a public defender. If you need an attorney and you can’t afford legal assistance—”
“Jesus. I don’t need a fucking Miranda recitation.” Wow. Charming. “I need a lawyer. Now. I’ll pay your standard hourly rate.”
Despite his rudeness, Phoebe’s ears perked up at the sound of money. Being an assistant public defender wasn’t exactly a high-paying gig. But she wasn’t about to let this jerk get the upper hand. She needed to be the one in control of any potential client relationship. She’d refused clients before when she knew their anger issues—or their woman issues—were going to prevent that. Which didn’t help the pay situation any, but it was where she drew the line.
“How about you stop swearing at me and tell me what kind of lawyer you—”
“I don’t have time for sweet talk. I’m at the Yavapai County Jail. Rafael Diamante.”
The line went dead while Phoebe’s mouth worked, poised on a pointless rebuke of her potential client. Rafael Diamante. Why was that name familiar? She’d seen it somewhere in her newsfeed this morning.
Phoebe pulled up the browser on her tablet and thumbed through her feed until she found the post from the Sedona Red Rock News.
Local Businessman Brought in for
Questioning in Mystic Murder.
Barbara Fisher, a self-described psychic medium who offered palm and tarot readings from her residence on Cedar Road, was found strangled in her home early this morning. An anonymous Sedona PD source confirmed entrepreneur Rafael “Rafe” Diamante was discovered at the scene—apparently intoxicated.
Unless two people had been strangled in Sedona this morning, the victim had to be Phoebe’s step-in. And Rafe Diamante—Phoebe had seen his name on signs all over town: Diamante Construction and Excavation. He owned half of Yavapai County. Why he would want Phoebe to represent him, she couldn’t fathom. Was this some kind of joke? Common sense and her conscience told her to stay far away from this one. Representing the accused killer of someone whose shade she had just hosted had to be a pretty big conflict of interest. But neither common sense nor her conscience was in the driver’s seat of her Jeep as she headed to the county lockup in Camp Verde.
Rafe Diamante wasn’t at all what she’d expected. Waiting for him in an interrogation room, Phoebe had been picturing a man in his sixties with a beer belly and a receding hairline. Apparently she was thinking of his father. This Rafe Diamante was perhaps thirty, tall, hard and lean—a fact accentuated by the white T-shirt hugging his abs—his skin a deep coppery brown, as though he worked the construction sites himself. Far from a receding hairline, he had a rich, dark head of hair with a wavy curl to it, tied back in a short ponytail, while penetrating brown eyes glowered at Phoebe from under some serious eyebrows. Damn. He could excavate at her place any time.
When he spoke, the illusion of hotness was shattered. “You’re Phoebe Carlisle? Un-fucking-believable.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re a goddamn Girl Scout.”
Dropping the hand she’d extended when he was escorted in, Phoebe sat across from him, taking her tablet out of her bag and flipping the cover open before making a point of tugging her bouncy ponytail tighter behind her head. “I made Cadette, actually. But the uniform doesn’t really fit anymore and I got stuck on the goddamn deportment badge.”
Diamante wasn’t amused. “Do you even have a law degree?”
“Mr. Diamante, I’m an assistant public defender. You don’t get that position without having a law degree and having passed the bar. But I’m quite certain you’re aware of that. You’re the one who called me, if you remember.”
He folded his arms—such an impressive display of his biceps she almost expected him to beat his chest—and deepened his glower. “You were recommended to me.”
“So you said. I have to confess, Mr. Diamante, I don’t understand why you wouldn’t already have a lawyer who represents your family and your business—someone who I’m sure has the requisite gray hair to satisfy your age requirement. And a penis.”
The corner of his mouth twitched and his glower warmed as if he would have smiled if he wasn’t concentrating so hard on being on the offensive—a tiny sign he might not be a complete douche. “I can’t use my family’s lawyer. It’s complicated. But I can certainly afford exceptional legal counsel. Your recommendation, however, involved a specific unique skill.”
It was Phoebe’s turn to stifle a mouth twitch. “What skill would that be?”
“I was told you’re...” Diamante paused and the tips of his ears turned an adorable pink. “A step-in.”
Her amusement at his boyish blush dissipated instantly. Phoebe flipped the cover back onto her tablet as she rose. She remembered now why his name seemed familiar. It wasn’t just the construction signs. The outline of his pendant was visible under the shirt—she’d been thinking it was some kind of saint medallion. It was a pentacle. He belonged to her sister’s coven.
“A step-in, Mr. Diamante, as you well know, is an unanchored shade. Not the vehicle. That’s an offensive term for someone who does what I do, and I won’t sit here and put up with your bigoted insults just because you’ve gotten yourself into some kind of metaphysical bind and can’t use Daddy’s money to get you out of it.”
Phoebe turned on her heel and headed for the door, anger at Ione making the blood pound in her ears. Ione had never had any respect for her younger sister, imagining herself morally superior because she had the backing of a group of twelve equally uptight jerks behind her. And now she had the gall to tell this rich-boy witch Phoebe could defend him because he’d murdered a psychic?
“Wait. Ms. Carlisle.” Diamante rose and came around the table, grasping for her arm before she could open the door.
Phoebe moved out of his reach with a smooth sidestep and turned the handle, facing him as she did a quick twist to go through the door. “I’m sure you won’t have any trouble finding another lawyer with your charming personality.” The multilayered insult was probably lost on him.
“Not one who can talk to the people I’m trying to help.”
Phoebe paused. “What people?”
“The shades.”
He was full of crap. “Exactly how would someone of your affiliation be helping shades? I think you’re confusing ‘help’ with ‘persecute.’”
“I don’t share the majority opinion of the Covent.”
The name always annoyed her. They couldn’t just use “coven” like normal people. They had to be snooty about it.
Diamante was unconsciously rubbing the pentacle through his shirt—an unfortunately sexy quirk. “If you’d come back in and close the door, I’ll be more candid. And I apologize. I didn’t realize that was an offensive term.” He looked annoyed, as though he’d never needed to apologize before. Which strained credulity.
Phoebe stepped back
