McLain's Law

by Kylie Brant

  Shock had receded, to be replaced by simmering anger. Of all the high-handed assumptions, this one took the cake. She knew arguing with him wouldn’t faze him; he was like a bulldozer when he wanted something. Quiet satisfaction filled her. When he heard her next words, she fully expected him to retreat with humorous haste from his intractable demands.

  “All right, Connor,” she said with such studied sweetness that he glanced at her cautiously. “Then your duties can start tonight.” She felt elation fill her at his obvious shock.

  “What’s going on tonight?”

  “The city fund-raiser for the homeless is having its annual gala,” she informed him mischievously. She knew instinctively that he would detest the glittering affair, with its masses of people and social dragons. She herself never looked forward to it, but, ironically, this ostentatious extravaganza brought in more money for their cause in one night than all their fund-raising for the rest of the year. As chairperson for the committee, she had to be present.

  Connor’s tone brooked no argument. “Get out of it.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” she told him with mock regret. “Since I helped arrange it, my presence is mandatory. Of course, there’s no real need for you to come along. I couldn’t be safer than in a crowd of five hundred people.”

  If she had hoped to convince him of the ludicrousness of his plan, her effort was in vain. Connor was exploring another aspect of her news, and it didn’t please him at all. “How long have you known about this?” he asked, his tone tight.

  “It’s been planned for months, and I simply can’t get out of it. But it doesn’t matter. I was just trying to point out that I don’t need you to—”

  He speared her with a glance so angry that she stopped, midsentence. “And just who,” he growled in a voice so low she had to strain to hear, “had you expected to accompany you tonight?”

  Michele was at a loss to interpret his inexplicable fury. “No one,” she said at last. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It isn’t necessary for me to be escorted everywhere I go.”

  “Who did you go with last year, Michele, as if I couldn’t guess?” he said with a sneer, and she found herself flaring up in response.

  “James accompanied me, since he is active in the organization, too. I don’t see what possible relevance that has.”

  Connor concentrated on driving and kept his jaw clamped so tightly it ached. He didn’t trust himself not to berate her any more than he had, but his guts were twisting with an unfamiliar emotion, and he knew exactly what that emotion was.

  Okay, he was jealous, damn it, he admitted savagely to himself. Forget that she was talking about the kind of social event he hated. Forget that he had done everything possible while married to avoid those events. The fact remained that she had not mentioned it to him before, probably realizing that he wouldn’t fit in. James was the kind of man who would shine in such a setting, who would feel at ease there. She obviously didn’t consider Connor an appropriate escort.

  He couldn’t help the cold knot that formed in the pit of his stomach. But right now there were more important matters at hand. Because, despite what he was feeling, there was no way in hell that he was going to allow Michele to attend that ball alone, or, even worse, let James take her. “What time do I have to be ready to go tonight?” he asked abruptly.

  Michele felt at sea. His civil tone was at odds with the muscle jumping in his jaw, and she wondered if it was possible for him to be this angry over her little maneuver. “That isn’t necessary, Connor, I was just going to make a brief appearance and then make a quick getaway.”

  “What time?” he grated.

  “Eight o’clock, but really, there’s no need. I keep trying to tell you . . .”

  “I assume it’s formal,” he continued, his voice hard.

  “Yes.” She sighed. It was hard to carry on a conversation with someone intent on not letting you complete a sentence. From his terse replies she was certain he was furious at having to attend the type of function he hated, and she was impatient with him for feeling the need. She certainly wasn’t in the mood to deal with his anger, however, and the rest of the ride was completed in silence.

  Upon arrival at her car she turned to him, not even knowing what to say. But before she had the chance to formulate a sentence, he was speaking.

  “Not to worry, Miss Easton.” He bared his teeth at her. “Believe it or not, I can actually be half-civilized when the occasion demands it. I won’t embarrass you tonight.”

  “Connor,” she protested, but he slid out of the car and slammed the door. She got out, too, more slowly, staring at his back as he swiftly strode away toward the headquarters.

  So that was it, she thought, after getting into her own car and driving to her office. Impatience and pity warred within her. He wasn’t angry because his own fears for her safety were forcing him to attend an event he detested. He was furious at her. He must think she had deliberately kept this commitment from him because she was ashamed to be seen in public with him.

  Impatience won out for the moment as she felt the sudden urge to throttle him for his leap to such an erroneous conclusion. How was it possible for one man to be so obtuse? What woman in her right mind wouldn’t die for the chance to walk into any function on the arm of such a devastating man? At the thought, she half feared for his safety when some of those female piranhas got a look at him. She knew women who would take one glance at him and immediately move in for the kill.

  His stupid conclusion was based on one thing, and it all came back to the kind of woman he was convinced she was. And that hurt most of all, that his idea about her hadn’t changed, even as close as they had become.

  Her mouth softened as another thought struck her. How ego- bruising it must be for a man like Connor McLain to think that a woman felt he was her social inferior. She would just have to make it her goal tonight to prove to him that he was, instead, her first choice.

  She was preoccupied at work for the rest of that day, causing even Julie to cast impatient looks her way when she had to repeat some questions two and three times. And when James entered her office late that afternoon, Michele had the sinking feeling that things were about to get worse.

  Her fears proved well-founded when, after a few minutes of polite small talk, James asked, “I assume you’re going to the gala tonight, Michele. I hope we can forget our personal differences long enough to go together and represent our business.”

  Michele hoped her smile didn’t appear as forced as it felt. “I’m afraid I can’t tonight, James, I’m sorry.”

  His polite smile never wavered. “You can’t? Why ever not? You are planning on going, aren’t you?”

  “I am, yes, but I already have an escort.”

  “A date?”

  Michele felt like gritting her teeth at his continued prodding. She knew that he would use his gentle interrogation tactics until he extracted the information he wanted. “Yes, a date.”

  “You don’t mind telling me with whom, do you?” he asked genially, sinking into a chair facing her desk. “Or is it a surprise you wish to save for tonight?”

  As much as Michele wanted to avoid the upcoming scene, she wearily decided it was better to tell James now than to risk a possible scene this evening. “Connor McLain,” she responded evenly.

  His well-bred face expressed mild surprise. “Ah, yes.” He waited a heartbeat before adding, “The police detective.”

  Michele stared at him in shock. He gazed back at her imperturbably. “I did a little checking after you so politely turned me down a few weeks ago.” He made a self-deprecating face. “Call it a snit, if you wish. At any rate, you didn’t convince me that there was nothing between the two of you. I sensed it the day you introduced him to me.”

  “We weren’t even dating at the time,” Michele answered slowly, in a masterful understatement.

  “Well, he must have had some reason for being here,” James replied. “He was pursuing you?”
>
  Michele’s mouth went dry. Better that James think she had purposefully misled him about her personal life than find out the truth.

  “In a manner of speaking,” she responded evenly, returning his gaze steadily.

  “At the risk of sounding like sour grapes, he doesn’t seem your type,” James told her gently.

  Another understatement, she told herself. She kept her voice light as she responded, “Well, perhaps it’s true that opposites attract, James. At any rate,” she continued, as she rose to signal that their discussion was over, “we’ll see you this evening.”

  She escorted him to the door, but he turned before exiting. “Forgive my nosiness, Michele. I truly have your best interests at heart. I doubt your involvement with this man will bring you anything but pain. Heed my warning. I would hate to see you get hurt.” Without waiting for her reply, he turned and left the room.

  Michele shut the door with only a modicum of the force she would have liked. She turned around and leaned back against it, arching her head back wearily. Was it really possible that she had engaged in an argument with Connor about James and with James about Connor in the very same day? She shook her head in chagrin. She, Michele Easton, had never before had to explain herself to any man, and now there were two men in her life demanding explanations.

  Not that she owed any to James. A tiny frown marred her forehead, and she unconsciously worried her bottom lip with her teeth. There had never been anything personal between them, despite her long-standing suspicion that he would like it to be otherwise. She hadn’t dated anyone seriously since she had begun working at Psychological Associates, preferring instead to concentrate on her job and her volunteer work. And she had never given James any reason to believe that she would welcome a closer relationship with him. She had known intuitively that it would be a bad idea, leading to all kinds of complications.

  She sighed aloud, determined to be honest with herself. Because the bottom line was that she had never been tempted to date James, never been drawn to him, never felt a spark of electricity with him. And, to continue telling the truth, she had never felt those things with any man.

  Except for Connor McLain.

  Her mouth went down in a self-deprecating moue. There wasn’t just a spark between herself and Connor, there was an entire electrical storm. Just thinking of him sent a warm river of sensation flooding her system. Whether they were fighting or loving, talking or silent, when she was with him she felt more vibrant, more alive, than ever before.

  She loved him, she admitted achingly to herself. And she thought he felt something for her. At least, she wanted to believe that. She knew he had surprised himself on occasion by his openness with her, even when he hadn’t yet trusted her. She thought she could read genuine caring in his attitude toward her.

  But maybe she was just fooling herself. How many other women had told themselves the same things? How many had fallen in love with him, only to have their hearts shattered by his eventual indifference?

  Michele shivered. There were plenty of warning signs that the same thing would eventually happen to her. Connor hadn’t had a close relationship with a woman since his ex-wife, and she wasn’t sure he was even capable of one.

  How, then, had calm, steady and cautious Michele Easton lost her heart to him? She, who had made it a goal in her adult life to avoid taking risks, to ignore temptation, was totally, achingly in love with a man who could do more damage to her emotionally than her stepfather ever had physically.

  What a convoluted mess their relationship was. Yet she couldn’t help smiling as visions of a different Connor, a more tender Connor, danced across her brain. An image of the Connor who had saved Guido’s son from a road heading to a delinquent home. A picture of the Connor who had sheltered and rocked her, calming her after her dreams. An echo of his voice, almost rusty from disuse, telling her of events from his childhood, pushing the demons back into the night. An image of his tortured face as he tried to talk her out of putting herself through the nightmares with Bruce. How could she deny that side of him, those images of him?

  She couldn’t, Michele thought simply. Every ounce of sweetness with him was worth the chance of future heartbreak. And she was willing to take that chance, no matter what James or anyone else said about it.

  Her reverie was interrupted by someone tapping on the door and turning the knob. She moved away from the door, and it was opened by Julie, who eyed her quizzically as her wheelchair moved through the entrance. The secretary’s eyes went knowingly from Michele to the door and back again.

  “So, were you trying to keep me out or make sure James didn’t get back in?” she asked wryly as she moved past Michele to put a sheaf of paperwork on the desk.

  “How’d you guess about James?” Michele sighed as she headed over to her desk to glance sightlessly at the pile of papers Julie had set there.

  “Didn’t you know? I’m psychic.” Julie laughed.

  Michele’s expression froze at her secretary’s choice of words, but Julie went on blithely.

  “Plus there was the thundercloud brewing on James’s face as he stormed—ever so civilly, of course—out of your office and past my desk.”

  Michele relaxed and answered, “Well, we did have a little disagreement.”

  “Before the fund-raiser tonight?” Julie tsked. “That wasn’t a smart move, Michele, to argue with your escort. You don’t want to wind up going alone, do you?”

  Michele was used to Julie’s personal chatter and, in fact, at most times encouraged it. They were friends as well as coworkers, but at this moment she wished fervently that Julie was up to her eyebrows in typing.

  “That’s what the disagreement was about,” Michele answered shortly.

  Julie looked up at her, the confusion on her face quickly chased away by enlightenment. “You have another date!” she crowed triumphantly, then read her answer on Michele’s pained face. “Wonderful! I’m always telling you to get out more. I hope it’s with someone great.”

  Michele dropped wearily into her chair. “I’m going,” she announced, feeling as if it were for the hundredth time, “with Connor McLain.” She waited for her friend’s reaction. It wasn’t long in coming.

  “Oooo-whee,” Julie sighed. Her eyes closed in delight, and she smacked her lips in delectation. “That hunk who stopped in here a few weeks ago?”

  “I’m surprised you remember,” Michele murmured dryly.

  “Who could forget a face like that? Or the body. That man sure does look good walking away.”

  “Julie!” scolded Michele, heat scalding her cheeks. But privately she had to admit that she was partial herself to Connor’s well-formed behind.

  But her secretary’s lightninglike mind was already off to other matters. “But as great-looking as he is, I’m not too sure it was smart of you to antagonize James like that. I’ve always had the feeling that he had the hots for you himself.”

  “I had no intention of antagonizing James,” Michele responded stiffly. “But there’s no way I could go with him tonight.”

  “Connor’s the jealous type, huh?” Julie asked understandingly. “Well, you have to do what you have to do. And I can’t blame you for wanting to keep that hunk of manhood happy.” She winked up at Michele’s frozen expression, chattering on. “I’ll clear up as much as I can for you, so you can get out of here at a decent hour. You’ll want to leave plenty of time to get ready.”

  She wheeled her chair around and motored toward the door.

  Michele’s mind barely registered the click of the door behind her. It was too busy toying with the idea planted by Julie.

  Jealousy. She turned the possibility over and over in her mind. Was it possible? Though hardly a noble emotion, it was certainly a human one, and she found herself examining the possibility minutely. To believe that Connor was jealous of James would make one wonder if he harbored deeper emotions for Michele than she had at first believed.

  As the door opened again, Michele closed her eyes in
dismay. What else could possibly go wrong today? She felt a little guilty for her impatience when Scott stuck his head in the room.

  “Miss Easton? Okay if I empty the t-t-trash?”

  She managed a wan smile. “Sure, Scott, come on in.”

  The janitor shuffled in carrying a large plastic bag. As he busied himself emptying her waste can, Michele asked kindly, “How’s your mother, Scott? Is that new medication helping her?”

  Scott had told her once that his mother was crippled with rheumatoid arthritis, and Michele made it a point to ask about her frequently.

  He straightened from his task and shrugged a little as he answered, “Helps s-s-some, I think.”

  “That’s good news.” Michele smiled. The janitor fidgeted in front of her, shifting from one foot to the other. Michele waited in silence, aware he had something to say, and that prompting only made his stutter more pronounced.

  Finally he asked, “Are you going t-t-to that b-b-ball tonight?”

  “Why, yes, I am, Scott. It’s for a very good cause, don’t you think?”

  He ignored her question and pursued doggedly, “With Dr. Ryan?”

  Michele closed her eyes, unable to believe this comedy of errors. It was a good thing, she reminded herself whimsically, that she had no more clients scheduled today. At the rate this was going, they, too, would feel free to quiz her about her social life.

  “I’ll see Dr. Ryan there, yes,” Michele answered evasively.

  But Scott didn’t stop there. A frown worried his forehead, and he asked, “You m-m-mean you’ll m-m-meet him there?”

  Silently asking herself why she was doing it, she explained, “I have a date taking me, but I’m sure we’ll see Dr. Ryan there tonight.”

  “D-D-Dr. Ryan is a f-f-fine m-m-man,” he said doggedly. Michele cocked her head at his doggedness in pursuing the topic and the strength of his feelings about it.

  “Yes, he is, isn’t he, Scott?”