LITMIR.BIZ

      ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      Kara Lennox has earned her living at various times as an art director, typesetter, textbook editor and reporter. She’s worked in a boutique, a health club and an ad agency. She’s been an antiques dealer, an artist and even a blackjack dealer. But no work has ever made her happier than writing romance novels. To date, she has written more than sixty books. Kara is a recent transplant to Southern California. When not writing, she indulges in an ever-changing array of hobbies. Her latest passions are bird-watching, long-distance bicycling, vintage jewelry and, by necessity, do-it-yourself home renovation. She loves to hear from readers; you can find her at www.karalennox.com.

      Believe it or not, this one’s for my ex-husband, Pete, who really did jet off to war zones and natural disasters with his trusty Nikon. I’m still in awe of the danger you put yourself in, and the beautiful pictures you took.

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER ONE

      RALEIGH SHINN HESITATED on the sidewalk outside the coffee shop, her palms damp, her chest tight. She hadn’t been this nervous since she’d argued a case before the Texas Supreme Court.

      She so much preferred to be the one asking the questions. But she had committed to the interview; she couldn’t weasel out.

      Raleigh did not like the media. Even when she fought for a popular cause, the press often described her as a bulldog, a terrier, or a sexless, humorless legal machine.

      Those descriptions were, perhaps, not entirely undeserved. But now, she needed some good press, because her current cause was decidedly unpopular. It would take a tidal wave of evidence to get the D.A. to reopen the case of Anthony Simonetti, currently sitting on death row for supposedly gunning down his girlfriend in a cold-blooded act of premeditation. Raleigh wanted public sentiment squarely on her side when she made her argument.

      Griffin Benedict, roving investigative reporter for the Houston Telegram, could turn public opinion. He was immensely popular—almost a celebrity in his own right. People believed what he wrote. He could help her cause.

      Or he could crucify her. She had to take her chances.

      After a deep, fortifying breath, she entered Legal Grounds, a coffee shop near the Harris County Courthouse.

      She spotted him immediately. Even if she hadn’t seen his picture, she would have known he was the one. He was the only man sitting alone, and he was staring right at her.

      Lord have mercy, he was gorgeous.

      That thought surprised her. She didn’t normally think of men in terms of their looks. She sometimes sized up a client’s appearance and how it would play with a judge or jury, but she couldn’t remember the last time she had found a man attractive.

      Griffin Benedict’s sexual magnetism hit her like a fog bank, momentarily disorienting her. Brown hair, longish and with a rakish wave, framed a square-jawed, tanned face. The nose had a slight bump, as if it had been broken. Mouth, sensual. That was the adjective that leaped to mind, although she wasn’t sure what made it so.

      His broad shoulders filled out a button-down shirt rolled up to the elbows, open at the throat, tucked into well-worn jeans. Scuffed cowboy boots, of course.

      He continued to stare at her, frowning slightly, and she shook herself out of her stupor. Eyes forward, posture erect. She had to show quiet confidence. She strode forward, hand outstretched.

      “Mr. Benedict.”

      He stood and flashed a welcoming smile, his large hand swallowing hers before giving it a firm shake. Either his hand was very warm, or hers was cold. Would he note that? Would he attribute her lack of circulation to nerves? Although it was late September, the weather was still warm, no reason for cold hands.

      “Ms. Shinn. Good to meet you. Would you like something to drink? I was just going to get myself a coffee.”

      “No, thank you.”

      “Be right back, then.”

      He was tall, well over six feet. She was five-nine, and she wore heels, so she didn’t often look up to people. She watched him walk up to the counter with an easy saunter and then tore her eyes away when she realized she’d focused too long on the way his backside filled out those faded jeans.

      Maybe she should have ordered hot tea. It would give her something to do with her hands. But her choice of drink revealed something about her psyche, and she wanted to avoid that. This interview was about her work.

      When Benedict returned to the table, he held two steaming cups.

      “You must be very thirsty,” she said.

      “The

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