Midnight Special Coming on Strong - By Tawny Weber Page 0,53
had filled him in on.
Didn’t mean she wasn’t writing one.
The question was, what did she have to fill the pages? Supposition? Public knowledge?
He hadn’t said anything about the case.
She hadn’t asked diddly.
But his instincts, those vital intuitive flashes that not only saved him from disaster, but often gave him the brilliant insights that put his case close rate at the top...those instincts said she had plenty.
Hunter shoved the heavy glass door open with enough force to send the oak bouncing against the marble wall and earned himself a few glares. He ignored them as he stormed his way through security and to the courtroom.
He tried to argue down his instincts. There was not one exchange between them that involved what he called business. Not directly, not overtly, not discreetly. The only interest she’d shown was in his body. Not his job.
Stopping in front of an eight-foot oil painting of the East Bay, he gritted his teeth. Well, hell. Had he just crossed over into his-ego-doth-protest-too-much land? It wasn’t as if he’d never been pursued for a case. Or as if he’d ever thought a woman was more interested in him than she really was.
He stared blindly at the blur of land beyond the Golden Gate, forcing himself to face reality. None of those times mattered. Not on the job, not off.
Because, dammit, this was the first time it’d hurt.
And if she broke that story, it’d hurt a hell of a lot more than his embarrassingly fragile emotions. It’d send his career into a tailspin, ruining everything he stood for. Everything he’d dreamed of, worked for, his entire life.
“Special Agent Hunter, good to see you.”
Glad for the interruption, more than happy to sideline his obsessive mental circles, Hunter blinked the concern off his face and turned to greet the prosecuting attorney.
“Denton,” he said to the dapper blond man with a nod. They’d worked together on a few cases, and Hunter knew that beneath the cordial smile and frat-boy looks was a shark with an ambition addiction. There was nobody he’d rather have arguing this case.
“The opposing counsel is meeting with the judge now. We’ll know of their decision within the next fifteen minutes.”
When presented with the extensive additional charges two days before, Burns’s team had been faced with the option to take their chance trying the case with the new charges. Or call for a mistrial and let their guy stay in jail while they regrouped and gave the FBI enough time to keep digging through suspicious information until they found solid facts. Aka, searching for bodies that’d turn those suspicion of manslaughter charges to murder one. Either way posed a risk. To Burns, that was.
Hunter wanted this case moving. Now.
He was one hundred percent sure that the feds would get the proof they needed to take Burns down if it was put on hold.
What he wasn’t one hundred percent on was what his sexy little roommate knew, or what damage she could inflict on the outcome of the case, or quite possibly the life of Beverly Burns.
Focus, he mentally snapped. Worry did no good. Second-guessing and prognosticating was a waste of time. Set it aside and focus on the damned job.
“What’s the temp?” he asked the attorney, wanting to gauge the chances that the lawyers would choose to move forward with the trial.
“Burns isn’t liking his current accommodations. He’s cocky enough to know that suspicion of murder isn’t proof.” Denton shrugged, as did Hunter, his gaze locked on the courtroom door. “My money says we’re eating crappy courtroom cafeteria lunch today.”
It didn’t take more than five minutes before they were called into the courtroom. Denton spoke with the leader of the pack of lawyers flanking Burns, then nodded. His face was passive, but Hunter could see the look in his eyes. Countdown to shark attack. Looked as though they’d be sticking around for cafeteria jello surprise.
Then, and only then, did Hunter let his eyes shift to the crime boss. Broad and badass, the guy sported an iron buzz cut, a sharp jaw and a suit that’d cost Hunter a month’s pay. Cocky and confident, Charles Burns didn’t show an ounce of concern.
Perfect.
More than ready to take on Burns, his fat-cat attorneys and, hell, the entire criminal justice system if necessary, Hunter dropped to his seat and gave the crime boss an ugly smirk.
Yeah. This was war.
Six hours later, after a hearty lunch of that jello surprise and a questionable burger, Hunter took the stand.