Daniela snapped to attention. Crandall Thorne was going to defend the corrupt labor union boss? Was that why Caleb looked so ominous? Did he have a problem with his father representing Olivares? Or did he disagree with Olivares’s indictment?
When Caleb returned his gaze to hers, his face was devoid of expression. Calmly he took a sip of coffee and set the cup back down on the table.
Daniela studied him carefully. “Crandall Thorne is your father, isn’t he?”
“Yes.” He inclined his head toward the notepad in front of her, making it clear he didn’t want to discuss the matter further. “What can I help you with?”
Daniela wanted to press him for more information, but she knew she wouldn’t get very far.
Reminding herself once again that it would take time to win his trust, she launched into a detailed explanation of the problems she was having with her case brief.
It was, Caleb admitted to himself later that afternoon, one of the stupidest things he’d ever done in his life.
He’d had no business having coffee with Daniela Moreau.
Not when thoughts of her had taunted him for the past three days.
Not when he’d found himself seeking her out almost from the moment he stepped foot in the classroom that morning.
And definitely not when, in the middle of drilling her on a case, he’d found himself imagining her silky-soft skin against his own, imagining her warm, lush body writhing beneath his as he made love to her.
He’d had no business having coffee with her.
His first mistake had been getting into her car. The eight-minute ride to the restaurant had been pure torture. Every time Daniela shifted in her seat, the high slit in the side of her skirt exposed the shapely curve of a milky-brown thigh. Every time her slender hand palmed the gearshift, working the manual transmission with the skilled ease of a pro, his imagination—along with his libido—kicked into overdrive.
By the time they reached the coffeehouse, he’d been half out of his mind with lust.
Was it any wonder he’d put up little resistance when Daniela offered him a taste of her ice cream, holding out the sweet sampling like Eve beckoning to Adam with the forbidden fruit? Against his better judgment he’d accepted the offering, and the answering hunger in Daniela’s dark, sultry eyes had sent need rushing straight to his groin.
Who would’ve thought that something so simple, so seemingly innocent, could be so mind-numbingly erotic? When Daniela turned around and slid the spoon back into her own mouth, Caleb just about lost it. It took a monumental act of willpower not to haul her across the table and into his lap, onlookers be damned.
Even now, five hours later, the memory of that encounter heated his blood, causing an uncomfortable straining at his zipper. Caleb bit back a savage oath and scrubbed a hand over his face as if to erase the torturous images from his mind—all of them, including the one of Daniela’s luscious rump encased in skintight denim.
Why couldn’t he have included some sort of dress code on the syllabus, something that would keep every enticing curve and inch of Daniela Moreau’s body concealed?
It was bad enough that the alphabetical seating chart placed her right in front of the lectern, making it impossible for him not to notice her. When his assistant, Emma Richter, gave him the chart yesterday, he’d been half tempted to rearrange the seating assignments, sending Daniela all the way to the back of the lecture hall where she couldn’t torment him.
Swearing under his breath, Caleb stared at the blinking cursor on his computer screen. In the hour since he’d sat down to work on his law review article, he’d typed all of three sentences. Three. At this rate, he wouldn’t be finished until Christmas.
“Does that scowl mean things aren’t going well?”
Caleb looked up as Shara Adler appeared in the doorway, a teasing smile on her face.
“Hey there,” he said warmly, welcoming the distraction. Perhaps what he needed was a few minutes of stimulating conversation with a colleague to get those cerebral juices flowing again. God knows he’d done enough thinking with the wrong head that day.
Pushing away from his desk, he leaned back in the swivel chair and folded his arms behind his head, giving Shara a lazy smile. “How’s your day going?”
“Can’t complain. But judging by the look on your face a minute ago, you can’t say the same. What are you working on?”
“Law review article.”
She shook her head at him. “It isn’t enough to be the faculty advisory chair of the Law Journal, is it? You just have to add your two cents to every issue.”
Caleb chuckled. “I’m narcissistic enough to think my two cents are what makes our journal among the most frequently cited law reviews in the country,” he drawled. “Leave me to my illusions, woman.”
She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her amber-colored eyes. With sun-kissed reddish-brown skin and dark, silky hair that hung to her waist, Shara Adler was a striking woman who drew her fair share of admirers. Her tall, lithe body was stylishly attired in a silk halter top and a pleated russet skirt that flared to midcalf length, and was accented by a woven leather belt and low-heeled linen sandals.
“I haven’t seen you all day,” she said quietly.
“I was just about to say the same thing. Where’ve you been hiding?”
“I’m not the one who’s been hiding,” said Shara, a touch of reproof in her cultured tones. “You are.”
Caleb lifted a brow. “I am?”
“Yes.” Without waiting for an invitation—knowing she didn’t need one—she stepped into his office and walked toward the window overlooking the courtyard nestled between the Law Classroom Building and library. As she passed his desk, Caleb caught a hint of the light, tropical fragrance she wore, a scent that often reminded him of the week he’d spent at her beachside house in the Caribbean, where he’d retreated to escape the turbulence of his own life. Shara had generously opened her home, and her arms, to him, and for that he’d always be grateful to her.
Absently he picked up a round crystal paperweight his father had once given him. Embedded inside was a small acrylic globe because, as Crandall Thorne had explained, he’d always known Caleb would take the world by storm.
The paperweight was the only memento Caleb had taken from his plush corner office suite when he left the law firm.
“How’s Devon?” he asked Shara, who stood utterly still at the window with her back turned to him. “Enjoying his final year in middle school so far?”
“Of course. He and his friends already have bets going about who can charm the prettiest incoming sixth-grader. Isn’t that the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard? Why should they spend all their time chasing younger girls?” She gave a mirthless laugh. “But I guess that’s something men never outgrow.”
The subtly launched missile hit its intended target. Without missing a beat, Caleb continued transferring the crystal paperweight from one hand to the other. When he spoke, his voice was remarkably calm. “What’s on your mind, Shara?”
She turned around slowly to face him. “Was that Daniela Moreau I saw you leaving campus with earlier?”
He inclined his head. “It was.”
Shara frowned with disapproval. “Do you really think that’s a good idea, Caleb? Fraternizing with your students?”
“She invited me for coffee. I accepted. End of story.”
“You know very well it’s not that cut-and-dried. You can’t be seen going out on dates with—”
“I’d hardly call what we had a date,” he countered dryly.
“Maybe not this time. But what about the next time, and the time after that?” Shara’s nostrils flared in anger. “Can you really afford to risk your career by getting involved with Daniela Moreau, or any other student? You’ve got a good thing going here, Caleb. You’re greatly admired and respected by your students and colleagues. The administration thinks you walk on water—despite your maverick attitude toward policies and procedures and your o
utright refusal to attend faculty networking events. My God, Caleb, they even let you get away with showing up to class looking like the poster boy for a motorcycle gang!”
“You know I hate wearing suits,” he growled.
“I know. Everyone knows. It’s your legacy around here—Professor Thorne, the dark, brooding bad boy with the soulful bedroom eyes and sin-inducing voice.”
His lips twitched with barely suppressed humor. “Sin-inducing?”
“Don’t mock me! If you heard what these girls whisper about you, you’d understand exactly what I mean by that expression. All I’m saying is, no student is worth losing your job over. I don’t care how pretty she is.” She paused, then added snidely, “And honestly, Caleb, you’ve had prettier—students and girlfriends.”
His eyes narrowed on hers in silent appraisal. “This isn’t really about my job security, is it, Shara?” he queried softly.
She averted her gaze, her mouth tightening. “Don’t make this about us.”
“Is it?”
“No,” she snapped. “It’s about me looking out for a colleague, someone I also consider a good friend. I don’t have to remind you that there aren’t too many of us in this department, Caleb. If the three of us—you, me and Bernard—don’t watch one another’s backs, who will?” With a glance at her slim gold wristwatch, she started toward the door. “I have a class in five minutes.”
“Shara.”
She turned back, one finely shaped brow arched. “Yes?”
Caleb searched her tense face. “You know I’ve never crossed the line with any of my students before. What makes you so sure Daniela Moreau will be the exception?”
Shara gave him a sharp look. “What makes you so sure she won’t?”
With that terse challenge hanging in the air between them, she spun on her heel and strode out of the office.
Caleb was left to mull over the question, already knowing the answer.
When it came to Daniela Moreau, the only thing he could be sure of was that he was in trouble.
Just how much trouble remained to be seen.
Chapter 7
When Daniela stepped through the doors of Roarke Investigations that afternoon, the phone was ringing off the hook. The secretary, Carole Hightower, was frantically trying to keep up with the rapid succession of incoming calls while entering information into the computer in front of her.
Daniela quickly surveyed the reception area, which had undergone a radical transformation with the purchase of rustic pine tables and chairs artfully arranged around the large room. The seat cushions were upholstered in earthy shades of orange, red, salmon and turquoise that added to the Southwestern motif, and wood-framed Native American prints graced walls painted the color of papaya. The new and improved decor—courtesy of Daniela—was a marked departure from the sparse, no-frills private detective offices characterized in hardboiled mystery novels.
In one chair, a short, balding Hispanic man barked rapid-fire Spanish into his cell phone while puffing away on a cigarette.
Daniela walked over to him. “Excuse me, sir.”
When he glanced up at her, she pointed toward the sign prominently displayed above the large oak reception desk. “We don’t allow smoking in the building.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled sheepishly. He glanced around the room for an ashtray, then, finding none, stubbed out his cigarette against the sole of his leather loafer.
“Would you like some coffee, Mr.—?”
“Rodriguez. Luis Rodriguez. Yes, thank you very much.”
“Coming right up.”
Daniela made her way toward the reception desk, where the secretary was juggling multiple calls. She sent Daniela a flustered look as she approached. “Kenneth Roarke is not in at the moment,” she spoke into the receiver. “Can I transfer you to his voice mail? All right, please hold.” She pressed a flashing button on the phone, then groaned. “Oh, no. I hung up on him. Again.”
Daniela inwardly cringed. “Why don’t you take a break and get Mr. Rodriguez a cup of coffee?” she suggested.
The woman was only too eager to vacate her station in exchange for a less demanding task.
Daniela spent the next fifteen minutes answering and forwarding calls with a swiftness and efficiency borne from years of practice. Three years, to be exact.
That was how Noah Roarke found her when he emerged from his office followed by another man. After escorting his client to the door, Noah doubled back to the reception desk, one dark brow raised at his sister.
“Where’s Carole?” he asked.
“Making coffee.”
Noah grimaced. “Have you tasted her coffee?” he muttered under his breath, so as not to be overheard by those waiting in the reception area.
Leaning forward, Daniela whispered back, “It can’t be much worse than her skills as a receptionist.”
“Don’t be too sure about that.” Noah turned and gestured for Luis Rodriguez to follow him back to his office.
Carole returned a few minutes later carrying a disposable cup filled with a dark, sludgy brew masquerading as coffee. “Where’s Mr. Rodriguez?”
“With Noah. I’ll take him the coffee,” Daniela promised, knowing she’d do no such thing as she accepted the cup from the woman and rose from the chair.
The phone rang, and while Carole was preoccupied, Daniela dumped the coffee into a giant potted plant and tossed the cup in the trash before heading to her own office in the back.
Her office was actually a windowless cubbyhole that doubled as the supply room. The space was dominated by a wooden antique desk and bench, and black metal filing cabinets that marched along one wall. The basic functionality of the room was offset by soft, feminine touches interspersed throughout—a ceramic vase here, a cluster of decorative candles there, a multicolored wool serape that hung on a wall.
Ignoring a mound of paperwork that awaited her attention, Daniela dropped her purse onto the desk and turned on the computer to check her e-mail messages. Although she was on assignment and technically “out of pocket,” she couldn’t stay away entirely. For the past three years she’d ate, slept and breathed Roarke Investigations, serving as secretary, bookkeeper and part-time private detective as she helped her brothers establish the business. It was as much a part of her as it was part of Kenneth and Noah Roarke.
Noah stuck his head in the doorway just as she was responding to her last e-mail message. “What’re you doing here, anyway? Not that I mind seeing you around, kiddo, but I thought we all agreed that you should avoid this place as much as possible, in case Thorne gets suspicious at some point and starts having you followed.”
“I know, I know,” Daniela muttered, sending off her reply. “I had a ton of e-mail messages to respond to.”
“You can check your e-mail from home,” Noah reminded her dryly. “That’s why we set you up with remote access.”
Grinning at her brother, Daniela leaned back in her chair, propped her long legs on the desk and crossed her feet at the ankles. “One message was from a client who wanted to thank me for proving that her husband wasn’t cheating on her. What do you have to say about that?”
Noah chuckled, stepping into the tiny office and causing it to shrink even more by the sheer breadth of his wide shoulders. He wore a gray polo shirt that showed off his muscular physique, tucked into loose-fitting black gabardine trousers. He could have stepped from the cover of GQ, though he’d sooner wrestle tigers than suffer such a compliment.
“What I have to say,” he grumbled good-naturedly, dropping into the chair opposite her desk, “is that you’re in the wrong line of business, El. You’re supposed to want spouses to be guilty. How else are we supposed to make any money around here?”
Daniela made a face at him, but she knew that Noah, like her, took no pleasure in chasing down cheaters, especially when children were thrown into the equation. He loathed being the bearer of bad news almost as much as he loathed the act of infidelity itself.
“Not that we�
��re hurting for business around here,” Daniela said. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook all afternoon. What gives?”
“We took out an ad in today’s Express-News. Guess it’s already starting to pay off.”
“Not for long though, if Carole keeps hanging up on people.”
Noah scowled. “Tell me about it. She’s the third secretary we’ve hired in a month. After the first two disasters, we figured we couldn’t go wrong using a temp agency—especially since Carole came so highly recommended.”
Daniela gave a mock shudder. “I’d hate to see what they consider incompetent.”
“We have to get rid of her before she puts us out of business.”
“Hey, don’t look at me,” Daniela said quickly. “I’m not even supposed to be here, remember? I only stopped by to see how you’re doing, and to commend you for not accompanying Kenny yesterday on his quest to pry information out of me.”
Noah chuckled. “You know I don’t operate that way, baby girl.” He paused, searching her face. “But since you’re here, why don’t you fill me in on how things are going?”
“Didn’t Kenny tell you?”
“He did,” Noah said carefully, “but I guess what I’m asking is, how do you feel things are going?”
He was asking her, without really asking her, whether she still had reservations about her role in the undercover investigation. The fact that he cared at all was what set him apart from Kenneth Roarke.
And it was for this reason that she readily confided in him, telling him about her coffeehouse excursion with Caleb—minus the vanilla ice cream incident. That would be something she kept to herself, savoring the delicious memory like…well, like ice cream and espresso melting on her tongue.
A Legal Affair Page 7
