous light passing from his eyes to hers, turning to faint amusement as Laura unsuccessfully sought a response. It was a mixed blessing when Sandy touched her elbow. For just as she was saved from having to provide a witty rejoinder, she had been so totally entranced by his compelling personage that she jumped in surprise at the sudden reminder of the other man, whom she had momentarily forgotten. Blushing, she turned to follow her friend’s gaze to the doorway in which the defendant now stood.

  “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Grandine, Trooper Chatfield…” The dark head nodded to each in turn before the tall figure turned and headed toward his client. Laura watched him go, released now from his eye hold long enough to examine the rest of him. What she saw was as compelling as those eyes had been magnetic.

  Dressed in an immaculately tailored navy three-piece suit, the man was as lean as he was tall, broad shoulders belying a slimness of waist and hips which showed itself in the litheness of his gait as he crossed the room. A crisp white shirt edged beyond the cuffs
of his jacket and again above its collar, there shadowed by the thick brown hair which tapered neatly to that length. Laura had to admit that Maxwell Kraig was, beyond a doubt one of the most handsome men she had ever seen, let alone opposed.

  “Laura…hey, Laura…” The whispered nudge from the vicinity of her elbow brought her abruptly back from her daydreams. With an almost imperceptible shake of the head, Laura looked toward Sandy, whose annoyance was obvious. Hurriedly, she resumed her seat, unaware at what point Sandy had done so.

  There was open reproachment in the words he whispered. “Ms. Prosecutor, what was that all about?”

  Slowly, her heightened color eased as she regained her composure, defensively turning to the papers before her. “What was what all about?” she countered with deftly manufactured nonchalance.

  Sandy’s voice was an impatient whisper. “Come on, Laura. This is old Sandy you’re dealing with. Old hawk-eye trooper Sandy,” he chided. “Those looks passing between the two of you…do you two have something going?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” she retorted playfully, sensing that the only chance she had of denying his observation was through sheer wit. “No way. I’ve never met the man before. But I knew he looked familiar. That face on the front page of a newspaper would have to make an impression. And he obviously expected a reaction. I thought I put on a good show. After all, it does no good to antagonize the defense,” she added with a deliberate chuckle, putting an end to the discussion as she feigned concentration on her papers.

  Although Sandy knew her well enough to take the hint, his words echoed in her mind. What had that been about, she wondered, her eyes sightlessly skimming the typewritten notes at her fingertips. Readily she admitted her surprise and excitement at working opposite such a renowned trial attorney. Maxwell Kraig had not only tried some of the most challenging and controversial cases in recent years, but he had become a best-selling author with his dramatic analyses of his more spectacular cases. Yes, Laura was the first to confess pleasure at this opportunity to observe him in the courtroom. Yet had there been a deeper significance to the visual charge that had passed between them?

  With a flicker of her long, dark eyelashes, Laura dismissed the possibility. She was a professional. In her capacity as a lawyer she had never allowed sexual enticements to sidetrack her. As a female she had had to work too hard in this predominantly male group to allow for any nonprofessional behavior. Sandy’s suggestion was absurd, she assured herself, yet she couldn’t keep her eyes from wandering toward the defense table, where the attorney and his client had already seated themselves.

  In profile, as she now saw him, the man was as strong-featured as he had been head-on, his forehead sturdy beneath the swath of wavy hair which fell casually upon it, his nose straight and aristocratic, his lips firm yet sensual, his chin set and suggestive of a stubbornness which Laura could only imagine.

  As though her gaze had tapped him on the shoulder, his head swiveled slowly toward her, his lips twitching up into the semblance of a smirk, a maddening hint of arrogance in his deep brown gaze. Ironically, his expression was just enough to raise her hackles as a woman—and remind her that her womanhood had no role in this courtroom. In a deliberately casual movement, she forced herself to face forward, just as the court officer intoned his solemn call.

  “Hear ye, hear ye…” So it began—the arraignment at which Jonathan Stallway answered to the charge of the first-degree murder of Susan Oliverri. A mere ten minutes later the proceeding ended, the defendant pleading not guilty to the charge as read, and the prosecution successfully arguing against bail.

  “Nice going, Laura.” The friendly voice was at her ear the instant the judge returned to his chambers and court was recessed. Ever her champion, Sandy was usually all the encouragement she needed. This time, however, she wondered if it would be enough, as she gathered her papers together and returned them to her briefcase. The past three years in the district attorney’s office had prepared her well for the arraignment procedure; the actual trial was another matter. And, in this particular case, with this particular charge, this particular defendant, and now, this particular defense attorney, Laura knew herself to be in a completely different league. Hiding the flicker of apprehension that momentarily clouded her gaze, she stood and straightened her shoulders.

  “Laura.” A hand at her right elbow drew her attention. “Good work! I had every confidence you could pull it off.”

  The suspicious glimmer in the D.A.’s eye as he regarded her tipped Laura to his deeper meaning. “Frank,” she accused in a soft, sing-song tone, her blue eyes flashing a gentle warning of their own, “you knew, didn’t you, you devil!” Franklin Potter shot her a guilty grin, his ruddy complexion growing even more so by the minute. “Why didn’t you warn me?” she hissed in an urgent whisper. Only with this man, whom she had known for so many years, could she confess to any breach in her self-confidence. Frank understood her well.

  “Would it have helped?” His voice was low toned and infinitely compassionate. Appreciative of his candor, a spontaneous smile overspread Laura’s features.

  “No.” She laughed softly, at herself as much as at him. “I suppose not. But you could have prepared me—”

  “I’d like to do that now, Laura, but I’m on my way to that convention in Florida,” he interrupted apologetically. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, though, won’t I?”

  “But Frank—” the slender woman protested, only to be silenced once more.

  “Later, Laura. I’ll tell you anything you need to know. Now, I believe you have a deskful of cases to attend to?” he reminded her firmly, once again the man in command.

  Standing as they were at the front of the very slowly emptying courtroom, Laura had no choice but to accept his dismissal. “Yes, sir,” she murmured smartly, then raised her voice a bit. “Have a good trip, Mr. District Attorney.” Franklin Potter parried her go-jump-in-the-lake look with an indulgent grin, then turned and made his way out of the courtroom. In an instant Sandy Chatfield’s hand was at Laura’s elbow to escort her likewise. With a small group milling about the defense table, she had no further look at her adversary before she dutifully gripped her briefcase and acceded to the trooper’s suggestion.

  Laura carried herself confidently, aware of the glances cast her way by the curious as she retraced her earlier route, unwinding only after she had reached the privacy of her own office, which was tucked compactly among the others in the basement of the courthouse building. Sinking into the comfortable leather desk chair she’d wheedled out of the building department, she was grateful that her trooper-in-attendance had had other matters to attend to, leaving her alone to digest the morning’s events.

  Maxwell Kraig—what was it, she wondered idly, about his name that raised the status of the case a peg or two? Then immediately she chided herself. This was a homicide, regardless of the lawyers involved, and as such was a heinous crime to prosecute. A young girl was dead, allegedly slain by her jealous boyfriend, and the presence of Maxwell Kraig should have no effect whatsoever on the gravity of the case.

  But it did. Laura was not that naive as to believe otherwise. It would mean, for starters, more television and press coverage. It would mean greater crowds in attendance during each step of the proceedings. It would mean the ultimate challenge for Laura to keep one step ahead of the reputedly keen and acutely insightful and calculating legal mind of this defense attorney. And, if this day was any precursor of those to come, it would mean the greatest test for Laura to maintain her wits before this devastatingly commanding figure of a man.

  In hindsight she recalled the touch of his gaze, momentarily enjoying its hold before angrily shaking herself free of its memory. Annoyed with the train of her thought, a glance around her office brought back reality. It was all here, plain and unembellished—the desk at which she’d sat for long hours preparing cases, the file cabinets holding folder upon folder of miscellaneous data, the bookshelf containing her own legal volumes plus
those she regularly borrowed from the library, the walls bearing the Daumier reproductions she had picked up in Paris. This was her life, this office, this job. As a lawyer, she had begun to establish herself.

  A soft smile played on her lips as she recalled her pride when she’d phoned her father to tell him of this, her first murder case. He had shared that pride, thereby magnifying it. At that moment Laura knew that all the razzing she’d taken from her family and friends, all the teasing and criticism she’d weathered through law school, all the skepticism she’d had to face when she had first arrived in Northampton—it all had been nothing compared to the feeling of satisfaction she now savored. She wondered what her dad would say when he learned who the defense attorney was!

  But enough! With a determined straightening of her back, she willed the darkly entrancing face of Maxwell Kraig out of her mind. Franklin Potter had been correct—there had been too much work put aside during the preparation for the grand jury two days ago, then the arraignment this morning, to be wasting time on irrelevant musings.

  She draped her jacket over the back of her chair in the slightly overheated office and withdrew the folder labelled Commonwealth v. Stallway from her briefcase, replaced it in the file cabinet and withdrew those others that demanded her immediate attention.

  Fuelled by the exhilaration of the morning’s proceeding, she stopped only briefly for a late lunch. Past experience told her that given the overlong hours she’d put in during the last week, she would collapse of exhaustion before the day was out. But for now the adrenaline was running fast and free, and she knew enough to take advantage of it before the fall.

  It was late afternoon when she raised her eyes from the transcript she’d been studying. She always worked with her door open, reluctant to isolate herself from the rest of humanity more than the intense concentration on her work necessitated. Now something intangible distracted her. In a gesture of the fatigue which had just begun to be felt, she raised a forefinger to her forehead as she looked toward the door. There, lounging casually, his lengthy form dominating the frame, was Maxwell Kraig. Surprised that he was still in town, the arraignment having been completed hours ago, and thoroughly unprepared for his appearance at her own office, Laura was momentarily tongue-tied, recapturing her composure only as the man uncoiled his length from the door jamb and entered the office.