A Conflict of Interest. Anna AdamsЧитать онлайн книгу.

      THE NEXT MORNING, Jake lifted the collar of his black overcoat and yanked the cashmere collar around his ears. Normally, he hurried to work, certain he had the reins tight in his courtroom, but today, he didn’t know how to be objective. He also didn’t know whom to suspect, but the thought of Maria Keaton seducing that kid half enraged him and half filled him with dread.

      He was ready with rage for a woman wrongfully accused. The dread came from his own confusing attraction to Maria, who’d ducked his every approach. He might not be the only man in town, but he had a mirror. He was okay to look at.

      He had a good job. The evidence informed him women found him attractive. Since he’d finalized his divorce, the available ladies of Honesty had offered comfort in his so-called loneliness.

      But the only woman he wanted had shied away from more than simple conversation.

      He shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged, his collar now seeming to choke him. Maybe he finally understood why Maria had been so uninterested.

      A flake of early November snow blew into his eye, and he yanked his bare hand out of his pocket to brush it away. Overnight the snow had covered the streets and piled up against the Victorian buildings on the square. With plenty more storm on the way, the sky was about as light as at sunset. Veering toward the courthouse, Jake had to pass the relatively new shops, all made to look weathered, in the recently misnamed Old Honesty Market.

      Men in thick coats and gloves were swagging holiday lights from storefront to storefront while a woman watched, leaning on one of the cement posts that prevented traffic from entering the shopping area.

      He sucked in a cold breath, but was it the air that froze his lungs?

      Snow dotted Maria’s honey-brown hair. She crossed her arms over the top of the pillar and rested her chin on her hands. A long deep-burgundy coat cinched her narrow waist. She lifted one calf, rubbing it against the other as if to warm herself, and Jake imagined walking up behind her, sliding his arms around her, breathing in the scent of her silky hair.

      Could she molest a client? A sixteen-year-old boy who’d needed her as much as any patient in Honesty could have?

      As if Maria sensed his near-savage need for an answer, she turned. Jake stared through the fat, falling flakes. She looked back, her eyes anxious as if she had something important to say. It was the way she always looked at him—until she pulled a strange coat of touch-me-not around herself.

      Was it that kid who stood between them?

      She opened her mouth but then only nodded.

      He looked toward the courthouse windows. “Are you going?”

      “I can’t stay away.”

      He walked to her. As usual, she searched for anywhere to go, but he refused to get out of her way. “Why?”

      “He needs help.” She grabbed the tails of the soft ivory scarf knotted at her throat. Matching mittens covered small hands that trembled. Fragility beneath her strength made him want to cover her hands with his and rub warmth into her fingers. “You could help him,” she said.

      He turned, but her hand caught his forearm. Hell, he’d imagined touching her for damn near a year. He’d talked to her for the sheer sensual jolt of hearing her voice.

      She was a witness in a trial in his courtroom.

      “I can’t discuss the case with you.”

      “You can see he’s in trouble. Just flavor your instruct—”

      “Maria, do you want to look guilty?” He tugged her hand off his arm, but she wrapped her fingers around his, and he found himself tugging her closer. “You don’t seem to realize your doggedness makes Griff’s side of the story seem more plausible. Why does he matter so much to you?” He raised his face to the sky as if he were reaching from under water for breathable air. “Don’t tell me what you’ve done, and stop incriminating yourself.”

      “You mean, stop helping someone who needs me.” She tried to pull away, but her wrist ended up beneath his thumb. The ribbing on her thin mitten slid aside, and he could have counted her racing pulse.

      “I cannot do this.” He eased her away from him. God, she smelled good. He wanted to breathe her in. He wanted—“If you say another word, I’ll have to recuse myself.” He turned away. His coat brushed at his legs. He ached with frustration and need stoked by the brief touch of her hand.

      “I didn’t touch Griff. He was my patient, and he’s a sick kid. You know how to see both sides of any story. Why can’t you see his?”

      How did she know that about him? He pretended not to hear, though the slow fall of snow buffered them from everyone else on the square.

      He wanted to believe her concern was just that. Concern. But women could lie, even women whose seeming innocence somehow infused the air they breathed with sex. Especially women like Maria.

      She couldn’t control her anxiety for Griff, who’d called her a monster in front of a courtroom. She might be so driven by her own needs that she couldn’t turn her back on that kid.

      This case was getting to Jake. He yanked at his lapel. This kid and Maria Keaton had nothing to do with his private life. He’d once had a wife who’d lied to him over and over and expected him to believe her every time. Kate wasn’t every woman. Maria wasn’t Kate.

      He had to reclaim his objectivity.

      “Damn.”

      Closing arguments would start by this afternoon. They could have a verdict before morning.

      And then he’d have to take a disinterested look at Griff Butler’s story and at Maria’s—Dr. Keaton’s. One of them was lying.

      If