Page 2 of A Tempting Motion
“Assistant District Attorney Thoms, we’ve been waiting.”
“I apologize, Your Honor—”
“Britta?”
I stumble at his voice. Just under twelve hours ago, that baritone called my name in a much different setting. I slowly turn toward the defense table to find Theo’s furrowed brow wrinkle into a scowl.
“What are you doing here?” I breathe, hoping against all naïve, stupid hopes he’s not—
“He’s defense counsel, Ms. Thoms. Surely, you’ve met him before, since you both work this case.”
What the hell is going on? How did I not know he’s the defense attorney in the Donahue case? How didhenot know I’m the prosecutor?
Unless he did.
A hot wave of embarrassment boils in my stomach. I don’t know what game he’s playing, but I’ll be damned if I let this asshole win, so I address Judge Powell like the goddamn professional I am.
“No, Your Honor. I’ve never met Mr. WilliamT.Chamberlain before.”
* * *
I slam my office door, shaking my freshly hung diplomas on the wall, before whipping around to my new nemesis. The lying, conniving WilliamTheodoreChamberlain is calm—relaxed even—and dammit if that doesn’t make me madder.
“So, you’re a prosecutor?”
He makes a small half-turn, as if he can’t already see the entirety of my ten-by-ten foot office.
I toss my laptop bag aside and extricate myself from my stifling blazer, refusing to watch him finish his smart-ass self-guided tour. The roiling humiliation from earlier has vaporized into steamy sweat and I’m well past glistening.
“Like you didn’t know. Why didn’t you tell me you’re a defense attorney?”
The charlatan raises his hands in innocence, those baby blues pleading his case. I wonder how often he uses them to weasel his way out of things.
“I swear, Britta. I had no idea you’re an ADA, let alone on this case. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a prosecutor.”
Offended, I cross my arms. “For the record, you’re not what I expected either.”
“Yeah? What’d you expect?” His cocky smile makes me want to kick him in the shins, stiletto first.
“Well, for starters, I thought you’d be at least eighty years old.”
He’s literally taken aback, which is good because it gives me room to breathe clean air, instead of intoxicating cedarwood and amber.
“Eighty? Why the hell would you think that?”
“Courier New font? It screams octogenarian.”
“Pfft, I happen to like Courier New—”
“—What is this, the 1950s?”
“Goddamnit. Forget it. What’s gonna happen with this case, Britta? My client can’t afford another continuance while the State figures out the next ADA to appoint. She’s been in jail too long already.”
My spine straightens so fast it pops audibly. “Why would there need to be a continuance? Is there something I don’t know? Am Idying? Because death is the only thing that’ll kick me off this case, Chamberlain.”
“Oh, gee, I don’t know, Britta. Does this past weekend ring any bells?”
“I don’t know what you’re referring to.” My eyes narrow in warning. “But I’m sure there’s nothing to discuss but this case.” Conversations about relationships, even weekend binges, are my nightmare.
