Know thy enemy.
She’d only needed to read a half dozen of the more than three million hits to tell her what she wanted to know: Ethan Webb was a vicious predator. A drop of fear mixed with her grief. Those who beat him in court were often scarred for life. And very few ever beat him.
She would. She had to. Losing was simply not an option. If she had to, she’d sign up with Satan. If she could find the demon. Typical man. Yeah, even the Prince of Darkness was never around when you needed him.
A flash of anger hit her, bubbling toward a boil as they entered the reception area for the law offices of Ethan Webb, Esquire. Esquire? Who said that anymore? Pompous, pretentious ass was more like it.
She itched to take the bull by the horns. Or the balls. She yearned to march into Ethan Webb’s inner office to start her verbal assault, even if she trampled his personal assistant in the process. Collateral damage. Given Webb’s reputation, the woman had to be used to it.
Uncle Brian glared at her and raised one eyebrow, the one that could freeze her and her five rowdy brothers in their tracks. “Baby girl.” The steel in his barely audible voice communicated more than any twenty-minute lecture ever could. Stephanie heard what he didn’t say loud and clear: behave.
Cloaking herself with an extra shot of confidence, Stephanie followed Webb’s assistant into the lion’s den.
He might be pretentious, but this room wasn’t. The converted officer’s quarters at Philadelphia’s Navy Yard made for a quaint setting. Despite its historic roots, it felt spacious and modern, unlike the stuffy office her grandfather had designed before her father had been born.
But this was a place she could function in. Subtle, understated wealth whispered from the simple, clean lines of abstract sculptures perched on sleek metal and acrylic pedestals that were works of art in their own right. The ultra-modern contrasted with traditional wood and leather to create an environment that was uniquely masculine but didn’t leave her with the urge to scratch body parts she didn’t have.
An iron sculpture hanging on the wall behind his desk drew her eye. Somehow, it reminded her of a crucifix. If Picasso had depicted Christ as Tarzan swinging from vines while riding a crescent moon. Not so subtle after all. If Ethan Webb planned to crucify her, he’d better gear up for battle.
“Mr. Webb will be with you shortly. There’s a carafe of coffee on the desk. Please help yourself,” his PA told them. She headed back toward her desk, slamming the interoffice door behind her.
Stephanie jumped as the sound echoed through the room. “That can’t have been an accident.” She looked over at the man who had seamlessly transitioned from her favorite uncle into her attorney. “The way the chairs are arranged isn’t an accident either.” After the past year, she considered herself somewhat of an expert on accidents and how to survive their fallout.
Easy? Hell, no. Doable? Absolutely. But first, she needed caffeine. She poured herself a cup of coffee then slid the carafe toward Uncle Brian.
Cup in hand, she settled into the chair in front of Webb’s impressive desk. The hard, wooden chair poked her in all the wrong places. Not the most comfortable seat she’d ever had. And the desk? She’d seen smaller pool tables. Was he compensating for something? She’d had to look up to him at the cemetery. Surely a man of his, uh, stature was big all over. So that couldn’t be it. But he was hiding something behind those inky black eyes of his.
She suppressed a shudder. She’d seen brown eyes so dark they’d almost looked black, but his eyes were black. Could he have been so high his dilated pupils had eclipsed his true eye color? Or was it something else? She would figure out what and use it to her advantage.
“We’re so far apart, I feel like I should text you to communicate.”
Uncle Brian stirred his coffee with a weary smile. “He’s trying to separate us physically to create a gulf between us emotionally. He hasn’t shown up, and he’s already trying to browbeat us. It’s what he does. The man didn’t get to be the city’s most hated personal injury attorney, or the most successful, by playing nice.” He scooched his chair closer to hers and motioned for her to do the same. “This meeting is merely a formality. It shouldn’t take longer than fifteen minutes. Twenty tops.”
Stephanie checked her phone with a frown. Fourteen voice mails and six text messages. That had to be a record, considering she was supposed to be on bereavement leave. She didn’t have time for this nonsense. “He’s three minutes late. Apparently, we can add rudeness to his resume.”
And if the rest of her research was accurate, a cold disregard for common decency, an unforgiving nature, and the ability to hold a grudge, wielding it until it became a nearly lethal weapon. She was sure if she looked hard enough, she could find evidence that he’d drowned a kitten or two.
Uncle Brian checked his watch. “That can’t be an accident either.”
A sharp pang cut through her as a sudden surge of pain and anger attacked out of nowhere. Grief oozed out through the hairline cracks in her tough façade. Why couldn’t grief be a straight line? A steady march to acceptance without constantly looping back to revisit and rehash. Would that be too much to ask? Apparently, it was.
“He has exactly two more minutes, then we’re out of here. I have more important things to do than play silly mind games with some homewrecking, gold-digging bimbo and her sleazy lawyer.”
CHAPTER 6
ETHAN LOUNGED IN THE oversized chair at the head of the table in the conference room adjacent to his office. His long legs, crossed at the ankle, perched on the edge of its highly polished surface. Through the slightly open door, he listened as Nicole, shepherded his guests into the seats he’d carefully arranged to maximize their discomfort.
Normally, eavesdropping on what should have been their growing angst would have fanned the flame in his gut until it glowed with hot energy. But what he heard concerned him.
Kerrigan had figured it out. The slamming door, the seating arrangement, the time. Usually, the lambs he lured into his slaughterhouse were too apprehensive to notice. She wasn’t afraid of him. That was going to have to change. He’d spent years making sure everyone feared him, making sure everyone stayed away.
He tamped down the minuscule but obnoxious attraction that flashed through him. He had a job to do. He couldn’t be distracted by her looks, her money, or her social status. That trifecta had been his downfall too many times before.
It wouldn’t happen again. It couldn’t. He had work to do, and it was time to do it. It was time to put on his game face.
Ethan leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Counting backward from ten, he took one slow, full breath, exhaling completely with each number. His muscles relaxed: first his face, then his shoulders, his arms, finally his fingers. After six, he tensed. Fingers first, up his arm, until the tightness in his face told him the physical transformation was complete.
Ready for step two. He forced himself to focus on the humiliation. His mind drifted back.
Lunchtime on the final day of fifth grade. His last decent meal until school started again in the fall. He focused on the milk he loved so much, planning to savor every cold, delicious drop. The chances he’d taste it again anytime soon were nonexistent. With nine kids crammed into a house licensed for five, milk was a luxury his foster mother couldn’t afford.
He carefully opened the container, not wanting to spill any of it.
But the bullies who had tormented him all year had a different idea. Out of nowhere, a hand swooped down, snatching the milk away. The biggest of the three growled, “Would you look at Crazy Eyes and his precious milk. You don’t deserve the food my parents’ tax dollars paid for, you loser.” He guzzled half of Ethan’s milk before slamming the carton onto the table.
Ethan stared down at the carton now smeared with what he hoped was ketchup.
“Finish it, Crazy Eyes. Maybe I spit in it. Maybe I didn’t. You’ll never know.”
Ethan’s stomach twisted. Mustering all the pride he could, he dr
ank what was left of his milk to the chant of “Loser, loser, loser.”
With the words still ringing in his ears, Ethan exhaled, holding his lungs empty until they burned. He gasped and opened his eyes. He didn’t need a mirror to tell him his face would scare the devil. He’d practiced enough and made a video of the process. The ache in the jaw that had never quite healed confirmed his mask was firmly in place.
Ethan untangled himself from his supine position and casually ambled to the door, waiting for the right time to greet his newest adversaries.
At exactly 9:05, he burst into the room, allowing the door to bang closed behind him. In two long strides, he slapped a red file folder on his desk next to two blue folders. He crashed into his chair.
Kerrigan’s phone flew from her hand in startled response.
Ethan smiled internally. At least something from his repertoire was working today. He leaned back in his chair and glared across the desk. “Mr. Tobin, Mrs. Kerrigan-Smith, thank you for joining me this morning to discuss this rather...unpleasant situation.” He forced extra venom into the otherwise conciliatory words, mocking her status as Smitty’s widow.
She barked out a full-throated laugh.
Unnerved, Ethan raised an eyebrow and pulled back. He tilted his head, continuing to stare at her through narrowed his eyes. She was laughing at him? Had she already cracked? Not that it hadn’t happened before, but usually much further into the process.
Pushing someone’s cheese off their cracker had never bothered him before. Hell, he usually enjoyed it. But it bothered now on a bone-deep level. Deeper than his humiliation, deeper than the indignation he felt on Megan’s behalf, deeper than the pain of abandonment that still stung. And that made absolutely no sense.
Tobin grunted. “I haven’t done my own service in years. In fact, I’ve never done it. Falling on hard times, counselor?” He crossed his arms over his chest, the disdain clearly visible in the sneer that settled on his face.
Tiny icicles pricked at Ethan’s pride. The look. He’d seen it before. And heard the tone that shouted, “I’m superior!” without saying a word.
At one time, the tone, the glare would have sent him running for cover. But those days were long gone. Now, he was the one making others run for cover. These two would be running soon, and watching it happen would be sweet.
Ethan folded his hands on his desk to hide the thumbs that circled each other. “I prefer to deliver my own complaints. Why should I let someone else have all the fun? The way people react tells me everything I need to know.”
Well, that left them speechless.
Ethan let the silence build as he took stock of his newest targets. Tobin was a soft, flabby corporate type who hadn’t seen the inside of a courtroom since law school. From the looks of it, he hadn’t seen the inside of a gym since then either. His coffee confirmed Ethan’s suspicions. Judging by the color, it was nearly half cream, and the four empty sugar packs next to his cup told Ethan the man had no discipline. More than likely, he was in-house legal counsel. She was being thrifty. Not a bad thing, in and of itself, but this time it was a mistake that would cost her plenty. The man was in way over his head.
But Kerrigan was a different story. No empty sugar packets surrounded her coffee cup. She took it black. Was it out of preference or to avoid extra calories? She didn’t need to worry about that. She was fit, but not thin to the point of frailty. She obviously knew her way to the gym and made the trip frequently. From the looks of it, she also knew her way to the mall and made that trip more often.
The charcoal suit she wore with a pale blue blouse, both obviously custom-tailored, were somber enough to present herself as a grieving widow, but somehow communicated a rebellious streak.
She looked good but expensive. She exuded an expensive aroma. Her fragrance intrigued him. It was the ribbon that tied the package together. The spicy undertones in her perfume blended with something floral, swirling around her in a subtle but sensuous mist. Unable to resist, he took a discrete whiff, allowing the essence to infuse him.
What the hell was he doing? Women like her came with a hefty price, and not all of it in cash. Hadn’t he already paid that bill? More than once? Kerrigan was simply too costly on every level. His wallet could well afford the hit, his heart couldn’t.
He forced himself to focus, to attack. “How long have you known about Mrs. Smith and her son, Peter, Jr.?” Ethan asked.
That struck a nerve. Her perfect chin rose so far so fast, it was as if she was supporting the ceiling with it. Amusing, but he could do without the way it made her blazing eyes peer down her nose at him.
“I am Mrs. Smith.” Her eyes might be blazing, but the frost in her voice could start another ice age.
As if he sensed trouble, her lawyer reached over to take her hand. “Let’s cut the bull and figure out what it’s going to take to make this whole mess disappear.”
The man was Mr. Negotiation. Bummer. A negotiated settlement wouldn’t be as much fun as duking it out in court, nor would it give him the press he’d been looking forward to. But it wouldn’t take as much energy either. He could wrap this all up today and take a nice, long nap. God knew he hadn’t had more than a few hours’ sleep since he’d brought Megan and baby Pete home from the hospital.
“We can try.” He pushed the blue folders across the table. “Mr. Smith’s will has left everything to my client. She’s the beneficiary of his insurance policies. We’ve filed a wrongful death suit against the estate of the drunk driver responsible for the accident. Sign off on everything, and we can wrap this up right now.”
There wasn’t one chance in a million they were going to accept his proposal, but negotiations were always tricky. You had to start somewhere, so you might as well ask for the family fortune even if all you wanted was bus fare. Sometimes, you were pleasantly surprised. This wasn’t going to be one of those times, but Ethan had an ace up his sleeve.
Kerrigan opened her mouth to respond. Tobin reached over to take her hand to reel her in. “Your client doesn’t have a claim. Ms. Kerrigan is Mr. Smith’s widow. She’s the one with standing.” He removed a paper from the folder. “This marriage certificate clearly shows my client’s wedding predates your client’s by...”
Ethan cut him off. “By four months. Yes, I can count. Mrs. Kerrigan-Smith had a rather short honeymoon.”
A vicious blush spread over Tobin’s face at such an alarming rate, Ethan seriously considered the possibility the man could drop dead of an aneurysm from where he sat. Wouldn’t that be a juicy tidbit to add to his evil reputation?
How long had he fantasized that he had the superpower to kill with a glance? Since he was five. They didn’t call him Crazy Eyes for nothing. This would be as good a time as any for a latent superpower to manifest.
Tobin waved the paper in the air. “Do you honestly expect us to believe this self-uniting marriage license, conveniently witnessed by you and your PA, is valid? Smitty was Catholic. Is your client a Quaker?”
It was all Ethan could do not to laugh in the man’s beet-red face. Over his head? More like in the old mobster movies a former foster mother had watched constantly—the dude was about to sleep with the fishes wearing his brand-new cement overshoes. “Look at the date it was filed. I might bend and twist things, but I won’t break the law, and falsifying a document is illegal. If you’re going to play with the big boys, you need to keep up on your case law, counselor. Try Knelly versus Wagner, 2007. Pennsylvania will issue self-uniting licenses to anyone, and the marriage is recognized in all fifty states. If you don’t believe me, Google it. I’m sure Wikipedia can point you in the right direction.”
From the look on Tobin’s face, that stung, making this the perfect time to wrap things up. “You asked what we wanted. It’s your turn.”
Before Tobin could speak, Kerrigan replied, “I want the baby.”
Ethan laser-focused his attention on her. His blood ran cold, colliding with the heat of his rising anger. The frosty facial muscles he’d
worked so hard to acquire melted. His cheeks burned. Droplets of sweat formed along his upper lip. His nephew? She wanted his nephew? Other than Megan, the only family he had? The only family he’d ever had and more than likely ever would have? That nephew? Like. Hell.
“As you know, counselor, stepparents have rights in Pennsylvania, and I plan to exercise those rights.” She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back into her chair.
He hooked his thumb under his chin, bent his pointer finger, resting it under his nose. He subtly swept his finger over his top lip to wipe away beads of sweat. He continued to stare at her. Beautiful, bright, ballsy. If this weren’t his nephew they were talking about, he’d be damned impressed. As it was, he was barely able to contain the fury poised to explode.
“That’s almost true. If you had expanded your search beyond Wikipedia, you would have discovered the law presumes a relationship between stepparent and stepchild. I doubt you could pick Peter Smith, Jr. out of a row of ten newborns. I’m not sure I could.”
Ethan turned to Tobin but pointed to Stephanie. He struggled to keep his voice calm. “I retract my earlier Wikipedia recommendation. It’s obviously dangerous in the hands of amateurs.” He waggled his finger. “This is why I don’t let my clients speak for themselves. Ill-formed legal opinions and emotions get in the way.”
He stood and moved to the corner of his desk. He glared down at them. Physical proximity was his weapon of last resort. At six-foot-five with a body honed by hours spent in the gym battling his demons, he knew he cast a frightening shadow. That alone was usually enough to make people see things his way. Usually. Not today. Now what? His bag of dirty tricks was empty.
The heat of her stare seared him. More sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. His hands balled into tight fists. It was all he could do to keep from beating his chest like a damned caveman before tossing her over his shoulder to carry her kicking and screaming out of his office.
The more kicking and screaming the better.
For Pete's Sake: An Enemies to Lovers Marriage of Convenience Standalone Romance Novel (Tobin Tribe Book 1) Page 3
