Chapter 16
The final day of the trial
Philimino called his final witness. Dane didn’t care. Everything in him was taken up with concern for Shana. She wasn’t herself, not even the knife wound recovery explained it.
A forensic psychologist took the stand. She testified that Nash was more likely trying to torture or toy with Shana than kill her.
“So in my professional opinion it can’t be assumed that Mr. Nash was going to kill Ms. George when he visited her in her hospital room. It’s my opinion that he was just as likely surrendering because he had a strong will to live based on my review of his prison record.”
“Thank you.” Philimino ended his examination and took his seat.
Kimble stood and approached the confident witness.
Dane almost felt sorry for the woman knowing that she was about to be torn to professional shreds.
Kimble forced the psychologist to admit that there was no way for Dane to know Nash’s state of mind, being a regular guy and not a professional, and that given the fact that Nash had bombed their home, it was a natural assumption to make that he’d been trying to kill Shana.
The woman barely nodded her head.
Judge Katz said, “Say your answer out loud for the record, please.”
“Yes.” It was a tenth of a decibel above a whisper. But Kimble wasn’t finished with her.
“About that strong will to live that you claim Nash had, based on your review of his records—don’t you think witnessing the loss of his lover might change all that?”
The psychologist turned red enough for the jury to notice and did a fish mouth before the DA could object to the question. Something about it not being officially established that the deceased partner was his lover.
Dane loved his attorney.
By the time she introduced the prison records, officially establishing the fact that his partner in crime was his lover, Dane had a hard time not grinning.
But he knew better than to be anything but solemn and unflinching as the jury watched him.
He owed Kimble a bonus. Even Shana would agree to that.
The psychologist stepped down from the stand and it was time for Kimble to present his defense. She called the only witness for the defense, the only witness that Philimino hadn’t already called. Ronnie Ryan.
Ronnie had arrived on island by army helicopter straight from West Point while he and Elena and the others were busy in Boston.
The governor had pulled some strings, yet again.
Dane forced himself to stop tallying the favors he owed Peter.
Shana reminded him of the risks he had taken on his friend’s behalf and figured they would call it even.
They would always do whatever they needed to do for each other.
Ronnie Ryan, no longer recognizable as the skinny little food delivery boy took the stand in his West Point dress uniform.
“Impressive,” Kimble whispered to him. “Luckily. Because his testimony is key.”
After overcoming three objections from Philimino, Judge Katz allowed Ronnie to tell his story.
Ronnie described how he saw Nash’s sidekick stab Shana and how Dane hadn’t killed Nash then.
In the final words of the trial, Kimble gave her closing argument.
She stood, her hair wild and her face intense, glaring, she walked to the jury’s box and paced back and forth twice, three times, amping up the jury’s anticipation and that of every person in the packed courtroom.
Dane knew what she was going to say, felt the tension in the room rise, spiking to the red zone around him.
But he felt calm, his heart beating steady and sure. She stopped and finally spoke.
“Truth: Dane Blaise killed Whitey Nash.” She paused, causing the entire room to hold its breath, knowing her next words were like a giant lead ball ready to drop.
“But he did not murder Whitey.” She paused to let it sink in, the truth that Dane and everyone he knew in their souls—everyone who knew him knew it—except Cap.
“The difference is that Dane Blaise was saving the life of the love of his life, Shana George. The evidence has shown that he had every reason to believe that Whitey Nash wanted her dead, including words from Nash’s own mouth and that of Nash’s lover and cohort.
And when Nash raised his arm with his knife in hand, standing over the bedside of a prone and helpless Shana George, it was no stretch to conclude that Nash meant to stab Shana George with that knife.
“Nash did not drop the knife when he was told to by Mr. Blaise, so there was no reason to think raising his knife in the air was somehow an act of surrender as the so-called police Captain claimed.”
Dane felt satisfied and at the same time flinched at the humiliation Kimble was visiting on Cap. He deserved it didn’t he? He should have known better.
He hadn’t been there when Nash tried to kill Shana, when Nash’s partner stabbed her. All he had was his forensic psychologist.
After closing arguments, it didn’t take long for the jury to acquit him.
It took even less time than that for Shana to drag him back to their trailer when everyone else went to the Gable’s house for the celebration
“What’s the matter? You forget something?” Dane had that lazy grin, speeding up her heart, as he followed her inside the cold trailer, pulling the door closed behind him with a tinny yet determined click.
“Not unless you count the sight of you naked and sweaty.” Enjoying the sudden spark in his eye, the twitch of his mouth, she backed through the kitchen into the bedroom, hitting the edge of the bed almost immediately.
It was the only thing in the room, the only thing that would fit in the room aside from a single nightstand.
The night stand was shoe-horned in as an essential item to store the Glock. And the condoms.
But Shana had no use for either of them now.
She wanted Dane, all male pulsing and hot inside her and she wouldn’t settle for anything less now as he approached her pushing her back on the bed.
Without even bothering to close the bedroom door, he tumbled on top of her, careful not to crush her with his weight, but pinning her with his hard body.
“And I thought I was unforgettable.” He spoke close in to her ear, shooting shivers of pleasure through her with his breath moving the fine hairs at her temple.
“It’s me. I need reminding. Constant…” She would have finished her sentence, but his hot mouth sucked in her earlobe, temporarily making speech impossible as she let the sensations overtake her.
A moan was all she could manage. It was enough as she felt his smile.
Felt his hands slipping under her sweater, inside her bra to caress her breast, toy with her nipple until she squirmed under him.
Reaching for his zipper, she turned on her side to face him, finding herself staring at his intense passion-filled eyes. His hot breath hit her, mingled with her breath in the intimate space.
“I’m yours, girlie. If you’re going to grab my zipper, pull it down. Take a handful of me.”
Pressing her mouth to his, tasting him, those lusty giving lips, the saltiness, the scalding heat of his tongue.
She pulled his zipper down and gripped his cock in her hand, reveling in the hot hard silky feel, moving her fingers, testing him.
The sound of his strained breathing, the feel of his breath on her, the reflexive press of his hips and jolt of his cock sent white hot need pulsing through her.
He pinched her nipple and groaned, taking over as he pushed her onto her back and came on top of her, sliding her skirt off with practiced expertise.
She pulled at his pants and he helped take them off along with his shorts.
Wanting his bare chest, the feel of his hot skin, his rippling muscles and even his rough scars against her—maybe especially his scars—she tugged at his shirt.
He kneeled up and pulled his shirt off in an instant, not caring about tearing it.
As he knelt there in front of her, now naked, she held him back, stroking his chest and taking him in, the magnificence of him, raw and untamed, far from perfect, but somehow all the better for it. Hers.
Stroking a finger around her nipple under her sweater, he leaned forward and pulled it up, slow and gentle in deference to her healing wound. The tenderness of him nearly undid her as she reached for his cock again in rush, urgency driving her to feel him, to be connected.
He removed all her clothes leaving her naked and uncovered except by him, his body heat and her desire, the only things keeping her warm.
Hot, in fact. Now he took his time touching and marveling at her, even her wound, gently running his finger over the raw scar.
The look on his face was breathtakingly reverent.
“Dane…”
Shana wanted to tell him how much she felt for him, loved him, wanted to be part of him forever, never again without him, wanted to explain how he completed her, the well of emotions taking her over.
But he lowered his mouth onto hers now in a sultry slow kiss that told her he was in charge, that she was his and that he was taking his time to treasure every last bit of her.
That said he knew everything she was thinking and feeling.
They made love, long and unhurried, and finally unburdened.