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  Stop. She could not allow that seed of doubt to take root.

  “How did you know?”

  Well, well, she had wondered when he would show up. Annette stubbed her cigarette into a decorative urn overflowing with lush foliage and faced Carson Tanner. “I know many things, Mr. DDA. Do you have a specific question? Or are you ready to listen? That was the deal, after all.”

  He looked harried and rumpled despite the elegant navy suit he wore. Looming on the upper terrace, his hands shoved into his trouser pockets, he glared at her with those dark eyes, his expression equally dark.

  Carson Tanner was primed and ready. It had certainly taken him long enough. But then, she’d known that about him. Tanner was a man who assessed a situation carefully before diving in—but once he was committed there was no stopping him.

  “You stated”—he descended another step—“that Dwight Holderfield would be next.” One more step, then another until he had reached the lower terrace where she waited. “How did you know?”

  Seemed Mr. Tanner was a bad sport. She should have expected as much. So she took a moment, mainly to set him farther on edge, and sized up the man. Several inches taller than her, nice wide shoulders. She’d seen his every asset, sleek, unmarred skin stretched tautly over a muscled frame, sculpted jaw, handsome face. He had it all. Looks, money, and a career on the verge of launching to the next level. Focused, determined, the perfect politician in the making.

  But he didn’t have the one thing he’d longed for the better part of his life. The truth. No matter how successful his career proved, no matter how hard he worked, he needed the truth to feel complete.

  Sadly, the truth was only going to turn his vigilantly structured world upside down. Yet he wanted it with every fiber of his being.

  Time to give him an answer. She met that livid gaze. “Because he came to me demanding the truth.”

  “What truth?”

  “The truth about his son.”

  “Why would he suspect you possessed knowledge related to his son’s murder?”

  Even as he asked the question his gaze slid down the length of her body and back up to tangle with hers. There was something more in his eyes then. Need. Hunger. She smiled. Even knowing, as he did, that she had set him up, worked diligently to distract him from his goal, he still wanted her. Predictable. When she’d done her research on Carson Tanner, she had known his rigid control could be breached if she used the proper tactics. Always understand your opponent’s weaknesses as well as his strengths. The need for intimacy hovered just beneath that unstoppable facade he’d constructed. He hadn’t trusted anyone on a personal level in more than a decade, yet he wanted desperately to be touched … to touch.

  He’d lost his family, the girl he loved, his friends, everything in one fatal blow. Everything about who he was testified to his extreme need to fill that void.

  “As I said.” She watched that desire escalate in his eyes, throb in the hard set of his jaw. “I know many things. It was clear to me after my meeting with Holderfield that he was a desperate man. Desperate people take desperate measures.”

  With one stride, Tanner invaded her personal space. “All of this is just a game to you.” He glared at her, searched her face as if he expected to find something he’d hadn’t discovered before. “Right now, right here”—he hitched a thumb toward the historic home behind them—“you mingle with these people like you belong. Like the feds aren’t right outside watching every move you make. Like Lynch isn’t working diligently to prove you were somehow involved in Holderfield’s murder.” He shook his head. “Even in the face of those solid facts, you’re not afraid. You think you’re untouchable.”

  “I’m sure you have apoint,” she suggested, undaunted—at least on the surface.

  He put his face very close to hers. “You’re good, lady.” He opened his arms wide as if stumped. “I can’t connect a single illegal activity to you. Neither can the feds. All we can do is watch and wait for that first fuckup.” He lowered his arms to his sides and leaned menacingly close again. “It’ll happen. And I’ll be waiting, watching every move you make until then. I will get you.”

  He was right. She knew this. But she also understood something he did not. Time was very short. Her fate had already been decided. How long, she wondered, before his was as well—if not already.

  “I had nothing to do with Dwight Holderfield’s murder.” She refused to look away from the disgust in his eyes. Refused to let him see that the pressure was beginning to get to her. That he was beginning to get to her.

  He reined in the fury as well as the disgust, donned that professional mask he wore so well. “The offer I made is still on the table. Give me Fleming and you’ll walk away with immunity.” He searched her face, obviously attempting to gauge her reaction. “But be forewarned, if murder charges are leveled against you, I won’t be able to help you then. It’s now or never.”

  He was right. It was now or never.

  “Since you appear to have no intentions of living up to your end of the bargain we made last night—”

  “I never agreed to anything you offered,” he said, cutting her off cold. “You’ve heard my offer, take it or leave it.”

  “How about I sweeten the deal?” She ignored the frustration that wrestled its way past his courtroom face. “Give you something extra. Something immensely personal.” Don’t let him see your desperation. “Hear me out, Tanner. You’ll be glad you did.”

  He slowly, determinedly shook his head. “Twenty-four hours,” he stated flatly. “Make your decision within twenty-four hours or the offer is rescinded permanently.”

  His insolence was becoming tedious. What was it going to take to get this man to listen? “You do want the truth, don’t you?” she argued. “Or is your idea of justice the goal, regardless of the truth?”

  His hands went back into his pockets. “Good night, Ms. Baxter.” He turned to go.

  Just do it! “Your idol Wainwright is playing you.”

  He hesitated.

  “He’s using you to get to me.” Her heart rammed mercilessly against her rib cage. “He’s using me to take the fall for what he’s done.”

  Tanner turned around slowly. His gaze collided with hers, and a shiver washed over her. Fury didn’t begin to describe what she saw in his eyes.

  “Donald Wainwright’s reputation is impeccable. There is nothing you could say to make me believe he has any agenda other than the one he outlined when he assigned me this case.”

  Breathe. “Then you don’t know your mentor quite as well as you think you do.”

  “Twenty-four hours,” he reminded as he started to go once more.

  Say it! “Think about it, Tanner,” she appealed, “they’re all using you. Making promises, pumping your ego, and pretending the past never happened. Why now? Why you? There’s a hidden agenda here and you’re just too blind to see it. Or maybe you don’t want to.” Now she was really pissed off. Annette held her breath, forced her heart to slow. Lose control and you’ll lose him.

  He moved in, even nearer than before, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Give it up, Baxter. You can’t win. I’m not going to stop until I’ve got you right where I want you.”

  He smelled like leather and wood, earthy and sexy. She hated herself for noticing … she hated herself even more for staring at his lips as he spoke. Just tell him!

  She wet her lips and shifted her gaze to his. “Did Wainwright tell you about the meetings he arranged with Stokes before you were informed he’d been apprehended?”

  Tanner’s gaze tapered. That muscle flexing in his jaw temporarily distracted her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Finish it. Survival. This was about survival. “August eighteenth.” She grabbed back self-control and banished the crazy sensations he somehow provoked. “That’s when Wainwright first met with Stokes in Mobile. The police picked him up three days later, after an anonymous tip.”

  One, two, three seconds elapsed wit
h him staring at her before he reacted. “I don’t believe you.”

  “You just don’t see it yet.” She held that cold stare, didn’t flinch. “History never fails to repeat itself. The good old boys run the show. It doesn’t matter where you live or what you do, there’s always that handful of men who own your world. Wainwright is one of those men.”

  “What does that have to do with any of this?”

  Was he finally going to listen? “Drake, Wainwright, Holderfield, and that’s just the beginning,” she said quickly. “They own this city. They make things happen. You’re a part of their grand plan and you don’t even know it.”

  Fury tightened his features. “Corruption happens wherever there’s power. But I”—he banged his chest—“know these people. I trust them implicitly.”

  She was losing ground again. Fast. “I guess you’ll just have to learn the truth too late. The same way you did about Holderfield’s death.”

  “Talk is cheap, Ms. Baxter.” His gaze cut straight through her, but she refused to flinch. “You want me to seriously consider this bullshit, give me something real to back it up.”

  There were so many things she could tell him. But first she had to know with complete certainty that she could trust him to do the right thing with the knowledge. She would give him this one thing … something, as she’d told him, so very personal. If he didn’t let her down with that, she would give him more.

  “Talk to Stokes.” She took a breath, ignoring the alarms going off in her head. This was suicide. If he went to Wainwright, she would be dead before daylight. Tanner might be as well. “He’ll confirm what I’ve told you.”

  Tanner didn’t commit. Didn’t say a damned word, just stared at her.

  “Go see him,” she pressed. “Then you’ll know. Wainwright isn’t who you think he is.”

  Annette stepped around Carson. Climbed the steps without looking back.

  She’d played her trump card. Now it was up to him.

  11:30 PM

  The Gentlemen’s Club, Huntsville, Alabama

  The Gentlemen’s Club was definitely misleading. There wasn’t a gentleman in sight.

  Annette took a seat at a table in the farthest, darkest corner and watched as the drunken men pawed at the women dancing on the catwalk above them.

  Slick, swaying bodies, wearing little or nothing, teased the men. Gyrated and rotated evocatively.

  Hungry fingers tucked money into thongs. Bulging eyes leered at the young, toned bodies.

  A waitress, also scantily clad, sashayed up to Annette’s table for her order.

  “Vodka.” She met the girl’s world-weary gaze. “And a moment with that girl.” She pointed to Candi Tate, the one swinging around a pole. Annette passed the waitress a one-hundred-dollar bill. “There’ll be another just like that for her.”

  The girl glanced at the dancer. “It might be five minutes.”

  Annette nodded. “I can wait that long.”

  The smoke, the music, the catcalls, all reminded Annette far too much of the past. Her past. The feel of disgusting hands molesting her body … rutting cocks stabbing at her.

  The memories sickened her.

  The waitress returned with her drink, and Annette drank long and deep. To forget. To fortify herself. Something she hadn’t had to do in a long time.

  Further proof that this whole mess was getting to her. She needed to reclaim the initiative. To do what she always did. Survive. Dominate. To not feel dirty.

  Tanner was her only hope of surviving without a total loss. Hell, at this point she was reasonably certain she would be lucky to wake up each morning. The instant Wainwright got wind of what she’d done, she would be dead.

  Tanner would go see Stokes. His own curiosity and that larger-than-life sense of justice would compel him to look into her accusations. She just hoped he would do it without informing his boss.

  By the time she had finished her drink, Annette had relaxed a fraction.

  A sweat-slickened Candi swayed provocatively over to Annette’s table. “You have something for me?” the seventeen-year-old who passed herself off as twenty-one asked. The high of her drug of choice glimmered in her eyes.

  “Yes.” Annette pulled an envelope from her bag. Inside was twenty thousand dollars. “This is from your friend State Representative McGrath.”

  Surprise sobered Candi. She stared at the envelope a moment before picking it up. Her lips parted in another show of surprise as she felt its weight. “What’s this for?” She carefully placed the envelope back on the table.

  Annette leaned across the table. “Silence.”

  The girl’s expression sharpened, turned cunning. “And if I don’t want to be silent?”

  Annette propped her elbows on the table and relaxed. “Then the authorities back home will learn what you do for a living when you visit your ailing aunt here in Huntsville every weekend.”

  Fear rounded the girl’s eyes.

  “The club owner won’t be happy about being closed down for hiring a minor.” Annette sighed. “The other dancers won’t be happy about losing their jobs.” She leaned closer still. “And your mother won’t be too thrilled when Child Services comes to take away your three-year-old daughter. They frown on mothers who employ themselves in such a way.”

  Those big eyes blinked. “What I do when I’m away from home won’t matter,” she insisted in a show of courage.

  “Maybe.” Annette shrugged. “Maybe not. But I wonder if your mother will be able to retain custody with that drunken father of yours loitering around the house? Men like that pose a risk to small children, especially little girls. But then, you know that, don’t you?”

  Candi’s mouth worked as if she might say something, but no words came out.

  “I would suggest”—Annette straightened away from her—“that you forget all about the honorable Mr. McGrath.” She tapped the envelope. “Take the money and start a real life for you and your daughter. Get a decent job.”

  Annette waited for her words to sink past any lingering drug haze, then asked, “Do we have an understanding?”

  Candi nodded.

  “Good.” Annette reached for her bag. Placed a twenty on the table to cover her drink and a generous tip. “One last warning.” She met the girl’s stunned gaze. “Don’t mess this up.” She leaned across the table once more and whispered. “We know where you live.”

  Outside the club, Annette paused to light a cigarette. She drew in deeply, let it out slowly. Some people would consider what she had just done unconscionable—blackmailing a seventeen-year-old girl. But Candi Tate was no typical teenager. Annette had seen the look in her eyes when the subject of money came up. She was no innocent. Not by a long shot.

  There were times when diplomacy just didn’t work.

  “Whatever it takes,” Annette mumbled as she took one last drag before tossing her smoke. Live dirty, die dirty. Those were the rules. Miss Tate might as well learn that lesson now. She had scored a fairly large payoff this time; next time she might not be so lucky.

  Annette stalled as she approached her Lexus.

  The air evacuated her lungs.

  The smashed windshield and bashed-in headlights made her sick to her stomach, but it was the words scrawled in blood-red spray paint that chilled her to the bone.

  DIE BITCH!

  She spun around, searching the dimly lit parking area for any sign of threat.

  No one. Nothing. Just a lot full of cars and trucks whose owners remained inside the low-rent establishment boozing it up and ogling half-naked women.

  Annette’s pulse raced, sending her heart into a frantic rhythm as her attention swung to her damaged car once more.

  Oh, yeah. Time was very, very short.

  If she didn’t get Tanner on her team soon … the game—as he called it—would be over.

  And they would both lose.

  Chapter 23

  Sunday, September 12, 2:15 PM

  Holman prison, Atmore, Alabama

&n
bsp; Carson measured the interview room one impatient stride at a time. Back and forth. He’d waited half an hour. Warden Fallon hadn’t been too happy to hear from him, particularly on Sunday, but he hadn’t dared refuse Carson’s request. Having District Attorney Donald Wainwright as his mentor had its perks.

  He’d gotten a call en route from Nashville PD. The lab had rushed the ballistics report on the slugs found in the body of his BMW. No matches. No witnesses had come forward. With no leads, there was little chance the incident would be solved.

  The black sedan, possibly a Malibu, hadn’t shown up in his rearview mirror in the last twenty-four hours. Maybe he wasn’t being followed.

  But the shooting—that was a different story. That had to have been personal. No two ways about it.

  The BMW would be picked up for the necessary repairs. Meanwhile he was stuck with the rental.

  Carson glanced at his watch. There was little if any possibility that he was going to get back to Birmingham in time for escorting Elizabeth to the Newton Ball. She would be disappointed. But he had to do this.

  He let out a big breath. He had to prove Baxter was wrong.

  The entire night before had been exhausted going over the Tanner case file. Relooking at reports Carson had already analyzed a hundred times. Every crime-scene photo. Every lab report. Every damned newspaper clipping related to Stokes. Then he’d reviewed the Baxter/Fleming file again. Nothing. He’d learned absolutely nothing. All he had was her accusations. Accusations from a woman whose record made her an unreliable witness at best.

  Carson had to be crazy even to consider her claim.

  Agent Schaffer’s suggestion that Wainwright wasn’t being on the up-and-up with Carson echoed in his brain even now. Wainwright had explained away that allegation. Baxter’s bullshit story in no way backed up Schaffer’s theory. Carson had only followed through with this ridiculous idea of talking to Stokes to prove to Baxter once and for all that she had one choice. Take the deal.