dimple at the corner of her cheek, was a photograph of Juliet McNeil, one of the partners at Truman and Eaton James’s defense attorney.
He hadn’t known, when he’d agreed to be Paul Schuster’s witness, that Juliet would be opposing. Not that it would’ve mattered. Eaton James had broken the law. He had to be held accountable.
He hadn’t seen her in almost a decade, except for a cursory conversation when they’d passed each other on the sidewalk a few years ago.
Still, if Blake was going to meet the lady again, he’d rather it be in more agreeable circumstances—or at least on the same side of the fence. On the other hand, it would be interesting to see her at work, against a man like Paul Schuster.
She didn’t have a chance in hell of winning. And, as he remembered it, Juliet wasn’t a woman who easily accepted defeat.
He grinned, dropping the paper as the doorbell chimed.
“WE DIDN’T COME JUST to have dinner with you,” Donkor, dressed in his usual garb of sedate suit and tie, announced as he pushed back his empty dinner plate. He’d had second helpings of the chicken cordon bleu and spinach salad Pru Duncan had prepared.
Jamila glanced up and then away. Blake had known, since she’d failed to meet his eyes when they’d kissed and hugged hello, that something was wrong. He’d also known that he’d have to wait to find out what it was until Donkor felt the time was right for talking.
“Is there something I can help you with? You need a place to stay while you’re here in the States? You’re always welcome to stay with me as long as you like. You know that. I have more bedrooms than I need.” More solitude than he needed, too.
Donkor shook his head.
“We have to fly out tomorrow.” Jamila’s normally effusive voice was subdued. Dabbing at her lips with the cloth napkin, she gave him a brief smile.
“I thought you just arrived last night.” He’d sent a car to the Los Angeles airport to pick them up. They’d stayed in the city due to the late hour.
“We did.” She looked as beautiful as ever with her long dark hair up in a twist that left ringlets escaping down the sides of her face. Her olive skin was smooth and made up to perfection, her slim figure outlined but not openly displayed in her silk pantsuit.
“We have some news.” Donkor’s deep voice was as solemn as his daughter’s had been.
And that was when it hit him. “You’ve heard from Amunet.”
“Yes.”
No one sipped wine. Or moved. Blake glanced from one to the other. They’d been completely sympathetic to both him and Amunet during the divorce. They’d understood that needs neither he nor Amunet had been able to alter had driven them apart. Certainly that wasn’t about to change.
“You’re here to tell me she’s remarrying?” Donkor had been the only person, other than Amunet herself, who’d known quite how hard Blake had fallen. “Because it’s really okay. She was a part of a dream—an unreal life that was destined to end. I think, at least in part, I must have known that all along.”
“You would never have married her if you’d known that.” Donkor’s tone brooked no argument. “That’s not your way.”
Blake would never have taken vows he didn’t intend to uphold. He’d forgotten, for a moment, that Donkor knew a lot more about him than how much he’d loved his wife.
Jamila wiped her mouth again. This time missing, and dabbing her eye instead. Her eye?
Blake looked over at her. She was crying.
Donkor spoke.
“Amunet is dead, son. Her funeral is on Saturday. In New York. We wanted to tell you in person.”
SHE’D COMMITTED SUICIDE. His ex-wife, a woman who’d raised him to levels of emotion—both good and bad—that he’d never really understood, was dead. And while neither Donkor nor Jamila would ever have said so, the implication was that her death was partly because of him.
While she hadn’t been able to bear the humdrum life of an executive’s wife, trapped in one city, hosting cocktail parties and doing lunch, neither had she been happy as a divorcée. She’d been so contradictory, such a strange blend of modern and ancient, forward thinking and traditional. She’d traveled the world, first by herself and later with Blake—unmarried, uncaring what people thought. Going wherever the mood took her, to the grotto in Paris, a fishermen’s bar in Ireland, the wilds of Africa. Nannying. Doing temporary office work. Dancing for food. But she’d been a virgin on their wedding night.
God, what a night that had been.
Sipping warm whiskey from a highball glass, Blake sat alone in his living room on a chair of the softest fabric, looking out over the shadows to the dim lights of ships on the ocean. Waiting for Paul Schuster’s call. He’d told Schuster he’d be available to testify on Friday morning.
And he was going to be in New York.
Shaking his head, Blake took another sip. And stared. A light had been bobbing out in the distance for half an hour. The boat was headed in the direction of Alaska. A chilly place.
This was a night for chilled hearts.
He’d been prepared to receive an invitation to Amunet’s third wedding. He’d missed the second, a Las Vegas quickie that had ended almost as soon as it had begun. And he’d already decided to attend the third, whenever it came along. He was over her—or he understood, at least, that they were never meant to be forever. They were from very different worlds, finding happiness in completely opposite things. He wished her well. Wanted her happy.
He’d never expected to be attending her funeral.
“I APPRECIATE the phone call,” Paul Schuster said when he and Blake finally connected. He was as agreeable and friendly as he’d been the two other times Blake had spoken with him in the past weeks.
“Obviously I’ve been following the trial,” Blake told the other man, still sitting in the dark, sipping whiskey—his third—and watching the ships. Sliding down, head against the back of the chair, he lifted an ankle to the opposite knee. “You’re doing a great job. I’m sorry to be putting a damper on things.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Paul said, with as much energy at ten o’clock at night as he’d probably had at ten in the morning. “Actually, I haven’t even declared you as a witness yet.”
“Juliet McNeil doesn’t know I’m testifying?” He’d been wondering what she would think about seeing him again.
They’d had one incredible night together once.
A long time ago.
“No one knows you’re testifying, including my staff,” Schuster said, surprising him.
Blake sipped and nodded, his eyes half closed as he watched another ship approach. “I thought you had to declare as soon as you turned up new evidence. Give the defense a chance to review the information.”
“I
