first squeezed his hand, how without thinking he’d turned that into a hug and whispered so softly that only she could hear, “Eva Danielle.” He need only to close his eyes to recall the warmth and softness of her skin, the silk that was her hair, the subtle scent of lily of the valley that always whispered of her presence. The memory continued to haunt him and his insides ached with the deepest hunger pang.
Eva Danielle.
How she hated for anyone to use her given name; his tightened lips couldn’t help but twitch into a brief smile. Too romantic for an attorney, she’d claimed in interviews. She’d once confided to him that she’d been cringing over it since the fifth grade when she’d first become fascinated with law. Eventually, she refused to answer to it, especially after she’d begun to hear people predicting her future as a debutante or some version of trophy wife instead of a determined prosecuting attorney. That charming disclosure had occurred at the University of Texas when she’d been his student escort at an evening lecture he’d been giving there. She had been a senior and he only a few years out of Baylor Law School, but already touted as a rising star in the profession.
A year later they’d met again…on his wedding day, when she’d appeared as the date of one of his grooms-men, Cole Bryce. That had been the oddest of ego blows, although he’d known instinctively there was nothing but affection between them. Regardless, when in six months she’d invited Dylan to her wedding to Sessions, he couldn’t bring himself to go.
E. D. Martel—the beautiful, brainy blonde, sharper than many in her field, the woman as devoted to her family as she was to her work—a bad mother? Sure, and the president was a flag burner.
Having tormented himself enough, Dylan reached for his desk phone, hesitated, then snatched up his personal cellular model.
Chapter One
The moment the judge leveled his gavel and announced, “Court is dismissed,” E. D. Martel began shaking. Act One, Scene Two accomplished, but she didn’t give herself good odds for making it through the next one, let alone the rest of the day.
“We’ve received word there’s a growing swarm of reporters outside, Ms. Martel,” her associate and junior counsel Bruce Littner said near her ear. “Some are unfamiliar to me and probably from out of town. I don’t know that we can assume they’re here for this verdict. You want me to ask the bailiff for a sheriff’s deputy to escort you out of here through a back exit?”
More than that, she wanted to wake up in her bed and realize the last several hours had been a bad dream; but she knew better than to accept any protection from the press. There was no denying she was breathless from shock, hurt to the point of wanting to dive into the ladies’ room and sob, and angry enough to show Trey what a receding hairline really looked like. None of that was an option, though, as Bruce was right; this extra media attention was personal business. Hers. Any outward sign of distress or resentment on her part would serve her, Emmett and the office badly.
With a veteran’s ability to press her lips into a semblance of a smile, she touched the concerned young lawyer’s shoulder, hating that his biggest professional moment to date ultimately would be reduced to trash. “With your help, I think we can manage. If you’d be so good as to accompany me,” she told him, “I’ll make the usual ‘justice has been served’ statement and then, as the give-us-gossip queries begin, excuse us.”
The brown-eyed blonde, who could have passed for her kid brother if she’d had one, nodded with emphasis. “You’ve got it, Ms. Martel. And if any of them get pushy, don’t worry. I was a champion wrestler in high school and college. Nobody’s going to muscle us.”
He was as sweet in his concern as he was thorough in his work. She made a mental note to mention his value to their boss, D.A. Emmett Garner. Who could say—with her luck, he’d be replacing her before Christmas. “Make that E.D. You’ve earned it. As for trouble, I suspect the only threat we need to worry about is a chipped tooth from having a microphone jammed into our faces.”
As she slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder and reached for her briefcase, she wondered at her calm voice and hoped that the sweat starting to trickle down her back and between her breasts didn’t bleed through her red suit. She traditionally wore this suit with the double-breasted gold buttons on final arguments day, when murder one was on the table, to keep the jury’s attention. She opted for a black one on the day she expected a jury verdict, to signify her awareness that another life had been lost, and that everyone loses in a conviction.
Only today the jury hadn’t taken two hours to reach their decision.
It was just as well, she reasoned. The red could substitute as her internal grieving for what her children must be going through.
So help me, Trey, you will pay for this.
Operating on reflexes that she’d honed from almost sixteen years with the district attorney’s office, E.D. accepted the teary thanks, emotional hugs and powerful handshakes from poor Misty Carthage’s family and friends. That barely slowed her path toward the double doors, beyond which cameras would click madly and video cameras would catch every nuance. Knowing she had seconds before the full circus started, she told Bruce, “When you get out of here, take that patient girl of yours out for a terrific dinner. If you want to try Bruno’s, use my name and have them charge it to my account. One of us deserves a good meal out of this.”
Usually someone with above-average reflexes, the attorney had to reach twice for the door handle. “Uh…thanks. You’re sure?”
E.D. blocked thoughts of what Trey had done with their joint accounts while she’d been tied up in court. “Absolutely. Now let’s get this done.”
Bruce opened the door to a barrage of people and electronics. From the bulwark poured eager and strident appeals.
“Are you pleased at putting another defendant on death row, Ms. Martel?”
“E.D., is it true your husband has locked you out of your own home?”
“Did you know the photos you approved would end up on the Internet?”
“The word is that Playboy is offering you a million for a mother-daughter layout. Gonna take it?”
Wishing she could broadside smug Josh Perle with her briefcase, E.D. paused and began, “Thank you for your interest in Misty Carthage’s devastating case. The state of Texas is grateful that justice has been served once again and that other studious coeds, the Austin community as a whole, will be safer—at least from the likes of Ed Guy.”
“With this being May, you’ll soon have two condemned men facing execution,” another reporter she didn’t recognize called from the back. “New DNA tests are being requested by their attorneys. What’s your reaction to that?”
“It’s their right, of course. That said, the Sandman did not beat Debra Conyers to death in her bed, her husband did, despite his recant after excessive publicity attracted a high-profile defense team to his case. As for Counselor Baltow’s claim regarding his client, science has already shown the state will not be putting an innocent person to death and I expect that new appeal will be denied, as well. Thank you for your time.”
After a speaking glance to Bruce, she started down the hall. Undaunted, several reporters matched her stride.
“Would you make a statement about Mr. Martel’s decision to sue you for divorce and get a restraining order, Ms. Martel?”
“No.”
