Angel Condemned Read Online Free PDF

certainly wasn’t a hanging offense. On the other hand, his rudeness to Cissy was unforgivable. If the guy was really going to be a member of the family, Bree foresaw a lifetime of biting her lip. She made a face at the mahogany wainscoting that lined the elevator car. Francesca would never interfere. Neither would Royal. They’d all just have to live with it.
    The elevators doors hissed opened directly in front of the Marbury offices, and Bree stepped out.
    John Stubblefield was sole head of one of the largest law firms in Savannah. If there had been an actual Marbury, other than the nineteenth-century advocate who had lent his name to the landmark legal case Marbury v. Madison, he was long dead or otherwise out of the picture. Stubblefield was notorious for late-night infomercials touting the services of the firm to victims of bad air, bad hip replacements, polluted wells, and fatty hamburgers from fast-food joints. Bree wasn’t against class-action suits in principle—the successful litigation against the tobacco companies was a classic example of American jurisprudence in the right kind of action—but Stubblefield’s notion of justice began and ended with what benefited him and his obscenely engorged bank accounts.
    She pulled open the heavy glass door to the firm and stepped inside.
    Stubblefield had remodeled the entire fourth floor at great expense. The thick wall-to-wall carpeting was crystal pink. The huge reception desk gleamed with brass fixtures inlaid in polished teak. The couches set out for clients were white leather. Silk flower arrangements overflowed every available surface.
    The receptionist behind the desk looked up with a welcoming smile as the faint chime announcing a visitor bounced gently in the hushed air. Her smile died almost immediately. “Hullo, Miss Winston-Beaufort.”
    “How are you, Tiffany?” Bree was pretty sure Tiffany had been homecoming queen at her high school. She knew for a fact Tiffany had been Miss Peach Blossom the year after that. Beauty-queen credentials seemed to be a résumé requirement for Marbury, Stubblefield receptionists. That—and a demand to dye their hair to match the carpeting.
    “Okay, I guess,” she said warily. Bree’s infrequent visits to the firm usually ended in disruptions of one sort or another. Tiffany twiddled the pen in her hand and then sucked cautiously at the tip. “You here to see anyone in particular? Mr. Stubblefield isn’t in.”
    “Is Payton in?”
    Tiffany’s cherry-glossed lips twitched. “You aren’t armed or anything, are you?”
    “Just with my righteous sense of justice.”
    Tiffany nodded. “Okeydokey. I’ll get him. I’d better not say who it is, though. He’ll hide all day if he knows it’s you.” She lifted the phone receiver to her ear and hit the intercom button. “Mr. McAllister? Your two-thirty’s here. I know, sir, it’s a little early.” She hung the phone up softly. “He’ll be right out.”
    Bree sank down on one of the soft couches. “Does he actually have a two-thirty?”
    “Nope. But he never remembers appointments anyhow. He says that’s my job. You’ll cover for me, right?”
    “Goes without saying.”
    “Haven’t seen you on TV lately,” Tiffany said a bit wistfully.
    “No, thank goodness. Things have been quiet.”
    “It’s February. Things always slow down in the winter. It’ll pick up right enough.”
    “I like quiet,” Bree said. “And naps. I could go for a nap right now.”
    “You’re lookin’ a little wrung out,” Tiffany agreed. “You ought to try going for a facial. Perks me up every time.”
    The thick wood door to the back offices swept open, and Payton strode into the room with an anticipatory grin. The sleeves of his pink Brooks Brothers shirt were rolled up to his elbows. He wore red suspenders, a silver tie, and beautifully cut gray trousers. He was also gorgeous. As a young, wet-behind-the-ears novice lawyer, Bree had fallen madly in love with his looks and his