Читать книгу: «A Man To Count On»
A Man To
Count on
Helen R. Myers
MILLS & BOON
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For my Robert
So many miss you
Me most of all
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Prologue
“Congratulations, Judge. I’m so proud and excited for you.”
“Thank you, Paulie.” Stopping just outside his Austin chambers, Texas Court of Appeals Judge Dylan Justiss smiled fondly at his longtime secretary, Pauline Lawrence. He wasn’t surprised she had got wind that the governor himself had encouraged him to file and run in the autumn election to fill a vacancy on one of the state’s two highest courts, the Court of CriminalAppeals. If elected, he would replace TheaYork, who’d been named to a federal position in Washington, D.C. “But I’ll resist upgrading my jogging shoes, until I see who the competition is.”
“Once word gets out that you’re a candidate, I’ll bet you’ll be unopposed,” Paulie gushed. “Everyone admires and respects you.”
“Well, just for that bit of flattery, if you’d like to leave now, I’ll sign whatever is on my desk and lock it in yours. I’m going to wait and watch the five o’clock news here before I head home.”
The silver-haired woman sporting a flattering wedge beamed at him like an adoring parent. “You’re always so thoughtful. How on earth you remembered tonight is my eldest grandson’s district play-off game and that he’s pitching is beyond me.”
Unzipping his black robe, Dylan nodded to one of the photographs on her desk. “Must be the Post-it notes stuck all around the frame of his picture. Let me know how he does.”
Enjoying her chuckle, Dylan continued into his suite, quickly rid himself of the robe, and reached for the TV remote. Considering the pace of state, never mind world events, he didn’t expect his news to be covered at all, but he wanted to be prepared for anything. Most of the time, judges were invisible beings who were credited, or blamed, by a choice few for decisions that could have widespread and lasting results. However, while in his current position, he presided over one of fourteen courts; if elected in the fall, he would join an elite nine. Anytime change incorporated elevation, he approached it with as much caution as he did respect.
At forty-two, Dylan thought he’d had a good run so far. Great mentors, a phenomenal stretch of pretty smooth sailing regarding cases on his docket, as well as bipartisan support, all of which had allowed him a steady rise up the career ladder. His setbacks had been few and personal—the worst was the death of his wife and best friend, Brenda, eleven months ago after a long illness.
What about a missed, possibly great love?
It was best not to go there.
Then First News at Five came on to mock that cautionary thought.
“Good evening, I’m Ross Kendrick. Our top story tonight involves the shocking revelation made by the husband of prominent Deputy District Attorney E. D. Martel. Tonight KTXA can confirm that Trey Sessions has filed for divorce from Ms. Martel, the darling of the D.A.’s office, often called the Black Widow for her consistency in winning the death-penalty verdict. Her latest victory is Ed Guy, convicted only minutes ago for the rape and murder of UT-Austin coed Misty Carthage.
“KTXA News has also learned that Sessions has obtained a restraining order to keep Martel from their two children, ages eleven and seventeen, claiming negligence and endangerment of a minor. While we haven’t been able to confirm the allegations behind these two career-shattering moves, this also could spell trouble for District Attorney Emmett Garner—his party’s likely candidate in the next gubernatorial election—since Martel is said to be his handpicked successor. So far neither D.A. Garner nor Ms. Martel have been available for comment.”
And who could blame them? Dylan fumed. Damn. Damn Sessions’s useless hide. If anyone was guilty of neglect, Dylan would bet it was E.D.’s house-pet of a husband. What on earth had happened?
While co-anchor Lynly Drew went on to a report about an armed robbery in an Austin hotel parking garage, Dylan dealt with E.D.’s shocking news. He knew—at least he’d heard rumors—that there might be problems in her marriage and that she had been putting a good face on a difficult situation for some time. Whatever househusband Trey thought he’d come upon to make himself less indebted to E.D., it sure as hell couldn’t have been her parental neglect. As for endangerment, Dylan would bet a year’s salary that allegation was nonsense, too. She would and did do everything and anything it took to give her daughter and son a stable home life. Dylan considered himself proof of that.
He rubbed his face and struggled to keep his thoughts in check. The strength of his impulse to reach for the phone jarred him. They hadn’t said more than a few dozen words to each other since Brenda’s memorial service last June, and then he couldn’t deny being relieved that she’d barely looked him in the eye for fear of what his own gaze might have exposed. Nevertheless, he could remember the poignant encounter down to the second; how she’d first squeezed his hand, how without thinking he’d turned that into a hug and whispered so softly that only she could hear, “Eva Danielle.” He need only to close his eyes to recall the warmth and softness of her skin, the silk that was her hair, the subtle scent of lily of the valley that always whispered of her presence. The memory continued to haunt him and his insides ached with the deepest hunger pang.
Eva Danielle.
How she hated for anyone to use her given name; his tightened lips couldn’t help but twitch into a brief smile. Too romantic for an attorney, she’d claimed in interviews. She’d once confided to him that she’d been cringing over it since the fifth grade when she’d first become fascinated with law. Eventually, she refused to answer to it, especially after she’d begun to hear people predicting her future as a debutante or some version of trophy wife instead of a determined prosecuting attorney. That charming disclosure had occurred at the University of Texas when she’d been his student escort at an evening lecture he’d been giving there. She had been a senior and he only a few years out of Baylor Law School, but already touted as a rising star in the profession.
A year later they’d met again…on his wedding day, when she’d appeared as the date of one of his grooms-men, Cole Bryce. That had been the oddest of ego blows, although he’d known instinctively there was nothing but affection between them. Regardless, when in six months she’d invited Dylan to her wedding to Sessions, he couldn’t bring himself to go.
E. D. Martel—the beautiful, brainy blonde, sharper than many in her field, the woman as devoted to her family as she was to her work—a bad mother? Sure, and the president was a flag burner.
Having tormented himself enough, Dylan reached for his desk phone, hesitated, then snatched up his personal cellular model.
Chapter One
The moment the judge leveled his gavel and announced, “Court is dismissed,” E. D. Martel began shaking. Act One, Scene Two accomplished, but she didn’t give herself good odds for making it through the next one, let alone the rest of the day.
“We’ve received word there’s a growing swarm of reporters outside, Ms. Martel,” her associate and junior counsel Bruce Littner said near her ear. “Some are unfamiliar to me and probably from out of town. I don’t know that we can assume they’re here for this verdict. You want me to ask the bailiff for a sheriff’s deputy to escort you out of here through a back exit?”
More than that, she wanted to wake up in her bed and realize the last several hours had been a bad dream; but she knew better than to accept any protection from the press. There was no denying she was breathless from shock, hurt to the point of wanting to dive into the ladies’ room and sob, and angry enough to show Trey what a receding hairline really looked like. None of that was an option, though, as Bruce was right; this extra media attention was personal business. Hers. Any outward sign of distress or resentment on her part would serve her, Emmett and the office badly.
With a veteran’s ability to press her lips into a semblance of a smile, she touched the concerned young lawyer’s shoulder, hating that his biggest professional moment to date ultimately would be reduced to trash. “With your help, I think we can manage. If you’d be so good as to accompany me,” she told him, “I’ll make the usual ‘justice has been served’ statement and then, as the give-us-gossip queries begin, excuse us.”
The brown-eyed blonde, who could have passed for her kid brother if she’d had one, nodded with emphasis. “You’ve got it, Ms. Martel. And if any of them get pushy, don’t worry. I was a champion wrestler in high school and college. Nobody’s going to muscle us.”
He was as sweet in his concern as he was thorough in his work. She made a mental note to mention his value to their boss, D.A. Emmett Garner. Who could say—with her luck, he’d be replacing her before Christmas. “Make that E.D. You’ve earned it. As for trouble, I suspect the only threat we need to worry about is a chipped tooth from having a microphone jammed into our faces.”
As she slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder and reached for her briefcase, she wondered at her calm voice and hoped that the sweat starting to trickle down her back and between her breasts didn’t bleed through her red suit. She traditionally wore this suit with the double-breasted gold buttons on final arguments day, when murder one was on the table, to keep the jury’s attention. She opted for a black one on the day she expected a jury verdict, to signify her awareness that another life had been lost, and that everyone loses in a conviction.
Only today the jury hadn’t taken two hours to reach their decision.
It was just as well, she reasoned. The red could substitute as her internal grieving for what her children must be going through.
So help me, Trey, you will pay for this.
Operating on reflexes that she’d honed from almost sixteen years with the district attorney’s office, E.D. accepted the teary thanks, emotional hugs and powerful handshakes from poor Misty Carthage’s family and friends. That barely slowed her path toward the double doors, beyond which cameras would click madly and video cameras would catch every nuance. Knowing she had seconds before the full circus started, she told Bruce, “When you get out of here, take that patient girl of yours out for a terrific dinner. If you want to try Bruno’s, use my name and have them charge it to my account. One of us deserves a good meal out of this.”
Usually someone with above-average reflexes, the attorney had to reach twice for the door handle. “Uh…thanks. You’re sure?”
E.D. blocked thoughts of what Trey had done with their joint accounts while she’d been tied up in court. “Absolutely. Now let’s get this done.”
Bruce opened the door to a barrage of people and electronics. From the bulwark poured eager and strident appeals.
“Are you pleased at putting another defendant on death row, Ms. Martel?”
“E.D., is it true your husband has locked you out of your own home?”
“Did you know the photos you approved would end up on the Internet?”
“The word is that Playboy is offering you a million for a mother-daughter layout. Gonna take it?”
Wishing she could broadside smug Josh Perle with her briefcase, E.D. paused and began, “Thank you for your interest in Misty Carthage’s devastating case. The state of Texas is grateful that justice has been served once again and that other studious coeds, the Austin community as a whole, will be safer—at least from the likes of Ed Guy.”
“With this being May, you’ll soon have two condemned men facing execution,” another reporter she didn’t recognize called from the back. “New DNA tests are being requested by their attorneys. What’s your reaction to that?”
“It’s their right, of course. That said, the Sandman did not beat Debra Conyers to death in her bed, her husband did, despite his recant after excessive publicity attracted a high-profile defense team to his case. As for Counselor Baltow’s claim regarding his client, science has already shown the state will not be putting an innocent person to death and I expect that new appeal will be denied, as well. Thank you for your time.”
After a speaking glance to Bruce, she started down the hall. Undaunted, several reporters matched her stride.
“Would you make a statement about Mr. Martel’s decision to sue you for divorce and get a restraining order, Ms. Martel?”
“No.” But E.D. wished Trey could hear himself being referred to by her maiden name. The reporter had to be new.
“Have you talked to your daughter or son?” someone else asked in a sharper voice.
Caught off guard, she ignored the question due to the sudden boulder lodging in her throat. Thankfully, Bruce forced his way forward and stretched out his arm to deter the persistent.
“Back off! You have your statement.”
Three minutes later she reached her office, rejecting Bruce’s offer to escort her the rest of the way. She’d expressed her gratitude again and urged him toward the parking garage. Now she drew in a long, deep breath knowing she wouldn’t get off so easy. The sound reminded her of a rattling shutter in a storm.
Don’t.
As her throat began to hurt anew, she tried to ease that by swallowing several times. She had no time for tears, forget outright panic. But vulnerability was compounding on itself. Sure, for the moment she had a job where she would be defended in any public forum. All it would take to end that, though, was a few more crass comments by Trey, Dani in hysterics…and the photos showing up in more and more places. Then, whether it was fair or not, E.D. would be asked for her resignation, left as raw meat to the voracious media hounds.
One thing at a time. Get through here, and then figure out where you’ll sleep tonight.
She honestly didn’t have a clue. By the first break in court today, Trey had left a message on her cell phone warning her not to return to the house because he’d had the locks changed so she wouldn’t be able to get inside. Supposedly, her luggage was waiting for her in her office. Not only hadn’t the bastard had the decency to let her pack her own things, he was subjecting her to the humiliation of the whole office seeing evidence that she was being ejected from her own home—for reasons as bizarre as they were infuriating.
As E.D. walked the long halls, she again tried to call her seventeen-year-old daughter, Dani—but without success. Mac, her eleven-year-old son, didn’t answer his phone, either. Trey must have had some input there. As bad as Dani’s situation was—and she had yet to get to the bottom of it—surely he hadn’t succeeded in convincing her son that she was in any way responsible?
Walking through the halls, she willed her expression to remain blank and only murmured, “Thanks,” to the half-dozen people who were still there working on their own cases, looking up to congratulate her. She’d encouraged her secretary, Nita, not to wait on her—a good thing because as she opened the door to her office, the sight of her three red suitcases had her slumping against the door, her vision blurring from tears.
Remember where you are.
Real help came as her phone started vibrating. Hoping it was Mac or Dani, she straightened and reached into her pocket. When she checked the caller ID screen, she couldn’t believe her eyes.
Dylan Justiss!
Why she continued to keep his number on her personal phone she couldn’t say—or didn’t want to admit. But realizing that she was a button click away from hearing his strong, reassuring voice had her insides fluttering in excitement.
Someone discreetly coughed behind her.
Pivoting, she saw a suave-looking, mature man, his hair barely a shade lighter than his steel-gray eyes and suit. “Sir.”
“Congratulations, E.D.,” Travis County District Attorney Emmett Garner said with a regal nod. “You’ve done me proud again.”
“Thank you. Though considering the amount of DNA evidence, I think a final-year law student could have handled this case.” Pocketing her phone, she gestured. “Care to come in?”
Apparently, he did, and while he eyed the luggage, it was noteworthy that he made no comment. Instead, he shut the door, leaned back against it, and assumed a deceptively casual pose of folded arms and crossed ankles. Cary Grant never did it better. E.D. had once read that while in college, Emmett had done Shakespeare onstage, earning reviews that could have launched a stage career if he’d wanted it. Aside from his smooth, sophisticated features, his precise diction and lack of any Western twang seemed to support that; however, his performance hall had become a Texas courtroom, and he’d tried some of the most important cases in the state’s history, winning the majority soundly.
“I hope you didn’t stay late because of me?” E.D. asked, preferring to get this over with rather than deal with a prolonged silence. Reaching her desk, she set her bag and briefcase onto it and met his shrewd scrutiny straightforward.
“Because of and for these few words, my dear. Delayed an engagement after I heard the verdict,” he intoned. “I wanted an opportunity to salute Le Martel and see for my own eyes how, under the circumstances, the day’s events affected my faithful soldier. Elegant, but a gladiator still,” he added with a satisfied gleam in his eyes. “You reassure me.”
Meaning he’d heard the worst and had questions about his “best and brightest” being in deep domestic trouble. E.D. admired and often liked Emmett, but she had no illusions about how fast he would give the thumbs-down signal to feed her to the two-legged lions if she polluted his precious department and crippled his political future.
“You trained your protégée well, sir. I, too, would like to recognize someone—my assistant, Bruce Littner. He deserves a letter in his file for his part in this verdict.”
“See that it’s done. At the rate we wear out staff, it’s always good to remember to stroke the young talent, and I’ve long admired your nose for potential stars.”
“Thank you.”
Without breaking eye contact, Emmett tilted his head toward the luggage. “I’m not going to meddle, unless you feel the need for a confidant…and I think that same fine mind is far too intelligent to want me to be one.”
Velvety words barely cloaking a steel-hard warning had the desired effect on E.D. This wasn’t the first time she had heard them, although it was the first since rising so high in the department. “You flatter me, sir. But I plan to continue separating work and family.
“This should be simply a divorce case at worst,” she continued, holding his penetrating gaze. If she’d had a choice, she would as soon take her chances with a great white shark. “As for the T.R.O., I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do tonight about the media’s carnivorous interest in the temporary restraining order. However, I’ll seek injunctive relief first thing tomorrow morning. In the meantime, you can be assured I signed no authorization whatsoever for my daughter to model, and would certainly never approve of those kind of photographs.
“Danielle is barely seventeen.” She lowered her voice to a near whisper to guarantee his focus. “As a mother, my heart is aching for my daughter’s humiliation. As an attorney, I’m furious that yet another predator has apparently taken advantage of a minor and I plan to make him—or whomever is responsible—rue the day they hatched this plan.”
Despite her quiet dignity, Emmett looked only marginally reassured. “You have my deepest sympathies and support, as well as the resources of this office to prosecute what I’m hearing from you is a criminal act. But…I would prefer it not to be played out on the front pages of the newspapers and on TV. At least not now. I think you agree with me that this would be in no one’s best interests?”
E.D. clasped her hands behind her back to keep him from seeing her fist them. No one, meaning Emmett Garner. She could see the gears in his mind working and knew that he was concerned about a “guilt by association” implication. At fifty-eight, he was in prime professional and political condition to take the governor’s seat in the next election. It was critical for him to leave the D.A.’s office on a high note. E.D. had no intention of making a public show of her daughter’s naiveté or foolishness—whichever this proved to be—but she would be damned if Emmett’s ambitions cost her child legal justice.
“Protecting the privacy of a minor is my first and greatest concern,” she said coolly.
Ever the image of self-containment, Emmett checked his watch. “Initially, this is bound to impact your schedule.”
The nerve of the man, she fumed in silence. E.D. had successfully juggled a tough schedule through two pregnancies, and had returned to work early each time. As an aspiring novelist, Trey had been eager to stay at home with the babies. Oh, she thought with a new sinking feeling, how she had played into her husband’s hands.
“There. That’s exactly why I came to see you,” Emmett snapped, pointing a professionally manicured finger at her. “There’s self-doubt on your face. Since when does E. D. Martel let anyone see anything less than resolve?”
Since her I’m-writing-the-great-American-novel spouse pulled something she had yet to fully comprehend. Since their daughter had walked, tripped or otherwise been lured neck-deep into a disaster that could haunt her the rest of her life. Dani couldn’t begin to know the breadth and width of what she’d done, but E.D. dealt with such things 24/7.
Drawing a steadying breath, she offered, “This is Wednesday, and as you know I have the Horvath case starting Monday, which will bring the office as much attention, if not more, than the Guy case did. If I haven’t shown you that I’m up to your standards by the end of opening remarks, replace me.”
E.D. had no idea if her challenge was all bravado, let alone sensible.
What she was convinced of was that she hadn’t spent the last thirty-eight years of her life building to this, only to chicken out even before she fully understood what she was dealing with.
Emmett studied her another moment and then pushed himself away from the door. “I’m glad that we understand each other. See you at seven-thirty for the regular java and jockeying session.”
As he let himself out, E.D. responded to the sudden weakness in her legs and lowered herself to sit on the edge of her desk. She had no illusions as to what he meant by the word understand: If she didn’t lead the D.A.’s team in the Horvath case—and win—her future here was over. It didn’t matter that it would require two clerks to assist her and Bruce in the face-off with Lester Horvath’s pricey defense team. Somehow she would still have to figure out a way to reason with Trey, as well as help the children. Where would she find the extra hours in her already crammed days, let alone the energy to use them wisely?
A knock on her door had E.D. starting. Had Emmett changed his mind and decided he wanted her off the case after all?
“Come in.”
A young man poked his head inside. “Ms. Martel?”
“Yes.” A courier, she thought with relief, noting his cyclist’s helmet tucked under his arm.
“I have an express for you.”
Praying it wasn’t another present from Trey, E.D. accepted the small padded packet, only to stare at the sender’s bold initials. D.J. Incredible! So the call wasn’t an accident. But what was Dylan doing and could she afford to satisfy her curiosity?
For a moment she was tempted to reject the delivery; her instincts told her it was the wise thing to do. The use of just his initials was proof that this was personal and for her eyes only. Dylan needed a paper trail to her right now about as much as Emmett wanted one; after all, she’d heard the latest rumor about Dylan filing for the upcoming election.
Feeling caught in some game where she didn’t know the goal let alone the rules, E.D. yielded to temptation and signed the appropriate line on the delivery record. Plucking out a folded bill from the side compartment of her purse, she handed it over along with the clipboard. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
As she waited for the gangly, spandex-dressed youth to leave, her thoughts circled around the ludicrous concern that her signature didn’t resemble her usual confident flourish and that her hands refused to stop trembling. But as soon as she heard the door click closed, she tore at the padded envelope.
He had to have seen the news this morning, she thought as she pulled out the smaller envelope inside. Maybe he—her breath caught as she felt something hard inside.
Oh, no!
He’d been bold. Mad. So out of character for steady, live-by-the-rules Dylan.
E.D. tore the smaller envelope and dropped the contents into her cupped left palm. As she’d surmised, a shiny brass key landed there. She closed her fingers around it and pressed her fist to her pounding heart.
You dear man. You crazy, idealistic man.
Shaking her head, she checked the envelope to see if he’d included a message. A brief note had been handwritten on a blank sheet of notepad paper.
You know what this goes to. Use it.
Scrawled below were four numbers. As the past rushed forward to replay itself before her eyes, E.D. shook her head and debated over the options that unfolded before her. There was no mistaking that she’d been reminded of the rest of his cell-phone number; she didn’t need to check her directory to confirm that. The question was should she respond?
She had to. Such a gesture—regardless of his motives—made some response mandatory. But as she retrieved her phone out of her pocket, she didn’t deceive herself; the pounding in her ears was less about what common sense demanded she say than eagerness to hear his voice again. That shamed the woman who was a mother and, until today, a damned faithful and caring wife.
Navigating to the correct memory code, E.D. punched the call button. After only half a ring, she heard the voice that embraced and reassured like no other.
“I was beginning to give up hope. What else can I do?”
The part of her that had been increasingly ignored and becoming repressed whispered, “Ah.” Dylan’s voice had always reminded her of profound things: the baritone bell ending a monastery prayer, the timely discovery of a quilt during a hard winter freeze. The professional man inspired equally stirring and lasting feelings in people. He stood statue tall and was built as physically well as he was mentally solid, more than capable of enduring strong political winds and ethical challenges. It was difficult to look into his ink-blue eyes and not be overwhelmed; framed by a strong-boned face, they radiated wisdom, wit and a patience honed from years of watching and listening. E.D. missed that face, that voice, and more, their strange, indefinable friendship.
Wondering if his pitch-brown hair was tumbling over his broad brow by now from hours bent over files and law books, she managed a smile, wistful though it was. “You shouldn’t have done anything in the first place.”
“I’ve already worked through that argument myself and found it wanting.”
She cupped the phone as though it were his cheek. “I think you let sympathy override sensibility. As generous as the gesture is, it’s impossible.”
“Why? You need to sleep, a quiet place to think.”
When Trey had first hit her with his accusations and threats last night, E.D.’s impulse had been to call Dylan—not for aid, but advice. If anyone could think of something that could be done to stop this insanity before it mushroomed into a blinding, noxious cloud that permanently damaged her children, she’d suspected he would. However, just as quickly, she’d reasoned she would be every bit as poisonous to Dylan. Any contact could potentially stain a brilliant career that seemed to be about to take off to new heights; and so she’d resisted.
“I don’t know what to say.” She studied the key to the comfy but rustic cabin west of the city, about forty minutes into the hill country. “I’m grateful, of course, but…this is so embarrassing.”
“If anyone should be embarrassed it’s your—” Dylan’s sigh spoke of frustration “—it wasn’t my intention to make you feel awkward. After I saw the report on TV, I could only imagine what hell this has been for you. How’s your daughter?”
“I wish I could tell you. I haven’t been able to reach either of the kids.”
“And you?”
“I’ve had excellent training at hanging on by my fingernails.”
“You can’t ask me to stand by and do nothing.”
No, not the man whose last name perfectly described him; Dylan Justiss had been born to serve the law. However, this time he’d picked the wrong battle.
“You’re wonderful.” She hoped her sincerity carried through in those two simple words. “But that doesn’t change that I can’t let you do this.”
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