But Bakewell was relentless. Pete next suspected they sent in operatives to steal his new brownie recipe. Fed up, Pete had sued. Bakewell promptly filed a countersuit accusing Pete of violating his exclusive, noncompetition contract. Pete shot back, saying they'd violated his soul, first by bullying him into selling his precious recipe, then by trying to steal every market and quash his newest product.
And since Pete and Bakewell each had the money to fight for their contentions, it had become a legal snowball, now involving two prestigious law firms and their top litigators.
All over a cookie.
Barbara tried not to think of it that way, but she knew she was hardly battling for world peace here. Yet Pete, with all the diversified interests he owned in addition to his cookie empire, was a valuable client. One the firm prized highly since he was responsible for millions in legal fees each year.
Staring at Don Maroney's expectant face, she wondered how to word a release that didn't make the case sound like children battling over the last chocolate chip.
Then she took a deep breath, knowing she was aiming a scud missile at the competition. "Frankly, Don, we've had concerns for quite some time that Bakewell has breached the boundaries of ethical business rivalry."
Don's eyes lit up. "You mean stolen corporate secrets? Like maybe the new peanut-butter brownie they've got on the market?" Every Bakewell cookie store in every mall all over the country was already promoting the tasty new item.
Barbara smiled, a knowing look that assured Don she had more in her arsenal. "I didn't say that. But quite often the evidence speaks for itself."
"You're a peach, Barbara. Anything else my editor's going to love?"
"Your article, if you do a good job."
She spoke with him for the next fifteen minutes. After he left, Dani whistled. "Nice day to declare war, Barb?"
"No, just to let our esteemed colleagues know that we mean business."
She might have temporarily lost sight of her goal. But she hadn't shed all reason.
* * *
Chapter 7
«^»
Kenneth stood at the hallway outside Barbara's apartment, for once uncertain. She'd been so distant all day, politely refusing offers of lunch, dinner or basically any interaction beyond the official proceedings.
He wondered if she had an inkling… Then he shook his head. He was sure he would have known. And he suspected that she would have been aimed to rip his heart out because of the deception, rather than withdraw.
The doorbell chimed, a quiet, dignified sound that matched the surroundings. The building seemed out of character for her, so stuffy and unbending.
From the initial quiet, he suspected she was looking through the peephole, debating whether or not to open the door.
Then it swung open.
"Gerrard."
"Evening, Counselor." He moved forward, forcing her to open the door wider.
"Since you're here, would you like to come in?"
"With a greeting like that, how can I resist?"
He watched as she closed the door, then clenched her hands behind her back. She still wore the suit she'd had on that day, minus the jacket that lay discarded over the back of the sofa. The suit was a delicate linen, the color of champagne, and she'd softened it with an ivory silk blouse that was barely tucked in. She looked slightly rumpled and sexy as hell.
But there was a wariness in her eyes he hadn't seen before.
It made him wonder again if she'd found out the truth, but he didn't see any anger there. And he knew, despite any shell she'd hidden behind over the years, that if she had found out, she'd be a hell of a lot more than wary. He thought of what he'd discovered earlier that afternoon. It could be that, but it was, after all, only business.
"You going to tell me why you're acting this way?" he asked, shutting the door behind him. He saw her eyes go to the closed door, saw the momentary flare of panic, followed by acceptance.
"Perhaps you'll get the message now," she replied quietly. "I have work to do. And, as I've tried to remind you on numerous occasions, my first obligation is to my client."
Her back was to him as she walked into the kitchen, purposely ignoring him. He skirted the counter and stood in the small space she occupied, rather than taking a seat at the bar as he guessed she expected.
He leaned against the counter, dividing her already cramped space in half as he trapped her next to the refrigerator. "This have something to do with Cookiegate?"
She turned suddenly, obviously startled to see him so close and to see her space suddenly gone. She seemed equally startled by his words. He could see the wariness and surprise in her eyes. "What?"
"The reporter you spilled your guts to coined the term. Appropriate, isn't it?"
Her hands fluttered, then stilled. It was clear she hadn't expected him to know about the interview, or anticipated that the reporter would come to him for his rebuttal. The article hadn't hit the papers yet, but Kenneth knew the contents. He'd had his chance to give his response.
Her voice was nervous, despite the bravado. "You're fast, Gerrard."
"I'm paid to be fast. And accurate."
It was clear she was uncomfortable being trapped in the shrinking space, but he refused to make it easy for her.
"It was only a matter of time until the case went public."
"So that's why you're acting so strangely," he mused, suddenly understanding.
Her stance was defensive. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"This case isn't life-and-death." He spoke casually, wanting her to realize that in the scheme of all things their case wasn't world shattering.
"Maybe not to you. But every one of my clients is important to me." Fire flashed in her eyes and he wondered whether she was reminding herself or him.
"Every client deserves the best representation possible. That's a given. But you'll have to admit that world peace doesn't rest on the outcome of this case. It'll earn our respective firms a small fortune and some big egos will get to fight it out to a public audience…" He paused, catching and holding her gaze. "But the fate of cookies and brownies everywhere is relatively safe."
He saw her lips curl as they fought a smile. But, stubborn as she was, she wasn't ready to give up the fight. "I told you earlier that I don't think our fraternization—"
Unable to resist, he moved closer, loving the velvet brown of her eyes, sinking into the warmth he saw there. "You're so damn beautiful. I guess some things never change."
There was a question in her eyes. One he disregarded as he pulled her toward him. He didn't care that he should be backing off, putting the distance between them. Because all he could think about was holding her in his arms … and how she tasted. Hot, sweet and strong.
Each time he'd kissed her, he remembered how it had once been for them and wanted her to remember, as well. The desire to shake her and demand that she remember him hovered in his consciousness as their lips burned together.
He could feel the slight tremble, the vulnerability that she hid so well. Why was it that he hadn't remembered that aspect? In his memories she was always so strong, so self-sufficient. And she still was. She simply hid her other needs very well.
And he didn't want her to have to hide anymore. If she needed to lean, he wanted to be the one she turned to. The insanity of that reasoning struck him as he pressed her close.
He hadn't been there for her before and he couldn't be now. The past that had once bonded them now stood between them. It was a gap that couldn't be bridged, a dichotomy without an explanation.
Loosening the pins that held her hair, he felt it spill into his hands. Like a sweep of raw silk, it was luxurious, sumptuous … like an indulgence once it was free.
Her scent crept under his skin. God, how he remembered this, the feel of her, the smell of her. Despite her other expensive habits, her scent remained the same. The aroma of fresh apples and warm sunshine still clung to her.
Pressing her close, he wille
d her to remember, to recognize him. Even though he knew doing so would force him to walk away.
She accepted his embrace, then pulled her face back to stare at him. "I don't believe I've ever known anyone like you, Gerrard."
Shards of pain and disappointment hit him. He knew it was best that she didn't remember. Yet…
Her voice was shaky as she stepped out of his arms. "I know you think I'm pretty stuffy, always playing by the rules, but that's who I am." Her eyes widened, then darkened. "And this is going awfully fast for me."
Fast? To him it seemed that time stood still – the past, that was. And the present persisted in crawling by. But he could see by the troubled note in her eyes, that she was disturbed by his "rushing" her. He took a mental grip on his impatience. "What do you suggest, Counselor?"
For once she looked uncertain. It occurred to him that she had always seemed in command of the situation. It was an admirable trait, but one that was often hard to bypass. She gestured to the sterile kitchen. "I was thinking of ordering a pizza."
"Why don't you let me do that, while you slip into something comfortable … like your sweats or jeans."
Relief flashed across her face. "I can order–"
"Give it up, Counselor. You don't have to take care of every detail yourself. What kind of pizza do you like?"
"Surprise me, Gerrard." Her expression turned impish. "You've been doing that since I met you."
How true. But instead of agonizing over what could have been, he opened his wallet and slid out a card. So she wanted to be surprised…
* * *
When the doorbell rang, Kenneth insisted on answering it. "I'll get the pizza, if you'll pour the wine."
Shrugging, she turned back to the kitchen, while he whipped open the door, paying the pre-agreed price and adding a hefty tip.
A fantastic aroma painted the air and Barbara came out of the kitchen, sniffing, with a puzzled look on her face. "I must be starving. That pizza smells delicious."
"Mmm." Kenneth remained noncommittal. He placed the carton on the dining room table that had been set for two. In his hand he still held the carton of salad.
Watching her, Kenneth let her lift the lid on the pizza carton, enjoying the look of surprise that followed. "What in the world …?"
Satisfied, he watched as she stared in astonishment at the heart-shaped pizza, her mouth falling into an O of surprise, her eyes widening in appreciation.
Then she leaned closer, identifying the artichokes, sun-dried tomatoes and capers. "Okay, Gerrard. Come clean. You didn't get this from Domino's."
"Very perceptive." Chef Timbori was a valuable man to know. It hadn't been overly difficult to convince him to bake the pizza in the shape of a heart. Once Kenneth had convinced him that there would be no trail of clues – and no demolished food and dishes.
Her expression softened as her fingers traced the unique shape of the crust. Then she reached up and kissed his cheek, a soft, gentle, tender gesture that nearly unnerved him. He almost blurted out the truth, then pictured the hurt, the betrayal. No, he couldn't do that. But he could make her laugh.
She spoke before he had to search for any words. "Your romantic streak seems to be endless."
"You said to surprise you, Counselor."
Her eyes darkened. "And you're always doing that. I shouldn't admit it, but you're always a step ahead. If I didn't know better, I'd think you'd spent a lot of time plotting things out."
Guilt nudged him. She could never know all the nights he'd sat up, wondering how to entertain her … dazzle her … hopefully give the gift of laughter back to her. "You're giving me too much credit, Counselor. Even I have to devote some time to my case."
"Cocky, aren't you, Gerrard?" Spunk flashed in her eyes, replacing the thoughtful contemplation, and he was relieved.
"I'll let my record speak for itself."
"Somehow I doubt that. But right now I'm starving and the pizza looks wonderful, so I'll give you a break."
Chef Timbori had outdone himself again, Kenneth decided after polishing off two pieces of pizza and a large portion of spinach salad. And the happy glow in Barbara's eyes was worth the slight arm twisting it had taken. The chef had wanted to prepare an elaborate, gourmet meal. Pizza wasn't normally in his repertoire, but he'd given in gracefully, once assured he could put his special spin on the meal.
She sighed, an almost gusty sound. It reminded him that she had an earthy appreciation of other sensual experiences, as well. "That was the best pizza I've ever had. Although it seems sacrilegious to call a meal like that simply pizza."
He lifted an eyebrow. "I imagine the chef would agree."
"So tell me, Gerrard. How'd you find out about the newspaper article?"
"It wasn't hard. Your reporter friend came to me for my rebuttal."
A spurt of betrayal crossed her face. "I didn't think he'd do that."
So, loyalty was extremely important to her. He tightened his jaw. "Any reputable journalist would have done the same. An article filled with only your version of the facts might make it into the tabloids, but it shouldn't be gracing the pages of a creditable paper."
She sighed. "I suppose you're right. It's just that Don Maroney and I worked together before…"
"And so he should take your side exclusively? That wouldn't be too healthy for his career."
She leveled him with a long look. "You know, Gerrard, we'd get along a lot better if you didn't insist on being right all the time."
He considered that. "I was just trying to be logical."
She rolled her eyes. "I suppose that's a testosterone thing, too." Then she held up her hand. "But I imagine we have enough on our hands with Cookie-gate. I don't think we ought to take on the war of the sexes, as well."
He found himself chuckling. Especially at the impish expression on her face. He considered how differently she had acted on the first day of the trial. In comparison, she had softened, relaxed. "I don't know. I think we're pretty well matched." To prove his point, he moved closer and had the satisfaction of watching her back up a step.
She clutched the take-out cartons, filling her hands with cardboard defenses. "You're not making this easy, Gerrard."
He took no prisoners. "I'm not?"
She shook her head as her eyes widened.
Moving closer, he took the cartons from her hands, putting them on the table. "How do you feel about being kidnapped again?"
The throbbing of the pulse in her throat gave her away. "What did you have in mind?"
"There's a concert at Wolf Mountain tonight."
She gestured to the papers spread out on her desk. "Well, I had planned—"
He shook his head. "Too much preparation will make you jittery."
She cocked her head at him. "Is this theory from the 'wing it, and I hope my client doesn't fry' brand of law?"
He smiled, knowing he'd won. Knowing, too, she couldn't give in easily. Even when she wanted to. "I thought you could take pity on a poor, out-of-town visitor—"
"Haven't you gotten enough mileage out of that one, Gerrard?"
"Not till it stops working," he replied truthfully, watching the play of emotions cross her face.
She glanced down at the jeans she'd changed into. A note of suspicion entered those incredible eyes of hers. "Did you have this planned all along?"
"I wasn't even sure you were going to let me in." But he couldn't keep his smile from growing. "I have to admit this has worked out well." He would never admit how much he'd paid for the tickets. But there was a happy scalper roaming the streets tonight.
He could see the war playing out in her expressive eyes. Eyes he had always drowned in. Anger battled with amusement.
It struck him. She was changing. And for the better.
"I should work. And I definitely shouldn't be seeing you, since you're the opposition. But for once you're right, Gerrard. I don't want to get burned out. And it's been a while since I've been to an outdoor rock concert."
He suspecte
d it had been far too long. But he planned to make it up to her. Along with many of the other things he knew she missed. Even though the court trial wouldn't last forever, it was the only time he had.
* * *
Climbing the hillside, Barbara breathed in the tangy smell of pine, the delicate essence of wildflowers and the sweep of uncut grass underfoot. She knew it was insanity to abandon her work once again. Most especially it was crazy to agree to another evening with Kenneth Gerrard.
Yet she slipped her hand into his and went willingly to the top of the grassy slope away from any of the people dotting the hillside. The sun was making its descent, yet they were so high in the mountains, it was only a partial display. It was something flatlanders never understood – the fact that the mountains eclipsed the full sunset. But living so high in the mountains that it seemed you could reach out and touch the sky had its benefits, as well.
The stage technicians tested the amplifiers, a far different prelude to this evening than the one they'd attended at the theater. But Barbara couldn't contain the smile that had begun when she'd agreed to come with him. How long had it been since she felt free enough to climb the mountainside to attend an outdoor rock concert?
Watching him spread out the quilt on the grass, she knew it had been too long. A fleeting thought of the work she'd left behind and the conflict she still faced surfaced. Determinedly she shook both away.
He fingered the surface of the quilt, his hands dwelling on one particular square. "This material from something special?" he asked, his voice carefully controlled.
Hearing the strain in his tone, she wondered, even as she answered him. "It was from my first college dance dress. It was the most special night of my life." Because afterward, she and Billy had made love for the first time, a sweet, aching, tender, passionate moment she'd never forgotten.
Lost in the memories, her voice grew softer. "My date accidentally spilled grape soda on the dress. He felt terrible, but we were on such a high…" She laughed, explaining, "From life, that is. With Billy I never needed more. And then, after the dance, when I knew I couldn't wear the dress again, I cut out enough to make a square in my Quilt of Life."
WHEN A MAN LOVES A WOMAN Page 10
