To Have Vs. To Hold

by MJ Rodgers

  Whitney’s chuckle burst into a laugh.

  “And that’s not the worst of it,” Jack continued, his dramatics deliberately exaggerated. “He’s sure to invite all his corporate clients to the wedding. These guys give the worst presents. You’ll be up to your cupboards in silver finger bowls and tea sets!”

  Whitney laughed heartily. When she finally got herself back under control, she blew Jack a kiss. “Thank you, partner. I needed that.”

  “Yeah, well, I hope you’re going to tell me someday about whatever it is we’re not talking about tonight.”

  Whitney knew then that she hadn’t fooled Jack. She should have realized he would see right through her. He always did.

  “I hope I’m going to tell you about it someday, too,” she said simply.

  “So, now do you want to hear how my day went?” Jack asked.

  “By all means. How did your day go?”

  “Well, first you should know that the Checkmate Detective Agency has discovered that Chad Bister’s parents did indeed have the kind of marriage he described. What’s more, his mother gave birth to a baby girl who his father dumped on an aunt by the name of Denise Dee Bister Feldon to raise.”

  “Was the baby’s name Patrice?”

  “They don’t know.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “It seems both the aunt and the baby left Spokane a year later and haven’t been heard from since.”

  “Damn. I hate to think he’s Patrice’s brother.”

  “Yeah, this Bister guy is a real loser. Checkmate says he’s been married four times, the last three wives claiming physical, as well as mental, cruelty when they divorced him. Apparently some old school buddies let him in as a partner at that water-wings company because he couldn’t keep a job.”

  “Did you get any other contenders knocking on the doors today?”

  “Did I. Thirty-five people showed up at the office, all claiming to be Patrice’s blood relatives.”

  “Thirty-five? You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I were. The vultures started to flock in the second Isabel opened the doors this morning. Obviously they had all watched the TV last night, and every station ran the news that our firm was responsible for identifying possible blood heirs. I’ve been tied up interviewing them and looking over their proofs all day.”

  “Jack, I’m sorry. I should have been there helping you handle those people.”

  “Well, at least our regular caseload is light. And Isabel is a wonder, as you know.”

  “How many claimants did you get through?”

  “All but three.”

  “That’s great. Any real contenders in the bunch?”

  “No. Unlike Chad Bister, none knew her middle name or birth date. Those who offered a plausible excuse for not knowing couldn’t offer any personal information about Patrice that would help to substantiate their kinship. Personally I think anyone with the family name of Feldon thinks it’s worth showing up and taking a shot. Thirty million dollars is an enticing target. Which reminds me, you should know Fred Dykstra wormed his way into seeing me by passing himself off as a claimant.”

  “You kicked him out, of course.”

  “And it felt good doing it, too.”

  “What has the local news coverage been like today?”

  “Loaded with speculation, but mainly just a rehash of Dykstra’s news-beat spot. They keep running pictures of Justice and even dug up one of you from your law-school days.”

  “Oh, no. I hate those pictures of me. My face looks so full and my hair so bushy. I’m a dead ringer for Fred Flintstone.”

  “Actually the Seattle Times reprint came out with a big ink blot over your right eye. Now you look like Fred Flintstone with an eye patch.”

  “Thanks so much, Jack. That makes me feel much better.”

  Jack chuckled. “They haven’t been able to come up with a picture of Patrice, which seems a little odd. You’d think a looker like her would have posed a lot.”

  “Yes, you would, wouldn’t you?” Whitney mused. “Still, it’s just as well they’re not running her picture. If they did, anyone who ever thought they ever looked like her would be showing up at our door. At least you only have three more wannabe millionaires to interview.”

  “Until the next influx.”

  “The next influx?”

  “Another six called in for appointments. And who knows how many more will show up at the door tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be in on the morning flight. After a change of clothes, I promise the office will be my next stop.”

  “You may want to avoid coming through the front door. In addition to the people claiming to be Patrice’s long-lost relatives, we’ve circled the wagons against a bunch of bloodthirsty reporters determined to scalp everyone with insolent questions.”

  “I appreciate the warning. I’ll park on the next block and come in the service entrance. Jack, you’ve really been great to take this on for me today.”

  “And it will all be back in your hands tomorrow, partner. This is definitely not my kind of case.”

  Whitney recognized that new tone in Jack’s voice. “Uh-oh. What happened? Did one of the female claimants proposition you so you’d validate her as a blood heir?”

  “’Proposition’ is putting it lightly. She started to strip right in front of me when I asked her for her credentials. And believe me, Whitney, she had all the, uh, credentials. I tell you the temptation is more than any red-blooded man can take. I had to call Isabel in to the rescue.”

  Whitney laughed as she got a mental flash of their stout, matronly secretary running into Jack’s office to pull out a halfnaked lady intent on compromising Jack’s ethics.

  A knock came at the door.

  “Got to go, Jack. I’ll see you tomorrow. Be sure to lock your doors tonight. You never know. Ms. All the Credentials might have gotten your home address.”

  Whitney was still chuckling in response to Jack’s resultant groan when she went to answer the door.

  ADAM THOUGHT he had known the extent of Patrice’s betrayal. This afternoon had taught him otherwise. It was a lesson he could have done without. His thoughts were buried far into a bleak past when Whitney opened the door. But the sight of her swiftly brought him back to the present.

  The golden lights in her brandy eyes told him something had amused her. She had done something to those laughing eyes that made them look darker and something to her mouth that made it look softer. Her hair was swept up on top of her head and fastened with a pearl barrette that matched the tiny pearls piercing her ears. Her jade silk dress was simply cut and fit to perfection.

  “You look very nice,” he said, and recognized the comment was a major understatement, even for him.

  “Thank you. I’d tell you how you look, but it would probably just turn your head.”

  The edges of his lips curled upward. He liked knowing that she approved of what she saw when she looked at him. He realized most women did. But not since Patrice had a particular woman’s approval meant something to him.

  Since Patrice. No, he didn’t want to think any more about Patrice tonight. For one night at least he wanted a respite from the unhappy past.

  “Where are we eating?” Whitney asked as she snatched up an evening bag and checked for her key card.

  “I made reservations at The Isis.”

  “Of course,” she said, closing the door to her room and turning to face him. The lights were dancing once again in her eyes. “The most formal restaurant in the place. I should have guessed.”

  He got a tantalizing whiff of her enticing perfume. Images of slipping that silk dress off her lovely cream shoulders and making love to her filled his thoughts.

  He knew he had it within his power to spend such a night with her. The right words, the right touch, and he could ignite them both until their physical needs overcame all objections. But in the morning she would wake up remembering she needed more than he could give, and she would feel cheated.

/>   He knew what it was like to feel cheated. He would not make her feel that way. He would keep his distance and simply enjoy her company tonight, and tomorrow neither of them would have to regret anything.

  They sipped drinks in the lounge, and he watched her eyes dance with mischief as she told about cutting school early in order to sneak into courtrooms so she could see and hear her father arguing a case.

  “He wasn’t living with us anymore and he was always so busy he often missed his weekends with my brothers and me,” she explained. “It hurt. My brothers finally just gave up on him. But I was more stubborn. I’d watch the newspapers to see when one of his highly publicized cases would go to trial. I knew I could always catch him at the courthouse.”

  “Wouldn’t you get in trouble for skipping school?”

  “Yes, but I risked it to be with him. Once in a while he’d take me out for a root-beer float at the end of a trial and talk to me about why he had won or lost. He always believed he had to win. When he lost, he’d cry and tell me to never become a lawyer. He felt so deeply about his clients and doing right by them.”

  “You seem to have some very good memories of your father.”

  “He put his career before us, and that hurt a lot. But some of the fondest memories of my childhood are of those rare afternoons of root-beer floats with my dad.”

  After drinks they stepped through golden gilded doors into the dining room. Over pheasant and white wine, he told her about how he and his sister had sat around the formal dining table of his attorney parents and listened to how precedents were set and the best way for corporate investment portfolios to be diversified.

  She chuckled. “And I bet even as a kid you came to dinner dressed in a white shirt, coat and tie.”

  “The tie was optional until I was ten.”

  Her chuckle deepened into a warm, mellow laugh that made him smile.

  “They were grooming us both to become lawyers and take over the firm they started,” Adam explained. “I was drawn to it from the first.”

  “But A.J. didn’t become a lawyer,” Whitney said.

  “A.J. spent several of her younger years in a hospital bed. She saw herself pursuing a more physically active career, which is one of the reasons why she decided to become a private investigator.”

  “Why was your sister in the hospital?”

  “She had cancer.”

  “And the doctors beat it?”

  “No, she beat it.”

  Adam watched as a glow of respect formed in the center of Whitney’s eyes. “And A.J. stands for courage,” she said, repeating his earlier words, a new understanding in her tone.

  “Speaking of A.J.,” Adam said, “she’s found a newspaper story on the accident Danny and his mother were in twenty years ago. Five people were killed and three survived—Danny, his mother and a teenage boy. The bus driver had not only been drinking, he was also carrying a stolen wallet with an ID he’d used to get the job. They never did find out who he was.”

  As soon as Adam had said it, he was sorry. They had both been able to forget the case for a while. Now it was back in the fore with all its problems and plaguing questions.

  Whitney looked away and finished her last sip of wine. When her eyes rose to his again, they held a different expression.

  “We have to talk about Huntley and Brinkley Carmichael.”

  Adam finished the last of his wine. He didn’t drink often. He could feel the alcohol he’d already consumed running warm through his blood. Still, he knew the relaxing evening was over.

  “I need to talk about them,” Whitney pressed.

  Adam signaled the waiter for the check.

  “I’m acting in my professional capacity as G.A.L. now, Adam. Please understand, I can’t ignore what Huntley and Brinkley represent.”

  No, of course she couldn’t. In her place he wouldn’t be able to, either.

  “Not here,” he said.

  “Then back in my room.”

  “As you wish.”

  As he walked her back to her room, his eyes followed the gentle sway of her hips. He thought about how he would have liked this evening to have ended. And it definitely wasn’t on the subject matter she had chosen to end it. When she closed the door to her room behind them, she pointed toward the phone.

  “An after-dinner drink?”

  “Not for me,” he replied.

  She rested her hand on the receiver and then removed it and turned away. He didn’t think she wanted any more to drink, either.

  He looked at her averted face and then to her hands. They were flitting by her sides, nervous and uncomfortable. He could see that no matter how much she felt it was necessary, broaching this subject matter was difficult for her.

  She finally faced him. “I have to know what you intend to do about Huntley and Brinkley, Adam.”

  “They are beneficiaries in Patrice’s will. I intend to see that they receive a third of her estate.”

  “That’s all?”

  “You say that as though you think there should be something else, Whitney.”

  She was trying to remain businesslike and in control, but Adam could see a sadness creeping into her eyes and settling around her mouth.

  “You know whose children they are,” she said.

  “They are Linda and Kevin Carmichael’s children,” Adam said carefully.

  “Linda Carmichael may have given birth to Huntley and Brinkley, but they both have very distinctive violet eyes,” Whitney said. “Patrice donated her own eggs.”

  Adam said nothing. There was nothing to say.

  “She never told you,” Whitney said.

  “No.”

  “And she donated her eggs during the time you were married.”

  “Yes.”

  “Adam, I don’t understand this at all. She told me you’d make a great father. She told me you two were trying to have children. How could she give away her eggs without telling you? Those children could have been yours!”

  Her face was so sad, so beautiful. Knowing she was sad for him filled Adam with a guilty kind of pleasure that he knew should bring him shame but brought him satisfaction instead.

  He got up and went over to her because he couldn’t stay away. He wrapped his arms around her and gently drew her to him, intending comfort.

  She sighed and slipped her arms around his neck, sliding her soft breasts and belly against him in a purely female gesture of invitation that at once startled him and spoke directly to everything in him that was male.

  And everything in him that was male was answering. He claimed her soft mouth in hot, urgent kisses as he crushed her body to him. She tasted and felt so good, so impossibly good. He knew this woman had the capacity to make him forget every other—even Patrice—if only for a while. And he wanted her to help him forget, even if it was only this one day of painful revelations.

  His hands pulled up the skirt of her dress and found her silky panties beneath it. He cupped the warm softness of her bottom. She arched against him with a sharp intake of breath.

  And then, for one crystal-clear moment, the madness receded and he realized what he was doing. Calling upon every ounce of control he possessed, he released her and stepped back.

  Her face was now flushed and beautiful and far from sad. And the way her eyes were looking into his…

  His blood beat faster. He took another deep breath and another step backward and prayed for strength. This was going to kill him to say and do, but he was going to say and do it. He was not going to use her this way.

  “This has been a shock for you, Whitney. I can see that. I know what a very sympathetic person you are. I will not stay here and take advantage of this situation.”

  And with that he turned away from all the beckoning warmth of her and fled the room, just as fast as his resolve would take him.

  FRED DYKSTRA WAS not happy. Following up on the Patrice Feldon story was proving impossible, and every day that passed his producer got more impatient.

  He a
lmost wished he’d never eavesdropped on dear old Dwight Errent and Tiffany’s tete-à-tête in the courthouse cafeteria and gotten the story in the first place.

  Even masquerading as a blood heir at the law offices of Novak and West hadn’t helped. He’d pumped the other contenders to the title of long-lost blood heir that he found in the waiting room and discovered they were as phony as he. And not only had Jack Novak recognized him immediately, but the lawyer had physically shoved him out the door.

  The power of the press just didn’t seem to impress some people.

  There was nothing to do but go back to the Justice Inc. offices and keep a close lookout to see who showed up there. Maybe he’d get lucky. He’d better. He needed more on this story. And he needed it quickly.

  WHITNEY WAS YAWNING openly as Adam drove her home from the SEATAC airport. She had not slept well at all the night before. It was all Adam Justice’s fault. He’d left her tossing and turning and much too excited to sleep.

  She kept telling herself she was glad he’d left her room when he had before either of them had done something they would certainly have regretted. And she didn’t kid herself. She knew she had been well on her way to doing just that.

  It wasn’t just his great looks and intelligence that made this man so impossible to resist. It was the way he faced and lived with Patrice’s betrayal. He was strong in ways most men couldn’t even imagine.

  And he was so damn honorable. He knew she’d been ready to make love to him the night before. But he hadn’t taken advantage. He’d told her he wouldn’t and when it came right down to it, he was true to his word.

  She appreciated the fact that he behaved like the gentleman he was. But she very much resented the fact that he looked so well rested. He could have at least had the decency to suffer a little insomnia, too.

  “Adam, I have to tell Commissioner Snowe about Huntley and Brinkley being Patrice’s biological children. You represent them as named beneficiaries, but I represent them, too, as G.A.L. for the blood heirs.”

  “We’ll both tell Snowe, Whitney,” Adam said. “But we have to add the disclaimer that it is only our belief.”