Simply Scandalous

Wealthy Assistant D.A. Logan Montgomery needs to ruin his reputation--fast! That's the only way he'll be able to convince his father that he's not cut out to follow the family tradition of going into politics. His plan? To indulge in a very public

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"TARGET AT ONE O'CLOCK." Logan Montgomery listened to his eighty-year-old grandmother and groaned. "You've been watching James Bond again, Gran." "Just Sean Connery. That Pierce Brosnan is too new and the other one is a pansy. He wouldn't know how to please a real woman if she bit him on the--" "Gran!"Startled, Logan shot a glance at his grandmother. An impish gleam lit her knowing gaze. She'd learned to use shock value to her advantage, he thought wryly. "I think that's enough." "You never used to be a prude." He stifled a laugh and chose to warn the irrepressible older woman instead. "And you never used to go so far. Better watch yourself." The white-haired woman gave an unrefined, unladylike snort. "If you aren't careful you'll end up a stuffed shirt like your father." "With your influence? Not a chance." He drank from a glass of hundred-dollar champagne, tasting bubbles and little else. Damn waste of money. A cold beer would taste a hell of a lot better, especially on such an unusually hot and balmy May afternoon. "So tell me why you summoned me to the annual Garden Gala." He'd hoped he could ignore the formal invitation, hand-delivered to his house, as it had been hand-delivered to dozens of others. Although the Garden Gala was as much a part of Montgomery tradition as baseball was a part of spring, Logan didn't feel the same sense of anticipation for this event. His grandmother, Emma, was a different story. He adored her. "Because of her." His grandmother waved a wrinkled finger in front of his eyes. "Over there by the Dogwood tree. She catered this whole party herself. Talent personified." Logan narrowed his gaze. He couldn't see much besides the overwhelming sea of floral prints on the female guests and the stark black-and-white uniforms worn by the help. "All I see is a bunch of penguins," Logan muttered. "I believe waiter or waitress is the politically correct term," Emma said. "Couldn't you get the judge to relax the dress code for God's sake? These poor people look like they're attending a formal wedding, not serving cocktails on a spring day." He liked parties as much as the next guy but this uptight excuse for a gathering wasn't the way he'd choose to spend a Saturday afternoon. "Your father has hisstandards," Emma said in her haughtiest voice, in imitation of her son, Judge Montgomery. "He believes the help should dress as such. Ridiculous," she muttered. "The man ought to come into the twenty-first century. Anyway, enough about Edgar for now. Look around. What else do you see?" Logan took two steps to the right so he could see around a ridiculous-looking parasol held by one of his mother's friends, to protect her skin from the nonexistent sun and impending rain. "Well?" A bony elbow nudged Logan in the ribs. He looked once more and was rewarded by what he saw at the elaborate bar set up in front of the pool house, on the perfectly manicured lawn--a delectable-looking creature in uniform. She stepped around the bar and into full view. The clouds had begun rolling in but this woman radiated pure sunshine. Not even the standard waitress uniform looked ordinary on her supple curves. She reached over to clean the bar of used glasses, and Logan was treated to a backside view that was just as enticing. Black running shoes, obviously worn for comfort, and black tights with a vertical seam ran up the length of her well-toned legs. As she reached forward to sweep the top of the bar with a damp rag, the hem on her black miniskirt inched higher. He stepped closer in time to catch a hint of lace peeking beneath the black hem. Interest replaced curiosity and the temperature outside hitched up a notch. So did strategic body parts. He stuck one finger inside the constricting collar of his white shirt, giving himself some breathing room. She rose to her full height, which wasn't much. Petite, with blond hair pinned on top of