MISTLETOE OVER MANHATTAN

by Barbara Daly

  Kevin hesitated. "I'm an actor by profession." He smiled again and added, "You're supposed to say, 'Which restaurant?'"

  Carter smiled back. "I know it's a tough business," he said, and Mallory heard real sympathy in his voice. "I wish you all the luck in the world. So—which restaurant?"

  Everyone laughed except Mallory. She was busy writing her note.

  "In March I was working for Blue Hill in Greenwich Village," Kevin said. "That ended when I showed up with green hair and eyebrows and fingernails. I put a temporary black dye on my hair and eyebrows," he said earnestly, "but it just turned them greenish black, and I couldn't do anything about my fingernails."

  "Yes," Carter said thoughtfully. "And since that time, have you been employed?"

  "Now and then," Kevin said, "doing this and that. Odd jobs for my landlady, behind-the-scenes work for an interior decorator and, um, seasonal work."

  "Where are you employed now?"

  "I object to that line of questioning," Phoebe said.

  "About his job?" Carter couldn't hide his surprise.

  "I can assure you he's engaged in nothing illegal or immoral," Phoebe said stubbornly.

  "The defendants have a right to know his employment history in order to assess damages." Carter sounded just as stubborn.

  Phoebe assumed a self-righteous air. "It's simply a job that requires a certain amount of anonymity. I'd appreciate it if you'd respect his privacy."

  Carter sighed. "I guess I can do that, for the moment. However, I reserve the right to bring this witness to trial and cross-examine him in court."

  "Anytime," Kevin purred.

  Mallory took this opportunity to slip her note to Carter. He read it, and his eyebrows drew together in a frown. He began to write rapidly, then nudged Mallory's legal pad back to her.

  Mallory read what he'd written and gasped aloud. You mean you've slept with him? Observing that Phoebe, Kevin and the cameraman were all three staring at her, she said, "Sorry. My, it is a bit warm in here, isn't it?" She fanned herself with the legal pad.

  No one answered. Apparently they didn't think so. While Carter went on to his next question, she wrote, Of course I haven't slept with him! She hit Carter sharply in the elbow with the corner of the pad, but he was busy interrogating.

  "What was your income from acting prior to your decision to dye your hair red for the audition in question? Let me put it this way. What was your income last year?"

  "Uh…" Kevin said. "There was the five hundred from the Boat Show, two-fifty from the Toy Fair…" He muttered away to himself for several minutes and finally announced a sum that wouldn't have covered Mallory's monthly mortgage payment.

  "And what are you earning at your current job?"

  "Um…" Kevin's eyes shifted away before he stammered out a number.

  "So you're actually earning more now than you were before the alleged unfortunate incident with the dye?" Carter's staccato delivery made even Mallory flinch.

  "But I might have gotten that part," Kevin insisted, "if I hadn't—"

  Now Carter was both asking questions and writing on the pad. Apparently finished writing, he flicked the pad with his thumb and middle finger, propelling it with such force that it slid past Mallory and halfway down the polished table. The court reporter's clicking slowed. Phoebe's and Kevin's gazes followed the pad, and the cameraman appeared to be zooming in on it. Mallory retrieved it, her face heating up with both anger and embarrassment. But she couldn't keep herself from glancing down at the words Carter had written.

  Then how do you know each other?

  None of your business, she wrote, and shoved the pad an inch toward Carter.

  Damned sure is. He's a witness in a case I have a vested interest in winning. Without a break in his questioning, Carter centered an elbow on the pad and slid it to his left.

  Settling! she wrote below his elbow. You hope!

  "Perhaps this would be a good time for a break," Phoebe said acidly. "The two of you can discuss your problem verbally rather than by flying paper airplanes at each other."

  "Fine," Carter said.

  "Fine," Mallory said.

  They glared at each other while Phoebe, Kevin, the cameraman and the court reporter retired, presumably, to restrooms and voice-mail messages.

  "So?" Carter said, fire flashing from his eyes.

  "It's a two-degrees-of-separation thing," Mallory said.

  "What does that mean?"

  "He doesn't know me. I know somebody who knows him, that's all. Information about him came up in an unrelated conversation. It's pure coincidence."

  Carter stared at her for a long moment, then appeared to be calming down a little. "I wondered. He acted funny when he came in."

  "There's no way he could know me," Mallory insisted. Unless Richard mentioned my name to him, or Maybelle did. But that wouldn't be ethical of them, would it? The telltale heat rose in her face again.

  Carter was watching her closely. "Will knowing him keep you from doing your job right?"

  "Of course not." It just may keep me from getting my image right, that's all.

  "You're sure."

  "Absolutely."

  "Okay," he growled. "Guess I overreacted. Phoebe!" he yelled through the closed door. "We're ready to resume."

  It occurred to Mallory that he must have grown up in a very large house, where the people he needed to talk to were at great distances from him. Someday she'd ask him.

  Damn it, he didnt like Mallory having secrets. Mallory-type-people weren't supposed to have secrets. They were open, honest people, people you could depend on. Depend on for what?

  Well, for one hundred percent commitment to this case. For one hundred percent commitment to him, at least while they were working on this case. She wasn't supposed to be running around at night with God knew who to God knew where.

  Of course, from her point of view it might look as if he were running around at night. But at least he'd told her who he was running around with. He wasn't keeping any secrets from her.

  Well, one secret. That she was turning him on in a very unprofessional way and didn't even seem to be trying to.

  He'd find out whom she was going out with. And how much she cared about him. He'd get started tonight. Damned if she was going to keep any secrets from him.

  "Nice weather," Carter commented as they walked back to the hotel after wringing every last scrap of potential testimony out of Kevin Knightson.

  "Very," Mallory said. The sky was inky and it was snowing, but Fifth Avenue

  was as bright as high noon with its vivid storefronts, lighted trees and glowing streetlamps. A huge, wet snowflake landed with a splat directly on her nose and melted at once. She started fishing for a tissue. Snow fell into her open handbag. The tissue was wet by the time she got it to her nose. Before she could use it, she slid sideways on the icy sidewalk. Carter, who'd been watching her futile exercise in nose-wiping, grabbed her around the shoulders.

  For a second she stood absolutely still, leaning into him. It felt so warm. She felt so protected. She wanted to turn her face up to his and tempt him to lick the melted snowflake off her nose. She wished they could travel that way forever, through rain, snow, sleet and hail, over hills and deep into valleys, forge streams, swim rivers.

  In that state of near-bliss, she did turn her face up to his, and what she said was, "I need snow boots."

  Instead of licking the snowflake off her nose, he dropped his arm.

  Her thudding heart seemed to drop to the pit of her stomach. One word—the right word—and he might have hugged her all the way back to the hotel. The hug might have led to a kiss—and then she wouldn't need Maybelle or the red jacket, wouldn't need anything, in fact, for the rest of her life except occasional room service. And a checkbook for keeping her bills paid promptly.

  There I go again.

  She was limp and sodden when they finally reached the suite. As they began to peel off dripping coats, scarves and gloves, she reflected that if thi
s weather kept up, she would have to give up on black cashmere and switch to her microfiber trenchcoat that folded, like her robe, into one of its own pockets. Then she could buy a pair of those clear plastic shoes that Velcroed over her own shoes. No need to buy snow boots. She had sturdy, waterproof ones at home, and the plastic things were so cheap she could leave them behind when they left New York. As all these practical thoughts went through her mind, she was aware of the one thought that kept pushing itself to the forefront, that she desperately wished she had thought of something less practical to say to Carter.

  "Do you have a date tonight?" he asked her in a sort of growly voice.

  It was the first thing he'd said since she slipped on the ice and it startled her. "Uh, yes." In an hour, she'd be seeing Maybelle again, with a new awareness of how much help she actually needed.

  "Are you going like that?"

  She glanced down at the red jacket, the shell beneath it, her sedate knee-length skirt and heard, instead of her mother's voice, the voice of a devil whispering seductively to her. She smiled sweetly at Carter. "No, I was planning to freshen up a bit."

  He seemed strangely relieved. "Here's your other jacket," he said, handing her the cleaning bag. "Freshen up and we can have a drink together before we go out. I have things to talk over with you—ah, things about the depositions today." He cleared his throat. "Several things."

  "Thank you," she said. "I feel strung out enough to handle something strong. A margarita, that's what I want." She took a step, then another, and decided to experiment with letting her hips swing ever so slightly when she walked.

  Did the Soft 'N' Comfy company realize how hard it was to swing your hips in their ever-so-comfortable shoes?

  No! She would not give up her shoes for Carter!

  But in the bedroom, she slowly unbuttoned the red jacket, slipped the black shell over her head and stood still for a moment, staring at herself in the mirror. Her bra was black, but it wasn't lacy. She had another bra with her. It was white—also not lacy. She slipped off the black bra.

  Next she took a good hard look at her skirt. It was a very nice skirt, well cut and modestly knee-length even after she'd rolled the waistband over. She made another roll in the waistband, and another. Now the skirt showed quite a bit more leg and didn't bulge too badly at the waist. After staring at the black jacket in the cleaning bag, she slipped the red one on again, buttoned it and faced her reflection head-on.

  "A-h-h-h," she squealed. "I can't do it."

  "You okay?" Carter yelled from the sitting room.

  For a man whose voice would carry from the president's Oval Office to the Executive Office Building, his hearing was amazing. "Fine," she called back, hearing her voice tremble a little. "Banged my elbow, that's all."

  She removed her hands from her eyes. The top button of the jacket landed just below her breasts. The lapels curved down over them, almost covering them, but not quite. If she kept her shoulders hunched together…

  But that wasn't the idea, was it. One millimeter at a time, she straightened her shoulders, feeling her breasts swell. This was how she'd go out into that sitting room, showing everything she had and proud of it.

  A woman bent on seduction. That was the attitude she needed.

  So that's what she was going to do, right after she brushed her teeth, freshened up her lipstick, lint-rolled her skirt, washed her bra and shell, shined up her shoes—

  Never veer, never veer, never veer…

  That was unmistakably Ellen Trent's voice, weakened, fading but still there. Mallory cursed under her breath. It wasn't as if she planned to give up everything she'd learned from her mother. She liked efficiency, cherished neatness. She was just going to relax the rigidity of it all and see if it made her come off a little softer, a little more feminine.

  Hell. She brushed her teeth, put on lipstick and headed back to Carter.

  When she stepped into the sitting room, he looked up, and she saw the stunned expression that crossed his face. Quickly he looked back down at the document he'd been reading. "You freshen up good," he muttered.

  "Thank you." She perched on the edge of a chair and ever so slowly crossed her legs. "Would you rather have a drink here or in the bar downstairs?"

  "Here. I've already ordered. I said to hurry."

  "Good. I have to be somewhere at seven."

  "Me, too. How long will it take you to get there?"

  "I should leave here at a quarter to."

  "Me, too."

  "We're on the same schedule, then."

  "Right. We have about thirty minutes to talk." He glanced at her again and shifted a little in the overstuffed, chintz-covered chair he was occupying. She leaned forward and gave him an encouraging smile. "So. What were your impressions of the witnesses today?" he said, and looked straight down the neckline of her jacket.

  Get a grip, he growled at himself. Get … a … frigging … grip! And not on her. No gripping her. No touching her. You're a lawyer, man. Act like one. She's your colleague. Treat her like one.

  I'm not letting her go out with anybody looking like that. How're you going to stop her?

  "Time is on our side," Mallory said, looking thoughtful and apparently not aware that her breasts were practically exploding out of her clothes. Wow, were they ever great breasts. She didn't have breasts when they were in law school. Couldn't have. He'd have noticed.

  Flames stabbed him in the groin as he realized she wasn't wearing a bra, or if she was, it was the smallest, lowest-cut bra on the market. Damn. He could balance this brief on his erection. That would make a good impression.

  He shifted his position again in a vain attempt to hide the clear evidence of what was really on his mind and said, "I agree. The slow pace of the law is playing to our advantage."

  "Nobody got sick, the damage isn't permanent, not really, and the ordeal is almost over for the plaintiffs, at least in terms of their personal appearance."

  "Yeah. Let's see." For something to do with his hands as well as something else to cover his lap, Carter reached for the printed calendar of events. "The dye incident happened on March 17. The lot went out on the twenty-fourth … it was on the shelves by the … right … the last bottle was purchased on the … and used a week later… So the person who bought that last bottle has had six months to grow out. If Kevin would cut off half his hair he'd be a blonde again."

  He'd mentioned Kevin on purpose. He wanted to see her reaction. She got a little pink in the cheeks.

  "Has Phoebe produced the pictures of her clients' hair yet?" she asked him.

  "Nope. They're not due for another ten days."

  "Can we get her to speed it up?"

  "Probably not."

  "We can try."

  "You try."

  "I will," Mallory said. "What about the other damages they're claiming?"

  He answered her with half his brain. He really didn't think she was dating Kevin Knightson. He was as sure as he needed to be that Kevin was more interested in other men than in Mallory. So what was the connection?

  "It's a shame we didn't succeed in negotiating with the plaintiffs back in the spring." She sighed, and Carter held his breath, waiting for her breasts to pop completely free from that sexy little jacket. "If we had, we might have managed to rehabilitate Tammy Sue. She might be selling cosmetics in a department store now."

  "Your legal department negotiated just fine. Problem was that Phoebe got hold of them. Do we know how she did it?"

  "The way I heard it," Mallory said, "she and her parents were at their country club in New Jersey talking to friends who knew somebody who knew somebody whose hair had turned green—you know how news spreads. Phoebe grasped the implications of a bit of gossip and zeroed in. She's a vulture," she concluded just as their drinks arrived.

  A vulture and a black widow spider. Phoebe had slipped him her home phone number as they were leaving her offices. Once again, Carter faced the shameful possibility that he'd been given the case for just that reason, to
seduce Phoebe into a settlement.

  He took a sip of scotch. It went down smoothly, warming his throat. He could do it, seduce Phoebe into a settlement. Justice would be done. Sensuous was willing to make a fifty-million-dollar lump sum restitution to the plaintiffs. Phoebe would get fifty percent of that. Phoebe was asking for a hundred million. If the judge came even close to that, after years of filing appeals and generating their own enormous legal fees, it could bankrupt the company.

  Carter looked at Mallory. She was chasing salt around the edge of her glass with the tip of a little pink tongue. Watching her was more warming than scotch. He thought about Phoebe, her spiky hair, her lipstick. Why did women wear gray lipstick? Did they think men were necrophiliacs?

  Yes, he supposed he could seduce Phoebe, gray lipstick and all, but he wouldn't enjoy it and he'd hate himself. Nope, this one he was going to handle with his brain, and make sure Mallory noticed.

  Mallory was sipping her drink and periodically checking her watch as she went on about the case. Should they push a little harder when they were reminding the witnesses of the settlement they might already have gotten? That's what she was saying when Carter cracked. He simply could not turn her loose in this town or, even worse, turn her over to the care of some man when she was showing her cleavage, wearing that skirt that displayed her thighs—oh, God, great thighs, too, slim but not skinny. Thighs to stroke. Thighs to slide between—

  "Y'know," he said, feeling like a whirlpool of boiling hormones and trying to sound like the most dedicated, responsible lawyer ever to grace the bar, "we don't have any business going out tonight. Either of us. We ought to have a working dinner together. This is some good brainstorming we're doing here. I'm going to call Brie and tell her we'll make it another time." He looked expectantly at Mallory. Her turn. She looked surprised and ominously uncertain.

  "I can't…"

  He frowned at her.

  "Well, I guess I can…" she amended herself.

  His heart lightened. He lifted his eyebrows, silently telling her, "Go on, go on."

  "Here's how it is," she said finally. "I'll have to break the date in person and then meet you for dinner. I should be able to make it by eight-fifteen. Want to order from room service or go out?"