by MJ Rodgers
“Every time I went to dinner at Mildred and Walter’s, Voleta seemed to be out on a date. It was Joel and I who talked and got to know each another.”
“Who was Joel’s legal guardian after his parents died?”
“Voleta. She got married a month later and they took Joel into their home.”
“How did Joel die?”
“He fell off a roof into a snowbank, landed wrong and broke his neck. Broke my heart, too, I must tell you. As you know, I had lost your grandfather just months after your mother was born. Joel was like the son I never had.”
“And you didn’t stay in touch with Voleta?”
“Her husband got a job in Olympia almost right afterward and they moved there. That was the last I heard of them.”
“Well, she’s here alone. Merlin didn’t give me a lot of time to check her out, but I did learn she’s registered at a local hotel under her maiden name. That spells divorce to me, and the white circle on her bare ring finger suggests it was recent. She must be feeling lonely. What do you say we invite her over for one of your special dinners tonight?”
Mab’s voice rose an octave. “Invite her over for dinner?”
“Yes, and afterward, we could take her by the radio station and give her a good rundown of the operation.”
“Octavia, I don’t believe you’re saying this. You want us to be gracious and hospitable to the woman who is trying to take my radio station away from me?”
“Mab, aren’t you the least little bit curious as to why she’s trying to take it away?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“You’ve been running KRIS for so long you’ve forgotten how much work it is and how little financial reward, if any, you get in return for all that work. Face it, Mab. Unless you do it for love, running a small community radio station is just a monumental pain. Why does Voleta want to do it?”
“Could it be she’s forgotten how much trouble it was for her parents when they were running it?” Mab wondered aloud.
“After forty years, I wouldn’t be surprised. Why don’t we wine and dine and then remind her?” Octavia said with a smile.
* * *
“WELL, YOU DID IT, Merlin,” Scroogen said after Judge Gatton handed down his decision the next morning. “I have to tell you, I had my doubts. But the judge ruled just as you said he would.”
Brett ignored the whiny pleasure riding through Scroogen’s tone as he looked over at Octavia and Mab.
“Yeah, I did it,” he said.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Well, how about sounding like it? Mab Osborne’s lost her radio station! Soon, the forensic lab’s results will be in, and she’ll be rotting in a cell where she belongs.”
Brett refocused his attention on Dole’s face. The man was staring at Mab, an expression in his eyes that gave Brett more than just a jolt of unease.
“What is it about Mab Osborne, Dole, that pushes your hot button so hard?”
“You have to ask? After those broadcasts of hers?”
“She’s just an old woman, hanging on to the past. Your building is still going up. Her interference is going to cost more because of the delay, but you can make that up by charging more for the condos when you sell them. You stand to make millions on the deal. What’s the problem here?”
Scroogen turned his face to Brett’s then. His pupils had enlarged so much his eyes looked like black holes. Purple blotches whirlpooled beneath his cheeks.
“The problem? I’ll tell you what the problem is. For ten years I’ve been trying to get nominated to the presidency of the chamber of commerce. I should have gotten it long ago. But my image as the owner of a septic company kept turning them off. So, finally this year they hear about the condo going up and everything changes. I’m given the nomination. Everyone says I’m a shoe-in—until Mab Osborne starts with her broadcasts, whipping up public sentiment against me.
“Suddenly, my name’s withdrawn. Too much bad publicity, they say. Can’t afford to have me represent them, they say. Nobody on the chamber wants to even know me much less vote for me! She’s going to pay, Merlin. For those broadcasts. For the calls. For the letters. I’m going to see she pays!”
Scroogen whirled and walked away, the heat of his angry words still sizzling in the air.
So, this was what it was really all about. The Septic King became the Condominium King in order to enhance his image among his fellow businessmen and snag the presidency of the chamber of commerce.
And Mab Osborne had gotten in the way and spoiled it for him. So now he was after a piece of petty revenge. And Brett was helping him get it.
Great. Just great.
Brett slammed his briefcase closed and looked over at his adversary once again. Octavia was standing behind her grandmother, giving her a reassuring hug as Mab and Voleta bent over the papers that would transfer title of the radio station.
Brett thought about Zane’s latest report. About how Mab Osborne had virtually raised Octavia while her cultural anthropologist parents were studying and living with a primitive people. About how strong the bond between grandmother and granddaughter had always been.
He could understand her wanting to do whatever she could to help her grandmother. But he could not understand—would never understand—a lawyer relinquishing her sworn duty to the law.
Everything Brett had just done had been strictly in accordance with the law. He had represented his client well. He had won. He would—could—never do less.
So why did he feel like hell?
She must have felt him looking at her because Octavia suddenly straightened and turned to meet his eye.
She smiled one of those damn secretive smiles that tightened every muscle in his body. Despite everything he knew about her, he wanted her more and more with each passing minute.
He had to stop these dangerous feelings. He had to draw the line. He walked up to her, never once breaking eye contact.
“That was the shot across your bow,” he said solemnly.
He expected his words to at least wipe that smile off her face. But that unfathomable smile expanded as she sent him a sparkling blue, mischievous wink.
And that was the instant Brett got his first inkling that somewhere, somehow, something had just gone wrong.
* * *
OCTAVIA KEPT THE RADIO on as she drove back to Mab’s house after running her late-afternoon errands. She was glad she was just in time for Mab’s evening broadcast.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mab began. “On my earlier segment this afternoon, I told you that there would be some changes here because I have a new partner and co-owner of KRIS. Tonight, I would like to introduce that new partner and co-owner, Voleta Ermasen.”
“Hello!” Voleta yelled happily into the mike, probably sending the volume needle off the scale.
Octavia chuckled. Clearly it was going to take some doing to educate Voleta on even the rudimentary points of the broadcasting business.
“As I mentioned this afternoon, listeners,” Mab continued, “it is only because of the sweet, understanding nature of Voleta that I am still an owner of KRIS and still broadcasting to you. If Dole Scroogen’s attorney had had his way in court this morning, I would have been forced off the airways. And now as I promised earlier, Voleta and I are going to tell you all about Scroogen’s plan to try to silence me, aren’t we, Voleta?”
Voleta’s affirmative blast was softer this time. Octavia suspected that Mab had probably muffled the microphone with a well-placed hand so that the batteries on her listeners’ hearing aids didn’t all blow at once.
Octavia listened as Voleta told the radio audience about Brett seeking her out and offering to represent her in order to deprive Mab of her radio station.
Although Octavia hadn’t been able to convince Voleta to sell full ownership of the radio station to Mab, a half ownership—which gave Mab all decisions regarding program content and editorial direction—wasn’t bad, particularly since Volet
a would now be paying half the bills.
Of course, the deal had hinged on Mab agreeing to make a broadcaster out of Voleta. Not an easy task. But the lady had a willing, enthusiastic nature, and, considering the alternative, it didn’t seem like too high a price to pay.
Besides, after hearing what Scroogen was trying to do to the community center, Voleta was all for fighting him.
Octavia could just see Scroogen pulling out the few remaining ashen hairs from his head as he listened to this broadcast and the one Mab had made earlier that day. The Scrooge was probably turning purple.
And Brett’s countenance? Dark and stormy, she’d bet. And those eyes—those incredible, silver-black eyes—how would his eyes have looked? Would that silver in them have solidified as it did when he was angriest? Or would it have liquefied and swirled as it did when surprise or desire caught him?
She would have liked to have seen the reaction in his eyes. She knew the Magician wouldn’t give in to this latest defeat. He’d be back on the attack soon enough.
Which meant she had to attack again before he could. And since Brett Merlin’s only Achilles heel was the heel he was representing, Octavia had to go after Scroogen. With his penny-pinching attitude, Octavia was certain that A.J. would soon find some illegally cut corner in the man’s business affairs. And then Octavia would use it as leverage to make Scroogen “reconsider” his takeover of the community center.
How she’d do it, she didn’t know yet. But she did know that she’d do it. She had complete faith that some plan would occur to her. It always did when her intuition told her she was doing the right thing.
Her intuition also told her she would be facing Brett Merlin again. She was courting danger, but that’s what made it so exciting. Remembering the image of his scowling face after she winked at him in court sent a delicious, anticipatory tingle through her chest and arms.
It had been a very long time since she had felt anything like this kind of excitement around a man. It was the risk of him that did it, of course. The delicious challenge that with this man, anything was possible.
She smiled as she pulled off the county road onto the long asphalt driveway to Mab’s home. But the smile quickly slid off her face when she applied the brakes and nothing happened.
Octavia froze in disbelief, unable to get her mind to accept the message from her senses. The car was not slowing at all. It was sliding down the driveway like a speeding sled on a sheet of ice.
This couldn’t be happening. She stomped on the brake pedal as hard as she could. But the brakes were locked, useless.
And the car continued to race forward. Fast, too fast. And what was worst of all, she could do absolutely nothing about it.
Except grip the steering wheel.
And pray.
Chapter Six
Brett rushed into the emergency room, heart pounding. “Octavia Osborne,” he said to the lady at the admitting desk.
“Behind the third drape. You can wait in—”
Brett didn’t hear the end of the receptionist’s sentence. He was already charging down the aisle, pushing his way clear of the first two drapes. When he pushed past the third, he surged inside, then halted.
Octavia sat on the examining table, fully clothed and composed, as a nurse applied a small dressing to her brow. The painfully tight knot that had gathered in Brett’s stomach over the last twenty minutes untied in immediate and thankful relief.
Mab was standing next to her granddaughter, holding her hand, her eyes a bit too bright, her lips a bit too tight. But it was Octavia who was doing the consoling.
“Mab, I’m so sorry. I’ve already called about the house. I’ll get it fixed for you just as soon as humanly possible.”
“Octavia, stop worrying. The only important thing is that you’re all right.”
“It’s not the only important thing. I know how much you love your home. You’ve lived there ever since you married grandfather. You always said you’d never live anywhere else. Fifty years of sweet memories are packed in those walls.”
The nurse finished her ministrations and slipped out. Mab gently touched Octavia’s bandaged brow. “Walls can be rebuilt. But, you, my sweet, don’t come with replaceable parts.”
As Brett watched the two women hug, he began to feel like an intruder and wondered if he shouldn’t just leave.
But although Octavia’s back was to Brett, she must have felt his presence, because she turned then to meet his eyes. He felt a tug inside him, as though those eyes were pulling him closer, communicating to a part of his body that totally bypassed his brain. The muscles at his neck and down his back tightened.
“I’ll be getting back to the center and let everyone know you’re all right,” Mab said as she looked from Octavia’s face to Brett’s. She flashed Brett a curious look before opening the drape and stepping outside.
Brett slowly approached the examining table, trying to concentrate on the bandage and not on Octavia’s eyes, which were watching his every move.
“Sergeant Patterson called to say you had been in an accident,” he said carefully, his voice purposely cool and distant.
She reached for her suit jacket lying on the end of the examination table and began to put it on.
“Didn’t Patterson tell you I was only injured slightly?”
“He said you’d struck your head on the windshield. Head injuries can be serious.”
She looked at him, saying nothing. The intensity of her look tightened the muscles through his arms. “Did he tell you how the accident happened?”
“He told me your car skidded on black ice.”
She lifted her long, thick hair out of its imprisonment beneath her suit jacket and dropped the cascade of thick waves down her back. Brett tried not to watch the subsequent shifting of her breasts against the silk of her blouse.
A moment later, he realized he had failed and that she was watching him watching her.
He looked quickly back to her face.
“How did it happen?” he asked.
“The ice was manufactured this afternoon by someone who deliberately hosed down my grandmother’s driveway, obviously aware the drop in air temperature would freeze the water.”
Octavia’s deep resonant tone never displayed even a note of what she might be feeling. It was the rest of her body that did—her eyes, her hands, her shoulders, her chin.
And at the moment Brett could have sworn they all seemed to be cocked and ready to fire. At him.
“Sergeant Patterson believes it was probably just some kids playing around,” he said.
Octavia tossed her head, sending waves of flame around her face, her eyes full of deadly, deep-blue sparkle.
“On just my grandmother’s driveway? I’m surprised Sergeant Patterson didn’t credit this ‘playing around’ to mischievous Christmas elves.”
She was mad, all right. Blazing mad. In all his previous experience with angry women, he’d seen them shout, throw things or cry. But not this woman. Brett was fascinated as he watched how her anger unfolded with such clean control and was accompanied by such a warm, thick, brandy-smooth tone.
She turned her head as she looked around for something. Brett saw her stocking feet and made the connection. He located her high heels on the other side of the bed, retrieved them and handed them to her.
“You told Sergeant Patterson that you think your grandmother was the intended target.”
Her skirt lifted slightly as she raised each leg in turn to slip on her shoes, treating him to a luscious flash of forbidden flesh. He assiduously kept trying not to look.
“Of course my grandmother was the intended target. It’s her driveway. Now, you tell me, Brett. How did your client respond when he found out this afternoon that despite all your efforts to take her radio station away, Mab is still in control of it?”
“Considering what she continues to broadcast on that radio station, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how he responded.”
Her eyes locked with his.
“No, you don’t. He responded by going to my grandmother’s home and icing down her driveway, hoping she’d break her neck, just like he hoped she would when he pushed her into that pit.”
“Careful,” Brett warned. “Those accusations are slanderous.”
“Those accusations are the truth.”
Octavia scooted forward, trying to ease herself off the raised table, her skirt weaving higher up her thighs. Brett couldn’t take any more of that tantalizing sight.
He stepped up to the table and circled his hands around her waist, intending to help her to her feet and end the temptation. But the sudden feel of her warmth hit him simultaneously with the subtle, sweet scent of her skin and hair.
He looked into her face, tilted up to his, into her eyes, darkening into a midnight blue sparkle. Every muscle in his body suddenly coiled tight with desire, every thought in his head suddenly unraveled into thin air.
She wove her hands beneath the lapels of his suit coat as her lips circled into a smile.
“Well, counselor, what’s it to be? Are you helping me off this table or am I helping you onto it?”
The challenge in her words and eyes was beyond provocative and spoke directly to everything in him that was male. She was so close, her warmth and scent lapped over his senses. Every red-blooded corpuscle in his body burned like hot sand through his veins. For several seconds his instinct for survival battled with his other instinct, just as old, just as primal.
“Excuse me,” the nurse’s voice blared suddenly as she shot through the drape. “We’re going to be needing this room to... Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Brett’s mind snapped back and with it his self-control. He forced himself to look away from Octavia’s eyes.
She turned her head to address the nurse, her voice and composure calm. “I’m just getting helped off the table. It’ll be all yours in a minute.”
“Right,” the nurse said, slipping out through the drape.
Brett took a deep breath and congratulated himself on not accepting Octavia’s invitation to jump up on that table. He assured himself his immediate hesitation was only occasioned by his surprise at such an outlandish suggestion.
