Desperate Girls (Wolfe Security #1)(2)

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 spike 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 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 glanced at the mirror one more time before heading into 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 looked toward 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 leaped 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.”

Brynn Holloran dipped her fingertips in the warm water and eyed the clock.

“What’s your mood today?” Chrissy spun the nail-polish carousel and glanced at Brynn’s ivory blouse. “Nude? Blushing bride?”

“Oh, no.” Brynn picked a bottle and plunked it on the table.

“Cha-Ching Cherry.” Chrissy smiled. “You must have a trial today.”

“Monday.”

Chrissy nodded. “You’ll win,” she said, snipping away at Brynn’s cuticles. “Red’s your lucky color.”

Brynn darted another look at the clock as nervous energy buzzed through her. She appreciated Chrissy’s confidence, but it did little to quell her stress. Nothing would until she stepped into that courtroom.

“Big case?” Chrissy asked.

“Yes.” Big was an understatement. “It’s a murder trial, and I haven’t gone up against this prosecutor before.”

Chrissy swiveled in her chair and took out some hot towels. Wrapping Brynn’s hands, she studied her face through the steam. “You’ll do great. He won’t know what hit him.”

Chrissy had been a fierce supporter ever since Brynn repped her in a dispute with her toad of a landlord, who was jerking her around over the rent. Brynn hadn’t even represented her officially, just sent a nasty letter on firm stationery. The toad had backed down, and Chrissy had offered Brynn a lifetime of free manicures—which she wouldn’t take, of course. Brynn would never hit Chrissy up for freebies, but she wasn’t above coming in on a busy Friday and asking to be squeezed in.

Chrissy unwrapped the towels. She pumped lotion into her hand—eucalyptus mint—and started massaging Brynn’s forearms. It felt so good she wanted to drop her head on the table and weep.

The massage was over way too soon, and Chrissy thwacked the bottle of polish against her palm before twisting off the top.

“The trial’s in Dallas,” Brynn said. “I have a thousand things to do, but I couldn’t leave town without stopping in.”

Chrissy raised a sculpted eyebrow. “Not if you’re going to Dallas,” she said, expertly stroking red over a nail.