"Fraud? How do you know?" Roger countered. "She may be a very touch cookie behind a vulnerable and pretty face. In any event, that fact is irrelevant."
"It isn't enough to have me off the case." Cole unfolded his arms and pushed his chair away from the desk. "He wants you to fire me, doesn't he?"
"Naturally."
"And?"
"Given what you've told me, I think that may be the only logical course of action."
"But?"
Roger set the sailboat down. "There are no 'buts.' I don't think you understand the obligation an attorney has to his clients."
"Unfortunately, I do. I'll have my resignation on your desk within the hour, Roger."
An expression that was more regret than relief passed over Roger's face. "I'm sorry it ended this way, Cole."
* * *
Chapter 3
« ^ »
"Hey, Brenna," one of the sports bar patrons called. "Who won the World Series in 1955?"
"Brooklyn," she responded cheerfully, setting another beer in front of him. "Played against the Yankees in seven." It was the sort of question George and his assorted buddies had been asking her since she began working in the sports theme bar two months ago, and they'd discovered she had an uncanny memory for all sorts of baseball trivia. It was the sole arena in her life where she had outshone her brother, Michael.
"Told ya!" George grinned, poking one of the other men at the table. "Pay up."
Brenna tapped her sneaker-clad foot on the floor and put out her own hand. "That's right, George. Pay up."
He laughed and set a bill in her hand. "Bet you don't know who the Iron Horse is," he said.
Brenna counted out the correct change. "That's a bet you'd lose, George. And, since he's dead, it's was, not is." She paused for effect. "Lou Gehrig."
He raised his mug in a salute. "Not only does she know everything about baseball we can throw at her, she never forgets an order. Tell the boss to give you a raise."
"I'll do that." She winked at him, took the orders for another round of beers, and left the table.
The good-natured banter made the nights go pretty fast, but Brenna still would have preferred to be somewhere else. It wasn't that she disliked the job or the people she worked with or the patrons who came to the bar. It wasn't even dressing up like a cheerleader, complete with ponytail and bobby socks, though she wasn't fond of that at all. What she missed, what she longed for, was challenge.
The litany that she needed challenge like she needed another lawsuit was automatic. Her cleaning service had provided more than enough challenge—finding new customers, hiring good people who needed a chance. Good people—seventeen of them—she reminded herself, lost their jobs when she got into trouble with challenging.
Give it a rest, she silently reprimanded herself.
She gathered up the last empty glasses off a vacant table, wiped it down, and returned the glasses to the bar. Theo, the bartender, gave her an absent smile as he took the glasses from her. His attention, like everyone else's in the bar, focused on the big-screen TV where a Rockies player was up to bat against the Cardinals in the bottom of the sixth inning.
When the door to the bar opened and a tall man in a business suit entered, Brenna watched to see where he sat so she could promptly serve him. She didn't expect to recognize him. When she did, her palms instantly became clammy.
Cole Cassidy. This was the last place she imagined seeing him. If she had imagined him at all, which she hadn't. He gave the bar a thorough once-over, his gaze lingering on Theo a moment, then made his way toward a deserted table at the back of the bar.
Anger surged through her. Its intensity surprised and upset her. The lawsuit was long over. She would be living with the consequences for years, but she could deal with that. She would do what she had always done. Survive.
She couldn't remake the past. But she learned its lessons well. Trust wasn't a bond unless written on a piece of paper. Honor wasn't your word unless spoken in front of a witness.
"Customer, Brenna," Theo said, snapping his fingers.
"Yeah, I see him." Picking up her tray, she closed her volatile emotions behind a mask of calm. She had learned from her mother, a military wife first and always, you never let the world see your emotions—happy or sad or angry or scared. Brenna learned early and well just how right her mother was.
She would deal with Cole Cassidy by imagining he was just one more man stopping by for a couple of beers on the way home from work. That's all. And he did look as though he had just come from work, though the hour was late for the come-from-work crowd.
He looked comfortable in his charcoal dress slacks and a pale gray sports coat. The top button of his crisp white shirt was open behind a conservative tie. He was taller and more broad-shouldered than she remembered. Gone was the razor haircut in favor of a more casual, slightly disheveled style. His face was tanned, the top layers of his brown hair sun-streaked. Much as she hated admitting she liked anything about the man, she thought the new look suited him better.
She reminded herself that a man wasn't necessarily worth knowing simply because he looked good.
Cole Cassidy wasn't a man she wanted to know, and if she was lucky he wouldn't recognize her.
He sat down, his face expressionless as he focused on the TV.
Another wave of anger washed over Brenna as she approached his table. She hadn't thought anyone would ever again be able to stir her this deeply. Beneath the anger, she was filled with that same sense of panic she felt only in her father's presence. Nothing about Cole Cassidy, though, reminded her of her father, the Colonel. She licked her dry lips and resisted the urge to run.
Brenna set a napkin in front of Cole Cassidy, then asked, "What can I get for you?"
Instead of the direct, unblinking predatory stare she remembered so well, recognition was followed by surprise and pleasure.
"Brenna James?" He smiled. It lit his face, crinkling his eyes, revealing a dimple in one cheek. "It's great to see you. I've wondered every day what happened to you."
His warmth almost undid her, contradicting all the reasons she had to dislike him.
"Now you know. What can I get for you?" Her voice was too curt, too defensive, her control less than she thought, far less than she wanted. So he has a good memory. So what? Why does he look at me like he gives a damn?
His smile faltered as though her biting reply bothered him. "What do you have on draft?"
She gave him three choices, shifting her glance away from his eyes. After taking his order, she checked with her other customers and took their orders for refills. She returned to Cole's table a few minutes later with his beer, aware he had been watching her the whole time. He was silent as she set the drink on a napkin, picked up the five-dollar bill, and made change.
"You're looking well," he said, giving her another smile, this one more tentative.
Her gaze caught his and held. It took all her self-control to keep from returning his smile.
"Thanks." Her reply was automatic, but her throat felt dry, her palms clammy—a reaction to a man's subtle opening gambit that he was interested. She didn't like her reaction, and she didn't want to like him or his smile. With this man, nothing could be so simple—if he appeared to be interested in her, there had to be a reason.
"Can I talk to you a minute after you've delivered those?" he asked, motioning to the other drinks on her tray.
"I can't think of a single thing we have to say to each other." At least her hunch about that had been right.
He sighed. "We have a lot to say to each other."
"I don't think so," she replied, her tone even, and walked away from his table.
She would never let him know that he had stripped her of all her defenses, leaving her with only her deepest held secret all but laid bare for him to discover.
Or maybe he knew, maybe John Miller had told him. Never had she felt so powerless as she had during the long months of the lawsuit. Losing her business had been
bad enough, but the lawsuit had been worse. To this day she didn't understand Mr. Bates's animosity toward her or his greedy assumption that her father was responsible for her debts. As if she would have asked her father for the money.
Two things she did know. First, she never wanted to be that powerless again. Second, she wanted that chapter of her life closed. She wasn't about to agree to discussing anything—not even the weather—with Cole Cassidy.
She turned to look at him and found him watching her with an expression that was eons away from the way she felt. He looked pleased, genuinely pleased. Not a cat-playing-with-a-mouse pleased. More like a cat that had licked up a bowl of cream. His smile, from anyone else, would have been impossible not to return.
Okay. So he's attractive. So what? He's also aggressive, hardheaded and too masculine. And trouble.
His beer disappeared too quickly as he divided his attention between the ball game and her. Brenna would have preferred walking over hot coals to waiting on him again.
"Another beer?" she asked him after cleaning empty glasses off the table that had been vacated next to him.
"Please."
She brought him the beer, hoping the sooner she gave it to him, the sooner he would be gone. He smiled again when she set it down and handed her another five-dollar bill.
"Are you getting along okay, Brenna?" he asked, his index finger sliding down the condensed moisture on the outside surface of the mug.
"Define okay." She set the correct change down on the table, watching his big hand close around the glass. It looked more like a laborer's hand than an attorney's, callused with a scrape across one of the knuckles. The contrast between his hands and his clothes unwillingly intrigued her.
A workman's hands. And expensive clothes.
She would bet the shirt was custom-made. The jacket stretched perfectly across his shoulders without so much as a wrinkle. Remembering the attorney's fees and court costs that had been attached to her judgment, Brenna figured he could probably afford a very upscale lifestyle.
A BMW. A fancy townhome in Cherry Creek. A wife who bought her clothes in one of the trendy boutiques along Second Avenue. Kids with a silver spoon in their mouths and no worries about whether their daddy could afford health insurance.
She understood her anger, but the bitterness of her thoughts came as a surprise. Blinking, she brought Cole's hands back into focus. Where he lived or what kind of car he drove or whether he was married or how he spent his time—none of those things mattered.
His eyes had taken on their familiar gold-flecked glint that made her want to drop her gaze. Defiantly, she held it. As always, he left her with the unsettled feeling that she was as transparent as a mist dissipating beneath a hot sun, that she had nothing that could be hidden from him.
"I wasn't trying to make polite conversation. I asked because I wanted to know," he said at last.
Did he really want to know that in addition to losing her business, she sold her condo and its furnishings. Instead of having money to start over, she had paid her attorney, paid the taxes she owed the IRS, and made a small dent in Harvey Bates's judgment. Did he want to know that she would have been homeless without her brother's charity?
Did Cole really want to know that her take-home pay after Harvey Bates's garnishment left her too little to cover her basic living expenses? Did he really want to know that she wondered whether she would ever be independent again?
Of course not.
"I'm all right," she finally responded. "And how are things at Jones, Markham and Simmons?" There was a trio of names she wouldn't soon forget.
"I don't know. I left there some time ago."
Nothing in his voice indicated how he felt about that. Secretly, his admission pleased her.
He pulled a photograph out of his pocket and laid it face up on the table. "I'm looking for information. Recognize him?"
Brenna glanced at the picture. The man in the photograph had nice features and just a hint of a smile. Zach MacKenzie.
"What kind of information?" she asked coolly. If Zach was on the receiving end of Cole Cassidy's brand of justice, he had her sympathy.
Zach was a frequent patron of the bar. Or he had been until he had been involved in a car accident a month ago. At the time, he had been on his way home from Score. Zach was charged with vehicular homicide and drunk driving, which had come as a shock. Theo swore Zach had been drinking only ginger ale that night.
Brenna wished she could remember. When the police came a couple of days later to question her, she hadn't been able to confirm Theo's assertion, much as she wanted to. She was positive she would have remembered, though, if he had left the bar drunk. And she had no such memory.
"I want to know as much as I can about the last time Zach MacKenzie was here. May 26. How long he was here. What he drank. How much he drank."
"I suppose this is what you did to me." Her conversational tone did little to hide irritation that swirled just beneath the surface of her control.
Cole frowned. "Did to you?"
"Prying. Asking questions that may not have had anything to do with my case. Digging up dirt—"
"Prying," he repeated. He stared at the table a moment before looking back at Brenna. "I suppose that's how it seemed. When I talked to the people who worked for you, I assumed I'd find corroboration of Bates's accusations. I didn't. In fact, without exception, your employees spoke very highly of you, as did your clients." Cole took a long swallow of beer. He set the glass down. "You think I went looking for dirt?"
"That's what you were paid to do."
"I'm paid to uncover the truth."
"Spare me," she said, wrapping her hand around the towel, twisting it. "I think you'd do whatever it takes to win. I think—"
"I represent Zach MacKenzie," he said, reaching out to touch the back of her hand with a finger. "And, yes, I like winning." The glint she knew too well returned to his eyes. "And, I took no pleasure at all in winning Bates's case."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" She rubbed the back of her hand where Cole had touched her.
He smoothed a hand over his hair, then laid his palm face up in a gesture of supplication. "No."
Brenna's gaze was drawn from his expression of closed confusion to the silent entreaty of his callused palm. She hadn't expected him to have hands that were so large, so hard. A man didn't get calluses like that from writing notes on a legal pad. His palm reminded her of her grandfather's—equally deft at coaxing open a stuck valve on an irrigation ditch or cleansing a scrape on his small granddaughter's knee. She glanced back at Cole's face and found him watching her, his eyes again warm.
This time she really looked at him, trying to see the man, not just the adversary. His cheekbones were high and fell away into blunt hollows above the rigid line of his square jaw. Not a single thing about his face was soft, but she saw none of the cruelty, either, that she was used to seeing in men with the hard ruthlessness Cole Cassidy had subjected her to.
"You're really Zach's lawyer?" she asked.
He nodded and wrapped his open hand around the glass of beer. "If he was obviously drunk when he left here, I need to know that. If he wasn't—"
"He wasn't," she interrupted.
"What was he drinking?"
"I can't remember. A beer, maybe. Most likely, ginger ale."
Cole raised an eyebrow.
Brenna shrugged. "He sometimes had a beer. Never more than two that I can remember. Then he usually switched to ginger ale. He mostly just hangs out when he comes."
"He's a regular?"
"More than some. Less than others. He and Theo are friends."
"I know." Cole glanced at the bartender. "Theo told me if I'd stop by about eight-thirty, he'd have time to talk to me."
Brenna frowned. "Why didn't you say so when you came in?"
"I wanted to see what the place was like."
She left Cole and told Theo that Zach's lawyer was here to see him. She watched as the two men shook hand
s. While they talked, she kept an eye on the customers, refilling drinks and pretzel dishes as needed. Theo and Cole's conversation ended just before the ball game.
Brenna expected Cole to leave. When he didn't, she had no choice but to wait on him again. "Another beer?"
He shook his head. "Coffee." When she returned to his table with a steaming cup, he asked, "Do you like working here?"
"It's okay."
"I never pictured you as a barmaid."
Given Harvey Bates's opinion of her, she didn't want to know how Cole thought she earned a living. "It's honest work. It pays the bills." Almost.
Cole grinned and brushed his finger across the back of her hand. Warmth lingered on the trail from his finger.
"I did it again, didn't I?" he said.
"What?" His smile was stunning. Her resolve to continue disliking him slipped another notch.
"Put my foot in my mouth." He stuck out one of his feet, covered in a size-twelve black wingtip. "It sure tastes awful. I wasn't casting aspersions about your job. Maybe we can start over."
"Start over?" She shook her head, lost in the direction his conversation had taken.
"Hi," he said, extending his hand toward her, a smile creasing the corners around his eyes. "I'm Cole Cassidy."
She stared at him.
He took her hand in his and in a stage whisper, said, "You're supposed to tell me your name. This is the first time we've met."
She was unable to say a word, aware of his hand on her arm, his eyes on her face. Somehow, in the last five minutes, reality had shifted subtly. The attorney who had been Harvey Bates's tool in her destruction became a man she found alluring.
Never in her life had she felt so off balance. She had spent years trusting her instincts. Which did she believe now? Instincts that were drawn to the caress of his hands and eyes, promising compassion and understanding? Or instincts that warned her of danger and urged her to ran?
"Brenna James," he said as though she had just told him her name. "I like your name. Brenna is Irish, isn't it?"
"You're nuts. Certifiable."
He laughed and released her hand.
"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
CASSIDY'S COURTSHIP Page 3
