4th

Chapter 1

“Girlfriend, you need to relax.” Olivia Jackson gave her co-worker’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “We won’t be able to get through this if you don’t. You want me to pray for you?”

Judi Irving inhaled and pretended to busy herself inside her battered locker. Prayer was her co-worker’s answer to everything.

“Uh, that’s okay,” Judi mumbled, mostly to herself. “I’m fine.”

She stripped off her purple Big Buy blazer and stuffed it inside the locker. The second she’d entered the room, the pain swelling her feet went from uncomfortable to unbearable. Her body’s way of rebelling against another twelve-hour shift.

Olivia took a step closer to Judi, as her eyes crisscrossed the empty locker room. “Did you bring the documents?” she asked.

“Not here!” Judi whispered, her voice tinged with panic. She had told Olivia a thousand times. It wasn’t safe to talk about their lawsuit at work.

Judi was a fit, strawberry blonde, who usually masked her worries with a pleasant smile. Today she felt anxious and frayed. She stared up at the ceiling. She wouldn’t put it past Big Buy to have listening devices or even video cameras hidden in the locker room.

“You worry too much,” Olivia said, raising her right hand as if preparing to take an oath. “Not a soul can be against us because Jesus is for us.”

At only 33, Olivia spoke with the confidence and zeal of a Baptist minister. She had skin the color of slightly burnt straw and a body stacked with curves. Her tell-it-like-it-is personality significantly heightened her five-two frame.

“Ida can’t meet us tonight,” Judi said. “So you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to see them.”

It baffled Judi how Olivia could be so fearless in the face of what they’d just done. Two weeks ago, they’d filed a sex discrimination lawsuit against Big Buy, the largest discount chain in the state of California. Fed up with seeing women repeatedly passed over for promotions and subjected to crude, sexist jokes, Judi and her two co-workers decided to do something about it. The only way to make change, they’d agreed, was to shove it down the company’s throat.

The Big Buy documents Judi now possessed—documents Olivia was dying to see—should have emboldened her. Instead, they only heightened her fears.

Olivia’s face flushed with exasperation. “You’re way too paranoid, girlfriend. I’m praying for you whether you want me to or not.” She took both of Judi’s hands in hers, closed her eyes and bowed her head. “Father God, please protect and strengthen Judi for the battle we—”

Judi eased her hands from Olivia’s grasp and stepped past her, never meeting her eyes.

“That’s okay…I, uh…I gotta go.”

It was close to ten by the time Judi pulled her black Camry into the driveway of her modest rental house in Mar Vista. Unfortunately, being home did nothing to lift her spirits.

A year-long divorce battle that was still in full swing had left her emotionally drained. And now, her starving-actor boyfriend was exhibiting the same evasiveness her husband had displayed right before he’d dumped her for a big-breasted beautician. At 42, Judi was still picking losers.

She made her way inside and headed straight for the bedroom, longing for a hot shower and some deep sleep.

Phillip walked out of the attached bathroom, bare-chested and beautiful, his coal-black hair slicked back with a shiny gel. His grayish-green eyes matched the tint of his silk boxers.

Phillip barely looked at her. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Judi said back.

That had been the extent of their communications lately.

In the beginning, her affair with a 28-year-old she’d picked up in a bar had been nothing short of a thrill ride. At the time, a young lover was the boost her self-esteem needed. Now, it was simply a whopping mistake in judgment.

Judi undressed, while Phillip returned to the bathroom. It was close to five minutes before another word passed between them.

“You still going through with the lawsuit?” Phillip called out.

Judi snorted. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s a stupid thing to do.”

Judi smiled. She relished this newfound power over her live-in lover. As the TV pitchman for Big Buy stores, Phillip feared her lawsuit might ruin his career—if you could call a few commercials, three plays and a B movie a career. He’d been constantly badgering her to drop it.

“Whoever sent me those documents doesn’t think my lawsuit’s stupid,” Judi shot back.

The thick package had arrived in the mail only three days earlier. With Phillip peering over her shoulder, Judi opened it to find several dozen documents and a typed note: “Good luck with your lawsuit against Big Buy. These documents should help.”

“You don’t even know what they are,” Phillip pressed.

True. They had both skimmed several pages and could see that they were financial records. Beyond that, they might as well have been written in Russian.

Judi had immediately left an excited voicemail message for her attorney. At the moment, Vernetta Henderson was defending a football player in a civil sexual assault case. As soon as that trial ended, their lawsuit against Big Buy would receive Vernetta’s full attention. For now, the documents were in a safe place. Not even Phillip knew where she had stashed them.

“They’re probably stolen,” Phillip said, refusing to drop the subject. “What happens if you get fired?”

If I get fired, then you’ll have to get a real job.

Judi should have kicked him out weeks ago, but she had a long history of letting men trounce all over her. Maybe that was why the Big Buy lawsuit meant so much to her. She was finally standing up for herself.

Having been out of the job market for most of her eight-year marriage, returning to retail had been her easiest option. She had expected a quick promotion, but soon realized the fast track at Big Buy was reserved for men.

“Can I borrow a few bucks?” Phillip asked from the bathroom.

“What’s a few bucks?”

“A hundred?”

“I don’t have it.”

Phillip strode out of the bathroom. He had changed into jeans and a body-hugging sweater that showcased his muscular arms. “Stop being a bitch.”

Judi charged up to him. “I told you not to talk to me like that. And where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“I have a meeting with Harold.”

“It’s almost ten o’clock. Since when do you schedule meetings with your agent this late at night?”

“I have no reason to lie.”

Those were certainly words she’d heard before. “Who’re you screwing, Phillip?”

He threw up his hands. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. Get out of my face.” Phillip shoved her so hard, she stumbled to the floor.

Judi laid there totally stunned. Their arguments had intensified in recent weeks, but Phillip had never put his hands on her. The rage began to build as she slowly got to her feet.

“We’re done. Pack your stuff and get out!” Judi shouted.

Phillip turned back around to face her. An ugly smirk marred his face. “I’ll leave when I’m ready to leave.”

Judi charged at him and gouged her fingernails deep into the left side of his face.

For several long seconds they both seemed stricken with paralysis.

Phillip finally pressed three fingers to his cheek. His eyes expanded as he stared at the specks of blood on his fingertips. Phillip’s precious face was his bread and butter.

“You bitch!” he sputtered. “You scarred my face!”

He snatched Judi by the upper arms, lifting her high enough for her feet to dangle in the air.

Judi tried to wrestle free, but Phillip only squeezed harder. Sharp stabs of pain rocketed down her arms. “Let me go! You’re hurting me!”

Phillip hurled her onto the bed, then bolted over to the dresser to inspect his face in the mirror. Three short, red gashes lined the left side of his face. He turned back to Judi, who lay coiled in the middle of the bed, sobbing.

“If you ever touch my face again,” he seethed, “I’ll kill you.”

Snatching his keys from the dresser, Phillip stormed out of the room.

The sound of movement coming from the kitchen woke Judi from her sleep. She was still curled up in the same spot where Phillip had discarded her. She checked the clock on the nightstand and was shocked to see that it read 3:27 a.m.

“A meeting with your agent my ass!”

She scrambled out of bed. Enough was enough. Phillip had to go. Now. Right now.

Striding into the hallway, she flicked on the light switch. No illumination appeared, but that did not halt her journey.

“Phillip! We need to talk!”

She stepped into the kitchen and pounded her fist against the light switch just inside the doorway. This time, when the light that should have flooded the room didn’t, her body constricted with fear.

“Phillip, is that you?” Her voice was smaller now and had lost most of its bravado.

Judi sensed the presence of someone nearby and whirled around.

“Who’s in here?” She could hear a loud, steady thud, but wasn’t sure if it was her heartbeat or someone else’s. “Phillip, is that you?”

She darted into the living room, each step compelled by an innate instinct to flee. Terror, however, had distorted her sense of direction. She was uncertain now whether the front door was to her left or right, north or south. She plowed clumsily through the room, arms extended like a mummy.

“Ow!” Judi yelped as her knee collided into the corner of a coffee table. She ignored the fierce pain and continued to hobble across the room.

When she finally made contact with a wall, she slapped the surface like a mime palming an imaginary window. Her hand found the doorknob and she fumbled with the lock before finally tugging it open.

Judi whimpered in relief as the cold morning air stroked her face.

Just as she was about to cross the threshold to safety, a hand gripped her shoulder and snatched her back into the living room. The door slammed shut as something hard and heavy careened into the back of her head. She crashed face-first into the wall. Blood gushed from her nose with the force of a geyser.

“Help! Somebody help me!” Judi screamed.

The intruder pinned her right shoulder against the wall and pounded her in the back of the head a second time. A heavy fog enveloped her senses, but Judi fought hard against her body’s desire to give in. She flailed at her attacker, raising her left hand up and over her shoulder. When she felt skin, she grabbed and pinched and scratched. But her efforts did nothing to free her from her attacker’s grasp.

Another hard blow to Judi’s head sapped any remaining strength. She began to drift toward unconsciousness as her co-worker’s earlier request flickered in her mind.

If only Olivia could pray for her now.

Chapter 2

Show no fear.

That had been my mantra for the past eight days, which was exactly how long I’d been sitting at the defense table in Department 26 of the Los Angeles Superior Court.

At the moment, every eye in this media-infested tinderbox was riveted on my opponent, Girlie Cortez, who was winding down her closing argument.

A salacious mix of Filipino and Caucasian, she was a junior partner at the litigation firm, Donaldson, Watson and Barkley. Petite and slender with dark, ominous eyes, her shiny black hair spilled down her back like a curtain of silk. Born Lourdes Amelia Cortez, Girlie had legally adopted her childhood nickname and wore it like her personal marquee.

Any opponent who judged Girlie based on her feminine appearance would live to regret it. A tigress of a lawyer, she had a reputation for doing whatever it took to win—no matter how unscrupulous, unethical or just plain scandalous. I learned that from personal experience.

The Honorable Rafael Pedrano nodded in my direction as Girlie returned to her seat at the plaintiff’s table. “Ms. Henderson, you may address the jury.”

I slowly stood up, my eyes bright and focused, my stance relaxed.

Show no fear.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” I began with a respectful smile. “As you know, I’m Vernetta Henderson and I represent Lamarr ‘The Hero’ Harrison, the Los Angeles Legends’ star wide receiver.”

At five-eight, I was a great height for commanding attention in a courtroom. My shoulder-length hair was parted on the side and conservatively swept back behind my right ear. My navy blue, pinstriped suit conveyed both confidence and power.

“I’d like to commend Ms. Cortez for that spectacular story she just told you. But this is a court of law. Stories are of no value here. To carry her burden of proof, Ms. Cortez must present you with credible evidence. She hasn’t done that because she doesn’t have any.”

I took a moment to make eye contact with a few of the faces in the jury box. Juror number six, a dental assistant with perfect teeth, gave me an encouraging nod. I was already counting on her vote since I’d caught her giving Lamarr a seductive smile that bordered on flirting.

“There were only two people in that hotel suite on the morning of June twenty-fifth when the plaintiff alleges that my client sexually assaulted her. So only two people—Lamarr and the plaintiff—know what really happened.”

Using her name would make her human. Human was not what I wanted her to be.

“When you head back to the jury room to begin your deliberations, I’d like you to ask yourself one question: Who’s the real player here?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Lamarr was sitting up straight, just as I had instructed, his hands clasped on the table in front of him. He was 26 years old, ten years my junior, with a boyish face and deep-set dimples. A tall, sturdy 230 pounds, Lamarr traversed the football field with the speed and grace of a prized race horse.

“My client plays games for a living,” I told the jury. “That’s his job. The plaintiff plays games too. The one game she plays best is manipulation. She manipulated my client and she’s been trying to manipulate all of you by walking into this courtroom day after day with her conservative suits, her mousy demeanor and her crocodile tears. But let me remind you who she really is.”

I took four short steps over to the defense table and pressed a button on my laptop. A life-size picture of Tonisha filled the screen to the right of the witness box. She was wearing purple eye shadow, ruby red lipstick, and a thick auburn wig that fanned out across her shoulders. Her long legs were shamelessly snaked around a shiny brass pole. She was also butt naked.

Extending my arm, I pointed up at the screen like it was my smoking gun. “That’s the real player in this courtroom.”

Although the jurors had seen this photograph when I cross-examined Tonisha, they still seemed jarred by it. Juror number nine, the computer geek, leaned forward and blushed. Juror number two, the Lutheran minister, averted his eyes.

“The plaintiff,” I continued, “is an admitted sports groupie who was on a mission to hook up with a professional football player—any football player. But Girlie Cortez wants you to believe that the plaintiff only accompanied Lamarr to his suite at the W Hotel so they could talk and get to know each other.”

I dramatically rolled my eyes.

“She wanted to talk? At two-fifteen in the morning? We all know the real reason we’re in this courtroom.”

I raised my left hand and slowly rubbed my thumb back and forth across my fingertips. “So that the plaintiff can collect.”

Point by point, I meticulously reviewed the evidence, then reminded the jury that the plaintiff changed her story so many times, that the L.A. District Attorney’s Office elected not to file criminal charges against Lamarr. By the time I finished recounting my version of the facts, I hadn’t exactly come out and called Tonisha a dishonest, opportunistic skank who didn’t deserve a dime, but the jury got my drift.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m not here to convince you that Lamarr Harris is a choir boy. He’s not. But he’s also not a rapist. His only mistake on June twenty-fifth was failing to recognize that he was being played by the plaintiff.”

I pressed my lips together and paused for three long beats. “Please don’t let her play you too.”

Even before I was settled in my seat, Lamarr leaned over to whisper words of praise. “That was tight, counselor!”

It felt great to have such a satisfied client. I just hoped he still felt that way after the jury’s verdict.

Girlie Cortez took to the floor again and was about to begin her rebuttal. She abruptly stopped and turned to the judge. “Your Honor, could you ask Ms. Henderson to please remove her exhibit?”

I tried not to smirk as I took my time fiddling with my computer. I’d watch other opponents complete their entire rebuttal with a damaging photograph or document looming in the background. I didn’t think Girlie would be that sloppy, but it was worth a try.

Recognizing that the jury was antsy, Girlie didn’t speak long. “Ladies and gentlemen, I won’t waste your time rehashing facts you already know. I just want you to remember that the defendant is a handsome, wealthy young man who’s used to getting what he wants, whenever he wants it, no matter what the consequences. And Lamarr The Hero Harrison wanted Tonisha.”

She made a show of gazing over her shoulder at Lamarr, which drew the jury’s attention his way.

“My client is a naive young woman who was infatuated with a celebrity football player she’d just met. Please—”

Girlie’s voice cracked and her eyes started to water. It was an act I’d witnessed before.

“Please don’t punish her. Punish the man who raped her and make him pay for his brutal crime.”

When I saw Lamarr’s hands curl into tight fists, I firmly tapped my foot against his and his thick fingers instantly sprang loose. I’d repeatedly warned him not to show any sign of aggression in front of the jury.

In just over an hour, the judge finished the instructions to the jury and dismissed them to begin deliberating. Lamarr walked toward his friends huddled in the back of the courtroom while I stuffed papers into my satchel.

“Nice closing,” Girlie said, breezing past me. “Maybe the third time’ll be the charm for you.”

I didn’t bother to respond. I’d lost my last two cases against Girlie and it still smarted. The fact that we were both minority women in a profession dominated by white males should have created some level of camaraderie between us. But Girlie wasn’t the collegial type.

As I closed my satchel, I felt a hollowness deep in my gut that had nothing to do with my disdain for my catty adversary. I’d done a good job, but the verdict, I knew, could go either way. And even though I’d love a win against Girlie, I wasn’t sure my client deserved one.

When you spend close to a year prepping a case for trial, you see sides of your client that no one else ever will. Not their wives or girlfriends, not their parents, not even their life-long homies. And the man I’d come to know wasn’t the stand-up guy I’d just presented to the jury.

Despite his celebrated nickname, as far as I was concerned, Lamarr Harris was nobody’s hero.

Chapter 3

Detective Dean Mankowski stepped across the threshold of the two-bedroom home where Judi Irving had been viciously attacked. He grimaced as his eyes took in the chaos. Overturned chairs, ripped cushions, a cracked coffee table, and a bucket of blood spatter on the door and wall.

“I think my gut’s already got a line on this one,” he announced to his partner.

Mankowski was tall and solidly built. A committed bachelor in his mid-40’s, his wavy, dirty-blond hair and TV cop’s swagger enhanced his raw good looks.

Detective Mitchell Thomas scratched his head, then exhaled. “Okay, let’s hear it. What’s your gut saying this time?”

Mankowski smiled. “It’s the boyfriend.”

Upon their arrival almost thirty minutes earlier, the two detectives received a quick recap from the first officer on the scene, then briefly spoke to Phillip Peterman. Mankowski’s dislike for Peterman was instantaneous. One, the guy didn’t have a real job. Two, he was an actor. And three, he waxed his eyebrows.

“Man, you go with your gut way too much,” Thomas complained. “We haven’t even interrogated him yet.”

A few inches shorter than his partner, Thomas had skin the color of almonds, an angular nose and pencil-thin lips. He was a married father of three with a salesman’s demeanor.

Mankowski took a step back to allow an officer carrying two large plastic bags to walk by. A female crime scene tech hovered near the front door, snapping pictures of the blood spatter. A man on his knees dusted the coffee table for prints.

An hour earlier, paramedics rushed Judi Irving to St. John’s Medical Center in Santa Monica. A hysterical housekeeper discovered Judi bleeding and unconscious on the living room floor.

“I just hope the woman makes it,” Mankowski said. “Then she can tell you how right I am.”

His gut wasn’t always on the money, but it had racked up enough hits for him to still confidently rely on it.

Thomas let out half of a chuckle. “Here we go again. We’ll probably spend the next three months going after the boyfriend only to find out it was a burglary gone bad. Look at this place.”

Mankowski shook his head in disagreement. “This is a staged scene. Somebody just wanted us to think this was a burglary. And that somebody is Phillip Peterman.”

“Maybe,” Thomas said, rubbing his dimpled chin, “maybe not. A back window was jimmied open. Somebody also went to the breaker box out back and shut off the electricity. Sounds like a burglary to me.”

Mankowski grinned like a proud papa. Thomas had only a fraction of his partner’s two decades of chasing down criminals, but he was on his way to becoming a solid detective.

When they’d first been paired up, everyone expected friction because Mankowski was a cowboy and proud of it. But Thomas had learned how and when to rein him in, so it worked out well. Mankowski also liked having an easy-going black guy for a partner. Most of the youngsters coming out of the Academy were too headstrong to appreciate the importance of listening to their elders.

“Nice analysis,” Mankowski said, “but this is overkill.” He stopped and surveyed the room. “Every piece of furniture in here was turned over, even the coffee table. Every cabinet opened, every drawer pulled out. What burglar takes the time to search the linen closet? This is a sloppy setup by somebody who wanted us to think his intent was to rob the place.”

“Maybe the burglar was searching for something,” Thomas said, resisting his partner’s theory. “Let’s wait to hear what Peterman has to say when we take him downtown.”

Mankowski exhaled. Interrogations at the station had to be videotaped. “I’d rather talk to Actor Boy here first.”

Thomas grunted, then followed his partner outside.

They found Peterman standing near a patrol car. He jumped to attention when he saw them approaching.

“Can I go now?” The words rushed out of him. “I need to get to the hospital to find out how Judi’s doing.”

Mankowski gave Phillip a quick once-over. His hair was uncombed, his sweater wrinkled, his eyes were swollen and bloodshot. Definitely booze, Mankowski thought. Not grief.

“We need you to tell us what happened,” Mankowski said.

“I already told you that.” Phillip’s voice was a smidgen short of surly. “I don’t know what happened. I have to get to the hospital. I don’t even know if Judi’s still alive.”

Mankowski zeroed in on what appeared to be scratches on the side of Phillip’s face. He’d done a piss-poor job of trying to cover them up with makeup.

“We won’t keep you long,” Mankowski said. “We’d appreciate your cooperation.”

Mankowski hated having to be polite. He missed the good old days when you could slug a suspect and get away with it. Rodney King and camera phones screwed up everything. People actually thought they had rights.

Phillip perched himself on the hood of the patrol car.

“So how did you learn about the attack on your girlfriend?” Mankowski asked.

“I got a call from Imelda, our housekeeper.” Phillip rubbed his forehead. “We can only afford to have her clean once a month. I’m just glad this was her day to come.”

“When did she call you?”

“Just after eight this morning.”

Mankowski and Thomas had already questioned the distraught housekeeper, who was of little help.

“So what kept you out all night?”

Phillip stared down at his laced fingers. “I…uh…I had a meeting with my agent in the Valley. I left home around ten. We didn’t finish talking business until after midnight, so I stayed at his place instead of driving home.”

Mankowski nodded. The guy didn’t look gay, but you could never tell these days. “Do you spend the night at your agent’s house very often?”

“Every now and then,” Phillip sniffed.

“How’d you get those scratches on your face?”

Phillip’s hand absently flew to his cheek. “I…uh…I was doing some yard work a couple of days ago and got swiped by a tree branch.”

“Which tree?” Thomas asked.

“The one out back.”

“I only saw one tree in your backyard,” Thomas pressed. “It didn’t have any branches?”

“The gardener trimmed it.”

“I thought you just said you did the yard work,” Mankowski said.

“I do. Sometimes.” Phillip’s eyes darted left, then right. “But we have a gardener too. What’s this got to do with anything?”

“Those scratches on your face look pretty fresh to me,” Mankowski continued. “You sure it wasn’t your girlfriend who scratched you?”

Phillip jumped to his feet, his nose inches from Mankowski’s. “This is ridiculous. Why are you treating me like a suspect? I don’t have to take this.”

“Yes, you do.” Mankowski pressed his palm flat against Phillip’s chest and pushed him back against the car.

“You can’t treat me like this,” Phillip protested. “I know my rights.”

“Rights? You don’t have any rights.”

Detective Thomas stepped between them. Thomas rarely thought it was a good idea to piss off a person of interest. It made it harder to get what you wanted. But Mankowski preferred to lay it on with a heavy hand.

“Mr. Peterman, let me apologize for my partner.” Thomas emitted a friendly smile. “He’s a little worked up this morning because he really wants to find out who attacked your girlfriend.”

“I don’t care how worked up he is. He can’t talk to me like this.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Thomas agreed.

“I’m leaving.” Phillip tried to brush past Detective Thomas, who took a step sideways, blocking his path.

A smile eased across Mankowski’s lips when he saw his mild-mannered partner’s jawline go taut. Thomas was always Mr. Congeniality. Until a perp pissed him off.

“Yep, you are leaving,” Thomas said. “And you’re coming to the station with us for further questioning.”
The beautiful Bliss Fenton won’t be winning any awards for Mother of the Year. Truth is, motherhood isn’t nearly as important to Bliss as the cottage industry she’s created: extorting wealthy men for the hefty child support she can collect. But Bliss’ greed goes too far when she takes on Fletcher McClain. The handsome music industry mogul refuses to accept her conniving conduct lying down. He retains high-profile attorney Vernetta Henderson to sue Bliss for fraud. Enter Bliss’ unscrupulous attorney, Girlie Cortez, who has a personal score to settle with Vernetta. As the two lawyers once again go head-to-head, their legal battle quickly escalates from merely contentious to downright deadly.
Read an Excerpt Below!
Prologue
Bliss Fenton took a sip of champagne as she glared across the room at the obnoxiously happy couple. They indeed made a striking pair. Their slim, toned bodies draped in designer wear and expensive jewelry. So trendy. So California chic.

Setting her champagne glass on the tray of a passing waiter, Bliss snaked her way through the crowd, hoping to get a better view. As she moved, her blonde curls bounced as if lifted by a cool breeze. At 5’8” and 120 pounds, her delicate frame was all slopes and curves. A body specifically designed for exhibition.

The partygoers were packed like human matchsticks inside the gaudy Hollywood Hills mansion. The home, if you could call it that, was a testament to excess. Just like the couple. Too much of everything. Too many art deco chairs, too much bronze and glass, and so much artwork the walls could barely breathe.

Only a few feet away from the couple now, Bliss found herself shoulder-to-shoulder with a too-tanned man with greasy hair. He winked at her. She sneered back at him and moved on.

A devious smile fractured Bliss’ face as she returned her attention to the couple. She imagined the angst they would experience the minute they spotted her among the partygoers. Fletcher’s lips would contort into an ugly grimace, but then coolly transition to a barely perceptible smirk. He was not the kind of man who was easily rankled. That was the reason he was a millionaire several times over.

Mia, however, would not be able to hide her emotions. Fletcher’s prissy little black princess would toss Bliss a snarl that bellowed, What the hell are you doing here?

It was Mia she wanted to punish most. Bliss had pleaded with God to curse her former friend with a pain ten times more intense than her own. She wanted Mia to live it. Breathe it. Curl up in bed with it. Just as she had.

Bliss refused to blame Fletcher for the poor choices he’d made. He was a man. And men, by nature, were weak. Still, he too would pay just the same.

The call of vengeance tugged hard at Bliss’ soul, urging her, daring her, to march right up to the couple and confront them. But she held back. For the moment. Patience had always been her most virtuous trait.

Fletcher hustled to the front of the room and began singing the praises of the newest songstress to be added to his stable of artists, LaReena Jarreau. Bliss remembered cuddling in bed with Fletcher and listening to him brag about creating her stage name, since Janice Harris had no pizzazz.

“The first time I heard her voice,” Fletcher said, throwing his arm around the bony twenty-something dressed in hooker gear, “I knew she was going to hit the music world by storm. You have to agree that what we heard tonight was—as the youngsters say—off the chain.”

Everyone applauded as the hip, dark-haired CEO of Karma Entertainment grinned, happy to be on show. The only thing Fletcher enjoyed more than being rich was having everyone know it.

Mia remained off to the side, perfecting the look of the coy, supportive fiancée. That had been Bliss’ mistake. Accepting her at face value. While Mia’s visual package was quite alluring—all charm and beauty—on the inside, she was pure evil. Truth be told, Mia wasn’t all that different from her.

Bliss Fenton, not Mia Richardson, should have been on the arm of the music industry mogul tonight. It had never occurred to Bliss that her long-time yoga buddy could walk into a party and take her new guy’s breath away. Literally.

At the time, Bliss had been dating Fletcher for a short six months. She’d invited Mia to the party at Fletcher’s Beverly Hills home for the sole purpose of showing off her new man to her smart, uppity faux-friend. Bliss could still remember Mia waving as she glided into the party, the crowd parting so effortlessly it almost seemed choreographed.

Seconds before, Fletcher had been talking nonstop about his label’s next release, but the sight of Mia had caused him to lose his train of thought. When Bliss had formally introduced them, the lust in Fletcher’s eyes further telegraphed the gravity of her mistake.

Only days after the party, Bliss’ time with Fletcher began to dwindle, explained away by late night meetings that couldn’t be avoided or last-minute business trips to New York. Mia, too, had started cancelling their after-yoga coffee chats and finally stopped coming to yoga class altogether.

It was a month later, when Bliss saw Fletcher and Mia pictured together in Billboard, that she first learned of their betrayal. Her subsequent rage-filled calls to both of them had been ignored. And now, Mia was at Fletcher’s side, while Bliss had been pushed right out of his life.

A burst of applause snapped Bliss back to the present. As Fletcher seemed to be wrapping up his speech, Bliss moved closer, stopping inches behind Mia. She leaned in, her lips almost grazing Mia’s right ear.

“Congratulations on your engagement.”

Mia’s head whipped around, her dark brown skin now ashen gray. “You … you shouldn’t be here.”

Bliss spoke in a firm whisper. “Neither should you. You backstabbing bitch.”

Mia took a step back. “This is not the place to make a scene.”

“Okay, then,” Bliss said, moving into the space Mia had abandoned. “Shall we step outside?”

A second later, Fletcher wedged himself between them. “You walk yourself out of here right now,” he said through clenched teeth, “or I’ll have security carry you out.”

Although no voices had been raised, all heads turned in their direction.

Mia didn’t move.

Fletcher, always cognizant of appearances, wore a stiff smile as he spat into Bliss’ face. “If you don’t leave, I swear I’ll have you arrested.”

After three long beats, Bliss winked. “You’ll both be hearing from me.”

Bliss couldn’t help smiling as she sashayed through the buzzing crowd.

Fletcher and Mia would suffer for their disloyalty. Bliss only wished she could be there to see their stunned faces when they learned what she had done and realized there was absolutely nothing they could do about it.

Chapter 1
I should have shown Fletcher McClain to the door 30 minutes ago, but the words seem to be stuck in my throat. I hate to admit it—even to myself—but I like having him in my space again.

“So will you take care of this for me, Vernetta?”

He’s been pacing the length of my office for several minutes now. When he first stormed in and slapped the Petition to Establish Parental Relationship on my desk, he was so wound up I thought he might be on the verge of a stroke.

“I’m not a family law attorney, Fletcher.”

Employment law and some occasional criminal work are more up my alley.

“I don’t need an expert in family law,” Fletcher insists. “What I need is a good negotiator. Someone who can talk some sense into this nutcase and make her go away. And I’m confident you can do the job.”

The issue isn’t whether I could handle his case, but whether I should. They say a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client. Perhaps a lawyer who goes to battle on behalf of an ex-lover is just as foolish. Especially if the old flame hasn’t quite flickered out yet.

According to the petition, Fletcher’s ex-girlfriend Bliss Fenton has named him as the father of her three-month-old daughter, Harmony. Fletcher, however, claims the petition is all lies. Even though he hasn’t taken the court-ordered paternity test yet, he wants me to set up a meeting with Bliss and offer her some “chump change,” as he puts it, to go away.

“It looks like she filed that petition herself. I need this nonsense over and done with before she gets an attorney involved.”

I take another look at the petition. Bliss has indeed filed it in pro per, which is easy enough to do. The petition is a simple two-page form that requires checking a few boxes.

Falling into one of the chairs in front of my desk, Fletcher fixes me with a look so intense I almost shudder.

“I really need you, Vernetta.”

His lips angle upward, just slightly, and I feel a warm tingle in a place where my happily married self definitely should not be tingling. I break his gaze and fiddle with my cuticle.

Classically handsome, Fletcher has sandy hair, strong cheekbones and wide brown eyes with lashes too long and thick for Mother Nature to have wasted on a guy. He’s still the only white guy who ever stole my heart.

“Fletcher, you could find a million attorneys to handle this. Why don’t you let me recommend a friend who has expertise in family law?”

“See, that’s what I love about you, Vernetta. I don’t know many lawyers who would turn away a paying client with my kind of dough. You’re the real deal.”

“Unbelievable.” I stare across the desk at him, shaking my head. “You’re still as cocky as you were when we were know-nothing sophomores back at USC. It’s not always about money, Fletcher.”

“It’s always about money, my sweetness.”

Damn him. Hearing his pet name for me after all these years has me tingling again.

A quiet chirp interrupts his subtle flirting. He pulls the phone from the inside pocket of his jacket. Glancing at the screen, he frowns and sets it on the corner of my desk.

“How can you be so sure it’s not your kid?” I ask.

“Because we broke up almost a year before that kid was born.”

“Shouldn’t you wait for the results of the paternity test?”

“Don’t need to. It’s not my kid.”

“I’m confused. If it’s not your kid, once you have the results, it’s over. Why pay her anything?”

“You don’t know Bliss Fenton. Even after the results come back, she’ll have something else up her sleeve. I need this thing buttoned up once and for all. Paying her off will accomplish that.”

My gut and years of legal experience tell me there’s more to the story. “You certainly seem awfully stressed over an allegation that has no merit. What’s the real deal?”

Fletcher repositions himself in the chair.

“I’m getting married in three months and this whole thing has my fiancée climbing the walls. Bliss timed this to embarrass Mia right before our wedding. I need it resolved as soon as possible.”

The news that Fletcher is getting married surprises me. I’ve followed his career for years and figured he was a confirmed bachelor.

“So what’s Bliss got against Mia?”

“Well … um … they used to be friends.”

I squint. “Oh, so we’re dealing with a woman scorned.”

It’s one thing to lose your man to another woman. It’s quite another to lose a charming, high roller like Fletcher McClain to someone you considered a friend.

He shrugs. “That’s basically the crux of it.”

“But it still doesn’t make sense. Bliss wouldn’t serve you with a paternity suit if there were no chance you could be the father.”

“You haven’t been listening. This woman is extremely conniving. She probably read that Forbes article and came up with this scheme to shake me down.” He pauses. “Did you happen to see it?”

Fletcher landed the number three spot on Forbes’ list of the top music industry moguls. He’s the only one on the list under 40. His net worth is estimated at $450 million, just behind Clive Davis and JayZ.

“Of course I saw it. Very impressive.”

He points a finger at me. “You haven’t done too bad yourself, counselor. You’ve handled some pretty high-profile cases.”

Over the years, Fletcher sent me handwritten notes, congratulating me when one of my trials hit the press. Keeping up with his achievements is the only reason I read Billboard.

“So how much do you plan to offer her?”
“A hundred grand should do it. I’m willing to go higher if I have to. Maybe two-fifty. And I want a written agreement with an ironclad confidentiality provision.”

I’m about to say he’s putting up a lot of cash to get rid of a bogus claim, but for a man with Fletcher’s bank account, we’re talking peanuts.

“We may have to play dirty to force her into a settlement. I want you to retain a private investigator to dig up some dirt on her in case we need it. And trust me, it’s out there.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack. Once you meet her, you’ll understand.”

“How’d you even end up with this woman?”

“It’s your fault,” he quips. “After you broke my heart, I was so devastated, I opened up my heart to whoever came along.”

“Yeah, right.” I scan the petition again. “It says here the child was born in January of this year and she’s three months old.” I glance skyward and do the math in my head. “Let’s see … Assuming a nine-month pregnancy, that would place conception sometime in April of last year.”

“Exactly. The kid can’t be mine. We broke up in February, eleven months before she was born. I remember because it was two weeks before Valentine’s Day.”

“Maybe your timing is off.”

“It’s not.”

“And there were no hookups after that?”

“Nope.” He brushes the lapel of his Canali suit, then raises his right hand. “Scout’s honor.”

“I still don’t understand why you don’t want to wait for the test results before approaching her. You’d be in a much better negotiating position.”

“I’m taking the test tomorrow, but it could be a couple of weeks before I get the results. I want this thing resolved yesterday.”

His cell phone chirps again. He grunts and picks it up. “Excuse me a second.”

His long fingers awkwardly tap the screen. I assume he’s sending an email or text message. Another minute or so passes before he looks up, his face full of annoyance.

“Uh, that was Mia calling from the lobby.” He scratches his jaw. “She’s on her way up.”

“Hmmm. So it’s your fiancée who’s running this show.”

“Not really. Well, I mean—”

I’m not used to seeing the smooth-talking Fletcher McClain at a loss for words. He moves to the edge of the chair. The relaxed air we’d been basking in has been sapped from the room.

“The real deal is Mia wants me to sue Bliss for defamation. She thinks I’m meeting with you to talk about the defamation case. But I think it makes more sense to give Bliss a few dollars to disappear.”

“Okay, now I get it.”

“Let’s keep that under our hat. And, um,” he rubs his chin, “Mia’s a bit on the jealous side. Let’s not mention that we used to be an item, okay?”

Fletcher was never the type of guy who’d let his woman call the shots. This alpha dog has turned into a poodle.

“No problem. Our conversations are attorney-client privileged.”

Fletcher straightens in his chair. “Oh, so I’m your client? Great!”

I raise both hands, palms out. “I haven’t committed yet. But your fiancée can’t—”

“Just flow with me on this, okay? I’ll handle Mia. You just play along.” His confident charm reminds me of the first time we met over a decade ago.

I was walking across campus when Fletcher stopped me with a corny pick-up line.

“Do you believe in love at first sight? Or should I walk by again?”

I’d never met a white guy—certainly not one as gorgeous as Fletcher McClain—who had the swagger of a brother. After a bit of prodding, I agreed to meet him for lunch.

And here he is still charming me more than a decade later.

My assistant pokes her head in the door. “I have a lady out here who says she—”

The door flies open and a woman bustles past Deena into my office.

A perfectly coiffed, black beauty marches right up to my desk and peers down at me. I have to push my chair back to get her out of my personal space.

“You better be a barracuda,” she says, firing her words at me. “Because that’s the kind of attorney we need to show that scandalous slut Bliss Fenton that she’s playing with fire.”

Chapter 2
Bliss swung her silver Audi into the parking lot of the Ralph’s supermarket on Lincoln Boulevard, cut off the engine, then held up her hand in an appeal for silence.

“No lecture this time, okay?” Bliss turned to face her best and only friend sitting in the passenger seat.

Jessica Winthrop took in a long breath. “Only if you agree to act like a civilized human being today.”

For three months now, Bliss and her ex-boyfriend, Dr. Joseph Franco, had been meeting in this public location to transfer their six-year-old son Aiden from one parent to the other. Their relationship was so antagonistic that a judge had declared their respective homes off limits.

“Aren’t you tired of all the drama?” Jessica asked.

“I really wish you would criticize that asshole as much as you do me.”

“He’s not my friend. You are. Just let it go.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

Though she was nothing short of a plain Jane—long, reddish-brown hair, an unremarkable face and the physique of an undernourished pear—Jessica had snagged the kind of man Bliss had spent her whole life maneuvering to marry. Paul Winthrop was a successful venture capitalist. After marrying him, Jessica gave up her career as a bank manager.

“You two have a beautiful son together,” Jessica said, glancing toward the backseat at her sleeping godson. “You need to think about Aiden’s best interests.”

Bliss pointed at the clock on the dashboard. “The asshole is seven minutes late.”

“How about we use his name today? Just for practice.”

Bliss rolled her eyes.

Jessica was the only constant in Bliss’ sad life. Their friendship dated back to freshman year in high school. While every other girl at Winchester High had shunned the gorgeous blonde newcomer with the sexy name, Jessica had reached out to her, never concerned that her own light didn’t shine nearly as brightly as Bliss’.

Jessica pressed her hands together in a prayer pose. “Promise me this’ll be a drama-free exchange. Pretty please.”

Bliss spotted Joseph pulling into the lot and slapped her hand against the dashboard. “I can’t believe it! That asshole has a new car!”

Jessica cupped her forehead. “Bliss, please don’t—”

“That Benz had to cost almost a hundred grand. That’s probably why he was three days late with my child support last month. And why is she with him again? I’ll never understand what he sees in her. She has the face of a rodent.”

Jessica got out and unbuckled Aiden from his car seat. “Just behave yourself.”

Once Aiden was out of the car, Bliss squatted so they were at eye level. “You be a good boy, okay? You scream for Mommy if Daddy does anything bad to you.”

Jessica exhaled. “Please stop putting that nonsense in his head.”

“And you make sure you don’t let anybody touch you down there. You scream if they—”

“That’s enough.” Jessica grabbed Aiden’s hand and started marching him across the parking lot. When they were a yard away, he squirmed free and jumped into his father’s arms.

Dr. Joseph Franco was an orthopedic surgeon whose patients included an impressive list of professional athletes. He was a tall, gregarious man with bushy blonde hair. Today, anxiety contorted his face.

“Hey, Jessica. Thanks for being our go-between again. I’ll have him back on Sunday by five. I’ll call you if I’m running late.”

“No you won’t!” Bliss stood just a few feet away. “If you’re late, I’m calling the cops.”

“I’m not biting today,” Joseph said, mostly to himself. He finished securing Aiden into his car seat and closed the door.

“And why is that cunt here?” Bliss shouted.

“I’ve asked you before to watch your language around Aiden. And if you call Lena out of her name one more time, I’ll be the one calling the cops.”

Jessica gripped Bliss by the forearm and started tugging her toward the car. “Okay, everybody, let’s all go to our respective corners.”

“By the way,” Bliss yelled back at him, “since you can afford to buy a new car, Mr. Successful Orthopedic Surgeon, I’m going back to court to ask for more child support. You’re obviously doing a lot better than you claimed the last time we were in court.”

The threat stopped Joseph in place. He stormed up to her.

“If you need more money, get a job,” he seethed. “I’m already paying you ten grand a month and I’m struggling like hell to do that.”

“From the looks of your new ride, you don’t seem to be struggling at all.”

“Can you act like a decent human being for five seconds? Just five measly seconds.”

“Just tell your attorney I’ll be asking the court to amend our child support order.” Bliss flashed him a smug smile.

Joseph reflexively balled his fists. “I’ll kill you before I pay you another dime.”

“Did you hear that, Jessica? He just threatened my life!”

Joseph shook his head and slowly backed away. “Get her away from me.”

As Joseph climbed into his car and sped off, Jessica chastised Bliss with a frown.

“I should be the one in that car with him,” Bliss sniffed, her voice cracking. “I’m the fabulous one.”

Jessica threw an arm around her friend.

“Nothing good is going to come into your life until you change the way you treat people,” Jessica said, trying to be gentle. “Kindness attracts kindness.”

“I don’t want to hear that crap!” Bliss snapped, pulling away from her. “When people screw over me, I screw them back. And speaking of getting screwed, Mia and Fletcher are about to get theirs.”

Jessica threw up her hands. “Why are you constantly causing drama?”

Bliss laughed wickedly. “Because I’m good at it.”

Chapter 3
It takes me a tad under two seconds to realize that I don’t like the soon-to-be Mrs. Fletcher McClain. I will never understand how the greatest guys end up with the bitchiest women.

After grudgingly shaking my hand, Mia sits down in the chair next to Fletcher and starts calling the shots.

“I’m sure Fletcher told you I’m a corporate attorney,” Mia says. “I plan on being very involved in the case. How soon can we see a draft of the complaint?”

Mia does not give me time to answer her first question before firing off another one.

“And what kind of experience do you have litigating defamation cases?”

I wait for Fletcher to shut her down, but to my surprise, the big music mogul doesn’t open his mouth.

“As I was just telling Fletcher,” I begin, “since he’s my client, it’s best that I deal only with him. If you—”

“Fletcher doesn’t have a problem with my being involved.” She reaches over and pats his thigh. “I have a stake in this too.”

“Well, I’ll make sure you’re involved when it’s appropriate to do so.”

Mia’s head tilts sideways at the same time her lips flat-line. “You don’t seem to understand. I’m here to help. You’ll need all the firepower you can get against Bliss. She’s a very vicious woman.”

And apparently so are you.

I clear my throat. “Let me discuss this with my client and—”

“We’re both you’re clients. I’m about to be his wife.”

Fletcher finally finds his voice. “C’mon, babe.” He takes Mia’s hand. “We have to let Vernetta handle this her way. If she needs your help, she’ll ask.”

I don’t like this little farce, but I continue to play along. For now.

“I’d like to refer you to a friend who has extensive experience defending high-profile child support cases.”

I hit a few keys on my computer, searching for the attorney’s name. “You’ll need to understand your rights and obligations if it turns out the child is yours.”

Mia’s eyes bug out like a startled cartoon character.

“Excuse me? If? There’s no way Fletcher is the father of Bliss’ bastard baby. She’s just trying to wreck my life. If you don’t believe in this case, maybe you aren’t the right lawyer for us.”

I wait for Fletcher to calm her down, but once again, he remains mute.

Who is this man?

“Maybe you and Fletcher should discuss what you’d like to do and get back to me.”

Fletcher pulls Mia close. “Honey, we’ve already discussed this. I want Vernetta to handle this for us. She’s a brilliant lawyer and, on top of that, I trust her. She’s just doing her job. Covering all the bases.”

Mia starts to tear up. “Nobody understands what I’m going through. Bliss has to pay for this. You don’t know how manipulative she is. This isn’t the first time she’s pulled something like this.”

“Really? It could be helpful to the defamation case if she set up another guy.” I smile over at Fletcher. I hope he appreciates the way I’m playing my role.

“This is her M-O.” Mia pats away her tears with two manicured fingers. “She has a six-year-old son she’s getting child support payments for. Ten thousand dollars a month. She also has a three-year-old son. No telling how much money she’s getting for him.”

I’m baffled that the prissy Mia would even have a friend like Bliss.

“How did you two become friends?” I ask.

She clasps her hands and sets them in her lap. “We were never close. We just started hanging out after yoga class. I still can’t believe she’s doing this.”

Fletcher kisses Mia on the cheek. “We’re going to work this all out and our wedding is going to be fabulous.”

“We’re getting married in the South of France,” Mia brags. “In the same village where Brad and Angelina tied the knot.”

Good for you.

They both get to their feet.

“Fletcher,” I say, “I need a quick second with you. Alone.”

Mia opens her mouth to object, but Fletcher leads her to the door. “We’ll only be a minute.”

Once she’s gone, I stand so that I can look Fletcher in the eyes.

“I just want to be sure you’re being honest with me. Is there any way that kid could be yours?”

He responds with a bad imitation of Bill Clinton. “I did not have sexual relations with that woman.”

I don’t crack a smile. “Please answer my question.”

“I’ve been one-hundred percent straight with you, counselor. Bliss Fenton is simply out for revenge.”

I stare at him long and hard. “Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Shoot.”

“What in the hell do you see in her? She’s cute and all, but she’s a bit high strung.”

Fletcher chuckled. “Mia came off a little hard just now, but she really has a heart of gold. You’ll see that once you get to know her. Maybe you and your husband can join us for dinner sometime. As a matter of fact, I’m having a shindig at the house Thursday night. You should come.”

He gives me a hug that lasts way too long and feels way too good.

“I hope your husband is as good to you as I would’ve been.”

“He is.”

“Sorry to hear that.” There’s a long awkward patch of silence. “You ever wonder what it would’ve been like if we’d made it?”

I smile, but don’t otherwise respond to his question.

“Thanks for taking my case.”

“You’re welcome.”

Just before he grabs the doorknob, I stop him.

“I have some free legal advice for you.”

“Shoot.”

“Get a pre-nup.”

He winks. “It’s already drafted.”

“That’s good to hear. Just make sure you get it signed.”