by Mindy Klasky
Which would be a hell of a lot easier to accomplish if she didn’t have a headache lancing behind both eyes.
Or if she wasn’t picturing Kyle Norton, looking up at her from that broad expanse of green grass, laughing as he waved for her to throw down her sunglasses. She could still feel that moment between them, that tug as their eyes met. Sure, everyone had been laughing. The office folks around her had thought it was all a big joke; Harvey clearly thought it was the most hilarious thing in the world.
But looking down at the right fielder, Amanda had felt a hell of a lot more than a joke. Something had melted all of her insides. A warm bath had spread from her chest to her toes in a tingling rush that left her wondering where all the oxygen in the stadium had gone. She’d stared at Norton’s fingers as he cupped his hands, and she’d watched the strength flow from his shoulders to his biceps to his forearms and his wrists. When their eyes met, the entire ballpark had dimmed around her—not just the sight, but the sounds as well, and the tang of hot dogs and beer and funnel cakes.
The effect had only lasted for a heartbeat. Then Harvey had hollered, and she’d dropped the glasses, and everything had slipped back to normal.
She shook her head, exasperated with her imagination. Right. Like Amanda Carter would go boy crazy now, at age twenty-nine.
She rolled her eyes and pulled her keyboard closer to the edge of her desk. She had to go research crazy. Clicking her tongue and shaking her head, she opened up the powerhouse program all the lawyers used to gather information for their cases. At one flick of her fingers, she could search through vast databases of court decisions, newspaper articles, and scientific journals. She needed to pin down an expert witness for UPA, someone who could testify about a particularly obscure aspect of pharmacokinetics. An associate had already identified half a dozen likely candidates; Amanda’s task was to dig up dirt on each of them, to figure out how each scientist could harm them if called to the stand.
Due diligence. That was the name of the game. Every sane lawyer did it, to protect against disasters at trial.
As Amanda typed in the name of the first expert, her thoughts drifted back to the game. Back to Kyle Norton. Back to those cobalt eyes.
Cobalt. Right. Like any human being actually had eyes the color of the element with atomic number twenty-seven. Get a grip, Carter. Sheesh, she was smitten.
Not smitten, so much as bored. It was a hell of a lot more entertaining to think about a baseball player than it was to research some balding, wheezing expert on monocompartmental models of pharmacokinesis.
Her fingers darted across the keyboard before she’d made a conscious decision. She called up the broadest due diligence database, the one that would provide the most hits. She typed in Kyle’s name then added in variations, using initials, including his middle name—Marcus, she quickly discovered—along with all the other tricks of the research trade she’d mastered in three years of law school, in seven years of practice.
The flood of articles threatened to overwhelm her. But it didn’t take long to limit the search, to screen out all the reports of ordinary baseball games. Wanting to learn something about the real man, about who he was outside his persona of Baseball Star, she focused her review on Kansas newspapers, on stories from Kyle’s youth. There were the usual small-town entries—clowning around in a middle school play, making honor roll in high school, getting accepted to college on a full baseball scholarship.
There was a gap there, his freshman year in college. Three full months where not a single story appeared.
She flicked her fingers across the keyboard, calling up other databases, services that collected even more obscure local news. There was a caption from a photograph, a reference to a Mr. and Mrs. Wilfred Norton, parents of baseball player Kyle Norton, making a generous donation to a local charity.
Amanda dug deeper, following the trail. She bit her lip as she switched to a shadowy research service, a collection of records that weren’t lawfully obtained, that could never be produced in any court of law. And when she opened one last file, everything fell into place.
Kyle Norton wasn’t the man she thought he was. He wasn’t the man anyone thought he was. And now she knew the truth.
~~~
Hours later, Amanda lay in bed, trying to ignore the sound of a late-night shouting match between two drunks on the street outside her apartment. Sirens howled in the distance, and someone rattled through the trashcans on the curb.
She was a law firm partner, and this run-down apartment was the only place she could afford to live. It wasn’t fair. She’d worked hard every day of her life. She’d always played by the rules. She was a good lawyer, a good daughter, a good person, and all she got was a tiny one-bedroom that sounded like it was in the center of a war zone.
Not like some people. Not like Kyle Norton, who had broken the rules but prospered every single day of his professional life.
Muttering to herself, Amanda covered her head with her pillow and tried counting by sevens to one thousand. Sleep refused to come. At 4:30, she finally gave up, climbing out of bed half an hour early. She launched her morning exercise routine, fiercely adding extra crunches because she had the time, and then she forced herself to take a freezing shower. Studies showed that cold water could compensate for as much as 3.27 hours of lost sleep.
After armoring herself in her grey power suit and killer pumps, she fastened her hair in a graceful French twist. Her goal was to demonstrate that she was calm. Dependable. Entirely worthy of a loan. She took extra time to apply her makeup, outlining her lips with a pencil, tracing individual eyelashes with mascara. She slipped on her black-framed eyeglasses, the ones with clear lenses that made her look more intelligent.
Right. Like clothes, cosmetics, and glasses would erase the past.
She gritted her teeth and headed out to the battle field. Her first stop was the huge national bank with its main branch next door to Link Oster. When that didn’t work, she headed to the even larger institution across the street. And the credit union around the corner. And two smaller banks, each one a block farther from the office. At least those folks offered her ice water and warm smiles before they absolutely refused to even consider a risk as bad as the one she represented.
By noon, Amanda was sitting in the office of Tracy McIlroy, Certified IRA Services Professional, Certified Lender Business Banker, Certified Retirement Services Professional, and Certified Personal Banker. This bank was her last hope, Amanda’s only chance to meet Link Oster’s partnership requirements.
McIlroy pursed her lips, shaking her head like she’d just watched the Dow Jones plummet off a cliff. “I’m truly sorry, Ms. Carter. Here at Amalgamated, I have to answer to the vice president for every loan we make. We simply cannot take the risk given your…questionable fiscal past.”
Steeling herself, Amanda extracted a manila folder from her briefcase and pushed it across the desk toward the other woman. “Ms. McIlroy, I understand that my circumstances are somewhat unusual. But if you review these spreadsheets you’ll find—”
“I’m sorry,” the loan officer said, not even bothering to glance at the documents.
“If you could just look at the numbers—”
“Thank you for thinking of Amalgamated.”
“I’m only asking for a moment of your time. You can share these data with your vice president—”
Tracy McIlroy stood, flattening both palms against her desk. “Have a good day, Ms. Carter.”
Right. Amanda would hardly improve her argument if a security guard had to throw her out. She collected her papers and strode out of the office, chin up, shoulders back, daring anyone in the lobby to suspect she was a bankrupt credit risk with less than three hundred dollars to her name.
The August heat smacked her like a sopping towel, and she braced herself for the walk back to the office. No bank was going to help her. Her last paycheck had already been allocated to her modest needs and to her mother’s; she couldn’t get a payday loan until
the end of the month, even if she was desperate enough to pay the usurious rates those bloodsuckers charged.
She’d have to shift her last few hundred in savings into her overheated checking account. She could put off paying rent for nine days—one day shy of incurring a penalty. If she skipped the electric bill, they probably wouldn’t cut her off for thirty days. She could make a payment on at least one of her mother’s upcoming medical tests.
But the truth sat in her belly like a mass of seething lava: this was the end of the road. She’d have to leave Link Oster. Give up the partnership. The other attorneys would never tolerate the risk of her bad credit; they weren’t running a charity, after all. Everything she’d worked for, every hour she’d spent proving she was a good, competent lawyer—it all meant nothing now.
She blinked hard, telling herself the sidewalk shimmered because of the heat. She wasn’t going to cry. She hadn’t cried since the last time she saw Warren, seven years ago when the pathetic liar had begged her for just a hundred dollars, a sure bet on an exhibition football game, enough to tide him over until he could get enough cash to buy back the registration on her beloved Miata.
She pinched the bridge of her nose and forced herself to take a trio of deep breaths. She couldn’t dwell on the past. She had to move forward.
Maybe she could work a deal with the firm. They’d throw her out of the partnership, but maybe they’d let her work for some pitiful hourly rate, bringing the United Pharmaceutical case to trial. They didn’t have anyone else in-house with the patent knowledge to represent their client.
Her predicament was all the more frustrating because the previous night’s research had finally yielded a star expert witness: Antoine Phillips. Dr. Phillips had the gravitas, the reputation, the sheer years of experience to make UPA’s case, to save UPA from financial collapse. Too bad he devoted the vast majority of his time to a public health project in Equatorial Guinea. Amanda had sent the good doctor an introductory email the night before, pointing out all the logical reasons he should come stateside to testify. Now, twelve hours later, there was a chance she had a reply waiting in the office. Maybe that would secure a temporary reprieve when she admitted she couldn’t pay up on time.
She shook her head, picking up her pace as a light changed and she strode into a crosswalk. She could have gotten her email off to Dr. Phillips a couple of hours earlier if she hadn’t let herself get sidetracked by her research into Kyle Norton.
She shivered as she slipped into the lobby of the massive office building where Link Oster made its home. The air conditioning raised goosebumps on her arms. At least that’s what she told herself as her heels clicked across the marble floor.
“Amanda!” She barely stopped herself from grimacing as Harvey Link’s bold bass thundered across the lobby. She slipped into the elevator beside him.
“Good afternoon,” she said, trying to sound confident and steady.
He waited until the door closed before he mauled the button for the eighteenth floor. “I’m glad I ran into you. The partnership wanted me to remind you about the pay-in.”
“Of course,” she said, not meeting his eyes. Her new reality was still too fresh; it hurt too much to tell him the truth.
“Excellent,” said Harvey, and he actually rubbed his hands together, like a giant child anticipating an early Christmas present. “We’ll look forward to receiving your check by next Monday.”
She blinked hard and tried to ignore the lie she’d just told. The elevator door slid open and Harvey stepped back, allowing her to go first. She took one step into the Link Oster lobby and stopped dead.
Kyle Norton stood beside the receptionist’s desk.
Kyle Norton, summoned like a spirit from her research and the vicious envy that had kept her awake all night. He wore a white dress shirt and khakis, looking perfectly at ease, as comfortable in the law firm waiting room as he’d been in the Rockets’ outfield. He held a manila folder in his left hand, just like the one she’d tried to pass to Tracy McIlroy.
As she gaped, he extended his right hand toward her, a smile broad across his face. That made sense, because he had no idea what she’d pulled up on her computer, what she’d read and checked and double-checked, until there could by no shadow of a doubt.
She shook her head and cleared her throat, stepping forward as she pasted on a professional smile. “Mr. Norton,” she said, matching his hand with hers.
His fingers were warm. As they tightened around hers, the pressure jolted along a direct line to her belly. She swallowed hard against that soaring swoop, that feeling that she’d pumped a playground swing out of control, that the chains were slack and she was about to fall away into nothingness.
Harvey cleared his throat behind her. The sound was enough to bring her back to earth. That, and the memory that Kyle Norton was living a lie. She reclaimed her hand and introduced the two men as if she’d known the ballplayer forever. The social nicety gave her a moment to push down her thoughts, to smother her memories of what she’d read.
The men talked about yesterday’s game. Harvey complimented Norton on that home run, and Norton nodded politely, tossing off information about beating Milwaukee as if it were easy, as if it mattered.
“Well,” Harvey said after a couple of minutes. “I should let you two get back to… what exactly does bring you to our firm, Mr. Norton?”
Norton’s grin was relaxed, easy. “A business proposition.”
Harvey’s face brightened, and Amanda could hear the ka-ching of an old-fashioned cash register as the senior partner calculated the value of his newest client. “Well, then! Why don’t we just step into one of the conference rooms here—”
“I’m sorry,” Norton said. “I wasn’t clear. My proposal is for Ms. Carter.”
Harvey’s surprise was evident as he fumbled for a laugh. Amanda watched him run his options—pretend Norton was joking, make an argument that Harvey was the better lawyer for whatever job Norton could possibly bring to the firm, or let his new toy slip away.
Before he could settle on a response, Amanda decided to take control over her own fate. She might not be able to buy into the partnership, but if she could land one more client for the firm, tie one more case to her name before she had to hit the streets… Maybe that would be enough to get her an extension through October. Maybe that would keep her career alive.
She raised one hand to indicate a conference room door. “Mr. Norton, we can step right in here.”
And she shot a smile at Harvey, trying to convey that she had the situation under control, that he could trust her. Yeah. Right.
She took a steadying breath as she flipped on the conference room lights and closed the heavy door. It wasn’t fair that Kyle Norton was bringing his business to Link Oster now, just as she might be forced to leave the firm. But life wasn’t fair, was it? Otherwise, why would she be stuck with Warren in her past, dragged down by a man who had abused her love, destroyed her trust? Why was she ruined while people like Kyle Norton never had to pay a price for their mistakes?
She tightened the muscles in her jaw as she took the seat at the head of the table. Norton waited until she was settled before he pulled out his own chair, and then he pushed the manila folder toward her. “Ms. Carter,” he said.
“Amanda,” she corrected, reciting the new-client script she’d written long ago.
“Amanda,” he agreed readily enough. “I owe you an apology. I wanted to get a message to you before the end of yesterday’s game, but I couldn’t break away.” He glanced at the folder eagerly, and she narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out his angle.
“Please,” he said, nodding toward the table.
Cautiously, she slipped one fingernail beneath the manila edge and pulled out two pieces of paper. “What’s this?” she asked, picking up the first one.
“A check. For your glasses. I trust it’s enough?”
Three hundred dollars. Yeah, that was enough. Twice the price of the glasses on the open market, forg
etting the fact that she’d gotten them as a gift.
She resisted the urge to look at her watch. If she deposited the check before two, it would clear overnight. She could buy groceries and pay off part of her overdue water bill.
Resenting the uptick in her heartbeat, she stared at the funds. That damn check made a huge difference to her. And it was chicken feed to Kyle Norton. Almost literally nothing to a man who’d built his multi-million dollar career on lies. Not trusting herself to speak civilly as she fought a fresh wave of envy, she put her fingertip on the other item in the folder. “And this ticket?” she asked.
“It’s for next Saturday’s game. We’re playing Washington.”
She didn’t have time for baseball. Not if she convinced the firm to let her stay on for UPA. “Thank you, Mr. Norton. But that’s really not necessary.”
“Actually, it is,” he contradicted. “I need you there.”
“Excuse me?”
“When you gave me your glasses, you changed my luck. I broke a twenty-seven game hitting slump because of you. You have to give me your glasses on Saturday, repeat everything just like yesterday, so that I keep hitting.”
She actually snorted in surprise. “That’s ridiculous!”
He shrugged and looked a little embarrassed. “I’m a superstitious guy. I need you there.”
Need. She felt that connection again, the spark between them as she stepped to the fence at right field.
But Kyle Norton didn’t have the first idea what need meant. He didn’t understand needing to pay the rent, needing to support a parent, needing to cover the utilities, the phone bill, the partnership buy-in. He played games for a living, and she hadn’t had time for games since she was a child.
“Fine, Mr. Norton. My billing rate is three hundred dollars an hour.”
“I can’t pay you!” He looked horrified, like she’d asked him to sacrifice infants on an altar at dawn. “The superstition would be jinxed if I paid you.”
