Dangerous Ladies Page 9

  As Brandi walked down the hall toward her new apartment, she couldn’t wipe the smile off her face. It was Sunday. Sunday night. She had spent the entire weekend in the arms of a man who made her forget what’s-his-name. Roberto had everything any woman could ever desire—smoky sensuality, sexy accent, great cheekbones, muscular body, slow hands—and best of all, she would never see him again.

  Her smile slipped.

  She would never see him again.

  But that was what she wanted. She sighed only because he’d introduced her to decadent pleasures she’d scarcely imagined, and she knew she would miss watching with hungry eyes as he strode from the bathroom to the bedroom to the sitting room.

  She fumbled to insert her key in the lock.

  Clothed, he was glorious. Naked, he was—

  Before she succeeded, the door swung open on its hinges.

  For a long, long moment, she stared, not understanding. She had locked the door. She knew she had. Yet she examined the lock. It was smashed.

  Someone had broken into her apartment.

  Stunned, she pushed the door open and stared, hands limp at her sides.

  The cushions on her new sofa had been tossed. Papers were strewn everywhere. The boxes she’d left packed were opened and dumped. The glasses she had put in the cupboard were shattered on the floor. Across the cream-colored wall, red paint dripped a message—DIE BITCH.

  And her dragon . . . she whimpered and rushed inside. She knelt beside the green shards and touched the sharp edges with tender fingers. All these years, she’d kept her dragon pristine with nary a chip on him. She’d dragged him from the home where she’d lived with her parents through a series of smaller and smaller apartments, then to the college dorm, then to the law school . . . and now someone had come in and broken him.

  She stared around at the mess with disbelieving eyes. She’d been robbed.

  And how dumb was she to be inside? The criminal might still be here.

  She rushed back into the hallway and called 911.

  9

  “I might point out, Miss Michaels, that it’s not a good idea to be late the first day of work.” Mrs. Pelikan stood at the head of the conference table, her team assembled before her, and reproved Brandi as she slipped in the door.

  “It’s okay when Mr. McGrath is your family’s best friend.” Sanjin Patel smirked.

  Brandi considered how pleasant he’d been Friday night when he’d been hoping to get into her pants, and supposed that a firm smack across his handsome chops was out of the question. “I apologize, Mrs. Pelikan. My apartment was vandalized. The police left about midnight. The locksmith left at one. I had to clean enough to get to the bed, so I didn’t crash until three. This morning I did call with a message.” Which she’d given to Shawna Miller knowing full well it would never be passed on.

  “You could have e-mailed,” Sanjin said.

  “They smashed my laptop.” They didn’t steal it. They smashed it.

  “I’m sorry.” Mrs. Pelikan sounded sincere. “Not a good introduction to our fair city.”

  Your fair, freezing-ass-cold city.

  “What did the police say?”

  “They said the security in the building is actually very good. The apartment manager was completely apologetic.” So apologetic he’d arranged to let her insurance agent in today to take pictures of the damage and was paying for a crew to clean up the mess. Eric did not want to give his other tenants reason to worry. “He gave the police the video from the cameras at the doors. They’re going to study it and see if they recognize the perp, but usually in cases like this, one of the tenants was being ‘nice’ and let him in.”

  “What was stolen?” Mrs. Pelikan asked.

  “Nothing appears to be missing. It looks like an act of pure vandalism.” Somehow, that made the situation worse. To think someone attacked her things, slashed her new, wrong-size couch, dumped her drawers and the boxes she hadn’t yet unpacked, for no reason except spite seemed vindictive and far too personal.

  Last night after everyone left, Brandi had tried to sleep, but every time she had drifted off, she jerked awake. Then she lay in the darkness, her eyes wide, waiting to hear the soft sound of a footfall or see a dark form move across the window.

  “You could have stayed home, Miss Michaels.” Mrs. Pelikan frowned as she looked Brandi over. “Perhaps it would be better if you went home.”

  Obviously Brandi hadn’t done a good job with the concealer on the circles beneath her eyes. “Of course, thank you, Mrs. Pelikan. But I have been looking forward to working with you and your team, and I didn’t want to miss the chance to be in on the ground floor of this exciting new case.” She stood there, clutching her briefcase in sweaty palms and hoping she maintained some semblance of professionalism, while she sounded like a major suck-up.

  But she couldn’t bear the idea that on her first day everyone was sniggering at her, gossiping about her behavior at the party, taking the opportunity to make snotty comments about her connection to Uncle Charles. So she’d dragged herself up, put on her best booby-mashing bra, dressed in her most conservative, least wrinkled black suit, and indulged in a cab to get her to McGrath and Lindoberth as quickly as she could. At least now Sanjin could make his snotty comments to her face.

  “Good.” Mrs. Pelikan turned crisp and businesslike. “You know everyone here. Tip Joel, Glenn Silverstein, Diana Klim . . .”

  Brandi wished she were back in the suite with Roberto, safe and warm and loved.

  Not loved, exactly, but certainly cherished. Although he’d made no attempt to find out her last name or where she lived. He’d been content to let her walk out of his life forever . . . and that was right. That was just what she had wanted. In fact, a weekend had been far more than she’d wanted, and his indifference—for that was what it was—had kept her from calling him when she’d discovered the break-in. Thank God she still had her dignity.

  Instead she had this room of coworkers who stared at their organizers, their notebooks, or their Palm Pilots. Anything to avoid looking at her and murmuring pleasantries.

  Maybe that was the way they greeted people in Chicago, but Brandi was from Nashville. In Nashville, good manners were the standard, not the exception, and she wasn’t going to let them get away with it.

  She marched up to Tip. “Tip, Friday night I thought you were fighting a bit of a cold. I hope you’re feeling better.”

  Tip was an old lawyer, probably not the best because he was sixty and not a partner, but he knew how to play the game. He shook her hand. “I’m better, thanks.”

  “Diana, how good to meet you again,” Brandi said. “I hope you’ll give me the name of your hairdresser. The guy who cut mine slaughtered it.”

  Actually he’d been an artist, but Diana was thirty-something, married, with highlights that shouted “Beauty School” and a cut that accentuated her plump cheeks. A little flattery wouldn’t go amiss there, and didn’t. Diana’s brown eyes lit up, and she said, “Sure, I can do that.”

  Glenn cleared his throat.

  “Later,” Diana added.

  “Sanjin—” Brandi offered her hand, but she didn’t think Southern charm would get far with him. Never mind a woman scorned—he was single, intelligent, from India, and didn’t like the fact she hadn’t been interested in a man who worked at her firm.

  He touched her hand and inclined his head with a chill that told her she’d made an enemy.

  “Miss Michaels, if you’re done with the chitchat?” Mrs. Pelikan managed to sound severe and look as if she knew exactly what Brandi was doing. “Glenn is the team leader on your first case, so you’ll be working for him.”

  Brandi saw Glenn nod pontifically and knew she faced trouble. He was fifty, balding, and fighting it with a bad comb-over. Friday night after he’d slavered over her like a rabid dog, she’d spent ten minutes joking with his wife about old fools. Perhaps it hadn’t been wise, but in her opinion a man who was willing to cheat on his wife should be put down and
then neutered, and not necessarily in that order.

  “Glenn, why don’t you outline our case for Brandi?” Mrs. Pelikan sat down and crossed her arms over her chest.

  Brandi opened her notebook and held her pen at the ready.

  “I’ll try to be succinct, since everyone here already knows the details and our client will be in soon.” Glenn rose and spoke directly to Brandi while everyone else looked disgusted. “He has dual citizenship, American and Italian. The FBI claims he’s a jewel thief. They assert his specialty is diamonds, big diamonds, and that he’s stolen from museums and private citizens in New York City, San Francisco, and Houston. The CIA also has an interest in him, claiming he’s committed similar crimes in Rome, Bombay, and London. But the FBI landed him first.”

  Brandi nodded.

  “Would you like to take notes, Miss Michaels?” Glenn looked pointedly at the blank notebook in front of her.

  Everyone in here already hated her, so she told them the truth. “I have a photographic memory, Mr. Silverstein, but I will take notes when necessary to verify the details.” She smiled toothily at him.

  Glenn took a long, patient breath that clearly expressed his doubt. “The FBI has videos of our client in two of those locations prior to a robbery, and most important, an audiotape of him speaking to the owner of the jewel a mere hour before the robbery took place. He’s renowned for romancing females before he allegedly steals their finest pieces—”

  “Their finest pieces?” Tip gave a snort.

  Brandi endeavored to keep a straight face.

  “And this woman, Mrs. Vandermere, says she saw him take her eight-carat diamond necklace before he left for the night. The FBI is prosecuting on circumstantial evidence and one woman’s accusations.” Glenn swayed like a cobra preparing to strike. “They might be able to make it stick . . . if our client were poor. But he’s not. He can afford the best defense, and that’s us.”

  “Of course,” Brandi said.

  “He’s independently wealthy and a respected businessman.” Diana smiled with reminiscent pleasure. “The fact that he’s an Italian count doesn’t hurt, either.”

  The hair on the back of Brandi’s neck stood up. She drove her pen tip into her notebook. The top page tore, but she barely noticed. Wildly she looked from one attorney to another. “What’s his name?”

  “Don’t you ever read the papers?” Sanjin asked.

  “His name!” Brandi rapped her knuckles on the table.

  Her fierce demand took even Glenn aback. “It’s Bartolini,” he said. “Roberto Bartolini.”

  10

  “Surely you saw Mr. Bartolini.” Mrs. Pelikan observed Brandi’s horrified expression from sharp brown eyes. “He was at Mr. McGrath’s party.”

  “She left early. She’d already filed us away in her photographic memory.” Sanjin’s voice held a wealth of spite.

  The door opened. Mrs. Pelikan’s secretary stepped inside and in a breathless voice announced, “He’s here.”

  Before Brandi could collect her composure or lift her jaw off the floor, Roberto strode in.

  He looked delicious even with his clothes on.

  No wonder he hadn’t asked her last name. She’d told him where she worked. Whom she worked for.

  The silky black hair she had so loved to run her fingers through had been trimmed into a businesslike cut.

  He knew she’d be on his case. He knew he’d meet her again.

  His dark gaze swept the room, lingered on Diana. . . .

  She had to recuse herself.

  Oh, God. Oh, no. She had to recuse herself . . . and she had to tell them why.

  He looked at Mrs. Pelikan. Glenn.

  Brandi wanted to fall off her chair and hide under the table.

  Dear God. She was going to be fired from her first job. Her father would snort about how useless she was and how she would never pay him back for college. And . . . and maybe she wouldn’t, because she had committed the cardinal sin: She’d had an affair with a client.

  Distantly she realized introductions were being performed.

  “Mr. Bartolini, I think you’ve met everyone here,” Mrs. Pelikan was saying. “Glenn, Sanjin, Diana, Tip . . .”

  They were standing up as their names were called.

  Roberto shook hands with each one.

  “I don’t think you met Brandi Michaels?” Mrs. Pelikan asked.

  “Miss Michaels.” The smile he offered her was polite, admiring, and basically that of a man who was meeting an attractive woman for the first time. “How good to meet you.”

  She was insulted. After their weekend together, he dared pretend he didn’t know her?

  No, wait. She was pleased, because this gave her a moment to think what she should do. Recuse herself, obviously. At Vanderbilt she’d taken Ethics and the Law. It had to be done.

  Someone poked her in the back. Glenn. He glared and indicated she should stand.

  She scrambled to her feet. “Mr. Bartolini, I look forward to working with you.”

  She didn’t know where that had come from. She wasn’t going to work with him. She was going to recuse herself. The fact that it would be unpleasant and grossly embarrassing and the end of her career and she’d have to work at McDonald’s for the rest of her life serving Happy Meals made no difference.

  Interesting that he was offering her the choice, keeping their relationship a secret. Was he ashamed of her?

  No, it wasn’t that. He hadn’t known she was a lawyer at his firm until she told him. She remembered how he’d scrutinized her—as if he weren’t sure what to think.

  Someone poked her in the back again.

  Glenn. Everyone was seated now.

  Roberto sat at the head of the table with Mrs. Pelikan, listening as she explained their defense plan.

  Brandi sat, too, and tried to think what to do. Regardless of whether Roberto gave her the chance to avoid telling the truth, she had to. If their relationship ever became known, it would jeopardize his defense. But she didn’t have to blurt it out here. Not with Sanjin shooting her the evil eye. After the meeting was over, she would follow Mrs. Pelikan into her office—

  Sanjin’s voice jerked her attention back to the meeting. “I say we send Brandi. She needs to meet the judges in the city, anyway, and her inexperience won’t matter, because what can go wrong with this sort of meeting?”

  She glanced around. In her turmoil she’d missed something very important. “I’d be glad to do whatever needs to be done.” An innocuous statement.

  “Fine,” Mrs. Pelikan said. “Tip, you and Diana see what else you can dig out of your sources at the FBI. Sanjin, the research—it’s all yours.”

  Sanjin’s face fell. That served the little weasel right.

  “Glenn, you’re with me. Brandi, you go with Mr. Bartolini to meet Judge Knight. It should be simple enough. He’s a pushover for a pretty face.” Mrs. Pelikan stood up and nodded briskly.

  The whole team stood up and nodded briskly.

  Brandi imitated them, but . . . she had to go with Roberto to meet a judge? How had that happened?

  That’s right. She’d been distracted by the plan for the ethical and required murder of her own career before it had even had the chance to draw breath.

  Everyone seemed to be waiting for her to lead the way out, so she did, with Roberto close on her heels. The team split for their offices.

  Brandi started after Mrs. Pelikan.

  Roberto caught her arm. “Where are you going?”

  “To tell her—”

  “You can do that later. Nothing will be harmed if you go with me to a meeting with Judge Knight. You heard Mrs. Pelikan. He likes a pretty face, and he’s not disposed to like me at all, so you’ll be my protection.”

  She looked down at his hand. The last time that hand had been on her, she’d been kissing him good-bye, and that kiss had ended on the floor before the fire in the hotel bedroom. She looked up at him. The last time she’d been this close, she’d buried her nose in his c
hest and smelled the clean, fresh scent of him as if it were an aphrodisiac.

  Now she could smell the scent of him again, and she didn’t know whether to run into his arms or away.

  But he seemed oblivious to her flight-or-fight reaction. He let her go and in a sensible tone asked, “Where’s your coat?”

  “In my cubicle.”

  “You’ll need it. It’s cold out there.”

  “Ya think?” That was sarcastic. But she hadn’t insisted she go to Mrs. Pelikan. That would have been the right thing to do. Yet she was scared, and Roberto was right. Wasn’t he? It wouldn’t do any harm to go with him to charm a judge.

  She let him help her on with her coat. She put on her gloves in the elevator. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t look at the people who got on with them. Didn’t even glare at the woman who did a double take and checked him out.

  But she did think it would be fortunate if the elevator dropped all forty stories to the ground and ended Brandi’s cowardice and indecision—and while it was at it, finished off that slut who winked at him.

  Roberto’s limousine stood illegally parked at the curb, and Newby stepped out. He doffed his hat to her and opened the door.

  A witness. Newby was a witness that she and Roberto had had an affair. The concierge at Roberto’s hotel was another witness. So was anybody who’d seen her walk into the hotel. Oh, and Jerry, the bodyguard at Uncle Charles’s, had seen the car she had slid into. Putting her hand to her face, she imagined their depositions in the case disbarring her.

  “It’s okay.” Roberto took her arm and herded her toward the car. “You’re making it too complicated.”

  “I don’t think I am.”

  He shoved her inside the car and followed her in.

  “I think it’s very clear-cut. I am just too much of a coward—”

  He grabbed her shoulders and spun her to face him. “You are not a coward. Of all the things I learned about you this weekend, that is the number one truth. Please do me the favor of not disparaging yourself in such a manner again.”