For The Defense. M.J. Rodgers

bet.

      Hell, the majority of men and women he knew had trouble committing to the same cell phone carrier for six months, much less another person for a lifetime.

      He flicked the black-tinted contact lenses out of his eyes and carefully placed them in their protective case. Next, he slipped the false, blackened teeth out of his mouth and stowed them away.

      Since joining his family’s private investigation firm the year before, he’d become an expert at surveillance. His theatrical background enabled him to blend into any crowd, much to the dismay of the errant husbands and wives he’d caught on videotape. Problem was, he’d gotten so good at tracking them, cheating-spouse cases had become his specialty.

      Thank God this was his last one.

      Yanking the too-tight boots off his feet, he threw them in the back seat and eased his aching toes into loafers. He slipped his watch back onto his wrist and combed his hair with his fingers.

      His father had agreed that Jack had proved his mettle and was ready to take on the meaty stuff. Next Monday he’d tackle his first criminal case—a nice, clean murder.

      Amazing how refreshingly wholesome murder could sound after the sordidness of marital deception.

      Jack turned his cell phone back on and checked the messages.

      His twin had called a couple of hours before. Doubtful he’d still be warming a barstool at their favorite watering hole. Still, some of the regular Friday-night crowd would definitely be milling around, including, in all likelihood, an unattached female eager to engage in some wrestling under the sheets.

      All the more reason Jack wouldn’t go there. He wasn’t interested in women who frequented bars.

      When Jack saw his second message was from Heather, he smiled. She was an actress he’d worked with, someone who wouldn’t dream of letting herself be picked up in a bar. Being with a woman who valued herself made the exchange of physical pleasure so much more enjoyable.

      Jack punched her number on his speed dial, a smile on his lips. She’d been shooting a movie in Canada for the past six months. Getting reacquainted was going to be fun.

      Heather’s voice greeted him with warm enthusiasm. “Jack, I’m so glad you called. I have great news!”

      She’d gotten that new hot tub installed?

      “I’m getting married!”

      Damn. All Jack’s hot tub fantasies swirled down the drain.

      As Heather’s excited voice related all the scintillating details of the whirlwind courtship with her new co-star, Jack diligently deleted her name and number from his cell phone list.

      He’d give the marriage ten months, tops.

      Jack had already selected another candidate for late-night company by the time Heather had finished her tale. Wishing her well, he released the connection and punched in the next number.

      Thankfully, his address book still listed a dozen or so women who knew their demanding careers didn’t give them time to think about marriage.

      DIANA KNEW she didn’t have time to think about marriage with everything else going on in her busy life, but she couldn’t help herself. The whole idea was so mind-boggling.

      When her mother had announced her upcoming nuptials the week before, her face had positively glowed. The groom-to-be had looked pretty happy, too. Ray Villareal was not as handsome as Diana’s father had been. He was something better. He was in love with her mother.

      Because of that, Diana was ready to forgive him for both his obnoxious stepson and for making her move.

      But damn, she hated moving. She had neither the focus nor energy for the chore. Connie Pearce’s life was in her hands. Guilt poured through her when she even thought about taking time to—

      “Mason, are you listening?” Vincent Kozen, one of the two senior partners at the law firm, demanded from the other side of the conference table.

      The insipid argument had been droning on for more than an hour. Diana’s only hope of staying awake had been to tune out. Snapping back to attention, she stopped doodling on her pad and raised her eyes to Vincent.

      “To every word,” she lied, straight-faced.

      Replaying her set-to-automatic mental tape, she retrieved the rapidly fading sentences. Yep, the topic was still Vincent’s new, incredibly complicated time-allocation study, which would see if the law firm’s staff was tracking case expenditures correctly.

      Just another one of those useless projects that was so dear to Vincent’s little number-crunching heart.

      “If you’ve been listening, Mason,” Vincent challenged in his typically high and condescending tone, “then by all means tell us how you would handle the matter.”

      He folded his hands in front of him and glared at her. She knew he was looking for a target. He always seethed when one of his “wonderful” time-tracking ideas met with dissention, as this latest had.

      Diana plastered a look of concern on her face. “Although I recognize that the contributions from everyone at this table have been both thoughtful and insightful,” she said, intent on not offending anyone who actually was naïve enough to express their real opinion, “I do believe that the wisest course would be to heed your considerable expertise in this area.”

      Bushy gray eyebrows rose in surprise as Vincent shifted his bony butt in the chair. “In the future, Mason, don’t make me have to prod you,” he said in a tone still annoying but far less combative. “I want to hear everyone’s opinion.”

      Like hell he did. Vincent Kozen didn’t care what she or anyone else at the law firm thought, unless that person was agreeing with him. He and his brother, Ronald, were very similar in that regard.

      Still, Diana had learned when to fight, when to surrender and when to walk away. This morning’s subject required a waving, white flag and nothing else.

      Vincent pontificated for another ten excruciating minutes on his open-mindedness before the meeting finally came to a close. A sigh of collective relief wafted through the air as the staff members stood and gathered their belongings.

      One of the midlevel associates at the firm, Leroy Ripp, sent Diana a look of open disdain as he shuffled toward the door.

      “Nice going, Mason,” he said, his whisper hot with ill humor. “Now we have to waste fifteen minutes out of every hour filling out one of his idiotic forms.”

      She didn’t answer Leroy. No point. Whenever Leroy got angry at anything, he ended up angry at everything. Vincent had already made his decision to institute the new time-tracking procedure. Nothing she nor anyone else had said in this meeting would have affected the outcome.

      As Diana headed toward the door of the conference room, Gail Loftin, another one of her colleagues, fell into step beside her.

      “Was Leroy accusing you of crossing over to the Dark Side?” Gail asked, a big grin on her face.

      Diana chuckled.

      She’d known Leroy for three years, Gail for nine months. All the words in the world wouldn’t get a point across to Leroy. Gail often understood without any.

      “What’s gotten Leroy in such a foul mood these days?” Diana asked.

      “Our favorite prosecutor creamed him in court last week.”

      “Ah.” Diana knew Gail meant Silver Valley’s thoroughly detestable Chief Prosecutor, George Staker. Although she’d never classify Leroy as a friend, at this moment she felt for him.

      “Hard not to take it personally sometimes,” Diana said. “At least three of our other attorneys have lost cases to Staker recently. Getting to be a damn epidemic.”

      “Except Leroy keeps insisting that Staker knew things he shouldn’t have when they