Private Justice Read online

  It was, Cindy thought, hurrying to keep up with Dylan and his extra-long legs, a little like Alice falling down the rabbit’s hole. Except that she felt as if she was still in free fall.

  Chapter 5

  Dylan had remembered to take the thin pencil flashlight from his glove compartment with him. He used it now to illuminate the passageway that ran between Dr. McCallum’s mansion and the one his parents owned, walking a step ahead of his father’s assistant.

  Following him, Cindy was careful not to let Dylan get more than a couple of steps away from her. She’d never been all that crazy about the dark and trying to find her way in the blackened underground was just about the worst of all possible scenarios as far as she was concerned.

  It felt as if they had been walking for a while now. Was there only one path, or was it possible to get lost? “How far apart did you say the houses were?”

  He knew what she was getting at. His sister Lana had been exceedingly uncomfortable in the dark as a kid. She’d had the same look on her face when they were down here as Cindy now had.

  “Not as far as they seem in the dark,” he told her. “Don’t worry. There’re no bats around here. As far as I know,” he qualified

  He’d done that on purpose, Cindy thought. Still, she looked around her nervously. Bats slept during the daytime, didn’t they? “You had to put it that way, didn’t you?”

  He laughed, then forced himself to look more serious. “Actually, yes. I get to have so little fun as a defense attorney.” He added just the proper amount of mournfulness to his tone.

  Taking his hand with the flashlight in it, she deliberately pointed it upward. Nothing. Cindy felt somewhat better and released his hand. She ignored his amused expression.

  “If fun was your goal, you picked the wrong career,” she pointed out, pretending, for a moment, that they were actually having a serious conversation on the subject.

  “I guess I did.”

  Walking a little further, he turned again to see if she was keeping up—just in time to see her stumble and trip over something on the ground. Reacting automatically, he caught her before she could hit the ground, his arms quickly closing around her in order to keep her upright.

  Cindy lost her breath. Not because she’d almost tripped, but because Dylan’s arms had closed around her, pulling her close and imprisoning her against his chest. The firmness of his torso registered with her brain, the favorable reaction it created instantly at odds with her automatic one: stiffening as if in anticipation of a blow.

  She tried to talk herself into relaxing—on both counts. This wasn’t Dean. She wasn’t about to get manhandled.

  It also became obvious to her that this was not a man who threw back beers and munched chips in his off hours. A gym, or at least exercise equipment, was apparently woven into the attorney’s everyday world. You didn’t get a body that hard by slacking off or ordering it from a catalog. It took diligent work and discipline, qualities she had always admired.

  It put her on less than solid ground here.

  “You okay?” he asked, slowly regulating his own breathing so that she wouldn’t notice she’d all but knocked the air out of him. He peered down into her face, searching for an answer before she could say anything. He’d felt her stiffen far more than the situation warranted. What was that all about?

  “Yes.” Cindy practically bit off the one-word retort, embarrassed more than she was willing to admit, even to herself.

  His hands still on either side of her torso, as if to told her steady, he glanced down at the ground. “What did you trip over?” He’d wanted to ask her why she’d stiffened the way she had as well, but had a feeling that she wouldn’t welcome that question—or give him an answer.

  Was that her heart hammering like that? Why? Cindy demanded silently, impatiently. She hadn’t fallen, he’d caught her in time.

  Maybe, she thought, she would have been better off if she’d just fallen down. Embarrassed, but ultimately better off.

  “How should I know?” It took effort not to snap at him. He made her nervous standing this close to her. For more than one reason. “I can’t see anything.”

  Dylan glanced down again. “Then you shouldn’t have worn high heels,” he pointed out.

  Unless she was home, barefoot, she always wore high heels. It was just part of who she was. “When I got dressed this morning, I wasn’t planning on hiking in the bowels of the earth.”

  She saw his mouth curve, could almost feel the smile on his lips. “You should always be prepared for the unexpected.”

  The unexpected, in this case, wasn’t whatever she’d tripped over, it was the flash of warmth she’d felt just before her body had gone rigid when Dylan’s arms had closed around her.

  Taking a breath, Cindy tried to step back, away from him. It would have been far easier to do if the man had already let go of her. But his hands were still resting on either side of her waist, just above her hips and she could swear she felt her body temperature rising a few degrees more.

  That’s not what you’re about these days, remember? It’s not just you anymore, a haunting voice reminded her. The same inner voice that seemed to infiltrate her days and her nights these last few months, reminding her she was no longer alone.

  “You can let go of me now,” she told him. “I’m not falling anymore.”

  She thought she saw a gleam enter his eyes, but the light was exceedingly limited so she could have been wrong.

  “You’re sure?” he asked, his voice almost teasing her.

  “I’m sure.”

  “All right, then.” Dylan dropped his hands from her sides. He couldn’t help noticing how delicate she felt, in direct contrast to the image of a tough little go-getter she was attempting to present. He also couldn’t help noticing that for a second there, she’d stiffened as if a wave of fear had passed over her. “Let’s go find my illustrious father.”

  “You know,” she said as they resumed making their way through the tunnel, “you might want to think about dropping that very large chip from your shoulder when you see him.”

  If he had a chip—which, Dylan was sure he didn’t—he’d earned the right to it. His father hadn’t even tried to get involved in their lives, had never reached out to any of them, with the exception of Lana. Lana was the only one of them who, time and again, stood up for their father; and in those rare instances when his father had a spare moment to spend with the family, he spent it with Lana. She was the baby of the family and he doted on her as much as he was capable of doting on anyone.

  “I’m not the one who needs him,” Dylan emphasized. “He’s the one who needs decent legal representation—and help,” he added.

  The single word encompassed far more than just the need for counsel. Senator Hank Kelley needed a friend, someone who could get between him and the media, to act, quite frankly, as a shield. Given that, Dylan was beginning to think that perhaps he should rethink his role in all this. How far was he willing to go to help a man he was struggling not to loathe?

  “All very true,” she willingly agreed. Cindy squinted, trying to see if there was any sign of journey’s end yet. This roundabout route might be necessary to avoid the press in front of the senator’s mansion, but it still gave her the creeps. “But no one likes having their nose rubbed in it—or to be made to feel like someone’s outcast poor relation. The senator,” she reminded him, “is a proud man.”

  He laughed shortly. “He’s also a deluded man, because from where I’m standing, he’s got nothing to be proud of.”

  Cindy took umbrage on the senator’s behalf. The man’s record in the Senate was the reason she hadn’t jumped ship at the first hint of this storm breaking over them.

  “Would you like me to go over the bills the senator either initiated or backed, bills that helped to dig the people of this state out of the deep, deep hole they found themselves in?”

  Dylan held up one hand as if to physically block the very idea. “Spare me,” he said.
r />   Cindy stopped walking, anger gathering in her eyes. “No, I don’t think I should.” Surprised at her combative tone, Dylan turned around to look at her. “Look,” she said, “if you’re going to offer him a hand, offer him a hand. Don’t thumb your nose at him with the other one. Or are you just doing this so you don’t have a guilty conscience?”

  He didn’t follow how she’d arrived at that conclusion. “How’s that again?”

  “The way I see it,” she explained, “if you ‘offer’ your father help and he turns you down because of your offensive attitude, well, you can soothe your conscience by telling yourself you tried. That way, down the line, it’s not your fault if the senator gets torn apart in the public arena. Not your fault that every good thing he’s ever done is forgotten in the light of the fact that he has a runaway libido and supposedly dipped into campaign funds to shower his mistresses with gifts and provide them with affluent lifestyles.”

  The passageway looked as if it hadn’t been used in years, not since he and his brothers and sister had played here. Except that, of course, his father must have just used this—if he was at the mansion.

  The heaviness of the dust-laden air was oppressive, Dylan thought, wiping the back of his wrist across the perspiration along his forehead.

  “I take it by your tone that you don’t believe he did.”

  She believed that he did—and that he didn’t. It depended on what part Dylan was referring to. “While I believe, unfortunately, that the senator did get sidetracked by more than one willing political groupie—” a group she had absolutely no use for and strongly disliked “—I know him. He’s not an idiot. He wouldn’t risk everything, throw everything away just because he was trying to impress one of his so-called mistresses. He didn’t take any campaign funds.”

  Dylan saw it differently. “He wouldn’t be the first man to be brought down by a woman—or by rampant lust.” He smiled to himself, unaware that she had caught a glimpse of his expression. “Men don’t always think with their brains.”

  “Men don’t always think,” she corrected. “You could have stopped there,” she told him. “And I’m not arguing that. I’m arguing that the senator wouldn’t throw everything away—or think he was bulletproof. He’s not a fool,” she concluded with feeling.

  Again, they were on opposite sides of this point of view. “Every man’s a fool if the right woman’s involved. Or wrong woman as the case may be,” Dylan amended with a shrug.

  They’d finally come to a door and, Cindy sincerely hoped, the end of their unusual journey. She turned from the door and looked at him, vaguely curious. “Are you speaking from experience?”

  If she was looking to box him in, he neatly sidestepped the effort. So far, no woman had made a fool of him and he intended to keep it that way.

  “I’m speaking as a lawyer who’s seen a lot of strange behavior on the part of seemingly intelligent adults—male and female,” he added.

  She wondered if that was all it was. Cindy pressed her lips together, debating whether or not to push the point, then decided to retreat—in a way. For the senator’s sake, she couldn’t risk really antagonizing his son.

  “Well, please just treat him with respect,” she requested.

  The easy thing would have just been to say “yes,” but Dylan stubbornly refused to concede the point. For some reason, whether or not he ever saw this woman again, he wanted her to understand where he was coming from. “He surrendered his right to that a long time ago.”

  Okay, she’d approach it from another angle. Because, when he spoke to his father, if his attitude came through, she knew the senator—the man would issue his son his walking papers.

  “Be that as it may, be the bigger man,” she told him. “Pretend you’re prepared to believe his side of the story. Who knows?” she said a tad too brightly. “It just might be true.”

  The intended sarcasm was not missed by Dylan.

  While they’d been talking, they’d gone through the connecting door on the other side of the passageway, then up the basement stairs. Inside the family estate now, Dylan stopped for a moment and looked around. The last time he’d been here was when? A couple of years ago? More? He wasn’t sure about the year, but he remembered the day. His mother had thrown a Christmas party and they had all tried to come together from the various places they’d scattered to as their lives unfolded before them.

  Cole lived in Montana these days, running the ranch that the two of them bought from their grandmother. Lana was studying in Europe. At the moment, she was in Paris, but from what he’d heard, she was going to be heading back to Florence, where she was studying that city’s rich art history.

  The rest of the family was definitely closer than Lana, but no easier to pin down, really. Or any more readily coaxed into returning for an audience with their mother, who had grown more and more introverted over the years. Something else Dylan had blamed on his father.

  Excuses abounded from his siblings, but then Christmas wound up making everyone a little more accommodating. Added to that, Sarah Kelley had promised that their father would be there to celebrate the season as well. She hadn’t yet learned not to make promises she had no control over keeping.

  But she’d learned that afternoon. His father sent a huge bouquet of long-stemmed roses and a card from the florist, expressing his regrets about not being there, but “something pressing” had come up.

  Undoubtedly, Dylan thought cynically, his father was the one doing the pressing and there was a warm, willing, nubile recipient on the receiving end.

  He wasn’t moving, Cindy realized. “Something wrong?” she asked, once her eyes were accustomed to the light again.

  There was no point in talking about his father’s no-show. It was just one incident among many. Instead, Dylan just shrugged away the question. “Just thinking how the more things change, the more they remain the same.”

  That was definitely not going to make anyone’s news bulletin, she thought. “Given to profound thoughts as well, I see. Maybe you should have that embroidered on a towel.”

  He raised a dark, almost perfectly shaped eyebrow as he regarded her more closely. “Someone wake up on the wrong side of the crypt this morning?” Dylan wanted to know.

  She supposed she was a little testy, but he certainly didn’t help her mood. “I don’t like having everything upset like this—me included,” she tagged on.

  If worse came to worst, his father’s Chief Staff Assistant would just move on, Dylan thought. He had no doubt that she could bounce back quickly. She looked resilient enough to be able to do that.

  “I’m sure you can find work somewhere else—” he began.

  Cindy was quick to cut him off. He had to be made to understand something. “This isn’t about a paycheck, Mr. Kelley, it’s about dedication. It’s about believing in something.”

  Instead of answering her, Dylan had stopped short, looking over her head. She knew instantly that there was someone behind her. Cindy turned around to see an older, solidly built woman, dressed in somber, conservative shades of gray. There was a hint of a welcoming smile on her lined face.

  “Hello, Mr. Dylan. You’re looking well.”

  “So are you, Martha,” he told the housekeeper warmly. “Is he here?” It was understood who “he” was. There was no need to elaborate.

  “Yes, he just got here a few minutes ago.” She nodded at the door behind him, the one that led to the passageway. “He told me to be expecting you.” Her eyes shifted over to Cindy. “He didn’t say you’d be bringing a friend.”

  Cindy bristled at being so cavalierly dismissed. She’d struggled most of her life to be taken seriously. “I’m the senator’s Chief Staff Assistant. Cindy Jensen,” she told the woman, introducing herself.

  “You know,” Dylan said, leaning down to gain Cindy’s ear, “you really should think about having that printed up on a card and just handing it out every time you’re tempted to refer to your credentials.”

  Cindy couldn’
t get a handle on him. Was he just irreverent? Or was he actually severely jaded? Perhaps a cynic? Or was he, beneath all that, a son who had been hurt by a father’s continual inattention?

  She supposed he might be a combination of all of the above. But Dylan Kelley, malcontent son, wasn’t her concern, she reminded herself. The senator was.

  “Right this way,” Martha was saying, turning on the heel of her very sensible shoe. With a beckoning gesture, she led the way out of the foyer.

  Dylan draped an arm across the woman’s broad back. “You’re looking younger than ever, Martha,” he commented.

  “And you still haven’t learned how to lie smoothly, my boy.” The woman was fairly beaming. “But I appreciate the effort,” she assured him fondly.

  In the hallway, Martha stopped before a closed door. They could feel music throbbing through the door into the hallway. She gestured them toward the room, a shepherd herding her sheep. “He’s in the library. Go easy on him,” she advised Dylan quietly.

  Dylan glanced at Cindy before responding. “You’re not the first to say that.”

  What was it about his father that brought out this protective streak in women? Women who might be expected to react indignantly to his behavior? Alleged behavior, the lawyer in him felt he needed to qualify. But alleged or not, why women felt compelled to champion his father was a mystery to him.

  When he walked into the room, the senator’s back was to him, but he could see what his father was holding in his hand. The glass was half-empty. He was willing to bet it hadn’t been that way a few minutes ago.

  “A little early in the day to be drinking, isn’t it, Dad?” Dylan asked, not bothering to hide the coolness in his voice.

  Thinking himself alone, Hank was surprised to hear his son’s voice and swung around. Lost in his dark thoughts, he hadn’t heard the door open or anyone come in. He shrugged in response to Dylan’s rhetorical question and regarded the chunky glass in his hand for a moment.

  “Not if you’ve been up around the clock. For me, it’s actually the tail end of one hell of an endless day.” He became aware of Cindy’s presence and for a split second, looked embarrassed. “Why did you bring her?” he asked gruffly.