An Irresistible Impulse (5 page)

The question helped to keep her awake as
she threw on her running suit, laced up her sneakers, and headed downstairs, wool hat in hand. Halfway down the last flight, her foot wavered…then continued more slowly.

“Morning,” she said softly, testing a smile. It was a poor facsimile of the one she might have produced had it been two hours later. Usually she ran alone, with no one to witness her slow awakening. It was small solace that the others seemed as groggy.

Ray nodded silently, as did the juror named Brian. It was the final member of the running team, though, on whom Abby’s attention stuck.

“All set?” he asked, his hair boyishly mussed and more sandy-hued in the morning’s pale light.

“All set,” she breathed and fell into step with the men as they moved toward the door.

Ray, the court officer-cum-runner, seemed most concerned with the female he had on his hands. “You run often, Miss Barnes?”

“It’s Abby…and yes. Every morning.”

They were on the front steps and descending. “Good. Why don’t you and Brian move on ahead. I’ll take up the rear with Ben.”

Given her choice, Abby might have arranged things differently. She certainly hadn’t expected to find Ben running, though in hindsight she should have suspected as
much. He was too broad in the shoulder and too narrow in the hip to lead an inactive life. And since he’d been the first thought in her mind when she’d awoken that morning, this unexpected rendezvous might have been a boon. But then, she reasoned by way of consolation, she wasn’t much up for talking yet. The sun had barely edged over the horizon, and she still had her own waking up to do.

Tugging the wool cap in place to ward off the morning’s nip, she indulged in her usual stretching exercises before straightening to find all three men watching her.

“Is…is something wrong?” she asked, suddenly self-conscious as she looked from one face to the other. But her look turned to one of challenge when she recognized the male appreciation in their regard. “Don’t
you
all limber up?”

“Not quite…that…way,” Ben dared to reply, his hands on his hips, his eyes twinkling.

Ray wasn’t as bold. “Let’s go,” he mumbled, waving Brian off.

Abby continued to stare at Ben for a final moment’s censure before turning and starting out. “You know the way?” she asked Brian, who nodded curtly.

“Did it yesterday,” was all he said. His eyes were on the path ahead, his concentration fully on his running.

Following his lead, Abby immersed herself in her own thoughts as she ran, much as she did every other morning. She found her pace and kept it, breathing evenly, pleased to find that with her lighter weight and more petite frame she kept stride with Brian easily. If these three thought they’d leave her behind, she reflected in amusement, they’d be in for a surprise. That very element of pride gave added bounce to her step.

The inn fell from sight as they wound through the trees on a path that seemed tailor-made for their purpose. Abby quickly saw the truth to Grace’s claim that the jury’s accommodations were ideal for recreation. Here there was no fear of contamination from the public. Not once did she catch sight or sound of civilization. There was only the rhythmic slap of running shoe against pavement, the occasional sound of breathing, and, most delightfully, the morning sounds of the woodlands on either side.

Confident of her ability to run a six-minute mile, Abby used her watch as a measure of distance. Brian kept several paces ahead, seeming to know just which way to take at a crossroads, leading them in a general figure-eight pattern that was nearly the mile itself.

The sky grew lighter with the birth of the day just as Abby grew increasingly awake and aware of what that day would bring.
One part of her would have been very happy to burrow in a mossy nook in the forest and then rejoin the runners at the same point tomorrow. But that was the coward speaking, she chided, knowing that her better part was filled with a subtle excitement.

And then, of course, there was the knowledge of Benjamin Wyeth pacing himself a distance behind. As the mile count rose from three to four, then to five, she grew increasingly distracted by that thought. Pride kept her from looking back; indeed, from the competitive angle, she was pleased to stay ahead. If only he weren’t looking at
her
all the time.

As though summoned by her thoughts, Ben moved forward. “Not bad…for a girl,” he quipped, falling into stride beside her.

Abby caught her breath and looked sharply up, prepared for battle. But his smile was so sincere that her flare of indignation fizzled. Contriving a frown, she simply shook her head in exasperation. If the truth were known, her usual limit was the rapidly approaching six-mile point. It occurred to her that she might soon
be
out of her league. Best she should concentrate on holding her pace steady.

But Ben’s concentration was more inclusive. “Does your fiancé ever run with you?” he asked with nonchalance.

So much for steadiness, she mused as her
pulse raced faster. Had that been on
his
mind all night…or was it an innocent question? A quick glance at his expression failed to enlighten her.

“Nope.”

They ran a little farther.

“You told me there was no one.”

She waited until they’d crested a small rise. “There isn’t.”

Had she looked at him then, she might have seen him nod at the logic of it all. She had to wait somewhat longer for his verbal response.

“What’s a fiancé?”

With a will to revenge the disquieting fact that he’d had free scrutiny of her for the past forty minutes, Abby ran on some before answering.

“In this case,” she spoke between breaths, “it’s a man who insists on making a pest of himself.”

“Ahhhhhh…” He saw the light.

Simultaneously, the inn loomed ahead. The runners slowed gradually before reaching the front steps, each seeking his own walkaround, letting his legs readjust to a more natural pace. Coming to a full stop at last, Abby grasped the sturdy wood railing and stood for a minute to catch her breath. Then she pulled the wool cap from her head, thrust both hands through her damp hair to
comb it back over her shoulders, and sat down to cool off before going inside.

Ben promptly slid down against the opposite railing and watched as first Brian then Ray excused themselves and disappeared. Then he straightened one leg, bent the other at the knee and leaned back.

“You’re
not
engaged,” he stated, looking at her askance.

“Nope.” Angling forward at the waist, she grasped her calves and carefully flexed the sensitive muscles of her lower back. Her face was buried against her knees so that she was unaware of movement until she felt a pair of hands on her back. Then she jumped in alarm.

“No,” he gently pushed her down again, “Hold still. Let me see if I can do something about that stiffness.”

“How did you know it was stiff?” she asked, but her voice was muffled against her running suit.

“That little move a second ago. You stretched pretty gingerly.” Homing in on precisely the spot, his thumbs began a circular kneading that brought a helpless moan of relief from Abby. “Feel better?”

“Does it ever!” she exhaled slowly.

“Does your back always bother you when you run?”

“Uh-uh…. Only when I stop.”

“Very funny.”

Abby might have laughed had it not been for her growing awareness of his fingers—not only those thumbs that pressed and rubbed, but the others, four on each side, that seemed to round her middle and stake their claim. There was nothing laughable about their strength, nor about their exquisite gentleness. And her eyes were no longer shut, but rather wide, wide open.

Suddenly Ben leaned forward. “I think that’s about as much as I can take,” he mused on a husky note. When she turned her head instinctively, she found his within inches. And his message couldn’t have been more clearly broadcast than it was in the smooth quicksilver of his eyes, the manly lure of his mouth, the absolute earthiness about him.

Abby’s heart pounded loudly with her acknowledgment that Ben Wyeth was not only good looking and companionable, but the sexiest man she’d seen in years. She felt the animal magnetism that radiated from him, felt it in the tingling response of her body.

They straightened slowly as a pair, neither breaking the silent spell. She took in his rumpled hair, his sweaty brow, the night’s shadow of his beard and felt all the more attracted. Then her gaze fell to his lips and she watched them move.

“We’d better go in,” he murmured.

She nodded mutely but couldn’t budge.

“Abby…”

Eyes widened, she met his gaze, knowing only that she wanted him to kiss her. But his tone had been of warning and he clamped his mouth shut, daring only to stroke her cheek with the back of his hand before pushing himself to his feet.

Then he cleared his throat. “I think we ought to get showered and dressed,” he said, offering her a hand up. “They say breakfast is set for seven-forty-five. We’re supposed to be at the courthouse an hour after that.”

Where better judgment hadn’t had a chance, mention of the courthouse brought her to her senses. The trial…she’d nearly forgotten why she was here, why
he
was here. With a soft moan of self-reproach and an apprehensive wince, she walked, head down, through the door he held and moved distractedly toward the stairs.

The trial…beginning in just about two hours. Her stomach fluttered in a totally different way than it had moments before. As she headed up the first flight, she wondered what it would be like to sit there in the courtroom and not only watch the proceedings but be a vital participant in them.

It was only when she’d reached the landing of the second floor that she realized Ben was still beside her. “I’ll…I’ll see you at
breakfast,” she half-whispered, then turned to mount the flight to the third floor. Her footsteps were echoed the entire way. At the top it was Ben’s turn.

“See you later,” he murmured, waiting for her to turn left to his right. When she turned right as well, he stood stock still and watched her go.

Her hand was on her doorknob before she looked back at him. When she frowned and tipped her head in puzzlement, he advanced. He stopped no more than an arm’s length away—an arm’s length from Abby, an arm’s length from his own door.

Suddenly his expression warmed with that same humor she’d found so appealing from the start. “This may prove to be as much of a trial as the other,” he drawled, staring at her a minute longer before letting himself in and shutting the door.

Abby knew exactly what he meant.

There was, on the one hand, a certain solace at having him so close. While her own stomach knotted in anticipation of the start of the proceedings, he sat calmly, quietly, exuding a tranquility that gave her strength.

On the other hand, though, there was the way he looked, all clean and fresh and startlingly vibrant. His shirt was crisp and white, his blazer a dignified navy, his slacks…his slacks…she knew them to be gray, though her eye was more entranced by the way they spanned his thigh as he crossed one knee over the other.

All things considered, Abby wondered whether her stomach fluttered in response to the air of expectation in the courtroom…or in response to the stimulus of one thoroughly virile Benjamin Wyeth.

“Everything okay, Abby?” he asked softly. “You look a little peaked. We didn’t wear you out this morning, did we?” The last was on a gently teasing note.

“Not on your life,” she countered, quickly rising to his bait with the shadow of a smile. “I’m impressed that you guys kept up as well as you did.” Then she glanced toward the crowd in the courtroom and her smile vanished. “It’s this whole thing, I guess,” she offered in explanation of her pallor. “I just wish we’d begin. It doesn’t look like there’s a free seat here.”

Ben joined her in scanning the packed courtroom. “Only the defendant’s. They must be waiting—ah, here he comes now.”

A hush settled over the crowd as a door at the front of the courtroom opened and the
defendant emerged accompanied by two guards, both uniformed, both alert. Abby noted that Derek Bradley was impeccably dressed, conservative in a dark gray three-piece suit and dark cordovans. He was freshly shaven, well groomed, and good-looking. When he offered a fleeting smile toward the front row, where members of his family sat grouped together, Abby could see how many a woman might be charmed.

“I’m surprised the prosecution didn’t challenge your selection,” Ben leaned sideways to whisper. “Derek Bradley is young and attractive. And if he smiles at
you
that way…”

“Don’t be absurd,” she came back with a forceful whisper of her own. “He’s not
that
good-looking. Besides, he can’t be a day over thirty. I like my men older…more mellow.”

He arched a brow. “That’s encouraging. Maybe the prosecution knew what it was doing after all. Either that…or they ran out of challenges.” His eyes were warm as they studied her, and Abby felt her cheeks flush in response. But she was saved from the need to answer him by the loud rap of a gavel to her left.

“Please rise in honor of the court,” the clerk of court intoned loudly. Every soul in the courtroom stood.

Abby gripped the wooden railing that separated the two rows of jurors and watched
wide-eyed as the judges appeared at a door to her right. Single file, with black-robed Theodore Hammond in the middle, the three slowly mounted the bench.

“Be seated,” the clerk directed. Every soul in the courtroom sat.

Abby was only too glad to be off her feet again. Her knees had been none too steady, her palms none too dry…and Benjamin Wyeth had been far too tall and straight by her side to ignore. At least now the arms of the brown leather chairs separated them.

Glancing down, she was caught by the contrast of her creamy silk sleeve against his of navy wool, her slimness against his muscled strength. A wave of primal sensitivity surged through her. So much for the saving grace of brown leather chairs, she mused in dismay as she diplomatically tucked in her elbows, folded her hands in her lap, and did her best to turn her attention to the court.

The crowd stilled when the clerk stood to read the indictments, naming the defendant, Derek Bradley, on charges of kidnapping and assault and battery. At the arraignment months before, pleas of not guilty had been entered. Now the words reechoed through the courtroom.

Then, as Grace had warned, the judge took several minutes to address the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began gravely,
“you’ve been asked to make a sacrifice that many of your fellow citizens have never and will never be asked to make. For the sake of justice, you have agreed to surrender your freedom for the duration of this trial. The court recognizes the extent of this sacrifice and hereby thanks you on behalf of the state of Vermont.”

Abby hung on his every word, as did each of her fellow jurors. Not one moved. Not one acknowledged the fact that the eyes of the courtroom were upon them.

“As this trial progresses, you will be presented with arguments and evidence by representatives of two opposing sides. We ask that you listen carefully to each and every point, since it will be your job to make a final decision as to the guilt or innocence of the defendant.”

He paused to frown at the papers on his desk before continuing. “As you know, the purpose of sequestration is to prevent your being influenced, one way or the other, by outside forces. The only sources of input you’re to have regarding this case are myself and my side judges, the prosecution team and its witnesses, and the defense team and its witnesses. You are neither to hear anything about this case from nor discuss anything about this case with any other person.

“Unfortunately, that includes each other.
Difficult as it may be, I ask that you don’t discuss this case among yourselves. When the time comes for deliberations, you will be able to do so—but only
after
each side has rested its case.

“If you have questions or problems of any sort, the court officers are at your service. Wherever possible they’ll try to minimize the inconvenience that this experience must be for you. Feel free to ask their help.” Looking first to one side then the other, the judge silently asked his partners on the bench if they had anything to add. When two head-shakes had been received, he nodded and turned to the prosecution table. “Mr. Weitz?”

The opening argument of the state’s attorney lasted for nearly an hour. It was offered in the low-key style that would come to be associated with David Weitz, but was as emotion-packed in content as its presentation was straight.

The prosecutor began with the premise that Derek Bradley, in a cool and premeditated act, had kidnapped his former lover, Greta Robinson, with the intent of punishing her for spurning him and forcing a return of her affections. He went on to paint the defendant as a self-centered man, a man of inherited wealth, who had come to believe that his power was boundless, that his will was the law. He cited witnesses who would testify
not only to the facts of the case but to Derek Bradley’s arrogance, his selfishness, his tyrannical personality. And he suggested that, after days of emotional torture in an isolated cabin, Greta Robinson was scarred for life.

When he’d concluded his opening presentation, the judge called a fifteen-minute recess and disappeared with his colleagues into their chambers. The jury was led down to the first-floor jury room, where coffee and doughnuts were served.

Abby took a chair by herself, deep in thought, neither terribly thirsty nor particularly hungry. She was amazed at how simple he’d made Bradley’s action sound, how clear-cut, how wrong. Had a vote been held at that very minute she would surely have found Derek Bradley guilty. But there was still another side to hear, she told herself, and this was just the
opening
argument.

“I can’t get you any coffee?” Ben asked, bending over her chair, his hand on its back.

Startled from her thoughts, she looked up quickly. “Coffee? Uh…no, no, thanks.”

“It’s good coffee.” He tried temptation as he settled down beside her. Leaning forward with his elbows propped on his thighs, he balanced his own cup between his palms.

Abby smiled begrudgingly. “I think I’ve
got enough adrenaline surging through these veins to forgo the caffeine. It’s not good for you, you know…caffeine. Does a job on the pancreas…among other things.”

Ben shot her a glance as he took a deliberate sip from his cup. “So they tell me,” he murmured in amusement. “Is the nurse a crusader?”

“This is the woman speaking…and I’m certainly no crusader.” She gave a pert shrug. “Feel free to drink whatever you want.” Then she paused to watch him swirl the cup, lift it to his lips, scowl, and lower it again without so much as a sip, and she stifled a smug grin. “I’ll bet you down plenty of that stuff when you’re working to finish a manuscript.”

His gaze was enigmatic. “A manuscript?”

She rubbed her forehead with her fingers. “I keep coming up with China…was that it?”

“…It was.”

Hearing the hesitation in his voice, Abby eyed him quizzically. “You seem disturbed. Is something wrong?”

“No…Not really. I’m just…surprised. That book wasn’t exactly a best-seller.”

“Andre seemed to think it was great.”

“Who’s Andre?”

“A friend.”

“A
fiancé
type of friend?” he asked, a bit of the old humor returning.

Abby couldn’t help but chuckle. “No. A friend type of friend. He owns a bookstore, and I happened to be around when your books first arrived. I got the impression that they sold well.”

“China’s an ‘in’ topic.” He shrugged. But he’d straightened in his seat and was far from nonchalant.

“Don’t tell me your book is a travelogue,” she teased.

“No.” He seemed hesitant to discuss it though, somehow uncomfortable.

“Well…” she prodded softly, allowing curiosity to get the better of her.

Overcoming reticence, he spoke at last. “It’s an analysis of transitional politics in the People’s Republic. China has fascinated me for years. When the opportunity to visit it finally came up, I knew that I’d have to write the book.” It was as though he were excusing himself. Abby couldn’t understand it.

“That’s great, Ben. You must be proud of the book. Was it your first?”

“First significant one…yes.”

“Have you written others since?”

“One other.”

Her eyes lit up. “Finished?”

“Uh-huh.”

There was something that wasn’t being
said. She could see it in the depths of his eyes, feel it in his quiet intensity. While she waited expectantly, he sat perfectly still.

Suddenly the wheels of her mind fell into gear and began to turn. Yesterday morning, here in this same jury room, they’d shared something none of the others had felt. It had been a mutually favorable bent toward serving on this jury. Abby knew
her
reasons for welcoming the experience. As of this morning, Ben knew them too.

But as yet the tables hadn’t been turned. She was still in the dark as to
his
motives. Now…to learn he was a writer…She stared at him with growing awareness. Could he…would he…

At that moment, the break was declared over, and the jurors stood to file back upstairs. “Ben…?”

A long forefinger touched his lips as he signaled her to silence. “Later,” he murmured, guiding her before him, out into the hall toward the stairs. Hopelessly immersed amid the others, Abby had to be satisfied with the quiet promise.

Back in the courtroom, David Weitz put on his first witness, a woman who testified to having seen the abduction. It had been dusk. She’d been driving home from work when she’d seen a man step smoothly from his parked car and grab the arm of a passing
woman. There had been an argument, then a tussle. The man had finally pulled the woman around the car to the driver’s side and had forced her in before slipping in himself and driving off.

On direct examination, the witness identified photographs of the victim, Greta Robinson. She also described the assailant as a man of the same height, weight, and build as Derek Bradley but could go no further toward a positive identification since the man she’d observed had been wearing a wool hat and tinted glasses and his parka collar had been pulled to his ears. She admitted to having shrugged off the incident as a domestic feud…until she’d seen photographs of the missing woman in the newspaper several days later.

Abby listened intently to the testimony. One question at a time was asked of the witness, and only the simplest answer was allowed. It was a slow and painstaking process, but the state’s attorney was determined to do it right.

Under cross-examination by defense counsel, the witness was treated less kindly. Was she
sure
there had been an argument? How could she tell, if her car was several lengths away and her windows rolled up against the February chill? Did she actually hear anything?
Did the alleged victim
struggle
as she was being led to the driver’s side of the car? What did this struggle entail? It had been dusk; could she be sure that she’d identified the victim correctly? And the defendant—how could she discern his build through his parka? What color had his parka been? Could she be sure that it was Derek Bradley she’d seen? Could she be
absolutely
sure?

The tone of the session had risen in pitch with the defense’s cross-examination. If David Weitz was generally soft-spoken, William Montgomery was his fiery counterpart. By the time the witness had been dismissed and the court recessed for lunch, Abby had had a taste of the challenge she and her fellow jurors faced.