The Marine

She smelled faintly of an exotic spice that went perfectly with her amber eyes and winged black eyebrows but was as incongruent with her beige, don’t-mess-with-me-in-court suit jacket and skirt as was her voice. Rick, in his lowly civi jeans and white T-shirt, turned to watch her stroll toward his glass-topped dining room table.

Her legs, as well as the rest of her, were shapely enough to win over any male jury. Not that he should be noticing, considering the latest complication heaped on his plate. But she was one hell of a looker despite the bun into which she’d pulled her black hair—one that would make a drill sergeant proud.

Only, he was no drill sergeant, and thanks to the felony charge he’d saddled himself with, he wouldn’t be sitting on a jury anytime soon. His butt was likely destined for jail. He glanced out into the bright sunlight at the red pickup truck sitting in his parking space, its left front bumper and side panel bashed in. Damn, how had his life become so messed up so fast?

He shut the front door and followed her. “Excuse me, Ms.…Hayes, was it?” He wasn’t certain of her name because the fact that she was a lawyer for McCoy Enterprises, sent to hand-deliver a very special and wholly unexpected letter, had caught up his interest. Along with the contents of the letter. Rick waited to feel some emotional reaction to news of his father’s death, but nothing came. He shrugged. He hadn’t even known the guy’s name.

The lawyer lady glanced up from where she was unloading papers from her sleek black leather briefcase. “That’s correct. But please, call me Lynn. Especially since we’ll be working closely for the next few days while I help represent you legally, then escort you to Dependable, Missouri.”

Despite the sickening roll his stomach performed at her blithe mention of his need for legal representation, Rick scoffed. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken about pretty much all of that, ma’am.”

She paused, a file folder half out of her briefcase, and stared at him as if he’d just claimed women were better suited to working within the home—something his mother had single-handedly disproved.

“Mistaken?” She finished removing the file and placed it on the table with a telling deliberateness. “Major Branigan, I put forth a concerted effort to never make mistakes. They’re counterproductive to my goals.”

He eyed her courtroom version of spit-polish. The woman seemed ready to argue a case before the Supreme Court, which seemed like overkill to him. Kind of like calling in a Harrier jet with full armament when a side arm would suffice. “Of which, I imagine, you have quite a few, Ms. Hayes.”

“At the moment, just three. To quickly extract you from your current situation without drawing media attention and to get you to Dependable, Missouri, in time for your grandfather’s seventy-fifth birthday party a month from now on July third.”

“That’s only two. What’s the third?”

She froze. Without looking at him, she stated, “The third is personal, Major.”

Personal, eh? What sort of personal goal would a clearly high-priced attorney have? She’d already been hired by one of the most successful general retail corporations in the United States, if not the world. McCoy stores were found everywhere and sold pretty much everything one needed in this modern world.

Wondering why she’d mention a third goal in the first place if it was personal, he fished. “But tied to the other two?”

“Yes,” she crisply admitted. Then she added, “Now, let’s review the facts of your case to ensure the information I was given is correct.”

He clenched his abs against the anger and dread starting to party in his gut. “I’m not interested in you helping me prove my innocence, Ms. Hayes.” Especially when she worked for his father’s family.

“I’m not interested in helping you prove your innocence, Major. I’m here to facilitate a speedy and un-noteworthy end to the situation you’ve found yourself in. We need to plead you down to a lesser charge of reckless driving—or best, failure to heed a traffic signal—instead of leaving you to face felony DUI hit-and-run. Then getting you discharged will be simple. Quick. Assuming the judge or magistrate and prosecutor are as agreeable as Joseph believes they will be because of your record. Granted, since I’m not licensed to practice law in the state of California, all I can do is offer advice to the lawyer we hire for you—”

“I already have a lawyer.” If only to speed up the inevitable: demotion at best, dishonorable discharge and prison at worst.

The anger and dread spread into his chest.

She shifted her weight, drawing his attention briefly to the curve of her hip. “Forgive me, but I’m not sure it’d be wise to retain council from—” she flipped open the top file and read “—Acme Legal Services.” Her mouth flattened, as if the name tasted bad. She studied him for a moment. “Please don’t tell me you picked the first firm listed in the phone book.”

So what if he had? Since he’d been pleading the Fifth nearly from the get-go, the quality of his lawyer didn’t matter. Still, he wished the man hadn’t automatically submitted a plea of not guilty at the arraignment hearing.

Rick looked her in the eyes and crossed his arms over his chest by way of answer.

She made a save-me-from-idiots noise as she pulled out a chair—the one at the head of the table—and sat down. Unconsciously or not, the woman knew how to send a message. She was the independent, in-charge type. His mother would love her.

Another reason to have nothing to do with her.

Sliding the open file in front of herself, Ms. Hayes produced a hefty black-and-gold pen from her briefcase. “Arranging for new council will be the first order of business.”

“No.”

Her pen stilled on her notepad. Without glancing at him, she asked, “Care to explain why?” Her tone was casual enough, but a hint of mounting annoyance snuck through.

Some of the Marine officers he admired the most used a similar tactic to convey their opinions.

This admirable quality aside, he was in no mood to play today. Probably never would be again. “No. Nor do I care for your help.” Though he’d done so inadvertently, he’d placed himself on this path and had every intention of reaching, with honor and dignity, whatever end it might hold for him.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Rick fought the panic-spurred temptation to let her help him. “It’s time for you to leave, Ms. Hayes.”

“Major Branigan.” She carefully set her pen on a file that undoubtedly contained everything about him down to his regulation shoe size.

Everything but the truth.

Folding her hands in front of her, she stared at him, her amber eyes glowing with conviction. “I understand the need to accept punishment for getting into your truck and driving after having a six-pack too many beers—especially considering the extent of the injuries the woman in the car you hit suffered.” She glanced at the file. “One Emelie Dawson, forty-six, divorced mother of two. But I refuse to allow you to offer yourself up that way.”

He remembered the letter he still gripped, and looked at it again. “Because that would be bad for the McCoys?”

Her response was unapologetic. “Because it would be bad for the McCoys.”

He shouldn’t care, shouldn’t want to know after all this time. But he couldn’t stop himself from finding out more about his father’s family.

He asked, “Isn’t making known their connection to me—and the circumstances surrounding it—worse? I recall seeing a fluffy report about the McCoys on one of those entertainment news shows. The reporter said the head of the family is some sort of high-moral-standards drum banger. Revealing that one of his kids—”

“Marcus was Joseph’s only child.”

Rick frowned. “His only—? Granted, the reporter was some ex–beauty queen, but I could have sworn she mentioned—”

“Alexander McCoy is actually Marcus’s first illegitimate child,” she smoothly interrupted him again.

So smoothly it took him a moment to register what she’d conveyed in that honey-slick voice of hers.

“I’m not his only?”

“No. You’re one of four men.”

“Four!” His already low opinion of the man who’d sired him crashed and burned.

He had three half siblings. But they would never be the brothers to him that his fellow Marines were.

The lady lawyer coolly shifted the file in front of her. “While my purpose here is to—”

“I know what your damn purpose is, Ms. Hayes,” he said, doing some interrupting of his own, but not nearly as smoothly as she had. The story he’d thought he’d known was turning out to be even worse. He might as well have it all. “But the only thing I want from you is what you know about my father.”

LYNN HAYES COULD ONLY stare at the compelling, seething man standing stiffly before her, his hands fisted at his sides, the letter he should have considered his salvation crumpled in one big, strong hand. His reaction to not only the letter but to her presence stunned her. She didn’t like being stunned, and she needed every ounce of her self-control not to let the unwelcome feeling show. She couldn’t afford to mess this up. Everything she’d worked so hard for to this point depended on success.

She looked back down at the file she’d acquired from the base commander—Joseph McCoy’s connections never ceased to amaze and inspire—that detailed a military career epitomizing United States Marine Corps values. Major Rick Branigan had been awarded several medals, including a Purple Heart for injuries sustained in the first days of full-scale military action in Afghanistan. Injuries that, while in no way debilitating, now kept him from combat assignments but hadn’t made him want out.

By all accounts, Major Branigan was indeed one of the best and the brightest, having achieved his current rank mere months ago and having had a spotless record, even before joining the Corps.