Bachelor No More. Victoria PadeЧитать онлайн книгу.
regarding representation was Celeste’s—and Stephanie’s—problem. The stage was set, investigators and the district attorney had made travel arrangements to Northbridge, and they were firm in their determination that today be the day.
“That’s it then? It’s happening without you?” Jared asked.
“I spoke to the public defender and he’ll still be there, only now as my proxy while I participate through a conference call. I’m sorry, J., but that’s all I can do on such short notice. I have a death penalty hearing today and tomorrow and I can’t leave until it’s over.”
“I’m worried that if you’re not here to coach her, Celeste might say something she shouldn’t.”
“I’ll call her in an hour or so and talk to her, do what coaching needs to be done that way. But all that’s really expected of her today is that she tell her story. Of course there will be questions, but to some extent, at this point, investigators and even the D.A. are still on a fact-finding mission.”
“It looks like more than that to me when they have a guard posted outside her apartment.”
“That’s because there’s been some concern that she might flee. After all she’s managed to keep under the radar for over forty years, which is why there’s been talk of arresting her just to hang on to her. But the local cops have successfully kept that from happening and I don’t expect that there will be an arrest today either. I think what the feds, the state guys and the D.A. will do is hear out Celeste, take whatever information she gives them back to their own corners, go over it, compare it to the facts and figures and decide where to go from here. If they do opt to arrest her it won’t be for a day or two and by then I’ll be in Montana to handle whatever comes up.”
Jared knew that questioning whether or not Stephanie had done her best was unnecessary, so he ended the conversation with a thank-you.
“You know I’d do anything for you, even if you are a hard-ass,” the criminal defense attorney responded, teasing him affectionately.
Jared merely chuckled and said he’d see her on Wednesday.
Which left him having to call his grandmother to warn her that the questioning would go on as planned.
He stared at the cell phone in his hand, thinking about placing the call, about who might answer it, wondering if Mara Pratt was staying with Celeste or had only been there the night before as the keeper of the gate until Celeste went to sleep. Would she be back again this early?
If she was staying there or if she’d left and returned already, it was possible she might answer the phone. In fact, it was likely, since she’d announced that no one got to Celeste without going through her first.
And he liked the thought that he might get to talk to Mara Pratt again.
Inexplicable but true.
Not that he objected to speaking to Celeste—he was glad to have discovered his long-lost grandmother, glad for the chance to get to know her, and willing to help her out of the mess he blamed completely on the grandfather he didn’t care if he ever saw again.
But what if Mara Pratt picked up the phone rather than Celeste? The possibility gave him a rush and he didn’t understand why.
Mara Pratt was what he’d always considered an everyday sort of woman. The kind of woman he connected with Northbridge: wholesome, down-home, salt of the earth. Exactly what he hadn’t wanted growing up in the small town.
His fantasies then—fantasies he’d made realities as an adult—had run toward tall, long-legged, sultry, breathtaking blondes. The urbane, well-bred, polished and frequently moneyed women he now encountered in the course of work or play. Women like Stephanie.
And yet, despite the fact that Mara Pratt was nothing at all like Stephanie or like any of his early fantasies and current realities of women, there was something about her that had rung his bell.
Not instantly, he admitted, but Mara Pratt’s appeal had definitely sneaked up on him in increments.
He’d been waiting for Celeste, wondering if he’d remember her from his childhood in Northbridge when Mara Pratt had rejoined him in the living room and he’d thought she had incredible eyes. The darkest blue eyes he’d ever seen.
He’d been asking about her brothers when it had occurred to him that her hair was the color of Belgian chocolate, and so shiny and silky he’d had the urge to run his fingers through it.
He’d taken his first—and last—sip of the worst brandy he’d ever tasted just before realizing that Mara Pratt had skin like cream, and a pert nose that was slightly quirky. Then he realized she also had a soft, inviting mouth with an indescribable kindness to it, mingled with a secret sensuality.
He’d been watching her help his extremely large grandmother out of a chair when it had struck him that Mara Pratt had a body that might not be flashy enough to turn every head in the poshest New York restaurant, but there was still a whole lot of allure in her tight, just-round-enough rump, small waist. And her chest had certainly turned his head.
No, there wasn’t anything at all flashy about Mara Pratt, but she had a free, easy, effortless beauty that was all her own. Serene and understated, it had crept up and apparently taken some sort of hold on him, even more than the extravagant, precision perfection he was currently accustomed to. And understated or not, Mara Pratt packed a wallop that had made it difficult to get her out of his head—all night and here again now.
Which was why he was sitting at the desk in the den of the house he’d grown up in, thinking about her when he had so many other things he should have been paying attention to.
Mara Pratt.
Northbridge, Montana’s Mara Pratt.
Cam and Scott Pratt’s little sister.
Huh.
Somebody he never would have given a second glance to in the past was suddenly enthralling him. And what made it even more odd was that it was happening at a time when nothing was giving him a charge anymore.
Not a single thing. Not a single person.
Yet the mere idea of talking to Mara Pratt again, of seeing her again, was doing something for him that not even his last multimillion-dollar takeover had accomplished.
And if that wasn’t weird, he didn’t know what was.
He’d come to Northbridge figuring that besides meeting and helping the grandmother he’d always wondered about, after a little time in the town he’d chafed in, his real life would look a lot better again. He hadn’t come figuring that anything or anyone here would look good to him.
Maybe he was in worse shape than he’d thought.
Maybe after this he should take a long vacation, he told himself. A couple of months in Europe. Or Tahiti. Or the Bahamas. Or all three. And maybe, when this was all over, that’s what he’d do. He’d get away from everything. Lie around somewhere designed for escape. Sleep a lot. Eat and drink to excess. Surround himself with women who would make him wonder what could possibly have made him obsess over some squeaky-clean hometown girl. Blueberry eyes or not.
Good idea, he decided. That’s what he’d do. And between a refresher course in what had made him dislike Northbridge and a long vacation, maybe he’d be rejuvenated on the work front, and he wouldn’t even be able to conjure up a mental image of Mara Pratt.
Like the one that was lingering in his mind at this moment.
As clear and bright as that skin of hers that he kept imagining the feel of.
Jared closed his eyes and shook his head to rid himself of the unwanted images and equally unwanted—and unwarranted—urges.
Then he opened them, determined to shake more than that, to shake thinking about Mara Pratt and wondering about her and any interest in her whatsoever.
But he still had to make the call