"What is this?" Austin asked, laughing. "Are we trashing attorneys?"
"Why not?" Paula quipped. "Can you think of anybody who deserves it more?"
"I asked her to marry me," Gordon declared, leaning lazily back against the tree trunk. "She told Bailey I showed good sense in not running or indulging in those other activities that make you sweat, so naturally I asked her to marry me. That's when she said I'd have to get a decent job."
The sound of Bailey's throaty laughter drew Austin's attention to her. She was leaning back on her arms, long legs stretched in front of her, the corners of her full mouth tilted upward. Once again she was the sleek, sensuous woman he'd noticed earlier rather than the tiger he'd almost lost the race to.
But then she turned toward him, eyes narrowing, smile challenging. "Jump in, Austin," she dared him, sitting upright, pulling her knees to her chest and leaning her chin on them. "Defend your chosen profession."
Austin cleared his throat, suddenly at a loss for words, inexplicably feeling eighteen years old again with the task of proving himself still looming ahead. "What exactly don't you like about lawyers?" he asked.
"I've been a legal secretary for twelve years," Paula answered. "Need I say more?"
"I promise not to hold that against you if you don't hold my law degree against me," he retorted with a smile.
"I'll try, counselor, but these ingrained prejudices are hard to overcome. Are you with the same firm as these two?"
"No," he said. "Does that make it better or worse?"
"A little better, I suppose. Gives you some distance, at least. You see, I go back home to Haywood tomorrow to pack my bags, move in with Bailey next Saturday, and go to work for Hoskins, Grier and Morris on Monday. Since secretaries and lawyers are natural enemies, there's absolutely no chance for Gordon and me to be friends." She sighed in exaggerated fashion. "Unfortunate, really. He has some good qualities, like being rich, lazy, and blond, but hey, that's life."
Austin laughed in genuine delight. Paula was witty, entertaining, and attractive. A quick glance at Gordon convinced him he shouldn't go any further than admiring her, though. He'd known Gordon a long time, but he'd never seen him look at a woman the way he was looking at Paula—kind of a combination of the way he used to look at his dog and the Playboy centerfold.
Well, if she and Gordon developed a relationship, at least the three of them could get along. However, he wasn't too sure about Bailey. How was it possible with only a glance she could make him feel the way he'd felt those early years in law practice—like he had to work twice as hard just to catch up with the rest of the world?
From the corner of his eye, he watched her stretch her long legs across the grass.
She made him feel frustrated, defensive, and, damn it, exhilarated in anticipation of the challenge, an aspect of those early years he'd forgotten until now.
*~*~*
The waitress left with their post-race breakfast order.
Paula disappeared behind a newspaper she'd picked up as they came into the coffee shop while Austin and Gordon discussed the fate of a mutual friend from college days. Bailey settled back in the plastic-covered booth, sipped her soda, and thought again of the awards ceremony.
She still couldn't decide if she should be proud of winning a second-place medal in her age and sex division. Ordinarily second place, especially with the age and sex qualifiers, was the same as losing. Still, Austin didn't get a medal even though he'd beaten her. So that kind of meant he hadn't really beaten her…didn't it?
And he had run one hell of a race, hadn't held back just because she was a woman. Besting him would be a noteworthy accomplishment—and a far safer one than getting pulled under by those vibrant eyes so full of energy and life, those thighs with the well-defined muscles that looked as if they'd be rock-hard to the touch. Not, of course, that she was in any danger of doing that.
"Hey, listen to this!" Paula smoothed her newspaper onto the table. "SWM, thirty-two, professional, seeks long-term relationship with attractive, single woman, twenty-six to thirty-five. Could this be the father of my future children? Nope, he smokes."
"What on earth have you got there?" Bailey demanded, glad to have a new direction for her wayward thoughts.
"The Kansas City Observer. It has this section called New Friends. There's pages and pages of ads."
"I wouldn't think you'd have any trouble finding dates," Austin assured her.
The man really was dense. Bailey didn't see how Paula could have made it any clearer that she didn't want to date an attorney, but he kept trying.
"I'm not looking for dates," Paula advised him. "I could have stayed in Haywood if all I'd wanted was dates with male bodies. I'm looking for a relationship with someone who's intelligent, romantic, exciting, funny, handsome...hmm...Degreed DWM, professional, divorced two years, no diseases... Oh, gag."
"Prince Charming," Gordon contributed. "She's looking for Prince Charming, but no lawyers need apply."
"That's a great idea," Paula said, folding the paper. "I'll run my own ad. Looking for Prince Charming, no lawyers need apply, although the exclusion should be self-evident."
"Ah, revenge will be sweet," Gordon drawled, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "Stafford Morris, for all those weekends you made me work and all the nasty memos, not to mention the cigar smoke, behold your secretary."
"May the two of them have a long, long relationship." Bailey lifted her soda in a mock toast. "Our beloved managing partner," she explained to Austin.
"I've met the man," he acknowledged, and Bailey wanted to ask the circumstances, why his lips thinned when he made the curt remark. But before she could decide on a polite way to frame her question, the food arrived and conversation ceased.
*~*~*
Full and exhausted, Bailey pushed open the door of her second-floor condominium and stooped to catch the tiny bundle of black and red fur that launched itself into her arms.
"Did you miss me?" Bailey asked, cuddling the little dog, reveling in the unconditional love.
"You didn't miss her, did you, Samantha?" Paula scratched the animal behind one pointy, tufted ear. "She's only pretending to be ecstatic. A good job of it, too, Samantha."
"Want to go for a walk?" Bailey asked, stressing the last word. Samantha wriggled out of her arms, jumped to the floor, and began running in circles, yipping and waving her plumed tail.
"I'd say that's a definite yes," Paula interpreted, tossing her handbag onto the glass-topped coffee table. "Poor thing's probably been standing around for hours with her legs crossed."
Bailey withdrew a lavender halter and leash from the coat closet and held it close to the floor. Samantha lowered her head and charged directly into the opening, dancing up and down impatiently while Bailey fastened the buckle and laughed at Samantha's enthusiasm.
"Come on," she called to Paula. "This is a great way to meet your new neighbors. Samantha knows everybody."
As the trio proceeded across the grounds, the little dog pranced along, sniffed shrubs, trees, and flowers, and stopped to say hello to everyone. After Paula had inquired as to the identity of the third man they met, Bailey finally asked her, "Do you want me to have a party and invite all the males I know, however remotely, so you can meet them?"
"That's a good idea," Paula agreed. "You're just wasting them."
A high-pitched voice interrupted. "Look, Pumpkin. There's that cute little dog again." A white toy poodle and matching owner bounced up to greet Samantha. "What kind of dog did you say she is?" Pumpkin's leash holder asked.
"A Chorkie," Bailey replied, ignoring Paula's coughing spasm.
The woman nodded sagely. "They're such a cute breed. I almost got one before I found Pumpkin."
The dogs sniffed each other briefly then led their owners on to seek more interesting smells.
"Chorkie?" Paula questioned when the pair had moved a few bushes away.
"Yorkie/Chihuahua. What do you want me to say she is, a Yihuahua? That lady'll tell all h
er friends about seeing a Chorkie, and they'll all pretend to know what she's talking about. They'll probably go to the pet store and ask for one. But there's only one Samantha, isn't there, sweetheart?" She reached down to scratch the little head as Samantha bent over a tuft of grass, sniffing in absorption.
"Hey, Ms. Attorney-at-Law, what would your new friend, Austin Travers, think if he saw you goo-gooing over a dog?"
"Your new friend would be jealous because I have a Chorkie and he doesn't."
"Jealous? No, I can't see that. Though if there were only one Chorkie in the world and he wanted it, I can see him moving heaven and earth to get it."
Bailey scowled at her friend but didn't deny the accuracy of her assessment. Austin's competitive nature, Austin's ability to win, both excited and frightened her. A tingle raced along her spine as she recalled the fierce competition of the race.
Mostly, she had to admit, it excited her.
CHAPTER 2
"Good morning, Joan." Bailey greeted the receptionist, picked up her messages, and thumbed through them as she strode down the hall. Dressed in a tailored black suit with a white silk blouse, still exhilarated by the race on Saturday, she felt ready to take on the world, even Stafford Morris.
As she passed the large conference room, the door opened and Lisa Palmer, one of the secretaries, came out. Bailey had only a quick glimpse of the interior of the room before the door closed, but it was enough to pull her up short, suddenly alert.
"Lisa, who's in there?" she asked.
In that brief instant she'd seen a familiar head bent over the polished wood of the conference table, a head with black, razor-cut hair. Unlikely as the possibility seemed, it was even more unlikely she'd hallucinate Austin Travers.
"We're deposing Candy Miller," Lisa answered. "You know, that personal injury suit Margaret got stuck with."
Bailey vaguely remembered that Margaret Hodges had asked her a couple of questions concerning the legalities, but details of the case escaped her. "Who's counsel for the insurance company?"
"Mark Powell at Kearns, Worley, Lewis, Hooper and Day."
Austin's firm. "Is Mark Powell the man with dark hair sitting at this end of the table?" she asked, though she already knew what the answer would be.
"Oh, no. Mr. Powell's at the far end. He's short and blond. That other guy's some big gun from the Kearns branch in St. Louis. I don't know who he is, but Margaret had me serve coffee in our real cups. Mark Powell only rates paper cups."
"Thanks, Lisa." Bailey turned back to her message slips and continued down the hall, but she wasn't reading the names and phone numbers in front of her. All she could think about was him—in her territory. A brief, titillating fantasy flashed unbidden through her mind of the two of them going head to head in the courtroom.
She entered her office and slid into her soft gray chair behind the desk she'd chosen for its smooth walnut top, a top she hadn't seen since the day the desk arrived. Someday she'd have to peek under the mounds of paper just to be sure it was still there.
Sorting the new message slips in order of how soon, if ever, the call should be returned, she added them to an existing pile on her desk then scowled at the one on top. Larry Haynes would expect to hear from her ten minutes ago. She had nothing new to tell him on the lease she was negotiating for him, but the man wanted his attorneys to jump on command. He was rich, rude, and obnoxious. She moved his message to the middle of the pile, then, on second thought, to the bottom.
Her mind jumped back to the unresolved question of Austin's presence. Why would a big gun get involved in a simple personal injury lawsuit, one her firm had assigned to a second-year associate? Could the insurance company Kearns, Worley was representing possibly be that important? If so, why was Mark Powell, a fairly new associate, the official attorney of record? Was that only a smoke screen so they could slip something past her firm?
As she recalled, her firm's client, the woman being deposed, had the infamous, unprovable back injury. Therefore it was simply a matter of negotiating a settlement with the insurance company that would be less than the woman deserved if she was really injured and more than she deserved if she was faking.
"Where's that damned Gordon?" The voice charged into her office along with its owner.
"Good morning, Stafford. How are you?" Bailey replied.
"I'd be a hell of a lot better if people could get to work on time," he grumbled.
Bailey rose from her chair, aware that her two-inch heels put her at eye level with Stafford Morris and cut down on his intimidation factor, his strong point. A very bald head accentuated his large nose and stubborn chin, and he walked with his head thrust forward, as though daring anyone to get in his way. They rarely did.
"The next time it's my week to watch Gordon, I'll see to it he gets here early every morning," she assured him sarcastically.
"I want him in my office as soon as he gets in." Morris stalked to her door then turned back. "I hear you did all right at the race Saturday."
"Nothing spectacular." But she smiled in spite of herself, not only about the race but also because Morris didn't add the phrase for a woman to the end of his sentence. It had taken her a long time to achieve that omission.
Morris nodded, and Bailey thought his mouth curved upward fractionally just before he turned to leave her office.
"I saw an acquaintance of yours at the race," she called after him. "Austin Travers with Kearns, Worley."
Morris looked back at her, his face unreadable. "Is that right?"
"Good runner."
"Hmmph."
"Why's he involved in that personal injury case Margaret Hodges got stuck with?"
"What makes you think he is?"
"He's in the conference room taking Candy Miller's deposition."
Morris' eyes narrowed speculatively. He reached into his jacket pocket for a cigar. "Interesting."
Bailey watched as he charged off down the hall. Gordon was right. The man deserved to have Paula as his secretary. But did Paula deserve Stafford Morris?
That afternoon Bailey made it a point to visit Margaret's office. "How'd your deposition go this morning?" she asked, peering around the doorway into the small space. As a second-year associate, Margaret didn't get a window. Partners were entitled to more sunlight than associates.
"Okay, I guess." Margaret shrugged. Her round face projected youth and insecurity in spite of large, black framed glasses and pale hair pulled back into a tight bun.
"Heard the opposition brought in reinforcements," Bailey said, sliding into one of the client chairs in front of Margaret's desk.
"Yeah, that was kinda strange. Some heavy hitter from the branch office in St. Louis."
"I thought this case was pretty routine. Why did they have a heavy hitter here? What did he do in there?"
Margaret shuffled the papers on her desk. "Mostly he just watched everybody, like he could see right through us. But then sometimes he'd come up with a question we'd never thought of. He got Candy really flustered a couple of times."
Bailey leaned forward. "Do you think he's planning to take this thing to trial? Is the insurance company a major client for them? Is our client's credibility bad?"
"I don't know. Candy's okay. She's not real smart, but that doesn't have anything to do with her legal rights."
But in the hands of a slick lawyer, it might have a lot to do with the way she came across to a jury, Bailey reflected. And if Austin was as good in the courtroom as he was on the track—
"What's next on the agenda?" Bailey asked. Margaret checked her desk calendar. "Depositions for the insurance company and their investigator next Monday morning, nine o'clock."
"If you'd like me to go along for a little backup, I'd be happy to," Bailey offered, trying to sound nonchalant, as though she could care less what Margaret's answer was. Leaving Margaret to go up against Austin alone was like throwing a Christian to the lions. Bailey owed it to her firm to see that they were adequately represented, she assured her
self virtuously.
Tiny tension lines on Margaret's face suddenly relaxed. "If you have time, that would be great."
Bailey stood to leave. "Fine. Get me the file as soon as you can, and the deposition the minute we receive it."
A heavy hitter, Bailey mused as she strode down the carpeted hallway. A big gun. A big egomaniac. That's what he was. Come to town and get involved in an insignificant case. Try to intimidate her firm's client, not to mention the attorney from her firm. Well, if he wanted intimidation, she'd teach him the meaning of the word.
"Bailey!" Gordon greeted, appearing beside her and breaking into her thoughts. "I think there's a law against looking that happy while you're still at work."
"Happy?" She tried to scowl away the smile, though she couldn't deny to herself that she was looking forward to another encounter with Austin Travers.
She turned into the kitchen, followed by Gordon, and selected a soda from the vending machine. "Why is Austin Travers involved in the Miller v. National Service Insurance case?" she asked.
"I didn't know he was." Gordon poured himself a cup of black, dense coffee and added several packets of sugar.
"I can't believe you're going to drink that."
"I'm not," Gordon assured her. "I'm going to eat it. Speaking of which, what are you doing for dinner tonight?" He stirred his nauseating concoction and actually took a sip.
"Nothing. Want to grab a bite?" Bailey tilted her head back for a long drink of her cool, effervescent cola.
"Sure. Austin's meeting me over at Reilly's at seven-thirty. Even you should be finished working by then, and you can ask Austin whatever it is you want to know about him."
Bailey almost choked on her drink. "Oh, no. I wouldn't intrude on your evening with your friend." Racing with him, meeting him in the courtroom—that was one thing, but no way did she want to be in a social setting with the man.
"You're my friend too," Gordon assured her, "so you'll be Austin's friend."
"Maybe another time."
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