Nicholas Viera had lived thirty-eight years without believing in luck. But that all changed the first moment he saw the pretty traffic-court defendant.

He never went into that part of the county courthouse; he didn’t deal with that area of the law. But he’d been so intent on something else that he made a wrong turn, pushed open the wrong door and stepped into the wrong chamber.

On that early-summer day, when he heard those charges being read, he looked up to see the defendant—a slender blond woman with her back to him. And Nick knew that luck was very real.

“Your Honor,” the blonde said in a quick, breathy voice, “I was just in the wrong lane and I tried to move over, then this other car wouldn’t get out of my way. I tried to get around it, but I couldn’t, then I thought if I turned and cut through the parking lot, I’d be able to pull ahead of that car, get in the right lane and go where I was trying to go all along.”

From his position at the chamber door, Nick was struck by the earnestness in the woman’s voice and by a riot of shoulder-length, sun-bleached blond curls. As he took a step forward, his eyes skimmed over beige slacks that clung to the gentle swell of her hips and showed off incredibly long legs. A clingy white blouse defined slender shoulders that shrugged repeatedly while the woman spoke. Wedge sandals added a couple of inches to her five-foot-five-or-six-inch height, and her hands moved constantly, adding expression to her words.

“I tried, but I didn’t realize that the curb cut out like that.” Her hands swept out away from her in a grand gesture as her words sped up. “If I had, do you think I would have tried to make that turn? I just never saw it and I thought I could make it, and bam, I hit it.”

“Miss Wells, please,” the judge said quickly to get a word in edgewise. “According to the officer, you crossed a double yellow line, almost ran into an oncoming car, then hit the curb. When he got there, you wouldn’t get out of your vehicle. You were not cooperative. Meanwhile, your car was blocking Wilshire Boulevard at four in the afternoon during rush hour.”

“I told you, I was trying to get into the parking lot and didn’t see the curb, then, the tire hit it and just blew up. I thought I might still be able to drive it, but the officer was yelling at me and I got confused.”

Nick found himself smiling as he made his way past the rows of wooden chairs toward the front of the room. He wanted a better look at the woman who wasn’t giving up despite the fact that she’d obviously wreaked havoc on the city of Los Angeles with her driving.

“But you were driving the car,” the judge pointed out with admirable patience. “You blew the tire, and it’s your responsibility.”

“Well, sure, of course, but if the other driver had let me over, I wouldn’t have had to do any of those things and the traffic wouldn’t have been stopped like that. And the policeman just yelled and yelled.”

“Yes, I guess he would,” the judge murmured. “But you could have gone around the block.”

Nick moved closer to the bailiff, and when he finally saw the profile of the formidable Miss Wells, he realized why the judge was being so indulgent with her, or at least why he wasn’t simply throwing her in jail and tossing away the key.

The woman was dead serious and absolutely beautiful—seductively appealing with a tiny nose, her chin elevated just a bit with challenge to show the beguiling sweep of her throat. He couldn’t help noticing the way the material of her blouse clung to high breasts that strained against the fine fabric with each breath she took. The only sign of nervousness was the way she started fiddling with a locket she wore around her neck.

He’d been so intent on looking at her that he’d almost stopped listening to her. Gradually, her voice filtered in again—a husky, earnest voice. “I had this really important appointment and I was already going to be late and I just had to get there.”

“Did you make your appointment?”

She shook her head, making her curls dance softly on her shoulders. “No, Your Honor. I didn’t.”

He sat back and looked down at her. “That’s a shame. Now, are you ready to enter your plea or are you going to want a jury trial?”

“Do I have to have a lawyer for a jury trial?” she asked.

“No, you don’t have to have an attorney, but if I were you and this was my record, I’d consider it.”

Nick wasn’t looking for more work and he never went into any court thinking about getting a client. Besides, his specialty was criminal law. This woman was just a crazy driver who was far too sexy for her own good. Despite all of that, he saw the way she hesitated, her hand stilling on the locket at her throat, and he found himself stepping in where he knew he probably shouldn’t.

“Your Honor, may I approach?”

At that moment, Miss Wells turned, and Nick finally got a good look at her face. She was maybe twenty-five or so, wearing little or no makeup, her incredibly green eyes shadowed by improbably long, dark lashes. There was a faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose. Her pale pink mouth was softly parted in surprise.

“Excuse me, sir?” the judge was saying.

“Nicholas Viera,” he said, taking a card out of his pocket and approaching the bench to lay it in front of the judge. “I was wondering if I might be of some help to…” He glanced back at the woman. “Miss Wells.”

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Prologue

That Night We Made Baby. Mary Anne Wilson
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