Читать книгу That Night We Made Baby - Mary Wilson Anne - Страница 9

The Past—September

Los Angeles, California

“Reckless driving, an illegal lane change and failure to obey an officer of the law.”

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.”

“I don’t understand,” the woman said, obviously confused.

“Mr. Viera is apparently an attorney,” the judge said as he glanced at the business card.

“And I’m offering to represent the defendant on charges of reckless driving, an illegal lane change and failure to obey an officer of the law.” Being improbably desirable certainly wasn’t a criminal offense, but if it had been, as good as he was at what he did, he knew he’d never be able to get her off. “And anything else you allege that she did.”

“I told the judge that I was just trying to—”

Nick held up a hand to quiet her before she started off on another rambling explanation. “We’ll talk,” he said, then looked at the judge. “Can we reschedule?”

“If Miss Wells wishes to have counsel, we can put this on the calendar for…” He glanced at his clerk. “How does it look, Rhonda?”

A middle-aged woman at a low desk checked something in front of her, then looked at the judge. “A week today, Your Honor. Ten o’clock.”

He looked back at Nick. “How about that?”

Nick looked at Miss Wells. “Is that okay with you?”

Color was creeping into her cheeks, either from embarrassment or self-consciousness or possibly even anger at his high-handed behavior. But she was obviously as intelligent as she was a poor driver. She just nodded and said, “Fine.”

The judge said, “See you then, Miss Wells.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Nick said.

The judge reached for another file and looked over at his clerk. “What’s next, Rhonda?” he asked, dismissing Nick and his new client.

Nick headed out of the courtroom, and she followed him. When he paused to open the door, he stood aside to let her step out into the corridor. The air stirred as she went by, touched by a hint of freshness mingling with her delicate floral scent. Then she stopped and turned to look at him as he let the door swing shut behind him.

Nick stared into those green eyes, and although his world wasn’t given to flights of fantasy he could feel his world start to shake. The impact of her gaze almost made him flinch. The strength of his attraction to her was beyond anything he’d felt before. An unsettling experience for him and an intriguing one.

She brushed at her hair, exposing a palm stained with green paint, then her tongue touched her full bottom lip. The action stirred something in him, and he realized that this woman had made him want her before he even knew her first name.

SAMANTHA WELLS NEVER EVEN knew there was a Nicholas Viera in the world until the striking man in a well-tailored gray suit had suddenly spoken and started toward the bench. Frustration and fear about the possibility of losing her driver’s license had been making her slightly crazy at that moment. Then he was there, a man who filled the whole room with his presence, who moved as if he owned the world. Nicholas Viera.

The moment she met the intensity of his gaze, everything had started to blur, to run together in a rush of reactions. Sexy, definitely very male, and disturbing. But also so controlled and at ease in his surroundings that she envied him. She’d tried to concentrate, to figure out what he was doing there, and then he’d said something about representing her.

She didn’t understand at first and the only thing she could think of was the fact that his mouth was wide and hinted at a hidden smile. And that his eyes were neither green nor brown, but a rich hazel color that was set off by tanned skin and dark brown hair flecked with gray.

She’d felt herself flush when he turned those intense eyes on her again, asking her if that was okay with her. She’d realized that the judge had been rescheduling her court date—as if she could afford to have this man come back with her in a week. She knew how far-fetched that was, but she’d just nodded and said softly, “Fine.”

Now she was standing in the courthouse corridor with Nicholas Viera. He held out a business card to her.

“‘Viera, Combs and O’Neill. Nicholas Viera,”’ she read, along with an office address in Bel Air. An elegantly simple, obviously expensive card, done in heavy ivory stock, it had probably cost more to print them up than she had in her bank account all last year.

She studied the owner of the card, a six-foot-tall man in a suit that defined his whipcord-lean build. An expensive suit. She looked up into his face, at features that were as untraditionally handsome as they were attractive. He had a strong, clean-shaven jaw, dark brows and a nose that was slightly crooked. It all came together with the rest of the man to make a disturbingly sexy package.

Very upscale, probably all Ivy League. And no matter how attracted she was to him, he was totally out of the league of a struggling artist who could barely pay for her share of an apartment she occupied with three other young women. “Thanks for getting me out of there,” she said. “Have a nice day.”

“What?”

“Thanks. I appreciate what you did in there. Now I’ve got time to figure out what to do.” She lifted the card. “Do you want it back, Mr. Viera?”

“No, keep it,” he said. “Call me Nick, and your name is…?”

“Samantha Wells.”

“Miss Wells.”

“Sam, please.”

“You looked as if you needed a little help in there.”

She barely contained a smile at the observation. “A little help? I could use a whole law firm right about now, but I can’t even afford a paralegal, let alone a real, honest-to-goodness lawyer.” She pushed his card into her purse, then held out her hand to him as she prepared to break whatever connection was forming between herself and this man. “But thanks again.”

He took her hand in his, and she was very aware of how large and strong his hand was. It surprised her when he didn’t shake her hand but turned it over, palm up. Then he looked at her and that hint of a smile became a reality, an explosive reality for her. “So it’s not just crazy driving you’re here for, is it?”

“What?” she asked, her voice verging on breathless. “Of course it is. I mean, I’m not crazy, but it’s this ticket thing and—”

The smile deepened. “Shhh, let me figure this out. I get paid big bucks to be insightful about my clients. Between you and me, I figure that you’re in here for counterfeiting, but you’re having trouble with the ink.”

She felt heat rush into her face again and cursed the fact that she blushed so easily. She was always a bit self-conscious about her hands and the stains that never seemed to come out. How could she feel as if this man’s presence totally surrounded her? Or that she’d missed him all her life, yet had never known he existed until right then?

“Green. The color of money,” he said, and traced the faint stain on her palm with his forefinger. “Not regulation green, but close.”

She drew back, closing her hand into a fist behind her back. “That particular green is the color of the trees in the mist on an island in Puget Sound, and I worked hard to create it before I had to come to court.”

“Oh, you’re a housepainter?”

That smile was there again, and she could feel herself being seduced by a simple expression. It had never happened to her before with any man. Men who were a blur to her now, men who hadn’t been important enough in her life to even remember now. “No, an artist, or at least I’m trying to be. You know, landscapes, seascapes, portraits? That’s why I was in such a hurry when I…I had my problem with the car. I was seeing a gallery owner about a showing and I didn’t want to be late.” She grimaced at the memory of her call to the owner and finding out he was gone and wouldn’t be back for two weeks. “I was too late.”

“I know some art gallery owners. What’s your medium—black velvet?”

That made her laugh out loud, and she had to cover her mouth with her hand to control the sound that echoed in the corridor. The next thing she knew, Nick was touching her hand, easing it down, but not letting her go. She felt his fingers close around hers and she didn’t fight the contact, not when it seemed to be anchoring her in some way. “I…I’m sorry,” she said, suddenly having trouble taking her next breath.

“Don’t be. Let’s go where we can laugh,” he said.

“Mr. Viera, listen to me. I’m broke. I’m the proverbial struggling artist, and if I get an attorney, it’s going to have to be a public defender, but I thank you for everything you’ve done.”

He leaned a bit closer to her. “Did I mention money?”

She was confused again. She didn’t know what to deal with first—his offering to help her or that sensation of his being her anchor. “I assumed—”

“Never assume anything with an attorney,” he said with a half smile. “This is called pro bono work. Free. A way for an attorney to atone for those clients he wishes he’d never represented, but clients who pay the big bucks. To be honest with you, I’m good. Unless you’re a serial killer, I can get you off.” Another smile played on his lips. “And even if you are a serial killer, I can probably get you off for that, too. Now, can we go someplace and talk about this?”

He was a stranger, yet Sam knew she was going to go with him. She knew that he could help her and she knew something else. Whatever was happening to her at that moment, Nicholas Viera was going to change her life.