A Man of Privilege. Sarah M. Anderson

to testify wasn’t throwing his hard work away, it was building his case. As long as he remembered that, he’d be fine. He needed her as a witness, and that meant he’d have to see her again.

      It was just that simple.

      Two

      The black sedan peeled out of the parking lot and took a left so sharply that Maggie thought they might have gone up on two wheels. Agent Yellow Bird kept driving like a bat out of hell, weaving around traffic and running stale yellow lights at speeds more fitting to a police chase than a ride home, all of which made one thing clear.

      Tommy was mad at her.

      A tendril of forgotten fear curled around her stomach. She hated the feeling of having done something wrong. She’d learned early that bad things happened when people got mad. When she’d been small, she had hidden under her bed, until that became the first place her uncle looked. When she got older, she crashed on whatever empty couch she could, trying to avoid home altogether. And when that failed, well, drugs had taken her away like nothing else had. Except that they’d taken away everything else, too.

      For a long time, it had been a trade-off she’d been willing to make. Not anymore. Not for the last nine years.

      Was she nervous? Oh, yes. Tommy had grown into a formidable man since she’d seen him last, and that wasn’t counting the gun he wore under his jacket. Was she going to hide and whimper and beg for mercy?

      Hell, no.

      But she wasn’t about to confront him while he took corners as if they were an insult to his manhood. She’d wait until they were on the highway, headed home through the long, flat parts of South Dakota.

      Her thoughts turned to the conversation with James Carlson, special prosecutor. She’d known when Tommy showed up on her doorstep that someone had realized who she was. She’d been expecting another fat, sweaty, greedy man like the Dishonorable Royce T. Maynard to preside over the interview. Not the handsome man with the kind eyes and sharp smile.

      Special Prosecutor Carlson had sat there with her mug shots in front of him and looked at her with something that wasn’t disapproval and wasn’t quite lust—not entirely, anyway. If she hadn’t known any better, she might have guessed that he’d looked at her with respect.

      But she did know better. She didn’t trust lawyers.

      Still, that Carlson had seemed different from the other men she’d endured in the past. For one, he’d walked a fine line between good-looking and gorgeous. Having paid several thousand dollars to get her own teeth fixed, she appreciated a good set of pearly whites. He had the kind of smile that made it clear that he—or his parents—had spent a lot of money on getting them perfect.

      For another thing, his suit fit as if it had been made for him. Maybe it had been, but she’d never had a lawyer who could afford a custom suit. The slime bag who’d given Carlson her name had always worn hideous brown suits that looked as though he’d stolen them off the clothesline of some taller, wider man. But not Carlson. His charcoal-gray suit sat on his shoulders like a second skin. She could tell that, underneath all that expensive wool, he was a well-built man. Broad shoulders, strong arms—from the waist up, he was gorgeous. She couldn’t help wondering what he looked like from the waist down.

      Maggie slammed the door on that kind of thinking. There was nothing wrong with a man being attractive. Nothing wrong with noticing an attractive man. But that’s as far as it could go. She couldn’t afford to forget what he was—a lawyer. Lawyers—and judges—used people. She knew that better than anyone, and she was done being used. As long as she remembered who he was—and who she wasn’t—she’d be fine. If she ever saw him again.

      Maybe she would. So she hadn’t been with a man in years. She’d still recognized something in his face after she’d pulled the strap of her tank top down, and she’d recognized the same something when he’d asked her if she was seeing anyone. Not quite lust, but desire. Interest, mixed with pleasant surprise—curiosity, maybe—when she’d thrown down her challenge. When she’d called Tommy a dog.

      Hence the pissed silence at the speed of sound.

      She wasn’t about to let Tommy out of her sight without getting him to tell her what he knew. “You’re mad at me.”

      “I’m not his dog.”

      “I see.” She’d known that comment would hit home. But she’d been angry. Tommy had been quiet the entire trip to Pierre, telling her nothing about where they were going or who wanted to see her. He’d earned a few hits. “What are you, then?”

      “We’re partners. A team.” His fingers kept drumming. “I arrest people, he puts them away. That’s how it works.”

      “Since you’re on his team, tell me—will I be seeing Special Prosecutor James Carlson again?” Even saying his title out loud gave her a weird feeling in the pit of her stomach.

      “Yep.”

      She couldn’t imagine anything good coming from that, but the news excited her anyway. She’d get to see that smile again. “Why does he need me? Surely Maynard left bigger and better loose ends.” That was the question that had nagged at her since Carlson had made his preposterous claim that his whole case rested on her.

      “He doesn’t need you. He’s the kind of man who has a plan for every contingency. You’re what he calls an insurance policy. He likes to have a few, just in case.”

      That struck her wrong. She was a person—a woman, damn it. For too long, she’d been a victim, a statistic—never just Maggie. She wouldn’t stand for having her hard-fought success downgraded to “backup plan.”

      “I’d give him a week, eight days tops, before he shows up. What you do with him then is up to you.”

      Maggie’s head popped up and she stared at Tommy. “What?” Because that had almost sounded like … hell, she didn’t know. A joke? Permission to shoot? Permission to … do something else? No telling. Tommy didn’t answer, so Maggie tried again. “Tell me about him.” Not because she wanted to know, but because she needed to be prepared if he was going to trek out to the house. Yes, that was a good reason—one that had nothing to do with anything above—or below—his waist. She couldn’t be interested in him because there was no way in hell she could trust him.

      “Nice guy, unless you’re on the wrong side of the law. Blue-blooded, East Coast, rich. His mother has the fortune, but his father has the power—maybe you’ve heard of him? Alexander Carlson? Used to be the secretary of defense?”

      Maggie swallowed. She was way out of her league here. Secretary of defense? Alex Carlson? Even Maggie knew who that was. That wasn’t just blue blood or rich. That was pure power. His father had launched wars, for crying out loud. Even if James had not been a lawyer she couldn’t trust, she wouldn’t dream of fantasizing about him now. He wasn’t just a lawyer. He was a somebody—and she wasn’t. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him.”

      “Carlson is just biding his time,” Tommy went on. “We’ve been building this case for about four years, and he won’t let anything sink it. He needs this victory. Going to run for office after he wins. Sooner or later—sooner, if I know him—he’ll make a run at the White House.”

      The air in Maggie’s lungs stopped moving. So she’d had a conversation with a possible future president of the United States today. And she’d told him off. That sickening feeling of having done something wrong got a lot stronger. “He’s going to win?” The case, the elections—one and the same, as far as she was concerned.

      Tommy snorted. “He’s got a perfect track record. He’ll win it one way or another.”

      That sounded ominous. How ridiculous was she to think that a man like him was looking at her with desire? A man like him had perfect women at his beck and call. Maggie was so far from perfect that she wasn’t even in the same zip code. “Do you trust him?”

      Tommy