“Gannon,” the man held out his hand.
Bryce gripped it. “Judge Garcia. Ciara, this is Judge Andy Garcia. Judge, my new legal assistant Ciara Alafita.” They shook hands. “He’s presiding over the Steele case,” Bryce added.
“I thought I wouldn’t see you in my courtroom so soon, if at all,” Judge Garcia said.
“Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”
The judge smiled, his teeth white against his swarthy skin. “I’m glad to hear it. You’re feeling all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
The judge lowered his voice. “The police haven’t arrested anyone for the bombing.”
“No, sir, they haven’t.”
“I’ve asked for security measures, just in case.”
“I don’t think anyone will attempt something in a crowded courtroom.”
“I’m not taking chances.” Judge Garcia glanced around. “I have to mingle. I’ll see you in court Monday.”
“Yes, sir.”
The judge moved away to greet other people.
“He seems nice,” Ciara said.
“Don’t let his social manner fool you. He’s a stickler in the courtroom.”
She looked him in the eye. “So will he be a detriment to your case?”
“No. I think he’ll rule according to the law and the preponderance of evidence.”
Here was the perfect opening. “Have you studied judges since you were approached to run as one?”
“I study judges as part of my job. It’s like knowing how to win at poker with the hand you’ve been dealt.”
“You mean like bluffing?”
“No. I mean knowing each judge’s rules and their strengths and weaknesses. Then I know how to use the hand I have to win.”
“Do you want to be a judge?”
“I think so.”
Ciara glanced at Durayev, who was searching the crowd. His eyes roved constantly, checking, assessing, classifying. Ciara imagined anyone approaching Bryce got the x-ray vision treatment. She’d bet Durayev could identify clothing bulges and tell her who was packing in this crowd.
She hoped he couldn’t hear her. “Adam Steele could help get you elected.”
“Yes, he could.” It was a flat statement.
“Do you want his help?”
“First I have to get him acquitted.”
Someone tapped on a microphone. Ciara looked toward the front of the room where a man at the podium asked people to take their seats. Bryce steered her to their table.
A tall, curvaceous blonde stepped up to them as they reached the table. Ciara would have recognized Bryce’s ex-girlfriend anywhere. The woman was gorgeous.
“Bryce, it’s wonderful to see you again,” Monique said in her perfectly cultivated voice. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“It’s good for the case if I’m seen here tonight.”
“Of course, the case.” She sounded resigned.
“Who are you with?” Bryce asked.
“Pierce Gallaher of Windell, Gallaher, and Crawley.”
“Ah.”
“And you’re here with … I’m sorry but I’ve forgotten your name,” Monique said.
“Ciara Alafita,” Ciara provided, although she was sure the other woman knew her name. She shook Monique’s hand. Monique gave Ciara a cold, cursory once-over.
A man signaled from a few tables over. Monique waved at him. “I have to go. Perhaps we can dance together later Bryce.”
“It was good to see you, Monique.”
Savage satisfaction roared through Ciara. Bryce had come here with her, and despite Monique’s advances, he’d sidestepped her invitation to dance. Of course, it helped show solidarity for their case if they remained together, her cynical side argued. Besides, Bryce had ‘been there, done that’ with his ex-girlfriend.
Still, Ciara wanted to shout her delight. Someone had picked
her
first!
The dinner tasted delicious but Ciara couldn’t have said what they talked about. The small amount of wine she drank went to her head and made her feel dizzy. It couldn’t be the man at her side whose rapt attention made her feel beautiful and desirable.
Despite her habitual doubts of why Bryce had brought her instead of the blondes he preferred, the glittering room, the beautiful view and Bryce’s nearness caused a bubbling excitement inside her.
After the dishes were cleared away and the legal association business handled, the band began to play a slow melody. Bryce rose.
“Would you like to dance?”
Ciara smiled and stood at once. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Bryce shared a nod with Durayev and led her to the floor to join the other couples there. He took her in his arms at last and pressed her against him. Her body felt breathless and overheated and shivery. She sighed with pleasure.
They glided around the floor. She’d been right about the similarity in heights. It aligned their bodies perfectly so his cock nestled against the notch of her thighs. His hand felt warm against her back. His other hand held hers in a strong, secure grip.
Ciara watched him watching her, his blue eyes laser sharp. Bryce was a man who knew what he wanted and went after it. He was mature. He’d been with confident women who knew what they wanted.
She was a confident woman. What did she want? For starters, she wanted Bryce to have no connection to Steele. But even being Steele’s lawyer carried obligations, didn’t it?
The slow ballad segued into a popular love song. Ciara couldn’t look away from Bryce. His head dipped towards hers and she held her breath. But his attention snapped to someone dancing by. She glimpsed a tall blonde. He nodded at someone she couldn’t see and the tension between them dissipated.
They danced every slow dance together until the band called it a night at eleven o’clock. By then she wanted to do a horizontal mamba with Bryce. He kept his warm hand at her back as they followed Durayev to the car.
“Thanks for inviting me, Bryce,” Ciara said, her voice breathy.
“I’m glad you came.” His was deep and husky.
“Me too.”
As they reached their car, a man in the next car climbed out. The dome light illuminated his blonde wife.
“We can wait for AAA in the club house, Addison.”
“You don’t need another drink, John. We can wait right here.”
“
I’m
going back inside. Are you coming?”
“No.”
The man slammed the car door and stormed past them towards the clubhouse.
Durayev studied the woman, and then turned to Bryce. “I need to search the car.”
“Do you really think the bomber would try here? We weren’t followed.”
“I’m not paid to take chances.” Durayev dropped to the blacktop. A beam of light splayed from his hand over the undercarriage, back and forth. The light extinguished and Durayev climbed back to his feet. “All clear.”
Bryce seated Ciara in the car and rounded the trunk. When the blonde in the next car gave him a once-over, Ciara wanted to claw her eyes out. As he climbed behind the wheel, the other woman smiled at him. What was she trying to do, make up for being angry with her own husband? Ciara glared at her.
A horrific boom rocked Ciara’s head back against the headrest. Bryce’s door slammed shut. Glass shattered. There was a whoosh, tremendous heat, and the roaring sound of flames.
“Get out!” Bryce yelled at Ciara. My God, it was a bomb! His heart pounded like a trip hammer.
While Ciara fumbled with the door handle, Bryce unlatched her seat belt and pushed her. As the door swung open she nearly fell out of the car. He vaulted over the shift column into her empty seat. Flames licked at him through the glassless window. He tumbled out after her.
“Move! Our car could explode!” he ordered, and pulled her to her feet.
Ciara ran, but she turned to look over her shoulder and skidded to a stop, nearly falling.
“That woman!” she shrieked.
Bryce nearly barreled into her and grabbed her arm to steady her. “Get clear!”
He pivoted, dragging in breath. Men shouted from every side, women screamed, and car alarms wailed. Durayev had been by Bryce’s door. He’d slammed it shut when the bomb blew. His body had hit the door a moment later. Bryce had to see if he lived.
But he’d only taken a step back towards the car when his rental blew up. The force knocked him down. Hot fiery metal rained down and he rolled over to protect his head and face. Thick acrid smoke billowed around him and he coughed. His lungs burned in his chest but he knew it wasn’t from the fire. He fumbled in his pocket for his inhaler and raised it to his mouth with a shaking hand to take a quick drag.
A woman off to his left was sobbing.
“Bryce!” Ciara screamed. “Bryce! Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” he managed. He was glad for the heat the hard asphalt beneath him retained from the long summer day.
The smoke cleared enough for him to see there was no way the woman in the other car could have survived. Swallowing bile, he looked away from a human shape in the flames. He didn’t think Durayev lived either. There was something burning on the ground between the two car infernos.
Oh God. That could have been him and Ciara! His chest tightened with emotions he didn’t have time to analyze.
A cool hand touched his cheek. “Bryce, can you talk?”
“Call nine-one-one.” He dug in his suit jacket and handed her his phone.
As her shaking hands worked the phone, pounding feet raced to them. “Help’s on the way! Are you hurt?” A young man in a waiter’s black and white uniform dropped to his knees beside them.
“I’ve got scrapes and bruises,” Ciara answered. “Bryce?”
“Asthma attack.” He wheezed and took another hit from the inhaler using both hands. The waiter helped him sit up.
Assessing their injuries as non-life-threatening, the waiter turned to look at the blazing vehicles. “My God, what happened?”
“Bomb.” Ciara handed him the phone with wildly shaking hands. “You’d better tell nine-one-one to send the police. Homicide. There was a woman in that car.” Her voice hitched. “And our bodyguard is probably dead.” She leaned against Bryce and he felt her trembling.
People gathered around them to stare at the fire with shocked faces. The spectators peppered one another with questions.
More shoes pounded on the pavement. “Addison!” a man’s mortal cry rent the night.
Bystanders grabbed the husband and restrained him from throwing himself at the still-raging fires.
“Addison!” he screamed again.
Bryce flinched at the man’s horrified expression. Guilt burned in Bryce’s gut. His fault.
The waiter beside them relayed what he’d been told into the phone with only the slightest quaver in his voice.
“Tell the FBI too,” Bryce said in his raspy voice. “Have them send Agent Pollack.”
“The FBI?” The young man’s voice rose in surprise at the end.
“They know the history of this case,” Ciara explained, rubbing her arms. “Tell them someone’s tried to murder Bryce Gannon again.”
“Ciara.” Bryce tried to caution her. He didn’t want the world to know.
But the waiter was relaying what she’d said into the phone.
“Have them send the bomb squad,” Ciara added belatedly.
“Bomb?” the husband repeated, his voice tortured. “This was a bomb?”
“Yes,” Ciara gently told him.
“Someone set a bomb for you and killed my wife?” the man’s voice rose in volume as he spoke.
“I’m sorry,” Ciara said.
“Are you sorry?” the man demanded of Bryce.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Bryce responded, his voice gravelly. His chest muscles tightened painfully.
“My loss.” The man spat the word. “My wife, you mean. You’ll bet you’re sorry for her loss.”
The bereaved husband advanced towards Bryce. Orange flames gave his angry eyes a demonic look. Two waiters grabbed his arms.
“Sir, you’re not thinking clearly,” the waiter on the left told him.
“I know a guilty party when I see one,” the man raged, struggling against the restraining arms.
Sirens sliced the air. Bryce hope they hurried before the enraged husband finished what the bomber had started.
But the young waiters were stronger than they looked and finally the husband sank to the blacktop and began to cry in huge noisy sobs.
Bryce looked away, swallowing to ease the tightness in his throat. He could finally breathe easily, literally and figuratively. Now he could concentrate on more than moving air in and out of his lungs. His back and head hurt where he’d been thrown against the hard ground. His left elbow hurt. He thought he felt moisture there. Otherwise, he was alive and whole.
Ciara sat beside him. Her hair had loosened from its knot and the kinky dark curls hung past her shoulders. She looked younger that way. She also looked frightened. He gripped her bloodied hand and she gave him a strained smile.
“I think we’d better move back so the fire equipment can get in here,” the waiter said. “Can the two of you stand yet?”
“If you pull me up,” Ciara said.
Helping hands reached in to tug Ciara and Bryce to their feet, and then the remarkably calm young waiter urged everyone out of the way as a fire engine rumbled up. It gave a near-deafening horn blast to speed stragglers.
When the truck blocked Bryce’s view of the burning pyre he gave a shaky sigh of relief.
The EMTs drove up behind the engine. Bryce snaked an arm around Ciara’s waist. She was still trembling, so he drew her close.
“Anybody hurt?” an EMT yelled.
Helpful bystanders directed them to Bryce and Ciara. The EMTs cleaned and bandaged Ciara’s bloodied knees and palms. They had to help Bryce out of his suit jacket. Blood stained his white shirt scarlet around a rip in his left elbow. They cut his shirt off at the bicep and went to work.
“I don’t think you need stitches,” the EMT informed Bryce.
“Thank God.” The last thing Bryce needed was another trip to the ER.
“You might want to go to the hospital to have your head and back x-rayed, just to be safe,” the EMT added.
Ciara opened her mouth, but Bryce glared her to silence. “I’ll see my doctor.”
“Okay, but you might have a painful weekend.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Seems like I heard you say that before.”
Bryce turned at Pollack’s voice to see him and Garrison. Bryce felt almost relieved. He let out his breath. “You guys beat the metro cops here.”