Ann Major - The Hot Ladies Murder Club

Low.

“I…I’ve read things about you, Mr. Campbell,” she whispered, rallying.

“Such as, Mrs. Smith?”

“You stole money, ruined your best friend’s company, and your brokenhearted wife divorced you.”

“Ah, my wife…” Icy despair seeped through Campbell. He didn’t give a damn about his wife. Still, he had to clench his hand into a fist to hold on to his control.

“And I don’t blame her one bit.”

“So, you’ve researched me—”

“She got your mansion in River Oaks—”

As if that was what had made him bitter and filled him with hate.…

He remembered the way Carol had curled against his body every night and felt sweet and soft and warm during those first months of marriage.

His black eyes narrowed. He’d believed her when she’d told him she loved him. He’d adored her, worshiped her and believed in her. For the first time in his life, he’d almost felt…human.

“You had to leave Houston because you’re so corrupt people there despise you. Your best friend’s wife killed herself because of—”

Campbell’s face turned to stone. His mouth tasted like ashes. “Is that so? Do go on.”

“You…why, you’re such a terrible father your son won’t have anything to do with you.”

His son. Every nerve in his body buzzed.

“And you’re such a good mother,” he murmured so cuttingly she gulped in a breath.

“The state even tried to disbar you because you are such a bad lawyer. You…you solicited clients improperly after that awful two-plane collision in east Texas where those little children—”

“You don’t know a damn thing about me!” he shouted, banging his fist on his desk. “I’m not on trial. I’m deposing you.”

Davis stared wide-eyed. It was Campbell’s turn to gulp in a savage breath. If it were the last thing he did, Campbell had to get control of this exchange and finish off her and her wimp of an attorney once and for all.

“One corrupt judge tried to have me disbarred. And failed, Mrs. Smith. Just as you will fail, if you fight me with these ridiculous, rigged photographs.” Getting up, he tore her pictures in two.

She stood up, too. She was tall, but he was taller. When she shuddered, he realized his massive size intimidated her. Good. Using his body as a weapon, he moved closer.

“I—I’ve got more,” she whispered, backing away from him.

“So do I,” he thundered.

“And…and they aren’t rigged. I’m not like you. I wouldn’t rig—” She tore his pictures into zillions of pieces and tossed them onto his rug. She was almost to the door. “Goodbye, Mr. Campbell.”

“I’m not finished with you yet. You think I don’t know about you? Well, I do. I’ve done my research, too!”

She paled.

“Everything about you is a damned lie, Mrs. Smith.” He backed her against the door. “Where the hell is Mr. Smith? Or is there a Mr. Smith? What’s your real name, honey?”

“Please…I—I’m sorry.…I shouldn’t have said…any of those horrible personal things. I—I was upset.”

Her apology seemed sincere. She was white and shaking, cowering from him, but he was too furious now to care.

“Too bad you got personal.” His mouth thinned. “I intend to win this, Mrs. Smith.” He had to win this. Africa, the ruthless son of a bitch had said so. “Now I’m more determined than ever to expose you.”

He ripped her sunglasses off.

Her eyes were blue. Huge vivid irises were ringed with inky black lashes. She looked young and vulnerable and very scared—of him.

“Who are you really?” he rasped.

“You’re the last man I’d ever tell,” she whispered.

Spunk. He liked her spunk. And those thighs she had—She’d looked so loving in that picture.

Relationships. He was no damn good at relationships. And even if he was, they were off to a bad start.

With a shaking hand she grabbed her glasses and jammed them clumsily back onto her narrow, white face. “Please…Just let me go.…”

When he grabbed her hand, it was as cold as ice. With his huge body, he drew her toward him and blocked the door.

“What are you so afraid of…besides me?” he whispered.

She gave a little cry and yanked herself loose.

He had the strangest compulsion to reach for her, but he knew that would only scare her more. With a curt nod, he stepped aside.

As if she considered him some sort of devil, she crossed herself and ran.

Campbell sank back into his chair exhausted. He loosened his collar and his bright yellow tie.

When Campbell heard Tom reassuring her outside in the hall, his mood blackened and he swiped his arm across his desk, knocking all the papers and files that dealt with the O’Connor lawsuit onto the floor.

Maybe she was a liar, but the O’Connors had lied to him, too. Clients had a bad habit of telling their lawyers only one side of a story—their side.

He opened a lower desk drawer and took out the bottle of Glenlivet he kept hidden there. Hating himself, he took a quick pull. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He kept seeing that picture of her. She’d been smiling at that kid so sweetly, and he couldn’t forget her thighs.

He’d better forget them. His job was to search and destroy—to expose Mrs. Smith; to do whatever he had to do to hurt her, to win for the O’Connors.

The thought of hurting so much as a single dyed hair on her inky head caused a sick, queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Who the hell was she?

Whoever she was, it was his job to find out and destroy her.

He rapped his fingers on his desk. With some difficulty, he squashed his guilt and dialed Chuck.

The detective picked up on the fourth ring and sounded grumpy and half stoned. “Yeah—”

“How’s it going?” Campbell began, really cringing now at the thought of siccing his old pal, the Charger, on the frightened Mrs. Smith.

Chuck groaned or, rather, bellowed in the middle of a yawn and some other noisy, repulsive body function, “What the hell time is it, anyway?”

“What the hell’s wrong with you? I know not to call you till noon—”

“Ooh…” Chuck paused. “Bad night.” Another groan that pierced Campbell’s eardrum. “Hangover. Vicious little hammers pounding in my brain. Not to mention—”

“What’d you do—”

“Got into a little…er…altercation.…” The Charger let the statement hang.

“You got drunk again and picked a fight—”

“No, man, this bastard insulted my bike. I took serious issue. Nobody says shit like that about the Charger’s bike. The ape was wearing steel-toed boots, and he had more friends than I did. They had chains. Every muscle in my body feels like he kicked it. I’ve gotta black eye that’s as purple as a plum and a tooth that’s hanging by a pink thread.”

“Your big mouth is going to be the end of you yet.” Campbell talked tough, but he felt affection. “Got something I want you to check out. A lady.” He told him everything he knew about Hannah Smith. He finished by saying he’d have Muriel fax key information from her file.

“What’s she done?”

“Just find out who she really is—ASAP. And no rough stuff.”

Chuck was six feet four inches, three hundred pounds of flab and muscle. Just a glance at the Charger, and the average Joe Blow thought—thug, if not worse things. He had massive arms, shoulder-length red hair, a gold loop in his right ear and a beer belly with a death head tattooed on it. He rode a Harley, which was as immaculate as he was unkempt. Not that he was as tough as he looked.

The Charger had strong convictions, which got stronger when he was drunk and forgot he was a coward. He’d been on the wrong side of trouble a time or two. Campbell had bailed him out more times than he could count. Nevertheless, after years of brawling, the Charger had found a niche of sorts. He was a top-notch detective and a whiz on the computer, not that he let on to any of his biker buddies.