six months too late,” he said. The thought lingered in the air between them as Boone reached for a set of keys on the glass-topped surface near his phone, unlocked a desk drawer, and pulled out a Glock she knew he kept within arm’s reach on purpose. He had a wide reputation for being the best criminal-defense attorney in the county, and sometimes, he’d once told her, desperate people who were guilty came to ask him for help. He never knew how well they would take his refusal to defend them. He’d only drawn it twice, but he would shoot if he had to.
She believed him. He always told her the truth, like when he’d said he’d do anything to keep his client from prison. She just hadn’t thought that “anything” would include ruining her.
She swallowed. She had to stop the self-pity and focus. There was a life riding on it.
She watched Boone stand, pull open his black, designer suit jacket and place his weapon in a leather shoulder holster. Broad-shouldered and tall, he had a way of making her feel safe when in his presence, even when he wasn’t carrying.
Not that she was worried or anything. But if she got shot from behind, who would see justice done? Leaning over, she patted her own backup weapon, a Beretta, that was lodged in an ankle holster under her jeans. “Will I be keeping you from any appointments or court appearances?”
“Not unless we get murdered.”
She couldn’t resist rolling her eyes at him. “Like you would let the opposition get the best of you with a little old gun. You’d probably debate him to death first.”
He chuckled, but when he rounded his desk and joined her, his dark blue eyes were serious again. Angie didn’t like that look on him—it meant trouble for her.
“You realize if we find this evidence, it will more than likely be inadmissible in any court, right? The chain of custody can’t be proved. And since Detry’s wife owned the gun to begin with, Detry’s prints showing up on it won’t be a shocker, unless there are blood smears with his prints on them. The only usefulness it’ll have is if someone else’s prints are on the grip.”
“I actually hadn’t thought beyond that dumping it on your desk and the ‘I told you so’ you mentioned earlier,” Angie told him, standing. “But let’s leave it up to a judge to decide if Detry’s prints are usable.” She stressed his name to make sure Boone knew she didn’t doubt the outcome, even if he did. “I know he can’t be retried because of double jeopardy, but maybe they can get him for perjury.”
“Detry didn’t lie.”
What was with this one-upmanship thing? Had they always done it, but she’d been too in love with him to notice? Angie guessed it didn’t matter. She was getting what she wanted, so she flattened her lips together and refused to push his buttons further.
Boone, however, wasn’t as polite. “Your friend’s hiding crucial evidence and lying about its existence needs to be investigated.”
“If you’re suggesting Cliff would murder a woman in cold blood and then hide the weapon, stop. He wouldn’t. Wouldn’t have,” she corrected, glaring at Boone. A word formed on his lips, but she interrupted him with a wave of her hand. “If you say one more word in that direction, I think I’ll leave alone and risk getting shot.”
“Wouldn’t want that to happen. You ready?”
He’d caved in awfully fast. Angie frowned as she grabbed her handbag and walked out of the office ahead of him. He was making an effort to be helpful—she had to give him that much—but she knew better than to let her guard down around him. At least she wouldn’t have to see him again past today—if all went well, that was. She didn’t want to think about the alternatives. Sometimes, like when she was around Boone, it was better not to think too much.
Five minutes later they had retrieved a shovel for digging and a metal detector—both brand-spanking-new from Wal-Mart—from her trunk and got into Boone’s charcoal-gray sedan with tinted windows so dark she was sure they were illegal.
“I always thought this car had a sinister aura,” she said, pulling her seat belt around her. Sinister or not, she had to admit the inside smelled good. Like real leather and citrus. Then she realized the lime scent came from Boone, and butterflies fluttered in her stomach.
“I realize it’s low profile for you.” He turned the key, and the powerful motor came to life. “What exactly is that shade of orange you drive around in?”
“It’s called candy orange, and it’s not that bright.”
“Okay, vivid.”
“At least if anyone runs into me, they can’t claim they didn’t notice me coming. You, however, blend into the highway in a rearview mirror.”
“And you make a nice bull’s-eye if they want to murder you,” he pointed out.
“That’s why we took your car.” She smiled smugly.
“See? I’m already doing my job protecting you.”
He sent her the same impish grin that used to warm her heart. Turned out it still did. They were connecting again, like old times—there was no other way of putting it.
He put the car in gear and turned his attention to driving out of the small parking garage next to his office building, but she watched his profile, unable to tear her eyes away, feeling more alive than at any time in the last six months…
What was she thinking? How easily she’d fallen back into the electric, fun banter they’d once had, as if everything was normal between them. His agreeing to help her, a little verbal football, and a whiff or two of his cologne—was that all she needed to get wrapped up again in her emotions and feelings for him? Stupid. In about an hour, maybe two, Boone was going to drop her off at her candy-orange car and they would never see each other again, unless she had an occasion to arrest someone he was defending and have to testify. And she already knew how going up against him in court worked out. No, thank you. She did not need Boone Walker–type grief.
Lord, help me to let him go. Because at this point, she wasn’t sure what would be more dangerous—running into a murderous Warren Detry…or losing her heart again to Boone.
TWO
“I know you still believe Detry is guilty,” Boone said after they’d pulled out onto the busy, uptown street, “so tell me. Why do you think Cliff Haggis, a cop, would hide a gun to protect a guilty man from a murder rap?”
Her warm and fuzzy feelings toward Boone fled, and her nerve endings went on red alert. That had to be the quickest answer to a prayer she’d ever had. She hadn’t wanted to feel a connection to Boone again, but she also hadn’t wanted this irritation at him washing through her. She’d rather not be feeling anything for him at all.
“You’re trying to argue again,” she pointed out.
“I’m a lawyer,” he said with a charming smile. “Arguing is what I do.”
She sighed. “Can’t you just be my bodyguard and let me take care of the business end?”
“If I have to shoot somebody, that is the business end. The more knowledge I have about what’s going on, the better chance I’ll have of not picking off an innocent man.”
True.
