Using one of her peremptory challenges to unseat a cop was a tough decision to make, she'd told him last night. You could reasonably expect someone who'd chosen a career in law enforcement to be hard-line law and order, right or wrong, black or white, with no shades of gray. On the other hand, who knew better than police officers how many times the system had failed women like Carrie? It was cops who received the calls and broke up the fights. Cops who arrested abusive husbands night after night, only to see them home again the next day. Cops who interviewed bloodied, battered women in emergency rooms and shelters. Cops who investigated their deaths.
Still, when someone's life was at stake, she couldn't afford the risk.
By the end of the day, they had seated a full jury: the twelve who would actually decide the case and the alternates. It had gone quickly and smoothly, he thought when he and Beth were home again, shoes kicked off and feet propped on the coffee table while they shared a pizza straight from the box.
"Are you happy with them?" he asked as he pinched off a trailing string of cheese, then bit into a slice.
Beth dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a linen napkin. She ate daintily, he thought with a grin, never dropping a crumb of crust, a dab of tomato sauce or a piece of onion. She was undoubtedly the neatest person he'd ever met. "I think we'll do all right," she said cautiously. "I don't like the last two men we seated, but I'd used all my challenges, so we were stuck. But I think we did okay on the others. Dr. Newman was pleased."
"So what's next?"
"Opening statements tomorrow, then the prosecutor will present his case. He doesn't have much to present, so it shouldn't take long. Then we put on our witnesses, and then we wait."
"That will be the hardest part, won't it?"
She nodded. "I always find myself wondering if I handled it right, if maybe I should have tried this angle instead of that, if I presented the facts as clearly and yet as emotionally as possible. If my client is convicted and goes to jail, is it because I wasn't good enough? Because I didn't try hard enough?" She carefully separated two slices of pizza, then lifted one, balancing it in both hands. "By then, I usually have a case of heartburn that started the first day of the trial and a world-class headache that just won't quit."
"Have you ever considered that maybe your body's trying to tell you that this job isn't good for you?" he asked quietly.
She smiled tautly. "What would I do if I gave it up?"
He suggested an answer she'd given him to a similar question not too long ago. "Live off Great-Grandmother Althea's trust and do nothing. Maybe enjoy life. Take a long vacation. Learn to relax." He swallowed hard. "Fall in love."
She looked up sharply, her gaze locking with his, her cheeks burning. She seemed shaken, although she quickly covered it with a low, phony laugh. "I don't need to give up my job to do any of those things."
After a moment's uncomfortable silence, he asked, "What do you do with Althea's trust?"
"It collects interest. I was going to use some of it once to buy a car, but…" She finished with a shrug.
"You have a car."
"I have a status symbol," she corrected him with a haughty air, then suddenly wrinkled her nose. "I wanted a car—a sports car. Something small and flashy and incredibly fast. In fire-engine red."
Flashy and fast wasn't a concept he could easily apply to Beth, but he liked trying. And anything, he admitted, would be an improvement over that sedate import parked downstairs in the garage. "So why didn't you get it?"
Her sigh was wistful. "It didn't fit my image."
"I don't fit your image, Beth," he reminded her quietly, painfully. "Does that mean you're going to walk away from me, too?"
She closed the box on the uneaten crusts, then dropped the linen napkins on top and started to stand up. For a moment, though, she hesitated and looked at him, the green of her eyes turning liquid with emotion. Then she got up and walked out, leaving him alone in the big room. Her answer was no answer at all.
And he found it all too painfully clear.
* * *
Chapter 11
« ^ »
Beth looked at Carrie, seated between her and Zachary at the defense table, and quickly sized her up. The green-and-black dress she'd bought for their client was a little too big, but that was good; it emphasized her pregnancy and her waifishness. She had pulled her hair back, fastening it with a black clasp that let it fall, straight and limp, down her back. She wore no makeup, nothing to soften the lines of her face, nothing to camouflage the small scars left by her husband.
Her appearance was fine, Beth decided, and even her demeanor might work in their favor. All these weeks of interviews by detectives, lawyers and doctors, all these days of sharing a cell with other women, of spending virtually twenty-four hours a day with strangers, hadn't lessened her shyness any. It hadn't eased her fear. She looked like a frightened little rabbit longing to hide away from the world. She didn't look like the cold-blooded murderer the prosecution was making her out to be.
The testimony had been going on since nine o'clock, with a brief recess for lunch. So far Duane Misner, the prosecutor, had interviewed every policeman who had been at Carrie's house the night of Del's death, and he had asked them very narrow questions designed to support his case. It was a weakness in his strategy that Beth had recognized right away. In cross-examining, she had been able to draw out the information that these same officers had been called to that neighborhood, to that house, time after time in the past, that they were aware of Delbert Lewis as a violent man, that the neighbors had feared he was going to kill his wife. She'd gotten them to talk about the disarray inside the house—the broken dishes stacked by the sink, the badly mended furniture—that had nothing to do with Del's death. She'd asked them to describe the blood splattered on the ceilings and walls that didn't belong to the victim. She had asked for and received detailed descriptions of Carrie's condition when the first officers arrived.
The end result had been a vivid portrait for the jurors of what had gone on in the Lewis house that night. A side benefit was the little niggling doubt that she'd hoped had been planted in their minds about the prosecution's integrity: if he doesn't want us to know this, what else might he be keeping back?
After Beth finished with the last cross-examination, the judge called a recess until the next day. She was grateful for the break. Trials were always tiring, and she had several upcoming cases that needed her attention this week. As soon as court was dismissed and Carrie had been led away by a bailiff, she began stuffing her notes and files into her briefcase.
Zachary slid into the seat beside her. "Misner would have been better off if he'd been upfront about everything, but downplayed the stuff about Carrie."
She nodded her agreement. "Let's hope he keeps going this way. It'll make our job easier."
He watched the spectators file out of the courtroom before asking softly, "Want to go home?"
"I'd like to, but—"
"You have to work." He smiled a regretful sort of smile that made her feel guilty. Before she could apologize, though, he went on. "Do you need me for anything?"
This time it was Beth who smiled—slowly, slyly, lasciviously—and a faint blush colored his cheeks. "For anything besides that?" he clarified, his voice hoarse.
"Do I need your help in the office? No. There's nothing that concerns Carrie. I just need to get caught up on a couple of other things. Why don't you drop me off, then take my car and go on home? I'll catch a cab when I'm finished."
"I'll drop you off, and I'll take your car," he agreed. "But call me when you're done, and I'll pick you up."
Closing her briefcase, she accepted his offer merely to placate him. But she knew she would be working late, and she saw no reason for him to come out again in the cold when she could easily take a cab home.
It was only a few blocks from the courthouse to her building. Zachary pulled over in a loading zone and waited for her to get out. She opened the door, then turned back, le
aned across and kissed him—nothing intimate, nothing toe-curling, just a brief unimportant little kiss. It made him smile, though, because she rarely touched him and never kissed him outside the privacy of her apartment. But he knew she was working on overcoming what she had once considered her natural reticence but had lately decided was totally unnatural. All she needed was time … patience … him.
"I'll fix something for dinner," he said when she drew away. "Call me when you're ready for me."
After a nod, she left the car and hurried inside the building without looking back. She didn't want to see him driving away.
In her office, she put away her coat and her briefcase, got the case files she needed from her bottom drawer and settled in to work. But no matter how she tried, she couldn't concentrate on drunk driving or assault charges. All she could think about was Zachary. Herself. Her life.
After a moment she removed her reading glasses and left her desk for the comfortable sofa across the room. She didn't sit down with her legs demurely crossed, but removed her heels and stretched her legs out the length of the cushions. She propped the extra pillows behind her and tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling.
Ten years ago, building a new career and ending a bitter relationship, she had set a few goals for herself: success. Respect. A partnership. Power. She had achieved all of them, and now there were no new career goals to set. What else could she aim for? Senior partner? No thanks. Establishing her own high-powered firm? Not interested.
No, the things she wanted now had little to do with her career. More satisfaction in the cases she handled. Less pressure to meet others' expectations. Happiness. Friends. Family. And since her own family was so inadequate, the only way she knew to get a good one was to marry into it—or have her own.
She could gain the career satisfaction she sought if she left the firm. If she forgot about partners and billable hours and corporate reputations. If she took only cases that interested her. Cases that she cared about.
She could also forget about having to live up to the image she had constructed for herself. She could quit striving to be the hotshot attorney, the cool, aloof woman, the perfect daughter. She could remove everyone from her life who didn't mean something to her. She could restructure her life, with no more boring social functions simply because her presence was expected. No more miserable holidays because her presence was demanded. No more meaningless affairs because that was all she had allowed herself to want, to have.
She could reserve her time—her life—for people she cared about: friends like Sarah and Daniel Ryan. Lovers like Zachary. No, she quickly amended. Lover. Singular. Only one. Because she could have so much more than a meaningless affair. In spite of her family, in spite of Philip, she could love someone. Zachary was proof of that.
She could get married. She could have children. She could learn to relate to babies and toddlers and teenagers. She knew she would never be as warm and loving and affectionate as Sarah was, or Zachary's mother or his sister Alicia, but she had learned to be one of the best damn attorneys in Nashville for no reason other than to defy her father, so she could certainly learn to be a good mother. After all, she wanted that not for her father or for Zachary, but for herself.
What would she do if she gave up law? she had asked just last night. But she didn't have to give it up. She just needed to reorder her priorities, to refocus her direction. It wasn't as if she needed the income to survive. All these years she had considered her inheritance from Althea a nice little gift, a secured income for someone who would never need it. A pile of money she could never manage to spend that would grow and multiply and earn even more money she could never spend.
But it was more than that. It was a gift of independence. It was freedom to do whatever she wanted. To walk away from this job and into one she could love. To help women like Carrie. To live in a place where she couldn't earn a living.
Suddenly she covered her face with both hands. That was what she wanted, wasn't it? Yes. But she wanted all those things with Zachary, not with some man whom she hadn't yet met, but with the one man she'd been certain was all wrong for her. The only man, she knew now, who would be right for her.
But what reason did she have to believe that she was who he wanted? Yes, he made love so tenderly to her. He treated her as if she were the only important woman in his life. He was considerate and charming and gentle. But he was that kind of man. He would exhibit those qualities with any woman he got involved with. It meant he cared for her. It didn't mean he loved her.
What if she made all these changes—left the firm, cut her ties to her family and the casual acquaintances who had passed as friends, took off from Nashville and turned her entire world around—and he didn't care? What if he wanted no more than this affair they were having now? What if he wanted to go home to Sweetwater after the trial as free as when he'd left it?
Then where would she be?
Alone.
Then she smiled whimsically. Could it be worse than where she was now?
* * *
"We need a break."
Beth, seated at her desk with her reading glasses on, looked up from the notes she had made through the week's testimony. "What kind of break?"
Zachary fully expected her to refuse his suggestion. Beth Gibson give up a Saturday in the office? Worse yet, give it up to take a mini-vacation? In the middle of a trial? But he took a deep breath and made it anyway. "Let's go home."
She looked at him without comprehension. "Go to the condo?"
"To Sweetwater. My home. Let's forget about work and witnesses and juries. We'll take a long walk in the woods. We'll have dinner with Sarah and Daniel. We'll stop in and see my folks. We'll act like normal people whose lives aren't ruled by their jobs."
Any minute now, he thought, she would open her lovely mouth and say, "Sorry, this is more important, but you go ahead."
But she sat there for a moment, then another, before finally taking off her glasses, swiveling her chair around so she could cross her legs, and studying him thoughtfully. "All right," she said at last. "Let's go."
He was surprised … but not so much so that he hesitated. He left her to clear her desk and went to get their coats from the closet. By the time she was finished, he was standing at the door, his jacket on, hers in hand.
They returned to the condo long enough for her to pack an overnight bag. As they were walking out the door, Zachary remembered one last thing he wanted to take. Returning to the closet, he slipped the fur from its padded hanger and draped it over his arm.
Beth watched him with a knowing smile. He hadn't tried to hide his fascination with the rich, extravagant garment. Much like the black sheets on her bed, he found the black fur erotic. The stuff fantasies were made from.
They took his Cherokee and headed south, out of the city, eventually turning back east. They talked a little, but not much. Even after weeks of togetherness, they rarely indulged in idle conversation. Occasionally he pointed out something special—the tiny café that made the best fruit cobbler in Tennessee, the scene in a valley that dipped below them to the south, the area where some of the earlier Adamses had settled.
The three hours passed quickly. At the last town before Sweetwater, he stopped at a tiny mom-and-pop grocery and stocked up on fresh bread, locally made cheese, sliced meat and fresh-out-of-the-oven cookies. No need to head straight into town, he thought with a grin, where the only place for lunch was the diner. Where he would see at least two dozen people he knew. Where his time with Beth would have to be shared.
Maybe she had the same idea, because as they drew closer to Sweetwater, she asked, "Can we go to your mountain first?"
His grin widened. "I only own twenty acres of it," he reminded her.
She simply shrugged. "Can we?"
"Sure." He slowed at the turn and left the highway for the rougher dirt road. When they reached the end of the road, he stopped to open the gate, pulled through and closed it again, then followed the driveway to the hou
se.
"This is a nice place," she said softly, almost to herself.
It was, he agreed. It was even nicer when she was there. After getting the food from the back, he followed her onto the veranda. Beth took the bag while he unlocked the door, then stole a cookie before giving it back.
The house was cold and quiet inside, and it smelled of wood. It was a strong aroma, pleasant and clean, one that clung to his clothes and his skin when he worked here. As they walked through the rooms, he could easily imagine the house completed, with rugs scattered over the pine floors and the walls painted in rich crimson, forest green and teal blue. The furniture would be slightly battered—the stuff from his house in town, along with a few antiques his grandmother was saving for him—except for the bedroom. Daniel was going to make him a bed, a massive four-poster hand-carved with an intricate design.
The only thing he couldn't imagine was a woman living here. There was only one he wanted to share the place with, but how could he ask her to give up her entire life to come live on the mountain with him? The likelihood that she would ever agree was too remote to even fantasize about.
"Let's eat outside," Beth suggested, stopping in front of the French doors that led to the deck.
Zachary agreed, and, after retrieving a six-pack of soda from the kitchen, he joined her out there. It was a bit chilly for an impromptu picnic, but he was used to the cold, and Beth didn't seem to mind.
"It's so quiet here," she murmured. "The city is never quiet. Even in my office or the condo, I can still hear the traffic."
"I've come up here a lot since my grandfather died, to camp and to hike through the woods. In the spring that meadow out there will be covered with wildflowers, and in the summer you can sit here and watch the deer. In the fall the squirrels collect the nuts from these trees and stash them for the winter." The echo of his words made him stop. He knew he would be here to see the wildflowers and the deer and the squirrels, but Beth wouldn't. They'd been keeping long hours in the courtroom and had already presented the majority of their witnesses. Only two—Tyler and Carrie—remained to testify on Monday. The case would go to the jury by Wednesday; with any luck they would come back with a verdict on Thursday.
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