A Legal Affair

by Smith, Maureen

  When Kenneth said nothing, she glanced over her shoulder to find dark eyes critically assessing her from head to toe. “Is that what you were wearing?” her brother asked.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  A slow, devious grin curved his mouth. “Wet T-shirt, tight jeans. Trust me, baby girl, the last thing on Caleb Thorne’s mind was rats, drowned or otherwise. What’re you wearing to class tomorrow?”

  Daniela wanted to clobber him over the head with the gleaming copper pots suspended from a rack above the island, or strangle him with the Burberry silk tie tugged loose around his collar. She settled for a withering look. “Don’t even think about giving me tips on what to wear, Kenny, or I swear—”

  He laughed. “Relax, sweetheart. Your taste in clothes has come a long way from the high-water pants you used to call fashionable. I trust your judgment.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  Kenneth paused a beat, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “Of course, if you happen to have any leather bustiers lying around—”

  Daniela shoved a stack of hot Tupperware containers against his chest, making him grunt in surprise.

  With stinging sweetness, she said, “Don’t let the door hit you on your way out, sweetheart.”

  After Kenneth left, grumbling under his breath about temperamental females, Daniela washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen. When she was finished, she poured herself a glass of Pinot Grigio, settled down at the table with the San Antonio Express-News and worked on crossword puzzles. Half an hour later, knowing she could not put it off any longer, she got up and went in search of her textbooks to begin what promised to be a long, grueling night of reading.

  On her way out of the kitchen, she passed her mother’s bedroom and paused in the half-open doorway. A tender smile touched her lips as she gazed across the room at Pamela Roarke, fast asleep in the heavily quilted sleigh bed. The curtains were drawn closed on the waning light of early dusk, casting the room and its antique oak furnishings into deep shadows.

  Sleep had softened the lines of worry and fatigue etched into her mother’s face. For as long as Daniela could remember, Pamela had always worried—about her children, about working enough hours at the hospital to keep a roof over their heads and food in their bellies, about caring for the sick and elderly at church—about everyone but herself.

  She’d been widowed when her husband was killed in a machinery accident at the textile factory where he worked. Daniela was less than a year old, barely weaned off her mother’s breast milk, when a grief-stricken but resolute Pamela Roarke embarked on a nursing career to help raise her three children. They’d all been forced to grow up quickly—Pamela included. The young widow learned how to clip coupons and stretch a dollar at the grocery store, and Daniela and her brothers soon learned how to fend for themselves during the long evenings when their mother couldn’t be there to fix dinner and check homework assignments.

  Although Kenneth was the eldest, it was Noah Roarke who had stepped in to fill his father’s shoes, assuming responsibility for Daniela when Kenneth’s only concern was running in the streets with his friends. It was Noah who fed and bathed his baby sister, who dispensed the horrid cough syrup she’d swallowed only after he threatened to turn off her favorite cartoon. It was Noah who’d exclaimed over her stick-figure drawings and taped them to the refrigerator for their mother to coo over when she got home in the morning. And it was Noah, not Kenneth, who’d always comforted Daniela after a nightmare by reassuring her that their mother would not leave them, as their father had.

  Although Daniela didn’t remember her father, she’d always lived with a keen understanding of the transcendent bond her parents had shared. She knew that they’d both dreamed of someday buying a little ranch in the Hill Country and enjoying their golden years surrounded by frolicking grandchildren and wet-nosed puppies. While it had been years since Pamela Roarke spoke of it, Daniela knew her mother still secretly clung to that dream. It whispered in her eyes every time she and Daniela drove through the scenic countryside on an antiquing excursion, or to pick peaches at their favorite orchard outside town.

  More than anything, Daniela wished she could reverse the hand of fate and bring back Nelson Roarke so that he and Pamela could grow old together. But since Daniela couldn’t resurrect her father, the next best thing was to give her mother something of the future she’d always envisioned.

  Hoyt Philbin was willing to shell out the kind of money that would turn their mother’s dream of owning a ranch into a reality.

  It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity Daniela couldn’t pass up on.

  Even if it meant deceiving an innocent man.

  Caleb stayed at the office late to catch up on paperwork and work on a law review article that was due at the end of the week. At six-forty-five he called it quits and headed home to his downtown apartment.

  Twenty minutes later, he pulled off Houston Street and swung into the parking garage connected to the Towers of the Majestic—or the Towers, as the high-rise building was known to its residents. As he rode the elevator to the sixteenth floor, he was grateful that at that hour, most of his neighbors were already ensconced in their luxury apartments, or out for a night on the town along the Riverwalk.

  The moment he crossed the threshold of his penthouse, he knew he was not alone.

  Without turning on the lights, Caleb dropped his satchel by the door and crossed a gleaming expanse of hardwood floor to reach the wet bar. Calmly, deliberately, he filled a glass with whiskey and lowered himself onto one of the bar stools that ran the curved length of the counter. Fifteen-foot windows with custom-designed wrought-iron bars provided a panoramic view of the San Antonio skyline, now awash in flame from the setting sun.

  As Caleb sipped his whiskey, he quietly contemplated the stunning view he took for granted every day.

  “I take it you’re not going to offer me a drink.” A coolly amused voice spoke from the shadows of the living room.

  Caleb didn’t spare a glance over his shoulder. “Only invited guests receive that kind of hospitality.”

  There was a low chuckle. “Testy, aren’t we?”

  “Can you blame me?” Caleb drawled sardonically. “You’d think for all the money I pay to live here, I could count on better security.”

  “Now, Caleb, you of all people should know that for the right price, no door remains closed to me. Which brings me to the purpose of my visit.” There was a deliberate pause. “Your old man is still refusing to take on Lito’s case.”

  “That’s his prerogative, isn’t it?” Caleb said in mild unconcern. “Last I checked, the firm’s not exactly hard up for business. Besides, I think they’ve already met their monthly quota of representing embezzlers.”

  “Come now,” came the smiling rejoinder, “there’s always room for one more.”

  Caleb shrugged, keeping his back turned on his visitor. “Guess the old man doesn’t think so.”

  “Apparently not. However, I’m of the opinion that he can be persuaded otherwise.” When Caleb showed no reaction to the veiled threat, the voice continued, “We both know, Caleb, that I can make your father take Lito’s case.”

  “So what’re you doing here?”

  “I came to reason with you, man to man.”

  “By breaking into my apartment and skulking in the shadows until I return? I don’t think so.” Shaking his head, Caleb downed the rest of his whiskey and reached for the crystal decanter to refill his glass. Despite his cavalier tone, every muscle in his body was rigid, primed for the unpredictable.

  Experience had taught him such preparedness.

  “I don’t have to remind you, Junior, that all it takes is one phone call to bring all of Crandall Thorne’s dirty laundry to light. And I know for a fact there’s one particular item you’d do anything to keep safely tucked away.” Soft, triumphant laughter razored along Caleb’s nerve endings, making his gut clench in instinctive outrage.

  In a deceptively bored tone, he drawled, “You of all people s
hould know that Thornes don’t respond to blackmail.”

  “Don’t they? I beg to differ.” But the man was angry now, impatience lacing his next words. “Talk to your father, Caleb. Appeal to his common sense. This doesn’t have to get ugly, unless you want it to. Tell Crandall to take Lito’s case.”

  “Even if I were to do that, what makes you so sure he’d agree?”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence, Junior. We both know how much influence you have over your father. One word from you and the old man is on his knees, eager to make amends for his past sins. If anyone can make him see reason, you can.”

  Caleb had had enough. He wasn’t in the mood for this. He was tired and edgy, filled with a restlessness that had plagued him all afternoon, tracing back to the library encounter with Daniela Moreau.

  Forbidden fruit had a way of making a man more ravenous.

  And more reckless.

  With an economy of motion, he reached beneath the counter and grabbed the semiautomatic tucked away for just such an occasion. Quick as a snake striking, he was on his feet, the nine-millimeter cocked and aimed at the man’s chest with unerring precision.

  “Get out,” he said, low and controlled.

  The man faltered a moment before a slow, self-assured smile curved his mouth. “You won’t shoot me, Thorne. Not with my men parked outside the building, waiting for my safe return.”

  “I’d have a round of bullets between your eyes before they even suspected a thing. You know that.”

  “Ah, but you’d never get out of here alive.”

  One shoulder lifted in a shrug. “I’ll take my chances. Now for the last time, leave before my finger starts to twitch.”

  The visitor got slowly to his feet, one elegant hand smoothing a nonexistent crease from his expensively tailored suit coat. Pale blue eyes assessed Caleb in shrewd silence. “I remember an idealistic kid fresh out of law school—bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and ready to take on the world. Your father stole that innocence from you. Wouldn’t you give anything to get a little of it back?”

  A solitary muscle ticked in Caleb’s jaw. He said nothing, keeping the nine-millimeter trained on the intruder.

  “You need something to live for, Junior. We’ll have to find it for you, before it’s too late.” He gave a thoughtful pause. “You should seriously consider returning to the courtroom. You were one helluva lawyer, a rare talent. I know Lito would be thrilled to have you represent him.”

  “Not gonna happen,” Caleb said flatly.

  “Never say never. I suggest you give it some thought.” The man offered a benevolent smile, then tipped his head. “I’ll be in touch.”

  And then he was gone, leaving only a subtle scent of Dior as proof that he’d been there.

  Slowly Caleb walked back to the bar and returned the semiautomatic to its hiding place. Picking up his drink, he swallowed the rest of the whiskey, then set down the glass with a thud. Suddenly his hand tightened around the base, then lifted and hurled the glass against the nearest wall. Shards of crystal exploded, showering across the floor in a violent storm.

  Simmering with fury and something else—something he didn’t want to identify—he grabbed his car keys and slammed out of the apartment.

  Chapter 5

  “Hey, look who’s early.”

  Daniela glanced up from checking e-mail messages on her laptop computer to find April Kwan sliding into the chair beside her in the third row.

  “Yeah, I learned the hard way not to be late for this class,” Daniela admitted with a rueful smile. “Looks like we both made it before Professor Thorne.”

  “Good. I love to watch him walk into a room.” The girl’s full lips curved in a wicked grin. “What am I saying? I love to watch him period.”

  Daniela chuckled, turning her head to observe the students filing into the lecture hall, bleary-eyed from a long night of studying—or partying.

  First-year law students were assigned to a section, which was a large group of students who had the same courses with the same professors at all the same times. After spending two days in the company of these kids, most of whom were fresh out of college, Daniela already had a pretty good idea which of her peers were the scholars and which were the boozers.

  As if to prove her point, one scraggly blond boy staggered and fell into a seat near the back, drawing laughs from his classmates. He grinned sheepishly and let loose a loud burp, this time eliciting disgusted groans.

  Watching him, April predicted, “He won’t be around much longer.”

  Daniela wondered if the same could be said about her. How long would it take her to win Caleb Thorne’s trust and accomplish her mission?

  Would she win Caleb’s trust?

  “Here he comes,” April murmured, sotto voce. “The reason God made denim.”

  Amen, thought Daniela, watching as Caleb Thorne entered the lecture hall wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of faded jeans that clung to the strong, corded muscles of his thighs. A shiny black-and-silver helmet emblazoned with the Harley-Davidson emblem was tucked beneath one arm, completing the whole rebel-without-a-cause look he managed so effortlessly. He walked with a controlled stride, unhurried yet deliberate, a cross between a strut and a prowl. As he started down the wide stairs, Daniela could almost hear the collective female sighs that swept around the room.

  “Good morning, Professor Thorne,” cooed a pretty brunette seated at the opposite end of Daniela’s row.

  Caleb inclined his head in tacit greeting. By the time he reached the lectern at the front, all conversation ceased, and an air of hushed expectancy settled over the room. Daniela silently marveled at the transformation. Nearly ten minutes remained until the start of class, yet the mere appearance of Caleb Thorne was enough to bring the students to attention. She remembered what Kenneth had told her about Caleb’s prowess as a criminal defense attorney. No doubt he’d commanded the courtroom as easily as he did a classroom of sixty-five.

  As Caleb placed his motorcycle helmet behind the lectern and began pulling course materials from his satchel, April leaned close to whisper, “Why aren’t we sitting in the first row?”

  “Because we don’t want to be so obvious,” Daniela whispered back.

  As if he’d picked up on her words, Caleb glanced up, his dark eyes sweeping the crowded room before coming to land on hers. Her breath hitched, her skin tingling as if he’d physically reached out and touched her.

  But a second later his gaze shifted away, leaving Daniela to wonder if he’d noticed her at all.

  April seemed to think so, seizing Daniela’s arm in sudden excitement. “Did you see that? He looked right at you!”

  “We’re seated in his direct line of vision,” Daniela said drolly.

  “And yet, you’re the only one he looked at.”

  Daniela felt a tiny thrill of pleasure. Maybe there was hope after all.

  She half listened to a series of announcements made by Caleb’s research assistant, Emma Richter, a mousy-looking brunette in desperate need of a makeover. As she began distributing handouts, Daniela wondered, not unkindly, if she could earn extra credit by offering fashion-emergency services to the poorly dressed young woman.

  “Emma is passing out copies of the seating chart,” Caleb informed the class. “Study it, memorize it. Starting Friday, and for the rest of the semester, sit in your assigned seat. This not only helps me connect names with faces, but gives me a way to track attendance. I will circulate an attendance sheet every class period. If you don’t sign the sheet, I’ll mark you as absent. As stated on the syllabus, you may miss up to six classes this semester, for whatever reasons you deem necessary. But if you miss more than six classes, you will have missed more than thirty percent of the class, which means that you will fail this course, regardless of how you perform on the final exam. Understood?”

  The students murmured in docile agreement. April whispered out of the corner of her mouth, “Anyone dumb enough to miss six of his classes deserves to fail.”


  Daniela chuckled, then wished she hadn’t.

  Caleb’s dark, piercing eyes homed in on hers, and this time there was no mistaking that she was the focus of his gaze. “Let’s recap what we discussed on the first day of class. Miss Moreau, why don’t you tell us what you’ve learned about civil procedure so far.”

  Daniela took a deep breath as she found herself in the proverbial hot seat, a rite of passage dreaded by all first-year law students. “Well, basically, civil procedure consists of the rules used by the courts to conduct civil trials. Civil trials, of course, being the judicial resolution of claims by one individual or group against another. As I understand it, civil procedure is sort of like the ‘blueprint’ for litigation.”

  “Yes, but why the heavy focus on the federal rules of civil procedure in this class?”

  “Because most states model their rules of civil procedure after the federal rules of civil procedure.”

  “And?”

  She gave him a quizzical look. Hadn’t she answered the question correctly? But then again, she’d heard horror stories about law professors deliberately trying to trip up their students, sometimes subjecting them to sadistic interrogations, all in the name of teaching legal reasoning skills and stimulating “lawyerly” thinking.

  Before she could formulate a response, Caleb segued to the next line of questioning, leaving Daniela feeling unbalanced—which, she supposed, had been his intent.

  “Talk to me about the United States v. Hatahley. Who are the parties, and what are the facts of the case?”

  Daniela racked her brain, mentally sifting through the myriad cases she’d read the night before. “Um, the plaintiffs are members of the Navajo tribe. Their livestock was grazing on federal land, and they were sued to have the livestock removed. But before the suit was decided, the feds unlawfully sold the plaintiffs’ livestock to a glue factory. As a result, the plaintiffs were awarded damages of almost $200,000 by the federal district court and the U.S. Court of Appeals.”