Laws of Attraction

by Diana Duncan

  Horror careened through her. “Oh no! I nuked the wrong guy!” Mia turned and pelted around the corner. Her gaze spun down the dim corridor.

  Empty.

  Reaching the logical conclusion, she charged through the door into the Men’s Room. Sure enough, a coughing, choking guy had his head in the sink and was splashing water on his face. She caught a glimpse of long legs and firmly-muscled buns hugged by black fabric.

  Before she had time to appreciate the view, a distinguished-looking businessman standing at one of the urinals whipped his startled gaze in her direction. “Do you mind?”

  Heat flooded her face. She whirled, turning her back on both occupants. “I’m so sorry.”

  The man at the urinal harrumphed. “I should think so.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to him.”

  Jared burst through the door, noted the dude gagging over the sink and snorted. “Ah, I recognize that refrain.”

  Valerie hurried inside. “What did you do this time, Mia?”

  “For Pete’s sake, what is this, a circus?” the man at the urinal shouted. “I should charge admission.”

  “You’d never get in.” Mia didn’t turn around, addressing her comment to the ceiling. “You’re supposed to show your ticket, not your stub.”

  Mr. Head-In-The-Sink choked out a strangled laugh.

  “Are you okay?” she called.

  “Mmmph,” he groaned.

  “There was this sleazy, aggressive stockbroker hitting on me,” Mia attempted to explain to her unfortunate casualty. “I thought he and I were alone in the corridor, so when you grabbed me, I assumed it was him. I’m sorry I maced you, and I feel awful about kneeing you like that.”

  Jared’s amusement subsided. “You and Valerie wait outside and I’ll administer first-aid to the poor innocent assaultee. Let’s hope he doesn’t want to press charges.” He glanced at Valerie, and his gaze grew smoky. “You did great tonight, babe.” He tugged her into his embrace and whispered in her ear.

  Valerie’s face pinkened. She planted a quick kiss on his mouth, and then grinned. “I’ll hold you to that.”

  As she and Valerie hurried into the corridor, an abrupt pang of wistfulness struck, and Mia frowned. An intimate relationship wasn’t for her.

  Val turned to face Mia. “What the hell happened here?”

  She sighed. “A slime-ball got a case of grab-hands, I freaked and—”

  A voluptuous Hispanic woman wearing a copper silk cocktail dress hurried into the hallway. “Have you ladies seen anyone leaving the men’s restroom? I seem to be missing my date.”

  Mia groaned under her breath. “He wouldn’t happen to be a distinguished older gentleman with a really stubby…uh…haircut?”

  “No, he is tall, dark-haired, and dressed in black.”

  “Um … I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your date probably isn’t going to be too romantically inclined for the rest of the evening.”

  The woman hurried closer. “What has happened?”

  The raven-haired beauty looked familiar. Mia subtly studied the exquisite, aristocratic features.

  She’d only seen pictures, but there could be no mistake. She stared into the exotic brown eyes of Soledad Montoya, age thirty-three, and Esteban Montoya’s only child. The same Esteban Montoya whom she’d last spied in a tense, clandestine meeting with her ex-boss and his son … the men who’d ruined her life.

  To the best of Mia’s knowledge, Soledad had been out of the country for six weeks doing marketing research for her father’s business.

  Before she could gather her scattered thoughts, the door swished open and Jared stepped out, followed by her hapless victim, his reddened eyes still watering. At the sight of the man’s wry face, her jaw dropped.

  “Well, now, if it isn’t my Saintly Samaritan,” Dallas McQuade drawled. “The song is over, but the melody lingers on.”

  He cleaned up nice. Understatement of the millennium. McQuade’s long, lean frame dressed in expensive tailored black slacks and suit jacket, a pristine white shirt and pearl gray silk tie … wow. Her stomach rolled in a slow loop-de-loop. Heart-stopping masculine perfection.

  Striving to appear nonchalant, she sucked in a deep breath. “Hello, Dallas. Your sliced ribs seemed to have healed all right.”

  Valerie and Soledad both spoke at once.

  “Dallas, from the mountain?” Val asked.

  “Dallas! What has happened?” Soledad exclaimed.

  He held up a hand. “Sorry to interrupt, but I’m afraid we have to leave. I thought the little lady was in trouble and tried to ask if I could help. Clearly, I underestimated her. A mistake I won’t be making again.”

  He took a possessive hold on Soledad’s upper arm and steered the sputtering woman down the corridor.

  Mia watched them walk away, Soledad’s curvy hips swaying enticingly beneath the copper silk, Dallas with a limp in his careful stride. Both tall, dark and gorgeous. An ideal couple. Were they lovers? A tight fist squeezed Mia’s heart. She rubbed her chest. Probably too many Chocolatinis.

  One of her father’s favorite sermons had been, “If you lay down with dogs, you get up with fleas.” Though loath to side with the Colonel about anything, this time Mia had to agree. Dallas had just been found guilty by association. He was either bodyguarding Esteban Montoya and his family … or dating Esteban’s daughter.

  She’d never before seen McQuade in Pegasus. Now he suddenly showed up mere days after they’d met in the vicinity of Montoya’s ski lodge? Much too convenient.

  Was he following her?

  Well, two could play that game.

  Watching Montoya for months had netted her nothing. Esteban’s soft spot for his daughter was no secret. Perhaps Mia had finally been handed the weapon to bag her enemy, once and for all.

  On a Texas-sized platter.

  * * *

  Dallas put his laptop in standby and rubbed his stinging eyes. Ten hours after getting maced by Mia in the club, they still burned. Not to mention the throbbing ache south of his Mason-Dixon line.

  He leaned back in the leather chair. Nobody got the jump on him. Embarrassing the way that itty-bitty pixie had rung his chimes … and if he was forced to admit it, admirable. She had guts, in spades. But if word got around, he’d have to turn in his Jeet Kune Do instructor’s license. And if his sisters found out—Dallas groaned.

  Shit, they’d razz him ‘til the day he died.

  He just hoped Mia didn’t get wise to the fact he’d been tailing her since their fateful slumber party at the cabin. He’d suggested a night out at Pegasus to Soledad, knowing Mia would be there. She frequented the club every weekend with her friends Valerie Willis and Jared Ryan.

  Dallas swigged hot coffee and mulled over the dossier he’d compiled. Mia Elaine Linden, five years younger than his own thirty-one, she’d turn twenty-six on May first. Her parents, a homemaker and an Army Colonel, had sent her to an exclusive, strict, all-girls Catholic boarding school from age six until her early high school graduation at seventeen. She’d been a shining star in the drama club, excelled at volleyball and soccer—and was constantly in trouble.

  His favorite incident among many detailed in the report was ten year-old Mia super-gluing Mother Superior to the toilet seat. The little hellcat lost dessert privileges and earned three months KP for that stunt.

  After high school she’d fast-tracked through college and law school, again graduating early, with honors. She’d met attorney Paul Grayson when he’d lectured at the law school. Paul’s recommendation to his father, Harper, landed Mia a job at Grayson and Associates, the prestigious family firm. Her first nine months of performance evaluations glowed with praise. Clients adored her empathy, colleagues respected her intelligence. And contrary to her youth and fey appearance, opposing counsels dreaded facing her relentless tactical skills.

  Then four months ago, the situation had turned downright ugly when Harper Grayson inexplicably let Mia go. Dallas had been unable to unco
ver anything concrete, but the buzz around town hinted that she’d done something illegal or unethical and struck a deal with Grayson to keep it buried. No reputable law firm would let her set foot in the door.

  Mia’s surveillance in the forest near Montoya’s ski lodge now took on a horrible significance.

  She must’ve dug up info about Grayson and Montoya’s buried partnership. Take her ex-employer’s corrupt track record, add-in Mia’s stellar record before the Grayson debacle, plus her defensive self-protectiveness … and he’d bet his next paycheck she’d gotten the dirty end of the shovel. Mia Linden wasn’t an assassin. She was another casualty of war.

  Was she after redemption … or revenge?

  He knew way too much about both.

  His throat constricted. She didn’t have a clue who she was up against. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up dead. Or worse.

  Yeah, there were worse things than being dead.

  He knew that, too. Firsthand.

  The man he worked for, Esteban Montoya, and the man Mia used to work for, Harper Grayson, both danced the two-step with the Grim Reaper. And they were dancing to the same lethal tune.

  Dallas rolled his wrist to check the time. Speaking of work, he’d better haul ass. Maybe Mia didn’t know what her adversaries were capable of, but he did. He’d seen the bodies … and the pieces of bodies. He’d stood over too many graves with helpless rage eating him alive.

  Every year on the 23rd of May, he stood a twenty-four hour vigil at a too-personal gravesite.

  At all costs, he had to keep Mia from attracting Montoya’s suspicion. Montoya and Grayson wouldn’t hurt another innocent on Dallas’s watch.

  His conscience was already on life-support.

  He shrugged into his brown leather blazer and grimly strode out the door. He’d fucked up once … and it had cost him everything. This time, he would not fail.

  At any cost.

  Chapter 3

  A jangling telephone jolted Mia from restless sleep. She released the tattered stuffed Bugs Bunny clutched to her chest and groped for the shrilling receiver. “Mm…‘Lo?”

  “Sorry to wake you,” Valerie apologized. “I know you just got home from the cannery, but Jared and I are leaving for Boston.”

  “Wha…Val? Say again,” Mia mumbled.

  “Poor thing.” Valerie groaned. “I’m sorry, I realize you’ve only been asleep an hour, but I didn’t want to leave town without telling you. And since your answering machine self-destructed last month, there’s no other option.”

  “Hold on.” Mia dropped the receiver, clambered out of bed and staggered to the kitchen. She fumbled along the counter before snagging a half-full mug of cold coffee from last night. Two attempts to hit the right buttons on the microwave later, she slid out the boiling brew and took a huge gulp.

  Ahh … hot caffeine rush.

  Her sleep-numbed mind now partially awake, Mia trudged back to the phone. She’d never been a morning person, even after a full night’s rest she needed gallons of coffee. One measly hour of sleep had left her barely functional. “Val? You’re going where?”

  “Boston, to see Jared’s dad. Captain Ryan took a bullet in the line of duty last night. You can reach me on my cell, anytime you need me.”

  “How serious is it? Is Jared holding up okay?”

  “The doctors said the Captain will recover, but you know my guy. He wants eyes on the situation. Will you be all right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Mia, I wish you’d give up this dangerous crusade.”

  Follow family tradition and be a nice, quiet, biddable victim with no self-respect?

  Her law career defined her. Without the ability to empower the innocent, stop the vicious cycle by helping others escape what she couldn’t, her life meant nothing. And she would get it back … or die trying. “Not happening.”

  “At least reconsider your insane plan to break into Montoya’s mansion. Please.”

  “I’m prepared. First chance I get, I’m going for it.”

  “If I thought my presence would deter you, I’d stay. But I know better. You’re determined, and consequences be damned. I’ve already set aside bail money, just in case.” Valerie sighed. “Speaking of consequences … After seeing McQuade in person, I’d say watch yourself around that stud puppy, my friend. He radiates some tasty pheromones. This time even your granite heart might not deflect Cupid’s arrows.”

  “No way. I’m immune.”

  “So you claim.”

  Mia hung up with Valerie’s chuckles ringing in her ears. Ha! She’d be appointed to the Supreme Court before she fell for Mr. Southern Comfort. She stomped to the bathroom.

  Mia risked a tentative glance in the mirror as the shower water warmed. Hair sticking up like Don King and sleep-deprived face looking like Larry King. Scary-assed combo.

  After a hot shower, she put on panties featuring dancing flamingos and matching demi-bra, then shrugged into her terry robe. Yay for Target, where she could indulge her passion for irreverent lingerie on a meager budget. Two cups of instant coffee—fresh this time—fueled her brain out of Zombie Land.

  She looked out the window. Sunshine glinted through the trees, turning newly budded leaves neon green, and the cloudless aquamarine sky promised a mild late-April day. If you didn’t like spring weather in western Oregon, all you had to do was wait an hour.

  She dug through a mountain of clean clothing piled on a chair in her bedroom. She barely had time to wash and dry her clothes at the Suds-N-Duds around the corner, much less fold it. Mia pulled out her favorite jeans—worn so often both knees were frayed paper thin—and a cotton-candy lavender lace T-shirt. She donned socks and her beloved gray and pink argyle Converse sneakers, then zigzagged around boxes of legal precedent files and knee-high stacks of investigative research back to the kitchen.

  Her place was clean, just cluttered. Her father would die of apoplexy if he saw her apartment. When she was a kid, the Colonel had demanded she keep her room inspection-ready at all times, down to square military corners on her bed. Boarding school wasn’t any better … although the headmistress had meted out demerits instead of whippings.

  She grabbed several dented cans of soda from the fridge and three packages of cream-filled chocolate cupcakes, purchased dirt-cheap by the case at the discount warehouse. No time like the present to start surveillance on the ravishing Ms. Montoya.

  Mia was—had been—a kick-ass lawyer because she always listened to her sixth sense, and pursued the slimmest leads. Being born incurably tenacious hadn’t hurt either. She wasn’t sure what she’d discover by tailing Soledad, but she’d come up empty-handed with Esteban, and was desperate. Since Soledad was the apple of daddy’s eye, perhaps watching her activities would pry open an advantageous weakness.

  The sooner Mia obtained irrefutable evidence that Harper Grayson and Esteban Montoya were co-conspirators, the sooner she’d take back control of her future.

  Outside, she banged on the dent above the keyhole of her faithful Bug, then jiggled the key in the stubborn lock. Bondo held the body together and the passenger window leaked in the rain, but the reliable little car never let her down.

  Thanks to morning rush hour traffic clogging the bridges, the drive across the Willamette River to where the rich and privileged lived took twice as long as usual. She parked on a side street beside huge, rainbow-hued rhododendron bushes that partially hid her car from passersby on the main road, while still giving her a clear view of the brick-walled, black-gated driveway leading to Montoya’s mansion.

  Mia drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and sang along with the radio. She drank her sodas. Ate her cupcakes. Brainstormed tactical plans in the notebook stashed in her purse.

  Finally, the spiked wrought-iron gates barring Montoya’s driveway swung open. A spanking new lipstick-red Ferrari convertible with tinted windows nosed out, turned left and then purred down the street. Hello. Esteban drove a Mercedes, so the glitzy Ferrari had to belong to his daughter
.

  Mia shifted the Bug into gear and followed at a discreet distance past acres of McMansions she’d never be able to afford if she lived to be ninety. Luckily, the driver didn’t seem to be in a hurry. She’d hate to have to pit her ancient little car’s German ingenuity against brand-new Italian flash.

  Ten minutes later, her quarry cruised to the curb in front of a posh spa. The driver’s door opened and a man stepped out. A long, lean, dark-haired hunk, wearing perfectly-tailored black slacks topped by a black cashmere V-neck sweater and brown leather blazer. As he sauntered gracefully around to the passenger side, the breeze ruffled thick raven hair, and sunlight illuminated the blood-red stud in his left earlobe.

  Her heart kicked painfully against her ribs. Dallas McQuade.

  She’d cased Montoya’s mansion for hours this morning and hadn’t seen any vehicles arrive. Had Dallas spent the night with the Costa Rican princess? She viciously crammed soda cans and cupcake wrappers into a trash bag. Not her concern.

  More importantly, was the $750,000 car Soledad’s, or his?

  Cowboy didn’t strike her as ostentatious. He’d seemed more down to earth, a Ford or Chevy man. If he could afford a brand-new Ferrari, security business must be lucrative.

  Or he was doing dirty work under the table.

  In spite of McQuade’s spotless reputation, if the slimy Montoya was one of his associates, illegal activity was a distinct possibility.

  Dallas solicitously helped Soledad out. She looked stunning in a stylish plum dress and chic high-heeled black designer sandals that would probably pay six months’ rent on Mia’s apartment. Dallas escorted Soledad inside with an attentive smile and a proprietary hand tucked against her back.

  Mia’s makeshift breakfast congealed in her stomach. Was he working … or playing?

  She studied the gilded double-door entrance to the tony establishment, then glanced down at her faded jeans. She sighed. She’d stick out in there like a street mutt at the Westminster Dog Show.

  Mia eased out of the car, strolled up the sidewalk behind a young couple pushing a stroller. She risked a fast glance in the spa window as she passed.