Several of his clients had appointments the two weeks before Christmas, so he had no option there. He'd tried to get away before Thanksgiving, but hadn't been able to rearrange his schedule. Now, knowing it would be beneficial to him and his mom, he'd finally worked it so he could take several days off. Guilt bit at his heart for not visiting her more than he had over the last few years. He was certain she understood some of his patients had desperate needs.
A push on his key fob to lock the car, and he raced inside. He removed his overcoat and shook it, waiting for the elevator.
"Hi, Melinda. Any calls?"
"No, Mr. Webster. But you have a visitor waiting in your office."
The smartest thing he'd done after moving to Allenvale and setting up practice was to hire Melinda Matthews. She was intelligent, attractive, affable, and very married with three elementary school age children. On occasion, she'd brought each of them to the office. He looked at his watch.
"Your next appointment isn't for thirty minutes, so you have time."
Quickly stepping to the closet, he hung his coat on a hanger and hurried into his office. Jacob Isaacs turned from the window immediately when the door opened. “Hey, Jacob. Good to see you. What a surprise.” He walked over and his preacher cousin gave him a huge hug. “What brings you out in this mess?"
"Knew you were flying south to see Aunt Julia tomorrow, and wanted to catch you before you left. I saw the paper this morning."
"Yeah. I have no idea what's going on with that woman. You'd think being a psychologist I could come up with some answers.” He laughed mirthlessly.
"Anything I can do?"
"Pray. I have a call in to a law firm. Ever heard of Adams & Adams?"
"Yeah. Haven't had occasion to use them myself, but they have a good reputation. I know others who've been pleased with their work.” Jacob's forehead crinkled. “Believe Abel retired last year, but I think you're in good hands with Noah, Cuz."
"Ha! What's with all the biblical names? If I didn't know better, I'd think you had a hand in naming them."
When Archer moved to Allenvale two years ago, it had been at Jacob's suggestion. He'd interested him by saying the small city could use a psychologist. People had to drive to a larger city when they needed the services of one. He hadn't regretted the move . . . until now. Not that he actually regretted it—he just wished he knew what was going on with this Suzanne Newman person.
"Well, enough about me. How's Calli?"
"Complaining about her huge belly.” Archer saw the love in his cousin's eyes and heard the pride in his voice. Jacob was definitely a blessed man.
* * * *
"Chris, I want you to do me a favor."
Noah had taken him in shortly after she'd quit her job as an assistant district attorney and joined her father's law firm. There wasn't much he wouldn't do for her. Seven years younger than she, he'd had to stifle a crush developed during those first years. His boss, bordering on model beautiful with an easy-going spirit and a good heart, had given him a break where more established lawyers, after reading his background, had politely shown him the door. Course, the fact she hadn't started him with a big salary came into play. Although that had been rectified over the years.
"As long as it's not doing your Christmas shopping, I'm game. What do you need?"
"I really have no desire to represent this . . . what's his name? . . . Archer guy without knowing more about him."
Okay, so most of the time she had a good heart. “And I can help how?"
"I want you to meet with him, set up a lunch or dinner engagement. Run an assessment and see what you think about him. As soon as you find out his last name, Google him. Find out anything and everything you can."
He nodded. “Sure. But why am I getting the impression there's more to it than that?"
"'Cause you're going to introduce yourself as Noah Adams.” She ignored his raised eyebrows. “One of the benefits of having a man's name, wouldn't you say?"
Chris burst out laughing. “Why?"
"I don't know. I just have a bad feeling about this. You know how I ran into that problem several years ago with the Texas dude? Right or wrong, that's the kind of vibes I'm getting about this guy. Check him out and make a determination about him."
No matter how much of a front she put on about the ‘Texas dude’ incident, no matter she'd received hours of counseling, the episode would probably stick with her forever. It concerned him that what had happened in the past clouded her present judgment.
At Elaina's desk, he stopped. “What's this Archer guy's last name? I've got to Google him."
She looked at the note she'd written. “Webster. Looks legible enough to me.” She snorted.
"Yeah, right.” Chris retreated to his office and his computer.
* * * *
Arch swung open the restaurant door and entered. From a nearby bench, a man stood and strode toward him. Tall and slender, he looked surprisingly young for a seasoned lawyer—could he have enough experience under his belt to represent him?—but age wasn't something easily ascertained these days. Archer's mother was a testimony to age defiance. In her late sixties, she consistently passed for fifty.
"Archer Webster?"
The light-haired attorney extended his hand toward him.
"That's me.” He shook, adding, “You must be Noah Adams."
A waiter approached as Mr. Adams acknowledged with a curt nod. “Your table's ready.” Menus in hand, he led the way, wending through the crowded room to a corner. Once seated, he handed them menus. “My name's Tony and I'll be your server. Can I start you with something to drink?"
"Do you have Meritage?” He opened the larger than life one-page menu, noting no prices listed by the selections.
"Yes, sir. We do.” Then the waiter looked at the man seated across from Archer who'd started to look at the menu, but set it aside.
"Stella, thanks,” the lawyer requested.
After Tony stepped away to get their drink orders, Arch again turned to the menu. Making a decision, he closed it, and considered Noah Adams whom he'd sensed studying him as he'd perused the food choices.
"Have you practiced law long, Mr. Adams?” Might as well cut to the chase. He did want to be well represented.
"Actually, my father's an attorney, and it seems I've known about law all my life."
"Yes, I can see how that would come into play. Then what do you think about my case? Your assistant, Ms. Holland, said you'd tell me today whether you'd take it or not."
"Well, I talked to the DA's office awhile ago, and they haven't received word from the police about it yet. So, why don't you give me your rendition of what happened?"
* * * *
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Two
* * * *
Arch entered the eight-story, brick building of indeterminate age and strode the dark speckled marble foyer straight to the lighted index of occupants. Adams & Adams, Suite 700. Several other companies were listed as occupying offices on the seventh floor, so judging from the footprint of the building, it wasn't a large firm. On the elevator ride up, no music played, the only sound a muffled bing as it passed each floor. When the light glowed at number seven, the doors swooshed open and he exited, stepping across the plush, maroon carpeting to the larger than life 700 printed on the door. Turning the knob of the right side of the double mahogany doors, he stepped inside.
The well-appointed outer office was devoid of humans. After waiting several minutes, he glanced at his watch. He wasn't mistaken about the time and was sure he'd understood Noah Adams having told him to come to the office at 2:00 p.m. Granted, he was fifteen minutes early. He removed his coat and hung it on a coat tree, and then sat in a comfortable leather chair. Another sweep around the room and he leaned over, examining the reading material on the coffee table. People, Time, and various others that didn't spike his interest. He picked up a copy of Pennsylvania Lawyer from the coffee table. For the next five minutes he read, until
he was interrupted by the loud squeal of a female voice.
"Oh, no!"
Jumping up, he hurried to the open door of an inner office. “Hello?” he queried, announcing his presence.
Quickly stepping inside, he found himself staring up at the most exquisite creature he'd ever laid eyes on. Not only exquisite, but precariously perched and off balance. Apparently surprising her, she teetered further on the upper rung of a steep library ladder, her left arm wrapped around several thick tomes, her right hand gripping the railing so tight her knuckles were white. When the ladder teetered and shifted more, he rushed over and grabbed the sides with both hands to stabilize it.
With a look up, he rapidly averted his gaze. But it had been impossible not to notice the long length of shapely legs. Thank God she had on a tightly fitted skirt—for several reasons—but it probably helped account for her dangerous position on the ladder.
She looked down at him. “Please. Could you take these?"
Since she could hardly hand them down to him, he climbed up and stood one rung below her, his chin touching her shoulder. Up close and very personal. The scent of her struck him—an amazingly wonderful fragrance, light and floral. Finally he managed to shake it off—or was he just shaking period—and retrieved the armload of books. Once he was back on the floor, she elegantly moved down the ladder.
"Thanks for the hand.” Her voice had a wonderful lilt. She reached out and took her reading material from his arms. “Now, how can I help you?” She placed the books on a nearby table.
After a moment, he cleared his throat and regained use of his vocal chords. “Yes. I have a two o'clock with Noah Adams."
A puzzled look crossed her face. “And you are?"
"Oh, sorry. Archer Webster.” He abruptly stuck out his hand and laughed when she took a step backward, her mouth falling open.
"I-I'm not sure he-he's back from lunch yet. He left late. Well, no, of course he's not. I'm in his office getting those"—she pointed at the books—"and he's not here"—she waved her hand around the room, as if the man were hiding somewhere and she were inviting him to take a close look. “So he's not back . . . yet. But I'm sure he'll be in . . . soon,” she stammered.
Perplexed, he stepped backward to the door. “No problem. I'll just wait out here for him.” He continued to stare at her, and then turned—smack into the edge of the open door. “Oww.” Slightly dazed, he wobbled and grabbed his head.
In a flash she was at his side, steadying him with her hands on his arms. “Oh, my gosh. Are you all right?"
Heat from her hands permeated through his sport coat. “I-I tink slo.” Even to himself his speech sounded slurred. He watched the horror appear on her face.
"No, you certainly are not. You're bleeding."
Where she'd seemed discombobulated mere moments ago, she was now totally professional. Completely in control. Something he wasn't. The next thing he knew, she pulled him and he felt the back of his knees hit something. He plunked down hard—onto a couch. “I'm o . . . kay."
"I don't think so. Stay right here.” She ran to the other side of the room and pressed something on a wooden credenza, revealing an under-the-counter refrigerator. Faster than a dog retrieving a Frisbee, she returned to his side with a bag of ice, pushed his head back on the leather, and laid the cold container on his forehead.
Without reserve, he relaxed, closed his eyes, and surrendered to her ministrations. “Ah . . . that feels good."
"Open your eyes!” she commanded like a drill sergeant, startling him.
"Huh?” Involuntarily his eyelids popped open. “Why?” If his head hadn't been all the way against the back of the couch already, it would've been then. She was nose-to-nose with him.
"You might have concussed yourself.” Her eyes bored into his, almost making his cross at her nearness.
As she stared at him, he took in every bit of her face—not hard to do considering her proximity. Bright blue eyes, slightly upturned nose, perfectly shaped face, all surrounded by a thick mass of light brown curls. And oh those lips. It wouldn't take much to lean forward and plant one on their lusciousness. Maybe his stupefied state would warrant forgiveness.
"Your eyes aren't dilated, just a little crossed.” As if she'd read his mind, she edged away from him. “Ah, now they're normal. How are you feeling?” She took his hand and worked his fingers around the cold bag, and then pressed it against his head. “Hold that tight."
He tried to sit forward.
"No don't do that,” she ordered.
He didn't. “I'm all right. Thanks for the ice. I don't know how I hit that door so hard. Guess I turned too fast."
"I'll say. You acted as though you were fleeing.” She laughed and the tinkle of it filled the room. “I don't know what I was thinking not to shake your hand. I-I'm Chris Barton, Noah Adams's assistant.” Her hand reached out to him and he took it. No wimpy handshake.
* * * *
Noah had no idea why she continued the charade. She should set the record straight . . . immediately. But, maybe because she'd taken an instant shine to this Archer guy, she hesitated. Which wasn't like her. Wow, was he ever one good-looking hunk. Guessed him a few years younger than her thirty-five years, and quite a bit taller than her five-foot-seven inches. Well dressed—and my, my—she hadn't missed the muscles that had flexed under his coat when she'd grabbed him by the arms. Dark hair that curled slightly at the back of his neck. And his baby blues mirrored her own. She definitely couldn't deny the attraction. Oh, I'd better tell him. Not about the attraction, but her real name.
"Hi, No . . . ah . . . one's in the outer office.” Chris walked into her office and followed her slight nod to the man lying back on the couch holding his head. “Elaina's not back yet?"
"Uh, Mr. Webster's here to see you."
Chris rushed over. “What happened to you? Did that woman attack you?"
"Me?” Noah interjected.
"No, not you. Ms. Newman."
Archer Webster looked confused. She wasn't surprised. “No,” he said. “I heard Miss . . . I'm sorry, what did you say your name is again?"
"Chris. Chris Barton.” She turned to Chris and shrugged. Her lips curled down as if to indicate Great, I'm in it now. She turned and headed for the door. “I'll leave you two alone. Let me know if you need anything . . . Noah."
The man on the couch called after her, “Don't forget your books."
"Oh, right.” She hurried over and retrieved them.
She pulled the door shut behind her and leaned against it. Terrific! Why do I get myself into these messes? Studs Radley. That's why, or rather who. A Texan with the name Studs. That should have been her first clue not to agree to his request to meet him outside the office. Although it hadn't been for some tryst. Lord knows, she had no interest in the man. He'd said he had information that would lead to the arrest of some drug lord. Her father had taught her better. But had she paid attention to the still, small voice inside her? No! She'd met Radley at the deserted building, he'd come onto her, and when she'd told him she wasn't interested he'd hit her.
The police arrested him, but with no priors, his creep of a lawyer had said Noah had provoked Radley and hit him first. Which she hadn't, but a judge believed the scumbag and Studs was out in no time. After that he'd made her life miserable. Stalked her until she'd taken out a restraining order against him. Even then, Studs had broken into her apartment and left a calling card written in the dust of her dining room table. If he hadn't been wearing gloves, fingerprint evidence would have surely found he'd done the deed. Finally, he must've tired of the game because he returned to Texas, much to her relief. But by this time, the DA, an avowed chauvinist, wasn't too happy with her.
Since then she'd been the best housekeeper in the world. Never comfortable again in the apartment, about a year later she'd bought a house. She'd also decided employment with the then DA wasn't working out, left the prosecutorial end of the law, and joined up with her dad. Now that Dad had retired, she'd kept the fi
rm small, catering only to female clients. Archer Webster was about to break that clientele exclusivity. And just how do I feel about that?
* * * *
Several hours later, Arch left the lawyer's office, a Band-Aid on his forehead, and cautiously made his way over the dangerous terrain to his car. Noah had insisted he lay on his couch for a while. When Arch insisted he was fine, the attorney gave him the option. Stay in the office until he was sure he was okay, or go to the emergency room. That definitely hadn't appealed to Arch.
The weather this morning had indeed turned abysmal, closing the local airport and canceling his plans to visit his mother, and more than likely, Thanksgiving dinner. Perhaps he could talk her into coming to Allenvale for Christmas. In the cold of winter—good luck with that one! Last night's icing was now overlaid with an inch or two of fresh snow. Beautiful, but treacherous—like some women he'd known over the years.
About to get into his car, he spotted Chris getting out of hers. She stood looking at it, hands on hips. Words he heard, but couldn't decipher, carried over the wind. With a flick of his wrist, he pushed his car door closed and traversed the ice, the ground crunching with each step. Not wanting to come up from behind and startle her, he called out from many feet away.
"Excuse me, Miss Barton.” Startled anyway, she whipped around. Very jumpy lady.
"Oh, Mr. Webster.” Her hand flew to her chest. The relief in her voice was audible.
"Hi. Car won't start?"
She screwed up her lips into a half smile. “No."
"What's it do?"
"When I turn the ignition?"
He nodded.
On A Cold Winter's Night Page 17
