of herself.
Her unborn baby kicked so hard, the movements caused the material of her blue dress to bob and weave.
“Oh, the kind who played mind games to psych out opponents—and who played lots of games with lots of different women, if you know what I mean.” Cassie cast a quick glance toward little Abigail, but the child was engrossed in the video and paying no attention to the adult conversation.
“Luke was a player, and I’m sorry to say that in those bad old days, my brother used to be one, too,” Cassie said, lowering her voice a bit. “Steve and Luke moved in the same circles. But at least Steve matured and reformed and is a good family man now,” she added, clearly relieved by the transformation.
“Not Luke Minteer, though,” guessed Brenna.
Not that she cared, she assured herself. She was simply passing the time, chatting with Cassie until dinnertime. She’d decided to stay; the macaroni and cheese and chocolate cake were too tempting to pass up. She could work later this evening.
“No, not Luke,” Cassie agreed. “Matt Minteer was elected to Congress and Luke went along to D.C. as his administrative aide, the same position he’d had in Harrisburg. But in D.C., Luke was unleashed. He ran wild down there.”
“How?” Brenna prompted. “Uh, not that I want a detailed account,” she added hastily, her face flushing again.
“I’ll give you the abridged version. Luke got in with a very fast social crowd plus a very nasty political crowd. Maybe he could’ve stayed unnoticed in one, but not both. Steve said rumors about him were constantly flying from D.C. to Harrisburg and, of course, back here to the district. Matt ended up firing Luke. Boy, were the Minteers mad!”
“At Luke or at Matt for firing his brother—or both?”
“At Luke, only at Luke. They let it be known how much they disapproved of him and encouraged everybody else to tell Luke their own unfavorable opinions of him, too.”
“I wonder why he came back here?” Brenna mused. “It seems like a strange choice for someone like him, to come back to a small town and be ostracized and criticized by his own family.”
“Maybe he was trying to get back on their good side. But if he was, it didn’t work. And then he wrote this really successful novel. I heard it’s going to be made into a movie, which would mean even more money, but his family still disapproves of him.” Cassie shrugged. “They’re a tough crowd, the Minteers.”
“He has a favorite aunt who likes his book. He, um, mentioned her.”
“I don’t know which one she is. There are so many Minteers in the area, especially when you count the aunts, uncles and cousins. Abigail goes to preschool with Luke’s brother John’s little boy, David. Sounds like some sort of six-degrees-of-separation chain, doesn’t it?” Cassie smiled. “Or maybe fate?”
Brenna swallowed hard. “What do you mean?”
“Well, who knows what could happen between you and Luke when—”
“Nothing,” Brenna said firmly. “Cassie, I’m having a baby, for heaven’s sakes.”
“Who needs a father. Because there isn’t one in the picture.”
“And from what you’ve told me, Luke Minteer sounds just like the kind of man who would love to step in and play daddy to someone else’s child.” Brenna’s voice dripped sarcasm. “As if he would ever find a pregnant woman attractive in the first place!”
“Okay, I concede your point.” Cassie gave up. “The only thing that will happen involving you and Luke Minteer and jury duty is a verdict.”
Brenna ran her hand through her hair. “And maybe not even that. What if it’s a hung jury?”
She thought of Luke’s amused prediction that she would be the one to hang the jury, but didn’t share the remark with Cassie. She didn’t want her friend to know how long she and Luke had talked, especially after Cassie’s outlandish speculations.
Besides, she’d already spent too much time thinking about Luke Minteer—and way too much time talking about him to Cassie. It was puzzling, and disturbing, too.
And then there was the most puzzling, disturbing thing of all—that remark she’d made to him upon leaving the courthouse.
Why hadn’t she simply played along with Luke Minteer’s belief that she was married? Why hadn’t she pretended that a “Mr. Morgan” actually existed?
Luke had assumed one did, that she was a married woman—until she’d quashed that notion flat.
Why had she done it? Brenna mused throughout the evening. By morning she still didn’t have the answer.
Two
All twelve jurors arrived on time the next morning for the beginning of the trial. They introduced themselves to each other, and one of the older men, Roger Hollister, was elected foreman. The lawyers for both sides seemed pleased with the jurors’ first group decision; Hollister, whose nickname was Sarge, had served in World War II and knew a thing or two about leadership.
In the jury box before the opening argument, Luke once again sat next to Brenna Morgan. A natural gravitation process had already occurred among the twelve. Sarge Hollister and the other two men in his age group sat together, as did the five elderly women. The two pierced and tattooed young men, both named Jason with different surnames, stuck together, which left Brenna and Luke with nobody but each other.
Or so Luke told himself. Never mind that in his political incarnation, he had prided himself in fitting in with any group, regardless of age or sex. That was then, this was now, and he and Brenna were their own group strictly by default.
He glanced over at her. She’d gone for comfort over formality today, trading in yesterday’s blue maternity dress for black slacks and a long bottle-green top. He had opted for jeans again—after reading the prissy advisory not to wear them to court, of course he would never wear anything else—and an equally casual plaid flannel shirt.
But Brenna had followed the dress code, such as it was. She’d pulled her dark hair high in a ponytail, and the ends of it brushed against the nape of her neck. Luke’s eyes lingered on the soft, creamy-white skin exposed there, and he quickly lowered his gaze.
She looked as if she had a beachball stuffed under her shirt. Her breasts and belly seemed to merge into one big shapeless bulge, but her black tapered pants revealed that despite her advanced pregnancy, her legs were nicely shaped. Her ankles weren’t swollen today. He noticed that, too.
Luke frowned.
“Why aren’t you married?” he blurted out in a low whisper.
Brenna turned to look at him, visibly startled by the question. Luke himself was startled. He was doing it again—blabbing his thoughts aloud. The influence of the courthouse, perhaps? It was an old gothic-style place, vaguely creepy, where strange things might be expected to happen—like him imagining that he was being influenced by the atmosphere!
“Because I’m not,” she replied coolly.
She might as well
