Sarah Anderson - A Man of Privilege

“So crushing.” She giggled like a preteen girl. He half expected her to break into the “K-I-S-S-I-N-G” song from his playground days. “You’re welcome to bring a guest, you know. And get back to me on that.”

What, was she suggesting he bring Maggie as a date? That would be a clear violation of the rules, and there was no way James was going to make such a rookie, public mistake. He couldn’t imagine a quicker way to derail all he had worked for.

Business first. He had to remember that. Nanette Lincoln . He scrawled out the name as he hung up the phone and then stared at it. There was only one possibility, really.

Maggie Eagle Heart wasn’t the only reformed criminal living in that house.

James pulled into an empty spot in front of Rosebud’s office. Next to Rosebud’s Audi was a Jeep wagon covered with equal parts rust and mud. Maggie was here. He tried to tell himself that he was only excited because this was another piece of his case. But what was the point of lying? He was looking forward to seeing her again. The two weeks since he’d been out to her house had seemed longer than normal.

Clark was waiting with a cup of coffee. “You can go into the conference room, Mr. Carlson. The court reporter is here. They’ll be in momentarily.”

James took his seat at the base of the table and got focused. He had a job to do today, and that job was getting a complete deposition from Maggie Eagle Heart. Nothing more and nothing less.

The door swung open, and Rosebud stepped into the room. “Morning, James,” she said with a smile that verged on coy. Before James could process what that smile could mean, Rosebud stepped to the side and Maggie entered the room.

For one excruciating second, James forgot how to breathe. He’d seen her looking sweetly pretty and covered in grime. He’d liked her both ways, but he’d never dreamed she could be this stunning.

She wore a cream-colored suit with silky piping and a ruffle at the bottom of the jacket. The skirt was pencil thin, clinging to her hips like an old lover. Her toes—with nails painted a siren-red—were peeping out of soft pink shoes that matched the top underneath the jacket. Her hair was sleek and smooth, not a wisp out of place, and her makeup was ready-for-a-close-up done. Someone had spent a lot of time polishing this woman.

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