Not that arresting the man would guarantee that. They needed to build a case against him, find ample enough proof that no matter who came to the powerful man’s rescue, the prosecutor could still win a conviction.
It wouldn’t be easy. James Morrison was a respected and very rich man who’d funded many of the seated politicians in California’s congress. He probably had blackmail goods on others.
And that was where she came in. With her blond hair curling over her breasts, the ample cleavage that was visible in the V of the black, figure-hugging and glittering gown she’d worn for her debut evening as the daughter of an East Coast millionaire newly settling in California, Chantel remembered the mantra that Wayne had been repeating almost hourly the week since they’d won approval for this sting.
Patience.
“Undercover work isn’t about going in and getting it done,” he’d told her. “It’s about taking the time to become intimate with the life you’re infiltrating.”
Used to being the one who bulldozed ahead and made things happen, Chantel paused just inside the door of the richly decorated room. She’d passed her first test—handing off her invitation at the door.
Gleaned from the police commissioner himself. A man she’d never met, a man who wouldn’t be acknowledging her presence that night—though he would surely be there, even if just to put in an appearance.
He’d agreed to the sting, wanted her to get Morrison if he turned out to be guilty of beating up his wife.
But he was expecting Chantel to clear the textile magnate’s name. Morrison and Commissioner Paul Reynolds were golf buddies. They went way back.
Or so she’d been told.
Still, she couldn’t know the commissioner. Not newly arrived from upstate New York as she was.
And she wasn’t about to get cozy with James Morrison, either. No, her job was to infiltrate the community. Become friendly with those who knew Morrison. People who could let things drop that a police officer might be able to use to find the dirt on him. The truth about him.
Her job was to find out the man’s deepest secrets, and if those secrets involved raising even a little finger to his wife or son, to expose him for the criminal that he was. She was there to get the proof...
* * *
COLIN WORKED THE room as his father had taught him, making time for each and every one of the firm’s clients. Shaking hands. Being available to anyone who might need advice on the spot.
And making certain that Fairbanks and Fairbanks’s top-grade lawyers, all in their tuxes and sipping on nothing more lethal than club soda, were ready to step into any situation that required more complicated legal machinations.
Though Colin was certainly as skilled and capable as the best of them, his job as the rainmaker, and CEO, of Fairbanks and Fairbanks required that he know about every single deal his firm handled. Which meant that he couldn’t possibly give his wealthy clients the time and attention they required for drawing up complicated contracts with all t’s crossed and i’s dotted.
Colin handled the beginning and the end. The handshakes. Occasionally, on cases that took unexpected turns, he’d be in the middle, too.
His self-appointed job—his purpose in life—was to make certain that integrity was at the root of everything touched by a Fairbanks. He owed that to Julie.
And to the parents who’d died young and counted on him to protect her. He was a lawyer—educated at Stanford, graduated from the top of his class—and he’d been unable to bring his sister justice.
He’d learned young—and the hard way—that integrity was rare, and he couldn’t count on it from anyone but Julie. Ever.
He hadn’t seen Jaime yet—she was busy behind the scenes getting ready for the opening of the curtain that would highlight all of the night’s top auction pieces on the revolving stage that had been set up in the middle of the room—but he hoped to be able to say hello. To invite Julie’s friend to dine with them one night before she left town, to hear what Jaime thought of the Julie she’d seen that week.
Not that he’d gossip about his sister. But Jaime had known Julie before the incident. She’d gotten into trouble with her a time or two. Like the time they’d climbed to the top of the water tower to hold up a sign, a piece of artwork, really, made by Jaime, protesting the fact that they’d been told they couldn’t pray in school.
Catching sight of the police commissioner, he made a sharp turn and a beeline for the bar, where he ordered a Scotch and water. The water in deference to the fact that he was driving. He kept his back to the room. Commissioner Reynolds didn’t stay long at these things—usually leaving his deputy commissioner to the public relations duties required by the office he held—but with the Smyths in attendance, it was no surprise the commissioner had shown, as well. And if Colin turned around to look, he was sure he’d see Smyth, too. They were always together.
He hadn’t seen either of the David Smyths that evening. But it wouldn’t have mattered if he had. He’d faced them down many times, with polite indifference. Each and every time they were the first to look away.
He took some small measure of satisfaction in that. Not nearly enough to even hope to heal his sister’s wounds, the damage they’d done to his family, but it allowed him to walk among them.
Julie was determined that people like the Smyths—people who bought police commissioners off rather than being accountable to their actions—would not chase out of town the people with integrity, namely the Fairbankses.
And that was the strongest reason Colin hung around. Because it was what Julie needed.
He could be a good lawyer anywhere and might even be better suited at finding a woman who didn’t bore him if he weren’t still living in the same small society in which he’d grown up. Or at least find one that he trusted to like him for the man he was inside, not for the man who happened to have a few million in his bank account.
One thing was for certain. While there were ample numbers of women here who would be eager to wear his ring, not one of them was willing to sign a prenuptial agreement.
He knew. He’d made quite a reputation for himself a few years back when he’d been on the brink of proposing and had brought up the prenuptial subject as a way of leading into the proposal. He’d actually thought love drove the liaison that time. That the woman in question understood that unless Julie married, Colin’s inheritance would one day go to her.
He supposed it was lucky that he’d never made it to the proposal stage. He’d been saved from being married for his money. “A glass of Chateau Ste. Michelle Pinot, please?”
The voice, coming from just behind him on the left, seemed to pour over Colin’s shoulder and down his body. Smooth and cultured, like she’d attended one of those finishing schools that always seemed to take anything natural and real out of women. And yet...with a hint of husky, too. A hint that maybe this particular woman hadn’t been a complete success at that school.
He turned, expecting to see someone older, perhaps his mother’s age. An art lover up from LA. Or one who’d flown in from the East Coast, like Jaime had...
Blond hair came into his vision, flowing over the most perfect breasts... The glass in his hand dropped to the bar with such force he was embarrassed. His mouth would have dropped, too, if he hadn’t been so cultured himself.
She was most definitely not his mother’s age.
“Hello,” he said, making way for her to step up to the bar beside him.
“Hello.” Her East Coast accent wasn’t strong, but it was there. Another part of her the school couldn’t quite ameliorate?
“I’m Colin Fairbanks,” he said,