As E.D. walked the long halls, she again tried to call her seventeen-year-old daughter, Dani—but without success. Mac, her eleven-year-old son, didn’t answer his phone, either. Trey must have had some input there. As bad as Dani’s situation was—and she had yet to get to the bottom of it—surely he hadn’t succeeded in convincing her son that she was in any way responsible?
Walking through the halls, she willed her expression to remain blank and only murmured, “Thanks,” to the half-dozen people who were still there working on their own cases, looking up to congratulate her. She’d encouraged her secretary, Nita, not to wait on her—a good thing because as she opened the door to her office, the sight of her three red suitcases had her slumping against the door, her vision blurring from tears.
Remember where you are.
Real help came as her phone started vibrating. Hoping it was Mac or Dani, she straightened and reached into her pocket. When she checked the caller ID screen, she couldn’t believe her eyes.
Dylan Justiss!
Why she continued to keep his number on her personal phone she couldn’t say—or didn’t want to admit. But realizing that she was a button click away from hearing his strong, reassuring voice had her insides fluttering in excitement.
Someone discreetly coughed behind her.
Pivoting, she saw a suave-looking, mature man, his hair barely a shade lighter than his steel-gray eyes and suit. “Sir.”
“Congratulations, E.D.,” Travis County District Attorney Emmett Garner said with a regal nod. “You’ve done me proud again.”
“Thank you. Though considering the amount of DNA evidence, I think a final-year law student could have handled this case.” Pocketing her phone, she gestured. “Care to come in?”
Apparently, he did, and while he eyed the luggage, it was noteworthy that he made no comment. Instead, he shut the door, leaned back against it, and assumed a deceptively casual pose of folded arms and crossed ankles. Cary Grant never did it better. E.D. had once read that while in college, Emmett had done Shakespeare onstage, earning reviews that could have launched a stage career if he’d wanted it. Aside from his smooth, sophisticated features, his precise diction and lack of any Western twang seemed to support that; however, his performance hall had become a Texas courtroom, and he’d tried some of the most important cases in the state’s history, winning the majority soundly.
“I hope you didn’t stay late because of me?” E.D. asked, preferring to get this over with rather than deal with a prolonged silence. Reaching her desk, she set her bag and briefcase onto it and met his shrewd scrutiny straightforward.
“Because of and for these few words, my dear. Delayed an engagement after I heard the verdict,” he intoned. “I wanted an opportunity to salute Le Martel and see for my own eyes how, under the circumstances, the day’s events affected my faithful soldier. Elegant, but a gladiator still,” he added with a satisfied gleam in his eyes. “You reassure me.”
Meaning he’d heard the worst and had questions about his “best and brightest” being in deep domestic trouble. E.D. admired and often liked Emmett, but she had no illusions about how fast he would give the thumbs-down signal to feed her to the two-legged lions if she polluted his precious department and crippled his political future.
“You trained your protégée well, sir. I, too, would like to recognize someone—my assistant, Bruce Littner. He deserves a letter in his file for his part in this verdict.”
“See that it’s done. At the rate we wear out staff, it’s always good to remember to stroke the young talent, and I’ve long admired your nose for potential stars.”
“Thank you.”
Without breaking eye contact, Emmett tilted his head toward the luggage. “I’m not going to meddle, unless you feel the need for a confidant…and I think that same fine mind is far too intelligent to want me to be one.”
Velvety words barely cloaking a steel-hard warning had the desired effect on E.D. This wasn’t the first time she had heard them, although it was the first since rising so high in the department. “You flatter me, sir. But I plan to continue separating work and family.
“This should be simply a divorce case at worst,” she continued, holding his penetrating gaze. If she’d had a choice, she would as soon take her chances with a great white shark. “As for the T.R.O., I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do tonight about the media’s carnivorous interest in the temporary restraining order. However, I’ll seek injunctive relief first thing tomorrow morning. In the meantime, you can be assured I signed no authorization whatsoever for my daughter to model, and would certainly never approve of those kind of photographs.
“Danielle is barely seventeen.” She lowered her voice to a near whisper to guarantee his focus. “As a mother, my heart is aching for my daughter’s humiliation. As an attorney, I’m furious that yet another predator has apparently taken advantage of a minor and I plan to make him—or whomever is responsible—rue the day they hatched this plan.”
Despite her quiet dignity, Emmett looked only marginally reassured. “You have my deepest sympathies and support, as well as the resources of this office to prosecute what I’m hearing from you is a criminal act. But…I would prefer it not to be played out on the front pages of the newspapers and on TV. At least not now. I think you agree with me that this would be in no one’s best interests?”
E.D. clasped her hands behind her back to keep him from seeing her fist them. No one, meaning Emmett Garner. She could see the gears in his mind working and knew that he was concerned about a “guilt by association” implication. At fifty-eight, he was in prime professional and political condition to take the governor’s seat in the next election. It was critical for him to leave the D.A.’s office on a high note. E.D. had no intention of making a public show of her daughter’s naiveté or foolishness—whichever this proved to be—but she would be damned if Emmett’s ambitions cost her child legal justice.
“Protecting the privacy of a minor is my first and greatest concern,” she said coolly.
Ever the image of self-containment, Emmett checked his watch. “Initially, this is bound to impact your schedule.”
The nerve of the man, she fumed in silence. E.D. had successfully juggled a tough schedule through two pregnancies, and had returned to work early each time. As an aspiring novelist, Trey had been eager to stay at home with the babies. Oh, she thought with a new sinking feeling, how she had played into her husband’s hands.
“There. That’s exactly why I came to see you,” Emmett snapped, pointing a professionally manicured finger at her. “There’s self-doubt on your face. Since when does E. D. Martel let anyone see anything less than resolve?”
Since her I’m-writing-the-great-American-novel spouse pulled something she had yet to fully comprehend. Since their daughter had walked, tripped or otherwise been lured neck-deep into a disaster that could haunt her the rest of her life. Dani couldn’t begin to know the breadth and width of what she’d done, but E.D. dealt with such things 24/7.
Drawing a steadying breath, she offered, “This is Wednesday, and as you know I have the Horvath case starting Monday, which will bring the office as much attention, if not more, than the Guy case did. If I haven’t shown you that I’m up to your standards by the end of opening remarks, replace me.”
E.D. had no idea if her challenge was all bravado, let alone sensible.
What she was convinced of was that she hadn’t spent the last thirty-eight years of her life building to this, only to chicken out even before she fully understood what she was dealing with.
Emmett studied her another moment and then pushed himself away from the door. “I’m glad that we understand each other. See you at seven-thirty for the regular java and jockeying session.”
As