Attractive Nuisance (Legally in Love Book 1) (6 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mitigating Circumstances

“Hey, Camilla Sweeten. I think I found it!” Zane called over the tops of the cubicles as he strode toward her. She was getting used to this. The rest of the staff might hate the way he disrespected their audio-space and wish for their own personal cones of silence from his outbursts, but he didn’t seem to care. Yelling served as his intercom system between himself and Camilla, since Sheldon refused to trade cubicle spaces with him so Zane could have a spot next to her.

So
fourth grade.

“See? Here’s what was in his pocket, from when they took his personal affects when they jailed him.” Zane showed her a photograph of a pile of pocket lint and a bit of wire casing. “Hotwired it, I’m telling you.” It matched the wire casing the police had found on the floor of the carport from which the car was stolen. Man, this was going to be open and shut for poor Veldon Twiss.

“Yep.” Camilla’s heart sank, though, when she remembered the electronic skeleton key that had been part of the other BMW thefts. “Would he have to use hotwiring if he also had that key?”

“Maybe it wouldn’t work on this one. But I still found the biggie. And you know what this means, don’t you?” Zane bumped up against her chair, making it roll on the plastic. “A deal is a deal.”

He’d made her a deal. If
he
came up with the next bit of solid evidence, she had to go to dinner with him. If she found it, he had to wash her car at his friend’s car wash. Her BMW could use it, after the fall rains.

At least it wasn’t a deal about whether she’d go with him to the office cookout.

“I tell you what. Because I’m in such a good mood about this find, I’ll also get my friend Rick to wash your car. We can take it when we go to dinner.” He pulled out his phone and started texting, probably Rick. “But you have to let me drive.”

Camilla choked a little. “What?
You
drive my car?” Uh, no. Not a chance.

“What’s the matter? You don’t trust my driving skills? I’ll have you know, I can maneuver around a fallen tree without so much as a scratch of cat-claw bush on my truck’s paint job.”

And a fine paint job it was. All sparkly paint. And don’t forget the mud flaps. How could a guy as professional looking and stylish as Zane Holyoake also drive the redneck Rolls Royce?

“It reminds me of the time when Rick and me and our friend Wyatt had this barbecue at the meteor crater…”

Rick and I…
And that was another thing. He’d been to law school—a good one. How could his grammar have these glitches? If he didn’t have that granite jaw line and occasionally the whiff of diesel fumes she couldn’t resist any more than she could resist a chocolate eclair with her name on it, she’d write him off faster than her BMW could go zero to sixty on the straightaway.

Zane wound down his story about the barbecued meteor. “Hey, I think that one might work for our prosecution, do you? I’m going to go run it past Falcon.” He patted her on the shoulder and shambled toward Falcon’s office, not waiting for her answer—thank goodness, since she hadn’t listened. It probably ended like the rest of them, with Zane and his buddies making a narrow escape from their self-induced scrape.

He left the photograph on her desk, and she studied it. Bits of chopped up wire. They were pretty generic and could be there for any number of reasons, but if they matched the wire found at the carport, Veldon might as well kiss the next couple of years goodbye.

She got a text.
Be thinking of where you want to eat dinner. Sincerely, the Winner. Hey, that rhymes.
Her eyes rolled. Twice.

Sheldon slid up to her on his rolling chair from the cubicle across the aisle. “So. You dating that guy, or what? Interoffice dating. I thought you had your…policy.” He gave a single barking seal laugh.

“It’s still my ‘policy,’ Sheldon. And I’m keeping to it. As long as mentally I don’t count it as a date, but just as a working lunch or a working dinner, I’m staying within policy guidelines. And note that the only way it’s happening is when it’s coerced. It’s neither initiated nor anticipated by me.” She thought she might protest too much.

“The press is chomping at the bit. They want to see a circus. Are you giving them one?”

Oh, she hoped not. There’d been too many court cases worthy of Barnum and Bailey lately. While Falcon did perform well for the camera, and while he did need publicity for his upcoming election, getting too melodramatic could backfire big time.

“We have another bit of evidence we can bring to build the case. I’m waiting to hear more from the sheriff’s office and their detectives.”

“Have you put in a request to Twiss’s counsel to interview him yourself?”

“I sent the letter over this morning, but I’m still waiting to hear. You know that’s a long shot.” Sometimes the prosecution could do that beforehand, if the suspect agreed to it; however, it was almost always against the counsel of his attorney.
Come on, Veldon. Give us a little chat.

If she could get him to say just the right thing, it would seal up this case like a welded steel coffin. Then all Beemers everywhere could rest easier in their garages at night.

On the outside chance that Veldon spurned good legal advice, Camilla hunkered down for an afternoon of developing her question list, coming up with backdoor approaches to get him to put himself at the scene, to admit he had a longtime affinity for that make of car, to stumble into her trap of declaring his obsession with the German automaker’s finest models, the 5-series and the luxury of luxuries 7-series, which this particular stolen (and recovered) vehicle was. Yeah, that one was in the twice-as-much-money as Camilla’s own decade old 3-series.

“Come on, Camilla. Let’s go eat, let’s go eat.” Zane sang out to her, to the tune of “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain.” Geez. His baritone shout-singing would make every lawyer in the place drop their highlighters or smear ink on their legal pads. Oh, wait. They were probably all gone. A glance at the clock told her it was after eight. He sang on. And if he hadn’t sounded pretty good, she might have told him to cut it out. “Come on, my Camilla, let’s go eat. We can drive in your convertible, and eat some calamari fried, and I can tell you all about my find. About my find.” He did a soft shoe and a flourish with his arms as he ended the song.

“Wow. You’re practically the triple threat. Singing, dancing, acting.”

“Acting?” He knelt on one knee and took her by the hand, staring up into her eyes. “You think of this as mere acting?” His face morphed into anxiety-ridden sincerity. “Could a man be anything but sincere in his attentions, when faced with such a ravishing beauty as Camilla Sweeten at every turn of his head each day? I’m smitten. Smitten, I tell you!” He planted six fast kisses on the back of her hand.

“Um, there are security cameras in here.”

“Lawyers and their sexual harassment threats. Sheesh.” In a single pop, he jumped to his feet. “But seriously. I did find something great. And I refuse to show it to you before there’s food—good food, not this vending machine excuse—in my stomach.”

She had to snatch at her purse to grab it off her desk because he was pulling her away. “Where are we going?”

“Eat first, car wash later, if that’s what you’re asking.”

It wasn’t what she was asking, but her mind zipped back to the pasta he’d made a couple of weeks ago. This guy knew what good food was. She could appreciate that quality in a man. The pasta had thawed her soul toward him by at least ten degrees. They came down the stairs and headed for the lot.

Then again, this could be dangerous. More delicious food might continue the thawing process. “Hey, Zane? I appreciate the offer of dinner. You’re more than nice. But I think I’m pretty wiped out. Maybe I’ll just go home.” And skip whatever incredible meal he had planned, instead pulling a plastic film covered microwave meal from her freezer. Yeah.

“Oh, no you don’t. A deal was a deal, remember?” From her hand, he snatched her key fob and clicked it. Camilla’s car made a chirp, and its lights blinked on and off as the doors unlocked. “Whoa. That one is yours?
You
drive a Beemer. Does Falcon know about this conflict of interest?”

Camilla snatched at his hand to get her keys back. “We’ve discussed this, Zane. At length. But again, Falcon does know. And I assure you I’m still dispassionate about it.”

“Right. Clearly.” Zane held the keys over her head, too high for her to jump and reach them. Jerk tall people. Why did they persecute the short?

“I’m dialing the police. It’s going to be so embarrassing when one of our own staff attorneys on the case gets charged with BMW theft
during
the prosecution of a BMW theft case.”

“You’d never do that. It’d expose you for the conflict of interest you have and endanger your standing with Falcon. It could ruin everything. You’d never do that.” He pushed her aside then led her around to the passenger door. “I’m not the type of guy who lets my girlfriend drive me around town and out to restaurants, so just forget it.”

Girlfriend! Girlfriend?

Her head buzzed with the hum of a thousand chainsaws.

Even as she slid into the passenger seat, she opened her mouth to protest. He pressed the door closed against her argument, a solid, German engineered sound. So infuriating! She tugged her pencil skirt down. It had risen way too many inches over her knee when she got in the car. Oh, she hoped Zane hadn’t seen and thought she’d been flashing leg at him. He could accuse her of harassment right back. And knowing him, he wouldn’t miss the chance at it.

Huh. The passenger seat felt nice. Good support against her back. She sank into it. Wow, it really was nice to sit here and not have to worry about traffic or shifting while wearing platform sandals. She’d insisted on the manual transmission. It gave so much more of the driving experience. But in traffic, constant shifting became a pain—unless she wore boring shoes. And for work, she refused to wear any kind of driving moccasin. She needed the height. Short people could get overlooked or less respect in this business.

Zane buckled his belt in the driver’s seat and cranked the engine, which came on so silently to a gentle whir, he leaned in toward the dash and double checked the instruments to make sure it was on. Camilla recognized the behavior. She’d done the same thing herself when she test drove it a few months ago.

“For a ten year-old car, it sure hums softly.” He patted the dashboard—something Camilla did often—and jammed it into reverse. “Nice thing our dinner reservations are far from downtown. I’d like to open this thing up when we hit the straightaway.”

Camilla adjusted the seat and tilted back. This had been a long day. A long three weeks, actually. As far as she could muster concern at this time of day, Zane could aim the car at the Pan-American Highway and wake her up when they hit Santiago, Chile. She let her eyes drift shut.

Next thing she knew, gravel crunched under the tires. Her eyes flew open—at the same time as her heart clutched. Zane had run them off the road. Her car and her life could end wrapped around a piñon pine.

“Glad you woke up. I thought I’d have to eat your prime rib myself.”

“What? Prime rib?” She rubbed a hand up and down her cheek to wake up. “Where are we?”

“This baby can take the curves, I tell you.” He brought the car to a stop in front of a dimly lighted cabin with a wraparound porch. Pines towered over it, and a hammock hung beside a porch swing. Lanterns dangled in the windows, and theirs was the only car. In a moment, he had her door open for her, and crickets’ songs filled her ears as wood-fired grill smoke filled her nose. “They usually close at eight, but Wyatt owed me a favor.”

Camilla tottered in her platform heels over the loose gravel, stumbling once and having to grab Zane’s shoulder. Huh. It had quite a bit of substance. Dang it. She should not be noticing that. This was not a date. It was a working meal. They were here to discuss Zane’s findings of the day. And she could tell him the list of questions she’d compiled on the off chance they got to interview the suspect.

Not. A date.

“Wyatt?” Zane pushed open the wooden door to the cabin with a creak and leaned his head in. “You ready for us?”

Down a wood staircase with a thick pine trunk banister polished to a golden yellow sheen flew a burly lumberjack of a man. His full beard bristled and his plaid shirt bulged. He’d clearly swung an ax and eaten his own share of prime rib a few times over. “Well, Zane Holyoake. As I live and breathe.” He came over and gave Zane the handshake-one-arm-man-hug, ending with a slap on the back. Zane gave one in return. Then Wyatt turned to Camilla. “You must be the date he’s trying to impress. He never brings the trampy girls up here. Just the ones with class.”

Zane punched him hard in the arm. It didn’t look like it made a dent. “Shut up, Wyatt.” Ah, the fourth grader resurfaced. Camilla remembered hearing Wyatt’s name in conjunction with the meteor crater story. This guy had been a cohort on more than one of Zane’s tall tales. Perfect for the Paul Bunyan persona to be part of those. “Now, where’s that meal you been promising me?”

Why did he leave out the helping verb?
The guy’s grammar. It irritated. And yet, that was a good thing. It kept her from allowing him to get any closer than arm’s length. Because if there was one quality Camilla could never endure, it was disrespect for the law. Of grammar.