“How do you mean?”
She looked at Jeremy in the darkness, suddenly tuned in to his wide shoulders and big arms. He was in one of those black T-shirts again, and she wanted to slip her hands under the sleeves and feel the warmth of his skin.
“Ollie liked me to go out and interview witnesses, develop sources,” she said. “He liked me to play the petite woman card. You know, dupe people into thinking I was harmless, and they could let their guard down. It usually worked, too. I’d interview witnesses for our case—or the prosecution’s case. I’d figure out who was credible and who was stretching the truth or outright making stuff up. I can always spot the fakers. Ollie called me a human polygraph.” She smiled at the memory. “He’d been pressing me about pursuing that career-wise.”
“Pursuing it how?”
“Jury consulting,” she said. “I’ve had a chance to sit in on quite a few trials as part of the defense team. I watch the voir dire. You know, jury selection? People answer questions, and I observe their body language while the lawyers are talking and giving details about the case. Some people try to lie their way onto a jury because they’ve got an ax to grind. Or maybe they think they’re going to write a screenplay, or maybe they’re just plain bored. Whatever it is, if they’re misrepresenting themselves, we need to know about it, so I would watch and pass my opinion along to Ollie, who would pass it along to the lead attorney.”
“You like the work?”
“Absolutely. It’s challenging. And the money potential is a lot better than what I’m doing now, so . . . I guess I have Ollie to thank for yet another aspect of my career.”
Kira sighed. She felt a little dizzy now that the whiskey was kicking in. She looked out at the rain on the pool, and her eyes burned.
She wasn’t going to cry.
Four full days, and she hadn’t lost control. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to start right now, in front of Jeremy.
He touched her shoulder, and her heart lurched.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” She wanted him to keep his hand on her shoulder, but he tucked it into his pocket as if he regretted touching her.
“For what you’re going through right now.”
“I’m fine. It’s his family I’m worried about.”
Kira looked at him in the darkness, and she couldn’t read his expression. But she sensed his mood. Tense restraint. If she let herself cry, she had a feeling he’d wrap his arms around her. And she felt a deep-down ache, hoping he’d do just that. How nice would it be to rest her head on his chest and just feel safe for a moment and let everything fall away?
Kira held his gaze. Maybe she should just get it out there. It wasn’t like her to hide from things. Maybe she should just say it. You’ve probably figured this out already, but I’m dying to touch you, and the way you’re keeping your distance is making me crazy. How about if you get me another bodyguard, so you can stop being so uptight and we can see where this goes?
Yeah, right. He’d never agree to that. Even more intense than the attraction flaring between them was his dedication to his work. He took it very seriously, and whatever fling they might have together—and she had no doubt that to him, it would be a fling and nothing more—would never be worth letting down Liam or his teammates by removing himself from an assignment and leaving them in the lurch. Kira didn’t know Jeremy that well, but she knew loyalty was a big thing for him.
Thunder rumbled, and Kira glanced up. As the rain fell harder, she knew it was going to be another restless night. She’d had this hang-up since Hurricane Harvey. Unceasing rain put her on edge.
Jeremy stepped away, once again putting distance between them. He leaned against the rail and looked out.
“I need to tell you about Monday,” she said, mustering her business voice to cover her disappointment.
“What about it?”
“Brock wants me to sit in. He wants my input on the jury pool.”
Jeremy didn’t respond, but she could see his shoulders stiffen. His brow furrowed, too, and he seemed to be thinking of the logistics.
“When did he tell you this?” Jeremy asked.
“Tonight. Right before we got off the phone earlier. It’s a good opportunity for me. I’ve never done any jury consulting for him before, so I’d like to do it if we can make it work. But I realize it’s not ideal. Everyone knows when the trial is starting. It’s been in the news for months, so showing up at the courthouse—”
“Not exactly a low profile.”
She nodded.
He blew out a sigh. “We’ll make it work.”
“Really?”
“You have a job to do. I get it. I’ll talk to Liam, and we’ll figure out the logistics. We’ll be there anyway for Brock.”
“Thank you.” She folded her arms, a bit chilled now, and she wasn’t sure why.
Maybe because now it was official. She was going to venture out in public over the next few days, and she was trusting Jeremy and his team to keep her out of the way of any bullets. But she refused to stay holed up in a hotel suite. She felt suffocated, and she’d only been here a few hours.
He stepped closer. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I just . . .”
“What?”
“It’s just that I hate this. I keep thinking about Ollie. And about Shelly clutching her damn pepper spray. And I feel like a sitting duck.”
“You’re not.”
“It’s all just so callous and calculated. I feel like . . . prey.”
“Don’t think that way.” His voice had an edge now. “You are not prey. He is. If he gets near any of you, he’s going down.”
His voice was cold. Resolute. She stared up at him in the dimness, wanting to believe him. She wanted to trust him, but she wasn’t used to trusting other people to handle her problems for her.
“I mean it, Kira.”
The light went on, and both of them turned. Trent was back. He set a to-go cup on the dining table and shot a curious look out at the balcony.
“I need to go.”
She looked at Jeremy.
“You’re in good hands with Trent.”
“Thanks,” she said, not sure what to make of that statement. Or of the sharp disappointment she felt now that he had to leave for the night. Did Jeremy feel it, too? Was he even tempted? He gazed down at her, but his blue eyes gave nothing away.
“Come on.”
He slid open the door and ushered her inside.
Charlotte stared at her screen, and her attention started to drift. She needed to go home. Seriously. She’d been on since this morning, and it was a Saturday, one she should have had off. Plus, it had been five days since her last callout, which meant it was only a matter of time until another case fell into her lap.
But she still hadn’t solved this one.
It was a puzzle. She’d been manipulating the pieces for days now, and all she’d come up with was something vaguely resembling an edge. The picture in the middle was still a mystery.
“What’s your story?” she muttered under her breath. She leaned closer to the screen, trying to memorize every detail of Andre Markov’s face. She studied his eyes, his mouth, the jagged scar through his eyebrow that was probably from a knife fight. She studied the tattoo on his neck—a faded skull with some sort of cryptic writing beneath it that she couldn’t read. She flipped to his rap sheet and read about his past.
“Tell me you’ve been home tonight.”
She glanced up to see Diaz walking across the bull pen. He wore a navy Astros jersey and his favorite baseball cap.