Legally in Love Boxed Set 1

by Jennifer Griffith

  I hope you enjoy this shorter novel, which (spoiler alert) has more than one romance at stake.

  ∞∞∞

  Mergers & Acquisitions

  Chapter One

  “Oh, my stars.” All the breath suctioned out of my body into the warm California air. I stepped closer to see whether my eyes were playing a trick on me, if it was just the morning sun or the dizziness of the yard sale, or whether the signature on this painting leaning up against a table covered with old glass ashtrays and broken cookie jars from the 1950s could actually be a Mars Yuber.

  Mars Yuber!

  “You like it? It’s priced to sell.” A guy strolled over. His ratty Iron Maiden concert t-shirt didn’t quite cover his beer belly. “One hundred percent of this stuff has got to go.”

  I bent down and inspected the canvas. Sure, the subject matter didn’t match the topics Yuber was best known for, stark trees against snowscapes, but it was arresting, this intense energy coming from the portrait of— I bent to inspect the placard on the ornate wooden frame— Woman Draped in Red.

  “How much?” I didn’t look up.

  “My wife says it’s obscene and thinks I should pay someone to take it.”

  “Obscene?” I finally dragged my eyes away from the eyes on the face to notice the rest of the portrait— ebony hair piled high on the head, the swanlike neck on creamy skin, the oddly shaped red mark, maybe a birthmark, just at her collarbone. Sure, the drape didn’t cover everything it should, but obscene? Hardly.

  Well, unless you counted her gaze, maybe. The focus of the painting led the eyes to meet the woman’s level gaze, frank and like she knew your deepest secret. It reminded me of Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa in that way. No question this had been created by a master’s hand. Perhaps if you worried she knew something unsavory about you, then it was obscene.

  “You ever hear of the artist?” I kept my tone nonchalant. Maybe the owner was going to hit me with a huge price tag after all that lead-up. Chances were, he knew he had me like a marlin on his hook. He probably saw me drive up in the firm’s company car, a Mercedes, since I was on my way to meet with a client, and planned to milk me for all I was worth for these swaths of oil and pigment I couldn’t tear my eyes from.

  Frankly, the longer I looked at this painting, the more likely I was to be a pawn in Iron Maiden Fan’s hands.

  “It was in the house when we moved in. Dead guy’s estate. Never even looked to see who painted it.” He snorted. “Don’t really care. Who wants a woman with a paint splotch on her neck?”

  Seriously?

  My purse got heavier, alerting me I had both cash and checkbook inside.

  Woman Draped in Red, though? I needed to be realistic. Even though I loved art and had studied it, I’d never seen myself as the type to start collecting any— since I’d never been one with much disposable cash— let alone semi-nude paintings entitled things like Woman Draped in Red. Mrs. Iron Maiden Fan was right: the title did sound salacious.

  But this painting had something irresistible about it. I gazed, unable to tear myself from its grip on me. I walked to the right, to the left, examining its lines. I leaned in. Looking closer, I knew that so-called paint splotch was no mistaken brushstroke. It was careful, precise, and intricate. Undoubtedly copied from reality, it had the unmistakable shape of that Egyptian symbol— the Eye of Horus.

  “I’ll think about it.” If understatement was a lie, I just told a whopper as I tore myself from its clutches so I could count the cash in my purse and make a quick check of my bank account’s balance at a discreet distance from the watchful Eye birthmark.

  Speaking of watchful eyes, I probably shouldn’t have been yard sale hopping while driving to appointments with clients. Entertainment law was my specialty and a lot of the firm’s clients were Hollywood actors who dabbled in other art forms on the side, including sculpting or carving or painting. Once they found out about my undergrad focus on art history, some of them confided in me their side interests, or just talked art, and a few had even shown me their stuff. A few even offered me fire sale prices until I couldn’t refuse, so in spite of my never planning to become a collector, I had serendipitously become one. Until about three months ago when I finally got one big paycheck and closed out my law school loans, I had never dreamed of buying anything more than macaroni and cheese or Diet Coke to keep me awake at my grindstone.

  Make that my soul-crushing grindstone. As in, I’ve been spending so many hours at the office I’ve forgotten how green trees and blue sky looked, or a sunset or an ocean wave. And this was California, for heaven’s sake.

  Being a young female lawyer in a firm as intense as BGG was taking its toll. Hard core.

  If there were any way out at this point, I’d make a break for it, run for the Beverly Hills.

  I stared at Woman Draped in Red, and she gazed back at me like she knew my flight instinct was dialed to high— and as if she secretly held my solution. I leaned closer, as if she could whisper to me from her frozen silence. Nothing. But she knew … I was sure of it. Now that I’d seen her, I had to have her, so that she would tell me, no matter the cost. A Mars Yuber could run thousands, tens of thousands, more, but I’d pay it. I’d sleep on the beach and take the bus in to work for six months, forage for nuts and berries. This painting held my answer, and—

  “How’s forty bucks?” Iron Maiden Fan Man came over to me and hurled a number at me.

  “Forty!”

  “Fine, make it thirty-five. But I only take cash.”

  If there were a world speed record for opening a purse and finding thirty-five dollars in exact change, I would have won it.

  If there were another world speed record for racing with a possibly valuable painting and escaping a yard sale before the seller could change his mind, I would have won that too. Within a couple of minutes, I’d torn through Old Town Pasadena and was back on the freeway, hands-free dialing Tyanne.

  “Do you know anybody who does art authentication?”

  “Sure.” Behind her voice came a thump-thump-thump. It sounded like Tyanne was on the treadmill. BGG had a workout room and a shower so that their attorneys almost never had to leave the office in Hollywood. “Grady Ingliss. Why? Aren’t you supposed to be meeting with Ryker right now? It’s almost ten. Your meeting at Thrillsville is in thirty seconds.”

  Child-star Ryker loved amusement parks and only met with his lawyers at them. I had tried to be patient during these meet-ups, even I was prone to motion sickness. However, there wasn’t much I could do about the juvenile, unprofessional venues for our meetings. Former kid-stars had quirks since no one had ever told them they were wrong, ever. According to BGG I wasn’t allowed to be the first one to break the news to Ryker that he wasn’t actually the center of the universe.

  “I was early, so I was killing time at a yard sale in Pasadena and came across something. Shoot me Grady’s number.”

  “Okay, but don’t make Ryker wait. He’s liable to bolt, and BGG needs him, even if he’s bent on destroying his waning career.” That had been evident the last six months. Oh, Ryker wasn’t taking the usual drugs-alcohol-roadie-abuse route to shame. Instead, he was picking up the most random, chintzy endorsement deals. He’d been picking up jobs like starring in ads for stuff like hemorrhoid cream, which his talent agent— not a BGG employee— should have been protecting him from. The kid was fifteen. What the heck, right?

  That agent, I could smack her. She had too many other clients in advertising, and I suspected she was cross-pollinating with Ryker and one or two other celebs she repped, celebs who were over age seventy.

  Ryker needed new representation— but not me. I was ready to get away from this squirrel cage and— shoot! I dodged a triple-trailer semi doing eighty-five in the slow lane by the exit for Thrillsville— also quit driving on these insane freeways every stupid day.

  Six minutes late, I pulled into Thrillsville, wheeled the Mercedes into a too-narrow parking spot, and prayed that the twelve-passenger van besid
e me had a family that planned to stay all day in the park. The last thing I needed was for them to come out and door-ding Myrtle here’s red sparkly paint job.

  But before grabbing my briefcase and my Dramamine patch, I checked the number from Tyanne and shot Grady Ingliss a message asking if he could evaluate my painting today. He got back to me instantly.

  Bring it by. Can you be here by one?

  Grady provided an address in the San Fernando Valley. Great. More freeways. But if I moved things along with Ryker, I could be there by one with no problem.

  ______

  “Ryker. How are you?” I reached to shake his hand, but he gave me a fist bump instead. His other hand was balancing both a caramel apple and a wand of cotton candy. Wasn’t it a little early in the day for that much sugar?

  “Jilly! You’re here. I got you this.” He handed me the cotton candy. Marvelous. “I’m glad you finally showed up because, besides the amazing surprise I have lined up for you today, the lines for the rides are going to get really long as soon as the park officially opens, and I don’t want to miss Screaming Scare Train. I hate waiting in the lines.”

  “Saturdays in southern California are all about lines.” I broke the obvious truth to him while trying to imagine how I’d be getting out of riding the Screaming Scare Train.

  His shoulders fell. “I know, right? Back when I was a kid in Montana, the only lines we had were on the Fourth of July for the barbecue. This old rancher would slaughter one of his herd and cook a whole side of beef in this big old smoker cooker in the park, and we’d all line up for a plate of meat and coleslaw, and there was a greased pig, and I caught it one year, and the local paper put the video of it on their website, and it went viral, and next thing I knew, I was in line for everything every day. In California.”

  Wow. I’d never known how Ryker got his start— or expected a fifteen-year-old to wax nostalgic for the good old days before fame. Maybe I should give him a little more credit.

  I took a puff of cotton candy and tasted it. “Not bad.”

  “It’s blue raspberry.” Ryker reached over and took a puff of it himself. “There’s no such thing in reality as a blue raspberry. Red, black, purple, pink, all those colors exist in nature’s raspberries, but no blue. Why do you think it ever started? It would be like having artificial peach flavor and having it be green or whatever.”

  We were walking toward a plaza where a lone man stood, wearing a business suit and talking on a cell phone. He belonged at Thrillsville about as much as I did in my pencil skirt and silk blouse.

  “Here’s my surprise, Jilly.” He pointed at the man. “My new agent.”

  I walked closer, and as I approached, he hung up his phone and turned to greet me. Holy whammo. His eyes met mine and the blue depths of them hit me like a wave at Huntington Beach when the wind was high. The force could’ve knocked me down and sucked me away with the undertow.

  “I’m Aero Jantzen. It’s good to be working with you, teaming up to protect Ryker.” He extended a hand to shake, and shake mine did— trembling. This guy should be an actor, not an agent, with looks and style and shoulders like his. He had this casual, amazing European flair that extended from his great short haircut to his narrow necktie to the tips of his two-tone wingtip shoes. “Ryker knew I was out of my depth in the legalese department for all his contracts, so he wants us to work together.”

  “You’ll manage all his business, and I’ll read the contracts?” I couldn’t believe my mouth and brain were forming coherent words, considering the complete lack of connection after the incredible electrical surge caused the breakers of my system to overload. “Protect Ryker?”

  “From himself,” Aero leaned in and said so the kid crunching the caramel apple couldn’t hear. “He’s looking at dumping some old deals and picking up some new ones. We need you to iron out all the wrinkles in getting him out of some of the—”

  I held up a hand. “No need to explain. Gotcha.” Pent-up worry for Ryker’s future drained from me. This Aero Jantzen seemed like he had his head on straight and had the Ryker situation handled, even if he had admitted he would be asking for my advice on contracts.

  “Okay!” Ryker chucked his apple core on a stick into a trash can and clapped his hands together for his announcement. “Now— we’re all going on my favorite ride.”

  Oh, dear. I hadn’t taken any of my emergency Dramamine. I mean, I knew this was a possibility, which was why I’d stuffed it in my purse, but I’d stupidly hoped Ryker wouldn’t insist on my joining in the mayhem of Screaming Scare Train. The last thing I wanted was to show all of Thrillsville that I’d eaten three Pop Tarts for breakfast.

  Okay, truth will out. Considering my breakfast, who was I to criticize Ryker for his mid-morning snack choice of caramel apples and blue raspberry cotton candy?

  “What’s your favorite ride?” Ryker asked as the three of us started across the park toward the screams and rattles of the roller coasters. “And don’t say The Barcelona Bomber. It’s out of service this week.”

  I’d rather be publicly flogged than throw up on The Barcelona Bomber in front of our biggest client and the most gorgeous guy I’d seen in months. I glanced at his shoulders and the way they filled out his suit jacket. Make that the most gorgeous guy I’d seen in years.

  “Ferris wheel?” Aero shot me a look and shrugged a single shoulder. I shrugged back, a conspiracy forming between us.

  “Sure. Ferris wheel.” It only gave my stomach gymnastics on its first downward sweep.

  “Swept Away’s my favorite.” Ryker grinned and started jogging. I’d never heard of it, but with a title like that, it figured. I pictured one of those log rides that go over the edge of a steep cliff and shoot the riders down a splashing flume. Teenage boys and their scary rides went together like Los Angeles and smog.

  I must have grimaced because Ryker caught my mood. “No— you’ll see.” He walked us straight to Swept Away— which wasn’t a roller coaster, unless you counted the acrobatics the sight of it did to my stomach.

  Chapter Two

  “You’re not serious.” Gondolas topped with canopies dripping with twinkle lights floated in a moat that led to a dark tunnel. The entrance to the tunnel was flanked by animatronic bluebirds with ribbon bows in their beaks and hearts on springs boinging between them. “The tunnel of love?”

  I shot him a drop-dead look, even though he was my client, and Ryker. I was not going on that thing with these two men.

  “Of course I’m serious. This is my favorite ride.”

  “But you’re fifteen. You’re a boy.”

  “You bet I’m a fifteen-year-old boy.” His looked to his left. “And here’s my fifteen-year-old girl to go with me on the ride.” Up walked a cute girl with a ponytail and a halter top, wearing sneakers and a half-heart locket necklace. My eyes shot to Ryker’s neck, where he sported the other half. “This is Phoebe. Her dad’s a Thrillsville exec. We meet up every Saturday that I’m not working on a film. She’s why I quit doing big pictures and went for commercials. Then I could just work weekdays. Come on, Phoebe. We’ll wait for you two and meet up at the end?” He winked at Aero Jantzen and me, and my heart went on the Ferris Wheel.

  The two teens grabbed hands, and Ryker snagged the blue raspberry cotton candy that I hadn’t touched again and handed it to Phoebe.

  “It’s fine, dudes. You’re both single. I vetted you, so nobody’s cheating here, no need to fret. One rule: no making out until the second half of the ride. It might be the Tunnel of Love, but you two just met.”

  Aero and I locked eyes, and my whole body tensed, as if I’d touched an electric fence.

  “Is this his usual?” he asked.

  “This is tame,” I said, pulling myself together. “At least this doesn’t require motion sickness medication.”

  Aero gave it a taking-it-in-stride shrug and put out his hand for me to take. “It appears we have been summoned by His Majesty.”

  “Oh, and kids?” Ryker turned around. “P
hoebe got them to close this ride exclusively just for us. Now, you two hold hands and get going.” He gave an exaggerated wink, and the two of them skittered toward a waiting gondola.

  It took me a second to get up the nerve to lay my hand in his for fear of what kind of chemical reaction might take place in me when I touched him. Evidently, I didn’t have any choice.

  “By the orders of His Majesty.” My stomach’s butterflies danced the quickstep, but I gathered my courage and reached for him. Our hands grasped, his smooth and dry and catalytic. The touch sent fireworks to every nether-part of me.

  Oh, heavens. This Swept Away ride could be even more physically dangerous than any Screaming Scare Train.

  ______

  “Chuh!” A little gasp escaped my lips, but I sucked it back in.

  “You okay?” Aero pressed through the turnstile and I followed. “Not nervous to go into the deep, dark tunnel with a stranger you met five minutes ago, are you?”

  “Five? Has it really been five minutes since we met?” There was no line for this ride, as Ryker had arranged. He and Phoebe had already disappeared down the dark canal in their little gondola. The ride’s conductor had one of those dead-eyed stares into nowhere as we approached. We climbed down the little step into the unsteady boat and sat on the red vinyl bench.

  Aero glanced at his watch. “Closer to eight minutes, actually.”

  “Time flies when you’re having fun.” Had I really just implied that I found being with him fun? Geez. This sounded like flirting. Had my professionalism just fallen into the murky moat and floated downstream?

  Speaking of absent professionalism, Aero still had hold of my hand. Every second he touched me felt like time was stopped instead of flying. I glanced down at our clasped fingers, and he pulled them away.

  “Sorry about that. I guess it was just for show. For Ryker.”

  The current broke, and everything in me went cold for a second. Until I looked over at him again, that was. Holy moly, this guy. His smoldering gaze, his amazing hair … he looked like a modernized Jay Gatsby, but that was no excuse for going so berserk over him in the first few seconds of meeting him. It was like I’d been propelled into a movie meet-cute, or a reality dating show where the woman instantly defined her physical attraction to him as love.