New week, new prompt. It’s an interesting this week, for all it semes simple but the message–and the facts–can be very subtle. Today’s THEME: **BUT IN FACT: That moment of intellectual or factual reversal. A twist.” See what I mean? This is part of the scene where Ronan and Maura first get up close and personal. I’ll let you decided from there whether if fits.
“So,” he said. “You’re Crenshaw’s personal assistant.” He couldn’t help the sneer in his voice.
“No,” she countered. “I’m one of his ADAs. As in Assistant District Attorney.” She had a pretty good sneer of her own.
Ronan blinked. He should have made the connection because Declan had been complaining about this pain-in-his-ass assistant district attorney named Brannigan. He smiled. “I stand corrected, counselor.”
Maura rolled her eyes, still assessing the man who’d so casually strolled up to her. She caught him watching her and wondered if he’d caught her watching him back. There was an air of shrewd intelligence about him. He wasn’t an attorney but she had the niggling feeling that she should know who he was. His dark suit was impeccable, hand-tailored, and very expensive. His shoes showed the same amount of luxurious indulgence. Short blond hair, a chiseled face that was too rough to be truly handsome, and clear gray eyes that seemed to see everything at once. This man was a natural-born predator. And she was intrigued.
“And you are?” She placed her hand in the one he held out without thinking first and a frisson of desire swept over her..
She jerked back, a convulsive reaction to his name. Ronan O’Connor? He was one of the biggest thugs in Boston. How did she not know what he looked like? He didn’t release her hand and she choked back a wave of dismay when she realized she didn’t want him to let go.
He smiled, not trying to hide the laughter in his eyes. “I see you’ve heard the name.”
“Ya think?” she snapped.
His smile deepened. “I understand you’re giving an attorney I know fits.” Her forehead crinkled as she thought and Ronan fought against the need to kiss the frown away. “Declan Donahue,” he supplied when she continued to look confused.
She rolled her eyes. “The feeling is mutual. Trust me.”
A slow ballad wafted through the windows. “Would you care to dance?”
He reeled her into his arms and that’s when Maura realized he’d never released his hold on her hand. He held her gently, like she was something delicate. He wasn’t heavy-handed, didn’t force his lead on her like Alex had. Dancing with her boss had been torture. This? This was far too close to heaven for her peace of mind.
They swayed and moved in time to the music and Ronan led her around the terrace. The man could actually dance. The cautious part of her brain pushed and shoved, screeching that Ronan was a criminal. The feminine part wanted to press against him, to discover what his kiss felt like, and maybe wake up in his arms. The music stopped and she jerked to her senses. Bad idea. Really bad idea. No. Just no. Nononono.
He smiled, as if he knew what she was thinking, and she went all melty inside even though he released her. The door at the end of the terrace opened and a head appeared. “Maura!” Crenshaw’s voice barked. “Are you out here?”
She sighed and turned to Ronan but… She glanced around. He’d disappeared. Maybe he’d been a figment of her imagination. That would be a good solution. She called back to her boss. “What is it Alex?”
“What are you doing out here?”
“I needed some air.”
“J.D. wanted to dance with you.”
She did not explain that the last thing she wanted to do was dance with that sleazeball. Maura lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Maybe next time.” She glanced at her watch then stared at Alex. “I have court Monday and I’m prepping witnesses in the morning.”
“I’m not ready to leave. Find you’re own way home.” He turned on his heel and marched back inside.
All but dancing a jig, she headed down the sidewalk toward Chapel Street. The Longwood T station was just across the street. She could hop the next train, ride to Copley Station and be home in about 30 minutes, even walking from Copley to her condo in high heels. A few people joined her on the open-air platform, some dressed up like she was. A sleek, black SUV slid to a stop. The front passenger door opened and a large man wearing a leather jacket and cap called her name. She turned to face him.
He gestured to the back door he opened. “Compliments of Mr. O’Connor.”
She flashed the man a smirk. “Tell Mr. O’Connor I’m a Boston girl. I can get myself home.” She turned her back and ignored a couple of comments from her fellow passengers. As she boarded the train when it stopped in front of her, she glanced back. The SUV was pulling out onto Chapel Street. There wasn’t a crowd in her car but more people than she’d figured for this time of night. She settled onto a seat and contemplated the evening.
The fact that her boss seemed so chummy with JD Moore made her nervous. Alex was a political animal but she’d known that when she accepted his job offer. His exact words had been, “I need a crusader. You’re it.”
He’d meant the term to be derogatory. She didn’t care. She was a crusader. She believed passionately in victims’ rights. Criminals needed to be behind bars. She believed in the Constitution and Bill of Rights. She believed in the legal premise of innocent until proven guilty. It was her job to prove that beyond a reasonable doubt. If they could be rehabilitated, awesome. If not, she had no trouble asking for the maximum sentence. Alex, on the other hand, believed in doing favors. That troubled her, especially considering the caliber of people he did those favors for.
The moment he’d introduced her to Moore, she knew why he’d asked her to be his escort at the gala tonight. Moore had a reputation for indulgence—wine, whiskey, women, fast cars, expensive cigars, whatever the luxury. That Alex intended to use her as bait became immediately apparent and this was one game that crossed her line in the sand. She banged the back of her head against the window. Why had she danced with Ronan O’Connor? Talk about crossing the line! He was a known figure in the Boston underworld. Oh, he had no rap sheet, had never been arrested much less convicted, but she was positive the man had blood on his hands. He was Brian O’Hara’s heir apparent.
There you have it. At least some of it. And yes, this snippet is longer than usual but I just couldn’t find a place where it made sense to cut it off because to get the facts–and the twist–you need all the info. 😉 Writers, do you have any “but in fact” words to share? Readers, do you think I shared too much?