LITMIR.BIZ

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Westbrook’s brown silk dress rustled its gold-and-persimmon flowers against the long slim legs of her five-foot-eight-inch frame. Her high heels clicked on the tiled courtroom floor, an echoing percussion to the rhythm of her long limbs. She held her head high on well-defined, erect shoulders that swung ever so slightly in sensuous synergy with her hips. Her thick, straight chocolate hair lifted off a lovely, serene face—sailing far down her back as though being blown by a slight breeze.

      Despite the fact that the last time Marc had seen those legs they had been rising out of running shoes, he knew he would have recognized them anywhere. He also knew he had been wrong. If he had waited to see Remy Westbrook’s face, he definitely would not have been wasting his time.

      Marc had always been a sucker for long legs, high heels and a long romantic dress—the combination never failing to set off a violin string or two in his head. But as he watched her enter the courtroom that morning, he suddenly found every red-blooded male corpuscle in his body throbbing to a steamy, sophisticated, sultry jazz beat.

      He stared, openly and admiringly, following every inch of her progress, along with every other male eye in the courtroom. Yet she gave no sign that she was aware of any scrutiny. In complete contrast to the hot pulse of her walk, her pale face and serene cinnamon eyes broadcast an ultracool calm.

      She passed within inches of him on her way to the witness stand, yet she did not as much as glance in his direction. He caught her fragrance—sweet spice kissed with pepper—a scent that enveloped his nose in one instant, only to vanish in the next, tantalizing a lot more than just his curiosity.

      The court clerk swore her in. She claimed the witness chair on a collected downbeat and nonchalantly crossed those long, luscious legs. She leaned back, effortlessly serene and composed.

      He stared at her, this time with a different object in mind. He’d always found quiet staring to be one of his most effective beginning techniques with an unexpected witness; in fact, he was capable of rattling even the calmest of countenances.

      But he soon realized that this witness was unaffected by his stare. She sat smack-dab in the middle of this courtroom—clearly the focus of all attention—and yet she also clearly dwelt inside some quiet, self-contained center, totally separate and apart from these proceedings.

      The way she walked on those luscious legs could melt any lawyer’s brief. But it was her detached, untouchable air that began to set off all sorts of interesting twitches inside his body. Being ignored by an attractive woman was not something Marc Truesdale was used to—and this one was definitely doing just that. His fascination grew.

      “Please state your complete name for the record,” he said.

      “Remy Westbrook.”

      Her voice was liquid and languid, leaving a pleasant vibration in its wake. Marc honed in on her cinnamon eyes, determined to break through their tranquil shell. He drew his lips back in a smile, the kind of sincere smile that had proved effective on females from eight to eighty.

      “Mrs. Westbrook, my name is Marc Truesdale. I’m the attorney for Mr. Louie Demerchant, the plaintiff in this case.”

      She reacted not at all to his smile, in either expression or tone. “My name is not Mrs. Westbrook.”

      He leaned forward, all polite attention. “Didn’t you just say your name was Westbrook?”

      “I’m not married.”

      “Oh, I see,” he said with another smile as he rocked back on his heels. Naturally, Binick had selected a single woman. A married one would have involved dealing with a husband, as well. Better to keep the dumb dupes or paid-off confederates few.

      “Please excuse the error, Miss Westbrook. Or do you prefer Ms.?”

      “I prefer Doctor.”

      Marc did a double take. “Doctor? Of what?”

      “I earned my Ph.D. in the genesis of developmental psycholinguistics within higher primates.”

      Well, whatever that was, it certainly ruled out dumb. Which meant that Remy Westbrook had been bought. Marc felt a spate of disappointment, although he couldn’t clearly define why. He had no time to think about it. He only had time for attending to the business at hand.

      “What do you do for a living, Dr. Westbrook?”

      “I head the new Center for Primate Language Studies at the University of Washington.”

      So she was a professional engaged in what was obviously important scientific research. It would be hard for this jury to believe this intelligent, attractive woman would lie. It looked like Binick had chosen his confederate well.

      “Dr. Westbrook, did you avail yourself of the services of the Bio-Sperm company?”

      “Yes.”

      “Why?”

      “I wanted a baby.”

      “You couldn’t find a husband?”

      “I didn’t look.”

      “Was that because as a busy professional woman you didn’t have the time?”

      “No.”

      “Then why didn’t you marry and have a child in the conventional way?”

      Sato rose to his feet. “Your Honor, I object,” he said in his quiet, polite manner. “These questions are totally irrelevant to the issue at hand and constitute an unnecessary invasion of Dr. Westbrook’s life.”

      The judge nodded. “I tend to agree. Mr. Truesdale, would you care to explain the purpose of your current thrust?”

      “I’m trying to explore the motives behind the actions of this witness in order to determine her credibility, Your Honor. Since Dr. Westbrook is claiming to have given birth to David Demerchant’s child, I have every right to—”

      “I am claiming no such thing,” she interrupted in that same liquid and languid tone.

      “Excuse me?” Marc said, turning back to her.

      “Dr. Westbrook, please do not answer any more questions until I rule on the objection before this court,” the judge admonished. “Mr. Truesdale, the only personal questions I will allow you to ask of this witness are those germane to this issue of the child’s paternity. Objection sustained.”

      Marc nodded at the bench before eagerly turning back to his witness. “Dr. Westbrook, did you just say you’re not claiming to have given birth to David Demerchant’s child?”

      “That’s right.”

      “Then whose child did you have?”

      “My child. He belongs to me. I’m here only because I was subpoenaed, Counselor. I would not have come under any other circumstances.”

      So, she was playing the reluctant mother who had been dragged into the courtroom battle against her will. A most believable role. Yes, she was smart, all right. Too damn smart.

      He belongs to me. How casually she had conveyed the fact that her child was a boy. Marc spared a quick glance at his client. The light of hopeful joy in Louie Demerchant’s eyes struck deeply at Marc’s sense of justice and fair play. This was such a cruel thing this woman was doing. Did she understand how cruel? Did she care?

      He swung back to his witness. His fascination for the lady’s lovely legs, sensual walk and mysterious air had momentarily clouded his judgment. Well, not anymore. Work was work and women were women, and Marc knew better than to ever mix the two. He shot out his next questions in rapid fire.

      “Dr. Westbrook, how many times were you inseminated with donor sperm from Bio-Sperm?”

      “Just once.”

      “When?”

      “July 5, two years ago.”

      “When did you give

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