Tara Taylor Quinn - Love By Association

Colin was grinning by that point.

“So what brings you to California?”

“I’m writing a book,” she told him. “My family is in publishing, and I want the book to be published, or not, based on its merits. I plan to submit it like anyone else would have to do and, knowing me, it’ll be easier if I’m not right there with everyone, having to make up stories about what I’m doing.

“Besides, until last week I had an office on the top floor—VP of marketing. If nothing else, that felt like a conflict of interest, though I can’t really say why. Marketing and editorial are separate entities...”

Publishing. Julie’s children’s books.

This was getting better and better.

“You’re from New York?” he asked, then said, “Publishing, and that little bit of an accent...”

“I was raised in upstate New York,” she told him. Her wineglass was still full.

“So, since you’re new here, I suppose you don’t know many people.”

“None, actually. A big black-tie charity event...if it’s anything like home, I figured this was the way to get to know them.”

He stood, almost full glass of Scotch in hand. “Will you allow me to introduce you around?”

He’d probably wake up in the morning and find out that he’d had one hell of a great dream.

“I don’t know, Colin Fairbanks,” she said, taking a step back and giving him a saucy grin. Yeah, that dream was getting better by the second. “If I’m seen with you, will it damage my reputation? For all I know, you could be Southern California society’s bad boy.”

For a brief moment, he wished he was. Because he had a feeling she’d like him that way.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Ms. Johnson. I’m the guy others don’t like because I tend to see the world in black-and-white—and aim for the white every time.”

“No shades of gray for you?” She ran her finger along the edge of her wineglass and then licked it.

He fought a very strong temptation to bring that finger to his lips but managed to simply shake his head.

“Disappointed?” he asked.

She sipped wine and studied him. “I’m not sure,” she told him. “Can I get back to you on that?”

So she expected to see him again. “Anytime,” he told her, one hand in his pocket.

His clients were probably watching him by now. Any other night, he’d have been out there with them—mingling, being seen, listening.

Appearing to enjoy himself.

Did it show that that night was the first time in a very long time that he actually was enjoying himself?

“What is it that you do?” she asked, still not moving on into the room.

“I’m an attorney. Owner of Fairbanks and Fairbanks.”

“Hotshot corporate lawyer,” she said. Her eyes might have darkened. He couldn’t be sure.

“You’ve heard of us.”

“Who travels in this circle and hasn’t?”

She had him there.

She was welcome to him anywhere.

CHAPTER THREE

SHE WAS OVERDOING IT. She’d never be able to pull off the femme fatale flirtatiousness on a longer-term basis. Chantel took the sexy steps she’d practiced across the room at Colin Fairbanks’s side, reminding herself that she had to be patient. To slow down. She was in this for the long haul.

As long as it took to build a strong enough case against James Morrison. Or to convince herself that, while the man had admitted to beating his little brother to death with a baseball bat, he really wasn’t a wife and family beater.

She smiled, said hello and shook hands as Colin introduced her around. She’d seen pictures of the Morrisons but had yet to see either of them that night. She hoped Leslie’s absence didn’t mean she had new bruises that she couldn’t bring out in public.

Always the cop, Chantel couldn’t ever lose her awareness of the darker side of life. Not even in the midst of a life as beautiful as that glitzy ballroom with its linen chair covers and tablecloths, real crystal glasses and more diamonds than she’d ever seen in one place. The flower arrangements were real. She could smell the roses as she passed.

And felt the heat as Colin’s tuxedoed arm brushed against the skin left bare by her halter-top gown.

“How long have you been in town?” he asked as they left a group of investors in conversation with a lawyer Colin had just discreetly motioned over.

“A week,” she told him. Wayne had gone over her story with her umpteen times. She’d delivered it without a hitch. He’d come up with the idea of her living in a hotel. It was easy enough for her to get picked up and dropped off from a hotel lobby. To take the hotel’s limousine service to functions and then to drive home in her older model Mustang to her small one-bedroom apartment across from the beach.

An added benefit to the plan was that Wayne had done a favor for the night manager at the hotel. If anyone asked about her using the hotel’s car service, or asked about her hanging around, she’d have an alibi.

The writing...that had been her stroke of genius. A job she could “do” without anyone ever seeing her. She had a maternal aunt by marriage whose family was in the publishing business. And their name was Johnson.

She saw Commissioner Reynolds tipping glasses with another man almost straight ahead of them, close enough that she heard their laughter. Colin was going to lead her right to them.

An awkward moment she’d prefer to avoid...

“I’m getting a little warm. Do you mind if we step outside?” she asked, raising her glass to her lips at the same time to hide any telltale twinge at the side of her mouth.

“Of course.” Colin sounded as pleased as she felt relieved; he took a right and led her to a pair of glass double doors that led to a balcony.

Thankfully, there were heaters out there. She’d freeze her tail off in this gown on what had turned out to be a forty-degree January night. Wishing she hadn’t left the shawl she’d bought on her bed at home, she allowed herself to be led outdoors.

Colin went for the balcony rail. She could hear the ocean in the distance but got as close to the nearest heater as she could manage.

“I can tell you’re from New York,” he said, smiling down at her in a way that she found more than a little distracting.

While she’d had more than her share of admirers in her more than three decades of living, Chantel didn’t usually find herself being viewed with tenderness.

She was a decorated cop. The men she worked with knew that. They respected her abilities to protect them as well as they’d protect one another.

She felt naked against the tiny white glittering lights strung around a couple of potted trees on either side of them.

“My accent gives me away every time,” she said, trying to tighten her mouth a little bit more around the words—instilling as much of her accented native tongue as she could. A sound she’d worked years to lose when, with her best friend, she’d migrated from upstate New York to LA right out of high school.

Neither of them had ever looked back.

“It’s not just your accent,” he told her. “Look around you.”

She did. There were three older men, all in matching monkey suits, to her right, seeming to be hiding out from the activities going on around them. Another two, farther away, to their left, were smoking.

“I don’t get it,” she told her companion. What about these guys gave her away as being from New York?

“There are no women out here. Even with the heaters, it’s far too cold. You’re obviously acclimated to colder weather.”

Nope. But she had tough skin.

She’d missed seeing herself as the “only woman.” Probably because she was used to being the only female among men.

She was perfectly comfortable that way, but felt like she was quickly losing control of her cover.