by Naomi Chase
Unfazed by the threat, Brandon spread his hands wide and drawled, “By all means, please feel free to exercise them.”
Cynthia flinched, her face flushing with anger and indignation.
Quickly recovering her composure, she raised her chin and looked him squarely in the eye. “Maybe I will.”
“Do what you gotta do.”
“I will.” Fuming, she spun on her heel and stalked to the door, snatched it open, and stormed out of the office.
Exhaling a deep breath, Brandon sat back down and calmly reached for the phone receiver to call back the man whose consultation had been interrupted by Cynthia’s outburst.
Before he’d finished dialing the number, Cynthia came marching back into the room, her face set with determination as she shoved the door closed behind her.
Brandon couldn’t suppress a mocking smile as he set down the receiver. “What happened to exercising your options?”
“Nice try,” she said darkly, rounding his large desk, “but I’m not giving up on us that easily. That’s exactly what Tamia wants, but I won’t play into her hands.”
Brandon sighed. “Look, maybe it’d be best if we—”
“No. Don’t even go there.” Cynthia hitched up her pencil skirt and quickly climbed onto the chair, straddling his lap. Her red-rimmed eyes bored into his. “Hear me out before you say another word, okay?”
He hesitated, then nodded slowly.
“I love you, Brandon Chambers. I love you so damn much it’s ridiculous. Prior to April, I’d been waiting two whole years for you to see me as more than just a colleague and a friend. Two long, excruciating years of pretending I wasn’t interested in you like that. When you met Tamia and started dating her, I was devastated. I felt cheated, like she’d come out of nowhere and taken something that rightfully belonged to me.”
Brandon frowned. “Cyn—”
She pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him as she continued, “Obviously I know you didn’t belong to me. I’m just explaining my state of mind at the time. I was also frustrated with myself for lacking the courage to tell you how I felt about you. I tortured myself with a thousand what ifs. What if I’d dressed more sexy around the office? What if I’d possessed more of that street vibe you find so damn irresistible in Tamia? What if I’d simply acted on my feelings before you met her? I drove myself fucking crazy with the what ifs, Brandon. But I respected your relationship. I didn’t try to come between you and Tamia, even as I realized that you were getting serious about her. No matter how hard it was, I didn’t make a move on you.” She paused, shaking her head at him. “It’s not my fault that Tamia didn’t appreciate the good thing she had.”
Brandon held her gaze for a long moment, then glanced away, his eyes landing on the yellow legal pad where he’d scribbled notes during his phone consultation. A ghost of a smile touched his mouth at a memory of Tamia teasing him about being old school and cajoling him to buy a OneNote tablet so that he could join the twenty-first century. Maybe one of these days he would.
“Brandon?”
When he didn’t respond, Cynthia framed his face between her hands, gently drawing his attention back to her. Her expression was earnest. “You know what, baby? Some of my friends think I should have just left you alone, because rebound relationships are doomed to failure. But I don’t care what they say, because I know damn well that not one of them would have given you up if they were in my shoes.” She paused. “I’m not stupid, Brandon. I know you still have feelings for Tamia. But I also know that she’s not right for you, and if given the opportunity, she’ll hurt you again. I don’t intend to give her that opportunity, and neither should you.”
When she’d finished speaking, Brandon raised a brow at her. “Are you done?”
She frowned, her hands dropping limply from his face. “Is that all you have to say after I just poured out my heart to you?”
Brandon sighed heavily. “Look, baby, if you’re so confident that Tamia’s not right for me, then you have nothing to worry about. Right?”
She hesitated, biting her lower lip.
“Right?” he repeated.
“I suppose,” she reluctantly conceded.
“Good. I’m glad we had this talk.” He briskly patted her ass. “Now get up so I can return this phone call before it gets too late.”
“Not so fast,” Cynthia protested softly, looping her arms around his neck and kissing him. “We just had a big argument, so now we’re supposed to have really hot makeup sex.”
Brandon couldn’t help smiling against her mouth. “Later,” he promised.
“Why put off until later what we can do right now?” she purred, provocatively gyrating against his crotch until his dick began to rise.
As he tried to pull away, Cynthia followed, pinning him against the chair as she nuzzled his throat.
He closed his eyes. “This isn’t a good time, sweetheart.”
“Since when? Have you forgotten that the very first time we made love was in your office on a Friday night?” She laughed coyly. “Seems to me that this is the perfect time. And do you realize that you’ve been partner for three months, and we have yet to christen your new office?”
“Really?” Brandon murmured. “I didn’t realize that.”
“I did.” She nibbled his earlobe. “I’ve been dying for you to fuck me on this huge desk and all over that cushy leather sofa.”
Brandon grimaced. “Not tonight.”
“Why not?”
“I’m all out of condoms,” he lied.
“That’s okay. I’ve been on the pill now for two weeks, so we should be good. Besides, you weren’t worried about not using protection when you went commando last week.”
“That was last week,” Brandon said, exasperation sharpening his voice.
Cynthia tensed against him, then slowly lifted her head and searched his face. “What’s going on, Brandon?”
“What’s going on,” he said with forced patience as he lifted her off his lap and set her on her feet, “is that I was in the middle of an important conversation with a prospective client when you came barging in here. I’d like to resume that conversation before Mr. Humphrey decides to take his business elsewhere. So as much as I’d love to let you have your way with me, I’m gonna have to request a rain check. You feel me?”
Cynthia pouted, smoothing her skirt. “Yeah, I feel you. Not where I want to feel you, but—”
Brandon laughed. “Later, I promise.”
“It’ll have to be much later. I’m spending the night at my aunt and uncle’s house, remember?”
Brandon eyed her blankly. “You are?”
Cynthia shot him an exasperated look. “Hello? Tomorrow is Lynn’s wedding. I’m her maid of honor, remember? She wanted all of her bridesmaids to spend the night so we can all get our hair and nails done at the same time, then get dressed together for the ceremony.” She shook her head at Brandon. “I hope you won’t forget what time the wedding starts tomorrow afternoon.”
“How could I?” he countered wryly. “You’ve been reminding me for the past three weeks, you added the date and time to my BlackBerry, and you taped the invitation to the bathroom mirror this morning.”
Cynthia grinned unabashedly. “Just covering all my bases.”
“Umm-hmm.” Brandon reached for the phone, signaling that the conversation was over. “Have a good time at Lynn’s.”
“Oh, I will.” Cynthia smirked. “We’ll probably hit the strip club since the fellas will be face deep in tits and asses at the bachelor party tonight.”
The bachelor party she’d begged Brandon not to attend, he mused.
“That’s cool,” he said easily. “Make sure you take plenty of singles to tip the dancers.”
She gaped at him incredulously. “You mean you don’t mind that the girls and I will be hanging out at a strip club? You don’t care that a bunch of buff, oily guys will be gyrating all over me and shaking their dicks in my face?”
“Nope. ’Caus
e we both know the only dick you wanna ride is right here.”
Cynthia shook her head at him. “You really think you’re the shit, don’t you?”
“Nah, baby. That’s your job.”
Sputtering with angry indignation, she spun on her heel and marched away from his desk. When she reached the door, she paused and glanced back at him, her eyes glinting with challenge. “Just remember what I said, Brandon. I have options.”
“No doubt.” He paused. “And that goes both ways.”
Their stares locked across the room.
After several tense moments, Cynthia turned and stormed out, leaving in much the same manner that she’d arrived.
Chapter 17
Fiona
Fiona’s pulse was pounding as she crept stealthily through the old cemetery.
As she walked, she shone the beam of her flashlight on the gray marble tombstones around her, illuminating the names of the departed souls whose ghostly voices whispered to her as she passed.
When she reached the tombstone she’d been looking for, she set down the flashlight and reached inside her jacket, removing the bottle of Patrón she’d picked up on her way to the cemetery.
Her hands trembled as she uncorked the bottle and took a long swig of tequila, needing liquid courage for what she was about to do.
She’d come to the graveyard to make atonement, though she knew that confessing her sins to a cold headstone couldn’t begin to absolve her of what she’d done.
But it was a start. Because ever since that unspeakable night when her life had changed forever, she hadn’t dared utter the truth to anyone.
She was guilty.
Guilty of deception.
Guilty of murder.
Guilty.
And she’d gotten away with it because no one had suspected her. She’d kept her silence, and she’d allowed others to believe that someone else was responsible.
After all this time, the least she could do was unburden herself to the victim of her treachery.
Drawing a deep, shaky breath, Fiona stared down at the tombstone she’d been seeing in her nightmares since that harrowing night.
“Hello.” Her voice was as thready as her pulse. “I know I’m probably the last person you wanna see at your final resting place, but I had to come. It ... it was time.”
She paused to collect her fragmented thoughts.
“I’ve never stopped thinking about you. But it’s been even more intense ever since Tamia got out of prison. I guess because seeing her reminds me of you.”
She swallowed tightly as tears crept into her eyes. “You have to know that I never meant for you to get hurt. But you were going to—”
The sudden snap of a twig made her whirl around, heart lodged in her throat.
Her eyes scanned the darkness, the gray tombstones taking on ghostly shapes in the moonlight.
“Who’s there?” she whispered sharply.
Though she saw nothing, she swore she could feel a pair of sinister eyes watching her.
A chill ran through her. “Is someone there?”
Silence.
As a clammy sweat broke out on her skin, she took an unsteady swig of tequila and cautiously turned back to the headstone, which had now taken on the same eerie glow as the others.
She swallowed hard, knowing that she shouldn’t stay there much longer.
“Everyone who knew and loved you misses you so much. If I could bring you back, I would. But I can’t, and for that I am truly sorry.”
Fiona took one last sip of the Patrón, then poured the contents of the bottle across the foot of the tombstone with the solemnity of a tribesman observing a sacred ritual.
When she’d finished, she dropped the empty bottle on the ground and sank to her knees. Slowly she reached up and lovingly traced her fingers over the inscription etched into the cold, gray marble.
ESTHER VIOLA COPELAND
Beloved wife, mother, grandmother, and faithful servant of God
“I’m sorry, Mama Esther,” Fiona whispered, tears rolling down her face and seeping into the corners of her mouth. “I’m sorry I got you killed.”
Chapter 18
Brandon
“Mort Chernoff tells me that you’ve been making enemies at the firm.”
Brandon stood with his arms folded and his feet braced apart, watching through mirrored sunglasses as his father moved into position behind a white golf ball teed up in front of him.
“I have no idea what Mort’s talking about,” Brandon drawled.
Bernard chuckled, then swung the iron club with an expert flip of his wrist. He and Brandon watched as the ball sailed through the air before bouncing three hundred yards down onto the meticulously landscaped grounds.
It was Saturday morning. After meeting for breakfast at the River Oaks Country Club, father and son had headed to the private golf range so that Bernard could hit some practice balls for an upcoming charity golf tournament that he was headlining. Of course, everyone knew that the lieutenant governor needed no practice. He, like his father and grandfather before him, was an excellent golfer whose single-digit handicap made him the envy of his peers.
Though it was expected of him, Brandon had yet to acquire a taste for golf. His preference for basketball was an ongoing source of frustration for his father, who subscribed to the old cliché of “swinging one’s way to power.” As he often lectured Brandon and Beau, “Deals are made on golf courses, not basketball courts.”
After hitting another ball, Bernard sent Brandon an amused glance. “So you didn’t make a complete ass of Russ Sutcliffe during the partners’ meeting yesterday?”
“No, sir,” Brandon said lazily. “Russ did that all on his own.”
Bernard laughed uproariously. “Going toe-to-toe with the firm’s biggest racist,” he declared with affectionate pride. “That’s my boy.”
Brandon smiled wryly. “Now that I’ve made partner, I suppose it’s too much to expect that Mort Chernoff will stop reporting my every move to you.”
Bernard guffawed. “Come on, now. Mort and I go way back. We were playing golf together when you were still in diapers. Of course he takes a personal interest in you. You’re like a son to him. Besides”—Bernard sent another ball soaring through the air—“it’s not my fault that an old friend of mine happens to be one of the founding partners of the firm you chose to lend your talents to.”
Brandon snorted. “Considering how many people you know, Dad, I’m sure that would have been the case at any firm I went to work for.”
Bernard grinned unabashedly.
He was a tall, handsome man with smooth, dark skin and graying temples that he wore as debonairly as an Armani tux. Already one of the most powerful men in Texas, he was fast becoming a rising star on the national political scene, thanks in no small part to his friendship with President Obama. The president was expected to campaign on Bernard’s behalf. In exchange, Bernard had promised to do everything in his power to deliver his conservative state to Obama during the next presidential election. It didn’t matter that no Democrat had won the Lone Star State since 1976. When Bernard Chambers made a promise, absolutely no one doubted his word.
“As much as I enjoyed hearing about how you handed Sutcliffe’s ass to him,” Bernard drawled, “I must confess that I was surprised at the particular reason.”
Here we go, Brandon thought resignedly. He’d been waiting all morning for his father to broach the subject of Tamia.
“Would you care to tell me why you hired that girl to be your assistant?” It wasn’t a request, and Brandon knew it.
He shrugged, and gave the same explanation he’d been parroting since yesterday. “Tamia needs a job, and I need an assistant.”
His father let out a sharp bark of laughter, wagging his head at Brandon. “Look at me, son. Do I look like I was born yesterday? We both know damn well why you hired Tamia, and it’s got nothing to do with her needing a job.”
Brandon couldn’t deny it.
; “You’re trying to have your cake and eat it, too,” Bernard said knowingly. “But I’m here to tell you that it doesn’t work that way. And, quite frankly, after everything Tamia put you through, I can’t understand why you’d even want it to work.”
Brandon heaved a weary sigh. “Can we talk about something else? I’m bored with this topic.”
“Not bored enough, apparently.” Bernard hit another ball, his golf club slicing through the air with a soft whish!
“You know,” he continued, “it’s a testament to your litigation prowess that you were not only able to persuade that jury of Tamia’s innocence but you turned her into something of a feminist hero—a woman whose only crime was succumbing to a blackmailer in order to protect her youthful indiscretions and hold on to the man she loved.” He made a snort of disgust. “You had those silly female jurors eating out of the palm of your hand and fawning over what a loving, forgiving boyfriend you are. Is it any wonder Tamia was acquitted?”
“She was acquitted because she’s innocent.” Brandon smiled narrowly. “But my defense strategy certainly didn’t hurt her chances.”
“My point exactly, son. You’re far too talented to be throwing your life away on one woman.”
Brandon scoffed. “Come on, Dad. How am I throwing my life away by giving Tamia a job?”
“It’s more than just a job, boy, and you know it.”
Before Brandon could respond, a country club employee materialized with a new bucket of golf balls and proceeded to tee them up for Bernard. Several yards away, members of the lieutenant governor’s security detail looked on with stoic expressions.
When father and son were alone again, Bernard continued, “You need to start looking at the big picture, Brandon. I’ve got great plans for you. Appointing you to attorney general is just the beginning—”
“With all due respect,” Brandon interrupted, “when did I ever say I wanted to become attorney general?”
His father gave him a look of grave disappointment. “You’re a Chambers. Achieving greatness isn’t an option—”
“—it’s a birthright,” Brandon finished, reciting the familiar credo that had been passed down through four generations of Chamberses. “Yeah, Dad, I know all that.”