The Hot Ladies Murder Club. Ann Major

why are you so sore you lost?”

      “I’m sore about a lot of things.”

      “So am I.” Her eyes had sparked.

      Forget Kay. Concentrate on Mrs. Smith. Campbell ran a tanned hand through his jet-black hair and yawned, pretending he was bored by what Mrs. Smith was saying. Bored by her. If only he was, maybe he could concentrate on the O’Connors’ case and finish her off.

      She was tall. From the moment she’d glided into his office, he’d been riveted by her exquisite lightness of being. Something sweet and vulnerable screamed look at me, love me, please. Her every gesture—her quick, nervous smiles at Tom—hell, even the frightened glances he got both charmed and maddened him.

      A jury would be equally charmed.

      Then there was the way she couldn’t seem to catch her breath when he got too close. She was playing the role of damsel in distress with a vengeance that should have infuriated him. And yet…Her fear felt so real and palpable, he wanted to protect her.

      Damn it, he had to get her. Africa had made it clear, his ass was on the line.

      If her accent was fake, he’d bet a year’s salary her black hair came out of a bottle. The harsh color was wrong for her fair complexion, the style too severe for her narrow face. He kept eyeing the thick, glossy mass, longing to undo the cheap plastic clip.

      Hell, what were those white bits of dust that clung to her bangs? What had she been doing before she’d dashed late to his office.

      “If the O’Connors are so concerned, why aren’t they here today?” she finished in that velvet undertone that undid him.

      “They hired me to represent them.” His voice cut like ice.

      “You mean to do their dirty work?” she finished, glancing out his windows like a trapped animal.

      Damn it, Campbell felt sorry for her. Then Tom put a cautionary hand over hers, and Campbell felt a wild, really scary emotion.

      “What’s all that stuff in your hair?” Campbell growled, wanting to rip Tom’s hand away.

      “Oh!” Her eyes flew self-consciously to his. She gulped in another big breath, and he felt like the air between them sizzled.

      This was bad.

      She stirred her fingers through the mess of her purse and finally plucked out an elegant, gold-framed mirror. When she saw herself she wrinkled her nose. Quickly, she yanked at the hideous clip and shook out her long, thick hair.

      When lots of little white bits showered onto his gray carpet, she smiled, revealing deep dimples, and he felt that damn buzz again. Despite a bad haircut, she was way sexier with her hair down. She studied herself in her mirror and wrinkled her nose again.

      Campbell squirmed in his leather chair. He didn’t need this.

      “Bits of Sheetrock,” she explained airily. Lifting her triangular chin, she shot him a pious look. “I was inspecting one of the waterfront properties I represent. For mold, Mr. Campbell.”

      “Just call me Campbell.…”

      “There was a suspicious stain on the ceiling.…I wanted to be sure.…”

      She and Tom exchanged self-righteous glances.

      “My expert didn’t find any,” she said.

      Touche, Campbell thought grimly, even as some part of him cheered for her.

      Again, her hands fluttered prettily as she reclipped her hair. She didn’t wear a wedding ring. For no reason at all he longed to remove those huge glasses that hid her eyes.

      Were they dazzling blue or soft velvet brown? Or fiery black? He wanted to sweep her hair back, get a good look at her. Maybe then he’d remember where the hell he’d seen her.

      Damn it. He grabbed one of the mold photographs from his own duplicate pile and forced himself to focus on his clients and their toxic-mold problem.

      “Paul O’Connor is in the hospital barely able to breathe or think,” Campbell said.

      “I’m so sorry he’s ill.”

      You don’t give a damn about Paul and you know it.

      And yet again, her face paled, and her voice went soft with husky concern that turned Campbell to mush.

      Destroy her. Unnerve her.

      Campbell fumbled awkwardly with the disclosure sheets of the sales contract. Then he rustled through his list of questions he’d deliberately structured to entrap her.

      Somehow he had to get this smooth-talking actress to admit that she’d known all along about the mold and hadn’t disclosed it. Her shaky voice and hands meant she was highly agitated. Maybe if he got her really mad, she’d snap. He was famous for his Perry Mason moments.

      “Back to this mold situation at the O’Connors’,” he murmured in a tight, low tone. “It was an old house on the water—”

      “There was no mold.” She glanced at her watch and out the window again. “The Tylers were diligent about maintaining their home. They repaired leaks, cleaned air-conditioning ducts. Besides, we had it tested for mold.”

      “By an unreliable agent.”

      “Just because your man, whom you no doubt paid to lie…three months later—”

      Tom wagged a warning finger at his client, but she was too flushed with excitement to heed him.

      Campbell almost grinned when she attacked her own attorney.

      “Mr. Davis, I thought you were my lawyer.”

      Campbell noted that there wasn’t a hint of that lazy drawl now. Just for a second he caught a couple of syllables that sounded crisp and elite…almost foreign. East Coast? No, that cut-glass accent wasn’t American.

      “How can you defend this…this pirate?” she was saying.

      “Please, Hannah…”

      “It’s all right, Davis. I’ve been called worse.” Campbell faked a scowl.

      “A pirate…who…who cunningly plasters his handsome, ruthless face on every billboard and phone book cover his money can buy?”

      Handsome? Campbell’s perverse mind got stuck on the word.

      “He’s a fake, pretending he’s some Robin Hood defending the poor. How can you defend such a rude, crude ambulance chaser?”

      Ambulance chaser? The day of any accident, the insurance lawyers are there, lady! But do you criticize them?

      “Mr. Campbell has repeatedly called me and threatened—”

      “I was merely trying to set up an appointment for this deposition,” Campbell said in the same reasonable, sympathetic tone he used to persuade juries.

      “Don’t talk down to me! You have no right to sue me.”

      “This is America, Mrs. Smith. Texas, America. The Wild West. Anybody can sue anybody.”

      “There was no mold when I sold the O’Connors that house.”

      Campbell leaned toward her, automatically straightening his bold tie. “My clients say there was.”

      She sank lower in her chair and gasped in a breath.

      “Slimy. Greenish.” Campbell warmed to his subject as if she were a juror. “Black. Fungus. Toxic mold. Aspergillus, to be exact. Mr. O’Connor is a very sick man. Take a look at those photographs.”

      “I’m sorry if he’s sick, but Mr. O’Connor doesn’t have anything that a green poultice won’t fix,” she said softly.

      “That’s an old joke. I won’t sit here while you disparage innocent—”