Chesapeake Summer Read Free Page A

to the wrong people, Quentin. I’m a defense attorney. I specialize in civil rights cases, all of which you know. Who’s telling you that you need my support?”
    â€œI’m serious. You’ve been in these parts for a long time. Before that, you were in Washington. You have influence. I could win if you came over to my side. Hell, you don’t even have to become a Republican. All I want is for you to suggest I’m your man.”
    Nola Ruth looked away.
    Cole set down his drink and met the judge’s glance without faltering. “I wish you luck, Quentin. I really do. But I’m not your man.”
    Amanda coughed. “I guess we should eat. It’s getting late.”
    Quentin ignored her. “Damn it, Cole—” He stopped, his gaze riveted to the dance floor, and the willowy, black-haired woman in the red gown that fit like a second skin.
    She melted into her partner’s arms, angle to curve, breast to bone, cheek to cheek, flame red against tuxedo black. Gracefully, erotically, they moved as one, her right hand extended, captured in his left, his right splayed across the naked base of her spine, her left resting on the back of his neck. Her lips were a whisper from his. It was abundantly clear to all who watched that their level of intimacy extended beyond the dance.
    The music rose and fell. Other couples box-stepped around them, their sedate steps a world apart from the intricate, air-light tango of leg and limb displayed by the woman in red and her partner.
    Quentin couldn’t tear his eyes away. His face burned. Lizzie Jones. Damn her. Damn her to hell. His fist clenched, shattering the delicate glass in his hand.
    â€œFor God’s sake, Quentin.” Color flared across Amanda’s cheeks. She began mopping up the puddle of alcohol, broken glass and drops of blood.
    â€œLeave it, Amanda,” Nola Ruth counseled. “The waiter will take care of it.” She lifted her finger, signaling for help.
    Immediately, a white-coated server materialized at her elbow, assessed the damage, cleaned the table and returned with fresh linen and another martini before the music ended.
    Wentworth held a napkin under his hand. “Excuse me. I need to take care of this.” Instead of walking around the wooden dance floor, he strode through it, deliberately bumping into Lizzie and her partner. “Pardon me,” he said, reaching out to grip her arm. “I believe your escort has something that belongs to me.”
    The man laid a warning hand on the judge’s arm. “Mister, you’re out of line.”
    Lizzie Jones’s silvery laugh floated across the room. She mocked him. “What might that be, Your Honor? ”
    He shrugged off her defender’s restraining arm. “Something for which I paid a great deal.”
    This time Lizzie’s eyes narrowed. Deliberately, defiantly, her hand slid up the judge’s chest. She moved closer, close enough so that her long black hair swung across his cheek, hiding their faces. “I belong to no one, Quentin,” she whispered in her subtly accented English. “Remember that. Go back to your wife.” Taking the lobe of his ear in her mouth, she bit down hard.
    He jerked away. Blood poured down his neck, forever staining the white shirt and dinner jacket.
    Lizzie leaned against her partner, threw Quentin a final smoldering glance and swept out of the room.
    Looking back, Cole would remember that it seemed as if all the breath and color in the elegant restaurant left with her.
    Nola Ruth was completely nonplussed. For the first time in her life she’d encountered a social situation for which her careful upbringing hadn’t prepared her. She simply sat and watched while Amanda, white-faced and silent, fumbled with the clasp of her purse, pulling out bills, throwing them on the table.
    Cole’s voice was low and controlled. “Don’t be ridiculous, Amanda. We’ll cover the