Chapter 1
Chapter One
PRESENT DAY
Lana paced across the carpet in her office. Her morning had started off so well. She was a couple of weeks out from her next trial, and she’d almost gotten her prep work under control.
Then she’d checked her email and found the little present that the defense attorney had dropped off during the night.
She pressed the handset of her phone against her ear. “What the hell is this piece of trash you just filed?”
“I assume that’s a rhetorical question,” Paxton Wayfair said. “You’re the one who concealed important evidence from my client.”
Lana wanted to throw something. She looked around at her paper-strewn desk and cluttered bookshelves. She managed to restrain herself, if only because she wanted her anger to leave some kind of mark. In her messy office, nobody would even notice.
“Your client is a cold-blooded murderer,” she said.
“So says the corrupt prosecutor and her lapdog investigator. I’m going to prove you’re both liars.”
Lana clenched her fist. The cordless phone creaked under the pressure.
“But we could avoid all this unpleasantness if you’d offer my client a deal. He’d be willing to plead to receipt of stolen property. One year of probation should do it.”
“How do you sleep at night, you son of a—”
“Temper, temper, counselor. The judge already warned you to be civil to me.”
Lana hung up on him. The plastic handset slammed so hard into the cradle she wondered if she’d broken it. The District Attorney’s Office still had old phones from the early two-thousands. Glamorous, it was not.
Usually, she kept a cooler head. She saved her ire for interviewing suspects in an interrogation room whenever she was called upon to work with the local police department. But this case felt personal for her in a lot of ways.
Lana was the Assistant District Attorney for West Oaks County, California, a picturesque seaside enclave on the outskirts of the Los Angeles metro area.
They only had a few violent crimes a year.
But in a couple of weeks, wealthy playboy Ryan Hearst would go on trial for the murder of Heather Barnes, a local teenage girl, back in 1998.
The girl’s death had gone unsolved for decades, thwarting every attempt to find a new lead, until Lana herself started working on the case in her spare time.
She’d asked her old friend Max Bennett to help investigate.
Since he’d left the army, Max had started Bennett Security, the top private security company in their region. Moonlighting as an investigator wasn’t his daily gig. But she and Max had known each other forever, and they’d worked together on a handful of cases before.
Then, Max had found evidence to blow the Barnes case wide open. Hearst’s arrest came shortly after. Lana had been looking forward to prosecuting that scumbag for a long time.
Of course, Hearst hired thousand-dollar-an-hour attorneys from Los Angeles to defend him. Paxton Wayfair, the man she’d just hung up on, was the worst of the lot.
Lana had plenty of good friends who were criminal defense attorneys, but Wayfair wasn’t one of them.
And now this, right on the eve of trial. Wayfair had accused her of personal misconduct.
An inappropriate intimate relationship with her so-called investigator, Max Bennett, the motion had said.
Wayfair didn’t know how comical that accusation really was.
The phone rang again, and Lana grabbed it. “If you think I’m even going to consider offering a plea—” she began, belatedly noticing the caller ID.
Wayfair’s name wasn’t there. Instead, it said, Unknown number.
She heard heavy breathing on the line.
Not again. She was so sick of this.
“I don’t know who you are, or if you work for Wayfair. I don’t really care. But if you think you can intimidate me with these pathetic tactics, you’ve got another thing coming.”
Still, the person on the other end of the line said nothing. Only breathed.
A chill ran down her body, straight into her feet.
Lana had to be tough as a litigator, especially as a woman who wasn’t even thirty yet. But these calls unnerved her. The guy—it had to be a guy—had called five times in the last month. Always when she was alone at work.
Never said a word, just breathed fast. Panting.
Disgust flashed through her, making her stomach curdle. “Why don’t you come to my office next time. Do your little creeper act in person. I’ll shove my fist down your throat, you mouth-breathing mother—”
Then she noticed that her door had just opened. Max Bennett stood there, hand on the doorknob, his eyes widening.
“Um, so, put me on your do-not-call list,” she choked out, and hung up.
Max came fully into the room and closed the door. “Who was that?”
“Telemarketer? Or maybe a prank call.” She sat down, gripping the chair to hide the shaking in her hands. “Who knows.”
“A prank call? People still do those?”
“Apparently so.”
She took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. She didn’t want him to know about the calls. Max had an overprotective streak as long as the Pacific Coast Highway.
Once, she might’ve welcomed that kind of attention from Max. Now, it was way too complicated.
Besides, the creeper probably worked for Paxton Wayfair. She wasn’t going to let Wayfair get under her skin. “What can I do for you?”
Max didn’t usually come all the way to the District Attorney’s Office. They conferenced by phone or at his plush company headquarters.
“You texted? Said there was an emergency?”
“Right. Of course, I did. Sit down.” If only so she didn’t have to keep staring at his long legs and trim stomach in that tailored suit. She’d thought he looked good in his army fatigues, but businessman Max was somehow even hotter.
He took a seat across from her. Her government office was a sad comparison to Max’s fancy one across town, with its big computer screens, glass walls and ocean views. Yet the man looked gorgeous, even amidst tacky outdated furniture. Max looked good everywhere.
Her life would be so much easier if she could stop noticing that.
“Hearst’s lawyers have filed a new motion. They want to keep you from testifying about the evidence you found, plus disqualify me as the prosecutor. All based on ‘newly discovered evidence,’ or so Paxton Wayfair claims.”
“At least he doesn’t do things half-assed. What is this new evidence?”
“He claims that you and I are…” She averted her eyes. Lana had thought she’d been through enough courtroom confrontations that she couldn’t get flustered anymore. But this subject was proving her wrong.
“Sleeping together,” she finished. “And that I seduced you into framing his client, all so that I could make a name for myself as a prosecutor.”
Max sputtered a laugh. “Us? That’s…” His face was turning red.
“Completely ridiculous. I know.”
“Why would anyone even think that?” His voice had gone strangely high-pitched, which might’ve been funny in other circumstances. Usually, Max had the kind of smooth baritone that made men listen and women dampen their panties. “You and I, we’re…practically family.”
The muscle in her jaw tightened. “Just what I was going to say.” Which was a bald-faced lie. Whatever she felt for Max, it wasn’t familial. But he, on the other hand, seemed horrified by the very idea of them as lovers.
You didn’t used to feel that way, she said silently.
She and Max did have a history, as much as he clearly wished to forget it. An ancient history. It was not something they talked about. Ever.
“You don’t think the judge will buy it, do you?” Max asked. “She already denied their last motion to suppress the evidence.”
“This new motion is baseless. But I’m worried the judge will grant a hearing, which will only give it oxygen.
” Judge Vaughn couldn’t decide to scratch her own butt without holding a hearing about it first. “I’m sure Wayfair just wants to make me squirm.
And waste my time. I don’t have an army of junior associates doing trial prep for me, unlike him. ”
All she had was her second chair, Trevor Allen. He was helpful and good with victims, but Trevor wasn’t exactly headed for the Supreme Court.
She rested her forehead in her hands.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have asked for Max’s help with the case. If she’d found some other investigator to nail Ryan Hearst, this wouldn’t be happening.
“How can I help? Should I kick Wayfair’s ass?”
Lana sighed, lifting her head. “Sign an affidavit that Wayfair’s accusations are pure make-believe?” It was a written statement under oath that she could attach to her opposition brief. Hopefully, Judge Vaughn would be satisfied, and that would be the end of it.
“Of course.”
She typed up a quick statement and printed it for his signature. After they’d finished, he said, “If the Judge does grant a hearing, when will it happen?”
“Probably in the next few days? It’ll be fast, otherwise we’ll have to move the trial date.”
“Just tell me the day and a time. I’ll be there whenever you need me.”
She ignored the flutter in her chest. As usual, he was clean shaven, his dark hair expertly cut, no doubt at an expensive salon on Ocean Lane. If only she could see him as some kind of unofficial sibling or cousin, the way he now seemed to think of her.
If only she could forget what they’d once shared.
“I really appreciate your time.” Lana kept her tone professional. “Thank you.”
“It’s no problem at all. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble thwarting Wayfair’s latest stunt, and you’ll be back on track in no time. Since I’m here, should we talk about my testimony for the trial itself, too? I thought you had a few more things you wanted to go over since our last prep session.”
She made a show of organizing a stack of papers on her desk, even though she would probably need a dumpster to work her way through all this mess. Literally and figuratively.
“Not now. I have to go speak to the victim’s sister. I need to prepare her if she hears about Wayfair’s motion. Whenever there’s something unexpected with the case, she gets understandably upset.”
“You want me to come with you?”
“I’ve got it.” But she appreciated his offer. Her annoyance at him faded. As it always did. “I’ll call you when I have an update.”
“What about dinner tonight?”
She looked up, her eyes meeting his dark ones. “What?”
“We could do trial prep over dinner later. Since you’re busy now.
” He just shrugged, like his suggestion meant nothing.
Like she and Max had dinner together alone all the time.
Just a couple of old friends, drinking wine outside work hours, with no Aurora or anybody else to provide a buffer. No awkwardness.
No awkwardness at all.
“Actually, scratch that, I just remembered I have a prior obligation.” He stood, digging his hands into his pockets. “Another time. Let me know about the hearing?”
“Right. I will.” She put on her best poker face until he left.
They might’ve grown up in the same neighborhood in West Oaks and shared a certain history. But it was far wiser, both for her career and her heart, to hold Max Bennett at arm’s length.