“Feeling better?” he whispered, the movement of his mouth tickling her lips.

Heat flowed like lava through her entire body. Out to her fingertips and toes and back, swirling through her until it settled in her core. She bit her cheek to keep from moaning with pleasure.

“I feel wonderful,” she answered breathlessly.

He lifted his head slightly. When she raised her gaze, she saw his firm, wide mouth soften. Was he about to kiss her? Really kiss her? Right here in the middle of running from people who were trying to kill them?

She should say something. Should stop this. Because all they were doing was seeking comfort in a dangerous situation.

The men who wanted to kill her were dangerous, but so was Harte. And right now, she wasn’t sure who frightened her most.

About the Author

MALLORY KANE has two very good reasons for loving reading and writing. Her mother was a librarian, who taught her to love and respect books as a precious resource. Her father could hold listeners spellbound for hours with his stories. He was always her biggest fan.

She loves romantic suspense with dangerous heroes and dauntless heroines, and enjoys tossing in a bit of her medical knowledge for an extra dose of intrigue. After twenty-five books published, Mallory is still amazed and thrilled that she actually gets to make up stories for a living.

Mallory lives in Tennessee with her computer-genius husband and three exceptionally intelligent cats. She enjoys hearing from readers. You can write her at mallory@mallorykane.com.

Star Witness
Mallory Kane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

To Michael, for always.

Chapter One

Harte Delancey always felt like such a wimpy kid around his older brothers—probably because that’s how they treated him.

He looked up from the grill where steaks were sizzling. Lucas and Ethan were tossing long spiraling passes to each other in the football-field-sized backyard of their parents’ Chef Voleur home. If Travis were here instead of overseas somewhere, he’d be out there too.

Harte preferred more solitary forms of exercise—running, backpacking and biking. He chuckled wryly and flipped the steaks as Lucas made a spectacular leap and snagged the football out of the air.

“Steaks ready in five,” he called out as his mom brought a big bowl of her famous buttermilk ranch potato salad from the outdoor kitchen to the already laden table. Lucas’s wife, Angela, followed her carrying a massive casserole of baked beans.

“Everything looks great,” Harte said.

“I hope so,” Betty Carole Delancey said in her self-deprecating way. “The tomatoes don’t look very good.”

He eyed the plump, bright red slices with amusement. “If they were any better, the Times-Picayune would be on the story. What do you think, Dad?” he asked his father, Robert, who sat in his wheelchair watching Lucas and Ethan.

Harte’s dad turned his head slightly. “Everything good,” he said haltingly. It had been fourteen years since the massive stroke had left him partially paralyzed and unable to speak. With his wife’s help, he’d relearned how to talk.

Lucas and Ethan washed up at the sink, arguing about who had the more accurate throwing arm. Then Lucas kissed Angela on the cheek before sitting down beside her. Ethan grabbed the chair opposite the two of them.

Harte took the last T-bone off the grill and set the platter down in the middle of the table. He sat between Lucas and their mother.

“Want to play a game of three-team touch later, Mr. Prosecutor?” Lucas asked as he tousled Harte’s hair. Harte ducked but not in time. “Or should I call you Monsieur Chef?” he mused, stabbing a steak with his fork and holding it up for inspection.

“After you eat all that and can’t move? Sure.” Harte was used to Lucas ribbing him about his choice of career and his cooking.

Lucas was a detective with the New Orleans Police Department, as was Ethan, and Travis, an Army Special Forces operative, was stationed overseas. It was a sore spot with all three of them that their youngest brother had broken tradition and studied law.

As if reading his thoughts, his mom said, “I was hoping we’d hear something from Travis this week.”

“What’s it been—six months since you last spoke with him?” Ethan asked, then washed a bite of steak down with iced tea.

“September,” his dad said.

“That’s right, darling,” his mom said as she cut his steak into bite-sized pieces for her husband. “It’s been seven months.”

Harte saw Lucas and Ethan exchange a glance. He knew what they were thinking. It chafed them that their mother was so solicitous and gentle with her husband. Neither one—especially Lucas—had ever forgiven their dad for his drunken rages and punishing fists. It didn’t matter to them that Robert’s stroke had rendered him a docile wraith of his former self.

At that moment, the patio door opened. It was Cara Lynn, smiling and dressed in a casual floral dress that sported all the pastel colors of spring. Not that the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain in Louisiana ever saw spring … or fall for that matter. The weather was generally either hot and humid or chilly and wet.

Still, the sun seemed to shine brighter when their only sister and Harte’s closest sibling was around.

“What a gorgeous day to have dinner outside,” she said as she rounded the table, giving everyone a quick kiss, then sat.

“Nice of you to grace us with your presence,” Ethan said, cutting into his steak.

Cara Lynn made a face at him. “I’m showing twelve pieces at the New Orleans Fiber Arts Show in just over a month,” she said, “and I’ve got finish work to do on five of them. You probably won’t see me again until after the show.”

Harte’s mother sighed as she set two loaves of French bread on the table. “That’s why I try to have these dinners as often as possible. Everyone’s so busy these days.”

“Speaking of which,” Harte said, “the court date in the Freeman Canto murder case has been moved up. The judge will hear opening arguments on Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?” Lucas said. “Five days from now? That seems sudden. Didn’t you just take over the case a couple of months ago?”

“And they were talking about putting it on the docket for June. But now defense counsel Felix Drury has to have open-heart surgery, and the judge didn’t want to put off the case another three or four months while he recuperates.”

“Maybe you’ll get lucky and Drury will plead his client, or at least try to wrap up the case early,” Ethan said. “I’ve testified in a case or two where Jury Drury was defense counsel. He treats the jury like his own personal fan club. Plays to them and draws out his arguments. Plus, doesn’t he love to file motions for acquittal?”

“Yes, he does. The D.A. got the notification about the new trial date around one-thirty today, and before three there were two defense motions on his desk.” Harte speared a bite of steak. “So that means I probably won’t have time to breathe until the trial is over, starting tonight.” Just as he finished speaking, his cell phone rang.

His dad grunted. “Dang things,” he mumbled.

Harte glanced at the display and excused himself from the table. “Got to take this,” he apologized as he walked to the other end of the patio.

“Delancey? It’s Mahoney,” Detective Tom Mahoney said unnecessarily. The gruff detective didn’t like cell phones any more than Harte’s dad did. “Got a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” Harte asked, smothering a sigh. Mahoney was an excellent detective, but he had a very broad definition of problem.

“Your witness in the Canto case was almost run down a little while ago.”

Harte’s scalp burned. “Dani? What happened? Is she all right?” He blinked away a disturbing vision of Public Defender Danielle Canto’s exquisite body crumpled on the highway.

“Yep. A vehicle nearly sideswiped her on the sidewalk leading up to her house. Doubt it was an accident. The damn car left tracks in the grass—and skid marks—looks like it didn’t even try to slow down—”

“Tom! What about Dani?” Harte broke in.

“She’s okay. But real shaken up. Has a few scrapes and bruises from throwing herself up onto the porch, though,” Mahoney assured him. “That saved her. The front steps are nothing but toothpicks now.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“No need to rush,” Mahoney said. “The excitement’s over now.”

“Well, it may not be the last of it. Did you hear that the Canto case has been moved up? It’s due to start Tuesday.”

“Hmph. That explains a lot. That car had to be sent by Yeoman. He doesn’t want Ms. Canto testifying against him.”

Harte agreed. Ernest Yeoman was an importer and distributor who supplied goods to all the Hasty Marts in the Southeast. He had long been suspected of dealing in contraband, specifically drugs, through his import business. “Please tell me you’ve got evidence that ties him to this.”

Mahoney cleared his throat. “Can’t say. We picked up some headlight glass fragments and paint chips where the vehicle sideswiped the porch. We’ll see if the lab can match it up with a make and model.”

“Where’s Dani now?” Harte asked. “Did she have to go to the hospital? I want to talk to her. Find out what happened.”

“She’s at home. We’ve got her statement. You can read it as soon as it’s typed up.”

Harte was already fishing in his jeans for his car keys. “You left her by herself?”

“I told her to go to a hotel or a friend’s house until we could arrange something, but she’s about as stubborn as her granddaddy always was. I’ve arranged for a cruiser to drive by hourly through the night.”

“Good. I’ll head over there as soon as I find a judge. The hourly drive-by is great for tonight. But I’m getting an order of protection. I’m not taking any chances with my star witness.”

THE BOTTLE RATTLED against the glass shelf of the refrigerator as Danielle Canto pulled it out. Her hands were shaking. She tightened her fist around the cold green glass with a disgusted huff. Her hands never shook.

But today was a special occasion, she thought wryly. She’d felt the brush of hot steel and the prickle of splintered wood against the backs of her calves just before she’d managed to leap up onto the front porch of her grandfather’s home. She barely remembered doing it, but it had to be a new high-jump record. The wooden porch was at least four feet off the ground.

She’d hit the porch hard and rolled, bruising her thigh, scraping her knees and elbows and hurting her wrist. She’d rolled up to her haunches immediately, but between her aching muscles and the panic that had hitched her breath, she hadn’t gotten the license plate. By the time she’d taken a deep breath and managed to focus, all she’d been able to see was the car’s back fender as it screamed away in a shower of stones and mud.

She’d grabbed her phone and called 911, and waited without moving until they got there. She hadn’t even considered inspecting the damage to the steps and the four-by-fours that supported the porch. Maybe she should check now, but that would involve getting a flashlight and going around from the back door to the front, not to mention the trauma of seeing how much damage the car had done to the porch. No. She didn’t want to know—not tonight.

After grilling her for twenty minutes to squeeze out every detail she could give him about the incident, Detective Mahoney had guessed that the car had been sent by Ernest Yeoman. She shuddered. Could Yeoman be that stupid, or maybe that arrogant, to think that he could scare her into refusing to testify? A horrible thought occurred to her. What if whoever was driving that car had been sent, not to scare her, but to kill her?

She squared her shoulders. Whatever the reason for the attack, it was time for her to take action. She wasn’t her grandfather’s granddaughter for nothing. Freeman Canto had taught her to take care of herself. She looked at the bottle of Chardonnay still clutched in her fist, then set it carefully on the granite countertop. Right now she needed a means of self-defense more than a drink. She held up her hand. It would not be shaky long.

Stalking to the bedroom closet, she took down the metal box from the top shelf and unlocked it. Inside was the lock-pick kit her granddad had given her for her tenth birthday.

“Never know when you might need to get through a door,” he’d said.

The small leather case felt familiar in her hand and reminded her of the hours she’d spent picking every lock in the house, again and again. She didn’t remember when she’d stopped carrying the small kit. Probably about the same time she started wearing lipstick and noticing boys. Well, she’d be carrying it now.

With a sad little smile, she set the case on the dresser, then carefully lifted out the other object in the box. Her grandfather’s gun, a SIG Sauer. She wrapped her hand around the grip. The cold metal felt good against her palm. She supported her right hand with her left, the way Granddad had taught her, and slid her forefinger over the trigger.

She’d never shot anyone, hopefully never would, but tonight she was thankful that he’d taught her how to take care of herself.

She handled the weapon quickly and expertly, ejecting, checking and reinserting the seventeen-round magazine. Then she grabbed the second loaded magazine from the box. Sighting over the barrel, she nodded slightly. She wouldn’t go anywhere unarmed until the trial was over. Next time somebody tried to run her down, she’d take him out—or his tires at least.

She took the gun, the extra magazine and the lock-pick kit to the foyer and put them in her voluminous purse, then hefted the bag to her shoulder for a quick test of its weight before setting it back on the table. She felt much safer with her granddad’s things so close. Now she could relax. As soon as she double-checked all the locks. After a quick round through the house, she headed back to the kitchen.

Her hands had stopped shaking while she concentrated on cleaning and checking the SIG, but as she picked up the corkscrew to open the Chardonnay, they started quivering again. It took a couple of tries to remove the cork, but finally, she was able to pour the chilled Chardonnay with only a little clanking of glass against glass.

Holding the glass high, she said, “To you, Granddad. The bastards who killed you will rot in prison if I have anything to say about it.” She took a long swallow and shuddered.

Grabbing the bottle, Dani walked to her bedroom, kicked off her high heels and frowned at the long scrape that marred the red leather of the right shoe. “Great,” she sighed, and flopped onto the bed.

Outside, she heard a faraway rumbling of thunder. She shivered. She didn’t like storms. They scared her. Her dad had died in a tornado when she was only seven. Until that awful night last year when her granddad was murdered, storms had been the only thing that scared her.

That night, she’d learned that home did not always represent safety, that faceless monsters could murder a man without conscience and that as strong and capable as she’d always thought she was, she’d been helpless to save her granddad. But at least Ernest Yeoman, the man who she was convinced was behind her granddad’s murder, would soon be brought to trial.

According to Harte Delancey, the prosecutor who’d been assigned to her case, the D.A. was practically salivating at the chance to get his hands on the suspected drug smuggler. Yeoman had long been suspected of using his import business to smuggle contraband and drugs into the country through the Port of New Orleans. He was also rumored to have friends in the legislature. Some rumors had even suggested that Freeman Canto was one of those friends.

Dani felt the determination that had sustained her since the night her grandfather had died rise inside her, pushing away the fear. She was not going to let Yeoman or anyone else frighten her away, no matter how serious the threats. Nobody would smear her granddad’s name if she had anything to say about it.

She held her glass up in a salute. “I’m fighting for you, Granddad,” she whispered, her throat tightening. Just as she brought the glass to her lips, something made her stop dead still.

What had she heard? Footsteps maybe, in front of the house? Or had the rain that had been threatening all day finally gotten here? Holding her breath, she listened. There it was again. That was not rain. It was footsteps.

She didn’t move a muscle. The rhythm and the muffled crunch ruled out the raccoons that toppled her garbage can at least once a week. Raccoons didn’t make that much noise. This varmint was human. Her pulse skittered as the footsteps crunched on the gravel driveway.

It could be one of the police officers or the crime scene unit, taking more pictures before the rain got too bad. But that was doubtful. Detective Mahoney would have called her, knowing how shaken she was.

Whoever was out there wasn’t sneaking, but he wasn’t tromping either. She listened as he rounded the house and came up onto the back stoop.

Dani tensed, but to her surprise, everything went quiet. She set her wineglass down and prepared to get up, angry at herself for her apprehension. She was not going to let Ernest Yeoman make her feel unsafe inside her own home.

Finally, a staccato rapping echoed through the house. Although she half expected the knock, she still jumped. She slipped off the bed and tiptoed down the hall to the front foyer. She worried her lip between her front teeth as she eased the gun out of her purse. Drawing courage from the heft of the weapon in her hand, she stepped into the kitchen, gun at the ready.

The silhouette of a man was outlined on the window shade of the back door. The dark figure’s shape didn’t look ominous, but it didn’t have the reassuring outline of a police officer’s uniform and hat either. Nor was he wearing the cap and jacket of a crime scene tech.

She eased closer until she was about ten feet from the door. Raising the gun, she thumbed off the safety. Just as the silhouetted man lifted a hand to knock again, she snapped, “Who is it?”

The hand stopped in midair.

“Get away from my door!” she yelled in a loud, commanding voice. “Now!”

“Dani, it’s Harte. Just checking on you.”

Her pulse slowed as relief coursed through her. It was Harte Delancey. Great. She rolled her eyes. Thanks, Mahoney. She should have known he’d call the prosecutor who’d been assigned Yeoman’s case three months ago. “Go away. I’m fine,” she said irritably. “Go study your briefs or something.”

The shadow shifted and she saw his head shake. “Yeah, ha-ha. I never heard that one before.” He spread his hands, palms out. “Come on, Dani. Open up. I’m not armed.”

She shook her head in exasperation. “Well, I am,” she retorted. “Now go away. I’m not dressed.”

“Sure you are,” he said. “I can see your outline through the glass.”

Muttering some unladylike words, Dani slid the bolt and unlocked the back door. As she turned the knob, she braced herself for the sight of him. As much as he irritated her, she couldn’t deny that he was easy on the eyes, which made her very uneasy all over.

But when she swung the door wide, she was stunned. The Harte Delancey she was used to seeing was slickly handsome, from his perfect dark hair and expensive suit to his blindingly polished shoes.

But this was no slick prosecutor who stood in front of her now. His hair was tousled and flopped over his forehead. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Dani did a double take.

The T-shirt was a worn and much-washed New Orleans Jazz Festival shirt from several years ago. The fabric stretched across his chest and shoulders and draped loosely over faded, very nicely fitting jeans.

She swallowed. Suits did not do Harte Delancey justice.

Harte cleared his throat and Dani realized she was staring at his—jeans. Her gaze snapped to his, her face burning with embarrassment. And there in his expression was the polished prosecutor she was used to seeing. His dark eyes were filled with mischief, and a familiar, knowing smile curved his lips.

She glared at him. “What are you doing here?” she asked, letting her gaze sweep downward and back up.

He pushed his fingers through his hair, dislodging droplets of rain. “Can I come in?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, sure. Why not? After you went to all the trouble to sneak around my house.”

“Sneaking? I wasn’t sneaking. I couldn’t very well come to the front door like civilized folks.” He assessed her. “Are you all right?”

She shrugged. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, suddenly feeling a lump growing at the back of her throat. Swallowing hard, she straightened. “I was just—thinking about my granddad.”

Harte’s brow furrowed and his snapping dark eyes softened. He started to speak, but Dani cut him off.

“I guess Mahoney told you what happened.”

“Where did you get that gun?” he asked. “You shouldn’t—”

He stopped when she lifted her chin. Then she realized she was still holding the weapon. She clicked on the safety and set it down on the counter. “I have a license,” she said defensively.

He visibly relaxed. “Seriously, Dani. Did the EMTs check you out? Make sure you didn’t break something?”

“I didn’t break anything. The driver broke my porch.” She had to suppress the urge to press her palm against her tightening chest. She just wanted to go to bed and pull the covers over her head. “What’s the matter, Mr. Prosecutor? Afraid you’re going to lose your star witness? I can guarantee you I will be there to testify. These accidents are nothing more than an inconvenience.”

He shook his head, and his smile faded. “I’m positive I won’t lose my witness.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans and held it up between two long, sturdy fingers.

Her stomach sank to her toes. “Oh no. No, no, no,” she said, shaking her head. “You didn’t,” she grated through clenched teeth. “Come on, Harte. Tell me that’s not—” She reached for it, but he held it over his head. If she’d had on her four-inch platform heels, she might have been able to snag it, but she was barefoot, and therefore at least six inches shorter than he.

“It’s an order of protection—” he started.

“No!” she broke in. “You are not sticking me in some airless bedbug-ridden hovel for weeks.”

“It won’t be weeks, and hopefully it won’t be bedbug-ridden or airless.” There was a definite tone of amusement in his voice. “In fact, you ought to love it. It’s a bed-and-breakfast in a Victorian house in the Lower Garden District.”

Dani crossed her arms. “I won’t go. The public defender’s office is shorthanded as it is. I have cases and trial dates.”

“Your cases are more important to you than your safety?” he shot back. “Than your life?”

She blinked. “My life?” she echoed. “I object. Assuming facts not in evidence.”

He shook his head. “Mahoney told me about the car, and I saw what’s left of your porch steps. If that vehicle had hit you, you’d be nothing more than a smudge on the sidewalk.”

Chapter Two

“Ouch!” Dani said, cringing at Harte’s words. “A smudge. Great. Thanks for that image.”

“Come on, Dani. Another public defender can be appointed to take your cases until this trial is over. You are in danger and no, I’m not just worried about my case. I’m worried about you.”

Dani sniffed. “Better watch out. Con Delancey will haunt you for consorting with the enemy.”

He shot her an exasperated glance. “Our grandparents’ feud is ancient history. And it was probably just for show anyhow.”

“I can believe Con Delancey was posturing, but my grandfather always fought for what he believed in. That’s why he was—” She swallowed. Why were her emotions so near the surface tonight? Even as the question flitted through her mind, she knew the answer was obvious. Because she’d almost been run down by a car.

Harte held up his hands, palms out. “I’m not suggesting anything different. I just need you to trust me, or I won’t be able to keep you safe.”

Trust him? She knew him. He would do anything to win, just like his grandfather. He’d proven that three years ago. Luckily for her, right now her safety meshed with his ambition. She sighed in exasperation and defeat. “When am I to be incarcerated?”

“Tomorrow morning. I tried to get you in tonight, but they’re full. They’re letting us have the run of the place for the next two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” Two weeks sounded like forever. Then the significance of the time frame hit her. “Wait a minute. The trial date’s been set?”

“Oh, I didn’t tell you. It was moved forward. It starts Tuesday.”

“Tuesday?” Dani said, shocked. “You mean as in Thursday—” She held up a finger. “Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday?” she continued, counting each day off on a finger. “But we aren’t ready.”

“I know. Tell me about it. Don’t worry. We’ll prep all weekend. Anyhow, the B-and-B has agreed that we can extend your stay for as long as the trial goes on. They’re happy with the weekly rate we offered them.”

“Weekly rate? As long as the trial goes on?” she cried. “No. This is not going to work. I’m going to see the judge and get that order vacated.”

Harte gave her that smile again, the one that looked more like a smirk and made her so angry. “You can try, but ever since I passed the bar, I’m Judge Rossi’s favorite nephew.”

She had to fight to keep her jaw from dropping. Of course he had an uncle who was a judge. Of course he went to him for the order of protection. “So that’s how you managed to get a judge’s signature this time of night. Must be nice to have relatives who will skirt the law for you any time you please.”

His smile faded. “I didn’t skirt the law. I merely called a judge I know rather than picking one from the phone book. You’d have done the same, Madame Public Defender.”

“Fine,” she said grudgingly. “You said it was a bed-and-breakfast? I guess that won’t be too awful. Give me the address. I’ll head over there tomorrow.”

“It’s on Religious Street, between Race and Orange. But as of—” he glanced at the piece of paper he held “—nine forty-three p.m. today, I’m responsible for you. So I’ll pick you up.”

“Okay, okay. Fine.” She held up her hands in surrender. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a bully?”

“Nope. Never.” He cocked his hip to slide the packet back into his pocket.

Dani couldn’t help sneaking a glimpse at the back side of the snug jeans before she stepped around him to open the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He reached over her shoulder to push the door closed, which put him way too close. She caught a faint whiff of something fresh and citrusy as she glanced up at him. She was going to have to get some higher heels. Not being eye-to-eye with him made her feel small.

“Hold it,” he said. “Not so fast. I want to ask you some questions about what happened tonight.”

“I told the police everything. Go read their report.”

“Tell me just exactly what you were doing when the car tried to run you down.”

Dani clenched her teeth. She’d seen that determined glint in his eye before—when they’d faced each other across the courtroom. He’d badger her until he got answers. With a defeated shake of her head, she walked over to the kitchen table and sat. “I’m really tired, so could we make it quick?”

“I’ve got no problem with that.”

She rested her clasped hands on the table and stared at them. “I was late leaving the office. It was probably six-thirty, so by the time I got home it must have been around seven.”

He nodded without speaking.

“I pulled into the driveway, parked and …” She paused. “I walked around to the front of the house to get the mail. The car just popped up out of nowhere. I heard the engine rev, but I didn’t pay any attention to it until the sound kept getting louder and louder.”

“Where were you when you realized the car was coming at you?”

“About ten feet or so from the mailbox.” She wasn’t happy about having to relive those moments. She’d been through them already, she’d had to answer questions about them twice for the police and now Harte was asking the same questions. She pushed her fingers through her hair. “Every single bit of this is in my statement,” she groused.

“You’d already gotten the mail?”

“No. I was walking toward the box.”

“So you realized it was coming at you …”

She nodded. “And I just ran. I don’t even remember jumping up onto the porch.”

“Sounds like it’s a good thing you did.”

She rubbed her wrist. “I do remember the landing. Did you look at the damage?” she asked.

“A little bit. I couldn’t tell a whole lot in the dark, but the front steps are basically splinters now.” He looked at her. “Why? You haven’t?”

She shook her head. “No. As soon as they were finished questioning me, I came inside, took a hot shower and tried to relax. Then I heard you sneaking around.”

He opened his mouth as if to deny again that he’d been sneaking, then apparently changed his mind. “Did you see him?”

“See who? Oh, the driver?” She shook her head. “I barely got a glimpse of the car. The first thing I knew after I started running was that I was on the porch and my wrist and my left hip hurt. And my elbows and knees stung.” She lifted her arm.

Harte frowned at the angry red scrape just under her elbow.

“I sat up and tried to catch the license, but the car was nearly out of sight and I couldn’t make it out.”

“Can you describe the car?” Harte asked.

“It was dark, maybe black.”

“And the shape? The size?”

Dani closed her eyes. “It looked really big, but that might be because it was racing toward me.”

“An SUV?”

She shook her head. “No. It was a—” She gestured. “A regular car. You know, a sedan.”

“Have you ever met Ernest Yeoman?”

Dani shook her head.

“Myron Stamps? Paul Guillame?”

“Come on, Harte. I’ve answered these questions a dozen times. For the police, for the other assistant district attorney and now I’ve got to answer them for you? I’m tired.”

“Humor me,” he said. “I want you to answer as if you’re answering on the stand.”

Dani sighed. “I know Senator Stamps. He used to come over here a lot to talk to Granddad. They’d argue into the night. I’d make coffee for them.”

“What did they argue about?” he asked.

“You know all this,” she groused. “The docks. The Port of New Orleans. Granddad fought for raising tariffs and taxes. He was convinced that lowering tariffs would allow more smuggling through the Port of New Orleans.”

“And Stamps argued against that?”

She nodded. “Sure. He was on Con Delancey’s side.”

“Lower the tariffs to boost revenue and create more jobs,” Harte said.

“Not to mention creating more crime-smuggling contraband and drugs.”

Harte frowned, looking thoughtful. “I’ve never understood that argument. Smuggling by definition is bypassing normal import channels.”

“You’re not that naive, are you? They smuggle the contraband and drugs in with the legally imported items. Sometimes inside them. Higher tariffs cut into their profits, and enforcing the higher tariffs means more port authority officers around.”

Harte nodded. “I know the reasoning. So back to Stamps. You’re saying he and your granddad butted heads on the issue of tariffs, even though your granddad’s position had never changed? I wonder why.”

“Granddad didn’t like Stamps, but he was too polite to refuse to see him. He always said—” Dani stopped. As an attorney, she hated speculation and hearsay. Harte would probably light into her if she started relating her granddad’s opinion of Stamps.

“What?” he asked.

She gave a little shake of her head and made a dismissive gesture.

“Dani, tell me. Anything might be important.”

“Even if defense council would cut me off in a heartbeat for hearsay?”

His eyes softened in amusement. “Tell me and let me decide.”

“It could be considered defamatory.”

“Then definitely tell me.”

Dani covered a yawn with her hand. “Okay. Granddad said that back when he and Con Delancey faced off over the tariff issue, it was a gentleman’s argument between two public servants who genuinely believed in their position. He had a very different opinion about Myron Stamps.”

“Tell me.”

“He was convinced that Stamps was doing it for money.”

“Money? What money? Why haven’t you told me this before?”

She shrugged. “Apparently, when he was first elected, Stamps was all for more stringent controls on the port. Then a few years ago he abruptly shifted positions. Granddad figured somebody got to him.”

Harte took a small notepad out of his pocket and jotted something down. “Somebody as in—?”

Dani drew in a long breath. “I don’t know. I hate to be rude, but I’m really tired.”

He assessed her. “Sorry,” he said. “I guess I forgot that you had an exciting evening. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine. Just exhausted and a little sore. I guess I’ll see you in the morning around what? Nine or ten o’clock? So you can incarcerate me.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Nope. You’ll see me earlier than that. I’ll be staying here tonight.”

“What?” She forced a laugh. “Right. Now, that’s funny.” She walked over to the back door and reached for the knob. But before she could grasp it, he was right there, his hand out, holding it shut.

“Stop that,” she said. “Get out of the way. You need to go home. I’ve got locks. Those people are not going to do anything else tonight—if ever.”

“You can’t know that. There’s no way I’m taking the chance. I told you. The order of protection names me as the responsible party. If you kick me out, I’ll just sleep in my car in your driveway.”

Dani regarded him. His strong jaw was tight. The irritating smile was gone and his brown eyes looked positively black underneath the dark brows. He meant business. She took a step backward and threw her hands out in a helpless gesture.

“Fine, then. Knock yourself out. I hope your car’s comfortable.”

His mouth curled up on one corner. “It’s a Jeep Compass, so it ought to be.”

“Excellent,” she snapped. “I’m glad for you. Good night.”

He started to say something else, but Dani lifted her chin and pressed her lips together. He inclined his head in a brief nod, shot that irritating smile at her one more time and left, pulling the back door closed behind him.

As Dani turned the lock, her hand shook. The fact that Harte was right outside her door, making sure nothing happened to her tonight, should be comforting.

It wasn’t. All it did was provide an omnipresent reminder that, at least according to him, she was in grave danger.

IN THE DRIVER’S seat of his Jeep, Harte pressed the lever that slid the seat back as far as it would go. He held it until the motor whined, then stretched his legs. He had about two inches more room than he’d had twenty seconds before. “Guess that’s it,” he muttered. Then he reclined the seat back and wriggled his butt, settling in.

He’d bought the Jeep because it drove nicely in the city as well as on dirt roads and hiking paths. He’d never slept in it, but figured it shouldn’t be too bad.

As he searched for a comfortable position, he thought about Dani. He hadn’t expected her to actually banish him to his car for the night. That house was huge. There had to be at least one guest bedroom. Hell, she could have at least offered him a couch.

Still, he supposed he couldn’t blame her for the way she felt about him. The first time they’d met in the courtroom, she as a brand-new public defender and he trying his first case as prosecutor. He’d reacted instantly to her tall, leggy, drop-dead-gorgeous body and eyes that caught the sun just like her hair. But she’d entered the courtroom shooting daggers from those whiskey-colored eyes.

She was undeniably Freeman Canto’s granddaughter. Canto and Con Delancey, Harte’s grandfather, had both been fixtures in the Louisiana state legislature. And they’d clashed on every single issue, most notably the security and tariffs on the Port of New Orleans. Canto was fiscally conservative, while Con Delancey fought to keep both security and tariffs at a minimum to help the working people. And, as Dani had said, they’d conducted themselves as gentlemen. There had been a kind of honor among politicians back then. An unspoken agreement that while the politics might occasionally get dirty, the politicians would not.

The first time he’d faced Dani across the courtroom, Harte hadn’t been completely surprised that she’d shown up prepared for battle, ready to continue the feud between the Cantos and the Delanceys. Her client, the defendant, had been a woman who’d killed her husband, claiming self-defense and fear for her life. But there were no witnesses, no evidence of spousal abuse and the woman had shot the man point-blank.

As Harte fought to win his case, he’d discovered what a great defense attorney Dani was. She was passionate, a dedicated knight battling for her client.

Ultimately, Harte won the verdict, but he’d lost the respect of his opposing counsel. Later he’d found out that Dani had appealed and gotten her client acquitted.

Once he’d gotten more experience under his belt, he’d had to admit she was right. That first case had been a win for him, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. It had taken him a few years and more than a few cases to live down convicting a battered wife.

Their paths hadn’t crossed but a couple of times since then, which had helped keep the instantaneous attraction he’d felt for her the first time he’d seen her at bay. But he’d never forgotten how she’d looked when she’d walked into the courtroom that first day. She’d had on a short skirt and high-heeled shoes that made her legs look a mile long. He’d never forgotten her face, her body or the unconsciously sexy, confident way she moved.

But her body wasn’t all that he’d found sexy about her. She was smart and quick. Across from her in court, he’d quickly found out that as a public defender, she was as tenacious and focused as a terrier.

A cramp in his thigh interrupted his thoughts and he realized he’d been nearly asleep. Rubbing the tight muscle, he considered the irony that he and Dani were on the same side this time. Well, sort of on the same side. She still thought of him as the enemy.

His cell phone rang. It was Lucas.

“How’s your girl?” his oldest brother asked.

“My witness is all right,” Harte responded. “How were the steaks?”

“Great, as usual. We just got home.”

“Really?” He glanced at the time on the display. “Late night for you, at the folks’ house.”

“Not my idea. Ange and Mom were exchanging recipes. I watched a ball game with him.” Lucas never referred to their father as Dad. “I’d planned to talk to you about the info you asked me about.”

Harte sat up. “What’d you find out?”

“Not much. Nothing on the record. Yeoman’s got a fairly clean file. Some small-time stuff early on, but he’s managed to keep his record clean for the last twenty years.”

“His record. What about what’s not on the record?”

“Now, that’s a different story. Every detective has an anecdote about Yeoman getting away clean while one of his goons took the rap.”

“Yeah, that’s basically what I got from Mahoney. There’s got to be somebody out there that Yeoman cheated or framed, who’d jump at the chance to get back at him.”

“I called Dawson the other day and asked him what he knew. I figured he might have run into Yeoman when he was chasing down Tito Vega.”

“And had he?”

“Nope, but he made a couple of calls for me.”

“I hope he’s careful. This is the best chance the D.A.’s ever had to put Yeoman away. We’ve got to be careful about where information comes from.”

“Our cousin’s a good investigator, kid. He knows what he’s doing.”

“I know,” Harte said. “I’m just worried. Yeoman’s hired Felix Drury as his attorney. He’s a shark. He’ll eat us alive if we can’t vet every tidbit of evidence we present.”

“You’re still not sure about Dani, are you?”

With a sigh, Harte rubbed a hand down his face. “I believe she’s telling the truth about what she heard. It’s just hard to take in and it’s going to be harder to convince a jury. She’s linking a respected legislator and a renowned attorney with Yeoman, a thug and a drug dealer. She says her granddad was certain that Senator Stamps was taking bribes to push for lower tariffs on imports. If I can prove that independently, and find a solid connection between Stamps and Yeoman …”

“Are you saying you’re going after Stamps?”

Harte sighed and ran a hand across his five-o’clock—or midnight—stubble. “I don’t know. I need something more than Dani’s hearsay about what she heard that night.”

“Well, Dawson’s info may help. He called a guy he uses part-time—a former drug addict who’s a C.I. these days,” Lucas said. “Apparently, there’s been talk on the street for a long time about Yeoman’s connections in the legislature. Something else that nobody seems willing to talk about openly.”

“That’s all well and good,” Harte said. “But the fact that nobody will come forward with solid information is what keeps the D.A. up nights. Nobody’s ever been able to prove anything.”

“According to Dawson’s C.I., some folks think that connection is Stamps.”

Harte sat up, feeling his pulse speed up. “Why am I just now hearing this?”

“Because I just got it. The C.I. said to check Stamps’s voting record and his bank accounts.”

Harte rubbed his eyes. “I’m already on the voting records. I’ve got an intern tallying his position on every issue under the sun. But I have no cause to subpoena his bank records.”

“You could ask him nicely,” Lucas said wryly.

“Yeah,” Harte responded. “I could toss a pig off a roof too, but the chances of it flying are better than a Louisiana congressman volunteering private financial information.”

His brother laughed. “I’ve got to go. Big day tomorrow.”

“Me too. I’ll get with Dawson tomorrow. I hope he’s got something more solid than a drug addict’s report of a comment heard on a street corner.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Yeah, thanks. I’m going to need it.”

“G’night, kid.”

Harte hung up and looked at the dashboard clock, although he already knew it was after midnight. As he shifted, trying to find the most comfortable position, headlights appeared at the other end of the street. Harte crouched down in front of the headrest and waited to see what the vehicle did. It slowed down, which accelerated his pulse. Then he heard a garage door open. Peering around, he saw the car disappear into a garage three doors down. He watched until the door closed, then breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed as much as he could.

His thigh threatened to cramp again. Thanks to his long, lanky Delancey body, the Jeep wasn’t going to be as comfortable as he’d hoped it would be. Still, he’d appointed himself Dani Canto’s protector. A little discomfort was a small price to pay to ensure her safety.

But damn, it was going to be a long night.

Chapter Three

When Dani woke up the next morning and stretched, she yelped in pain. Every inch of her body was sore, thanks to her crash landing on her porch floor the day before. Her shoulders were tight and painful, her right knee ached and she had a headache.

She pushed herself up out of bed and hobbled to the shower. Under the hot spray, her muscles loosened and the headache eased, although the scrapes on her knees and elbows stung like fire. She blamed the sore muscles, the scrape and the aching knee on the bastard who’d tried to run her down. She blamed the headache on Harte Delancey, although, if she were truthful, he didn’t deserve it.

After he’d left, she’d gotten into her pajamas and climbed into bed, fully intending to drink enough to wipe his ominous words from her brain. But the wine’s taste was bitter on her tongue. She’d tried to read, tried to watch TV, even put on a blues music station, but nothing helped. So she turned out the light and lay in the dark, feeling sorry for herself.

She missed her granddad. Sure, he’d been eighty, but he’d been as healthy as a decades-younger man. In fact, he’d been planning to run for another four years in the legislature. She had been planning to have her grandfather around for another four years and more.

It hurt so much that he was gone. She wanted this trial over and done for so many reasons. It had been over a year since the night he was murdered, but every time she had to talk to the D.A.’s office, the police or a judge, all the wounds opened up again.

Now Harte was putting her into protective custody until after the trial. She was the one being threatened and targeted. It wasn’t fair that she had to be the one locked up while the murderers were free to go where they pleased.

Under the hot soothing spray of the shower, she felt the weight of sadness and worry, heavier than ever. To her dismay, her eyes stung.

“Stop it,” she told herself. She never cried. To cry meant to lose control, and she did not like feeling out of control.

Turning off the taps, she dried off, then wrapped up in a short terry-cloth robe and squeezed the last of the water out of her shoulder-length hair.

In the kitchen she put on a pot of coffee. As she waited for it to perk, she couldn’t stop thinking about yesterday and her near miss. It had been almost dark when she’d gotten home. As she’d walked from the driveway to the mailbox, she’d heard a car engine rev.

By the time she’d realized the car was coming straight at her, it was almost too late. Somehow, instinct had kicked in and she’d managed to leap onto the porch. The car ripped through the wooden steps and then swerved back onto the street and took off.

It had been a close call. Too close. She shuddered, her shoulders drawing up. With a long sigh intended to help her relax, she poured herself a mug of chicory coffee. She added cream and sugar and stirred briskly, then took that almost unbelievably delicious first sip of the morning. It was so good it gave her goose bumps.

A few more sips and she felt her courage begin to rise. Coffee made so many things better. Consciously relaxing the tense muscles between her shoulder blades, she headed toward the front porch to see what kind of damage had been done. She stepped outside and breathed deeply of the cool morning air. March temperatures in south Louisiana could be as hot as July, but they could also be fresh and springlike. This morning was leaning toward spring. But she quickly forgot about the weather as she surveyed the damage. The car had taken a huge bite out of the front-porch floor. The steps were nothing but splinters, and if she hadn’t managed to clear the edge of the porch with that desperate leap, she might be just as smashed and scattered as the wood.

Shuddering at that thought, she eased closer to the porch’s edge. Had the car damaged the four-by-fours that supported the front end of the porch? She took another couple of steps toward the edge.

“Dani! No!”

The sharp words shattered the quiet. Dani jerked and spilled coffee down the front of her robe. She whirled toward the voice, her heart racing with shock.

It was him! She’d been so concentrated on the damage to the porch that she’d completely forgotten about his promise to sleep in the driveway. “Stop!” he shouted.

Fury burned the shock right out of her. “You!” she cried indignantly, flicking drops of sticky coffee off her fingers.

“Don’t move!” He held up his hands in a stop gesture.

But she had no intention of budging. He was approaching fast and she was four feet above him on the porch in nothing but a bathrobe that came to midthigh—maybe. No underwear. Oh, brother. Her face grew warm.

“Don’t come any closer!” she cried out. When he didn’t stop, she screeched, “Don’t!”

He stopped, looking bewildered. “What’s wrong?”

“Go around back,” she said, gesturing with her head. She didn’t dare move anything else. Her left hand pressed the front hem of the robe against her thighs. “Go.”

Harte cocked his head quizzically, then shrugged. “I will, but not until you back up carefully toward the door. The front of the porch is sagging.”

“No! You first,” she insisted. Her ears burned, she was so embarrassed. “Please,” she begged.

His brows raised and that damnable smile appeared on his lips. “Ah,” he said, his tone lightening. “Okay, I’ll go. But you meet me at the door in five seconds flat or I’ll come in and get you.” He gave her a brief nod. “Nice robe.”

She glared at him, but she still didn’t dare to move a muscle.

“Go to hell,” she said.

He waved a hand and headed around back.

Dani baby-stepped backward until she’d made it through the door. Then she sprinted into her bedroom to get dressed, marveling at the fact that he really had slept in his car in her driveway. The idea that he’d actually followed through with it, in some sort of quixotic effort to protect her, gave her a sense of security she hadn’t felt since the night her grandfather had died.

As Harte waited at the back door for Dani to let him in, he chuckled. Once he’d been sure she wasn’t going any closer to the rickety front edge of the porch, he’d paused for a second to admire those amazing legs. As he enjoyed them, she’d squirmed and turned red. When she begged him to go around to the back door while nervously tugging at the bottom of the short robe, it dawned on him why she was so reluctant for him to leap to her rescue.

She had nothing on under the robe. That thought had sent urgent, almost painful signals to his groin, signals that hadn’t faded yet. He clamped his jaw against the sharp, pleasurable thrumming and forced himself to think about something miserable, like hiking in a freezing rain—or sleeping in his car. It helped a little.

He pushed his fingers through his hair and rubbed his stubbled jaw, as if that would help wipe away the sight of those forever legs. He busied himself with smoothing out the wrinkles in his T-shirt. Just as he tugged the tail down, Dani opened the door.

She’d thrown on jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, along with a don’t you dare mention my robe glare. “Don’t you have a home to go to?” she groused.

“Morning,” he said cheerily, then pointed vaguely toward the front of the house. “Mind if I …?”

She stepped back from the door. “Down the hall on the right.”

By the time he got back to the kitchen, he felt a whole lot better. He’d found a glass and some mouthwash in the hall bathroom, as well as a comb.

Dani was sitting at the kitchen table with a fresh mug of coffee in front of her. She nodded toward the coffeepot. “Mugs are in the cabinet above. Sugar’s in the white canister. Cream is—”

“Let me guess,” he broke in. “In the refrigerator. That’s okay. I take it black.” He retrieved a mug and filled it with the dark, strong brew.

“Of course you do,” she muttered. When he sat, she looked pointedly at his wrinkled T-shirt. “Don’t let me keep you. It’s obvious you need to go home and get ready for work. I do.”

“No,” Harte replied, setting down his mug. “You’ve got to get ready to go to the bed-and-breakfast. Pack enough for at least two weeks.”

Her mug stopped an inch from her lips. “I told you last night. I can’t be away from work that long. I’ve got my own cases, people depending on me.”

He drew in a frustrated breath. “Listen, Dani. This is your grandfather’s murder trial. Your testimony is vital to link Ernest Yeoman directly to your granddad’s murder. Do you have any idea how long the D.A.’s office has been trying to get something concrete on him?”

“You’ve got fingerprints from that night, right?”

“Not Yeoman’s. He’s got more sense than to show up at a crime scene.” He looked at her quizzically. “Didn’t anyone tell you about the fingerprinting results? There was one good set. They belong to a small-time burglar and general no-count named Chester Kirkle. He’s got two convictions and he’s on parole now. He’s not going to make the most reliable witness. Our best bet is to talk him into giving up Yeoman. Then his testimony, boosted by yours about what they said, should put Yeoman away for conspiracy to commit assault with intent.”

“Not murder?”

“I’m going to try for conspiracy to commit murder, but you know how unlikely we are to get it. Yeoman has an excellent alibi for the time frame.”

“I know,” she said, shaking her head. “I know. What are the chances this Kirkle will give Yeoman up?”

“I think once the trial date is set and he’s looking at his third strike on top of parole violation, he’ll flip.”

She looked thoughtful. “And when he testifies against Yeoman, then Yeoman goes down too?”

“That’s the plan,” Harte agreed, “if Kirkle makes a credible witness and the jury believes that Yeoman sent him and the others to threaten your grandfather.”

“Can you prove it’s Yeoman who’s trying to run me down?”

“I think so. I think it will be fairly easy to show him as a thug who hires thugs,” Harte continued. “It matches his style.”

She ducked her head and took a sip of coffee. “Beating an old man to death,” she muttered.

When she looked up, Harte was surprised to see a shimmer of dampness in her eyes. The two times he’d talked to her over the past three months since he’d been appointed to the case, she’d been determined and angry about her grandfather’s murder. Not once had he seen even the hint of a tear.

“Okay,” she said, straightening. “I’ll do whatever I have to.”

He was absolutely sure that was true. The spark in her golden brown eyes spoke of the kind of person she was. If she wanted something, she went after it. She didn’t sit back and wait. It wasn’t in her nature.

“Look at the bright side. It’s possible the trial could even be over in a few days.”

She eyed him narrowly. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

He shrugged, being truthful. “No one knows anything for sure until it starts. But I can promise you this. Until the trial is over and Yeoman is in prison, you are in danger and it’s my responsibility to keep you safe.”

“Thank you,” Dani said grudgingly.

“Have you heard who defense counsel is? Felix Drury.”

“Jury Drury? I’ve heard he’s been known to list dozens of potential witnesses on his intent-to-call list.” Drury was one of the best-known defense attorneys in Orleans Parish. He was known for his ruthlessness, cleverness and charm. He’d defended some very famous and very infamous people.

Harte nodded. “He’s a shark.”

“Can you limit the number of witnesses he can call?”

“There’s not much case law on limiting the number of witnesses,” Harte said. “All I can do is discredit them or object if he tries to parade too many character witnesses in front of the jury. Of course, even if he doesn’t bombard us with witnesses, even if he rests early, the jury could take forever to deliberate.”

“I thought you were confident,” she said, frowning.

“I am fairly confident, but there are problems. You didn’t actually see the men, and you’re the only witness to what they said. As you know, that can be construed as hearsay. Chester Kirkle is wavering. I think he’ll roll on Yeoman. Until he signs on the dotted line, he’s a wild card. So it very well may come down to your veracity versus Yeoman’s reputation.”

“Why is that even a question? He’s a drug dealer and I’m a public defender.”

“He owns twenty-three Hasty Mart convenience stores in the New Orleans area. On paper, he’s a fine, upstanding businessman who made a couple of mistakes in his youth. He’s known for his substantial political contributions as well as community support. And he’s never been arrested as an adult,” Harte said.

“Oh my gosh, the way you’re talking, he sounds a lot more like a model citizen than a thug. We’ve probably already lost.”

“Not if I can help it. I’ve got some feelers out about his connection with Stamps and Paul Guillame.”

Dani groaned as she rose to put her mug in the sink. “So the trial could last from one day to forever. Please don’t make me stay locked up until the trial is over. Why can’t the police officers babysit me here?”

Harte stood too. He reached around her to set his mug down, and immediately regretted it. It put his nose way too close to her hair, which smelled like strawberries and sunshine. He backed up. “You know the answer to that,” he said, his voice a bit husky from reaction.

“They know where I live,” Dani responded, hoping the flutter in her pulse wasn’t evident in her voice. Thank goodness he’d backed away. He’d been way too close to her as he set his mug in the sink. His arm brushing hers along with his warm breath against her hair had sent a thrill through her, a thrill she didn’t welcome. She thought she’d gotten over this little crush, or whatever it was. After all, even though she’d been wildly attracted to him from the first moment she’d met him as opposing counsel, she’d quickly seen how pompous and arrogant he was, with his custom suits and his designer briefcase.

She turned toward him, forcing her mind back to the problem at hand. “How long do I have to get ready?”

“Go pack. I’ll wash the mugs and the coffeepot. You can call the newspaper and the post office from the Band-B.”

“This is so inconvenient,” she whined as she turned on her heel.

“Not as inconvenient as getting yourself killed,” Harte shot after her.

TWO HOURS LATER Dani pulled the crisscross strap of her purse off over her head and tossed it onto the white bedspread patterned with roses and lovebirds as Harte rolled her suitcase into the room. The entire bedroom was decorated in cluttered Victorian, just like the living room she’d just walked through. Frilly, lacy white curtains graced the windows, and every surface was covered with doilies, vases of silk flowers and filigreed photo frames.

The room was much too girlie for her taste. It was beautiful and she certainly appreciated pretty feminine things, but she limited the lace and frills to her underwear. She preferred her clothes tailored and her furnishings and décor sparse and open.

“Ugh,” she groaned.

“What?” Harte said. “Is something wrong?”

She swept the air with her hand. “You tell me. Do I look like the type who would live among roses and lace?” She winced as she remembered the pink lacy panties and bra she’d donned this morning.

His gaze sharpened as if he were activating X-ray vision.

“That was a rhetorical question,” she said archly. “Why am I on the first floor? Wouldn’t I be harder to get to upstairs?”

Harte was still looking at her.

“That one wasn’t rhetorical,” she said.

He blinked and met her gaze. “Yeah, you’d be harder to get to, but also harder to get out. I don’t want you stuck with no means of escape.”

She frowned. “Means of escape? Really? I thought the reason you brought me here was so they won’t know where I am.”

He nodded. “That’s true. But it’s possible that someone could follow me or the police officers.”

She knew she had to have a police babysitter, but him? “You?”

“I’ve got to prep you for your testimony. And since we’re paying for this lovely place, we might as well use it. Besides, I don’t want you traveling back and forth to my office—or my home.” His mouth curved up in a quick, crooked smile, different from the knowing smirk he usually sent her way. It was a little comical and very charming.

Charming? Where had that come from? Dani shook her head.

“What?” Harte asked.

“What?” she retorted.

“You were shaking your head.”

“No, I wasn’t,” she muttered as she grabbed her suitcase and hefted it up onto the cedar chest that sat at the foot of the bed. “I guess I’ve got to unpack.”

“I guess you do, if you’ve finally accepted that you’re stuck here. I can promise you that a knight in shining armor is not going to sweep in and save you from protective custody.”

“A girl can dream,” she said on a sigh as she unzipped the case. Her makeup kit and hairbrush were on top. She picked them up and started toward the bathroom, then turned back and looked at Harte.

“So, are you taking the first shift?”

“No. I’m waiting to hear from Captain Mahoney, letting me know who he’s sending over. I’ll stay here until they get here.”

Dani straightened and propped her hands on her hips. “I don’t like this. You are way too serious. Shouldn’t I be somewhere farther away? Like maybe Seattle? If you’re that worried about them figuring out where I am.” She expected him to say no, that he was just taking precautions, but he didn’t.

That worried her.

“It’s possible they were just trying to scare you, but from the looks of your front steps, I’d say if you hadn’t managed to jump onto the porch, you might be in the hospital, or—”

“Do not say smudge on the sidewalk again. I get the picture. So when—?” she had started to ask when his cell phone interrupted her.

He held up a finger as he fished it out of his jacket pocket and answered it. “Delancey,” he said shortly, turning toward the picture window as he listened. “Hello? Hello?” He walked closer to the window. “Mr. Akers, I can hardly hear you. Hold on.” He looked at the phone’s display and muttered, “What’s with the bad reception? It was fine the other day.” He stepped into the living room.

Vincent Akers was the district attorney. Dani could hear Harte trying to talk with him. After a moment, she heard him utter a mild curse, and then he appeared in the bedroom doorway. “The cell service here sucks,” he said irritably, pocketing his phone. “Your day-shift officer just pulled up. I’ll get you two introduced and then I need to take off.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a meeting with the D.A., I think.”

“Should you call back on the B-and-B’s phone and check?”

“Nah, by that time I could be halfway to his office.”

“Speaking of offices, when can I get some things from mine?” she asked. “My desk is full of stuff I have to read and reports and briefs I need to write.”

“I told you, the public defender’s office will assign your cases to someone else. You need to worry about staying safe.”

“That’s all well and good, but even if somebody picks up my caseload, I still have paperwork to complete. I brought my laptop. I need that stuff.”

“Okay. I’ll ask the officer to take you to pick them up. One hour, no more. And that’s the last time you leave this B-and-B until I say so. Got it?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Prosecutor, sir,” she said, not even trying to hide the irritation in her voice. She heard the tinkle of the bell over the front door and sturdy footsteps approaching.

Harte turned and took a step backward. “I’m Harte Delancey.”

“Field, sir,” the officer said, coming into view at the bedroom door. “Ronald Field, reporting for protection duty.” He stood straight and solemn, his right hand resting on the butt of his gun.

He was a medium-height officer with medium-brown hair and a medium build. He was pleasant-looking, but he didn’t look as if he could do any better job of protecting her than she could herself. He wasn’t in uniform, but even so, he looked spit-and-polished, from his crisply ironed shirt all the way down to his mirror-shined shoes.

As a public defender, she was no stranger to the police. But the sight of Officer Field standing in the doorway of the frilly Victorian room looking so earnest and official, despite his street clothes, and knowing he was there to spend eight or ten or however many hours every day guarding her, sent a frisson of fear down her spine.

“This is Danielle Canto,” Harte said, gesturing toward her.

“Yes, sir.” Field regarded Dani with a slight nod. “Ma’am. I know you, at least in the hall. I’ve been the arresting officer on a couple of cases you’ve defended.”

“Oh, of course,” Dani said, although she didn’t recognize him. She felt her cheeks begin to warm in embarrassment. “Nice to see you, Officer.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

She smiled. “Please call me Dani.” She held out her hand and Field took it. He was nice, only a few years older than she.

She listened as Harte laid out the ground rules to Field about taking Dani to the courthouse to retrieve her papers—nowhere but her office, only as many papers as fit in one box or briefcase, straight back to the B & B.

“Take a different route each way and make sure you’re not followed,” he said. Then with a quick glance at her, he added, “And she’s not to leave the house again.”

She met Field’s gaze over Harte’s shoulder and rolled her eyes. Field’s expression didn’t change from quiet respect.

“Okay, then,” Harte said. “Dani, be a good girl and don’t give Officer Field a hard time, okay?”

She raised her eyebrows, wishing her superpower was shooting daggers from her eyes. “Watch it, Mr. Prosecutor. I could file harassment charges against you for calling me girl.”

“You could,” he said, amusement tingeing his voice. “Anybody can file suit, but it would be dismissed as frivolous.”

“I could make it stick,” she retorted.

Harte’s face grew solemn. “Seriously, don’t give him any trouble. This is for your own safety.”

Suddenly, the back of her throat quivered and she felt a twinge of fight-or-flight adrenaline course through her veins. “I understand,” she said evenly, silently willing him to go away and stop trying to scare her. Because it was working. The image of the mangled porch stairs rose in her mind’s eye. If the car had done that kind of damage to four-by-fours, what would it have done to her legs—or her body?

Chapter Four

“I’ll call you,” Harte said. “Check to see how you’re doing. And tomorrow, I’ll start prepping you for your testimony.”

Dani nodded.

Harte headed out the door, pulling a key ring with two keys on it from his pocket. “Officer? Walk me out, will you?” he said as he passed Field. “These are duplicate keys to the front and back doors. I’m giving you one and keeping one myself. You and the second-shift officer will exchange keys. One of you will be here with Ms. Canto at all times.”

“Yes, sir,” Field said, turning on his polished heel to follow him.

Imperious. That was it. She’d been searching for just the right word to describe Harte Delancey. And imperious was perfect. He was arrogant too, and she didn’t like him at all. Forget how very nice he’d looked this morning in old worn jeans and a faded T-shirt with his hair tousled from sleeping in his car and his jaw shadowed by morning stubble. Forget how easy it was to imagine that he would look just like that after they spent the night …

You are so not going there, she admonished herself, even as she pushed the curtains aside with two fingers and watched him fold his long, lean body into his car and drive away.

She wondered why an attorney in New Orleans drove a Jeep. But it did suit him, like the jeans and T-shirt and, she had to admit, the stubble.

“Ms. Canto?”

She jumped and let the curtains drop into place. “What? Oh yes, Officer Field.” She hadn’t heard him come back inside.

“Do you need anything?”

She gave him her sweetest smile. “Only a ride to the courthouse.”

“If you’re ready to go, my car is right out front.”

“The Camry?” That was the only other car she’d seen parked in front of the B & B.

“Yes. I’m driving my own car. It’s not a good idea to have a police car sitting out front all day and night.”

Dani grabbed her purse, its extra weight reminding her of the gun and the lock-pick kit inside it. She glanced quickly at Field. Would he be able to tell she was carrying just by how the heavy bag swung against her side? Thank goodness Harte hadn’t noticed. She slung the long crisscrossed strap over her head so the bag lay diagonally across her torso and rested against her left hip. Its weight reassured her. Babysitters or not, she wanted the feeling of security and control the gun gave her until the trial was over.

Looking at the back of Field’s head as he opened the front door, she still wasn’t sure he had what it took to protect her, if Harte was right about the danger.

Chewing on her lower lip, she wondered how easily manipulated he was. “I’m hungry,” she said. “Are you?”

Officer Ronald Field turned to look at her. “Ms. Canto—”

“Dani,” she said, still smiling.

“Dani. Mr. Delancey gave me my instructions. You can order something delivered later, because right now I’m driving you straight to the courthouse and straight back.”

Dani suppressed a smile as she assessed him. So, Officer Field was more strong-willed than he looked.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.