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“Paul O’Connor is in the hospital barely able to breathe or think,” Campbell said.
“I’m so sorry he’s ill.”
You don’t give a damn about Paul and you know it.
And yet again, her face paled, and her voice went soft with husky concern that turned Campbell to mush.
Destroy her. Unnerve her.
Campbell fumbled awkwardly with the disclosure sheets of the sales contract. Then he rustled through his list of questions he’d deliberately structured to entrap her.
Somehow he had to get this smooth-talking actress to admit that she’d known all along about the mold and hadn’t disclosed it. Her shaky voice and hands meant she was highly agitated. Maybe if he got her really mad, she’d snap. He was famous for his Perry Mason moments.
“Back to this mold situation at the O’Connors’,” he murmured in a tight, low tone. “It was an old house on the water—”
“There was no mold.” She glanced at her watch and out the window again. “The Tylers were diligent about maintaining their home. They repaired leaks, cleaned air-conditioning ducts. Besides, we had it tested for mold.”
“By an unreliable agent.”
“Just because your man, whom you no doubt paid to lie…three months later—”
Tom wagged a warning finger at his client, but she was too flushed with excitement to heed him.
Campbell almost grinned when she attacked her own attorney.
“Mr. Davis, I thought you were my lawyer.”
Campbell noted that there wasn’t a hint of that lazy drawl now. Just for a second he caught a couple of syllables that sounded crisp and elite…almost foreign. East Coast? No, that cut-glass accent wasn’t American.
“How can you defend this…this pirate?” she was saying.
“Please, Hannah…”
“It’s all right, Davis. I’ve been called worse.” Campbell faked a scowl.
“A pirate…who…who cunningly plasters his handsome, ruthless face on every billboard and phone book cover his money can buy?”
Handsome? Campbell’s perverse mind got stuck on the word.
“He’s a fake, pretending he’s some Robin Hood defending the poor. How can you defend such a rude, crude ambulance chaser?”
Ambulance chaser? The day of any accident, the insurance lawyers are there, lady! But do you criticize them?
“Mr. Campbell has repeatedly called me and threatened—”
“I was merely trying to set up an appointment for this deposition,” Campbell said in the same reasonable, sympathetic tone he used to persuade juries.
“Don’t talk down to me! You have no right to sue me.”
“This is America, Mrs. Smith. Texas, America. The Wild West. Anybody can sue anybody.”
“There was no mold when I sold the O’Connors that house.”
Campbell leaned toward her, automatically straightening his bold tie. “My clients say there was.”
She sank lower in her chair and gasped in a breath.
“Slimy. Greenish.” Campbell warmed to his subject as if she were a juror. “Black. Fungus. Toxic mold. Aspergillus, to be exact. Mr. O’Connor is a very sick man. Take a look at those photographs.”
“I’m sorry if he’s sick, but Mr. O’Connor doesn’t have anything that a green poultice won’t fix,” she said softly.
“That’s an old joke. I won’t sit here while you disparage innocent—” Deliberately Campbell leaned back in his chair.
“Innocent? They’re not innocent! I am! I told you there are such things as evil homeowners who…who…”
“Who what?” Campbell sprang forward again. “Who don’t want to be taken advantage of by Realtors like you?”
She opened her mouth wide and strained to get a breath. “Homeowners, who…who get up on the roofs with hoses and pour gallons of water into cracks between the walls!”
Her words hit him like a swift punch in the gut. To cover his fear that his clients had lied and he was on the wrong side again, he sprang to his feet. “I’m more interested in evil Realtors, Mrs. Smith, who misrepresent properties to make a quick sale.”
She stood up, too. “Don’t accuse me of your dirty games—”
Campbell smiled. “And what kind of dirty games do you play, Mrs. Smith?” His sensual gaze swept her from head to toe.
What the hell did she look like naked?
A hot crimson flush stained her cheeks. With a startled gasp, she sank back down in her chair.
Buying time, he stalked around to his desk and sat down, too.
“I think you’re vile,” she whispered.
“Who, me?” he murmured. “Vile?”
“Tom told me to save these for later,” she rasped. “But I’m too furious.”
She plunged her hand into her shapeless beige purse again and shook out three lipsticks, the gold mirror, wadded bits of paper and a photograph, which she slapped onto his desk.
“You’re not the only one with a camera! That’s your Mr. O’Connor on the roof.”
All Campbell saw were thighs to die for and masses of long golden hair.
“Wow!” he whispered, finally recognizing her. “You look much better naked than I imagined—well, half-naked.”
“Naked?” When she saw the snapshot, her cheeks caught fire. “Give me that!”
“Are you trying to distract me with sex, Mrs. Smith?”
“You low-down—”
Campbell laughed appreciatively. When she tried to snatch the picture back, he held it away from her.
The subjects in the photograph were a gorgeous blonde in a thong bikini and a blond little girl in a pink playsuit. The kid was about four. But the woman—
Wow. Bombshell. Wet dream.
Incredible breasts bulged out of slippery red material, and yes, she most definitely had thighs to die for. Mother and child were patting turrets of a sand-castle. There was a big house on a tall cliff in the background. The woman was staring at the little girl with a look of utter adoration.
He looked up at Mrs. Smith and grinned like a cat that had just munched a turtledove and found the repast delicious.
Well, now I can guess what you look like naked.
“I like you better blond.…And the less you wear, the better you look!”
With a wild guttural cry of sheer rage, she lunged for the picture.
“Wrong picture,” she said icily, when he released it.
Thrusting it back in her purse, she came up with two dog-eared photographs and slapped them onto his desk. “There!”
“I like the shot of you in a bikini better.”
“Concentrate. See that hose? Mr. O’Connor doesn’t look sick to me. I have a video of him, too, and I’m sending them to my insurance company. He deliberately created that mold to get an insurance settlement to pay for his remodeling. You’re not going to destroy my good name.”
Campbell went cold. Somehow he forced a warm smile, his best lawyer smile. “Pictures like this won’t make any difference.”
“If they don’t, it’s because the entire legal system…is bought off by corrupt, rich lawyers like you. Since I’ve been in Texas…”
“Since you’ve been in Texas?” he repeated. He stood up, and she struggled for her next breath. “Where were you before Texas? Why did you dye your hair…?”
She went absolutely still.
He stared at her hard and then let it drop. “You’re taking this lawsuit way too personally,” he murmured.
“Oh, I am, am I? Well, for your information, being sued for more money than I’ll ever make if I live to be a hundred feels personal!” She walked back to her chair and sat back down and turned to Tom. “Oh, what’s the use of even trying to talk to someone as low as he is? I can’t take any more of his questions or accusations. Not today.”
“Low…” How in the hell could her ridiculous insult hurt? Or was it that she’d turned to Tom, when he wanted all of her attention?
Low.
“I…I’ve read things about you, Mr. Campbell,” she whispered, rallying.
“Such as, Mrs. Smith?”
“You stole money, ruined your best friend’s company, and your brokenhearted wife divorced you.”
“Ah, my wife…” Icy despair seeped through Campbell. He didn’t give a damn about his wife. Still, he had to clench his hand into a fist to hold on to his control.
“And I don’t blame her one bit.”
“So, you’ve researched me—”
“She got your mansion in River Oaks—”
As if that was what had made him bitter and filled him with hate.…
He remembered the way Carol had curled against his body every night and felt sweet and soft and warm during those first months of marriage.
His black eyes narrowed. He’d believed her when she’d told him she loved him. He’d adored her, worshiped her and believed in her. For the first time in his life, he’d almost felt…human.
“You had to leave Houston because you’re so corrupt people there despise you. Your best friend’s wife killed herself because of—”
Campbell’s face turned to stone. His mouth tasted like ashes. “Is that so? Do go on.”
“You…why, you’re such a terrible father your son won’t have anything to do with you.”
His son. Every nerve in his body buzzed.
“And you’re such a good mother,” he murmured so cuttingly she gulped in a breath.
“The state even tried to disbar you because you are such a bad lawyer. You…you solicited clients improperly after that awful two-plane collision in east Texas where those little children—”
“You don’t know a damn thing about me!” he shouted, banging his fist on his desk. “I’m not on trial. I’m deposing you.”
Davis stared wide-eyed. It was Campbell’s turn to gulp in a savage breath. If it were the last thing he did, Campbell had to get control of this exchange and finish off her and her wimp of an attorney once and for all.
“One corrupt judge tried to have me disbarred. And failed, Mrs. Smith. Just as you will fail, if you fight me with these ridiculous, rigged photographs.” Getting up, he tore her pictures in two.
She stood up, too. She was tall, but he was taller. When she shuddered, he realized his massive size intimidated her. Good. Using his body as a weapon, he moved closer.
“I—I’ve got more,” she whispered, backing away from him.
“So do I,” he thundered.
“And…and they aren’t rigged. I’m not like you. I wouldn’t rig—” She tore his pictures into zillions of pieces and tossed them onto his rug. She was almost to the door. “Goodbye, Mr. Campbell.”
“I’m not finished with you yet. You think I don’t know about you? Well, I do. I’ve done my research, too!”
She paled.
“Everything about you is a damned lie, Mrs. Smith.” He backed her against the door. “Where the hell is Mr. Smith? Or is there a Mr. Smith? What’s your real name, honey?”
“Please…I—I’m sorry.…I shouldn’t have said…any of those horrible personal things. I—I was upset.”
Her apology seemed sincere. She was white and shaking, cowering from him, but he was too furious now to care.
“Too bad you got personal.” His mouth thinned. “I intend to win this, Mrs. Smith.” He had to win this. Africa, the ruthless son of a bitch had said so. “Now I’m more determined than ever to expose you.”
He ripped her sunglasses off.
Her eyes were blue. Huge vivid irises were ringed with inky black lashes. She looked young and vulnerable and very scared—of him.
“Who are you really?” he rasped.
“You’re the last man I’d ever tell,” she whispered.
Spunk. He liked her spunk. And those thighs she had—She’d looked so loving in that picture.
Relationships. He was no damn good at relationships. And even if he was, they were off to a bad start.
With a shaking hand she grabbed her glasses and jammed them clumsily back onto her narrow, white face. “Please…Just let me go.…”
When he grabbed her hand, it was as cold as ice. With his huge body, he drew her toward him and blocked the door.
“What are you so afraid of…besides me?” he whispered.
She gave a little cry and yanked herself loose.
He had the strangest compulsion to reach for her, but he knew that would only scare her more. With a curt nod, he stepped aside.
As if she considered him some sort of devil, she crossed herself and ran.
Campbell sank back into his chair exhausted. He loosened his collar and his bright yellow tie.
When Campbell heard Tom reassuring her outside in the hall, his mood blackened and he swiped his arm across his desk, knocking all the papers and files that dealt with the O’Connor lawsuit onto the floor.
Maybe she was a liar, but the O’Connors had lied to him, too. Clients had a bad habit of telling their lawyers only one side of a story—their side.
He opened a lower desk drawer and took out the bottle of Glenlivet he kept hidden there. Hating himself, he took a quick pull. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He kept seeing that picture of her. She’d been smiling at that kid so sweetly, and he couldn’t forget her thighs.
He’d better forget them. His job was to search and destroy—to expose Mrs. Smith; to do whatever he had to do to hurt her, to win for the O’Connors.
The thought of hurting so much as a single dyed hair on her inky head caused a sick, queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Who the hell was she?
Whoever she was, it was his job to find out and destroy her.
He rapped his fingers on his desk. With some difficulty, he squashed his guilt and dialed Chuck.
The detective picked up on the fourth ring and sounded grumpy and half stoned. “Yeah—”
“How’s it going?” Campbell began, really cringing now at the thought of siccing his old pal, the Charger, on the frightened Mrs. Smith.
Chuck groaned or, rather, bellowed in the middle of a yawn and some other noisy, repulsive body function, “What the hell time is it, anyway?”
“What the hell’s wrong with you? I know not to call you till noon—”
“Ooh…” Chuck paused. “Bad night.” Another groan that pierced Campbell’s eardrum. “Hangover. Vicious little hammers pounding in my brain. Not to mention—”
“What’d you do—”
“Got into a little…er…altercation.…” The Charger let the statement hang.
“You got drunk again and picked a fight—”
“No, man, this bastard insulted my bike. I took serious issue. Nobody says shit like that about the Charger’s bike. The ape was wearing steel-toed boots, and he had more friends than I did. They had chains. Every muscle in my body feels like he kicked it. I’ve gotta black eye that’s as purple as a plum and a tooth that’s hanging by a pink thread.”
“Your big mouth is going to be the end of you yet.” Campbell talked tough, but he felt affection. “Got something I want you to check out. A lady.” He told him everything he knew about Hannah Smith. He finished by saying he’d have Muriel fax key information from her file.
“What’s she done?”
“Just find out who she really is—ASAP. And no rough stuff.”
Chuck was six feet four inches, three hundred pounds of flab and muscle. Just a glance at the Charger, and the average Joe Blow thought—thug, if not worse things. He had massive arms, shoulder-length red hair, a gold loop in his right ear and a beer belly with a death head tattooed on it. He rode a Harley, which was as immaculate as he was unkempt. Not that he was as tough as he looked.
The Charger had strong convictions, which got stronger when he was drunk and forgot he was a coward. He’d been on the wrong side of trouble a time or two. Campbell had bailed him out more times than he could count. Nevertheless, after years of brawling, the Charger had found a niche of sorts. He was a top-notch detective and a whiz on the computer, not that he let on to any of his biker buddies.
“Hannah Smith, huh. Mystery lady? No rough stuff? You got the hots for this mama or something?”
Campbell suppressed a vision of her in the bikini. “Just find out who she is. And don’t let her see you. She’s scared of her own shadow. One whiff of you…and she’d run like a rabbit.”
“You do have the hots.” The Charger laughed.
“Scare the hell out of her if you want to, for all I care!” Campbell slammed the phone down and ordered pizza. He did not give a damn about Mrs. Smith. He didn’t.
Speaking of the hots, Muriel came in and told him Mrs. Crocker had called four more times.
“Call her back. Tell her I’m gone for the day.”
Shuffling through the stacked files on his desk, he saw the name Guy James on one of the labels and remembered he was supposed to make a decision as to whether or not to hire the kid as a law clerk. The kid was taking a year off from law school because his little brother was sick and getting sicker. Guy was raw and young and smart. He’d needed a job so badly he’d really pressed Campbell.
Impressed as Campbell was by the kid, he was in no mood to call him. Later.
Shoving James’s file aside, he eyed the rest of the stacked files and wondered how much he could get done if he worked until midnight. No reason to go home; there was nobody there. He was opening the top folder on his stack when Bob Africa buzzed him.
“I want to know how the deposition went. My office. Ten minutes? Okay?”
Not okay. Campbell hated stacks and wanted to get to work.
“Sure.” Campbell’s low voice was mild, but he spoke through his teeth and slammed the folder shut.
Hell.
Two
When the big metal door clanged shut behind her, Hannah stood in the dark beneath the burned-out light in the shadowy parking garage. For once she didn’t really register she was alone in the kind of place she was terrified of.
No, she was still shaking all over from the intensity of Joe Campbell’s attack, still too upset by the dark fury scrawled on his handsome, piratical face when he’d ripped off her glasses and stared at her with those black, deadly eyes that had stripped her to the bone while he threatened to expose her.
His wife had divorced him. Lucky woman.
Clasping her throat, where a large hand had once pulled red satin ribbons too tight, Hannah shivered, feeling sick to her stomach. Are you somebody else’s woman? Admit it. You’d better admit it because I’ve been watching you. Then the ribbons had squeezed off her breath.
Behind closed doors Mr. Campbell was probably a dangerous, violent and pathetically sick man.
She’d dreamed about this deposition, dreamed about him, had nightmares about him. But he had been worse than her nightmares. Every slick question, every pretty-boy white smile, every sympathetic stare when she’d tried to tell him what had really happened had been meant to trick or entrap her. And the way he’d kept looking at her, and looking through her, had thrown her totally off balance.
Naive fool that she still was, she’d wanted to be honest, but with a predator of his ruthless reputation, she’d known the foolhardiness of that tactic. So—knowing what kind of man he was, suspecting he was even worse in private, she’d deliberately baited him and made him so mad that he really was out to get her now. Why had she done that?
Because his black, deadly eyes had made her feel trapped and scared. She’d felt that if she’d attacked him, maybe he’d let up on her. But, of course his kind never backed off. She should know.
Oh, why hadn’t she just stuck to her plan to be careful and not to say anything that he could use against her?
Now he’d really be gunning for her. He’d called her a fake and threatened to expose her. Her stomach heaved queasily.
Oh, if only she could go somewhere, have a cup of tea or something, get over the awful encounter…maybe catch her breath, even.
She wanted to sit alone in a café where she could calm down and have time to digest what had happened, maybe think of a new game plan to appease him. Maybe she could ask Tom to settle on the mold issue so Joe Campbell wouldn’t threaten her entire life and the safety of her little girl.
She glanced fearfully at her watch. No time for tea. As usual, she was late to pick up her darling Georgia. Late! It was never smart to keep Georgia waiting. No telling what mischief her dynamo might get into.
Hannah heard the rumble of wheels on concrete and the soft purr of a finely tuned engine several floors below. Suddenly, it struck her that she was all alone in a place that terrified her. Why hadn’t she thought to have Tom walk her to her car?
As she moved away from the door to find her Mercedes, the ninth floor of the parking garage seemed to be bathed in an eerie, shadow-filled light. The air felt dank and thick and way too warm. She gasped for breath, for air itself.
Enclosed places. Hot spaces. Not her thing. Especially since she’d been stalked.
She swallowed and inhaled another little breath. Something was wrong—she could feel it. Turning her head, she peered into the darkness, but nobody seemed to be there. And yet, she felt a presence, as if someone was watching her. Naturally, she thought of the man who used to track her every move, the man who’d professed undying love for her.
He isn’t here. He can’t be. Crossing herself, she tilted her chin upward. Then she forced herself to pad silently in the direction of her ancient Mercedes, which she’d parked by the up ramp.
Why hadn’t she just parked on the street? Why?
Because it was important not to give in to every fear or whim, or pretty soon her whole life would be dictated by them.
Because being afraid was no way to live.
Don’t go there, she thought. Don’t think of him.
Lately, she’d been dreaming about him. Instead of reliving the dark, horrible memories of their marriage like she used to, she’d been dreaming he’d found her. That he was here, that he was only waiting, that he was playing one of his cat-and-mouse games again before he pounced on her.
“Did I ever tell you hide-and-seek was my favorite game when I was growing up?” he’d whispered lovingly one night.
Walking faster, she began rummaging in her catch-all of a purse for her car key.
At last she saw her Mercedes. She’d parked it in Joe Campbell’s spot because it had been the only empty space—and to defy him.
Only something was wrong. Her silver-blue sedan looked off balance somehow.
“Oh dear.…” The front right tire was flat. He used to flatten her tires.
From somewhere on the same floor, she heard hushed male laughter and then slow, deliberate steps. Then something moved toward her from the shadows.
A man? Him?
Black wings hurtled out of the ceiling struts straight at her. When a feather brushed her cheek, she screamed.
It was only a bird she’d startled. Not that that knowledge slowed her down any. Without investigating the tire, she skittered back toward the door that led to Joe Campbell’s offices as fast as she could run. Only when she got to the door, it was locked. When she jiggled the metal knob and yanked at it, and the door wouldn’t open from the outside, she beat on it, screaming. There was a keypad by the door, but she was too hysterical to remember the combination Muriel, Mr. Campbell’s beautiful, efficient secretary, had given her.
Her mind darted about wildly. She’d written it down, but it was lost in the scramble of scraps of paper in her purse somewhere. No use to even look for it. Not now.
As she pounded, the heavy footsteps behind her reverberated through the concrete parking garage.
He’d found her. Her dreams had been right once again.
If he killed her this time, what would happen to Georgia? Would he hurt her daughter as he’d threatened? And what about her mother?
Frantic, she beat on the door and screamed Campbell’s name.
To her surprise, the door was suddenly thrust open by a powerful arm. When a tall, dark man flung himself into the dark garage like a warrior on the rampage, she fell back, gasping.
Gold cuff links flashed when he held his hand up as a shield against the glare from the slanting sun behind her. His tie was lurid yellow. Coal-black eyes regarded her with intense hostility as he held a raised golf club.
“Campbell?”
He nodded, lowering the golf club. “Who’d you expect? You were yelling my name at the top of your lungs. You in trouble?” He was panting as if he’d run the whole way from his offices just to save her.