Touch of Red (Tracers #12)(95)

Jen stashed the steaks and salad ingredients in the fridge, then washed the potatoes and put them in the oven. She checked the clock. Fifteen minutes. She uncorked the merlot. It needed to breathe anyway. Really. She poured half a glass, then made her way to her bedroom as she sipped a little liquid courage.

David liked merlot. And he was allergic to bees. Funny the things you learned about your neighbors over the years. She also knew he was divorced, had no kids, and he was one of the top cardiologists in Dallas.

Jen set her glass on the en suite vanity and turned on the shower, twisting her thick hair into a bun because she didn’t have time to dry it. She stripped off her clothes and stepped under the hot spray.

A date. Tonight. Her stomach fluttered with nerves, and she wished she hadn’t sampled the wine.

She’d bumped into David at Home Depot last week, and he’d asked her out right there in the light bulb aisle.

We should have dinner sometime, he’d said with his easygoing smile.

She’d been so shocked that she stood there staring at him for a full five seconds until I’d love to! popped out of her mouth.

It was impulsive. And ill-timed. But once the words were out, there was no going back.

She’d told him they should probably wait until her trial was over, but his blank expression made her realize he might not even know about it. How could he not, though? Didn’t he read the papers? Or was he too busy saving lives to take notice of the media circus that had been going on in her courtroom for the past four weeks?

His utter obliviousness to her professional life appealed to her. A lot. She liked the prospect of seeing someone who didn’t think of her as Judge Ballard or Your Honor. Most men were intimidated by the robe, and she hadn’t had a single date in the two years since she’d been elected to the bench.

Jen stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. Nerves fluttered again as she opened her closet and skimmed the endless rack of suits.

“Crap,” she mumbled, combing through the hangers. Everything was drab, even her weekend clothes.

Very few women could exude sex appeal in the courtroom and still be taken seriously. Brynn Holloran came to mind. The auburn-haired defense attorney wore low-cut blouses and spiked heels, and everyone knew she was a force to be reckoned with. Jen had always dressed down, in muted colors and sensible shoes, even during her prosecutor days. She wanted people to focus on her brain, not her boobs, but lately she’d felt sick to death of the whole conservative-jurist shtick.

Her gaze landed on the coral sheath dress she’d worn to her niece’s graduation. It was pretty. Feminine. She remembered feeling confident in it. She grabbed the hanger and before she could change her mind, slipped into a lace thong and pulled the dress over her head. She tugged up the zipper and rearranged her breasts because the tight fit didn’t leave room for a bra.

Jen checked herself out in the mirror. Not bad. She freshened up her makeup and fluffed her hair into a breezy style to match the dress. She slid her feet into sandals and downed a last sip of wine.

Her phone chimed from the bedroom, and she rushed to check it. Maybe another update from David. But instead it was Nate Levinson, a former colleague. What would he want? She’d missed two calls from him while she’d been in the shower, as well as a call from a Beaumont area code. She let Nate’s call go to voice mail. It was business, no doubt, and she was taking the night off.

She looked at the mirror one more time before heading to the kitchen. The house felt warm, and she stopped at the thermostat to turn up the AC. The clock read 7:25. David would be here any minute, and she still needed to season the steaks and throw the salad together. She walked into the kitchen and felt a crunch under her feet.

She looked down. What the . . . ?

Glass. All over the floor. She glanced at the patio, and a warm waft of air turned her blood to ice.

“Hello, Jennifer.”

She whirled around to see a black pistol inches from her face. Her heart leapt as she looked at the man holding the gun. Dear God, no.

The calls from Nate, from Beaumont, all made sense now.

The man stepped forward. “On your knees.”

“Don’t hurt me.”

“Now!”

Her legs folded, and she was on the floor, chunks of glass biting into her skin. This can’t be happening. How can this be happening? Her heart hammered wildly in her chest.

“Don’t hurt me.” She gazed up at him, and the utter calm on his face made her stomach quiver.

He brought the muzzle of the gun to her forehead. It felt cool and hard, and bile rose in the back of her throat.

“Please,” she croaked. “I’ll do whatever you want, just—”

“That’s right.” His eyes were flat and soulless. “You will.”

? ? ?

Friday morning.

The sun was bright, the sky was blue, and the temperature hovered at a bearable eighty-five degrees. But despite the weather, Brynn Holloran couldn’t seem to get into her typical TGIF mood as she drove to work.

A Wonder Woman ringtone emanated from the cup holder. She turned down the relentlessly cheerful morning DJs and answered a call from her sister.

“Hey, Liz, what’s up?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said, which Brynn didn’t buy for a minute. “Just wondering what you’re up to this weekend.”

“I’m loaded with work.”