Beth's office was on the next-to-the top floor, and the elevator took him there swiftly, settling with a soft thump as the doors slid open. A few lights burned, illuminating long hallways and empty work spaces. Down one hallway he heard the clack of a printer, down another came one side of a heated phone conversation—Do you think I put in fourteen-hour days because I like it? The hall that led to Beth's office was silent, lit every ten feet by twin brass sconces high on the walls.
He passed the empty desk where Beth's secretary, Loretta, guarded the inner office during regular hours. Beth's door was open a few inches, and when he gave it a slight push, it swung silently in.
She sat leaning over her desk, one hand supporting her cheek while she scribbled notes on a yellow pad with the other. Her jacket was discarded on the credenza behind her desk, and he saw a pair of heels nearby, one standing perfectly balanced on the thick carpet, the other lying on its side. Her hair tumbled over her arm, the gleaming red a stark contrast to the blue silk of her blouse and the polished teak of the desk, and a pair of designer-framed glasses were slipping down her nose. She was mumbling to herself as she wrote. "We will prove… Uh-uh. We will show proof…"
He had never seen her looking less than perfect, not even at Sarah and Daniel's wedding, when their little girl Katie had accidentally smeared chocolate frosting all over Beth's ivory wool dress. He had never seen her looking remotely touchable, not even all those times when touching her was the only thing he could think of.
He had never seen her looking quite so real.
Quite so lovely.
For a long time he simply stood there, watching her. Wanting her. Then she became aware of him, and he left his vantage point, moving closer, finally taking a seat in one of the chairs near her desk.
She slowly straightened, combing her hair back into its usual sleek style, removing the glasses that had reached the tip of her nose, scooting her chair closer to the desk and tucking her bare feet safely out of sight underneath. "I wasn't expecting you."
He held up the folders he was carrying. "I made it to two of the hospitals this afternoon. I'll go to the third one tomorrow."
She accepted the folders but didn't look inside them. Instead she added them to the stack of work that already filled one corner of her desk.
"How did the arraignment go?"
"As we expected. The judge set her bail at a hundred thousand dollars. The preliminary hearing is set for Wednesday the eighteenth, less than two weeks away."
"And the charge?"
"First-degree murder."
He nodded grimly. He had hoped for the lesser charge of second-degree murder or even manslaughter, but apparently the prosecution thought they could prove that Carrie had calmly and cold-bloodedly planned and carried out her husband's murder. And if they believed that, the jury might. Carrie might have been better off it she had simply sat back and waited for Del to kill her.
"After you go by the hospital in the morning, why don't you go back out to Carrie's house? Talk to the rest of her neighbors and see if you can find out what school the oldest boy went to. We'll need to get in touch with the counselor Carrie told us about."
"Okay. What about you?"
"I've got to be in court tomorrow morning." She gestured to the pad with her notes. "In the afternoon I have an appointment with a psychologist here in town who's going to tell me more about battered woman syndrome. If you'll be done with the interviews by one o'clock, let me know. You might be interested in what the doctor has to say."
"What about this evening?"
She looked blankly at him.
"You have to eat sometime."
Her face remained expressionless.
"Dinner?" he prodded, then shook his head. Hadn't he decided on the way over that he wouldn't invite her to dinner? Hadn't he already known what her answer would be? So how had it slipped out, anyway?
"The restaurant down the street delivers. I'll call them when I'm ready."
"No one would mind if you took an hour off and went out for dinner. It's already past quitting time."
"This client would mind," she disagreed, tapping her finger on her notes. "I would already have been prepared for this case if I hadn't spent most of the last two days working on Carrie's case instead."
He considered trying to change her mind, but only for a moment. It would be a wasted effort. Hadn't she just not-so-subtly reminded him that in taking on Carrie's defense she'd already given him more than he'd had any right to expect? She was a busy woman, and he'd brought her more work. He couldn't reasonably ask her now to make time in her schedule for him, could he?
At least work was an excuse his ego could more easily accept. It was better than, "Sorry, Zach, but you're just not my type. You're not rich. You're not successful. You're not a hot-shot lawyer/banker/business tycoon." It was better than, "I'm doing you one favor already. Don't ask me for another."
It was better than, "I'm just not interested in you."
It was better than all the excuses, all the answers, she could have given … but it still hurt.
Smiling even though he didn't feel like it, he got to his feet and pushed his hands into his pockets. "Then I'll see you sometime tomorrow."
It was an abrupt goodbye, Beth thought, watching him go. Almost as if he were angry. Annoyed. Disappointed.
Maybe she should have accepted his invitation, she thought morosely, swiveling her chair around to face the window. She didn't want him to be disappointed or angry with her, and after all, he was a stranger in town. He could probably use some help in finding his way around and locating good restaurants. He could probably use a little conversation that had nothing to do with death or violence or despair.
Besides, there had to be more to life than take-out meals and long evenings in the office. What about pleasure? Fun, relaxation, relationships? When was the last time she'd partaken of any of those things?
The answer came to mind more easily than she would have liked. Philip. After ten years, she would have liked to have forgotten something—his name, his face, his game—but all the details remained clear in her mind. How handsome he had been. How sexy and charming. How his French accent had captivated her the first time she'd heard his voice.
And how he had fooled her. Used her. Betrayed her. How she had believed that their relationship was leading to a declaration of love and a proposal of marriage. How he had explained that it was merely a quest for money, huge sums of it, in exchange for his companionship.
Beth pressed her fingertips to her temples, massaging the ache there. Her mother had meekly suggested that it might not be such a bad arrangement, and her father had gloated over her glaring lack of good judgment. Neither of them had guessed that, for the first time since Great-Grandmother Althea, Beth had dared to love someone. Neither had suspected that he'd broken her heart, and, almost worse, he had destroyed her trust.
Neither of them had cared.
There had been other men after Philip—casual acquaintances, for the most part—and there had been a few more intimate liaisons along the way, but not another relationship. No giving and sharing and caring. No loving. There never would be.
And that, she thought with a twinge of sadness, was why she'd turned down Zachary's dinner invitation. That was why, even if all he wanted was an hour of her time to assuage his own loneliness, she couldn't give it.
Picking out a dim star in the night sky, she whimsically recalled the nursery rhyme Althea had taught her more than thirty years ago. Star light, star bright… If she could have any wish she wished tonight, what would it be?
Zachary.
Then quickly, before the fleeting thought could turn into longing, she changed that. She would wish to be someone, anyone, but who she was. She would keep her best qualities, whatever they might be, and discard the rest—the fears, the defenses, the insecurities, the doubts—and she would become a new woman. A better woman.
A woman who might deserve Zachary.
Slowly, reluctantly, sh
e turned away from the window and the wishes and back to her desk. Back to the files and notes and reports. Maybe for other people there was more to life than take-out dinners and lonely evenings in the office, but not for her. This was the life she had chosen.
This was the life she lived.
* * *
Chapter 4
« ^ »
It was only his second night in the city, and Zachary was already homesick. He wasn't used to eating alone in restaurants or lying in a strange bed or watching television with more than two channels available. He felt about a million miles from home, and he didn't like it. Not one bit.
No wonder Carrie had been so miserable here. They were both country people at heart, not meant to wander far from the place where they were born. He didn't know how anyone could stand living in the city—although the half million residents of Nashville seemed to manage just fine.
Beth managed just fine.
He smiled wryly as he propped an extra pillow beneath his head. If he'd been spending the evening with her, he wouldn't even have noticed that he was so far from home. In fact, he suspected that it wasn't homesickness so much as loneliness that was eating at him—and not just the garden-variety type of loneliness, either. He could have solved that with the friendly little blonde who'd waited on him at the restaurant and coyly informed him that she got off at eight. He didn't want to spend this evening with just anyone, but with Beth. He would have liked to have dinner with her. He would have enjoyed sitting across from her and discussing futures and pasts and life in general. He would have been satisfied with just looking at her.
But obviously she didn't share his desire. She seemed to have no interest in him other than business. She didn't care for his company, and apparently physical desire hadn't even entered her mind.
Maybe it would be best for him to pull out now, to tell her that he was sorry, but he'd already had his fill of big-city legal work, that he was going back to Sweetwater where he belonged. Back to minor cases and part-time hours and working on his house. Because as much as he relished the experience of assisting her on this case, he wasn't foolish enough to go looking for a broken heart. He'd made it to the age of thirty-four without suffering one yet, and he would like to extend that luck a while longer.
Yet he could see no other outcome for this situation. His attraction to her was already stronger than anything he'd ever experienced. He admired her. He respected her. He lusted after her. He wanted to touch her, to stroke that fiery red hair, to feel its softness give way beneath his fingers, to caress the porcelain beauty of her skin. He wanted to find the passion he was positive burned within her, wanted to unleash it and let it consume them both. He wanted…
His expression turned grim. He wanted more than she would ever give him. He wasn't sure exactly how she thought of him—as Sarah and Daniel's friend; as a fellow, though less-competent, lawyer; as a tool to quiet her partners' grumbles while she dealt with this case—but he was sure of one thing. She didn't think of him as a man. She certainly didn't think of him as a prospective lover. What could he offer her? Certainly nothing she needed. Apparently nothing she wanted.
He'd had relationships in the past—not so many that he couldn't remember the pertinent details of each and every one, but enough to recognize danger. And that was what Beth Gibson represented: danger. The danger of experiencing, for the first time in his life, the love of a man for a woman. The danger of getting hurt. The danger of heartache.
If he had any sense at all, he would pack his bags right now and go home. He would call her office in the morning and give the terribly efficient Mrs. Taylor the message that he wouldn't be back. He would somehow erase Beth from his mind, from his system, from his longing.
His father would say that was probably the wise thing to do. His grandfather, he thought with a sudden grin, would call it cowardly. If a man couldn't face up to the woman he wanted, then he didn't deserve to have her. If he wasn't willing to expend a little effort to win her, if he gave up without even trying, then he got what he'd earned: nothing. If he couldn't accept the risk, then he didn't merit the reward.
And his grandfather would be exactly right. Few things worth having came easily. Even as a small child he'd learned that working for something made it more valuable.
Of course, he would take Beth any way he could get her, but if it meant working, if it meant earning her trust and overcoming her reservations and risking failure, then that was what he would do. As long as there was a chance, as long as even a slight hope remained, he would reach for it. After all, sooner or later she had to trust someone.
Why shouldn't it be him?
* * *
Beth was sitting at her desk on Friday, reading glasses on again, two manila folders open in front of her, when Loretta announced Zachary's arrival. She barely responded to her secretary, but the moment Zachary walked in, she motioned for him to circle the desk and read over her shoulder.
"These are Carrie's medical records," she explained. "Did you read them yesterday?"
"I didn't have time. Anything interesting in there?"
"This one says she went to the emergency room complaining of pain in her left arm. The doctor noticed that she was having trouble breathing, so he ordered chest X rays. They revealed—" she flipped through the pages to the radiology report and read from it "—'evidence of healed fractures of the fifth, sixth and seventh ribs,' as well as a recent hairline fracture. The X rays of her arm also showed an old, healed fracture plus the new one, right here." She indicated on her own forearm.
"As if she had raised her arm to ward off a blow," Zachary suggested.
She tested his theory, lifting her arm, bent to protect her face, then nodded. "That must have been it. But look here." Flipping back to the doctor's narrative, she read aloud, "'Although patient states injuries were suffered in a fall, they appear to be consistent with an assault.' The bastard had just broken her arm and one rib, and she lied for him."
Zachary rested one hand on her desk, the other on the back of her chair, and she tensed. It was a perfectly natural position for someone reading along with her. Other men in the office had done it before, and she had never minded. She had never felt threatened.
But she did now.
He was so close that she could smell the rich scent of his suede jacket. So close that she could tell he wasn't wearing after-shave. So close that she could feel the heat escaping his body where his coat fell open. So close that touching him would be as simple as shifting an inch to the right, that a kiss would be as easy as tilting her head back.
So close … and he hardly seemed aware of her.
"Protecting him isn't inconsistent for someone in her situation," he pointed out, his attention still on the report. "Remember, she had to go home with him. She had to live with him. Broken bones might have been nothing compared to what he would have done to her if she'd told the doctor the truth."
Beth took a deep breath, taking in the enticing scent of Zachary, then subtly leaned to the left, away from him. "I know. I try to keep an open mind, to put myself in Carrie's place, to think and react the way she would. But sometimes I get in my own way. I'd like to find just a hint that at one time in all those years she stood up for herself."
Leaning closer, Zachary fished one report free of the others and tossed it on top of the file she held. It was Del Lewis's autopsy report. "There. One time she stood up for herself."
She fingered the report. "What was it Mrs. Mitchell said? That if anyone ever deserved to die, it was Del Lewis?" She sighed softly, bleakly.
"What's wrong?" Zachary asked, shifting to lean against the edge of her desk so he could see her face. He immediately thought, as he always did on first seeing her, that she was beautiful. Then he noticed the faint shadows beneath her eyes and the lines of stress around her mouth that her smile couldn't quite hide.
"It's a sad case," she replied softly. "With sad people and sad lives and sad endings. We're probably not going to get her off. You realize th
at, don't you?"
He simply nodded.
"I suppose it's possible that the jury might be so sympathetic, so swayed by the pathetic figure they have to pass judgment on, that they might acquit her," Beth continued. "But I doubt it. A victory in this case will be a conviction on any charge less than first-degree murder or a sentence of anything less than life."
So Carrie would almost surely go to prison. How would she ever survive that? he wondered, then immediately answered the question. She simply would. The same way she had survived fourteen years of hell with her husband. She would endure.
"We're going to have to prove that Lewis abused her. We have statements here from the doctors who treated her, who suspected abuse—although she denied it. We can get statements from the police officers who answered complaint calls, who also suspected abuse—although she denied it to them, too. We have statements from the neighbors who heard the fights and saw her injuries, but she also denied it to them."
"Proving it won't be difficult. We have the photographs the police took of her the night she was arrested. We have the school counselor. We have the neighbors who heard her screams."
There was a long silence, then Beth slowly looked up at him. "And we have the children."
Zachary shook his head before finding his voice. "No. Not the kids, Beth. Leave them out of this."
"There are only five people who knew what went on in that house," she continued, ticking them off on her fingers. "Lewis, of course, who's dead. Carrie. And their children. The little boy is too young, but the three older ones are six, nine and fourteen. They're old enough to tell us what happened." She paused for a moment before finishing. "They're old enough to testify."
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