The Deep Blue Alibi

She was either buying time or was in desperate need of a Heimlich maneuver, Steve thought.

'Actually, Junior's in town,' she admitted after a moment.

'No problem. Tell Junior to join us. He can pick up the check.'

'The thing is. .'

'Yeah?'

'He already asked me to dinner.'

Steve felt like he'd been slugged in the gut. 'You mean, like a date?'

'Not a date-date. Just a chance for us to catch up on old times without you cross-examining him.'

'No fucking way.'

She shot him a harsh look. He knew she hated the F-word, and he'd curtailed using it as the modifier of choice. No more 'fucking hot out there.' He'd cut back on the action verb, 'fuck him,' and the noun, 'the fuck you doing?' And he was working on not using it as a suffix of the word 'mother.'

So when he chose to smack Victoria with a 'no fucking way,' it was a calculated verbal slap on the kisser to let her know just how pissed he was.

How pissed was he? Fucking pissed.

'Ste-phen,' she dragged out his name, showing her irritation, 'just chill. Having dinner with Junior is no big deal.'

'Where you going?'

'Norman's. In the Gables.'

'A date restaurant. The most romantic place in town.'

'Then why don't you ever take me there?'

'Because we're not dating. We're together. We don't need a dark, expensive place with fancy food.'

'Meaning what? Romance is dead?'

He'd walked into quicksand, and struggling was useless, but he flailed about, anyway. 'C'mon, Vic. I've taken you there when a client paid.'

'Which would make it a business restaurant, correct?'

Touche. The woman was a born cross-examiner.

'That's irrelevant,' he scrambled, trying to counter-punch. 'You're not going to talk business. You're going to relive the joys of playing strip poker at Bunny Flagler's.'

'You're overreacting.'

Was he?

No. This is how you react when the woman you're crazy about might jump ship.

He remembered the day he met Victoria, the ultra-proper, rigid-postured, long-legged young prosecutor in a conservative glen-plaid suit. She'd had a meltdown when he tried to call Mr. Ruffles, a talking toucan, to testify. Face flushed, she'd lost her cool and called Steve unethical and sleazy, diabolical and dangerous, a disgrace to the profession. How could he not fall for her?

That day in the courtroom, she was still a novice, and he'd caught a tremor in her lower lip as she rose to speak. But when she did speak . . Oh, Lordy, as his father might say. In her tailored suit and velvet-toed shoes, with her short, butterscotch hair tousled just a whisper, with her commanding height, and her voice, growing stronger and more confident by the minute, Victoria Lord conveyed intelligence, competence, and unshakable integrity.

She had what every great trial lawyer desires, something that cannot be taught, bought, or even forgotten; she had presence. You couldn't not watch her.

Still, Steve the Slasher was the wilier practitioner, and he'd tricked her into a mistrial, which got her fired from the State Attorney's Office. He'd been regretful about that, at first. But no more. Had she not been sacked, they never could have hooked up to defend Katrina Barksdale on charges she'd strangled her husband.

Victoria had been engaged to the Avocado King then, and she'd stiff-armed all of Steve's advances. Until she came to the conclusion-not rationally, Steve figured, but chemically, magically, hormonally-that he, Last Out Solomon, was the man for her. Not Bruce Bigby. Which, at this moment, gave him precious little solace. For it stood to reason that if he stole Victoria's heart from Bigby, could not another man do the same to him? Was he this year's Bigby?

Seventeen

THE LOVE SONG OF JUNIOR GRIFFIN

Victoria felt her cheeks burn as she followed the maitre d' past the open, wood-burning oven on the way to the table. Or maybe the warmth wasn't coming from the oven at all. With Junior Griffin's strong hand on her bare skin, just above the top of her sequined silk chiffon ruffle top, was she blushing?

Diners at other tables stared as they walked by. Usually, she was the one who drew the looks, but now it seemed that her companion was the focus of attention. Junior wore an unstructured beige silk jacket, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his dark tan a burnished bronze in the subdued lighting. Underneath the jacket, a coral blue silk shirt was open at the neck, the fabric picking up the color of his eyes.

Adonis in Armani.

Sounds and smells filled this room of dark woods, a feel of old-world Spanish architecture. From the open kitchen came the crackle of rum-painted grouper, sizzling in a pan. From the tables, the tinkle of glasses and quiet conversations-in English, Spanish, Portuguese- giving the place an exotic feel.

The maitre d' led them to a prime table, and why shouldn't he? They looked like an upwardly mobile young couple, sophisticated and successful.

Except we're not a couple at all.

She felt a moment of confusion as they ordered drinks, tequila for Junior, a Cosmopolitan for her. She was trying to convince herself that she had been honest with Steve. This wasn't a date. This was just a reconnection with her childhood friend. An opportunity to learn more about her father, more about her mother's secrets, maybe even a nugget or two for the murder case.

But not a date. Definitely not a date.

She hadn't let Junior pick her up at the condo. There'd be no awkward moments-'Want to come up for a drink?' — at the end of this evening.

So why had she taken such care dressing? She didn't have to change out of the high-collared, pin-striped suit she'd worn to court. But she had showered, washed and blow-dried her hair, then tried on four outfits. First, the conservative blue-green tweed jacket with a fringe trim and matching skirt with a silk scarf tie. No way. She looked like Mary Poppins.

Then the racy Balenciaga criss-cross halter minidress. But she didn't have the nerve for that one. Next, a middle-of-the-road Burberry beige wrap dress with splotches of black spots. Forget it. She looked like a demented schoolteacher whose fountain pen had exploded in her closet.

Finally, she decided on the bare-shouldered, sequined Max Azria ruffle top with the black tuxedo pants. When Junior met her at the bar, he'd cocked his head and said: 'Wow, you look gorgeous.' They brush-kissed and she felt a tingle of excitement and a creeping blush that rose like a fever from the back of her neck.

Now, as the waiter served pre-appetizer snacks like little party favors sent from the kitchen-a bite-size flan risotto flaked with lemon and a griddled masa cake topped by a tomatillo sauce-Junior surprised her with a question. 'So, you and Solomon, law partners and how much more?'

She told him the story. How months earlier she'd called Steve 'the sleaziest lawyer she'd ever met.' How they'd shared facing jail cells after being held in mutual contempt for bickering in court. How he'd tricked her into a mistrial, which got her fired, and then how they'd teamed up to try a murder case. She left out the bit about making love in her fiance's avocado grove. Wildly romantic at the time, it just seemed tawdry in the telling. But as she spoke to Junior, that night kept coming back to her. A snowstorm in Miami, a hurricane in her heart. She could still