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Eoghan O’Rourke.
I hate him more than I hate Daniel.
Yet here I am with my face stuck up against his office’s sidelight window, practically licking the glass over the gorgeous mobster.
When bodies move toward the door, I spin and make my way to the courtroom.
Inside, I play dumb, as if I didn’t see the defendant and his hot-shot lawyer with the Director.
Head held high, I strut to the prosecutor’s table.
I offer the investigators on this case a brief smile but skip speaking with them. When they learned Cormac broke out of a rehab facility in Malibu, they high-fived over pints that we would get a solid conviction.
Some high-priced lawyer from California had flown in and negotiated the remand earlier this month. I showed leniency toward a defendant with an addiction.
I know something about addiction. My half-brother is addicted to power.
Without seeing Eoghan, I feel his presence in the courtroom. The air around me rearranges into something charged and electric. His cologne wraps around me, and my heart rams against my ribs.
Eoghan O’Rourke is breathtakingly gorgeous with rumpled light brown hair and sky-blue eyes. From the small glimpses I saw, he’s nothing short of God-like.
I silently cross myself for breaking the commandments. Good ole number one.
As a mob lawyer, Eoghan O’Rourke’s soul is stained in blood. If not directly, then indirectly through the criminals he’s helped.
Here I am, a good Irish-Catholic girl trying to beat him at his own game.
And failing.
The judge enters the courtroom from her chambers, and I stand, pushing everything else out of my mind except this crucial case.
A burning sensation batters my senses. I glance to my left to see Eoghan’s eyes on me. His expressionless lips form a straight slash while he stares at me.
When the wooden gate that separates the observers and reporters whines, I drag my gaze away even though everything inside me screams to keep staring into those remarkable blue eyes.
“Diamond,” Director Vance’s metallic voice creeps across my shoulder.
“Yes, sir?” I give my brother a hard, serious look even though I’m filled with dread.
“Dismiss this piece of shit case,” he whispers into my ear.
I absorb his order as the judge’s eyes bear down on me. A judge, who is supposed to be impartial and unbiased.
Let’s face it, in Las Vegas, everyone is in someone’s pocket.
Or bed.
Everyone but me.
Glancing down at the two billfolds in my grasp, I ask softly, “Which case? The Ana Michaels or—”
“Both.”
I could nail my career shut in a coffin by refusing. The defense will then make a motion to dismiss and there will be more hearings. But I shiver at what will happen to me when I get back to my office later.
The judge gives her usual opening instructions, and with every passing second, my pride and confidence drain from me.
Facing the judge, I listen to the charges against Cormac O’Rourke and his girlfriend, Ana Michaels, who’s out on bail and God-knows-where. It’s an embarrassment of epic proportions that I’m about to dismiss these cases when I hold a wealth of evidence against the defendants.
