Explosive Attraction - By Lena Diaz Page 0,55
clients. And you need to get over your prejudices. None of my clients are the type of person to go after someone with a bomb.”
He gave her a droll look. “I’d bet that most of your clients are the kind of people who would try to blow someone up, or shoot them, or stab them. I’m betting our bomber is one of those charity cases where you got a murderer off with a light sentence because you think he’s—” he held up his fingers and did air quotes “—not responsible for his actions.”
Darby sucked in a breath. “Just because someone makes a mistake, it doesn’t mean they’re bad. It means they messed up. Someone like you should have more sympathy for the people I defend.”
He stilled. “Someone like me?”
Alarm bells went off in her head, but she couldn’t stop. She was so furious and sick of his condescending comments about her work. “For a man who cheated on his wife, you sure don’t cut anyone else any slack for making mistakes.”
His jaw tightened so hard his skin turned white beneath the stubble. “Get in.”
She immediately felt contrite. She knew she’d gone too far. “Rafe, I—”
“Now.”
She slid into the passenger seat and Rafe slammed the door.
* * *
AFTER AN INCREDIBLY crazy day, starting with a bombing and ending with Darby and Rafe retrieving a second backup hard drive from her office, they were spending another evening in another hotel room, sitting at a small dining table with both his laptop and hers. Rafe was taking turns searching on both computers. Darby was sitting beside him, thoroughly bored, wishing he’d talk to her.
The man was a master of the silent treatment.
He clicked another key and the pictures the bomber had sent were displayed on the screen. Darby stared at the pictures, and realized three of them had some very interesting things in common. “Zoom in on that picture on the left, the one of you.”
He moused over the picture and clicked. His likeness filled the screen. Darby studied the background.
“Okay, now Jake’s picture.”
Rafe clicked again. Another close-up shot, but with a few more details in the background. Excitement churned through Darby. “Now my picture.”
When her picture was displayed, she fist-pumped in the air.
Rafe looked at her as if she were crazy.
She grinned. “Those pictures were all taken at the courthouse, in the same courtroom.”
His eyes widened. He studied her picture, squinting as if he could make the background come into focus if he stared hard enough.
“Here.” Darby pointed to one of the fuzzy shapes. “See that woman? That’s Renee Harper. I can tell because I recognize her suit. It’s her Thursday suit.”
“Her...what?”
“Renee wears the same five suits every week. That’s the suit she wears on Thursdays. She’s Judge Thompson’s—”
“Favorite court stenographer. I know that much. Can’t say I’ve noticed her suit fetish, though.”
“It’s not a fetish. A fetish is usually sexual in nature. It provides a sexual release. Trust me, Renee isn’t excited over her suits. She’s obsessive-compulsive. You should see her in the ladies’ room at the courthouse. Everything in threes. She flushes the toilet three times, pumps the soap three times, rinses her hands...”
The corner of Rafe’s mouth twitched, as if he was struggling not to laugh.
Darby crossed her arms. “Put your picture back up.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He punched the keyboard.
She pointed to the background. “There she is. You can barely see her, but—”
“She’s wearing her Thursday suit.”
“Exactly. Now put my picture up again. Renee’s not in this picture, but Judge Thompson is. That’s his right arm, right there on the edge of the shot.”
“His arm? Let me guess. You recognize the watch, the lucky watch he wears only on Thursdays, and only when there’s a solar eclipse.”
She punched his arm. “Don’t be silly. I know it’s his arm because of his robe.”
His mouth twitched again. “His robe?”
“The sleeve of his robe is snagged. Judge Thompson has a nervous habit of scratching at the fabric. All of his robes have marks on the sleeves.”
He stared at her again, his brows climbing to his hairline. “Are you always this observant?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it, but I suppose so.”
“What do I do?”
“What do you mean?”
He crossed his arms. “What kind of odd habits have you noticed about me? Or am I perfect?”
“Ha! Far from it.” She raised her fingers to tick off each point. “For starters, you’re way too bossy. You frown too much. Your temper—”
“Forget I asked,” he said, his voice dry. “I suppose you have a theory about why the