Love on Trial

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

T
he little coffee shop was crowded, its spotless white linen tablecloths and tempting aromas drawing a maximum crowd, but the two stubborn young women weren't discouraged. They managed to find one empty table and collapsed into the dainty chairs, spilling their packages onto the floor with weary sighs.

“I thought you said the stores would
all be empty on a day this hot,” Marty reminded her friend with a glare over the single rose in its ceramic budvase.

The slender young blonde only smiled, her amber eyes sparkling. “I didn't say empty of what,” she laughed.

“Oh, Siri,” her friend moaned, “you're just impossible!”

Cyrene Jamesson studied the oversized menu with silent amusement, warming to the sound of her nickname. No one called her Cyrene except Mark; but, then, her conservative-minded boyfriend never called anyone by a nickname.

She put the menu aside after making an instant decision, and watched Marty frown uncertainly over the varieties of coffee and pastries.

“Why not close your eyes and point at one?” Siri suggested helpfully.

“That's easy for you to say,” came the reply. “You don't have to watch your weight.”

She sighed. “At the speed I move, it's impossible to gain weight.”

“You didn't have to be a reporter, you know,” Marty reminded her.

Siri looked thunderstruck. “You mean,” she said in mock astonishment, “there are other professions that cater to crazy people?”

“You're not crazy.”

“No,” Siri agreed. “Most people run river races in inner tubes, hang out of airplanes with 35 mm cameras, lie down behind cars while police tear-gas snipers, and chase bank robbers down back streets.”

Marty closed her eyes. “Deliver me,” she whispered.

Seconds later, a young, harried waitress darted toward them with her order book in hand, almost panting with the effort. “Sorry I took so long,” she apologized. “We're swamped today!”

“Only because the coffee's so good.” Siri smiled.

The waitress beamed and took their order, darting off again in a flurry of ruffled apron.

“Miss Diplomacy strikes again,” Marty laughed, tossing her dark hair.

“It doesn't cost anything to be nice to people,” Siri reminded her.

“Reporters are supposed to be hard, uncompromising and stubborn,” Marty remarked. “Aren't they?”

“That's only a stereotype. You can't lump people into groups and label them anymore, it's too complicated.”

“Thanks for the benefit of that priceless bit of wisdom from Psychology 102,” Marty laughed.

“Wait till we get the pastries and coffee,” Siri threatened, “and I'll treat you to a lecture on Glasser's theories.”

“Please, we don't all share your fascination with abnormal psychology,” came a moan from the other side of the table. “How does your poor old Dad stand it?”

“He likes it.”

“He would,” Marty grumbled. “Does Hawke?”

The light went out of Siri's rosy complexioned face.

“Don't mention that savage to me,” Siri growled.

“Siri, what's wrong with you?” her friend wondered. “Half the women in the country would give their eye-teeth just to meet that gorgeous man. And there he is, your father's partner, one of the most famous criminal lawyers alive, and you don't even like him!”

“Hawke doesn't go out of his way to be likeable,” she replied quietly. “He thinks all women should be locked up in harems and only let out once a year to have their hair trimmed.”

“While you, my dotty friend, are the world's foremost libber.”

“Guilty as charged.” Siri smiled. “Hawke's too
macho
for my taste. We've always knocked sparks from each
other, ever since Dad took him on seven years ago.”

“Not all the time, though.” Marty grinned. “I've seen a few pictures of the two of you together at parties.”

“He can be pleasant enough. There are times when I feel almost comfortable with him. And the very next minute, he'll say something to get my back up and laugh when I lose my temper.” Siri shook her head. “It's never dull, I'll give you that.”

Siri got a brief respite while the waitress set two cups of
Kaffee mit Schlag
in dainty wineglasses before them, along with delicate French cream cakes.

“Two thousand calories a bite,” Marty moaned.

“Only,” Siri remarked, “if you eat it. Why not just sit there and gaze at it lovingly?”

Marty glared at her and dug into the cream cake with a vengeance.

“That was delightful,” Siri sighed as
she finished the last drop of her strong coffee. “This is the best day off I've had in months.”

“Naturally. It's the only day off you've had in months. How did you manage it?”

Siri laughed. “Because of the Devolg murder case.”

Marty blinked at her. “Huh?”

“You've heard of it? The young boy who was accused of the knife murder of Justin Devolg?”

The brunette's mouth flew open. “You mean the case that's been on the front page…”

“The same. Hawke's counsel for the defense,” she added.

“I still don't get it. Why did that get you a day off?”

“Because,” Siri said calmly, “Bill Daeton wants me to go to Panama City with Hawke to track down a witness in the case.”

“Oh, you lucky little devil.” Marty
smiled. “Panama City, all expenses paid, and Hawke Grayson!”

“Hold it right there. I said Bill wants me to go, not that I plan to do it.”

Marty lifted her eyes. “And why, pray tell, aren't you going? Doesn't Hawke want you along?”

“You're getting warmer. Bill asked Dad to approach him about it,” Siri explained, “because he knew I'd refuse. So Dad asked him.”

Marty leaned forward earnestly, moving the budvase aside. “So?”

“Hawke told Dad he had enough to do without playing chaperone to an adolescent.”

“Adolescent! Siri, you're twenty-one years old!”

“To a man of Hawke's advanced years,” the blonde said maliciously, “I probably do seem underaged.”

“I thought he was in his middle thirties.”

“Late thirties,” Siri corrected, “or
early forties. I've never asked. He's too old for me, and that's a fact. Anyway, he said it was fine if Bill wanted to send a male reporter along, as long as Hawke had some control over the story to make sure the facts were presented accurately. How do you like that? A male reporter was welcome, but I can go hang.”

“What did Bill say?”

“I don't know, I haven't asked him.” She fished in her purse for a five dollar bill. “Hawke really burns me up. It isn't that I wanted to have to go with him, it's just the principle of the thing. I guess it's just as well, though, you know how Mark is.”

“Don't I just?” Marty said venomously. “That pompous little…!”

“Now, Marty.”

“Don't you ‘now, Marty' me!” the other girl grumbled. “Why you put up with him is beyond me.”

“Because he's good company most of the time, and he doesn't make demands,”
Siri said quietly. “I don't have to fight him off, and we do enjoy each other's company.”

“How exciting!”

“I don't want excitement in my private life,” Siri said. “I get enough of that during the day running from fires to murder scenes.”

“I'm waiting,” Marty said.

“For what?”

“For that old ‘eyes and ears' of John Q. Public routine,” she laughed. “Honestly, Siri, I think you bleed ink!”

“Of course!” she replied with a smile. “It's required.”

She took the Marta bus to the corner of Peachtree and 10th Street, and got off there. It was such a pretty day, she felt like walking the rest of the way to her father's law office. She sighed, studying the Atlanta skyline, the new construction, and the mingling of old architecture with modern innovation. It was difficult to picture what this great city must have been
like in 1864 when it was ravaged by Sherman's army. For an urban area, it was strangely small-townish. There was a community feeling among the people who lived in the old elegant apartment houses along the wide street, among the merchants who ran small shops there. Siri always felt comfortable in this stretch of the city, despite the alarming crime rate. Of course, she had the good sense not to venture out alone at night.

She turned into the office building where her father had his practice, and took the elevator to the 10th floor, which was occupied by the law firm of Jamesson, Grayson, Peafowler, Dinkham, and Guystetter.

Her father's middle-aged secretary, Nadine, greeted her with a smile.

“He's here,” she said before Siri could ask. “Shall I warn him, or do you prefer to have the element of surprise?”

Siri smiled from ear to ear. She liked the trim, little brunette who was so like
her late mother. If only Jared Jamesson would notice what a jewel of a woman his secretary was…Siri shrugged mentally.

“I think it might be safer if you announce me,” Siri told her with a wink. “I'll know if I'm in the doghouse before I walk in.”

Nadine nodded and pressed the buzzer. “Mr. Jamesson, your daughter's here to see you. Shall I send her in?”

“You're mistaken, Miss Green,” came the deep, sharp reply, “I don't have a daughter. My daughter wouldn't let herself be shoved aside from a juicy assignment like the Devolg murder case.”

Siri leaned over the intercom. “She would if Hawke Grayson has his way,” she said into it. “You can't argue with a brick wall, Papa dear.”

There was a deep chuckle in the background, joined by her father's muffled laugh.

“Come on in, Siri. I think I've convinced the brick wall for you.”

Siri straightened with an apprehensive look at Nadine. “Is Hawke in there?” she asked with irritation.

“If I say yes, are you planning to dive for the elevator?” Nadine asked.

Siri shook her head. “I wouldn't give him the satisfaction,” she replied. She straightened her shoulders and opened the door to her father's plush office.

Jared Jamesson was stretched back in the swivel chair behind his desk, with his elbows jutting out to either side behind his head. Hawke was perched on the edge of the big oak desk, looking, as usual, dark and formidable.

“Do you still want to go to Panama City?” Jared asked his daughter, swinging forward to rest his forearms flat on the desk.

Siri shrugged. “Not if it's going to mean giving up my bubble gum and my
Barbie doll,” she said with a pointed glance in Hawke's direction.

She could see the tiny dark flames that began to smoulder in her target's eyes, as he folded his arms across his massive chest and raised an eyebrow. He didn't smile at the dig. But, then, Hawke almost never smiled.

“Someday, sparrow,” he told her, “I'm going to make up for a noticeable omission in your upbringing. Jared ruined you.”

She tossed her thick blond hair, making a face at the nickname. “No, he didn't,” she defended her parent, “every good father gives his children champagne for lunch and takes them to girlie shows at night.”

“Siri!” Jared burst out, horrified.

She laughed. “It's okay, Dad, I didn't mean it. Hawke, we never had champagne for lunch; only for supper,” she added, and ignored Jared's groan.

“No wonder your father's hair is
gray,” Hawke remarked in that deep, resonant voice that carried so well in a courtroom. “Well, do you want to go with me, or don't you?”

She didn't but she'd have died rather than admit it. She really wasn't prepared to find an explanation.

“I thought you hated reporters,” she recalled. Her fingers tightened around the full shopping bag and her purse.

“Only certain unscrupulous ones,” he corrected. “In this case, if I give you an exclusive, at least I can be sure the facts you release are accurate. And,” he added, reaching for a cigarette, “you won't be able to print a word of it until I say so.”

“Or what?” she challenged.

He lit the cigarette before he replied. “I'll sue the hell out of your paper. And I'll win.”

That wasn't conceit. It was a statement of fact, just as if he'd made a comment on the weather, and she knew it. His
deep, slow voice sent shivers down her spine.

“Does Bill Daeton know you get the final word on the release date on my copy?” she asked.

He blew out a cloud of smoke. “What do you think?”

She glanced toward her father, who was listening to the exchange with amusement sparkling in the amber eyes that his daughter had inherited from him.