11 NoraNora leaned back against the oxblood leather on the dark mahogany chair.
Resting her bare arms on more oxblood leather trimmed with brass nailheads, she inhaled air that smelled of premium cowhide, furniture polish, and potted plant fertilizer.
She also caught the scent of her quarry, a mix of leather and spice slapped on liberally from a bottle.
The lawyerly aroma lingered though Brad Truesdale had left seconds ago to fetch cold drinks for them both.
She inched forward silently over the thick charcoal carpeting.
The lawyer’s glass-topped mahogany desk was six feet long and four feet wide. A silver-framed photo perched on one corner, angled so a visitor would catch only a glimpse of the five-by-eight-inch snapshot.
Since she’d moved closer, she could see the whole picture.
A
