Page 55 of The Wedding Party

“You know my father?” I counter.

“Eddie and I have done a little business,” she informs me, offering me her hand. “Danielle Littleton.”

Since my father hates attorneys but loves blondes, I don’t doubt she’s telling the truth. If he was forced to work with an attorney, he’d choose her. I don’t take her hand. “Small world,” I say. Or not. “How exactly did you end up as Carrie Reynolds’s attorney?”

Her hand falls away and she says, “Full disclosure. I heard about the case—scandal travels fast, especially when the FBI agent that broke the Spider Man case is on the scene—and I called Carrie’s parents. I asked to represent their daughter.”

Of course you did, I think. High-profile cases mean money, attention, and book deals. Lord knows I’ve had offers. “And you used your connection to my father to assure them you could handle me,” I assume. My lips quirk as I add, “The one problem you have is that I’m not going to try and get you in bed like my father would.”

She bristles. “That’s between me and your father.”

“That’s a yes,” I say, “and far from a first. But for the record, I didn’t ask. I don’t care who you slept with, Ms. Littleton. I care how you handle this case.”

“Danielle,” she corrects.

I don’t extend the same courtesy. We are not friends. “Let’s talk about Carrie, Danielle.”

Her spine stiffens. “Yes, let’s talk about Carrie. Is she under arrest?”

“I’ll let you know when I can actually question her.”

“When the doctor allows it, I’ll allow it. For now, I’m going to speak to my client.”

“I’ll wait,” I say. “I’ll grab some delicious coffee from the machine and be right here.”

She turns to leave. I’m not ready to let that happen. “Why would the Phoenix family talk to the attorney of the woman who may have killed their son?”

Danielle pauses and turns to look at me. “We’ll talk.” She closes the space between her and Carrie’s room, speaks to the police officer guarding Carrie, and then enters the room, shutting the door behind her.

I head into the waiting room and do exactly what we both expect me to do. I call my father.

Chapter Forty-Seven

My father knows his faults and he taught me to know my own as well, which is a complicated topic I’ll avoid for now. Among his declared faults, his words, not mine—he’s loud and prideful. I don’t mind the loudness at all. I guess I’m just used to it. The pridefulness does get him in trouble and rubbed off on me a bit too much.

Really the only flaws I’d assign him are, despite his good intentions, his vigilante attitude and willingness to beat people up. He’d argue those things are necessary for the greater good. Whatever the case, for all his real or perceived faults, communication is not one of them.

After my mother was killed, I had a regular nanny, but despite her presence, he swore that if I called, he’d answer. And he did. When I was twelve, he picked up the phone in the middle of a shoot-out. He’d taken a bullet in the shoulder while telling me that yes, he’d take me to the movies Saturday night. I’m fairly certain he killed someone while talking to me. But he’d promised to answer.

So as expected, he answers my call on the first ring now. “Sugar Bear,” he greets, and there’s loud breathing and panting in the background. He’s having sex or fighting. Or arm wrestling. He does love his arm wrestling. It’s his way of showing he’s a superior alpha no matter his age, which is a young fifty.

“Dad,” I say tightly, ignoring the endearment for more important things. “What are you doing?”

“I’m giving Frank, a local bookie, a chance to remember where my client’s missing brother might be.” There’s more grunting, and knowing my father, I’m fairly certain Frank’s face is planted on the floor.

“Is your boot presently on his back?”

“Exactly, daughter. You learn so well. I’ve always been proud of that. It’s the perfect way to take a breath before the conversation continues, don’t you think?” He doesn’t give me time to answer. “I hear murder followed you all the way to Estes Park. I hate those press-grabber cases, but if you need backup, I’ll pack a duffel and be there in two hours.”

“The last thing I need is you giving the press something else to talk about.”

“No?” he challenges. “Seems like that might be just what you need.”

He makes a good point. If I were planning to stay in this tiny town, a distraction might be just what the doctor ordered, but I’m not. I’m getting us the heck out of here. “Danielle Littleton,” I say. “Three words. Go.” The three-word thing comes from my childhood, a game we used to play.

“Beautiful. Scrumptious. Devious.” He goes further and adds more than I need to know. “All things that make for a good bedmate, but a bad friend or adversary. Why?”

“She used you and your connection to me to convince my top suspect’s family to hire her as a defense.”