A Man of Privilege. Sarah M. Anderson

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СКАЧАТЬ was where she always was, sitting in her recliner and watching Deadliest Catch. “Well?” she said without lifting her eyes from the pillow she was embroidering.

      “Low Dog is in prison and my uncle is blind and in a wheelchair.”

      Nan’s needle paused in midair. “So, good news, then?”

      “That part, at least. A special prosecutor wants me to testify against that judge.” She left out the part about the prosecutor being handsome and rich and powerful.

      Nan made a tsking noise and kept sewing. If Maggie hadn’t seen the pictures of Nan as a young woman with freckles and fiery-red hair, she wouldn’t believe the woman before her wasn’t an Indian. She had everything—the way she wore her hair, the clothes she chose, even the way she talked—down pat. The sun had tanned her face and hands a leathery brown, and she was an expert on Sioux traditions.

      “I see. What did he offer you?”

      Maggie pulled up short. “Nothing.”

      The needle paused again. “Nothing?”

      “Well, he offered not to charge me.”

      Nan tsked again. “Must not be a very special prosecutor if he didn’t give you anything you wanted.”

      Maggie sat down in her chair with a thump. “I think he’s a good lawyer. I just think he was expecting someone else.” He was expecting a woman who had exchanged sex acts for not-guilty verdicts. His offer had been for that woman. Maggie wasn’t that woman anymore. “Besides, he doesn’t have anything I want.”

      That was dangerously close to a lie. He did have something she wanted—that smile, those eyes, and all those muscles underneath that suit. But she didn’t want to want them. If she wanted them—him—and if he figured that out, he could use it against her. He could use her. As much as she wanted to see James Carlson again, she had to protect herself from him. There was no way in hell she’d put herself back into a position where someone else was calling her shots. Those days were over.

      “You okay, sweetie?” Nan finally looked up, the concern bright in her eyes.

      Maggie thought back to the stunned look on his face when she’d stood up to him—when she’d stood up for herself. She hadn’t been what he’d been expecting, but then, she hadn’t expected anyone to look at her with such honesty. Would James Carlson come looking for her?

      She hoped so. She shouldn’t, but she did anyway.

      “Yeah,” she said. “I think I am.”

      Three

      The sun beat down on Maggie’s head. The wide brim of her floppy straw hat kept the back of her neck from burning, but on days like this, she had half a mind to take her pruning knife and whack her braids off. It was just that damn hot.

      Maggie dropped a shovel full of composted manure onto the freshly tilled garden soil. She shouldn’t whine about the sun—it had dried the stink right out of the manure. She stood up and tried to stretch the kinks out of her back as she looked at the sky. If only she and Mother Nature could compromise on the occasional cloud …

      She was halfway through the rest of her wheelbarrow when she heard it—the crunching of tires on gravel from a long way off. The hair on the back of her neck stood straight up. Wonderful, she thought. Tommy had been wrong. It had only been four days since she’d left James Carlson’s office in a huff—not eight. And here she was, covered in dirt and manure. Damn. She snatched her hat off her head and arranged her bangs over the side of her face. Individual hairs stuck to her skin, but her scar was hidden.

      At least, she hoped it was James Carlson, despite the ratty overalls she was wearing. She didn’t want to think about who else it could be on a Saturday afternoon. Despite Tommy’s reassurances, Maggie was reasonably sure there were a few other people in this world who’d want to see her for all the wrong reasons.

      She glanced back at the house, wondering if Nan could hear the approaching car over the TV. If so, she’d have the shotgun at the ready. A girl couldn’t be too careful, after all.

      A shiny black SUV—the kind that looked as if it had never been on gravel before—hesitantly worked its way down to the house. She leaned on the handle of her shovel and watched it come.

      Maggie smiled. So that was the kind of “off-road” vehicle that rich, East Coast blue bloods bought when they were roughing it. She’d stick to her Jeep, thank you.

      “You’re a long way from home,” she called out when Mr. Special Prosecutor himself emerged from the driver’s seat.

      The first thing she saw was the blinding white of his smile. Wow, she thought again. That smile wasn’t quite as sharp as it had been in the office. If anything, he almost looked glad to see her. Then she noticed that, instead of the suit, he had on a pair of tan cargo pants and a sky-blue polo shirt. Even though the clothes were pretty casual, they fit him well.

      Broad chest, she thought with a sharp intake of breath. Without the jacket, she could see exactly how broad—and defined—his chest was, and how it narrowed into the V of his waist.

      Whoa. Not just attractive. Downright gorgeous.

      Heat—different from the swelter that had sweat dripping down the back of her neck—ripped through her, and she suddenly found herself doing some crude math. Exactly how long had it been since her last time with a man? No—wrong question. How long had it been since she’d last enjoyed a man?

      His eyes were shaded behind wraparound sunglasses, but he leaned forward and slid them down his nose to look at her.

      Way too long, she thought. Maybe never.

      “I believe I was invited,” he called as he pulled something out of the backseat.

      Sheesh. Only a lawyer would construe what she’d said as an invitation. “Did Yellow Bird tell you how to find me?”

      He was carrying something. As he got closer, she saw that it was a bright orange garden trug, loaded with stuff. “Not too many people get away with calling him names.” He grinned at her, as if he was letting her in on some secret. “Here. I brought you something.” He set the trug in between the rows and took a step back.

      She looked at him for a long second. Was this a gift, or a bribe?

      “It’s a gift. No strings attached.”

      Tommy hadn’t said anything about mind reading. Keeping an eye on her visitor, Maggie crouched down. Deerskin gardening gloves, a trowel with an ergonomic handle, copper garden tags, a matching copper watering can and a bunch of heirloom seeds were all nestled inside. All top-quality stuff that she would never waste money on. She lifted out the watering can. Was this a Hawes? She’d seen this one in catalogs—for a hundred and forty dollars.

      The whole basket must have set him back close to five hundred. James Carlson was, in fact, a good lawyer. At the very least, a rich one.

      “I can’t accept this.” Even as she said it, she picked up the gloves. The leather was softer than anything else she owned. These weren’t the everyday gloves they sold at the hardware store. “I won’t СКАЧАТЬ