A Defender's Heart. Tara Taylor Quinn

Heather, instead.

      Cedar-Jones listed a couple of other cases, and Cedar began to see the link. They’d all been seemingly definite convictions—mostly white-collar crime—and even with digital trails, he’d managed to pull a rabbit out of the hat every time, and his clients had walked free.

      He saw something else, as well. All those years, when he’d called Cedar-Jones after every case...his father had been listening to his voice mails.

      He sat there, half listening, knowing without a doubt that he’d give his father the affirmative he was after. And that whatever the old man had to say about the case wouldn’t matter nearly as much as Cedar doing his own digging.

      What mattered right now was that, when his famous father had finally acknowledged him, he could give him exactly what he needed.

      For the first time in his life, he felt...good enough.

      Complete.

      Holy hell!

      * * *

      CHARLES HAD INVITED another couple to dinner. A friend of his, Rebecca, from college, who’d been in LA for a church conference and had an unexpected free evening. And her husband, Anthony, who loved to play golf as much as Charles did. They were a thoroughly enjoyable couple. Becky was a dentist, too, and Anthony a chiropractor. They had two teenage children and a lovely home in Chicago and invited Heather and Charles to visit them the following summer—promising to take them out on their boat, which was docked at their property on Lake Michigan. And they insisted on getting an invitation to the wedding, too.

      The bottle of wine, and the next one, disappeared quickly, but they ate inside, in Charles’s formal dining room, not out on the deck. No view of the ocean. And Heather helped with the cooking, preparing the salad and side dishes, while Charles entertained his friends and grilled the steaks on the grill out on the deck. She was at home in his kitchen, enjoyed her time there, which was why she offered to take care of the dishes while Charles and Becky and Tony continued to chat. They were talking about a couple of bands they all used to like, music she’d heard of, but to which she’d never really related. Turned out that Tony and Charles, who hadn’t known each other before that evening, had both been to more than a few of the same bands’ concerts during their college years. Heather had barely been born.

      She tried to follow the conversation as she rinsed dishes and loaded the dishwasher, cleaned the pans she knew Charles always did by hand and wiped down all the counters. It was a struggle, though. Her mind kept wandering, just as it had all night long, even when the conversation going on around her had been engaging.

      Before she went home that night—and she definitely planned to go home, which would be another issue, since Charles was expecting her to stay—she had to tell the man she loved that she couldn’t be engaged to him. Yet. He was going to think she was some kind of kook. Or worse, that she still had a thing for Cedar.

      Which she didn’t. She scrubbed hard at a spot on the frying pan—until she noticed that she was leaving slight scars on the bottom of the pan. The only true feelings Cedar raised in her were negative ones. Left over from the trauma he’d put her through.

      The trauma she’d allowed herself to fall into.

      But even if Charles didn’t worry about Cedar, even if he took her conversation for what it was, it was going to be difficult for him. Including on the most surface level—they’d just announced their engagement in a big, celebratory way to everyone he considered a friend.

      He wouldn’t be wrong to feel upset with her for not realizing, a couple of days sooner, that she wasn’t ready to marry anyone.

      Yet.

      That yet kept surfacing. Maybe if she led with that part, her news wouldn’t be so horrible.

      “Are you sure I can’t help you with anything?” Becky was back from the restroom, where Heather had directed her minutes before. It was the third time Becky had offered assistance.

      “Nope, all done here,” Heather smiled, hung the cloth she’d just used to wipe out the sink and turned back toward the dining room.

      The last thing she needed was girl talk. Unless it was with one of her girls, and she wasn’t even up for that at the moment.

      * * *

      DEAN DISALVO, his father’s friend, had a lot of money. He offered a sizable chunk to Cedar, who wasn’t taking it. He’d promised himself he was done working as a lawyer, at least for a while. Maybe forever. He was done selling his soul. Done taking money for a job that had controlled him to the point that he’d sacrificed his conscience to succeed. He was helping his father. Period.

      About five minutes into their conversation Monday night, DiSalvo finally got that Cedar meant what he said—that he wasn’t in it for the money.

      His father never came up. Whether Cedar-Jones had mentioned anything to DiSalvo, other than the name of a lawyer, Cedar didn’t know. If DiSalvo wondered about the name likeness he didn’t say. DiSalvo could think what he liked about why a seemingly high-powered attorney would work for free. Cedar really wasn’t interested in what the man thought.

      The case interested him, though. Cedar-Jones was right. An intricate trail of money-making deals had veered off course, and DiSalvo was being framed. Or he said he was. They always said they were. Usually they weren’t as innocent as they claimed, but there were ways to make them look as though they were. Cedar knew that firsthand. And knew, too, about the people whose palms could be greased, by a lawyer or the accused, to make things disappear. And people who’d roll over to keep themselves out of hotter water. It was exactly the kind of case that used to make Cedar salivate. After a quick shower and a ham-and-mustard sandwich, he sat out on his deck, with the ocean in the distance, a glass of milk in hand, his laptop on the table in front of him and his body alive in a way it hadn’t been in too many months.

      DiSalvo had sent a shitload of files. Cedar wasn’t going to bed until he’d perused every single one of them.

      And maybe not even then.

      His father had called on him.

      He had work to do.

      And a job site to be at in the morning.

      Good thing he was used to getting by on minimal sleep.

      * * *

      HEATHER STOOD AT Charles’s side, a slight step behind him, as they waved goodbye to his friends. Could anyone tell her palms were wet?

      Cedar would have known from the arm across her midsection that she was holding back. Holding in. That something was bothering her.

      She dropped her arm. Kept waving. Concentrated on the smile on her face. And was caught unawares as Charles turned around and kissed her deeply, his tongue in her mouth.

      “Thank you,” he said, as soon as he lifted his head. “I know this wasn’t the evening we planned, but it was perfect in a different kind of way.”

      Perfect wasn’t even close to a word she’d have used, but then she’d known what was coming and was sure that had clouded what might otherwise have been a wonderful time.

      All except for the conversation about bands, maybe.

      “They’re nice people,” she said, stepping away from Charles—wanting another glass of wine, which would require opening a third bottle. Which they had.

      Was it too late for him to go along with their original plan of wine on the deck?

      “Becky’s a sweetheart,” Charles was saying, following her into the kitchen. “You really liked her?”

      Hovering near the wine cooler, Heather smiled at him. “I did. Truly.”

      “So you’d be up for going to Chicago to see them?”

      She imagined Charles and her together, but not engaged, and smiled again. “Of course.”

      It was awkward, just standing