“Why do you wear those glasses?” Griffin asked.

“Um…so I can see?”

“You used to wear contacts. Those pictures in the living room—no glasses.”

“Very observant of you.” Raleigh shrugged. “Glasses are less trouble, and they make me look smarter. That helps in the courtroom.”

“They’re also easy to hide behind. You go to a lot of trouble to make sure men don’t notice you.”

“Is that any of your business?” she asked sharply.

“Maybe not. But reporters are naturally curious. Other men might not look past the frumpy lawyer facade, but I have. You’re a beautiful woman, Raleigh. Why don’t you let the world see that?”

As he’d spoken, her eyes had grown wide. But she didn’t deny anything. The anger he saw reflected in her expression gradually receded, replaced by a look of perplexity.

Griffin touched her chin with one forefinger, leaned forward, and did what he’d been thinking about since walking through the front door.

Dear Reader,

In the 1970s, the whole country became fascinated with the investigative reporting of Woodward and Bernstein, whose Watergate stories brought down a president. Journalism became a popular major for college students, including me. Alas, I was never hard-hitting enough to be a good investigative reporter. The best I could come up with was a story about two competing pizza restaurants titled (cleverly, I thought) Pizza Wars.

But the fun thing about being a novelist is that I get to be any kind of person through my characters. Griffin Benedict is the tough but compassionate journalist I wanted to be, jetting off to war zones and natural disasters, shining the light of truth into shady dealings. And who better for him to investigate than upstanding, uptight Project Justice attorney Raleigh Shinn, who has never so much as been late with a library book?

I had a great deal of fun pitting these two smart yet very different people against each other, then forcing them to team up to face the real threat. I hope you enjoy it.

Sincerely,

Kara Lennox

Nothing But the Truth
Kara Lennox

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kara Lennox has earned her living at various times as an art director, typesetter, textbook editor and reporter. She’s worked in a boutique, a health club and an ad agency. She’s been an antiques dealer, an artist and even a blackjack dealer. But no work has ever made her happier than writing romance novels. To date, she has written more than sixty books. Kara is a recent transplant to Southern California. When not writing, she indulges in an ever-changing array of hobbies. Her latest passions are bird-watching, long-distance bicycling, vintage jewelry and, by necessity, do-it-yourself home renovation. She loves to hear from readers; you can find her at www.karalennox.com.

Believe it or not, this one’s for my ex-husband, Pete, who really did jet off to war zones and natural disasters with his trusty Nikon. I’m still in awe of the danger you put yourself in, and the beautiful pictures you took.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

RALEIGH SHINN HESITATED on the sidewalk outside the coffee shop, her palms damp, her chest tight. She hadn’t been this nervous since she’d argued a case before the Texas Supreme Court.

She so much preferred to be the one asking the questions. But she had committed to the interview; she couldn’t weasel out.

Raleigh did not like the media. Even when she fought for a popular cause, the press often described her as a bulldog, a terrier, or a sexless, humorless legal machine.

Those descriptions were, perhaps, not entirely undeserved. But now, she needed some good press, because her current cause was decidedly unpopular. It would take a tidal wave of evidence to get the D.A. to reopen the case of Anthony Simonetti, currently sitting on death row for supposedly gunning down his girlfriend in a cold-blooded act of premeditation. Raleigh wanted public sentiment squarely on her side when she made her argument.

Griffin Benedict, roving investigative reporter for the Houston Telegram, could turn public opinion. He was immensely popular—almost a celebrity in his own right. People believed what he wrote. He could help her cause.

Or he could crucify her. She had to take her chances.

After a deep, fortifying breath, she entered Legal Grounds, a coffee shop near the Harris County Courthouse.

She spotted him immediately. Even if she hadn’t seen his picture, she would have known he was the one. He was the only man sitting alone, and he was staring right at her.

Lord have mercy, he was gorgeous.

That thought surprised her. She didn’t normally think of men in terms of their looks. She sometimes sized up a client’s appearance and how it would play with a judge or jury, but she couldn’t remember the last time she had found a man attractive.

Griffin Benedict’s sexual magnetism hit her like a fog bank, momentarily disorienting her. Brown hair, longish and with a rakish wave, framed a square-jawed, tanned face. The nose had a slight bump, as if it had been broken. Mouth, sensual. That was the adjective that leaped to mind, although she wasn’t sure what made it so.

His broad shoulders filled out a button-down shirt rolled up to the elbows, open at the throat, tucked into well-worn jeans. Scuffed cowboy boots, of course.

He continued to stare at her, frowning slightly, and she shook herself out of her stupor. Eyes forward, posture erect. She had to show quiet confidence. She strode forward, hand outstretched.

“Mr. Benedict.”

He stood and flashed a welcoming smile, his large hand swallowing hers before giving it a firm shake. Either his hand was very warm, or hers was cold. Would he note that? Would he attribute her lack of circulation to nerves? Although it was late September, the weather was still warm, no reason for cold hands.

“Ms. Shinn. Good to meet you. Would you like something to drink? I was just going to get myself a coffee.”

“No, thank you.”

“Be right back, then.”

He was tall, well over six feet. She was five-nine, and she wore heels, so she didn’t often look up to people. She watched him walk up to the counter with an easy saunter and then tore her eyes away when she realized she’d focused too long on the way his backside filled out those faded jeans.

Maybe she should have ordered hot tea. It would give her something to do with her hands. But her choice of drink revealed something about her psyche, and she wanted to avoid that. This interview was about her work.

When Benedict returned to the table, he held two steaming cups.

“You must be very thirsty,” she said.

“The tea is for you. In case you change your mind.”

Raleigh’s whole body tingled. How had he known hot tea would be her beverage of choice? Lucky guess? She did not like his presumptive gesture, but she chose not to let him know of her irritation. He might be trying to get a rise out of her.

She firmly set the tea aside, though, perversely, it did tempt her. Darjeeling, her favorite. How could he know?

It would have been prudent for her to do a more thorough background check on Griffin Benedict. She felt distinctly uncomfortable, knowing he had done some digging around of his own. He apparently had learned more than her win/loss record in court.

“I know you’re busy.” He pulled a reporter’s notebook from his breast pocket. “So we’ll get right to work. You don’t mind this, do you?” He set a digital recorder in the center of the table.

“No, of course not.” She had no reason to fear the recorder. She wouldn’t make any verbal missteps, and the recording might protect her from being misquoted.

“First, congratulations on your victory in the Eldon Jasperson case.”

“Thank you, but the victory belongs to everyone at Project Justice. It was a group effort. All I did was file papers.”

“Modest. I like that.” He smiled, revealing his blindingly white teeth, and she noticed his eyes for the first time. They were a deep, sincere brown. He had probably disarmed any number of female interviewees with that smile and those eyes.

She couldn’t deny a certain awareness of him as a man, but she was pretty sure she wouldn’t show it. She met his gaze squarely and gave him a reserved smile, waiting for him to continue.

“Yes, well, let’s move on to the Anthony Simonetti case. Another death row inmate. In fact, most of your cases are for prisoners on death row, correct?”

“Project Justice is normally the defense of last resort. We deal with the most serious, the most urgent cases, many of which are capital crime convictions.” Raleigh relaxed slightly. Now they were in comfortable territory for her.

“So you believe Anthony Simonetti is innocent?” he asked with an obvious note of cynicism.

“An important piece of evidence has surfaced, which might exonerate Anthony,” she said, using her client’s first name in the hopes of distancing him from his infamous mobster father. Leo Simonetti was rumored to have beheaded one of his enemies with a machete.

“But do you believe the man is innocent? I mean, come on. He was picked up two blocks from the crime scene, covered with his dead girlfriend’s blood. He claims he happened upon Michelle Brewster moments after her murder, and that was how he got her blood on him. But wouldn’t an innocent man have then summoned the authorities? Instead of fleeing?”

Benedict had keyed in on the most damning evidence against Anthony. “He was overcome with shock and grief. He fled from the horror of what he had just discovered. No, he did not behave logically. Many people, in a crisis, do not behave logically.”

She knew this for a fact. She had walked away from the car accident that had killed her husband. Uninjured, but covered with his blood, she had fled the car and wandered along the icy road in her inadequate coat and shoes until the police had spotted her and picked her up. She’d been dazed, incoherent. To this day, she had no memory of the accident, or the few minutes before and after.

“So you do believe he’s innocent.”

She suppressed all thoughts of Jason, which could swamp her in grief at a moment’s notice. Sudden tears were not something she relished explaining to a reporter.

“I believe only in what the evidence tells me. Additional evidence has been found, and it has something to say.”

“The district attorney has said he will not reopen the case, that the right man is behind bars.”

“District attorneys seldom admit to mistakes—especially around election time.”

“So you think Simonetti didn’t get a fair trial?”

“That’s not the issue. I believe the D.A. did the proper thing at the time, given the evidence presented.”

“And what about now?”

“I don’t agree with the police department’s decision to ignore the gun that was recently found in the water heater next door to the crime scene—especially since finding the murder weapon is the one thing that could prove someone else was involved in the crime.”

“I understand that the gun is corroded. It can’t even be test fired, and the serial number is unreadable.”

How did he know that? Since the gun’s discovery had already appeared on the news, Project Justice had sent out a carefully worded press release regarding the foundation’s plans to find out if the gun was significant to Michelle Brewster’s murder. The release hadn’t mentioned anything about severe corrosion.

She smiled, saying nothing.

“And even if testing were possible,” Benedict continued, “aren’t you afraid it would put the last nail in Anthony’s coffin? That could prove embarrassing for Project Justice.”

The reporter had quickly homed in on the weakest point of her case. As he fled the scene, Anthony himself could have hidden the gun inside the neighbor’s water heater, which was easily accessible.

“I can’t comment as to the specifics of the case,” Raleigh said, stepping back onto her comfortable platform. She preferred that her arguments be presented first to a judge—not debated in the media.

“You always say that when you don’t like the direction an interview is taking.” Benedict leaned forward, too close for comfort. “I’ve read every news story in which you were quoted, watched every bit of available video in which you were interviewed. When a hard question is asked, you suddenly can’t comment.”

She tried not to show how much his intensity rattled her. Tough reporters had gone after her before. She was used to it. This was nothing compared to what she’d faced when filing motions on behalf of Eldon Jasperson, a convicted child murderer.

So why did it bother her so much? Why did this reporter bother her so much?

“Difficult questions usually involve the specifics of an ongoing case, which I cannot discuss. No mystery about that.”

“I would argue that the Simonetti case is different. It seems…out of character for you. You normally don’t take on cases without more compelling evidence.”

“Each case presented to Project Justice is evaluated based on a unique set of circumstances. We felt this case had merit.” Granted, it had been a hard sell to Daniel Logan, Project Justice’s founder and the ultimate decision maker. If the gun could be traced back to Anthony or anyone in his extensive criminal family, the foundation would be inundated with negative publicity, which tended to cause donations and sponsors to dry up.

But Raleigh believed in Anthony’s truthfulness when he told her he did not own—had never owned—a gun. She had even taken the extra precaution of recording her interview with Anthony on video, then having Claudia Ellison, the foundation’s on-call psychologist, evaluate Anthony’s demeanor. An expert on body language, Claudia had found no sign of deceit. Daniel trusted Raleigh’s and Claudia’s instincts.

If Raleigh was wrong about this one, her reputation would take a hard blow. But she felt strongly enough to take the risk.

“I don’t believe you,” Griffin said, startling her. “Do you want to know why?”

“I feel certain you’re going to enlighten me,” she said with a smugness she didn’t truly feel. Suddenly Griffin Benedict seemed dangerous.

She took a sip of her tea, despite her earlier decision not to drink it. It was easier to hide her emotions behind a paper cup and her steamed-up glasses.

“I have reliable information that you, personally, received incentives to convince the Project Justice decision makers to take on Anthony’s case. Specifically, that you accepted a bribe.”

Raleigh set her cup down with a thud, splashing tea everywhere. “What? Are you crazy?” Who would tell a reporter such a thing about her? Or had he made it up, trying to shake her composure?

Damn it, he’d succeeded. A few nearby coffee-shop patrons looked over curiously.

Don’t make a scene, Raleigh. She could hear her mother-in-law’s voice in her ear, trying to hush Raleigh when she’d been out of her mind with grief. Back then, she had let her big, sloppy emotions spill out onto everyone in her path—cops, doctors, reporters, many of whom blamed her for her husband’s death.

She had learned self-control since then.

“I’m just telling you what I heard.” Griffin took another sip of his coffee.

Raleigh scooted her chair back. “I hadn’t realized this was going to be a character assassination instead of an interview. Please don’t call me again.” She reached for her briefcase on the floor by her chair, intending to make a dramatic exit.

“Wait.”

His single word froze her to her seat. She wished she could have ignored him. But he was so damn compelling.

“I didn’t just take someone’s word for it. I demanded proof—and I got this.” He extended a piece of paper across the table toward her. “Does this look familiar?”

Raleigh grew dizzy as every drop of blood in her body fell to her feet. Yes, the paper did look familiar. It was a copy of her bank statement. The one that showed a twenty-thousand-dollar deposit made to her account from a numbered Swiss bank account.

She should have known. She had tried to tell the bank that the deposit was in error, but they’d insisted it wasn’t. Then she had become frantically busy. She had pushed all thoughts of the aberrant deposit out of her mind, figured someone, somewhere, would miss their money, and the error would be corrected.

“Care to explain the rather large chunk of change that landed in your account?”

“No, I would not,” Raleigh said succinctly, trying not to panic. “Would you care to explain how you came to be in possession of my private financial information? Because I’m pretty sure there’s an invasion-of-privacy issue here. I could sue you up one side and down the other.”

“But you won’t. Because you wouldn’t want this little piece of paper to become a matter of public record, would you?”

He was right about that.

“Don’t worry, Raleigh—may I call you Raleigh?”

She refused to answer.

“I’m not going to publish the specifics of your bank account. But I do intend to find out what’s going on with you. If there is an innocent explanation for the deposit, set me straight.”

“There is, but it’s none of your business. If you want to investigate me, knock yourself out. I have never accepted payment beyond my salary for the work I do at Project Justice, and I never will.”

On that note, she made her exit. She could have sworn she felt Griffin Benedict’s eyes burning into her back as she walked out the door.

GRIFFIN CLICKED off his recorder, watching as the auburn-haired ice queen glided out the door.

That had gone about as expected. Someone with Raleigh Shinn’s experience in high-pressure legal situations wouldn’t cave in and confess with his first salvo.

She wasn’t what he expected, though. Of course he’d seen pictures and video of her. He’d thought she was plain, even somewhat unattractive in her clunky glasses, boxy man suits and hair slicked back into a matronly bun.

But in person, she was something entirely different. For one thing, she had a figure underneath those suits. He’d seen the hint of generous breasts beneath her jacket when she had reached for her tea, the barest shadow of cleavage above the top button of her cream silk shirt.

Her hair wasn’t a boring brown, as he’d believed, but had threads of fiery red and gold mixed in. Her real color, too. If she’d had even a day’s worth of roots, he’d have spotted it.

She apparently wore no makeup, but her skin was a translucent ivory, smooth and soft-looking. And she had a dusting of freckles across her nose.

Nice mouth. Kissable.

But her eyes had intrigued him the most. Those scholarly horn-rim glasses hid eyes of a deep, emerald green with gold flecks. In them he saw flashes of fire, especially when she talked about her work.

She wore a wedding ring, he’d noted, but she wasn’t married. Her husband had died six years ago. Maybe she wore the ring as yet more protection. Practically everything about her screamed that she was unavailable, not an object to be desired or lusted after by men.

Her strategy had the opposite effect on him. He had always been intrigued by the librarian types. Uptight clothes, glasses, frosty demeanor—those were traits that gave his libido a wake-up call. He was curious to learn more about what was beneath the shapeless clothes, and he fantasized about pulling off the glasses, mussing the neat hair….

Hell, what was he doing? Raleigh Shinn wasn’t a potential lover. She was a sanctimonious lawyer who might or might not be guilty of accepting a bribe to use her influence unfairly.

Many convicts pleaded their cases to Project Justice. From what Griffin had heard, the foundation considered all of them, but took on only a very few.

Had Anthony Simonetti—or his wealthy, criminal father—leapfrogged over other, more worthy cases with the help of some green incentive?

The jury was still out. Griffin had received only an anonymous tip about Raleigh, plus the copy of her bank statement left under the windshield wiper of his car. He did not yet have enough solid information to go to print, nor even enough to form his own opinion. The current facts as he knew them would not impress the network that was considering him for an anchor position on a national TV news magazine.

But the potential for an exciting story was there. Project Justice was hot news right now, and Raleigh’s possible criminal actions could explode in the foundation’s face, making for a splashy, TV-worthy, journalistic tour de force.

But first, he had to learn more. He wanted to know everything there was to know about Raleigh Shinn. Mostly, he wanted to know why she hid a hot body and a beautiful face behind that dumpy facade.

CHAPTER TWO

“BUT IT HAS to be a mistake.” Raleigh had been on the phone for twenty-two minutes, first on hold, then working her way up the corporate ladder of Houston Federal Bank. She was now talking to a vice president.

“If it was a mistake,” the condescending man said, “it wasn’t on our end. Now, it’s possible whoever made the deposit mistyped a number.”

“Exactly! So can’t you just contact them and ask?”

“I’m afraid not. Numbered bank accounts are numbered for a reason. We’ve sent a query to the transmitting institution, but we haven’t yet received a reply.”

“So maybe you could just—send the money back.”

“That’s impossible. Where would we send it?”

“Then put it wherever you put unclaimed funds.”

“I’m not sure why you’re so upset, Ms. Shinn. If there was an error, it will be corrected in a day or two.”

She considered telling him that the twenty thousand dollars sitting in her account was causing her all kinds of trouble. Then she decided on a different strategy. If she couldn’t solve the mystery of the strange deposit, maybe she could find out how Griffin got a copy of her statement.

“Mr. Temple,” she said, referring to the name she had jotted down. She kept detailed notes of every phone conversation. If her mother called to tell her she had a cold, Raleigh made a note and filed it.

“Yes, Ms. Shinn? Is there something else I can do for you?”

“How secure is your online banking? I mean, how hard would it be for someone to hack into your system?”

“I assure you, ma’am, our computers are hack-proof. Every transaction uses the latest in encryption technology.”

“So there is absolutely no way someone could get access to my statement without my permission? What about bank personnel?”

“In most cases of illicit access to bank accounts, the security loophole lies with the client. Mail can be intercepted. A password can be stolen or, more often, divulged to someone who shouldn’t have it.”

She started to vehemently deny the problem could be on her end. She memorized her passwords, never wrote them down anywhere. But she did receive paper statements.

“Very well, thank you, Mr. Temple.”

“My pleasure, Ms. Shinn.”

She hung up, knowing little more than she’d known half an hour ago.

Given what Griffin Benedict had told her, she had to view that strange deposit with new eyes. Rather than a mistake, could it be part of a plot to ruin her? If someone really had provided Griffin with that bogus tip along with the stolen bank statement, it meant she had an enemy. A powerful one who had gone to some expense to wreck her reputation.

Plenty of people did not like her. The nature of her job was confrontational. She was constantly challenging unlawful judicial proceedings, inept lawyers, negligent police investigators. When a conviction was overturned, it meant someone, somewhere, had made a mistake or worse, and she had brought it to light.

Some of her own clients didn’t even like her. Few of them were shining examples of virtue.

Then there was the general public. Project Justice received hate mail all the time from people who thought the foundation’s mission was to let killers out on the street.

The press alternated between loving her and hating her. She’d been in the news a lot lately with the Eldon Jasperson thing.

Even her own in-laws despised her. She’d never shared a warm relationship with them: they hadn’t considered her a good match for their only son. Once they’d realized they couldn’t talk Jason out of the wedding, they had tolerated her. But after Jason’s death, the claws had come out again.

Jason’s parents had blamed her for the fatal car accident. As if she hadn’t heaped enough guilt onto herself.

After his funeral, she had quickly learned of her perilous financial situation. Everything Jason had owned was in trust, controlled by his parents, and they weren’t inclined to give her a dime. Without him and his family’s financial support, she could not continue running the law practice she and her husband had poured all of their passion into.

Their small firm of Shinn & Shinn had specialized in providing solid legal representation to those who couldn’t afford to pay exorbitant legal fees—and they’d never made a profit. All of their living expenses had been drawn from Jason’s trust. If Project Justice hadn’t come along at the right time, Raleigh would have had to accept her only other job offer, as a drone at a corporate law firm.

Raleigh’s stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t had lunch. Daniel kept the office kitchen stocked with all kinds of healthy goodies, but Raleigh needed fresh air. A walk around the corner to her favorite deli was in order.

As she passed through the lobby she walked on tiptoe, hoping to avoid the receptionist’s attention. Celeste Boggs was one of the most terrifying people Raleigh knew. She was a vigilant watchdog, could purportedly shoot the wings off a gnat at fifty yards, and was fiercely loyal to Daniel Logan. Raleigh didn’t doubt the seventy-something woman would lay down her life to protect the foundation.

But Celeste was short on manners, and once she started talking she was hard to walk away from. Right now, thankfully, she appeared to be engrossed in a copy of True Romance.

Raleigh had almost reached the revolving door when Celeste’s screech of a voice rooted her to the spot.

“Ms. Shinn? Is that you?”

She turned, forcing a smile. “Yes. I was just—”

“You have to sign out. How many times do I have to tell you young people to sign in and out?”

“But I was just going to—”

Celeste extended the clipboard and pen toward Raleigh with an admonishing frown.

Fearing Celeste would give her detention if she argued further, Raleigh signed the sheet.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, where do you get your hair done?” Celeste asked.

“My hair?” No one ever asked her that. “I cut it myself. That’s about all I do to it, besides wash it.” Raleigh didn’t have time for fancy salons. So long as her hair was out of her face and reasonably neat, she was happy.

“That explains it,” Celeste murmured, pushing her purple glasses back onto the bridge of her nose.

Raleigh put a self-conscious hand up to her hair. Not that Celeste had a lot of room to criticize, with her wildly curly gray locks pointing every which way. But was Raleigh’s do that bad?

She was about to turn back toward the door when Beth McClelland, Project Justice’s physical evidence coordinator, rushed into the lobby, her platform shoes clattering noisily on the wood floor.

“Oh, Raleigh, I’m so glad I caught you.”

Celeste frowned her disapproval at Beth. “Ms. Shinn is officially signed out. You’ll have to wait until she gets back.”

Raleigh wasn’t about to ignore her best friend. “What is it, Beth?”

Beth shook a manila envelope triumphantly in the air. “I got the DNA results back on the Rhiner case,” she said in a singsong voice. “And I think you’re going to like the resu—”

“What part of signed out don’t you understand?” Celeste interrupted.

“Just leave it on my desk,” Raleigh said in a stage whisper to Beth. “My office door is open.”

Celeste tsked.

Beth looked puzzled. “Are you okay? You don’t look so good. I mean, normally you would be prying these DNA results out of my hands.”

Raleigh brought herself back to the here and now. Beth was right—she should be excited. “So Rhiner didn’t do it?”

“Not only that, but the FBI got a hit on their computer. New suspect. Next-door neighbor.”

“Girls!” Celeste objected. “You’re in a public place! You must discuss your sensitive information some where else.”

Beth looked around at the otherwise deserted lobby, then hid a smile. “Sorry.” She quickly signed out, then walked with Raleigh out the door.

“Where you off to?”

“Just the deli.”

“I’ll walk with you. Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

Beth’s concern warmed Raleigh. She was the only real friend Raleigh had at work. Not that she didn’t admire and respect her colleagues, but she kept a deliberate distance from them.

Except for Beth. When Beth had gone through an ugly breakup last year, Raleigh had found her crying in the ladies’ room more than once, and her heart had gone out to the woman. She understood pain, and she had done what she could to make Beth feel better. Once Beth started confiding in Raleigh, Raleigh had naturally revealed more of herself.

Raleigh needed to tell someone of her current dilemma, but not in line at the deli counter.

“I’ll tell you—when we can have a more private conversation.”

“Uh-oh, this sounds bad.”

Raleigh said nothing until she had her turkey-and-low-fat-mozzerella on whole wheat and had found an out-of-the-way table tucked into a corner.

“It’s not a big deal,” she finally said. “It’s just that my bank made a mistake on my account, and it’s causing me some trouble. Plus, there’s a reporter who seems intent on publishing an unflattering story about me. I wouldn’t care so much, except I don’t want to make the foundation look bad.”

“Oh, Raleigh, that’s awful! About the reporter, I mean. Start with the bank, though. What did they do? Have they lost a deposit or something?”

“Just the opposite, actually.” She explained to Beth about the anomalous twenty grand suddenly appearing on her balance sheet.

“Wow, that is so weird. I wish someone would make that kind of mistake in my account.” Beth took a few sips of her banana smoothie. “Do you think it could be your in-laws? Maybe they’re feeling guilty over the way they’ve treated you. To deliberately cut you off like that, when they knew good and well Jason would have wanted you taken care of—it just burns me up every time I think about it.”

Raleigh had actually considered the possibility that her in-laws were involved somehow. Since they had most of Jason’s papers—they had hired someone to clean out his office while she was at the funeral—they could be privy to Raleigh’s financial information. But she hadn’t spoken to them in over a year.

“It’s unlikely they’re involved.” Raleigh took a deep breath and told her the rest—about Griffin Benedict, and the fact he had a copy of her bank statement.

Beth was predictably incensed. “That’s not just slimy, it’s illegal. You’re a lawyer, can’t you…get him arrested? Sue him?”

“I can’t. I don’t want to bring negative publicity to the foundation, and I don’t have time for a personal legal battle. I have too much work to do. Anyway, I don’t want any more attention focused on me until I figure out what that deposit is all about.”

“Why don’t you talk to Mitch?” Beth suggested brightly. “He knows everything about computer hacking and identity theft. Maybe he can tell you how it was done.”

Raleigh felt a ray of hope. “Beth, that’s an excellent suggestion.” Mitch Delacroix was Project Justice’s tech expert. He had a background in cyber crime, a field he had entered after getting arrested as a teenager for hacking into a city government computer system in an attempt to fix a speeding ticket.

After dodging a felony conviction, he had decided to use his skills on the right side of the law. But he could still hack into anything, anywhere. And though no one on the staff was allowed to ask him to do anything illegal, Raleigh knew he often tiptoed around places in secure cyberspace where he didn’t belong.

“We’ll go talk to him as soon as you’re done with lunch.”

“I’m done now.” She’d taken a few bites of the sandwich. That would be enough to keep her going. Beth led the way out of the deli, her brown corkscrew curls bouncing with every step of her wildly impractical pink platforms.

“I hate to use the foundation’s resources for my own personal problems,” Raleigh said.

“If you ask me, this is a Project Justice problem. If you get slammed with a negative story—and by Griffin Benedict, who has a kazillion readers—it’ll hurt the foundation.”

Maybe Beth was right.

Mitch could almost always be found in the bull pen. He had a private office on the second floor, two doors down from Raleigh’s. The large, open bull pen downstairs was for junior investigators, interns and temporary workers. But since Mitch spent most of his time alone in cyberspace, he preferred to have the noise and activity of people around him in the physical world.

“You actually met Griffin Benedict face-to-face?” Beth asked as they quickly signed in while Celeste watched them over the top of her purple glasses with eagle eyes.

“I did.”

“Is he as gorgeous as he looked in that magazine?” Beth led the way down the hallway toward the bull pen.

“What magazine?”

“You know. Houston Scene. They published the story about the ten most eligible bachelors in town.”

This was news to Raleigh. She read the paper—and she often read Benedict’s stories, which she had to admit were always riveting. “I had no idea he’d received such a prestigious distinction.”

“Oh, yes. He made number three on the list, right behind Carl Black.”

“Carl Black? Who is that?”

“Only the next major Hollywood heartthrob, from right here in our own backyard. Raleigh, where have you been?”

“Working, I guess.” She didn’t go to movies or watch much TV, and she definitely didn’t keep up with celebrity gossip.

“You didn’t answer my question. Drool-worthy?”

“It’s hard to think of him in those terms, given that he’s trying to ruin me,” Raleigh lied through her teeth. He was the best-looking man she’d ever met. Or at least the sexiest.

Sorry, Jason.

She was certain she would never fall in love again. She’d met Jason at Princeton, in law school, and she’d fallen instantly—hard. But physical attraction hadn’t brought them together. He’d been handsome enough, but he had bowled her over with his quiet intelligence and his commitment to ideals so similar to her own. She would never find that again.

Beth stopped in the hallway just before they entered the bull pen. “Do you ever feel that way about anyone? I mean, this place is testosterone city. We’re hip-deep in good-looking men, many of them unattached, and you seem immune.”

True, until recently. After Jason, she’d never looked at another man and gotten that zany, heart-flipping feeling. Then Griffin Benedict had come on the scene.

“I’m just not interested in making that connection again, Beth.” That much was true.

Beth blushed. “I guess that was kind of a rude question. But sometimes I wish I could be detached like you, instead of wearing my heart on my sleeve all the time.”

It might have been a rude question from someone else, but not from Beth. Raleigh knew she cared about her.

She smiled at Beth. “It’s okay.”

Raleigh wasn’t sure she liked being described as “detached.” Lawyers weren’t supposed to get emotionally involved in their cases. But that word, detached, that was how she thought of her in-laws.

Mitch Delacroix hunched over his keyboard in his usual corner, peering at the screen through the special glasses he wore for computer work. As always, it took Beth some effort to get Mitch’s attention.

“Hello, earth to Mitch.” She knocked on his head.

“Huh? Oh, sorry. Hi, Beth.” He treated her to a dazzling smile, causing Raleigh to wonder if there wasn’t a small spark of something between them. Beth would have told her if there was a bona fide romance, but she might keep it to herself if she only flirted a little. Or, she might be oblivious if Mitch was the one with a crush.

“Mitch, Raleigh has need of your expertise.” She glanced at her watch. “And I’ve got work to do. Let me know, Raleigh.” She hustled away, her bright pink jacket flapping behind her.

“What can I help you with today, Ms. Shinn?” Mitch asked in his exaggerated Louisiana drawl. He’d been brought up in Cajun country without much money, but his computer skills had been a ticket out of the boonies for him. That was how he put it, anyway.

“This is a personal matter.” Raleigh rolled up a chair from a neighboring desk. “So if you have urgent foundation business, my problem can take a backseat.”

“I got nothing pressing. What is it, Raleigh? You seem worried.”

Did everyone see it? First Beth, now Mitch. If she wasn’t careful, her little problem would interfere with her ability to do her job.

“Can you hack into a bank’s computer system?” she asked point-blank.

Mitch leaned back in his chair. “Well, now, that depends on which bank, and what information is needed. In general, the answer is no. Financial institution computer systems are pretty much hack-proof. But even if I could, I wouldn’t. Not unless I want to spend ten-to-twenty in Huntsville.”

“Ah.” Briefly, she explained the problem. “Could it be a computer glitch?”

“Not likely. Probably the depositor did, in fact, type or write in your name and account number. Bank systems double-check such things to see that they match.”

That was what she was afraid of. “Okay, then, what can you tell me about Griffin Benedict? I need to get this guy off my case.”

Mitch grinned. “Now, that I can help with. But honestly, who would believe that you’re engaged in criminal behavior? You’re as straight as they come. I bet if I checked, I would find you’ve never even had a parking ticket. Hell, you probably are never late returning a library book.”

He was absolutely right. Raleigh had high respect for the law. Her classmates in school had called her a Goody Two-shoes, but she couldn’t help it. She liked rules. They made her comfortable. She’d been a rule-follower all her life.

“That’s what makes this story so irresistible,” she said, suddenly realizing the obvious. “Some sleazebag takes a bribe, no biggie. But an upright lawyer crusades for justice, then does something wildly immoral and illegal—that makes for good copy. Like a televangelist getting caught with a hooker.”

Mitch looked thoughtful. “Griffin Benedict isn’t known for taking cheap shots. His stories are well researched and are usually newsworthy. Picking on you seems a tad sensational for his style.”

“You sound as if you like him.”

“I never met him, but I read his stories.”

“So, has he ever been sued for libel, or invasion of privacy? Does he cheat on his wife or his income taxes? Does he pad his expense report? I need something I can use to at least level the playing field.”

“I’ll try to have something for you by tomorrow.”

GRIFFIN EYED the caller ID on his desk phone at work and lunged for the receiver, his heart pounding. This could be it.

“Griffin Benedict.”

“Griffin, this is Pierce Fontaine at CNI. How are you today?”

Would the man sound so cheerful if he was about to deliver bad news? “I’m great, how about yourself?” Griffin wanted to bite his tongue. He’d sounded too folksy, too…Southern. He had to garner a wide appeal if he wanted to succeed as a national TV journalist on Currents, the most watched news magazine on the planet.

“I wanted to let you know that we haven’t yet reached a hiring decision,” Pierce said. “I know you’ve been waiting a long time, but the brass—you know what sticklers upper management can be about these things.”

“Is something in particular stopping them from giving the green light?” Griffin asked. If he knew what the problem was, maybe he could fix it.

“Well, the most obvious tick in the minus column is your lack of TV experience. Granted, you did amazingly well when we put you on camera, and test audiences love you. But you weren’t under real-time deadline pressures.”

Griffin knew that wouldn’t be a problem. He thrived on deadlines. But the network wouldn’t simply take his word. They would want proof.

“Then there’s your…how do I say this? The bachelor thing.”

Griffin half laughed, half groaned. “I had nothing to do with that article. Came as a complete shock to me.”

“Still, you do have a certain reputation with the ladies. Currents is a show that deals with serious issues. It’s important we avoid any hint of scandal.”

“I can assure you, my private life won’t interfere with my work.” He hadn’t imagined his appeal with women would be a negative, but there wasn’t much he could do about it so he quickly changed the subject. “Are there…other candidates vying for this position?” Of course there were. He wanted to know his competition.

“Actually, we have only one other candidate. He’s also from your area—the brass think a Texan would round out the Currents team nicely. Paul Stratton, from KBBK. Know him?”

Griffin winced. Yeah, he knew Stratton. The guy was a pompous ass. Unfortunately, he also anchored the top-rated newscast in the whole South Texas market. He was good—had an enviable record as a journalist and even a Pulitzer under his belt. He had a few years on Griffin, and the TV creds Griffin lacked.

“Yeah, I know him,” Griffin said, opting for the high road. “He’d be a good choice.” If they could fit his ego through the newsroom door. Then he added, “I’d be better.”

Pierce laughed, thankfully. “It’s going to be a tough decision.”

“Hey, what if I did some freelance stories for you?” It was a long shot; Currents used very few free lancers. “Roving reporter–type stuff, just me with a camera?”

Pierce didn’t answer right away. Griffin crossed his fingers.

Finally the CNI news director responded. “Did you have any particular stories in mind?”

Griffin’s heart pounded. Did he dare mention it? He hadn’t yet told his editor about the Raleigh Shinn story. Griffin might get himself fired if he offered it to someone else. He decided to take the chance.

“I’m working on something…it’s connected to Project Justice—are you familiar with them?”

“Yes, indeed.” Griffin could almost hear the man salivating.

“I’ve uncovered a possible breach of ethics there. Nothing that’s ready to air,” he added hastily.

“When do you think you’ll have something?”

Griffin pulled a number out of thin air. “A couple of weeks.” Surely by then he would have enough information to nail Raleigh Shinn to the wall.

“I’ll tell the brass to count on it.”

CHAPTER THREE

AS RALEIGH EXITED the courthouse the following day, the hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention. Someone was definitely watching her.

Earlier that day, she had dismissed the tickle at her nape as paranoia, a result of nerves or not enough sleep. But her instincts rarely failed her, and they certainly wouldn’t do so repeatedly. There couldn’t be any doubt she was being followed.

Since it was such a beautiful fall day, and since she had been neglecting her workouts lately, she had decided to walk from the Project Justice office to the courthouse, where she had filed a motion to overturn Lewis Rhiner’s conviction based on the new DNA evidence.

That taken care of, she’d planned a quick lunch at a nearby bagel shop, after which she would pay a visit to the police department and personally make sure they were following up on the new suspect.

But first she had to figure out who was watching her. Not that she didn’t have a pretty good idea.

She walked briskly down the street, turned a corner, then ducked into a doorway like she’d seen people do in the movies. Then she waited.

About thirty seconds later, a black Mustang came around the corner and pulled into a parking space across the street from her vantage place. But the driver—anonymous behind tinted windows—didn’t turn off the engine or get out right away.

Bingo.

She’d noticed this same car earlier. Normally she wouldn’t have taken note, but it was almost the exact car Jason used to drive, just a slightly newer model. The Mustang had been parked on the street near her apartment building when she had exited that morning, and for one brief, insane moment, she had expected to see Jason climb out from behind the wheel.

Then she’d remembered that Jason was dead. Silly how one sensory trigger—a car, a song, a certain wine—could bring it all back.

Raleigh was pretty sure the Mustang’s driver couldn’t see her. She stood in the shadow of the doorway, peeking out every few seconds.

After about a minute, the driver killed the engine and opened the door. Though she couldn’t see the man’s face, she recognized his body immediately—the white T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, tapering down to a narrow waist, the worn denim riding low on his lean hips, and that butt—definitely drool-worthy, to use Beth’s terminology.

Raleigh’s face heated. She was mortified by her reaction to Griffin Benedict. The man was trying to ruin her, and all she could do about it was notice how sexy he was?

Griffin peered up and down the street, shading his face with his hand against the noonday sun. Raleigh shrank back into the shadows. After a few moments she dared another peek. He was heading her way.

She intended to confront him, but on her terms. So she entered the store in whose doorway she had been lurking. It was a small drugstore, more of a snack shop, really. She ducked behind a rack of chips, peeking between the bags of Fritos and SunChips.

Griffin entered and scanned the store. Oh, God, don’t let him find me like this, hiding behind junk food! As he ventured farther into the store, she ducked into a different aisle.

After a few moments, apparently satisfied she wasn’t in the store, he left.

She hurried after him. I’ve got you now.

The next door down was a hair salon. Griffin entered. Raleigh quickened her pace to catch up, then stood just outside the door, flattened against the wall. She felt ridiculous, and silently cursed him for forcing her to resort to this childish behavior.

He exited only a few seconds later and she popped away from the wall, nearly colliding with him.

“Hello, Mr. Benedict.”

“Holy shit!”

She enjoyed the surprised look on his face. Probably few people ever got the jump on this guy.

“I’m tired of you following me,” she said. “I want you to stop.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Don’t waste your breath. I saw you outside my apartment this morning. You must be getting some riveting footage.” She nodded at the tiny video camera dangling around his neck. “Just what, exactly, are you hoping I’ll do? Incriminate myself? You’ll wait a long time for that.”

For a long moment, Griffin just stared at her as if appraising his chances of lying his way out of this. No way. She’d caught him fair and square.

He stared for so long, she had to resist the urge to squirm and look away. What did he see? She had an insane suspicion he could read her mind. No: if that were the case, he would see she was innocent of any wrongdoing.

And he would see her other thoughts, those inappropriate ones involving naked flesh, entwined limbs and tangled sheets. Oh, Lord, she had to stop thinking of him that way.

His sexy mouth pursed, and she thought he might be trying not to laugh. Damn it, she was not supposed to be amusing. She had worked long and hard to come off as intimidating.

Clearly he wasn’t intimidated.

“All right, yes, I was following you. I was hoping you might do something…interesting.”

“Like what? Strip naked on Main Street?”

“Now, that would make for interesting footage.”

She gasped in a breath. His attitude wasn’t helping matters. The unholy light behind those sincere brown eyes hinted that his thoughts were as impure as hers.

“Wait a minute. You’re a newspaper reporter. Why do you want video footage?”

He cocked his head but didn’t answer.

“Are you going to keep following me?”

Griffin shrugged one careless shoulder. “Wouldn’t be much point, now that you’re onto me.”

“Good thing, because stalking is against the law. I could have you arrested.”

“Nice try, but you’d be a little short on evidence.”

Her blood heated up a notch, and not just from overactive hormones. She was really mad, and the fact that he was so calm, so…amused, just made her want to spit in his eye.

Don’t let it show. Don’t let it show.

“Our business is concluded, then, wouldn’t you say?” Maybe this would be the end of it. She tried to step around him, but he blocked her path.

“Just a minute. I have more questions for you.” He had the nerve to lift the video camera, point it at her and turn it on. A blinking red light told her she was on camera.

She definitely knew better than to lose her composure when a camera was rolling. “Ask away. What would you like to know, Mr. Benedict?”

“I thought we were on a first-name basis.”

“Did you have a question for me?”

“Yes. In the past month, how many times would you say you’ve spoken to Leo Simonetti?”

The question caught her off guard. “You mean Anthony. Anthony Simonetti is my client.”

“No, I meant Leo. Anthony’s father.”

Raleigh quickly regained her composure. “In that case, the answer is zero. I have no dealings with Leo Simonetti. The only other member of Anthony’s family I’m in contact with is Connie, his sister.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really. What’s your point here?”

Still filming, Griffin pulled a creased piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans. Another photocopy? What now? He handed the paper to Raleigh, and she unfolded it. It was a copy of her cell phone bill. One phone number, which appeared numerous times, was highlighted in yellow.

Raleigh didn’t immediately recognize the number, but that didn’t mean much. She made hundreds of phone calls in a month.

“Do you recognize that piece of paper?” Griffin asked.

“It appears to be a copy of my cell phone bill, although I cannot, at this time, confirm the information it contains as genuine. Again, obtained illegally, as no one but me should have access.”

He brushed aside the question of legality as easily as he would a mosquito. “Do you know whose number that is, highlighted in yellow?”

“No, I don’t. Enlighten me.” If Griffin thought it belonged to Leo Simonetti, he was crazy. But whoever it was, she’d called him or her a lot. She examined the paper more closely. She’d called this person at all hours, too—daytime, evening, weekends, and…at 2:30 a.m.? She never called anyone at that hour. She would have been asleep.

Had anyone else had access to her phone late at night? No, absolutely not.

Griffin Benedict’s next words were spoken with relish. “The number belongs to Leo Simonetti,”

Criminy. She couldn’t panic. Not when the camera was rolling. “Turn the camera off, please.”

“Why? Did I hit a nerve?”

She folded her arms and waited. She wouldn’t say another word until he complied with her request, but she wouldn’t run away, either. She would stand here and smile at the dead air he was collecting on his camera.

Finally, with a sigh, he lowered the camera. The red light went off. “Do you have something to say?”

“I don’t know who the number belongs to,” she began. “But I have never spoken with Leo Simonetti in my life. Not once.” She took out her BlackBerry. “If I ever called that number, it will be in my call history.” She scrolled through her list of outgoing calls. It went back as far as a week. No sign of the mystery telephone number.

She handed the phone to Griffin. “Check for yourself.”

He did. He scrolled through the list, then checked the phone bill again. “This phone bill covers a time period before last week.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, then snatched her phone back. “Has it ever occurred to you that your source, whoever it might be, is playing you? That someone is trying to embarrass me, publicly, or worse, and they’re using you to do it?”

He handed the phone back to her. “I don’t think that’s the case.”

“So, who’s your source? I have a right to know who is saying these terrible, false things about me.”

He flashed a disarming smile. “Now, you know a good journalist doesn’t reveal his sources.”

“Who says you’re a good journalist?” It was a low blow, and though she was fed up with Griffin Benedict and his lying source, she immediately regretted her words. Griffin Benedict might be tenacious, and he might be distractingly sexy, but he appeared to be a good journalist.

So far.

“I guess you’re not a fan,” he said, not seeming troubled by the fact.

“The funny thing is, I am. I mean, I’ve read a few of your articles. Although the stories you pursue are…out there, and your writing style is…irreverent, you don’t strike me as careless or foolhardy. You don’t pander. I would go so far as to say you don’t even go for sensationalism.

“So why this story? It doesn’t seem your style.”

“Anything that involves human emotions, human weaknesses, is my style. I’ve found that subjects intriguing to me also draw in my readers. For whatever reason, I find you and your possible ethics violation highly intriguing.”

“Well, your publisher isn’t going to be so intrigued when the Telegram gets slapped with a libel suit. And don’t start with your ‘public figure’ nonsense.” Public figures had to prove malice in order to win a libel claim—a pretty high standard. “I’m not a public figure. I’m simply doing my job. I have never sought fame or publicity.”

“Even if you were a public figure, I wouldn’t print anything that wasn’t a provable truth. You have my word on that.”

His word. As if that counted for anything. She didn’t even know the man. Yet, for some reason, his promise did reassure her slightly.

Oh, man, where was she going with this? Could a handsome face and a charming smile disarm her to the point she could no longer use her brain?

“I’m happy to hear you won’t print lies about me. Now, then, about this phone bill. I have a theory.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“If that’s Leo Simonetti’s number, then this isn’t really my bill. Someone got a copy of my bill and doctored it, adding in this suspicious phone number. It’s incredibly easy to do. We have a guy on our staff, Mitch Delacroix, who specializes in all kinds of computer and document fraud. You wouldn’t believe the stuff that can be done with a good graphics program.”

“Nice try.”

“I’m serious. And if I’m right, I can prove it. I just paid this phone bill. I have it filed away. We can go to my apartment, and I’ll show it to you.”

Benedict’s eyes lit up. “That’s an excellent idea. I’ll drive.”

Griffin could hardly believe his good luck. Raleigh Shinn had just invited him to see inside her home. He could learn all kinds of things about a person by seeing what they surrounded themselves with, what was important to them. Family pictures displayed on the mantel, mail left carelessly on a table, trash in a wastebasket all could speak volumes. Even a subject’s housekeeping habits were revealing about character.

But his excitement over Raleigh’s invitation was tinged with unease. What if she was right? Obviously his anonymous source had an ax to grind with either Raleigh or Project Justice. But what if the ammunition they were using was bogus? Manufactured? And he’d fallen for it?

Not only had he fallen for it, he’d bet his career on it. If he called Pierce Fontaine and told him the story was a nonstarter, he could kiss the anchor job goodbye.

He tried not to think about that. Surely Raleigh hadn’t expected him to call her bluff, go to her apartment and look at her phone bills. Surely at the last minute, she wouldn’t be able to locate the pertinent bill.

“Turn right at the light,” Raleigh said. She had spoken a bare minimum to him since they’d climbed into his Mustang. Smart lady. Most people, when being nailed to the wall by a reporter, tended to talk too much, digging their graves deeper and deeper.

This subject, at least, knew when to keep her mouth shut.

Or maybe she simply couldn’t stand him and didn’t want to talk to him.

He didn’t like that idea. Yeah, his reporting made plenty of people mad. But a woman, he could usually charm. Women liked him, even when he was putting them through the wringer. A smile, a wink, a touch of sincere interest, and they spilled their guts. Some of them seemed relieved to release their burden of secrets. He had learned more dirt by spending time with some guy’s wife or girlfriend than by any other method.

His charms didn’t seem to work on Raleigh. He couldn’t deny he felt something there, some spark of sexual recognition. The fact she was such a hard nut to crack made her even more appealing. But she wasn’t going to slip up and admit anything. She was too skillful with her words for that. He bet she had seen all the ways a criminal can mess up, and learned from their mistakes.

Raleigh finally broke the silence. “Next block. The tall white building with the—oh, wait, you already know where I live. Hard to find street parking this time of day.”

“I’m lucky when it comes to parking.”

If he was really lucky, he would leave her building with something he could run with. She had no idea how dangerous he could be, let loose in her home. And if he was really lucky, they would take a looooong lunch…

Hell, he had no business thinking like that. The CNI people were watching his every move. A sexual liaison with the subject of his story, or even a background source, would be just the sort of thing they didn’t want to see.

Still, his fantasies persisted. He would take off those glasses, unbutton the suit jacket, which was far too warm for this mild day. He would slide his hands inside that silky blouse—

“You just missed a parking space.” Raleigh sounded exasperated.

Griffin slammed on his brakes. He waited until traffic cleared and put the car in Reverse.

“You’re going to get a ticket, driving like that on a busy downtown street.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” He got lots of tickets. The Houston police knew his car on sight. Fortunately, he had a lady friend who was a judge. Even though they were no longer involved, she usually made his tickets disappear.

“So, how do you like living downtown?” he asked, just trying to get the conversational ball rolling. He wouldn’t have pegged her as a downtowner. She seemed more the type to live in a cushy condo in Memorial or the Galleria area. “What made you move here?”

“The path of least resistance,” she said, more under her breath than to him. She got out and, quarters already in her hand, started pumping them into the meter.

“I can do that.”

“My idea to come here, I’ll pay the parking fee,” she said. “Besides, I wouldn’t want you to write that I’d accepted payment from you.”

Touché.

“What do you mean, the path of least resistance?” he asked as they climbed the stairs to the ornate, brass front door.

“I needed a place to live. I found this one at a good price, close to work, so I took it. No big mystery.”

But it was. He sensed she wasn’t telling him the whole story.

The lobby of her building was 1920s Art Deco splendor, with vaulted ceilings, square columns, potted palm trees and brass accents. The old-fashioned elevator was trimmed in brass, with one of those inner metal doors that had to be closed manually.

Inside the elevator, Raleigh stood as close to the wall as she could—as far away from him as possible—and looked anywhere but at him.

This was no good. He wanted her to be comfortable with him. When people got comfortable they let down their guard. Did this woman ever let down her guard?

They got out on the third floor. Raleigh extracted her key chain from her purse. The key chain was a basic, utilitarian ring with a small LED flashlight attached. It told him nothing about her except that she was practical. No tiny frames with pictures of children or a boyfriend, no souvenir trinkets from vacations, not even a symbol of her work.

He fully expected her apartment to be the same—dull, functional. So when she opened the front door and admitted him, he had a shock.

Clean, neat, organized—it was all those things. No surprises there. But it was colorful. Her walls were painted in vibrant shades of turquoise, moss green, rich gold. The hardwood floors were covered with good wool rugs in contemporary geometric patterns—no fusty Oriental rugs passed down from family. The sofa and two matching chairs were upholstered in cream-colored silk, with throw pillows in every shade of the rainbow.

She had art on the walls—real art, not just some boring framed picture of a mountain to fill a spot. The abstract paintings screamed emotion.

The room was such a contrast to the woman he had so far seen that he was confused.

“Do you live here alone?” Maybe a roommate was responsible for the decor.

Before she could answer, a rust-colored ball of fur streaked into the room, barking wildly.

“Copper! That’s enough,” Raleigh scolded. But she leaned down and scooped the tiny dog—a Pomeranian, Griffin thought—into her arms and let it lick her face. “Yes, baby, I’m home at a strange hour. I surprised you, didn’t I?” Her sweet, maternal-sounding voice was totally different than the voice she used with humans.

Finally she turned back to Griffin, looking slightly embarrassed. “Yes, I live alone except for this little guy. Why?”

He shrugged. “No reason.” Except that you have a split personality. “I never expected you to have an ankle-biter yappy dog.”

Raleigh set the dog down on the rug with a quick scratch behind the ears. “He’s an excellent watchdog. A woman living alone needs some protection.”

Griffin tried not to laugh. “Oh, yeah, he’s a big threat.” He stooped down and held his hand out. The dog eyed him warily. “I won’t hurt you, little guy.”

“If you’ll wait here, please, I’ll go get the phone bill. I know right where it is.”

As soon as she left the room, the dog ventured closer, sniffing the air. But when Griffin tried to pet him, he skittered away. That was when Griffin noticed an antique walnut table in a far corner of the living room that was covered with framed pictures and all manner of knickknacks—a potential gold mine of data.

Forget the dog—although the fact she had a pet was an interesting tidbit.

On closer inspection, he realized every one of the half-dozen or so pictures on the table was of a man—the same man. Some were formal portraits at different ages, others casual snapshots. In some, he was with a beautiful woman.

With a start, he recognized the woman as Raleigh. She wore her hair in a completely different style—loose and wavy. In one picture, it fell in loose auburn curls well past her shoulders. She didn’t wear glasses, clunky or otherwise, in any of the pictures. And her figure?

Yowza. Just as he’d suspected, she was a hot babe.

He quickly came back to earth, however. The man, obviously, was her dead husband, and this table was a shrine to his memory. There were framed ticket stubs to a Broadway show, dried flowers, a smooth stone probably plucked from a river or beach. A poem written in a girlish hand.

A widow was allowed to honor her husband, he supposed, but this was way, way over the top. It had been more than six years. Was she still that hung up on the guy?

It was hard to know what she must feel. He had never lost anyone that close. Maybe he’d never had anyone that close. He felt a pang of sympathy for the pain she must carry with her every day, though she didn’t let it show. He also felt a thread of regret for something in his own life that could never, ever be.

Not that he stood much chance of getting past the woman’s facade, given that his goal was to seriously tarnish her reputation and possibly cost her her job. But now, he didn’t even feel comfortable fantasizing. Her handsome husband, who would forever be young and smiling in her mind, would always stand squarely between them.

“I can’t find the damn bill,” Raleigh announced as she reentered the living room. “I tried going online, but my password isn’t working—” She came to a halt when she spotted him standing before Jason’s shrine.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop,” he said, actually meaning it.

“If I didn’t want people to see Jason’s pictures, I wouldn’t put them in the living room.” The frost was back in her voice.

Yeah, but how many people did she actually invite into her home? Not many, he guessed.

Griffin felt he ought to say something. “It must have been awful. You obviously loved him very much.”

Raleigh blinked several times. “I did… I still do. He was the—” Suddenly she hardened. “Oh, no you don’t.”

“I’m sorry?” What had he done now?

“You aren’t going to weasel personal information out of me using the sympathy card, just so you can exploit me in your damn newspaper.”

“I wouldn’t,” he said. He never claimed to be a paragon of virtue, but he wouldn’t stoop to exploit a woman’s grief for her husband. Her former marriage had nothing to do with the story.

“Convenient, you losing the bill.”

“I pay it online. It’s possible I didn’t get a paper one, and didn’t notice. Someone could have stolen it from my mailbox. The lock isn’t all that secure.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He congratulated himself for predicting the outcome of this meeting so accurately. Was he a good judge of character, or what?

“Of course you don’t believe me.” She shook her head. “I guess I can’t blame you for your suspicions. It looks bad. The phony bill, the deposit…”

“Yes, what about that deposit?”

“I don’t know where that deposit came from!” she said hotly. “It simply appeared. I called the bank, and they say it wasn’t an error. I can put you in touch with any number of bank personnel I spoke with, right on up to a vice president. Some of them, I spoke with long before my first meeting with you. The day after the deposit was made, in fact, I was on the phone, trying to figure out where that money belonged, because I knew it wasn’t mine. I took detailed notes during the conversation.”

He pulled out his notebook. “Okay, let’s have the names.”

“Mr. Temple. He’s a vice president. He’s the one I spoke with most recently. The others are written down at work. I’ll e-mail them to you.”

“Okay. We’ll do this the slow and painful way. Sure you don’t want to just tell me the truth now?”

“I can’t confess to something I didn’t do. Don’t you see? Someone is trying to ruin my reputation. And they’re using you to do the job.”

That statement made him pause. What if she was right? What if someone had made Raleigh Shinn the target of a smear campaign based on lies, making Griffin a patsy? If he went public with something he hadn’t independently verified—and thank God he wasn’t that stupid—he would be in the unemployment line and possibly the defendant in a libel lawsuit.

Part of him wanted to turn loose of Raleigh. She seemed genuine. But if he let go of this story now, after he’d promised it to CNI, he wouldn’t have a shot at the anchor job.

Unless…unless he figured a way to turn the story to his benefit.

Maybe, if Raleigh thought he was on her side, she would let down her guard. “I’ll talk to the bank employees,” he said, trying to inject some sympathy into his voice. “If someone is trying to ruin you, we have to stop them.”

“We?” She looked at him as if he was crazy. “There’s no ‘we’ here. I believe our business has concluded for now.”

“Raleigh, maybe you don’t realize the seriousness of what’s going on here. You could be in danger.”

“Please.”

Griffin sat up straighter. If she was telling the truth, this could be an even better story than he first thought. Someone was going to a great deal of trouble to ruin Raleigh Shinn and, by inference, the whole of Project Justice. Why?

He took out his notebook. “Who are your enemies? Whose bad side have you gotten on lately? Who might want to hurt you?”

“Oh, no. You’re not turning this into another story.”

“We could help each other,” he pointed out. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. I can figure out who’s doing this and stop them before he or she does permanent harm to your career.”

“I don’t partner with journalists.”

“You don’t understand. I’m being considered for a national TV job. A hot story like this would help me land it. And I could give Project Justice some positive press.”

“Talk to our public relations coordinator, then.”

But he could see the indecision playing on her face. She knew he could slice and dice her in the press, or make her look like Joan of Arc.

“If you’re really innocent of any wrongdoing, your cooperation could—”

“No,” she said suddenly. “I want you to leave. We’re done.”

That’s where Raleigh was wrong. She didn’t know it yet, but things between them were just getting started.

CHAPTER FOUR

BETH STUCK her head into Raleigh’s office. “You up for lunch?”

Raleigh was tempted. But she looked at the huge stack of paper on her desk that was the transcript from the original Simonetti trial, and shook her head. She’d been reading the transcript for hours, and had many hours to go. The original trial had lasted a ridiculous six weeks.

“I can’t. Too much work.”

Beth stepped inside. “Daniel wouldn’t approve. You know how important it is to rest and refuel.”

Raleigh pulled off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. Beth was right. But work seemed to be the only way she could keep Griffin Benedict off her mind. It was like the guy had planted a seed in her brain, where it had firmly taken root.

You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.

She had emailed him all the names of the people she’d talked to at her bank, and she had given the bank permission to discuss the matter of the mystery deposit with Griffin. And she’d finally gotten into her cell phone provider’s website and emailed a copy of the phone bill in question. She assumed she wouldn’t hear from him again, a thought that should have pleased her.

“Maybe lunch is a good idea.” Beth would no doubt have some distracting story to tell during lunch. She was one of those people to whom strange things always happened.

“Did someone say lunch?” Mitch Delacroix slipped through the open office door behind Beth.

Great. Now Raleigh’s office was Grand Central Station.

“I’m trying to drag Raleigh’s nose away from the grindstone,” Beth said. “Want to come with us?”

Mitch looked undecided then abruptly shook his head. “Can’t. Meeting. I just stopped by to give you this, Raleigh.” He held out a bulging manila folder.

Raleigh couldn’t remember asking Mitch for research with any of her cases. She must have looked at him blankly.

“Griffin Benedict?”

“Ohhh.” She slapped a hand to her forehead. “Mitch, I’m so sorry to have put you to a lot of trouble for nothing. I don’t believe Griffin Benedict will bother me again.”

Mitch shrugged. “It’s okay. Digging up dirt on people is fun for me, you know that, and I didn’t have anything else urgent—or half as interesting. Glad you worked it out, though.”

He handed Raleigh the folder. “Enjoy it. Then shred the contents, okay? A few bits and pieces in there aren’t, ah, fully in the public domain.”

Meaning he’d done some hacking. On her behalf. Raleigh felt guilty as hell.

She set the folder on her desk, grabbed her purse and headed for the door. “Does Lancer Steak-house sound okay to you? They have good lunch specials.”

“Wait!” Beth’s single word stuck her to the floor.

“What?”

“Aren’t you going to look inside the folder?”

“No way,” Raleigh said. “I no longer need information on the man. It wouldn’t be ethical for me to snoop—”

“Ethical, shmethical. This will make excellent lunch entertainment.” Beth grabbed the folder. “Let’s go.”

“I don’t think we should read the information on Griffin,” Raleigh said again a couple of minutes later as she signed out. Celeste seemed to be heavily involved in a Danielle Steele novel.

“But aren’t you curious?”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

Celeste gave a disapproving harrumph, reminding Raleigh that even when she seemed not to be paying attention, she was. Celeste was a little sharper than most people gave her credit for.

“Look, Beth,” Raleigh said once they’d exited the building into a gloomy, overcast day. “I think I’ve convinced Griffin of my innocence. He’s not going to print any lies about me. End of threat, as far as I’m concerned.”

“But you don’t know what he’s really planning to write. Even if he told you he believed you—reporters can say anything. You should be ready. Just in case. Knowledge is power.”

“And you’re grasping at straws because you’re nosy. I had a hard enough time ejecting him from my apartment yesterday—”

Beth gasped. “He was in your apartment?”

Raleigh’s face warmed as she imagined what Beth was thinking. “I brought him there to show him evidence that would exonerate me. He seemed convinced. He even warned me that I might be in danger.”

Again, Beth gasped. “Maybe you are!”

Raleigh waved away her concern. “People who commit crimes with paper and computers seldom turned to guns, knives or bombs. He was just trying to manipulate my feelings, so I would agree to…” Agree to what? She wasn’t sure.

“Anyway,” she concluded, “I’m done with him.”

“Well,” said Beth, “if you won’t look at the folder, that’s your business. But I’m going to check it out.”

Raleigh knew she wouldn’t dissuade her friend, so she didn’t argue further. In truth, she was curious about the contents of that folder.

Getting Griffin to leave her apartment hadn’t been easy, but evicting him from her mind was proving impossible. She kept seeing him as he’d looked, large and masculine and utterly out of place in her feminine living room. Her stomach swooped every time that image jumped into her consciousness.

His presence had felt exciting and dangerous, representing everything she tried to avoid in her life. Part of her had wanted to grab a broom and sweep him out into the hallway; another part had almost invited him to have dinner with her. She loved to cook, yet how long had it been since she’d done more than toss a frozen dinner into the microwave?

She and Beth headed for Lancer and got a booth in the back with a bit of privacy. After ordering, Beth opened the folder with obvious anticipation and began sifting through the contents, scanning pages that interested her.

“Seems the journalist has been the subject of more than a few interviews,” she said.

Raleigh put her fingers in her ears. “La la la, I’m not listening.” But of course, she was.

“Born and raised in Houston,” Beth said as she scanned one of the articles, which looked to have been copied from the internet. “Humble beginnings, broken home, rags to riches…wow, he really overcame some tough odds to get where he is.”

“If that’s even true. He could have made it all up. Not all reporters check their facts.”

“He went to University of Texas on a scholarship. Good for him. Oh, look, his college transcript. Almost straight A’s.”

That was a little surprising. Raleigh would have pegged him as the kind who partied his way through college.

“Graduate school, University of Oklahoma,” Beth continued. “I wouldn’t have guessed he was the academic type.”

“I wouldn’t, either.” Raleigh was getting sucked in, despite herself.

“He’s not all about books and classrooms, though. He has a black belt in judo.”

“Now that doesn’t surprise me.” The way he moved, so decisively but at the same time with grace, suggested some type of athletic training.

“Seems he paid his dues, working at small papers, stringing for the wire services, freelancing for magazines, including—” Beth smiled “—Soldier of Fortune.”

“A magazine for mercenaries and assorted gun nuts. Nice.”

“Then the Telegram hired him. That’s when he started to make a name for himself—oh, look at this. A copy of his driver’s license. He lives on The Heights Boulevard. Cool neighborhood.”

His address put him squarely inside the Loop. The Heights was an up-and-coming area with plenty of young professionals and lots of parks for them to play in on the weekends.

“Here’s the ‘Most Eligible Bachelors’ story. Want to read it? That’s totally available to anyone, no invasion of privacy.”

“I’m not interested,” Raleigh said flatly as she copped a peek at the color printout of the story, which featured a large picture of Griffin leaning against a brick wall, looking tough and slightly cynical—and heart-stoppingly gorgeous.

Beth sifted through a few more photos. “Seems he was into the club scene for a bit—pretty models hanging on him. He doesn’t look particularly happy.”

Which gave Raleigh a perverse sense of satisfaction. From her ivory tower, she liked to think that no one in the club scene was happy, filling their empty lives with drinking and drugs and meaningless banter.

“Poor guy,” she said. “Rough life having to hang with gorgeous women.”

“The boy likes to drive fast. Look at all these speeding tickets. His car insurance rates must be through the roof.”

“Beth, enough.”

“Wait—oh, hmm. Interesting.”

The waitress chose that moment to bring their salads and baked potatoes. Beth closed the folder and suddenly seemed keen on loading her spud with butter, sour cream and bacon.

Raleigh added a few drops of dressing to her salad and a sprinkle of pepper to her potato. They ate for a few minutes in silence before Raleigh couldn’t stand it anymore.

“What’s so interesting?”

“Hmm?”

“You saw something in that folder and you said, ‘Hmmm. Interesting.’”

“Did I?” Beth pretended to look confused. “I thought you didn’t want to know.”

“Okay, I’m a big liar. I’m fascinated. There, satisfied?”

Beth grinned and opened the folder back up. “He was nominated for a Pulitzer. Did a piece on war orphans in Afghanistan.”

“I remember that story,” Raleigh said suddenly. “It ran in the Telegram’s Sunday magazine, couple of years ago.” She apparently hadn’t paid much attention to who had written the piece, but now the details poured back into her mind. It was one of the most compassionate, emotional pieces of writing she’d ever read. Griffin hadn’t just reported a sad situation, he had immersed himself in it. Those children and their tragedy weren’t simply statistics to him. They were real people he’d taken the time to know.

The story had made her cry.

It was hard to dislike, or even dismiss, a man like that.

RALEIGH TOLD HERSELF a million times that it didn’t make any difference whether he truly cared about his subjects or was an opportunistic paparazzo. He was not her concern anymore.

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