office on a high note. E.D. had no intention of making a public show of her daughter’s naiveté or foolishness—whichever this proved to be—but she would be damned if Emmett’s ambitions cost her child legal justice.
“Protecting the privacy of a minor is my first and greatest concern,” she said coolly.
Ever the image of self-containment, Emmett checked his watch. “Initially, this is bound to impact your schedule.”
The nerve of the man, she fumed in silence. E.D. had successfully juggled a tough schedule through two pregnancies, and had returned to work early each time. As an aspiring novelist, Trey had been eager to stay at home with the babies. Oh, she thought with a new sinking feeling, how she had played into her husband’s hands.
“There. That’s exactly why I came to see you,” Emmett snapped, pointing a professionally manicured finger at her. “There’s self-doubt on your face. Since when does E. D. Martel let anyone see anything less than resolve?”
Since her I’m-writing-the-great-American-novel spouse pulled something she had yet to fully comprehend. Since their daughter had walked, tripped or otherwise been lured neck-deep into a disaster that could haunt her the rest of her life. Dani couldn’t begin to know the breadth and width of what she’d done, but E.D. dealt with such things 24/7.
Drawing a steadying breath, she offered, “This is Wednesday, and as you know I have the Horvath case starting Monday, which will bring the office as much attention, if not more, than the Guy case did. If I haven’t shown you that I’m up to your standards by the end of opening remarks, replace me.”
E.D. had no idea if her challenge was all bravado, let alone sensible.
What she was convinced of was that she hadn’t spent the last thirty-eight years of her life building to this, only to chicken out even before she fully understood what she was dealing with.
Emmett studied her another moment and then pushed himself away from the door. “I’m glad that we understand each other. See you at seven-thirty for the regular java and jockeying session.”
As he let himself out, E.D. responded to the sudden weakness in her legs and lowered herself to sit on the edge of her desk. She had no illusions as to what he meant by the word understand: If she didn’t lead the D.A.’s team in the Horvath case—and win—her future here was over. It didn’t matter that it would require two clerks to assist her and Bruce in the face-off with Lester Horvath’s pricey defense team. Somehow she would still have to figure out a way to reason with Trey, as well as help the children. Where would she find the extra hours in her already crammed days, let alone the energy to use them wisely?
A knock on her door had E.D. starting. Had Emmett changed his mind and decided he wanted her off the case after all?
“Come in.”
A young man poked his head inside. “Ms. Martel?”
“Yes.” A courier, she thought with relief, noting his cyclist’s helmet tucked under his arm.
“I have an express for you.”
Praying it wasn’t another present from Trey, E.D. accepted the small padded packet, only to stare at the sender’s bold initials. D.J. Incredible! So the call wasn’t an accident. But what was Dylan doing and could she afford to satisfy her curiosity?
For a moment she was tempted to reject the delivery; her instincts told her it was the wise thing to do. The use of just his initials was proof that this was personal and for her eyes only. Dylan needed a paper trail to her right now about as much as Emmett wanted one; after all, she’d heard the latest rumor about Dylan filing for the upcoming election.
Feeling caught in some game where she didn’t know the goal let alone the rules, E.D. yielded to temptation and signed the appropriate line on the delivery record. Plucking out a folded bill from the side compartment of her purse, she handed it over along with the clipboard. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
As she waited for the gangly, spandex-dressed youth to leave, her thoughts circled around the ludicrous concern that her signature didn’t resemble her usual confident flourish and that her hands refused to stop trembling. But as soon as she heard the door click closed, she tore at the padded envelope.
He had to have seen the news this morning, she thought as she pulled out the smaller envelope inside. Maybe he—her breath caught as she felt something hard inside.
Oh, no!
He’d been bold. Mad. So out of character for steady, live-by-the-rules Dylan.
E.D. tore the smaller envelope and dropped the contents into her cupped left palm. As she’d surmised, a shiny brass key landed there. She closed her fingers around it and pressed her fist to her pounding heart.
You dear man. You crazy, idealistic man.
Shaking her head, she checked the envelope to see if he’d included a message. A brief note had been handwritten on a blank sheet of notepad paper.
You know what this goes to. Use it.
Scrawled below were four numbers. As the past rushed forward to replay itself before her eyes, E.D. shook her head and debated over the options that unfolded before her. There was no mistaking that she’d been reminded of the rest of his cell-phone number; she didn’t need to check her directory to confirm that. The question was should she respond?
She had to. Such a gesture—regardless of his motives—made some response mandatory. But as she retrieved her phone out of her pocket, she didn’t deceive herself; the pounding in her ears was less about what common sense demanded she say than eagerness to hear his voice again. That shamed the woman who was a mother and, until today, a damned faithful and caring wife.
Navigating to the correct memory code, E.D. punched the call button. After only half a ring, she heard the voice that embraced and reassured like no other.
“I was beginning to give up hope. What else can I do?”
The part of her that had been increasingly ignored and becoming repressed whispered, “Ah.” Dylan’s voice had always reminded her of profound things: the baritone bell ending a monastery prayer, the timely discovery of a quilt during a hard winter freeze. The professional man inspired equally stirring and lasting feelings in people. He stood statue tall and was built as physically well as he was mentally solid, more than capable of enduring strong political winds and ethical challenges. It was difficult to look into his ink-blue eyes and not be overwhelmed; framed by a strong-boned face, they radiated wisdom, wit and a patience honed from years of watching and listening. E.D. missed that face, that voice, and more, their strange, indefinable friendship.
Wondering if his pitch-brown hair was tumbling over his broad brow by now from hours bent over files and law books, she managed a smile, wistful though it was. “You shouldn’t have done anything in the first place.”
“I’ve already worked through that argument myself and found it wanting.”
She cupped the phone as though it were his cheek. “I think you let sympathy override sensibility. As generous as the gesture is, it’s impossible.”
“Why? You need to sleep, a quiet place to think.”
When
