Laws of Attraction (4 page)

On a Texas-sized platter.

* * *

Dallas put his laptop in standby and rubbed his stinging eyes. Ten hours after getting maced by Mia in the club, they still burned. Not to mention the throbbing ache south of his Mason-Dixon line.

He leaned back in the leather chair. Nobody got the jump on him. Embarrassing the way that itty-bitty pixie had rung his chimes … and if he was forced to admit it, admirable. She had guts, in spades. But if word got around, he’d have to turn in his Jeet Kune Do instructor’s license. And if his sisters found out—Dallas groaned.

Shit, they’d razz him ‘til the day he died.

He just hoped Mia didn’t get wise to the fact he’d been tailing her since their fateful slumber party at the cabin. He’d suggested a night out at
Pegasus
to Soledad, knowing Mia would be there. She frequented the club every weekend with her friends Valerie Willis and Jared Ryan.

Dallas swigged hot coffee and mulled over the dossier he’d compiled. Mia Elaine Linden, five years younger than his own thirty-one, she’d turn twenty-six on May first. Her parents, a homemaker and an Army Colonel, had sent her to an exclusive, strict, all-girls Catholic boarding school from age six until her early high school graduation at seventeen. She’d been a shining star in the drama club, excelled at volleyball and soccer—and was constantly in trouble.

His favorite incident among many detailed in the report was ten year-old Mia super-gluing Mother Superior to the toilet seat. The little hellcat lost dessert privileges and earned three months KP for that stunt.

After high school she’d fast-tracked through college and law school, again graduating early, with honors. She’d met attorney Paul Grayson when he’d lectured at the law school. Paul’s recommendation to his father, Harper, landed Mia a job at Grayson and Associates, the prestigious family firm. Her first nine months of performance evaluations glowed with praise. Clients adored her empathy, colleagues respected her intelligence. And contrary to her youth and fey appearance, opposing counsels dreaded facing her relentless tactical skills.

Then four months ago, the situation had turned downright ugly when Harper Grayson inexplicably let Mia go. Dallas had been unable to uncover anything concrete, but the buzz around town hinted that she’d done something illegal or unethical and struck a deal with Grayson to keep it buried. No reputable law firm would let her set foot in the door.

Mia’s surveillance in the forest near Montoya’s ski lodge now took on a horrible significance.

She must’ve dug up info about Grayson and Montoya’s buried partnership. Take her ex-employer’s corrupt track record, add-in Mia’s stellar record before the Grayson debacle, plus her defensive self-protectiveness … and he’d bet his next paycheck she’d gotten the dirty end of the shovel. Mia Linden wasn’t an assassin. She was another casualty of war.

Was she after redemption … or revenge?

He knew way too much about both.

His throat constricted. She didn’t have a clue who she was up against. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up dead. Or worse.

Yeah, there were worse things than being dead.

He knew that, too. Firsthand.

The man he worked for, Esteban Montoya, and the man Mia used to work for, Harper Grayson, both danced the two-step with the Grim Reaper. And they were dancing to the same lethal tune.

Dallas rolled his wrist to check the time. Speaking of work, he’d better haul ass. Maybe Mia didn’t know what her adversaries were capable of, but he did. He’d seen the bodies … and the pieces of bodies. He’d stood over too many graves with helpless rage eating him alive.

Every year on the 23rd of May, he stood a twenty-four hour vigil at a too-personal gravesite.

At all costs, he had to keep Mia from attracting Montoya’s suspicion. Montoya and Grayson wouldn’t hurt another innocent on Dallas’s watch.

His conscience was already on life-support.

He shrugged into his brown leather blazer and grimly strode out the door. He’d fucked up once … and it had cost him everything. This time, he would not fail.

At any cost.

A jangling telephone jolted Mia from restless sleep. She released the tattered stuffed Bugs Bunny clutched to her chest and groped for the shrilling receiver. “Mm…‘Lo?”

“Sorry to wake you,” Valerie apologized. “I know you just got home from the cannery, but Jared and I are leaving for Boston.”

“Wha…Val? Say again,” Mia mumbled.

“Poor thing.” Valerie groaned. “I’m sorry, I realize you’ve only been asleep an hour, but I didn’t want to leave town without telling you. And since your answering machine self-destructed last month, there’s no other option.”

“Hold on.” Mia dropped the receiver, clambered out of bed and staggered to the kitchen. She fumbled along the counter before snagging a half-full mug of cold coffee from last night. Two attempts to hit the right buttons on the microwave later, she slid out the boiling brew and took a huge gulp.

Ahh
… hot caffeine rush.

Her sleep-numbed mind now partially awake, Mia trudged back to the phone. She’d never been a morning person, even after a full night’s rest she needed gallons of coffee. One measly hour of sleep had left her barely functional. “Val? You’re going where?”

“Boston, to see Jared’s dad. Captain Ryan took a bullet in the line of duty last night. You can reach me on my cell, anytime you need me.”

“How serious is it? Is Jared holding up okay?”

“The doctors said the Captain will recover, but you know my guy. He wants eyes on the situation. Will
you
be all right?”

“Sure.”

“Mia, I wish you’d give up this dangerous crusade.”

Follow family tradition and be a nice, quiet, biddable victim with no self-respect
?

Her law career defined her. Without the ability to empower the innocent, stop the vicious cycle by helping others escape what she couldn’t, her life meant nothing. And she would get it back … or die trying. “Not happening.”

“At least reconsider your insane plan to break into Montoya’s mansion.
Please
.”

“I’m prepared. First chance I get, I’m going for it.”

“If I thought my presence would deter you, I’d stay. But I know better. You’re determined, and consequences be damned. I’ve already set aside bail money, just in case.” Valerie sighed. “Speaking of consequences … After seeing McQuade in person, I’d say watch yourself around that stud puppy, my friend. He radiates some tasty pheromones. This time even your granite heart might not deflect Cupid’s arrows.”

“No way. I’m immune.”

“So you claim.”

Mia hung up with Valerie’s chuckles ringing in her ears. Ha! She’d be appointed to the Supreme Court before she fell for Mr. Southern Comfort. She stomped to the bathroom.

Mia risked a tentative glance in the mirror as the shower water warmed. Hair sticking up like Don King and sleep-deprived face looking like Larry King. Scary-assed combo.

After a hot shower, she put on panties featuring dancing flamingos and matching demi-bra, then shrugged into her terry robe. Yay for Target, where she could indulge her passion for irreverent lingerie on a meager budget. Two cups of instant coffee—fresh this time—fueled her brain out of Zombie Land.

She looked out the window. Sunshine glinted through the trees, turning newly budded leaves neon green, and the cloudless aquamarine sky promised a mild late-April day. If you didn’t like spring weather in western Oregon, all you had to do was wait an hour.

She dug through a mountain of clean clothing piled on a chair in her bedroom. She barely had time to wash and dry her clothes at the Suds-N-Duds around the corner, much less fold it. Mia pulled out her favorite jeans—worn so often both knees were frayed paper thin—and a cotton-candy lavender lace T-shirt. She donned socks and her beloved gray and pink argyle Converse sneakers, then zigzagged around boxes of legal precedent files and knee-high stacks of investigative research back to the kitchen.

Her place was clean, just cluttered. Her father would die of apoplexy if he saw her apartment. When she was a kid, the Colonel had demanded she keep her room inspection-ready at all times, down to square military corners on her bed. Boarding school wasn’t any better … although the headmistress had meted out demerits instead of whippings.

She grabbed several dented cans of soda from the fridge and three packages of cream-filled chocolate cupcakes, purchased dirt-cheap by the case at the discount warehouse. No time like the present to start surveillance on the ravishing Ms. Montoya.

Mia was—had been—a kick-ass lawyer because she always listened to her sixth sense, and pursued the slimmest leads. Being born incurably tenacious hadn’t hurt either. She wasn’t sure what she’d discover by tailing Soledad, but she’d come up empty-handed with Esteban, and was desperate. Since Soledad was the apple of daddy’s eye, perhaps watching her activities would pry open an advantageous weakness.

The sooner Mia obtained irrefutable evidence that Harper Grayson and Esteban Montoya were co-conspirators, the sooner she’d take back control of her future.

Outside, she banged on the dent above the keyhole of her faithful Bug, then jiggled the key in the stubborn lock. Bondo held the body together and the passenger window leaked in the rain, but the reliable little car never let her down.

Thanks to morning rush hour traffic clogging the bridges, the drive across the Willamette River to where the rich and privileged lived took twice as long as usual. She parked on a side street beside huge, rainbow-hued rhododendron bushes that partially hid her car from passersby on the main road, while still giving her a clear view of the brick-walled, black-gated driveway leading to Montoya’s mansion.

Mia drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and sang along with the radio. She drank her sodas. Ate her cupcakes. Brainstormed tactical plans in the notebook stashed in her purse.

Finally, the spiked wrought-iron gates barring Montoya’s driveway swung open. A spanking new lipstick-red Ferrari convertible with tinted windows nosed out, turned left and then purred down the street.
Hello
. Esteban drove a Mercedes, so the glitzy Ferrari had to belong to his daughter.

Mia shifted the Bug into gear and followed at a discreet distance past acres of McMansions she’d never be able to afford if she lived to be ninety. Luckily, the driver didn’t seem to be in a hurry. She’d hate to have to pit her ancient little car’s German ingenuity against brand-new Italian flash.

Ten minutes later, her quarry cruised to the curb in front of a posh spa. The driver’s door opened and a man stepped out. A long, lean, dark-haired hunk, wearing perfectly-tailored black slacks topped by a black cashmere V-neck sweater and brown leather blazer. As he sauntered gracefully around to the passenger side, the breeze ruffled thick raven hair, and sunlight illuminated the blood-red stud in his left earlobe.

Her heart kicked painfully against her ribs.
Dallas McQuade
.

She’d cased Montoya’s mansion for hours this morning and hadn’t seen any vehicles arrive. Had Dallas spent the night with the Costa Rican princess? She viciously crammed soda cans and cupcake wrappers into a trash bag. Not her concern.

More importantly, was the $750,000 car Soledad’s, or his?

Cowboy didn’t strike her as ostentatious. He’d seemed more down to earth, a Ford or Chevy man. If he could afford a brand-new Ferrari, security business must be lucrative.

Or he was doing dirty work under the table.

In spite of McQuade’s spotless reputation, if the slimy Montoya was one of his associates, illegal activity was a distinct possibility.

Dallas solicitously helped Soledad out. She looked stunning in a stylish plum dress and chic high-heeled black designer sandals that would probably pay six months’ rent on Mia’s apartment. Dallas escorted Soledad inside with an attentive smile and a proprietary hand tucked against her back.

Mia’s makeshift breakfast congealed in her stomach. Was he working … or playing?

She studied the gilded double-door entrance to the tony establishment, then glanced down at her faded jeans. She sighed. She’d stick out in there like a street mutt at the Westminster Dog Show.

Mia eased out of the car, strolled up the sidewalk behind a young couple pushing a stroller. She risked a fast glance in the spa window as she passed.

In stark masculine contrast to the feminine environment, but appearing completely at ease, Dallas lounged in a white upholstered chair reading a sports magazine, mile-long legs stretched in front of him. He sported a slight five o’clock shadow at nine in the morning, only making his ruggedly virile face more handsome.

Mia returned to her Beetle. She focused on passing traffic, striving to block the taunting mental image of Dallas’s strong hands stroking Soledad’s lush body. Of his scrumptious mouth, eagerly roving—

Oh
hell
to the no
.

She switched on the radio and scanned through four cavity-inducing love ballads before she found a rock song.

After what felt like an eternity, which in reality was a little over ninety minutes, the dazzling duo emerged, with Soledad sporting a radiant complexion, flattering understated makeup, and a glossy plum pedicure.

Mia tailed them to a trendy shopping district. Parking a half block behind the Ferrari, she watched Dallas and Soledad stroll into a clothing boutique.

By now, the two cups of coffee and the sodas had caught up with her in a big way. She shifted on the seat. This surveillance stuff wasn’t nearly as glamorous as it looked in the movies. Where was Vin Diesel when a gal needed him?

Mia crossed her legs. She was in a world of hurt.

Desperate means required desperate measures.

She got out of the car. After an excruciating wait, she joined a quartet of chattering women and slipped inside the boutique. Crowded with clothes, shoes and accessories, the store offered lots of hidden nooks and crannies.

Lurking behind a display of evening gowns, Mia squirmed. Now if she could only find the bathroom.

Ah, there! Mia wove between clothing racks to a discreet rear door painted with flowery letters. She rushed inside, noting the polished granite counters, gold fixtures and marble floor as she flew through one of the stall doors.