With Intent: The Intent Series, #1

By Yvonne Harriott

Hotshot criminal attorney Tyson Williams has just won the case of his career. His client has been acquitted of murder, a victory that will propel Tyson to partnership and the corner office. Yet he’s not happy. Something is missing … until Sahara walks into his life one warm spring night.

Once a powerhouse of Atlanta’s social circle, Sahara Jenkins is now a fitness instructor at a retirement villa, living a quiet life. She has no interest in Tyson beyond a one-night stand, but that plan backfires. Things get even more complicated when her roommate is murdered. The suspect? Tyson’s client.

When danger creeps too close to home, the two are thrown together to solve a murder. He wants more than a one-night stand, but she can’t see past a bad marriage to give him a chance.

Can they find a middle ground before a killer decides their future?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Yvonne Harriott
• Release date: Jun 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513007625

Book preview

WITH INTENT

By

Yvonne Harriott

Copyright @ 2015 Yvonne Harriott. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without prior permission by the author.

This book is a work of fiction, the names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design:

http://www.bdasilvadesign.com

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book is dedicated to all my fantastic readers. Thank you for all your support and your emails. I hope you will enjoy reading about Tyson and Sahara as much as I loved writing about them.

Titles by Yvonne Harriott

Short Story Collections

THE WEDDING AND OTHER SHORT ROMANTIC STORIES

THE INVITATION AND OTHER SHORT STORIES

Contemporary Romance

ON THE WILD SIDE

Romantic Suspense

HIDE ‘N SEEK

CAT ‘N MOUSE

HIT ‘N RUN

The Intent Series

WITH INTENT

MORAL INTENT

INTENT TO DECEIVE

Chapter One

Elbows resting on the table, fingers steepled together against his lips, Tyson Williams watched the jury file into the courtroom. The bailiff, a tall man sporting a brush cut and a severe case of acne, strode into the room ahead of them as if his was the most important job in the world.

The twelve jurors—six women and six men— marched to the jury box against the wall to the right of the judge’s bench. In the box stood two rows of chairs, the back row elevated. Tyson watched as each juror took their seat. He remembered them from the jury selection process, which had lasted almost a week, and now Tyson felt like he knew them all personally. Why? His client, Braham Charleston, was the son of oil magnate Everton Charleston. If a Charleston spat on the sidewalk, it made the six-o’clock news. Tyson was up for partner this year; a not guilty verdict was all he cared about.

Not guilty equals partnership. A simple equation. So Tyson sat and waited to hear the jury’s verdict on whether or not he would make partner this year.

The Charleston case had played out on television like a Hollywood blockbuster, with the Charleston family headlining, and Tyson was swept along for the ride. Now the ride was coming to an end—the trial part of it, anyway.

He focused again on the jurors, for they held the fate of his client in their hands. The only juror who looked over at his client was the gray-haired, elderly woman who had never made eye contact with Tyson, not even during his closing argument. Her eyes were focused now on the American flag. During jury selection, he had wanted her removed from the pool, not liking the way she kept rubbing the beads of her rosary as though it had some kind of power. But then again, she might have just wanted to introduce Braham Charleston to the devil personally, like all the spectators in the courtroom.

Tyson couldn’t even wager a bet as to what verdict the jury was going to come back with, for he couldn’t read the jury. Never could. Then again, he only took cases that he believed in and that would help him achieve his goal.

Did he believe in Braham Charleston’s innocence?

The man sitting next to him had been charged with capital murder. The state attorney, Robert Madden, had called Charleston an animal. But Braham didn’t look like a killer. He sat quietly with his hands folded in his lap, back straight in the chair.

Tyson glanced at his client. Braham had lost weight over the course of the trial. At the start, he had been well groomed, beard and goatee neatly trimmed. He was the poster boy for the rich and famous. That didn’t cut him any slack in jail. Someone had rearranged his face. His left eye was swollen almost shut, the left side of his face purple against his pale skin. He said he’d walked into a door. Yeah, right. That was like saying God had a sense of humor.

Everyone please rise, the bailiff said in his southern drawl as he tugged up his trousers.

Buttoning his jacket, Tyson stood up as the judge entered the courtroom and proceeded to the bench. Braham struggled to stand up and made it halfway, gripping the edge of the table for support with a groan.

Please be seated, the judge said, his deep voice commanding respect. His white eyebrows stood out like beacons against his dark face. Tyson had been in his courtroom before, on two separate occasions, and had successful verdicts.

Have you reached a verdict, Madame Foreman?

We have, Your Honor, the rosary-bead woman said as she stood. Tyson watched her, but she didn’t return his gaze.

The judge took the piece of paper from the bailiff. You could hear a pin drop on a rug as he looked at the verdict. It took a couple of seconds, but seemed longer.

Tyson held his head high. Even if he doubted that his client would walk out of the courtroom a free man, no one needed to see it.

What say you?

We the jury, in the matter of the State of Dallas v. Braham Charleston, on the count of capital murder regarding Maria Valentine, find the Defendant—her voice wavered slightly, but she pressed on—not guilty.

One side of the courtroom erupted in thunderous applause and the other wailed in anguish. Tyson didn’t bother to look around. He knew what he would see: anger, directed at him. This case had been about the rich and the poor. Once again, the rich triumphed.

Order in the court, the judge said, hitting his gavel against the base. Mr. Charleston, you’re free to go.

The applause was deafening. Tyson reached over and shook Braham’s hand.

Congratulations, the state attorney said, watching Tyson throw his files in his briefcase. He shoved his blond hair out of his face, eyes frosty as he glanced at Braham with contempt. Thanks to you, the women in the community can now put a deadbolt on their door and sleep with a shotgun under their bed.

The remark brought a sinister smile to Braham’s face, and his eyes grew cold. He turned away to kiss his wife, Rebecca, a dark-skinned, runway-model type who had sat behind him during the entire trial.

Rebecca was eye candy, the perfect wife. She’d spoken on the stand in a refined British accent, telling the world what a wonderful man she’d married. Tyson wasn’t so sure he bought the entire dutiful wife routine. She had it down to a science—too perfect. But she did what she had to, and that was all he’d cared about when he’d prepped her for the stand.

After the verdict came down, as she thanked him, Tyson saw something close to disappointment in her eyes. That didn’t stop her from slapping a million-dollar smile on her face.

Hand in hand, Braham and Rebecca walked out of the courtroom for their press conference. Tyson followed close behind.

The crowd swarmed around them and shouts of protest rang out in the air. The security guard tried to clear a path for them to walk as they walked out of the courtroom into the hallway where they would hold the press conference. Tyson stepped back after a brief statement on the verdict, giving Braham and Rebecca the limelight.

Braham was the first to speak. He smiled and said, I want to thank my attorney Ty—

Pop, pop, pop. Gunfire rang out, hitting the glass panel along the wall. It shattered, and glass sprayed all over the corridor.

•  •  •

Blaize!

Sahara! Her roommate mimicked her, pausing for brief moment to apply red lipstick. After pressing her lips together, she grabbed a tissue and used it to remove the excess color above her lip. Looking at Sahara in the mirror, she said, I’m not spending the one Friday night I’ve had off in three months painting the living room.

It should’ve been done already, Sahara grumbled, wondering if they were ever going to get around to painting. She hated the boring white walls. Blaize had arrived home an hour ago, announced that they were going out, and that was it.

Whatever. Blaize rolled her eyes.

Sahara followed Blaize from the bathroom into her friend’s bedroom and pushed aside the mound of clothing strewn all over the king-size bed to find a spot to sit. There was no point in even tossing the clothes on the loveseat because that was covered with clothes as well. The only item spared was the enormous treadmill, which Blaize used religiously.

The bedroom was large, with an en suite bathroom. Both were painted in a striking red to suit Blaize’s vibrant personality. That was the first project they’d tackled when Sahara had moved in.

Blaize often complained that the bedroom was too small. However, if she cleaned it once in a while, there would be more than enough room to house a family of four, if you counted the loveseat sofabed pushed up against the wall by the window.

Don’t frown, Blaize said. Gives you wrinkles.

Sahara tried again to talk her friend out of a night on the town. With that Braham Charleston guy walking around, she said, I think it’s safer to stay in.

Please tell me you didn’t just say that, Blaize said. Slipping out of a short, red silk robe that matched her short, spiked red hair, Blaize wiggled into a skin-tight black and white dress that plunged deep down the back, leaving nothing to the imagination. The dress screamed, take me home.

It’s not Braham I’m worried about, Blaize said. Blaize grinned from ear to ear, a smile that made men drop to their knees to worship. "Now, Tyson Williams can represent me any time. I could nibble on that sweet chocolate and wouldn’t worry about the calories. Speak of the devil."

Grabbing the remote from the edge of the bed, Blaize turned up the volume on the television set. A pair of nylons draped over the set didn’t hinder her from staring open-mouthed when a picture of Tyson Williams filled the screen. The man had a presence about him that made you want to stand up and take notice.

The news was replaying the shooting at the courthouse that afternoon, and Tyson Williams appeared unshaken by all the commotion going on around him. His client, however, didn’t seem as calm.

Sahara wasn’t paying attention to the reporter with the Botoxed lips. It was Tyson Williams who commanded her full attention. A body like that had to visit the gym more than once a week.

His suit was no ordinary one, definitely not off the rack—it was tailor-made for him: dark gray, paired with a white shirt that contrasted with his dark mahogany skin. His hair was perfectly lined and cut low in a fade. Dark, expensive sunglasses covered his eyes, but even through the television she could tell those eyes were intense. It was as if she could feel them looking directly at her, and a shudder ran through her body. She knew the type because she’d been married to one. Money and power were the only things that were important to men like Tyson Williams.

Been there. Done that. No repeat performance needed.

The reporter asked Tyson about his recent court victory, but he didn’t seem too eager to talk. His comment to the press was brief, after which he stood quietly by to allow Braham to spread the joy of his release. Then gunshots rang out interrupting Braham’s statement, and everyone scattered. Braham and his family, along with Tyson were ushered into a waiting limo by a security guard.

Sahara watched her leggy friend staring at the television, engrossed in the news. Blaize had been the girl in high school you wanted to hate—a cheerleader who dated the captain of the football team. At five-foot-ten, with flawless light brown skin, she now spent her days traveling the world as a marketing executive for a high-end clothing company and had very little interest in maintaining the split-level, three-bedroom house they shared. There were two bedrooms on the main floor. Sahara got the second bedroom. It had a walkout to a raised, enclosed deck.

Can we focus for a minute here? Sahara said, trying to bring her friend back to reality and the problem at hand. I’m more concerned about the living-room walls. I guess I’m going to have to paint them by myself.

I told you we should hire someone to paint. Blaize dropped to her knees, searching under the bed. She pulled out a pair of black and white stilettos. Her face lit up as if she’d found gold. "I don’t care if you want to do it by yourself, but it won’t be tonight. You said I could take you out for your birthday."

My birthday was last week.

And you blew me off. I’m not taking no for an answer.

I don’t really feel up to it.

Why? Blaize stepped in her shoes and moved like a model around the bed, putting her hand out, palm in front of Sahara’s face. Never mind. I don’t want to know and I don’t care to hear the ‘right of passage’ speech again regarding your divorce.

You don’t have to understand. Picking up a black sweater from the floor, Sahara folded it and placed the garment on the bed.

"Jonathon was probably the last man who kissed you or even touched you intimately. That is so not good. You need to create some new, happy memories."

I’m not like you, Blaize. I’m not comfortable with men.

Something flickered in Blaize’s eyes. Sahara wasn’t quite sure what it was. Her friend would get into a zone then snap right out of it as if nothing was wrong. This was one of those moments.

Here’s my take on your little I-don’t-really-feel-up-to-it mood, Blaize said. A year ago today your divorce was final. Instead of moping, think of it like this―a year ago you made a decision to change your life for the better. You’re not a nun. Stop acting like one.

Sahara didn’t want to think about her divorce from Jonathon. As she reflected on what her friend said, her teeth worried her bottom lip. What would it hurt to relax and enjoy an evening out? It certainly wouldn’t be boring with Blaize by her side. She really wouldn’t have to do much anyway. Blaize was always the center of attention. People gravitated to her—men, mostly. When Sahara was with Blaize, no one looked at her.

Okay. Yes! Blaize said. I can see the wheels turning. Get dressed before you change your mind. Blaize pulled Sahara up off the bed and gently pushed her toward the door. Wait. Blaize ran to her closet and reached in to pull out a red halter-top dress. Here. Can’t forget the shoes to match.

Blaize dropped to her knees again and resurfaced, this time with a pair of red suede shoes. The heels looked like a weapon, long and pointy.

The woman had more clothes and shoes than a department store, all by big-name designers, and a better jewelry selection than the Queen herself.

I’m not wearing that! Sahara could hear her own voice rise a notch as she stared at the dress. It reminded her of that iconic white dress of Marilyn Monroe’s, the only difference being that this one was in shocking red. Oh, and what if I took a fall in these heels? It would be like falling off a cliff! Breaking my neck is not the way I want to die. Besides, what will people say when they see me all dressed up like that? They’ll think I’m a prostitute.

No, they won’t. There was almost an edge in Blaize’s voice. They’ll think you’re sexy, confident, and beautiful. Don’t let Jonathon take that away from you. He has taken enough, don’t you think?

That was the closer that clinched the deal, and Sahara gave in. Give me the dress, she replied without giving it another thought.

The phone on the night table rang and Sahara reached for it. Hello? No one answered, but she sensed someone was on the line. She hung up. I thought you said the crank calls had stopped.

It’s nothing. Get dressed. Don’t forget the shoes.

•  •  •

The band was playing a soft jazz instrumental number when Tyson walked into the Red Velvet Jazz Club just after eight. The club was north of downtown, in the Uptown District. He knew the owner and had been promising to visit for a while but hadn’t gotten around to it until tonight.

The club was long and narrow with a row of tables on one side and two rows on the other. The bar, at the back of the room, was already crowded. To its right, a small space was designated as the dance floor and a piano stood a few feet away. Pictures of all the jazz greats—Dizzy Gillespie, Miles Davis, Herbie Hancock—covered the exposed brick walls.

All Tyson wanted to do tonight was listen to some music and enjoy a glass of wine. No company required. Working seventy hours a week didn’t give him much time for entertainment, but tonight he was after an escape.

He had been a lawyer for ten years. In that time he’d become a lawyer to be reckoned with, to quote the Lawyer’s Journal. A top-notch defense attorney was another phase that had been thrown around. Yet none of those accolades mattered today. When Braham walked out of the courtroom a free man, he had felt no joy, and that had gotten to him. Usually with every win came a rush that only pushed him harder. Today there was no rush, only shattered glass and bullets —bullets that he wasn’t even sure weren’t meant for him. As much as he tried to convince himself that they weren’t, the unsettling feeling in his stomach wouldn’t go away.

When Tyson had met Braham Charleston for the first time, he’d asked for the facts that had led to the charges—nothing more. Tyson had then proceeded to poke holes in all the evidence the state had presented. Braham’s family was wealthy, so money was no object in mounting his defense.

It didn’t hurt that Braham’s father, Everton Charleston, was a big client of Tyson’s law firm. Tyson was confident that winning the case would therefore show the senior partners that he was a great asset to the firm. This would solidify his journey to partnership. This was what he’d been working for. All his sweat and hard work had paid off in a big win for him today—the biggest win of his career. Every news agency had covered the trial. A legal analysis had even compared it to the O.J. Simpson trial. So why wasn’t he happy? Maybe he was just tired.

The band started to play Georgia on My Mind, an old Ray Charles favorite, and Tyson’s eyes drifted toward the door. That’s when he saw her―the lady in red. She and her friend were led to the table across from his. Within the narrow confines of the space, he could practically reach out and touch her if he wanted to.

He raised his wine glass to his lips, but it stalled in midair as he watched her. All eyes, he could tell, were on the two women. The tall one knew she was pretty and flaunted it, reveling in the attention. The woman in the red dress was a different story. She was beautiful, yet there was something shy and reserved about her. The invisible Don’t Touch sign wasn’t hard to miss.

Long black hair framed her cinnamon brown face. Her eyes were dark, exotic, with full red lips, which made him fantasize about how they would feel against his. She appeared oblivious to all the attention she was receiving, including that of the woman who swatted her gawking boyfriend in the head as they passed.

Tyson got the impression that she was uncomfortable with the attention. If that was the case, she should have chosen something a little less revealing. But he was guessing her friend had something to do with her choice of fashion attire tonight. He made a mental note to thank her friend.

When the lady in red sat down and their eyes met, she looked right through him. She gave no indication that she even saw him at all. He got a beaming smile from her girlfriend, but he wasn’t interested in her. He wanted the lady in red.

Tyson didn’t use pick-up lines, but if he did, the one that would slide from his lips would be Heaven is missing an angel and she’s standing right in front of me. That line wouldn’t have won him any awards, but it was how he felt, and he couldn’t recall ever before feeling that way about a woman in such a short time. He blamed it on being tired and something else … need. Raw, primal need.

Two glasses of wine later, Tyson watched the women talk and polish off a bottle a wine. Correction: her friend polished off the bottle. The lady in red had one glass and stopped her friend, twice, from refilling it.

The band struck up the jazz version