by Barbara Daly
Blobs of yellow flew through the air and plopped onto her clothes. She leaped up. "Carter! This is … this is … mustard!"
He gave her a wicked smile. "Right. Now what are you going to do?"
"I am going to my room," she said frostily, and did.
There she viewed the ruin of the jacket she'd planned to wear every single day. There were a few spots on her skirt she could probably handle, or she could wear her black pants again, which smelled only faintly of the coffee she'd spilled on them in Maybelle's office, but even if she got the mustard off the coat, she'd smell like a delicatessen all day tomorrow.
She buried her head in her hands. She'd have to wear the red jacket, after all.
Carter opened his bedroom door warily to find Mallory emerging from her room looking as if she were expecting an ambush. He met her in the center of the room, where they eyed each other like opposing lines in a football game.
Mallory's team was the one in red. He cleared his throat. "You did have something else to wear."
"Fortunately." She brandished the ruined black jacket.
He hadn't gotten a rip-roaring, let's-laugh-it-off, no-harm-done conversation going, that was for sure, but, wow, was she ever a bombshell in red. A surprisingly curvy, sexy red number that fired up the old imagination, and that wasn't all it fired up.
Feeling the need for something to hold over himself, he said, "Give me that." He took the jacket, stuffed it in the plastic bag the hotel provided and stuck it outside the door of the suite. "The laundry will pick it up and have it back tonight. It'll be on my bill," he added, and by the time he'd done all that practical stuff, he felt more in control. And increasingly foolish as she eyed him silently.
"What were you thinking?" she said at last.
"I don't know. The devil made me do it?"
"Why did you have mustard in your pocket? Did you take Athena out for hamburgers?"
"No, Athena and I had some very pricey raw fish. Then I took myself out for a hamburger."
"Oh." She shouldered a gleaming black leather handbag, grabbed the handle of her rolling briefcase and started toward the door. She glanced back at him briefly. "Thank you for having coffee sent up early."
"I thought it might help us get going." He stubbed a toe into the carpeting, and that brilliant bit of conversation didn't net him any response at all.
His role was to follow her to the elevators, which he did, feeling like an embarrassed kid shuffling along in her wake. What had made him do something so childish as to squirt mustard on her? He hadn't been in a food fight since his sophomore year in high school. When a very pretty junior girl told him what a "sophomoric" thing it was to do, that had ended his food-fighting forever. So this bizarre behavior of his must have something to do with the mood he'd come home in after enduring two hours of Athena's empty blathering to find Mallory all neat and dressed and working. Could she never fail to one-up him? That mood, plus the effect she was having on him, were making him feel like a kid again—and not in a nice way.
But while he stared at her back, thinking these thoughts, he made an important discovery. She had the cutest, roundest little butt any man could hope to find on a woman. He hadn't realized he was a butt man, but now it seemed he was. Suddenly she turned, and he whipped his gaze upward, but not before she caught him staring at her rear end.
She flushed and gave him a grim look. The tips of his ears felt hot and he tried to return her look with a nonchalant one.
Great start on getting her to respect you. All he'd accomplished so far was to make Mallory look a little less respectable in that sexy red jacket. The jacket that showed her butt. Quit it, Compton. They'd landed in the lobby, and he could smell eggs and bacon, hear clanking silverware. He intended to have a huge breakfast.
She'd be sitting down. That would help. If he could keep his eyes off the neckline. It plunged down between her breasts, which the jacket pushed out and clung to. Thank God she was wearing one of those things she called "shells" underneath it.
Heat was traveling through him in waves, and this was only breakfast. He had to keep his hands off her. If he didn't, her respect for him would decrease to an all-time low. He was tough. He was strong. He could do it. No problem.
"Ms. Angell," Carter said, and held out his hand. "Carter Compton."
"Mallory Trent," Mallory said, and held out her hand. "Glad to meet you in person at last after all our phone con…" She trailed off. The problem was that Phoebe Angell was still holding Carter's hand and appeared to be melting right there in front of both of them.
She was as tall as Mallory and there the resemblance ended. Phoebe Angell had raven's-wing hair in a short cut that stuck up in various directions, snapping black eyes, skin like almond custard, gunmetal-gray lipstick and fingernails, and a black leather skirt short enough to get a lawyer disbarred in Illinois. She wore it with a surprisingly proper, perfectly pressed white shirt. Her shoes were red, with trendy pointed toes and four-inch heels. In a word, she was dramatic.
Mallory supposed she could dress this way because she'd gone into practice with her father. The law offices of Angell and Angell had a prestigious midtown location on a high floor. With just the two of them plus a support staff of aides and paralegals, the suite wasn't large, but it was luxurious. Mallory wondered what was driving Phoebe Angell so hard, why she seemed to feel that winning this case would be the turning point in her professional life.
The three of them stood just inside Phoebe's office where Phoebe had greeted them. An enormous portrait of Alphonse Angell himself dominated the wall opposite her desk. A formidable-looking man, he hadn't even managed a smile for his portrait. Mallory wondered how Phoebe got any work done under the vigilant scrutiny of his cold black eyes. She shivered. It was possible Alphonse Angell could win in a face-off against her own father. Maybe even against her mother, and that was saying something. She felt a flash of sympathy for Phoebe Angell, which she quashed, mainly because Phoebe was still clinging to Carter's hand.
Having assessed the opposition with her own hand still flapping around emptily in front of her, Mallory sent a sidelong glance toward the man who was supposed to be on her side. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but he did seem to be trying to get his hand back, and his smile was still an impersonal one.
"Thank you, Phoebe," Mallory said sharply, giving up on the possibility of a handshake, "for offering us your conference room for the depositions."
"Hmm?" Phoebe said dreamily. "Oh, yes." She released Carter and regained her poise with admirable speed, herding them toward the conference room in question, which was several doors down from her office. "It seemed the sensible thing to do, to depose the plaintiffs here since they live close by. The green dye was all in Lot Number 12867 which was shipped to New Jersey."
We know that. Mallory kept her gaze level with the woman's eyes.
"And besides," Phoebe said, sealing her fate with Mallory, "I've never known a Midwesterner who wasn't looking for a junket to New York. And I have to say I can't blame you." She rolled her eyes, dismissing the Midwestern work ethic, standards and values,
Marshall Fields, the best pizza in the world and Frank Lloyd Wright architecture in that one gesture. Mallory didn't know where to start—"It's not a junket," "Keep your hands off Carter" or "I'll meet you out back by the Dumpster and we'll see about changing your attitude toward the Midwest."
Carter's elbow nudged her. She was sure it was accidental that he nudged her just below her breast. Nonetheless, it took the breath out of her, so she didn't say or do anything drastic, just surreptitiously hiked her skirt up a bit.
"Will your father be involved in the case?" she asked Phoebe, hoping to distract both her and Carter from the little alteration project she was attempting by sliding her hand up under the red jacket and turning over her waistband.
"Father's involved in a big case in Minneapolis," Phoebe said abruptly. "He won't be on the premises. I'll be discussing the case with him, of course. He's very interested in
it." Her eyes darted toward her own office, where the portrait hung.
"We're going to depose Tammy Sue Teezer this morning, right?" Carter said, starting to layer the table with the contents of his briefcase.
"Right," said Phoebe. "She'll be here in a few minutes. The court reporter's already here and so is the cameraman. I've arranged for coffee and pastries this morning, sandwiches and cookies this afternoon. If you have time to get started with Kevin Knightson, he'll be on hand at one o'clock. Anything else?"
"That should take care of us," Carter said. "We'll get set up."
"Yell if you need anything before Tammy Sue arrives," Phoebe said, curling herself around the doorframe and finally disappearing.
"Junket," Mallory muttered.
"Black Widow spider's what she is," Carter whispered. "Her plaintiffs must have been putty in her hands."
"Slime," Mallory said. "It's green."
"Good joke," Carter said without a hint of amusement in his voice. "Now, I'm going to put the witness at the head of the table and I'm going to sit to the side. You sit on my left, the court reporter asked for her own little table, which is there." He pointed. "The cameraman gets the foot of the table with a direct view of the witness and the Black Widow can sit beside her client. How about that skirt? I can't imagine you going to work in a skirt like that."
Get ready for a surprise, mister. The thought careened wildly through Mallory's mind and crashed against her skull. Was she actually thinking of following Maybelle's advice, of tarting herself up to get Carter's attention?
He'd certainly been fascinated by her rear end this morning.
A soft ache slid down her body as she remembered the hot glitter in his eyes when she caught him staring. And what had she done? She'd glowered at him. Even if she fine-tuned her outside, she'd still have a lot of work to do on the inside.
"Earth to Mallory."
"Oh, sorry," she said. "The arrangement sounds fine. Tammy Sue Teezer," she added. "Can that possibly be her real name?"
"That question's on my list," Carter said.
"I'm all set," said the cameraman. From his position at the foot of the table, he would videotape the depositions. If the case went to trial, the jury could view the tape to see the witnesses in person.
"Ms. White?" Carter said to the court reporter, a middle-aged woman who sat poised over her shorthand machine.
"Ready to go," she said.
"Bring in the first witness," Carter said.
Phoebe appeared at the door with a woman who was probably not as young as she seemed at first glance. Her black leather skirt was shorter than Phoebe's and her biker jacket was half leather, half zippers. Her hair was short, curly and a peculiar shade of green at the ends. The peculiar shade could probably be explained by the fact that the hair that had grown out was bleached almost white. The peroxide hadn't taken out the green, just toned it down some.
"Hi," she said, struck a pose for the cameraman, then sat down and splayed out fingernails that were red in the middle and green around the edges.
She made quite an impression. "Good morning, Miss Teezer," Carter said, and choked. Damn it, he was going to laugh. He darted a desperate look at Mallory, who sent back a repressive frown. He managed to introduce himself and her, then said, "Try to relax. You're not on trial here. We're all just friends and business associates trying to come to an equitable solution to a difficult problem."
It would be hard to imagine anyone more relaxed than Tammy Sue. She sat back in her chair, rested one booted foot on the other knee and popped her chewing gum.
"State your full name, please, for the court reporter."
"Like I said, Tammy Sue Teezer."
"Is this the name you were given at birth?"
Her red lips went into a pout. "No."
"What name were you given at birth?"
"Kimberly."
"Kimberly—?"
"Kimberly Johnson."
"Thank you. Your occupation?"
"May I ask my lawyer a question?"
"Of course."
Listening to the murmurs from across the table, Carter picked up his pen and began to worry it between his index and middle fingers. He'd promised himself to stop doing that. He was doing better at his other promise—turn women off, not on. He'd done the best he could with Phoebe Angell, but he sensed trouble in his future. He was not going to use testosterone to settle this case, no matter how practical a solution it might—
"Services," Tammy Sue said sweetly. "Personal services."
"I already know from your answers to interrogatories that you have a career in personal services, Tammy Sue," Carter said. "I'd like you to tell me exactly what services you perform. Do you understand the question?"
Tammy Sue tilted her head up in thought. "Yes. I guess you could say I perform services that are personal in nature." She beamed at the cameraman.
"You need to be more specific," he said, getting frustrated. Why was she being so evasive?
"No, she doesn't," Phoebe answered for Tammy.
"Yes," Carter persisted, "she does. Are you a nurse, Tammy Sue? A personal trainer? A housekeeper? A manicurist?"
"I object to the question," Phoebe said.
"Carter," Mallory said quietly, "perhaps we could refer to Tammy Sue as being in 'escort services' when we're speaking to the jury."
Duh. How slow could he be? "Fine," Carter said. He cleared his throat. "Place of residence? Or shall we slide past that one, too?"
"I live at 455 West Eighteenth Street
." Tammy Sue answered this one proudly, but her chin began to tremble. "I hope I can go on living there. I used up most of my savings back in March and April when I couldn't work because of my hair."
If he had wondered why Phoebe Angell had chosen a prostitute as one of her prime witnesses, it was very clear now. He was no longer in the mood to laugh two hours later. He'd run through his list of neutral questions. Had she followed the directions? Yes she had. To the letter. Had she worn latex gloves? The dye ran down into the gloves. Had she tested the dye on one strand of hair first? No, because she'd been using that Sensuous shade since she decided to go from blond to red and it had always worked before.
Now it was time for the big question. "So you weren't able to—solicit—any clients for what period of time? And what do you charge per—uh, service? And how many, um, services of this sort do you average per day?"
He hoped he looked cooler than he felt. "I object strenuously to that question," Phoebe said. "Ms. Angell, you know as well as I do that damages can't be assessed unless we know the income lost."
Phoebe looked at her client, then back at Carter. "We'll get back to you on that one."
"Okay. I reserve the right to re-depose this witness after you provide the information. Tammy Sue," he said at last, "I think that will do for now. Thank you for your cooperation. The rest of us—" and he included the court reporter and cameraman in his circling gaze "—should break for lunch."
When he and Mallory were alone, he said, "Don't you think more highly of me for not recognizing a prostitute when there's one right in front of me?"
To his surprise, she giggled. He wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad one.
* * *
6
« ^ »
Mallory and Carter lunched on the sandwiches Phoebe had provided, because at one o'clock sharp they would depose Kevin Knightson, Phoebe Angell's original client.
The young man who entered the room was handsome and muscular. His flowing blond hair turned the lush green of spring leaves halfway down its length. He stepped through the door wearing a camera-ready smile, met Mallory's eyes, did a double take, slid his gaze toward Carter, opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, looking like an actor in need of a prompt.
Phoebe, who'd ushered him in, gave him a sharp look and provided it. "Sit here," she said, pulling out the chair at the head of the table, and he did. Mallory noticed his mouth was twitching a little at the corners. Poor guy had s
tage fright.
"Is anything wrong?" Carter said.
"Oh, no," he said. "I just wasn't expecting such a, um, a big room. Or a cameraman. Or—" his gaze dropped to the table "—cookies." His voice was deep and sonorous, but it had a soft edge to it as well, and his statement ended on something very much like a giggle.
Yep, Mallory thought, he's nervous.
"Have one," Carter said, thrusting the plate toward him. "Just relax," he went on, starting the spiel he'd given Tammy Sue and would probably give every witness—that we were all friends here and just trying to get at the truth. Then he said, "Coffee?"
"Please. Thank you. Much better than milk," their witness said incomprehensibly, then grabbed a napkin from the table, clamped it over his mouth and snorted into it. Recovered, he poured a large quantity of zero-calorie sweetener into the coffee Phoebe had put in front of him, added a larger quantity of heavy cream and stirred vigorously. Chewing a dainty bite of an oatmeal cookie, he glanced at Phoebe's puzzled face, arched his eyebrows at the cameraman, skimmed over Mallory and, at last, settled an appreciative gaze on Carter.
Carter broke the silence. "Can we begin now? Will you state your name for the court reporter, please."
"Kevin Knightson." Kevin smiled.
"Address?"
"Two-twenty-five East Sixty-seventh."
Mallory froze. The address had meant nothing to her when she studied the interrogatories, but it did now. It was Maybelle's address. Kevin Knightson couldn't be, could not possibly be, Richard's significant other of the green "tallywhacker."
What have I done to deserve this? Mallory began to draft a note in her head that she might pass to Carter. But what could she say without revealing that she had consulted an imagemaker? He'd think it was silly. Worse, he'd want to know why. Kevin didn't know her, so he couldn't give her away. Still, she wished she'd told Maybelle why she was in New York, and she'd do it this very evening.
Tread carefully, she might say in her note to Carter. I have prior knowledge of this man. Yes, that's what she would say. She picked up her pen. "Occupation?"
