Unbreakable
Authors: Emma Scott
Tags: #Romance, #Contemporary, #Romantic Suspense, #Sports, #Mystery & Suspense, #Suspense
UNBREAKABLE
©
2015 Emma Scott
All rights reserved
Cover design by First Edition Design Publishing
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many thanks to William Hairston and Anne Maclachlan for their suggestions and advice; Angela and Greg Acquistapace for assistance with the ins and outs of general contracting; Thomas Ripley of Ripley & Associates for advice on many of the legal details contained herein; and a tremendous thank you to Susannah Carlson for her invaluable editorial services, though in all areas, any and all mistakes are mine. Lastly, a very heartfelt thanks to my advance readers for their time and honesty.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Suggested listening: “Take Me To Church” by Hozier
For Jeanine, the best of best friends.
"Los Angeles…it’s a place of secrets: secret houses, secret lives, secret pleasures. And no one is looking to the outside for verification that what they're doing is all right."
-
LA Story
Alex
He kisses me hard, insistently, a promise of more to come. A promise of everything. When he pulls away, I see desire burning hot and bright, warming his icy blue eyes. My heart soars. At long last! I pull him close, press myself against him, letting him know I’m his to do with as he pleases. He kisses me again, possessively, demanding, his hands everywhere, his body over mine, poised. I can feel the need radiate off him, mirroring my own. This time there would be no stopping, no hesitation.
This time there will be fire…
A phone rings, loud and clamoring.
“No…”
He pulls away, taking all the heat with him, leaving me cold and trembling, aching with want. “Sorry, I have to get this…”
I jolted upright, as if someone had tossed a bucket of ice water down my back. My hand snaked out to silence the alarm clock that had invaded my dreams, and I sank back into the pillows, my heart pounding, my breath coming fast. The dream was gone but the aching need between my legs was wide-awake. Though I knew it was futile, I turned and reached for him.
Drew’s side of the bed was empty. Cold. As if he hadn’t slept there at all, though I knew he had. He’d come in from the downstairs office around two a.m., slipping into the bed as quietly as he could so as not to wake me. But I hadn’t slept. My closing argument had been banging around in my head as I sought to put the words in their perfect order, crafting it into a sword that would ram into the heart of the defense, slaying their case dead.
As I heard the whisper of sheets I had thought—briefly—of reaching for Drew, to slip into his arms and become lost in him, let pleasure glide us into a restful sleep for the few hours that remained until we both had to be up again. But he’d turned his back to me and was asleep almost immediately. I had the dream—as unsatisfying as reality—instead.
Now, I listened for the shower but the bedroom suite was silent. A faint mist hung in the air, heavy with the scents of Drew’s soap and cologne. I glanced at the clock that hadn’t even allowed me to have Drew in my dreams. Two minutes after six.
He’s up earlier than usual.
I remembered he had an important meeting that morning and he didn’t want to risk getting stuck in traffic.
And I had closing arguments for the most important case of my career. Why was I wasting my thoughts—and time—on a silly dream?
I threw the covers off and swung my legs over the side of the king-size bed, pausing a moment to mentally organize my day. Schedules, research, depositions, lunch with the Posse. But first and foremost, those closing arguments.
I took a deep, meditative inhale—the kind I had been taught in countless yoga classes—and let it out slowly. Munro vs. Hutchinson. I was a mere three hours away from giving the speech that would lock it down, put it away, and all but guarantee I would make partner at Lawson & Dooney.
The last vestiges of the dream slipped away, forgotten.
#
I showered quickly and stepped out into a misty bathroom en-suite that now smelled of my perfumed body wash and the French lotion Drew had bought me on a business trip to Paris the year before. As the bathroom defogged, I went to my walk-in closet, opposite Drew’s, and found the taupe-colored Armani suit I had chosen the night before: a pencil skirt and neat jacket over a mauve blouse. On the carpet beside, were the tweed and leather Ferragamo t-strap pumps I had selected to go with them.
I dressed quickly, applied my makeup with efficiency, and pinned my fiery red hair into a twist with practiced ease. I never wore it down; my mother once told me the color was too vibrant for the courtroom. I’d laughed it off at the time, but hadn’t worn it down since. No sense in taking foolish chances.
Multi-colored gemstone earrings—also chosen the night before—added a touch of color to my elegantly simple suit and brought out the blue of my eyes. A dab of Chanel No. 5 behind each ear, and I was done.
Downstairs, the kitchen—a gleaming expanse of white quartz and stainless steel—held the aromas of coffee, eggs, and Drew’s cologne. A note, hastily scribbled and left near the coffeemaker made me smile.
Off to the races. Knock’em dead today!
Your fiancé
My fiancé. I examined the three-carat emerald-cut diamond ring that adorned my left hand. The weight of it was still taking some time to get used to since Drew had slipped it over my finger two weeks ago, and so far it had proven to be a distraction at work. One judge had already commented on it during a preliminary hearing, having spotted the glittering stone all the way from the bench. I made a mental note to never, ever wear it in front of a jury—certainly not today. God knew, cases had been won or lost for less, and I’d be damned if I lost Munro vs. Hutchinson over a ring. Or a hairstyle.
Movement out of the windows caught my eye and I spotted Drew in the driveway, dressed in a dark blue suit, bending his six-foot four-inch frame into his silver Porsche 911 Carrera. I couldn’t see the Bluetooth device in his ear, but I could see he was already talking to someone on the phone, his handsome features drawn tight into Business Mode.
I smiled fondly but briefly, falling into my own Business Mode. I sipped my coffee, ate three bites of grapefruit, then took up my briefcase and oversize Fendi bag, both resting at the front entry where I’d left them the night before. I glanced at my watch—a classic David Yurman with diamonds too small for a jury to see. Six thirty-three. Damn. Three minutes behind schedule.
#
At the Superior Court in downtown, I walked down the hallways, my heels clopping on the floor and echoing through the corridors. At Room 12, where Munro vs. Hutchinson had been held for the last two weeks, I paused at the door and took a sharp inhale and let it out slowly. A sense of excitement or anticipation—not anxiety—filled me, and a slow smile spread over my lips.
I got this.
I threw open the door and went in.
The chairs were already full, and as I walked down the aisle, I heard several whispers, of “Shark Lady” and “prodigy.” There was even some press there. I kept my eyes straight ahead, but out of my peripheral vision I could see at least three journalists. Their cameras clicked as I passed.
Don Knight, lead council for the defense was already there, sitting next to his clients: two middle-aged men—the Hutchinson brothers—who shifted in their seats and spoke in hushed voices to one another. They both froze when they saw me, twin expressions of abject fear on their faces.
Don was a bespectacled, dark haired man with a kind face and keen sense of humor. Had we not found ourselves on opposite sides of the aisle so often, I wouldn’t have minded a friendship, but after beating him three cases to none, I was pretty sure he hated me. He sidled up to me as I opened my briefcase at my desk.
“You look chipper, Ms. Gardener. Chipper like a shark smelling blood.”
I affected a smooth smile. If he thought my nickname ‘Shark Lady’ bothered me, he was sorely mistaken. “I do smell blood, as a matter of fact. So kind of you to be chumming the waters with your case.”
He bristled. “Any other attorney, and this would be
my
slam-dunk.”
“Are you blaming me for doing my job better than you?” I retorted. “If your case was so solid, you should have proven that. Or you could have settled.”
“We could have,” he agreed, “except that would be admitting wrongdoing, of which there was none.”
I quirked an eyebrow. “None?”
He shifted irritably. “Fine, enough to make a case but you and I both know that your client was just as culpable…”
“That’s for the jury to say, not me.”
I couldn’t help noticing his desk was covered in papers, depositions in binders, exhibits tabbed and numbered, and notepads blackened with ink.
I pulled one single yellow legal pad and a pen out of my briefcase and nothing else. “Is there something else I can do for you, Mr. Knight?”
“No, I just came over to say congratulations,” he said bitterly. “You’re going to win today. Make your rich client even richer and destroy a business in the process. Another kill for the Shark Lady. I just hope
you’re
prepared for that.”
If that was supposed to be a parting shot, I didn’t get it. I was prepared for my win. More than prepared.
Don returned to his messy table and two nervous clients, as Reginald Munro sauntered up to me. I shook off Knight’s words and forced a smile for my client. He craned up to kiss my cheek but I deflected with a handshake. At five-seven—five-nine in my heels—I towered over the hairy little man who never failed to remind me of a possum in an expensive Italian suit.
Munro clapped his hairy-knuckled hands and then rubbed them together in blatant anticipation. A sapphire pinky ring glinted in the light streaming in from the windows. I almost told him to take it off before the jury filed in but changed my mind. Knight’s words gave me an idea, a spark of inspiration, and I quickly jotted down some notes on my legal pad before it could slip away. There had always been one tiny flaw in my case that could possibly trip me up and now, thanks to Don Knight, I’d snipped it off. There was no chance I would lose this case now. None.
#
I paced casually before the jury box, making just the right amount of eye-contact—not too much to be invasive, not too little to appear nervous—and gestured confidently with my ring-less hands.
“In closing, Mr. Knight has tried throw up a smoke screen to confuse you, a smokescreen made of numbers. Specifically the number of dollars in my client’s bank account. The defense has worked almost as hard to show you how wealthy Mr. Munro is as they have trying to mitigate their clients’ negligence. ‘Why reward a rich man with more riches?’ you might wonder, and that’s what they
want
you to be thinking.
“But I am here to remind you that your job is not to consider Reginald Munro as a series of numbers. He is a human being, wronged by the defendants, and seeking appropriate recompense in the eyes of the law. If he were a garbage collector would you feel more sympathy? How about if he were unemployed? Is the pain and suffering sustained by him at Hutchinson Hardware somehow less consequential simply because he drives a Rolls Royce? The answer is no.
“
You
are the eyes of the law, and justice is blind to all things: race, creed, religion…and how deep a victim’s pockets might be. Pain is pain. Suffering is suffering. And we can’t let a business off the hook for causing both, no matter our opinions of the victim. We have to set an example because the next time they’re negligent in providing for the safety of their customers, it just might be that garbage man or the single mom working two jobs who takes the fall. Thank you.”
Mr. Knight offered a rebuttal argument but I hardly heard it. Judging by the looks on the juror’s faces, they weren’t buying it either. Judge Fitzpatrick gave them their instructions for deliberations, and the court was adjourned until they reached a verdict.
I couldn’t avoid Reginald Munro’s triumphant hug and was just thankful the jury had already filed out and didn’t see it. He hoisted me up; apparently his back had made a miraculous recovery since last Friday when my expert witness testified Munro might suffer pain for the rest of his life.
“You’re an angel of justice!” Munro crowed.
“I wouldn’t say that,” I said, fighting the urge to slap the sexist bastard. The press was still here, snapping pictures and talking into their recorders.
“I have to tell you, when Jon Lawson assigned you for my case, I had my doubts. I’d heard you were a prodigy, but hearing and seeing are two different things. And I’ve seen it all. You’re the real deal, sweetheart.”
Condescending ‘sweetheart’ aside, the compliment thrilled me.
“Thank you, Mr. Munro. That is kind of you to say.”
“Come on. Let me take you to lunch and we can discuss how Lawson & Dooney might be a good fit to handle the legal affairs of the entire Munro family.”
He said ‘family’ but he may as well have said ‘empire.’ The Munro family was akin to the Waltons of Wal-Mart fame, but with a thriving hotel and luxury resort chain instead of superstores. For L&D to handle all of their legal needs was like winning a Powerball lottery.
I saw Don Knight watching us and kept my face neutral. “I’d love to, Mr. Munro, but I have a prior lunch appointment I can’t skip. And besides, it’s not over yet. The jury needs to come back for us—”
He snorted a loud laugh. “So modest. All right, I’ll dine alone today, but when they come back with a verdict, I expect dinner with you, Jon, and even that stiff-necked Dooney, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
“I’ll call you when I get word of a verdict,” I told him and eased a sigh of relief as he and his mountain of a bodyguard/driver left the courtroom.
Don Knight fell in step next to me as I left the courtroom. “I’m an idiot, aren’t I? ‘Make your rich client richer.’ I planted that seed and watched you turn it into a bumper crop.”
I smiled thinly. “You’re mixing metaphors. I’m a farmer now? I thought I was the shark smelling blood.”
“Acting as if my clients’ guilt was a foregone conclusion was an especially nice touch.”
“I thought so.”
We reached the courtroom door and Knight’s expression softened. “I admire you, Ms. Gardener, I really do. But I feel sorry for you more. Someday, I’m afraid you’ll see why.”