Half comatose from the most amazing New York strip she’d ever tasted, Jackie pushed through her apartment door, double-checked the lock and hung her keys on the hook before heading to her bedroom.

The day had been long, the evening, despite the lovely surprise from her family, even more so. Now they were on their way back to Philly and every inch of her ached. It was a jazzed-up tired though. One that came with the knowledge her family loved her enough to fly down and celebrate her largest victory to date.

Had to love those DelRays.

Even if they drove her half-crazy sometimes.

Hell’s bells, her body protested every tiny movement. She passed the small bedroom on the right that doubled as her home office and made her way into her room. Slivers of moonlight through the blinds gave her rumpled sheets an eerie glow. This morning, like every one for the last month, she’d left in a hurry. What did an unmade bed matter when she’d been the only person in it for over a year?

That’s what happened with smart-mouthed career girls. Throw in a hot temper and men tended to run screaming. She didn’t have the time – or compulsion – to chase them. Not when her trusty vibrator got the job done.

Oh, Maurice, how I love you.

Distracting thoughts of Maurice caused her to trip on the small mountain of dirty laundry at the foot of her bed. Now that the case was over, she’d start doing it again rather than dumping it all at the cleaners.

Not bothering with the light, she tossed her briefcase on the chair by the bed and kicked her shoes into the open closet.

Bed. All she needed now was a solid ten hours of sleep. Something she hadn’t had in...hell, she didn’t know. Tonight she’d get it. Even if the building fell down around her. Even if the earth opened up and swallowed the entire block.

She’d declared tomorrow her own holiday and told Josh to take the day off. They both deserved it. Time to get their lives back in order. Pay bills, watch television, grocery shop, and here’s a novel idea, call a friend. Assuming she still had any after the lack of contact.

This life. Who the hell lived like this?

Her mother, that’s who. Did Jackie want that? Barely seeing her loved ones and then, when she did, battling to stay emotionally present. That’s how it had been. Mom coming and going while Dad provided the steady guidance. Her father had been Mr. Mom when it wasn’t exactly status quo. It had worked, but…

Sigh. In Jackie’s Career vs. Family war, the battles raged on.

“I’m tired,” she said to no one. “That’s all.”

Just as her fingers reached her skirt’s zipper her cell phone rang. No way. Seriously?

She peered at her briefcase spewing the offending sound.

Ignore it.

Phone calls at one a.m. were never good. And with her family on their way back to Philly? What if the chopper crashed?

An irrational panic rattled her. Damned helicopters. She hated those things. Tired. That’s all. Holding her panic in check, she hustled to the chair, dug in the front pocket of the briefcase and checked the phone.

Chessie. Her investigator. She punched the screen before the call dropped. At least her family hadn’t perished in a fireball dropping from the sky.

“Chesley Morton, this better be good.”

“It is.”

When Chessie said it was good, it usually was. At fifty-eight years old, he’d spent thirty years as a homicide detective with the PD. Now retired and working for her full-time, he had enough contacts to keep her well-informed.

Jackie’s fatigue took a backseat to the burst of adrenaline plowing from her brain.

She closed her eyes and forced herself to focus. “What is it?”

“Just got off the phone with one of my guys. Annabelle Lockhart – estranged wife of the director of the FBI – was murdered.”

Jackie drew a hard breath. “When?”

“Tonight. Her throat was slit. They arrested someone.”

Already? Either they got seriously lucky or someone confessed. “Captured at the scene?”

“Nah. This thing sounds...eh.”

In Chessie-speak, eh meant sketchy. “What’s the problem?”

“They got the guy down at the PD in an interview room. No phone call yet.”

Meaning the detectives were more than likely stalling in allowing this poor schmuck to call his lawyer. “Unbelievable,” Jackie said. “I guess they haven’t learned much from the beating I just gave them.”

“It gets better. You’re not gonna believe who they pinched.”

“Who?”

“Your buddy, Beckett Pearson.”

Beck.

For a few long seconds, it didn’t sink in. She’d definitely heard the name. Had even, on some level, processed it. But...Beck?

She pictured him in his slick suits, his perfect cheekbones and immaculately groomed hair that never, ever, dipped below his ears. At least these days.

Then there were his eyes. Oh, my, that intense blue did her in every time. Made her think about Mr. GQ butt naked on a bed in a crappy motel room.

Ft. Lauderdale. Spring break. They’d met during her senior year and had a fling that included copious amounts of fantasy-worthy sex. She’d been sucked in by his muscles and easy swagger. She’d also been pleasantly surprised by his ambitions. He had a brain behind the brawn and a soft spot for the underprivileged, lost, and abandoned. Hell, she’d barely known him when she’d refused to give him her number, but gave him everything else.

Fast-forward five years and there she was, a prosecutor in DC, when glamour boy showed up in her courtroom. Not as a defendant, but as an FBI agent with a light in his eyes and a case to win.

Beck.

God. What could he have gotten into? And if he hadn’t been given his phone call yet, it meant no attorney.

Huge problem. One she could avoid.

She moved to the closet and scooped up her shoes. She should change into a fresh suit but...no. Even a few minutes could cost him. On her way out of the bedroom, she grabbed her briefcase and then her car keys from the hook by the kitchen entry.

“Did I lose you?” Chessie asked.

“No, I’m here.”

“I figured you’d want to know,” Chessie said. “Given the high profile of it.”

“You figured right. If it’s Beck, he knows to keep his mouth shut. I can’t believe the cops are screwing with an FBI agent. A damned good one too.”

“Probably waiting on him to get good and tired, see if he’ll slip.”

“That’s not gonna happen. Not if I can help it.”

---

Twenty minutes later, Jackie stormed into the police station lobby where a desk sergeant tucked behind a glass enclosure glanced up from a computer. At this hour of a weeknight, the lobby was quiet with only one other person sitting on a bench against the wall.

Who knew what the man was here for. In DC it could be anything.

“I’m Jackleen DelRay,” Jackie told the sergeant. “Attorney for Beckett Pearson. Where is he?”

Technically, Beck hadn’t hired her yet, but they’d worry about that small detail later. The man needed an attorney. Even if he didn’t want her for the long haul, for now, she’d keep him from doing any damage. An FBI agent accused of killing the estranged wife of the director of the FBI? Talk about tabloid fodder.

Beck better have kept his lovely mouth shut.

The desk sergeant took in her mess of a suit and more-of-a-mess hair and a smirk formed on his mouth. She resisted the urge to tell him she’d been at it for over eighteen hours and he could shove his opinions straight—and all the way—up his ass.

So tired.

She needed to stay cool here. She jerked her chin at the door leading behind the glass. “Buzz me in.”

“Give me a sec.”

He picked up his desk phone, speaking softly and well out of her earshot before hanging up.

“Davis,” the sergeant said to another officer, “take her to interview two.”

Interview room two. The big one. She’d been there plenty of times as a prosecutor, but never as the defense.

The inner lobby door buzzed and she whipped it open. Knowing the way, she charged forward, leaving the cop in her wake as her heels clickety-clacked against the linoleum.

“Guess you know the way,” he cracked.

“You bet.”

She took the first right, walked ten feet and halted. This was it. She breathed in, fighting the aftereffects of a blood rush that left her mind and body feeling like a hundred-and-twenty pounds of sludge.

Her vision blurred against the stark white of the wall and she blinked. Time to focus. She set her shoulders, and did that little chin lift her mom had taught her. That and the mental benefits had saved many a case.

The cop set one hand on the door, turned the knob and Jackie focused on her entrance. That moment when she’d march in and take over a room.

Shark Jackie.

He pushed the door open and – show time – she sailed through.

A shirtless Beck – Yoi, the man’s chest was still a finely sculpted work of art – sat with his hands neatly folded on top of the metal table. He faced a two-way mirror where Jackie surmised a prosecutor watched the festivities. Beck’s gaze snapped to her and his perfect eyebrows shot up. Two detectives. Muldoon and Brasich – she thought – sat across from him. Both angled back, spotted her and, if she wasn’t mistaken, Brasich groaned.

Excellent.

“Gentlemen,” Jackie said, “I’ll forgive you for keeping me from my beauty sleep since I got lucky and found a spot in your back lot.” She offered up a winning smile. “Now you won’t have to validate my parking.”

She tossed her briefcase on the table. The buckle thwacked against the metal surface and the reverberation sharpened her senses.

Full bore, baby.

“And,” she said, “I sure as hell hope you’re not violating my client’s rights by questioning him without his attorney present.”

Beck’s gaze was hot on hers. “What the hell?”

She met his stare and pointed. “Have you said anything?”

“You’re not my lawyer,” he said. “I want Fleming.”

Fleming? She should be insulted. She was insulted. That idiot was useless when it came to actually arguing a case. Before jumping the aisle, Jackie ate him for lunch on an eight-month trial that won the prosecution – eh-hem, her – a guilty verdict. And Beck was ready to toss her for that guy? Puh-lease.

Had to be because of their sordid history. In short, he despised her.

She liked to believe it was due to their spring break interlude. The glamour-boy jock from the University of Alabama was just coming off an ugly break-up and she couldn’t risk the heartbreak. No flippin’ way. Not after acing her LSATs with law school looming. Back then, like now, she’d been too focused on her work and had virtually ignored the male sex.

Of course, their history didn’t end there. The Donlin case two years back didn’t help. She’d refused to bring charges on a murder case they’d never win. Sure, he’d done the work – damned good work – and gathered as much evidence as he could, but it was scarce. No DNA, no fingerprints, no blood. A mountain of circumstantial evidence existed, but the case had been forensically bankrupt. What they’d had would never stick. Even if they’d made it to trial, a guilty verdict would have been impossible.

Beck hadn’t liked hearing it and had gone over Jackie’s head. Her boss agreed with her and somehow it all became Jackie’s fault. But that’s how it went when FBI agents and detectives were pissed at prosecutors.

All that ended when she jumped the aisle to the defense side.

Rolling right over Beck’s objections, she waggled her finger at the detectives. “Give us a second. I need to confer with my client. And, we’re going across the hall. To the room that doesn’t have recording devices.” She pointed at Beck. “Come with me.”

---

“For the love of God,” he said, “she is not my lawyer.”

Beck shook his head vigorously as the two cops who’d been interrogating him stood to leave in the wake of the hurricane known as Jackie DelRay.

Chair legs scraped against the concrete floor, like fingernails on a chalkboard, setting his teeth on edge. The cocky, confident glint in DelRay’s eyes did the same.

Muldoon unlocked him from the table, but left the cuffs on. “Do not leave me alone with her,” Beck begged the detectives. He swiveled to follow the two men—damn cowards—with his gaze. “I want my phone call. I want Fleming!”

Muldoon held the door on the opposite side of the hallway open. “You’ve got two minutes.”

The door banged shut behind Muldoon but not before the guy smirked a good luck, buddy at Beck.

When I get out of here, I’m gonna make your life hell, you coward.

“Stop being a baby,” DelRay said, shoving one of the chairs out of the way and squaring up the other across from him. Her gaze dropped to his chest and did a slow perusal. “Where’s your shirt?”

The cops hadn’t allowed him to grab one before they’d handcuffed him and read him his rights. He was lucky they even let him put on shoes.

Beck sighed heavily before dropping into a chair and trying not to like having Jackie’s eyes on him. He wished he could pause and look at the stunning defense attorney for a moment like any red-blooded man in his right mind would do, or have a normal, civilized discussion with her about the mess he was in. Because, jeez, it would be nice to have someone in his corner right now. But Jackie did not do normal. For Jackie, everything was an engagement, a skirmish. A fight.

Beck had fought her once. And lost. The Donlin case still made acid rise in his throat.

Not to mention the way Jackie DelRay had run out on him in Ft. Lauderdale back in the day.

This room, like the previous, was a freezer, the good ol’ detectives having turned down the heat since Beck was half naked, hoping, he guessed, that a little physical torture along with their endless, stupid questions would make him confess.

Fat chance.

“Why are you wearing two different colored shoes?” he fired back at the hotshot attorney.

Not much took Jackie aback, but she glanced down and seemed to notice for the first time they didn’t match. Same conservative pump, but different colors. She blinked twice and went back into pit bull mode. “Maybe because it’s the middle of the night, I’m half dead from exhaustion and didn’t bother to peruse my closet before racing down here. To, I might add, help someone who clearly does not want my services. A simple thank you would be nice. Besides, my shoes are not the problem here.”

“Your suit might be. Is that the same one you wore two years ago as a prosecutor?”

A brow cocked upward and at the same time, she ran a hand over the lapel of the jacket. “I love this suit. It’s my lucky one. And in case you haven’t noticed, you are handcuffed and sitting in an interrogation room on charges of murder. You have bigger things to worry about than my wardrobe.”

No shit. Annabelle was dead and he was the easy suspect – the only suspect. Cops liked easy. He folded his fingers together and considered his options. He didn’t have many. “What are you doing here, Ms. DelRay?”

“Defending you, what else?” The ass-kicker shifted facades. Her defenses lowered slightly, her face softening. “And stop with the Ms. DelRay stuff. I know we’ve had our issues, but we’re on the same side. Even if you want that idiot Fleming, right now, I’m here and this case is going to explode. Let me help until you get an attorney.”

“You don’t even know what happened.”

“I know enough and you’re going to fill in the rest.”

How much did she know? The cops didn’t have a clue as to what had really happened. All they had was circumstantial bullshit and conjecture. Unfortunately, that might just be enough. An attack on the Director’s wife was an attack on all of them and with Beck in custody, they wouldn’t look anywhere else. “What did they tell you?”

“That you killed Annabelle Lockhart.” She leaned closer, getting right in his face, those beautiful brown eyes searching his, as if he would melt and tell her his deepest, darkest secrets. “Did you?”

He caught a whiff of her perfume, something sexy and mysterious with a little tuberose, and was that vetiver? For a split second, his old fantasy of stripping her clothes off – those awful, out-of-date suits in drab colors – and seeing the real woman underneath flashed through his brain. “I thought defense attorneys never asked questions they didn’t want to know the answer to.”

She sat back, rolled her eyes. “Stop playing me, Beck. I know you didn’t do it.”

“Bullshit.” This was no game to him – his life was on the line here. He wasn’t going to be her next high-profile case. “Then why did you ask?”

She flipped open her battered briefcase, took out her phone and punched up a recording app. “Start from the beginning. What happened tonight? Were you with Annabelle?”

“Turn off the recorder. You’re not my lawyer. You of all people should recognize conflict of interest.”

Her slender fingers traced the outline of her phone, and she paused before hitting the button, a tiny smile quirking the corner of her lips at his concession. “It’s not a conflict of interest if I’m not your permanent counsel. Although why you don’t want me to record this is beyond me, since currently I am your attorney. Go ahead.” She motioned with her hand and hit record. “Start at the beginning.”

Damn hard-headed woman. “I attended a bachelor auction at the Hay-Adams.”

“Fancy place.”

“It was a charity event for the St. Agnes Women’s Shelter.”

“And you were on the auction block?”

He nodded. The light came on in her eyes as she pieced together a part of the puzzle. “Annabelle bought you?”

“Considering who my boss is, it was an uncomfortable situation to find myself in.”

The smile that had threatened earlier broke free. “Big, bad Beckett Pearson unraveled by Annabelle Lockhart? I met her once. She didn’t seem too scary to me.”

Was Jackie afraid of anyone? He gave a derisive grunt. “She made it very clear she bought me for a reason.”

The smile fell off her face. “You slept with her?”

“What? No.” God. He sat back, totally pissed and completely on edge. How had this happened? It was like living a bad dream. Kicking his feet out, they bumped into Jackie’s and he had to shift sideways in order to extend his legs all the way. His ass hurt from sitting on the cheap plastic chair and he was beyond exhausted, his temper a short fuse. “I danced around her blatant advances all night. We stopped at her place for a drink before dinner, we ate at Flat 1776, and I dropped her off afterwards. That’s it. That’s all that happened.”

“So why do the cops think you killed her? What’s your motive?”

“Everything they have is circumstantial and I don’t have motive.” He’d heard their spiel, the list of ‘evidence’, over and over. “I was the last one to see her. To be in her house. After I left, she sent me a text. A suggestive one with a picture of her in lingerie. She paid three grand for this date and the cops think I slept with her. They believe the autopsy will reveal my…trace evidence, but they won’t find any, I assure you.”

“Meaning, no semen? No condom in a garbage can? Nothing?”

Jeez. Of course, she would spell it all out in black and white. “None.”

“Good. Then let’s get you out of here and work on carving these charges up.”

If only. “What they will find – on my suit jacket – is her blood.”

Jackie’s calculating mind went berserk behind her eyes. This time both brows climbed skyward. “Well, that’s a problem. Explain.”

Beck wished someone could explain this whole goddamn situation to him. Deep breath. Focus. “When we were at her place before dinner, she dropped a wine bottle and cut herself. Her blood is on my jacket because she grabbed my arm with her bleeding hand when I tried to help her clean up the mess. I’m guessing the jacket is at the lab. Crime techs were already searching my place by the time I had cuffs on.”

“Her throat was slit.”

“Yep, and they’re saying it was done by a piece of glass from the broken wine bottle. She left it in a grocery bag on the counter when we went to dinner.”

“Did you touch the bottle at all?”

“What do you think?”

Shit was written all over Jackie’s face. “Was there anyone else at the house when you were there? Did you see any cars in the driveway when you dropped her off? Did she mention anyone living with her? Any hired help? Any enemies who might want her dead?”

“We didn’t discuss her domestic help, and silly me, I didn’t think to ask about her enemies. Great dinner conversation, thanks for the tip. I bet that’s why you’re so popular, isn’t it? All the guys love you grilling them about their enemies and who might want them dead.”

She flinched slightly, but didn’t acknowledge the dig. “Was there anyone else in her house?”

“As far as I know, she lives alone. Byron moved out four months ago according to gossip around the office.”

“Okay,” Jackie said, blowing out a breath. “You were the last one to see her, your fingerprints are on the weapon, and her blood is on your jacket.”

His fingers impatiently drummed on the table. It was a slam-dunk case. Fuck. “I wasn’t the last person to see her. The killer was.”

“I’m looking at it from the prosecution’s point of view.”

And now he was the one who knew better than to ask a question he didn’t want an answer to. He asked anyway. “And?”

Jackie punched the recording off, tossed her phone in her briefcase and stood, smoothing down her jacket and glancing at her mismatched shoes again. “I’d say it’s a good thing I came down to help you because you’re in a world of hurt. Fleming would screw this up so many ways you couldn’t see straight from your prison cell.”

Before he could respond, the door to the room flew open, bouncing off the wall.

“Time’s up,” Muldoon said. “Back across the hall.”

“Fine,” Jackie said. “We’re through anyway, and my client won’t be answering any more questions tonight. It’s late and he’s tired. Get him processed.”

She waited for Muldoon to escort Beck back to the interview room they’d started in, where he stood waiting while Jackie did her thing.

“We still have questions,” Muldoon said.

“Sorry, detective. I’m shutting it down.” She faced Beck again. “You’ll have to stay in here tonight, but I’ll get you arraigned tomorrow afternoon. Are you able to post bond?”

He nodded. All that damned modeling money earning interest in his mutual funds account would come in handy. The irony of using it for bail hit him all over again – all the years growing up in his criminal family and staying clean hadn’t done a damn bit of good.

A shout came from the hallway and Beck’s heart dropped to the floor.

Byron Lockhart appeared in the open doorway, his face twisted with rage, his jacket askew. More shouts rang out, footsteps pounding as someone chased after him.

“You fucking bastard,” Lockhart said. “You killed my wife.”

Then he reared back and sent a fist at Beck’s face.

---

“What the…?” Jackie stood in stunned shock as a handcuffed Beck stumbled back from the cheap shot the FBI director had just thrown.

“Grab him!” she yelled. “What the hell is wrong with you guys letting him in here?”

Even handcuffed, Beck’s big body moved to a fighting stance and his hands came up to protect his head.

Before Lockhart could throw another punch, Muldoon bear-hugged him from behind, dragging him backward.

“You killed her!” Lockhart screamed.

The only good thing about this whole setup was that the Director of the FBI had just been recorded punching a suspect. One of his own damned agents at that.

The press would pounce on this like catnip.

“Sir!” Brasich rushed into the room. “Calm down.”

Unwilling to risk the Director coming unhinged, Jackie moved in front of Beck. Growing up with three older brothers, she’d diffused more than a few smackdowns.

She jabbed a finger at Muldoon, then Brasich. “I should have both your badges. In fact, we may sue the District for this. Throw the department into that lawsuit too. Why not?” She angled back to Beck. “Prepare to be a very rich man. We’re taking everyone down.”

Of all the wacky things she’d seen, this one topped it. If she wasn’t so damned giddy over the colossal screw-up of a supposedly grieving husband anywhere near the murder suspect, she might rail about the injustice of it all. She’d bury them with this little ditty.

Muldoon held the back of Lockhart’s suit coat while nudging him to the door, but...wait. How perfect was this?

“Director Lockhart,” Jackie said, “where were you this evening?”

Brasich whirled on her. “Knock it off, counselor.”

Not in this lifetime, pal. She waggled a hand between Brasich and Lockhart. “You guys had him in here for questioning, right? I mean, hello.” She clunked herself on the head. “This makes total sense. With a highly public – and nasty – divorce going on, of course he’d be your first suspect. Oh, and let’s not forget their joint holdings. Lots of money at stake for the good director.”

She cocked her head at Lockhart. He wanted to say something. She saw it in the purple glow of his cheeks. Years of trial work had taught her to read the signs. And if her experience taught her anything, with just a gentle poke, the Director would explode on her. Well, bring it on.

“From what I’ve heard,” she said. “Director Lockhart is a jealous man. One with a beautiful wife. Oh, excuse me, estranged wife.” She gestured to Beck. “And here we have the pinnacle of sexuality, absolute eye candy of a man who went out with Annabelle this evening. A man she bid on at an auction.” She let out a snort. “Heck, I don’t blame you for being upset. I mean, are any of us doubting what Annabelle had in mind for Mr. Pearson? I can tell you from the female perspective,” she faced Beck, made a spectacle of checking him out from head to toe. “I have no doubt.”

Oh, wow. She was pushing it here. Even for her, smartass of the century. This little stunt might finally land her in front of the bar association. But, well, she supposed the horse had already left the barn so she might as well play it out.

She stepped in Lockhart’s path, completely invading his personal space while she locked onto his fiery blue eyes. “Did you kill your wife?”

He paused for a long few seconds, his jaw flexing hard. “Fuck. You.”

The room fell silent. Even the detectives were struck mute and that didn’t happen everyday. At least not in Jackie’s life. If nothing else, she’d take pride in that.

Finally, Brasich snapped to and grabbed her by the elbow. “That’s it.” He hauled her out of the way while Muldoon shoved Lockhart out.

“No problem,” Jackie said. She glanced up at the video camera mounted on the wall. “It’s all recorded anyway.”

She turned to Beck whose right cheek had already swelled. “Are you all right?”

He nodded. “I’m fine.”

“Brasich,” Jackie said, “please provide my client with an ice pack. And, given the department’s complete lack of control when it comes to protecting Mr. Pearson, I want him in a private cell tonight, with a guard. No one goes near him. And get him a damned shirt.” Now she invaded his space. “If anything happens to him, I’ll put your ass in a sling.”