the floor beside the bed. “I’ve been out of town and haven’t had a chance to restock.”
Gala cuddled up against him. “Do you really work for Quinn Cortez?”
“Yeah, I really do.” He reached down and pulled the sheet and blanket up and over them, covering him to just above his waist and her to the top of her tits.
“And you were with him in Nashville during the Terry McBryar case?”
“Every day he was there, I was there. I told you, I’m part of his personal staff.”
“What’s it like being that close to a man like Quinn Cortez?” She curled several strands of his chest hair around her index finger. “I mean the guy’s like famous and all.”
Gala wasn’t the first woman he’d impressed by telling her that he worked for Quinn and she sure wouldn’t be the last. He’d told Quinn about using his name to get chicks and his boss had just laughed and said, “If it gets you laid, go for it.” Quinn was that kind of guy. When it came to scoring with a woman, nothing was off-limits. All was fair in love and war. And Quinn always won at both. Aaron figured there wasn’t a woman alive Quinn couldn’t conquer. And the man never lost when it came to courtroom warfare.
Gala propped herself up with her elbow and gazed down at Aaron. “You know, you look like him a little. Same black hair and brown eyes. You’re Hispanic, too, aren’t you?”
“You guessed it, sweetie. Me and Quinn are like two peas in a pod.”
He wasn’t Hispanic—not even half—and any resemblance to Quinn was purely superficial. They were about the same height at six one and they had similar coloring, although without a tan, Aaron was several shades lighter than Quinn. He owed his ethnic heritage to his maternal grandmother, a Navajo who still lived on the reservation. But since he’d probably never see Gala again, why spoil the image of him she had in her mind?
A loud, aggressive pounding at the door brought Aaron up out of bed and sent Gala scooting toward the bathroom, picking up some of their discarded clothing as she went.
“You expecting somebody?” she called to him from the bathroom.
“Nope.” He’d deliberately unplugged his phone after they’d done it the first time and turned off his cell, too. He didn’t want anything interrupting what he’d hoped would be an all-night love-a-thon.
“Whoever it is, get rid of them.” She winked at him before she shut the door.
Aaron grabbed his jeans off the floor, shimmied hurriedly into them and headed out of the bedroom. The knocking grew more intense.
“Hey, man, if you’re in there, open the damn door,” Jace Morgan shouted.
What the hell was Jace doing here? After returning to Houston, Jace, Marcy and he had gone their separate ways, as they always did after the end of a business trip. Quinn’s personal staff worked like a well-oiled machine when together, despite the difference in their personalities; but the minute a case ended, they didn’t make contact again until Quinn called them together. He usually gave them at least a week’s downtime after a big case. And the Terry McBryar case had been one of the biggest. He expected to get a really nice bonus, something else Quinn did after winning a case. He was the kind of guy who took care of his people.
“Hold your horses,” Aaron said as he raced through the living room. When he opened the door, he was surprised to see Marcy Sims with Jace. He knew instantly that something was up. “What’s wrong?”
Not waiting for an invitation, Marcy swept past him and into his apartment. “Quinn’s in trouble. He wants us in Nashville by tomorrow.”
“What kind of trouble?” Aaron asked.
“That Lulu Vanderley he was going to Nashville to see got herself murdered last night.” Jace closed the door and came inside behind Marcy.
“You’re shitting me?”
“Quinn found her body,” Marcy said. “So you know what that means.”
“He’s a suspect,” Aaron replied.
“He didn’t do it. He didn’t kill her,” Jace said emphatically. “The boss would never murder anybody.”
“Yeah, you’re right, he wouldn’t,” Aaron agreed. “But I’ll bet there are a lot of people who’re getting a big laugh out of this. The most famous criminal lawyer in the country, who’s gotten dozens of accused murderers acquitted, might get charged with murder himself.”
“They can’t arrest Quinn for murder.” Jace’s cheeks flushed with emotion. “We gotta do whatever we can to help him.”
Sometimes Aaron found it amusing the way Jace hero-worshiped Quinn. But then the kid owed Quinn a lot, didn’t he, even more than he and Marcy did? They were all three misfits, kids who’d been in trouble, heading for a life of crime. Marcy had been abused by her father and wound up on the streets, ready to turn tricks at sixteen. A cheerleader-type blonde with big brown eyes, she could have made a fortune as a prostitute. Her salvation had been that the first guy she’d approached on her first night on the job turned out to be Quinn Cortez, a real crusader for kids in trouble. He’d gotten her placed in a good foster home, helped her attend junior college and then hired her as his personal assistant.
Aaron’s story wasn’t much different, except he’d wound up at the Judge Harwood Brown Boys’ Ranch, a place built and run by Quinn and several other guys who’d been boys in trouble themselves way back when and had been saved by old Judge Brown. When Aaron turned eighteen, Quinn had encouraged him to go to college, but he’d known college wasn’t for him. He wasn’t stupid, but he was no Einstein either. He made Quinn understand that he didn’t have the smarts for college. He’d been working for Quinn as his chauffeur and all-around gofer ever since. The pay was good, the benefits great.
Jace, another Judge Harwood Brown Boys’ Ranch alumnus, had been working for Quinn for the past year. He was a pretty kid, with hazel eyes and curly sandy brown hair that he kept short to control the curls, but Jace’s story wasn’t a pretty one. He’d admitted that he had been molested by a priest when he was twelve, which had screwed him up pretty bad. And it didn’t help that he’d grown up without a dad and had lost his mother, too, only a couple of years ago.
“I’ve booked us flights for tomorrow morning,” Marcy said. “And I’ve lined up a four-bedroom house and a rental car. I’m hoping the police will clear this up pretty quickly and we can all head home in a few days, but—”
“Aaron, who was at the door?” Wearing only his rumpled shirt, Gala stopped dead still in the doorway between the bedroom and living room. “Oops. Sorry.”
“We…er…we were just leaving.” Marcy started backing toward the door.
“Don’t leave on my account,” Gala said. “Stick around. I was just going to order pizza.”
Marcy looked directly at Aaron. “Jace will pick you up at eight-thirty in the morning. Be ready.”
“No problem,” Aaron told her.
“Quinn’s counting on us, man,” Jace said, eyeing Gala disapprovingly. “We can’t let him down.”
“I get it, okay,” Aaron said. “I’ll be ready to go at eight-thirty in the morning.”
As much as Aaron admired and respected Quinn, he wasn’t in love with the guy like Marcy was nor did he worship the man the way Jace did. But he’d cut off his right arm before he’d let Quinn down.
“Let’s look at this rationally,” Griffin Powell said. “I can’t take on each of you individually as clients for obvious reasons, even if I assigned one of my employees to handle the case for one of you. However, if you two could work together, you could hire me jointly. After all, I assume you both want the same thing—to discover the identity of Lulu Vanderley’s murderer and see him brought to justice.”
Annabelle