The Hot Ladies Murder Club. Ann Major

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СКАЧАТЬ had her on the run. And yet…she had him oddly off balance.

      Her nervous fingers shuffled and reshuffled the photographs of the O’Connors’ estate. He caught glimpses of the abandoned pool, the empty hot tub, and the red brick path that wound through the strawlike remnants of formerly showy flower beds. Her slim, graceful hands trembled so badly when she came to his damning shots of the mold, she nearly dropped the whole bunch.

      “Think how those images will affect a sympathetic jury, Mrs. Smith.”

      “That’s not a question,” her lawyer said. “You don’t have to answer.”

      Deliberately, she licked her lips with her pink tongue. “I’m sorry Mr. O’Connor’s sick, but…”

      Hell. She sounded sorry. A jury would believe her, too. He almost believed her. When she began talking faster and faster, swallowing, and glancing everywhere but at him, Campbell found himself studying her wide, wet lips with obsessive interest.

      Sexy voice, intoxicating scent…and that delectable mouth…Everything about her seemed soft and vulnerable and likable. She was too damned likable. Not like him.

      Suddenly Campbell wanted her to shut up and just look at him, and that scared the hell out of him. His big house was lonely and empty, his footsteps echoed when he finally made it home and climbed the stairs to his bedroom alone every night.

      Was anything about her for real? Was she sucking him in…as Carol had?

      Mrs. Smith was damned attractive, too damned attractive, despite that shapeless white sack that concealed her figure, despite thick, inky bangs and huge dark glasses that masked her face. Her legs were long and shapely, her ankles slim…even though those low-heeled, stained canvas shoes did nothing for her calves.

      Yes, she was pretty despite the fact that she’d gone to a lot of trouble not to be. Why had she done that? Most women liked to add pretty to their arsenal of weapons when they went up against him or a jury. For an instant, he remembered Mrs. Crocker’s slit skirts and shapely legs. She’d been built like a gymnast.

      “Call me Kay,” she’d said the day Campbell had lost. “Better, call me…anytime.”

      He’d been angry because he’d lost. “I don’t mess around with married women.”

      “So, my husband’s wrong about you,” she’d purred. “You do have a principle or two. I like that.”

      “No principle. I just don’t want to get shot by a jealous husband.”

      “My husband’s a good shot, too. He’s a hunter.”

      “This lawsuit wasn’t personal, you know.”

      “So, why are you so sore you lost?”

      “I’m sore about a lot of things.”

      “So am I.” Her eyes had sparked.

      Forget Kay. Concentrate on Mrs. Smith. Campbell ran a tanned hand through his jet-black hair and yawned, pretending he was bored by what Mrs. Smith was saying. Bored by her. If only he was, maybe he could concentrate on the O’Connors’ case and finish her off.

      She was tall. From the moment she’d glided into his office, he’d been riveted by her exquisite lightness of being. Something sweet and vulnerable screamed look at me, love me, please. Her every gesture—her quick, nervous smiles at Tom—hell, even the frightened glances he got both charmed and maddened him.

      A jury would be equally charmed.

      Then there was the way she couldn’t seem to catch her breath when he got too close. She was playing the role of damsel in distress with a vengeance that should have infuriated him. And yet…Her fear felt so real and palpable, he wanted to protect her.

      Damn it, he had to get her. Africa had made it clear, his ass was on the line.

      If her accent was fake, he’d bet a year’s salary her black hair came out of a bottle. The harsh color was wrong for her fair complexion, the style too severe for her narrow face. He kept eyeing the thick, glossy mass, longing to undo the cheap plastic clip.

      Hell, what were those white bits of dust that clung to her bangs? What had she been doing before she’d dashed late to his office.

      “If the O’Connors are so concerned, why aren’t they here today?” she finished in that velvet undertone that undid him.

      “They hired me to represent them.” His voice cut like ice.

      “You mean to do their dirty work?” she finished, glancing out his windows like a trapped animal.

      Damn it, Campbell felt sorry for her. Then Tom put a cautionary hand over hers, and Campbell felt a wild, really scary emotion.

      “What’s all that stuff in your hair?” Campbell growled, wanting to rip Tom’s hand away.

      “Oh!” Her eyes flew self-consciously to his. She gulped in another big breath, and he felt like the air between them sizzled.

      This was bad.

      She stirred her fingers through the mess of her purse and finally plucked out an elegant, gold-framed mirror. When she saw herself she wrinkled her nose. Quickly, she yanked at the hideous clip and shook out her long, thick hair.

      When lots of little white bits showered onto his gray carpet, she smiled, revealing deep dimples, and he felt that damn buzz again. Despite a bad haircut, she was way sexier with her hair down. She studied herself in her mirror and wrinkled her nose again.

      Campbell squirmed in his leather chair. He didn’t need this.

      “Bits of Sheetrock,” she explained airily. Lifting her triangular chin, she shot him a pious look. “I was inspecting one of the waterfront properties I represent. For mold, Mr. Campbell.”

      “Just call me Campbell.…”

      “There was a suspicious stain on the ceiling.…I wanted to be sure.…”

      She and Tom exchanged self-righteous glances.

      “My expert didn’t find any,” she said.

      Touche, Campbell thought grimly, even as some part of him cheered for her.

      Again, her hands fluttered prettily as she reclipped her hair. She didn’t wear a wedding ring. For no reason at all he longed to remove those huge glasses that hid her eyes.

      Were they dazzling blue or soft velvet brown? Or fiery black? He wanted to sweep her hair back, get a good look at her. Maybe then he’d remember where the hell he’d seen her.

      Damn it. He grabbed one of the mold photographs from his own duplicate pile and forced himself to focus on his clients and their toxic-mold problem.

      “Paul O’Connor is in the hospital barely able to breathe or think,” Campbell said.

      “I’m so sorry he’s ill.”

      You don’t give a damn about Paul and you know it.

      And СКАЧАТЬ