Nothing But the Truth. Kara Lennox
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“Why do you wear those glasses?” Griffin asked.
“Um…so I can see?”
“You used to wear contacts. Those pictures in the living room—no glasses.”
“Very observant of you.” Raleigh shrugged. “Glasses are less trouble, and they make me look smarter. That helps in the courtroom.”
“They’re also easy to hide behind. You go to a lot of trouble to make sure men don’t notice you.”
“Is that any of your business?” she asked sharply.
“Maybe not. But reporters are naturally curious. Other men might not look past the frumpy lawyer facade, but I have. You’re a beautiful woman, Raleigh. Why don’t you let the world see that?”
As he’d spoken, her eyes had grown wide. But she didn’t deny anything. The anger he saw reflected in her expression gradually receded, replaced by a look of perplexity.
Griffin touched her chin with one forefinger, leaned forward, and did what he’d been thinking about since walking through the front door.
Dear Reader,
In the 1970s, the whole country became fascinated with the investigative reporting of Woodward and Bernstein, whose Watergate stories brought down a president. Journalism became a popular major for college students, including me. Alas, I was never hard-hitting enough to be a good investigative reporter. The best I could come up with was a story about two competing pizza restaurants titled (cleverly, I thought) Pizza Wars.
But the fun thing about being a novelist is that I get to be any kind of person through my characters. Griffin Benedict is the tough but compassionate journalist I wanted to be, jetting off to war zones and natural disasters, shining the light of truth into shady dealings. And who better for him to investigate than upstanding, uptight Project Justice attorney Raleigh Shinn, who has never so much as been late with a library book?
I had a great deal of fun pitting these two smart yet very different people against each other, then forcing them to team up to face the real threat. I hope you enjoy it.
Sincerely,
Kara Lennox
Nothing But the Truth
Kara Lennox
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kara Lennox has earned her living at various times as an art director, typesetter, textbook editor and reporter. She’s worked in a boutique, a health club and an ad agency. She’s been an antiques dealer, an artist and even a blackjack dealer. But no work has ever made her happier than writing romance novels. To date, she has written more than sixty books. Kara is a recent transplant to Southern California. When not writing, she indulges in an ever-changing array of hobbies. Her latest passions are bird-watching, long-distance bicycling, vintage jewelry and, by necessity, do-it-yourself home renovation. She loves to hear from readers; you can find her at www.karalennox.com.
Believe it or not, this one’s for my ex-husband, Pete, who really did jet off to war zones and natural disasters with his trusty Nikon. I’m still in awe of the danger you put yourself in, and the beautiful pictures you took.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
RALEIGH SHINN HESITATED on the sidewalk outside the coffee shop, her palms damp, her chest tight. She hadn’t been this nervous since she’d argued a case before the Texas Supreme Court.
She so much preferred to be the one asking the questions. But she had committed to the interview; she couldn’t weasel out.
Raleigh did not like the media. Even when she fought for a popular cause, the press often described her as a bulldog, a terrier, or a sexless, humorless legal machine.
Those descriptions were, perhaps, not entirely undeserved. But now, she needed some good press, because her current cause was decidedly unpopular. It would take a tidal wave of evidence to get the D.A. to reopen the case of Anthony Simonetti, currently sitting on death row for supposedly gunning down his girlfriend in a cold-blooded act of premeditation. Raleigh wanted public sentiment squarely on her side when she made her argument.
Griffin Benedict, roving investigative reporter for the Houston Telegram, could turn public opinion. He was immensely popular—almost a celebrity in his own right. People believed what he wrote. He could help her cause.
Or he could crucify her. She had to take her chances.
After a deep, fortifying breath, she entered Legal Grounds, a coffee shop near the Harris County Courthouse.
She spotted him immediately. Even if she hadn’t seen his picture, she would have known he was the one. He was the only man sitting alone, and he was staring right at her.
Lord have mercy, he was gorgeous.
That thought surprised her. She didn’t normally think of men in terms of their looks. She sometimes sized up a client’s appearance and how it would play with a judge or jury, but she couldn’t remember the last time she had found a man attractive.
Griffin Benedict’s sexual magnetism hit her like a fog bank, momentarily disorienting her. Brown hair, longish and with a rakish wave, framed a square-jawed, tanned face. The nose had a slight bump, as if it had been broken. Mouth, sensual. That was the adjective that leaped to mind, although she wasn’t sure what made it so.
His broad shoulders filled out a button-down shirt rolled up to the elbows, open at the throat, tucked into well-worn jeans. Scuffed cowboy boots, of course.
He continued to stare at her, frowning slightly, and she shook herself out of her stupor. Eyes forward, posture erect. She had to show quiet confidence. She strode forward, hand outstretched.
“Mr. Benedict.”
He stood and flashed a welcoming smile, his large hand swallowing hers before giving it a firm shake. Either his hand was very warm, or hers was cold. Would he note that? Would he attribute her lack of circulation to nerves? Although it was late September, the weather was still warm, no reason for cold hands.
“Ms. Shinn. Good to meet you. Would you like something to drink? I was just going to get myself a coffee.”
“No, thank you.”
“Be right back, then.”
He was tall, well over six feet. She was five-nine, and she wore heels, so she didn’t often look up to people. She watched him walk up to the counter with an easy saunter and then tore her eyes away when she realized she’d focused too long on the way his backside filled out those faded jeans.
Maybe she should have ordered hot tea. It would give her something to do with her hands. But her choice of drink revealed something about her psyche, and she wanted to avoid that. This interview was about her work.
When Benedict returned to the table, he held two steaming cups.
“You must be very thirsty,” she said.
“The