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Authors: Naomi Chase

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“I’m all out of condoms,” he lied.
“That’s okay. I’ve been on the pill now for two weeks, so we should be good. Besides, you weren’t worried about not using protection when you went commando last week.”
“That was last week,” Brandon said, exasperation sharpening his voice.
Cynthia tensed against him, then slowly lifted her head and searched his face. “What’s going on, Brandon?”
“What’s going on,” he said with forced patience as he lifted her off his lap and set her on her feet, “is that I was in the middle of an important conversation with a prospective client when you came barging in here. I’d like to resume that conversation before Mr. Humphrey decides to take his business elsewhere. So as much as I’d love to let you have your way with me, I’m gonna have to request a rain check. You feel me?”
Cynthia pouted, smoothing her skirt. “Yeah, I feel you. Not where I
want
to feel you, but—”
Brandon laughed. “Later, I promise.”
“It’ll have to be
much
later. I’m spending the night at my aunt and uncle’s house, remember?”
Brandon eyed her blankly. “You are?”
Cynthia shot him an exasperated look. “Hello? Tomorrow is Lynn’s wedding. I’m her maid of honor, remember? She wanted all of her bridesmaids to spend the night so we can all get our hair and nails done at the same time, then get dressed together for the ceremony.” She shook her head at Brandon. “I hope you won’t forget what time the wedding starts tomorrow afternoon.”
“How could I?” he countered wryly. “You’ve been reminding me for the past three weeks, you added the date and time to my BlackBerry, and you taped the invitation to the bathroom mirror this morning.”
Cynthia grinned unabashedly. “Just covering all my bases.”
“Umm-hmm.” Brandon reached for the phone, signaling that the conversation was over. “Have a good time at Lynn’s.”
“Oh, I will.” Cynthia smirked. “We’ll probably hit the strip club since the fellas will be face deep in tits and asses at the bachelor party tonight.”
The bachelor party she’d begged Brandon not to attend, he mused.
“That’s cool,” he said easily. “Make sure you take plenty of singles to tip the dancers.”
She gaped at him incredulously. “You mean you don’t mind that the girls and I will be hanging out at a strip club? You don’t care that a bunch of buff, oily guys will be gyrating all over me and shaking their dicks in my face?”
“Nope. ’Cause we both know the only dick you wanna ride is right here.”
Cynthia shook her head at him. “You really think you’re the shit, don’t you?”
“Nah, baby. That’s
your
job.”
Sputtering with angry indignation, she spun on her heel and marched away from his desk. When she reached the door, she paused and glanced back at him, her eyes glinting with challenge. “Just remember what I said, Brandon. I have options.”
“No doubt.” He paused. “And that goes both ways.”
Their stares locked across the room.
After several tense moments, Cynthia turned and stormed out, leaving in much the same manner that she’d arrived.
Chapter 17
Fiona
Fiona’s pulse was pounding as she crept stealthily through the old cemetery.
As she walked, she shone the beam of her flashlight on the gray marble tombstones around her, illuminating the names of the departed souls whose ghostly voices whispered to her as she passed.
When she reached the tombstone she’d been looking for, she set down the flashlight and reached inside her jacket, removing the bottle of Patrón she’d picked up on her way to the cemetery.
Her hands trembled as she uncorked the bottle and took a long swig of tequila, needing liquid courage for what she was about to do.
She’d come to the graveyard to make atonement, though she knew that confessing her sins to a cold headstone couldn’t begin to absolve her of what she’d done.
But it was a start. Because ever since that unspeakable night when her life had changed forever, she hadn’t dared utter the truth to anyone.
She was guilty.
Guilty of deception.
Guilty of murder.
Guilty.
And she’d gotten away with it because no one had suspected her. She’d kept her silence, and she’d allowed others to believe that someone else was responsible.
After all this time, the least she could do was unburden herself to the victim of her treachery.
Drawing a deep, shaky breath, Fiona stared down at the tombstone she’d been seeing in her nightmares since that harrowing night.
“Hello.” Her voice was as thready as her pulse. “I know I’m probably the last person you wanna see at your final resting place, but I had to come. It ... it was time.”
She paused to collect her fragmented thoughts.
“I’ve never stopped thinking about you. But it’s been even more intense ever since Tamia got out of prison. I guess because seeing her reminds me of you.”
She swallowed tightly as tears crept into her eyes. “You have to know that I never meant for you to get hurt. But you were going to—”
The sudden snap of a twig made her whirl around, heart lodged in her throat.
Her eyes scanned the darkness, the gray tombstones taking on ghostly shapes in the moonlight.
“Who’s there?” she whispered sharply.
Though she saw nothing, she swore she could feel a pair of sinister eyes watching her.
A chill ran through her. “Is someone there?”
Silence.
As a clammy sweat broke out on her skin, she took an unsteady swig of tequila and cautiously turned back to the headstone, which had now taken on the same eerie glow as the others.
She swallowed hard, knowing that she shouldn’t stay there much longer.
“Everyone who knew and loved you misses you so much. If I could bring you back, I would. But I can’t, and for that I am
truly
sorry.”
Fiona took one last sip of the Patrón, then poured the contents of the bottle across the foot of the tombstone with the solemnity of a tribesman observing a sacred ritual.
When she’d finished, she dropped the empty bottle on the ground and sank to her knees. Slowly she reached up and lovingly traced her fingers over the inscription etched into the cold, gray marble.
ESTHER VIOLA COPELAND
Beloved wife, mother, grandmother, and faithful servant of God
“I’m sorry, Mama Esther,” Fiona whispered, tears rolling down her face and seeping into the corners of her mouth. “I’m sorry I got you killed.”
Chapter 18
Brandon
“Mort Chernoff tells me that you’ve been making enemies at the firm.”
Brandon stood with his arms folded and his feet braced apart, watching through mirrored sunglasses as his father moved into position behind a white golf ball teed up in front of him.
“I have no idea what Mort’s talking about,” Brandon drawled.
Bernard chuckled, then swung the iron club with an expert flip of his wrist. He and Brandon watched as the ball sailed through the air before bouncing three hundred yards down onto the meticulously landscaped grounds.
It was Saturday morning. After meeting for breakfast at the River Oaks Country Club, father and son had headed to the private golf range so that Bernard could hit some practice balls for an upcoming charity golf tournament that he was headlining. Of course, everyone knew that the lieutenant governor needed no practice. He, like his father and grandfather before him, was an excellent golfer whose single-digit handicap made him the envy of his peers.
Though it was expected of him, Brandon had yet to acquire a taste for golf. His preference for basketball was an ongoing source of frustration for his father, who subscribed to the old cliché of “swinging one’s way to power.” As he often lectured Brandon and Beau, “Deals are made on golf courses, not basketball courts.”
After hitting another ball, Bernard sent Brandon an amused glance. “So you
didn’t
make a complete ass of Russ Sutcliffe during the partners’ meeting yesterday?”
“No, sir,” Brandon said lazily. “Russ did that all on his own.”
Bernard laughed uproariously. “Going toe-to-toe with the firm’s biggest racist,” he declared with affectionate pride. “That’s my boy.”
Brandon smiled wryly. “Now that I’ve made partner, I suppose it’s too much to expect that Mort Chernoff will stop reporting my every move to you.”
Bernard guffawed. “Come on, now. Mort and I go way back. We were playing golf together when you were still in diapers. Of course he takes a personal interest in you. You’re like a son to him. Besides”—Bernard sent another ball soaring through the air—“it’s not
my
fault that an old friend of mine happens to be one of the founding partners of the firm you chose to lend your talents to.”
Brandon snorted. “Considering how many people you know, Dad, I’m sure that would have been the case at
any
firm I went to work for.”
Bernard grinned unabashedly.
He was a tall, handsome man with smooth, dark skin and graying temples that he wore as debonairly as an Armani tux. Already one of the most powerful men in Texas, he was fast becoming a rising star on the national political scene, thanks in no small part to his friendship with President Obama. The president was expected to campaign on Bernard’s behalf. In exchange, Bernard had promised to do everything in his power to deliver his conservative state to Obama during the next presidential election. It didn’t matter that no Democrat had won the Lone Star State since 1976. When Bernard Chambers made a promise, absolutely no one doubted his word.
“As much as I enjoyed hearing about how you handed Sutcliffe’s ass to him,” Bernard drawled, “I must confess that I was surprised at the particular reason.”
Here we go
, Brandon thought resignedly. He’d been waiting all morning for his father to broach the subject of Tamia.
“Would you care to tell me why you hired that girl to be your assistant?” It wasn’t a request, and Brandon knew it.
He shrugged, and gave the same explanation he’d been parroting since yesterday. “Tamia needs a job, and I need an assistant.”
His father let out a sharp bark of laughter, wagging his head at Brandon. “Look at me, son. Do I look like I was born yesterday? We both know damn well why you hired Tamia, and it’s got nothing to do with her needing a job.”
Brandon couldn’t deny it.
“You’re trying to have your cake and eat it, too,” Bernard said knowingly. “But I’m here to tell you that it doesn’t work that way. And, quite frankly, after everything Tamia put you through, I can’t understand why you’d even
want
it to work.”
Brandon heaved a weary sigh. “Can we talk about something else? I’m bored with this topic.”
“Not bored enough, apparently.” Bernard hit another ball, his golf club slicing through the air with a soft
whish!
“You know,” he continued, “it’s a testament to your litigation prowess that you were not only able to persuade that jury of Tamia’s innocence but you turned her into something of a feminist hero—a woman whose only crime was succumbing to a blackmailer in order to protect her youthful indiscretions and hold on to the man she loved.” He made a snort of disgust. “You had those silly female jurors eating out of the palm of your hand and fawning over what a loving, forgiving boyfriend you are. Is it any wonder Tamia was acquitted?”
“She was acquitted because she’s innocent.” Brandon smiled narrowly. “But my defense strategy certainly didn’t hurt her chances.”
“My point exactly, son. You’re far too talented to be throwing your life away on one woman.”
Brandon scoffed. “Come on, Dad. How am I throwing my life away by giving Tamia a
job
?”
“It’s more than just a job, boy, and you know it.”
Before Brandon could respond, a country club employee materialized with a new bucket of golf balls and proceeded to tee them up for Bernard. Several yards away, members of the lieutenant governor’s security detail looked on with stoic expressions.
When father and son were alone again, Bernard continued, “You need to start looking at the big picture, Brandon. I’ve got great plans for you. Appointing you to attorney general is just the beginning—”
“With all due respect,” Brandon interrupted, “when did I ever say I wanted to become attorney general?”
His father gave him a look of grave disappointment. “You’re a Chambers. Achieving greatness isn’t an option—”
“—it’s a birthright,” Brandon finished, reciting the familiar credo that had been passed down through four generations of Chamberses. “Yeah, Dad, I know all that.”
“Do you?” Bernard challenged, eyeing him shrewdly. “Because ever since you told us about Tamia, I’ve often wondered if you’ve forgotten your priorities.”
“My priorities are right where they need to be,” Brandon countered evenly. “But thanks for your concern.”
Bernard glared at him before turning away to whack at another ball. “I haven’t told your mother about this latest stunt of yours. She’s still recovering from your decision to represent Tamia during the trial, and she was livid that Tamia showed her face at Bishop Yarbrough’s church last Sunday.”
“The
audacity
of the woman, showing up at church to hear God’s word,” Brandon exclaimed with mock indignation.
His father shot him one of those quelling looks that used to have Brandon and his siblings ducking for cover.
Now Brandon merely chuckled.
Bernard wasn’t amused. “Your mother isn’t the only one who was upset. She had to console Cynthia for quite a while after the service.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Brandon said blandly.
Bernard scowled. “You know what else is unfortunate? Your complete lack of judgment and shortsightedness when it comes to Tamia Luke.” His lips twisted scornfully. “You think Barack would have made it to the White House with some hood rat on his arm? Hell, no! He chose an educated, articulate, sophisticated woman that mainstream America could accept and admire. If you have any serious political aspirations—and that’s not even up for debate—Cynthia Yarbrough is the woman you want by your side. You got that?
Cynthia
is the one who will help take you all the way, not Tamia.”
When Brandon made no comment, his father shook his head in angry exasperation. “But since you seem hell-bent on having that damn woman, at least be discreet about it, for God’s sake! Flaunting her in Cynthia’s face is the quickest way to get your fucking balls chopped off in the middle of the night.”
This startled a laugh out of Brandon.
“You think I’m joking?” Bernard nodded at his golf club. “Ask Tiger Woods if he was laughing after his wife swung one of these at his head.”
Brandon sobered. “I see your point.”
“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, son. Always remember that.”
“Thanks. I will.” Brandon gave his father a sardonic look. “So does this mean you’d condone me having an affair with Tamia?”
“Hell, no. But you’re a grown man, and I know you’re gonna do what you want. Or should I say,
who
you want.”
Brandon frowned. “I haven’t done anything.”
“
Yet
. But you will,” Bernard said knowingly.“Tamia’s a sexy, beautiful woman. The moment I met her, I could see how you’d gotten turned out.”
Brandon scowled. “I’m not turned out.”
Bernard snorted, swinging at another ball. “Don’t kid a kidder, son. That girl had your number from day one. She’s your kryptonite. But take heart. All great men throughout history have had mistresses. David had Bathsheba, JFK had Marilyn, Bill had Monica—”
“Please don’t tell me Barack has someone.”
His father smirked at him.
“Never mind,” Brandon muttered, holding up a hand. “I don’t wanna know.”
“What? I didn’t say anything. Anyway, the bottom line is that next to your mother and Bishop Yarbrough, you’re my most important campaign surrogate. So I can’t afford to have you caught up in some sex scandal or any other nonsense that could compromise my campaign. The Republicans are gunning for me in the worst way, so even the slightest misstep could torpedo my candidacy.”
“I’m aware of that,” Brandon said levelly.
“Good. So go ahead and enjoy Tamia as your mistress. But be discreet about it.” Bernard jabbed a warning finger at Brandon. “And for God’s sake, don’t get any crazy ideas about making her your wife.”

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