Close Proximity. Donna Clayton
commit, when someone was forced into the role of victim.
Victim. The very word turned Rafe’s blood to acid. Memories swam and churned in his head. But he cut them off, strangled the life out of them before they had a chance to come into focus.
This wasn’t about him. It was about Corbett.
Rafe sighed as he thought about the dire straits the man was in. But Rafe knew him to be intelligent and savvy. Surely, Corbett would get himself out of this tight spot. He’d find himself a good lawyer. Surely, the evidence could somehow be refuted—
Like the eyes of an eagle homing on prey, his gaze zeroed in on the woman who exited the front doors of the courthouse. The morning sun glinted off the long tumble of her hair, turning it the color of polished copper. Immediately, she was besieged by media people hounding her with questions. The radicals pressed in on her as well, shouting slurs, chanting angry accusations.
Her chin was tipped up defiantly as she faced down what she so obviously saw as the opposition. Confidence seemed to ooze from her, and the tiny hairs on the base of Rafe’s neck stood on end. Something deep in him stirred—
A horn blared behind him, and instinct alone kept him from starting. He couldn’t believe he’d become so wrapped up in the scene on the courthouse steps, or in the red-haired beauty standing there.
Darting a glance in his rearview mirror, Rafe saw the irate motorist mouthing and gesturing an obscenity. Reacting to such nonsense never even entered Rafe’s head. Instead, he searched for and found a parking spot, pulled in his truck and cut the engine. He was out on the sidewalk and making his way toward the courthouse before he even had time to think.
This morning he hadn’t intended on doing anything more than picking up the daily paper, but instinct had changed his plan. He was being urged into action by the overwhelming need to discover who the woman was. If the Elders had taught him anything, it was to listen to his gut. One’s very life could depend on heeding what might seem to others as sheer impulse.
What an odd thought. But he didn’t take time to reflect on it. By the time he reached the base of the brick steps, the mob was descending toward him and the woman was pushing her way through the crowd.
“David Corbett is innocent,” she told them all. “That fact will be proven.
Strong vehemence girded her statement, and Rafe got a shadowy sense that those words—that tone—just might put her in peril.
“I’ll stake my entire career on it. I have nothing further to say at this time.”
The media continued to pepper the woman with questions, but she remained stonily silent as she moved through them, doing her best to brush aside the microphones being shoved at her.
“How can Corbett ever refute the mountain of evidence against him?”
Her skin, Rafe noticed, was like creamy porcelain.
“Wouldn’t it be easier for everyone if Corbett simply pleaded guilty to all charges?”
She moved with grace and style. The woman was poised. Even under fire.
“How does he feel about Springer turning its back on him?”
Her fingers were tapered, her nails neatly manicured with clear gloss. The thought of them raking down the length of his chest burst into his mind, unbidden, and Rafe’s jaw clenched in reaction.
“Have you taken a leave of absence from your law firm in San Francisco? Or are you taking this case with your boss’s blessings?”
Her eyes were an astonishing aquamarine. Clear. Earnest. Intelligent. Connecting with them for the first time was enough to make a man feel as if he’d been kicked in the chest by a wild stallion.
“What did David Corbett say when he learned that his job was taken over by Todd Lamb?”
That gaze of hers brought the ocean to mind. The wide-open Pacific on a bright, still afternoon. A man could get lost in those eyes.
“As Corbett’s daughter, do you really feel you can set aside emotion and successfully represent your father in this case?”
This final query caused the woman to blanch. She blinked, her well-shaped mouth parting just enough for her to inhale a quick breath. The confidence expressed on her delicate features slipped a notch. As hard as she tried to hide her reaction behind a reflexive swallow and a small plastic smile, the sudden vulnerability clouding her blue-green gaze affected Rafe.
Mightily.
Reveling in her utter beauty hadn’t been his only pursuit of the last few seconds; he’d also absorbed the reporters’ questions and all the information the nonstop grilling had suggested. He knew who the woman was, where she was from and why she’d arrived in Prosperino.
Shouldering his way into the crowd, he stepped between the woman and the last television correspondent who had spoken.
“Back off.” The tight expression Rafe offered the man and the threat lacing the edges of his tone had the reporter retreating automatically.
Lightly grasping the woman’s elbow, Rafe focused every nuance of his attention on her. There were questions in her eyes. He saw them. But now was not the time for answers.
“Where’s your car?” His voice was quiet. Meant only for her.
She pointed, and he led the way. Miraculously, the horde parted and allowed them access to the sidewalk and the cars that were parked along the curb. He opened the driver’s door and she slid behind the wheel, thrusting her attaché case onto the passenger seat beside her. The engine sparked to life, and after offering him one quick look of gratitude, she pulled into traffic and drove off down the street.
Libby Corbett pulled into the driveway of her childhood home. She sat in the quiet, her hands resting lightly on the steering wheel as she stared at the huge white Victorian house with its fancy gingerbread trim. As a little girl, she’d spent many an evening curled up on that porch swing between her mom and dad. They had been an incredibly close-knit family of three; racing and cavorting in the shade of the trees out in the backyard in the spring, playing board games at the kitchen table on rainy winter evenings, making up songs at the old grand piano in the living room, reading the classics together in her parents’ massive king-size bed.
She’d been in junior high school when she slowly became cognizant of all that her parents had sacrificed in order to accommodate her special needs, in order to keep her feeling safe and secure. The opportunities to travel they had given up. The social life they had let pass them by. All for her sake. They had understood how uncomfortable their daughter had felt around people.
The severe stuttering problem that had plagued her all through her adolescence had made her painfully shy. She’d grown up virtually friendless. It was nearly impossible to make friends when you refused to speak.
However, her parents had succeeded in filling in all the gaps in Libby’s life, and her memories of growing up in Prosperino were filled with happiness and joy. Through her high-school years she’d worked hard to overcome her speech impediment. She’d so wanted to liberate her parents of the worry they suffered on her account. She’d been desperate to somehow free them, to give them back their lives so they could enjoy each other and the world around them. But just when intensive speech therapy seemed to have put that goal within her reach, fate had dropped yet another obstacle into the path of the Corbett family.
When her mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer, Libby knew it was her turn to become the caretaker. And she had done everything she could to make her mother’s load lighter. She’d rushed home from school to cook and clean. She’d done the shopping, the laundry. She’d accompanied her father to the hospital on daily visits. She’d knelt by the toilet, holding a cool, damp cloth to her mother’s forehead when the chemo treatments caused such violent vomiting. When her mom’s silken hair had fallen out in clumps, Libby had refused to cry, choosing instead to run out and buy several colorful turbans she knew would bring a smile to her mother’s wan and weary face.