A Man of Privilege

He weighed his options. He couldn’t let her off the hook—he needed her testimony in his back pocket, just in case. If he sent Yellow Bird back after her, she’d probably clam up and refuse to talk, much less to testify. That only left one option.

Agnes stepped into his office, appointment book in hand. “Shall I put the young lady back on the interview schedule?”

His feral smile didn’t work on Agnes any better than it had on Maggie Eagle Heart, but he tried it out anyway. “Get me her address.” As long as he had a legitimate reason to see her, he wasn’t acting unethically. Convincing her to testify wasn’t throwing his hard work away, it was building his case. As long as he remembered that, he’d be fine. He needed her as a witness, and that meant he’d have to see her again.

It was just that simple.

Two

The black sedan peeled out of the parking lot and took a left so sharply that Maggie thought they might have gone up on two wheels. Agent Yellow Bird kept driving like a bat out of hell, weaving around traffic and running stale yellow lights at speeds more fitting to a police chase than a ride home, all of which made one thing clear.

Tommy was mad at her.

A tendril of forgotten fear curled around her stomach. She hated the feeling of having done something wrong. She’d learned early that bad things happened when people got mad. When she’d been small, she had hidden under her bed, until that became the first place her uncle looked. When she got older, she crashed on whatever empty couch she could, trying to avoid home altogether. And when that failed, well, drugs had taken her away like nothing else had. Except that they’d taken away everything else, too.

For a long time, it had been a trade-off she’d been willing to make. Not anymore. Not for the last nine years.

Was she nervous? Oh, yes. Tommy had grown into a formidable man since she’d seen him last, and that wasn’t counting the gun he wore under his jacket. Was she going to hide and whimper and beg for mercy?

Hell, no.

But she wasn’t about to confront him while he took corners as if they were an insult to his manhood. She’d wait until they were on the highway, headed home through the long, flat parts of South Dakota.

Her thoughts turned to the conversation with James Carlson, special prosecutor. She’d known when Tommy showed up on her doorstep that someone had realized who she was. She’d been expecting another fat, sweaty, greedy man like the Dishonorable Royce T. Maynard to preside over the interview. Not the handsome man with the kind eyes and sharp smile.

Special Prosecutor Carlson had sat there with her mug shots in front of him and looked at her with something that wasn’t disapproval and wasn’t quite lust—not entirely, anyway. If she hadn’t known any better, she might have guessed that he’d looked at her with respect.

But she did know better. She didn’t trust lawyers.

Still, that Carlson had seemed different from the other men she’d endured in the past. For one, he’d walked a fine line between good-looking and gorgeous. Having paid several thousand dollars to get her own teeth fixed, she appreciated a good set of pearly whites. He had the kind of smile that made it clear that he—or his parents—had spent a lot of money on getting them perfect.

For another thing, his suit fit as if it had been made for him. Maybe it had been, but she’d never had a lawyer who could afford a custom suit. The slime bag who’d given Carlson her name had always worn hideous brown suits that looked as though he’d stolen them off the clothesline of some taller, wider man. But not Carlson. His charcoal-gray suit sat on his shoulders like a second skin. She could tell that, underneath all that expensive wool, he was a well-built man. Broad shoulders, strong arms—from the waist up, he was gorgeous. She couldn’t help wondering what he looked like from the waist down.

Maggie slammed the door on that kind of thinking. There was nothing wrong with a man being attractive. Nothing wrong with noticing an attractive man. But that’s as far as it could go. She couldn’t afford to forget what he was—a lawyer. Lawyers—and judges—used people. She knew that better than anyone, and she was done being used. As long as she remembered who he was—and who she wasn’t—she’d be fine. If she ever saw him again.

Maybe she would. So she hadn’t been with a man in years. She’d still recognized something in his face after she’d pulled the strap of her tank top down, and she’d recognized the same something when he’d asked her if she was seeing anyone. Not quite lust, but desire. Interest, mixed with pleasant surprise—curiosity, maybe—when she’d thrown down her challenge. When she’d called Tommy a dog.

Hence the pissed silence at the speed of sound.

She wasn’t about to let Tommy out of her sight without getting him to tell her what he knew. “You’re mad at me.”

“I’m not his dog.”

“I see.” She’d known that comment would hit home. But she’d been angry. Tommy had been quiet the entire trip to Pierre, telling her nothing about where they were going or who wanted to see her. He’d earned a few hits. “What are you, then?”

“We’re partners. A team.” His fingers kept drumming. “I arrest people, he puts them away. That’s how it works.”

“Since you’re on his team, tell me—will I be seeing Special Prosecutor James Carlson again?” Even saying his title out loud gave her a weird feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Yep.”

She couldn’t imagine anything good coming from that, but the news excited her anyway. She’d get to see that smile again. “Why does he need me? Surely Maynard left bigger and better loose ends.” That was the question that had nagged at her since Carlson had made his preposterous claim that his whole case rested on her.

“He doesn’t need you. He’s the kind of man who has a plan for every contingency. You’re what he calls an insurance policy. He likes to have a few, just in case.”

That struck her wrong. She was a person—a woman, damn it. For too long, she’d been a victim, a statistic—never just Maggie. She wouldn’t stand for having her hard-fought success downgraded to “backup plan.”

“I’d give him a week, eight days tops, before he shows up. What you do with him then is up to you.”

Maggie’s head popped up and she stared at Tommy. “What?” Because that had almost sounded like … hell, she didn’t know. A joke? Permission to shoot? Permission to … do something else? No telling. Tommy didn’t answer, so Maggie tried again. “Tell me about him.” Not because she wanted to know, but because she needed to be prepared if he was going to trek out to the house. Yes, that was a good reason—one that had nothing to do with anything above—or below—his waist. She couldn’t be interested in him because there was no way in hell she could trust him.

“Nice guy, unless you’re on the wrong side of the law. Blue-blooded, East Coast, rich. His mother has the fortune, but his father has the power—maybe you’ve heard of him? Alexander Carlson? Used to be the secretary of defense?”

Maggie swallowed. She was way out of her league here. Secretary of defense? Alex Carlson? Even Maggie knew who that was. That wasn’t just blue blood or rich. That was pure power. His father had launched wars, for crying out loud. Even if James had not been a lawyer she couldn’t trust, she wouldn’t dream of fantasizing about him now. He wasn’t just a lawyer. He was a somebody—and she wasn’t. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him.”

“Carlson is just biding his time,” Tommy went on. “We’ve been building this case for about four years, and he won’t let anything sink it. He needs this victory. Going to run for office after he wins. Sooner or later—sooner, if I know him—he’ll make a run at the White House.”

The air in Maggie’s lungs stopped moving. So she’d had a conversation with a possible future president of the United States today. And she’d told him off. That sickening feeling of having done something wrong got a lot stronger. “He’s going to win?” The case, the elections—one and the same, as far as she was concerned.

Tommy snorted. “He’s got a perfect track record. He’ll win it one way or another.”

That sounded ominous. How ridiculous was she to think that a man like him was looking at her with desire? A man like him had perfect women at his beck and call. Maggie was so far from perfect that she wasn’t even in the same zip code. “Do you trust him?”

Tommy gave her a sideways glance. “With my life.” It could have sounded flip, but he was dead serious. “You got that card he gave you?”

She dug around in her bag until she found it. “Yes.” Rosebud Armstrong, Attorney at Law. There was a phone number, but that was it. No address, no law-firm name. Fate had a sense of humor. She’d escaped from the Rosebud reservation. Now her life might rest in the hands of a woman with the same name.

“You can trust her. She’s Red Creek Lakota—my tribe. And she went to law school with Carlson. She knows how he thinks. If you want a lawyer, you tell her I sent you.”

Of course, Tommy also knew how Carlson thought, being as they were on the same team and all—and what had that gotten her? Nothing. “I don’t want to call her. I don’t want any of this. I have a normal life now, and you and your ‘team’ are threatening to ruin it—and for what? Because that stuck-up spoiled brat of a lawyer wants an insurance policy? No. I’m nobody’s bargaining chip. I refuse.”

Although she was in danger of pouting, she crossed her arms and stared straight ahead. Which made the laughter that suddenly burst out of Tommy that much more startling.

His reaction only made her madder. “You can go to hell, Thomas Yellow Bird, because you are a dog. You didn’t have to find me. What happens when word gets out, huh? And don’t give me any bull about confidentiality. What happens when Leonard Low Dog or my uncle find out I’m not dead?”

“Nothing.”

“You know that for sure—how? You going to put a bullet in their brains for me?”

“Low Dog is doing twenty to life in Leavenworth, and your uncle lost both his legs and his eyesight to diabetes a couple of years ago.”

“Leonard’s in prison?” And her uncle was legless. She shouldn’t feel so happy at this news, but she couldn’t deny the relief that made her want to jump up and shout. They couldn’t get to her. She was safe.

Tommy gave her a long look. “I put him there, about seven years ago. You were gone by then. I asked around, but everyone said you’d died.”

“You didn’t believe that?”

“Nope.”

Which explained why James Carlson would have even bothered to look for her. Yellow Bird had promised he could find her. “How did you find me?”

“I got lucky.” He didn’t elaborate, damn him.

“That’s it? You’re not even going to tell me how you tracked me down?”

“Nope.”

“Fine.” She smoothed out her skirt again before she caught herself, so she folded her arms to keep her hands quiet. “Be that way.”

A flood of conflicting emotions threatened to swamp her. James Carlson was threatening her because she was nothing more than an uncooperative insurance policy. But there’d been more to his interest than that of a prosecutor. Had he really been curious about who she was seeing, or had he just been using flattery to manipulate her into doing what he wanted?

They pulled up in front of the house Nan had built into a low hill. She kept the front half whitewashed, but the back end of the place was completely sunk into the earth. Sure, it was dusty in the summer, but it stayed cool in the summer and warmish in the winter. Maggie had always taken comfort in the fact that no one could sneak in a back way. There was no back way, just hill. They were close enough to Aberdeen that they had nice things like television reception and internet connectivity, but far enough away that they couldn’t see any other lights after dark. That isolation had been exactly what Maggie had needed.

Tommy put the car in Park, but he didn’t turn it off. She still had so many questions. “Why did you find me?”

His fingers drummed on the steering wheel again. “I wanted to know what happened to you.”

She’d be lying if she didn’t admit she’d wondered what had happened to him, too. “Like I told him once upon a time, a boy named Tommy tried to save a girl named Maggie. But he couldn’t. No one could.”

Tommy looked at her, a sad smile pulling on his mouth. “No one could. She had to save herself.” He reached over and touched her cheek. “Carlson’s a good guy, but you do what you’ve got to do.”

“Okay.” It was going to be okay. She’d told herself that for years, hoping that hope alone would make it so, but suddenly, she knew with certainty that it would be okay. She could do anything. Even handle a special prosecutor.

She got out of the car. Agent Yellow Bird waited until she was at the front door before he took off at chase speeds again.

Maggie stood there for a moment, feeling a lightness that matched the orange glow of the sunset. She looked out over the land that was her home now, over the rows of vegetables she’d have to weed tomorrow and the windmill that powered the water pump. Suddenly, after today’s events, she didn’t feel as though she had to hide out here anymore. Just the same, though, she wanted to stay. This was her life.

Nan was where she always was, sitting in her recliner and watching Deadliest Catch. “Well?” she said without lifting her eyes from the pillow she was embroidering.

“Low Dog is in prison and my uncle is blind and in a wheelchair.”

Nan’s needle paused in midair. “So, good news, then?”

“That part, at least. A special prosecutor wants me to testify against that judge.” She left out the part about the prosecutor being handsome and rich and powerful.

Nan made a tsking noise and kept sewing. If Maggie hadn’t seen the pictures of Nan as a young woman with freckles and fiery-red hair, she wouldn’t believe the woman before her wasn’t an Indian. She had everything—the way she wore her hair, the clothes she chose, even the way she talked—down pat. The sun had tanned her face and hands a leathery brown, and she was an expert on Sioux traditions.

“I see. What did he offer you?”

Maggie pulled up short. “Nothing.”

The needle paused again. “Nothing?”

“Well, he offered not to charge me.”

Nan tsked again. “Must not be a very special prosecutor if he didn’t give you anything you wanted.”

Maggie sat down in her chair with a thump. “I think he’s a good lawyer. I just think he was expecting someone else.” He was expecting a woman who had exchanged sex acts for not-guilty verdicts. His offer had been for that woman. Maggie wasn’t that woman anymore. “Besides, he doesn’t have anything I want.”

That was dangerously close to a lie. He did have something she wanted—that smile, those eyes, and all those muscles underneath that suit. But she didn’t want to want them. If she wanted them—him—and if he figured that out, he could use it against her. He could use her. As much as she wanted to see James Carlson again, she had to protect herself from him. There was no way in hell she’d put herself back into a position where someone else was calling her shots. Those days were over.

“You okay, sweetie?” Nan finally looked up, the concern bright in her eyes.

Maggie thought back to the stunned look on his face when she’d stood up to him—when she’d stood up for herself. She hadn’t been what he’d been expecting, but then, she hadn’t expected anyone to look at her with such honesty. Would James Carlson come looking for her?

She hoped so. She shouldn’t, but she did anyway.

“Yeah,” she said. “I think I am.”

Three

The sun beat down on Maggie’s head. The wide brim of her floppy straw hat kept the back of her neck from burning, but on days like this, she had half a mind to take her pruning knife and whack her braids off. It was just that damn hot.

Maggie dropped a shovel full of composted manure onto the freshly tilled garden soil. She shouldn’t whine about the sun—it had dried the stink right out of the manure. She stood up and tried to stretch the kinks out of her back as she looked at the sky. If only she and Mother Nature could compromise on the occasional cloud …

She was halfway through the rest of her wheelbarrow when she heard it—the crunching of tires on gravel from a long way off. The hair on the back of her neck stood straight up. Wonderful, she thought. Tommy had been wrong. It had only been four days since she’d left James Carlson’s office in a huff—not eight. And here she was, covered in dirt and manure. Damn. She snatched her hat off her head and arranged her bangs over the side of her face. Individual hairs stuck to her skin, but her scar was hidden.

At least, she hoped it was James Carlson, despite the ratty overalls she was wearing. She didn’t want to think about who else it could be on a Saturday afternoon. Despite Tommy’s reassurances, Maggie was reasonably sure there were a few other people in this world who’d want to see her for all the wrong reasons.

She glanced back at the house, wondering if Nan could hear the approaching car over the TV. If so, she’d have the shotgun at the ready. A girl couldn’t be too careful, after all.

A shiny black SUV—the kind that looked as if it had never been on gravel before—hesitantly worked its way down to the house. She leaned on the handle of her shovel and watched it come.

Maggie smiled. So that was the kind of “off-road” vehicle that rich, East Coast blue bloods bought when they were roughing it. She’d stick to her Jeep, thank you.

“You’re a long way from home,” she called out when Mr. Special Prosecutor himself emerged from the driver’s seat.

The first thing she saw was the blinding white of his smile. Wow, she thought again. That smile wasn’t quite as sharp as it had been in the office. If anything, he almost looked glad to see her. Then she noticed that, instead of the suit, he had on a pair of tan cargo pants and a sky-blue polo shirt. Even though the clothes were pretty casual, they fit him well.

Broad chest, she thought with a sharp intake of breath. Without the jacket, she could see exactly how broad—and defined—his chest was, and how it narrowed into the V of his waist.

Whoa. Not just attractive. Downright gorgeous.

Heat—different from the swelter that had sweat dripping down the back of her neck—ripped through her, and she suddenly found herself doing some crude math. Exactly how long had it been since her last time with a man? No—wrong question. How long had it been since she’d last enjoyed a man?

His eyes were shaded behind wraparound sunglasses, but he leaned forward and slid them down his nose to look at her.

Way too long, she thought. Maybe never.

“I believe I was invited,” he called as he pulled something out of the backseat.

Sheesh. Only a lawyer would construe what she’d said as an invitation. “Did Yellow Bird tell you how to find me?”

He was carrying something. As he got closer, she saw that it was a bright orange garden trug, loaded with stuff. “Not too many people get away with calling him names.” He grinned at her, as if he was letting her in on some secret. “Here. I brought you something.” He set the trug in between the rows and took a step back.

She looked at him for a long second. Was this a gift, or a bribe?

“It’s a gift. No strings attached.”

Tommy hadn’t said anything about mind reading. Keeping an eye on her visitor, Maggie crouched down. Deerskin gardening gloves, a trowel with an ergonomic handle, copper garden tags, a matching copper watering can and a bunch of heirloom seeds were all nestled inside. All top-quality stuff that she would never waste money on. She lifted out the watering can. Was this a Hawes? She’d seen this one in catalogs—for a hundred and forty dollars.

The whole basket must have set him back close to five hundred. James Carlson was, in fact, a good lawyer. At the very least, a rich one.

“I can’t accept this.” Even as she said it, she picked up the gloves. The leather was softer than anything else she owned. These weren’t the everyday gloves they sold at the hardware store. “I won’t testify.”

“I didn’t say anything about testifying. I said it was a gift. I wouldn’t come to pay my respects empty-handed. I know better.”

She looked up at him. His feet were spread a shoulder’s width apart, his arms were crossed, and a cryptic smile graced his face. He looked like a man who reigned over everything he saw, and right now, he was looking at her.

Goose bumps shot up her arms. She swallowed as she stood. She didn’t want anyone—least of all him—to think she was kneeling before him. Not too many people knew about the Lakota tradition of giving gifts. “Yellow Bird tell you that, too?”

“It’s something I picked up along the way.” He turned around, taking in her garden. “This is lovely.” Then he caught sight of the wheelbarrow. “Is that what I think it is?”

She glared at him. “My garden is organic. Did you come all the way out here to compliment my vegetables?”

He managed not to be offended at her short temper. Instead, he almost looked as if he enjoyed her attitude. “No. I came to see you.”

There it was again—the feeling that wasn’t quite lust, but wasn’t entirely innocent, either. What she wouldn’t give to not be in overalls, or standing next to a manure-filled wheelbarrow. “Yellow Bird said you’d show up.” Which was probably a stupid thing to say, but she had to say something.

Oh. My. That particular smile lit up his whole face. “The fact that Yellow Bird said anything is impressive. Either your interrogation tactics are unparalleled, or he’s fond of you.”

Anger hit her like a bolt out of the blue. “I didn’t sleep with him, if that’s what you mean.” The words flew out of her mouth faster than she could figure out what she was saying. She grabbed the shovel and swung it onto her shoulder as if it was a baseball bat. She could take the head off a snake in seconds. At the very least, she’d break his nose. “I’m not like that anymore, so if that’s why you’re here, you can take your stuff and go back the way you came.”

Looking a little stunned, he held up his hands and took two steps back. “I’m not implying anything. I can’t believe Yellow Bird would be fond of anyone. Half the time, I think he wants to shoot me.”

She eyed him. Lawyers were prone to lying. Was he telling the truth or saving his backside? “‘Fond’? Who talks like that?”

A hint of red graced his cheeks, and Maggie immediately regretted her snippiness. At this exact moment in time, the man standing before her didn’t look—or act—like any lawyer she’d ever known.

Nice, she scolded herself as her own blush began to creep down her chest. Way to embarrass yourself. Was there any way to salvage this situation without acting like a total jerk?

She took the shovel off her shoulder and set it on the ground. In response, he lowered his hands. An uneasy silence settled over them. God, she was so out of practice. She didn’t talk to anyone but Nan, and Jemma over at the post office. Was she supposed to apologize now or what?

“Let’s start over,” he said, offering his hand. “Hi. I’m James.”

Start over? Just like that? If only life were that simple. Maybe it was. He stood there with a soft grin on his face as he leaned forward in anticipation. “Maggie,” she replied. Although she wasn’t sure it was a good idea, she placed her hand in his and gave it a short shake.

Not a good idea. Warmth that had nothing to do with embarrassment began a slow build from where their skin touched. She meant to let go, but she was paralyzed by the oddity of the sensation. Tingles followed the warmth as it moved up her arm. The combination of the two was enough to squeeze the air out of her chest.

Nope. Not allowed. She forcibly regained control of her limbs and wrenched her hand out of his. So what if James was hot? So what if he had a good smile? So what if he made her feel things she’d forgotten she was capable of feeling? He was off-limits. He was probably trying to manipulate her. He was some East Coast rich guy, so he’d never be able to understand what her life had been before, or what it was now. He was going to be the president one day, so she could never in a million, billion years entertain the notion of kissing James Carlson. Not even once.