by JoAnn Ross
“I say the defense hopes you’ll believe the outrageous stories you’ve been told by Mrs. Kagan and her character witnesses,” she said, not bothering to conceal her scorn, “because he knows he cannot win this case on logic. Or truth.”
Up until now, Tess’s presentation had been as calm and efficient as Nate supposed she herself would be. But suddenly things changed. Without warning, her dark eyes flashed with fiery indignation, and color flared in the olive skin covering high cheekbones. Fascinated, he couldn’t take his eyes off her face.
Although his attention was riveted on Tess, Nate sensed that the others in the room were as surprised as he’d been by her abrupt metamorphosis.
“Despite the constant posturing of the defense, this case is very straightforward,” Tess insisted. “We have provided you with substantial facts consisting of eyewitness testimony, including testimony by Portland Police Bureau detectives and agents from both the DEA and the FBI who went undercover, acting as drug dealers looking for a partner.
“Not only did Mrs. Kagan negotiate the deal on her own, she did not seem at all intimidated by her son when she jumped at the opportunity to grow her laundry business by taking on a new client. You’ve also heard from airline and hotel employees that she was enjoying the five-star, first-class week in Mazatlán she paid for partly with proceeds from that deal.”
As she turned toward the blown-up photos of the woman, pictured with her head thrown back as she laughed, enjoying margaritas at a beachfront bar with one of the DEA agents posing as a dealer/partner, there were encouraging murmurs of disapproval from some of the jury members.
“If you follow the instructions that Judge Keane will set out for you, your verdict will be a fair and just verdict. It will also be a verdict for conviction.”
Then, she finally smiled, that warm, intimate smile that Nate had only fantasized about. In this case, he decided, reality had it all over fantasy, hands down.
“Thank you for your time and patience during the past three weeks,” Tess told the jury. Her voice had returned to its usual calm tone. “I’m confident you’ll discharge your obligation to the law in full.”
As she returned to the prosecutor’s table, a hush lingered in the air. Nate wondered if he was the only observer fighting back a strong impulse to applaud.
“Thank you, Ms. Lombardi,” the judge said. “We’ll adjourn until tomorrow morning, when Mr. Parker presents his closing statement for the defense.”
The spectators in the crowded courtroom rose as the judge retired to his chambers. As Tess spoke with her colleagues at the table while gathering up her papers, Nate slipped out of the courtroom.
And waited.
10
Tess was flushed with success as she left the courtroom and headed toward the doors leading outside. Unless the defense attorney pulled a very surprising rabbit out of his hat tomorrow morning, there was a very good chance she’d won this case for the state.
One down and one to go. She still had the afternoon case to argue. She was running that closing through her mind when she found her way impeded by a familiar and decidedly unwelcome roadblock.
“You were terrific in there,” Nate said with a slow, easy smile that usually worked wonders with women of all ages. This time it failed. Miserably.
“I was merely doing my job,” Tess said briskly. “I assume you brought my wallet, Mr. Breslin?” She held out her hand, palm up, waiting for him to give it to her and be on his way.
“It’s Nate,” he said, taking her outstretched hand. Her skin was as soft as he’d imagined. Soft and warm. But her eyes were annoyed. Nate found himself enjoying the contrast. “Legally Nathaniel, but the only person who’s actually ever called me that was my mother whenever I was in trouble.”
“Which, from what I’ve witnessed thus far, suggests you heard it a great deal growing up… My wallet?”
“In a bit,” he murmured, taking the opportunity to examine her at close range. To the casual observer, Tess Lombardi appeared cool. Remote. Decidedly untouchable. But having seen that burst of passion she kept hidden inside her, he was going to enjoy watching the ice crack. “After lunch.”
“Really, Mr. Breslin, I’ve already told you that I have absolutely no intention of having lunch with you. Today or any other day.” She tugged her hand, which had fit very nicely into his, away. “Now, if you don’t return my wallet and leave, I’ll have no choice but to call a bailiff and have you thrown out of here.”
Nate forced himself to remain outwardly nonchalant. He slipped his hands into the pockets of the khakis he’d dug out of the back of his closet to wear to the courthouse. Another perk of the writing gig was that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn a suit.
“I can’t stop you. But I’d certainly appreciate it if you didn’t have me thrown in the slammer until you hear me out.”
“You said I was driving you crazy,” she said.
She was looking at him. Hard and deep. Like a hostile witness she was about to begin cross-examining. Nate wondered what she was going to say when he told her that a ghost had mysteriously slipped her into his dreams night after night.
“You were driving me crazy. Are,” he corrected.
A couple of reporters Nate recognized as working for The Oregonian passed, eyeing them with unmistakable interest.
“Look, it’s a little difficult to discuss it here. You were planning to eat, weren’t you?”
Tess felt herself weakening, despite her best intentions. Although she knew she should turn on her heel and march out of the courthouse without listening to another insane word, she found herself rooted to the spot.
It’s only curiosity, she assured herself. That’s all. Curiosity.
“I was,” she admitted. “I don’t usually take the time, but I didn’t have breakfast this morning. And I still have another case to sum up this afternoon.”
She didn’t bother to mention that after an unusually restless night brought on by her out-of-the-blue encounter with Nate Breslin, she’d overslept, waking up a mere twenty minutes before she was due in court. There was no point in letting the annoying man know that he’d affected her in any way.
“Have lunch with me, counselor,” he coaxed with a winning smile. “And I promise you a true-to-life ghost story that beats any fictional tale I’ve ever written.”
“Ghost stories don’t really interest me.”
“Not even when you play a starring role?”
“Now you’re definitely lying.”
“Those disapproving Puritans referred to fiction as nothing more than a well-told lie. If that were truly the case, I suppose you could rightfully accuse me of making my living telling whoppers,” he agreed. “But I swear I haven’t added a single embellishment to this particular tale.” He lifted his right hand as if taking an oath. His eyes lit with a humorous spark that, while totally different than the frustrated anger of last night, could be even more dangerous.
“I know I’m going to regret this.”
“Does that mean you’ll have lunch with me?”
“How could I resist such a unique invitation?” she asked dryly.
As they walked down the steps of the courthouse, Tess glanced pointedly at her watch. “I do hope this little tale of intrigue is a short story. I have to be back by two.”
“For Kagan’s son’s trial. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t risk putting you in contempt of court.”
Despite his easy promise, Tess had the feeling that Breslin would do exactly that if he had a mind to. It was obvious that the man was accustomed to getting his way. She’d be well advised to keep that fact in mind.
11
“What would you say to walking a couple blocks?” Nate asked, naming a restaurant that was a slice of old Portland and a mainstay of the city’s dining and social scene.
“The place is packed at lunch. We’ll never get a table in time for me to make it back to the courthouse.”
“No problem. I’m a friend of the owner. We have a t
able waiting for whenever we get there.”
Tess folded her arms. “Well, no one can accuse you of not having an oversized ego. You were that sure I’d have lunch with you?”
“If you hadn’t agreed, I would’ve eaten alone. As for the reservation, I was trying to make things easier for you.”
“If you were truly interested in making things easier, you simply would have left my wallet at the office.”
“If I’d done that, you would’ve missed one helluva good story.”
“Ah, yes,” she drawled, dripping sarcasm. “The story. Which is it this time? Vampires or zombies?”
“Neither. Like I said, it’s a ghost. The old guy lives in my house and appears to be determined that you and I meet.”
She stared at him, trying to discern whether or not he was joking. He had to be. Surely he wasn’t crazy enough to believe the things he earned a very comfortable living writing about were true?
“I didn’t think you’d believe me,” he said, accurately reading her silence.
“You’re right. I don’t,” Tess said. “Though I will give you credit for one of the more original pickup lines I’ve ever heard.”
His grin was as quick as it was dangerous. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that jumping to conclusions often results in uncomfortable landings?”
“I never jump to conclusions.”
He nodded as they swerved to avoid a jaywalking pedestrian. “Good for you,” he murmured. “Because if there was ever an occasion that called for an open mind, this is it.”
She was about to comment on his curious statement when they’d reached the restaurant.
“This is one of my favorite places,” she admitted as they entered the quaint brick building that had survived even as office towers had sprung up like mushrooms around it.
“Isn’t that a fortunate coincidence since it happens to be mine, too. I eat here whenever I get up to Portland.”
From the restaurant owner’s exuberant greeting, it was apparent Breslin was at least telling the truth about being a regular customer. It also didn’t escape Tess’s notice that they were led through the solarium dining room to the most private table on the foliage-and-flower-filled, peaceful patio that was worlds away from the stressful hustle and bustle of the courthouse.
She found herself wishing she hadn’t discovered that they had anything—even something as innocent as a taste in restaurants—in common.
“How did you know about me liking this place?” she asked after they’d ordered drinks—a craft beer for him, ice water with a slice of lemon for her.
“I have a spy in your camp,” he admitted.
“A spy?”
“Alexis Montgomery.”
That was the most surprising thing the man had said thus far. And even more difficult to accept than his stupid alleged ghost.
“I don’t believe you. Alexis is my best friend. She’d never give away my secrets.”
His mouth quirked at the corner. “The fact that you enjoy one of the city’s more popular dining spots is not exactly a sacred trust, Ms. Lombardi.”
Objection overruled. She chalked up a point for him. “So what else did Alexis tell you? And how do you know her?”
The server chose that moment to arrive with their drinks, then took their meal order, making her wait for his response until they were alone again.
“Matt Miller is my attorney. And except for the information that you’re a dynamite prosecutor who just happens to appreciate farm-to-table food, as well as telling me that you are much too good for me, Alexis didn’t reveal a single, solitary personal thing about you, Tess.”
As he took a drink of his beer, Nate saw the relief in her eyes. Alexis was right, he mused. Tess Lombardi was an intensely private person. As was he. Nate liked the idea that they had something in common besides fresh food. And the captain.
“You really were terrific this morning,” he said, his smile coaxing one in return. “I guarantee that the jury will come in with a unanimous decision for conviction.”
“I’d like to think you’re right. But the day I believe I can read a jury is the day I chuck law and head for Las Vegas and become a professional poker player.”
“Let me know so I can get my bets down,” he said with an easygoing grin meant to encourage her to relax.
“You’ll be the first to know,” she said as the server returned to the table with their lunches. She picked up her fork and took a bite of her field greens salad. “This is delicious.” And an admitted treat given that, like everyone else in the office, she usually ate her lunch at her desk. No one ever became a government prosecutor for the salary or lifestyle.
“Lombardi,” he murmured thoughtfully as he cut into his pulled pork sandwich. “I put a great deal of my royalties into the coffers of Lombardi Wineries. I don’t suppose you happen to be—”
“Luca Lombardi was my four-times-great-grandfather,” Tess cut in. “He started the winery with vines he brought over from his family’s vineyard in Tuscany.”
The name instantly rang a bell. Damn. No wonder she’d stiffened when he’d brought the subject up. Nate had just graduated middle school when eight-year-old Tess Lombardi had disappeared while walking back to the Lombardis’ vast estate, where she’d been visiting her maternal grandmother. Twenty-four hours later, her mother, Claudia Lombardi, had received a ransom note demanding a million dollars in uncut diamonds for her child’s safe return.
The family had paid the ransom, Nate recalled. Although the news hadn’t been 24/7 back in those days, it was impossible to miss talk of the frightening case of the kidnapped young heiress. Even as far away as Orchid Island, where he’d grown up. Although he’d never admit it to her, the event had inspired a short story for a writing competition. But in his version, her character had been beamed up into a spaceship by aliens.
As updates of the case turned up on the nightly news every night, his mother and father, and those of every other kid he knew, had suddenly turned hypervigilant, making today’s helicopter parents seem downright laid-back by comparison.
It was two more desperate weeks before the sheriff and her dad had found her in what was essentially a hidey-hole at a remote cabin in the coastal mountains. Although a medical examination had declared her physically unharmed, the press had openly speculated about the child’s emotional health for weeks.
Six months later her father Mike Brown, a Portland police detective, had tracked the Lombardi housekeeper—who’d disappeared the day of the kidnapping—to Idaho. In a stroke of unfortunate timing, he’d arrived hours after the woman’s death, which a coroner had ruled to be a suicide. Although never proven, there were those, including Brown, who believed that the woman had been murdered by someone wanting to ensure she’d never talk about the crime.
“I’m sorry. Now I understand why you reacted so harshly when I grabbed you. Which I apologize for. Even without your history, that was out of bounds. And, honestly, way out of character for me.” His deep voice softened with sympathy. “It must have brought back a lot of memories.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” There’d been times when Tess couldn’t decide whether her lack of memory of the experience was a good or bad outcome.
“Yet I frightened you.”
“Of course you did. It was getting dark, I was alone, and you were a much-larger strange man who came out of the shadows and grabbed me. Any woman in her right mind would have been scared.”
“I can’t argue with that,” he said. “But I still believe we’re talking more than expected nerves.”
Those clear, intelligent eyes saw too much. In that respect, he reminded her of Donovan. “All right. I’ll admit it. I was scared.” The control she’d demonstrated in the courtroom slipped a bit as her fingers tightened on her fork. “I’ve been receiving some calls that have made me uncharacteristically jumpy. My first thought was that you might be him.”
“Damn. Now I’m really sorry. What kind of calls?”
“Merely t
he anonymous kind that come with the job. And I have absolutely no idea why I’m telling you this.”
The only other people who knew about the calls were Donovan Quinn, Multnomah County District Attorney Thomas Barnes, Jake, and Alexis. Tess hadn’t even told her father.
Despite having retired from the force after a heart attack six months ago, Mike Brown wouldn’t hesitate to track down any bad guy who might dare threaten his daughter. Something she refused to risk for fear of causing another attack.
“Perhaps you’re telling me because of this.” Nate reached into his pocket, pulled out a piece of paper, and handed it to her.
“It’s a surprisingly good likeness,” she murmured, studying the extremely flattering sketch. “You didn’t mention you’re also an artist.”
“I’m not. I can’t paint anything but a wall, but I did inherit an amateuristic ability to sketch from my mother, who’s a professional artist. My father paints, too, but only as a hobby.”
“This is a step up from amateur work,” she said. “But it’s a little presumptuous of you to change my hairstyle.”
“I didn’t change it.”
She looked up at him. “Of course you did. You drew me with straight hair. My curls have driven me crazy for years.”
He waved away her argument. “Your curls are gorgeous. But I couldn’t have known the difference in the hairstyles when I drew that sketch.”
“When did you draw it?”
“Eight weeks ago.”
“That’s ridiculous, we—”
“Hadn’t met yet.” Nate’s gaze was unnerving as it swept over her face.
“You could have seen me on TV. My bigamist case has gotten a lot of coverage.”
“I don’t watch the news, especially when I’m on a deadline, which is almost always. There’s too much bad stuff on it.”
“Says the man who writes about even worse things.”
“My books are fiction. I did look you up after I found your wallet. Google kicked up a lot of pages about the money-laundering trials. Obviously I didn’t read deeply enough to get to your past.”