LITMIR.BIZ

      EVERY TIME BLAKE’S PHONE buzzed, he jumped. That wasn’t like him at all. He’d lived through a hurricane and a near bombing, seen poverty worse than anything he could have imagined, slept in places where bugs were more abundant than pillows or sheets, and even been thrown in jail once in a godforsaken place he never had found on a map. And the one thing he’d learned about himself during those years of challenges was that he faced adversity with calm.

      He’d just never been on the verge of being charged with a crime he hadn’t committed. He’d thought a hundred times over the weekend about calling Juliet McNeil. Had even gone so far as to spend several hours on the Internet finding out what her legal standing would have to be in case he asked her to represent him, given the fact that she was counsel for another man up for the same charges in the same case.

      As far as he could tell, there was no statute that prevented her from doing it, as long as she had a waiver from the previous client.

      Blake had no idea what the chances were of Eaton James agreeing to that. But surely, once Schuster dropped the charges—as he’d told Blake he was going to do—James would be feeling charitable.

      Charity was, after all, his business.

      His intercom buzzed. Blake’s pen went flying. “Yes?” he asked after inhaling deeply in an attempt to control his response.

      “I’m going to lunch, sir. Would you like me to bring you back something?”

      Thanking Lee Anne for asking, Blake declined. The only thing that sounded good at the moment was a visit to the little bar across the room. He retrieved his pen.

      And moved over to stare out the wall of windows down at the bustling city he hadn’t realized he loved—or missed—until he’d come home.

      He’d done a bit of research on other legal matters that weekend. Namely, how a person was actually charged for a class-two felony. After finding out that fraud of the type in which he and his father had allegedly engaged was a class-two felony.

      There were people he could have called. Ramsden had a team of attorneys. Construction attorneys. But certainly they could recommend a good criminal attorney in the space of seconds. He just hadn’t been able to bring himself to admit to anyone that he was actually facing the possibility of being in so much trouble. He didn’t want to give the idea any validity by discussing it.

      Neither could he remain completely ignorant. Ignorance had never been the Ramsden way.

      Most of the close friends he’d had before leaving the country, friends from college, had moved on, married, settled into careers all over the country. He’d reacquainted himself with a few of them, but being so wrapped up in expanding Ramsden into commercial construction, he hadn’t developed any relationships close enough to call on in a time like this.

      As he understood his situation, Schuster—who would be filing charges on behalf of the state—would have to take along an investigator who’d questioned key witnesses to appear before a grand jury.

      Once the investigator corroborated Schuster’s claim about how witnesses would probably respond in court, a charge would be entered and either a warrant issued for his arrest or he’d be subpoenaed to appear in court for arraignment.

      The whole process could be done in a day or two, which Schuster had already had. They could be coming for him at any moment.

      A noise sounded in the outer office. A door closing? Glancing over his shoulder so quickly he pulled a muscle in his neck, Blake waited. After a couple of minutes had passed with no other activity, he strode over to yank open the door. He’d rather just face what was to come than—

      The office was empty. But he could see where a calendar had fallen from its nail on the wall. Lee Anne had taken the calendar down earlier that morning, looking up a proposed completion date and had obviously not put it back securely. Slowly, calmly, he walked over and hung it up.

      In his office again, Blake didn’t hesitate. He picked up the phone, dialed the number he’d already memorized, and waited. The chances were pretty slim that a woman as busy as Juliet McNeil would just be sitting at her desk on a Monday. For all he knew, she spent most of her days in court. Certainly she’d have a staff to do most of the investigative and research work she needed.

      Her skills were in the courtroom.

      “Juliet McNeil…”

      Traffic buzzed beneath his window. People who looked more like little bugs than human beings scurried down the sidewalk, collecting at street corners waiting for lights to change. A man stood, leaning against the side of a brick building across the street, smoking a cigarette.

      The sky was a perfect cerulean blue. The sun bright.

      “Hello?”

      “Sorry.” Blake finally decided to speak rather than quietly replace the receiver. “It’s Blake Ramsden.”

      “Blake! Oh my God. You’ve heard.”

      “Heard what?”

      “Oh, then I take it you haven’t seen the noon news?”

      He’d been too busy dreading being in the news himself. “No, what’s up?”

      “Are you in your office?”

      “Yes.”

      “I’m actually not far from there,” she said. “Mind if I come by?”

      What the hell was going on? “Of course not. I’m on the twelfth floor. What did I miss on the noon news?”

      Could they announce to the press that he’d been charged before they told him?

      “As convoluted as everything is, I don’t want to have this conversation with you over the phone. Do you mind?”

      Yes. He was a little short on patience. “No.”

      “I’ll be right there.”

      She’d clicked off before he’d pulled the phone away from his ear.