by Dawn Atkins
“Stop by my office after this and we’ll divide the research,” Trevor said to Cole, seizing leadership, since Cole’s dazed state had made him slow on the uptake. “Rough weekend?”
“Not at all,” Cole said, rallying. “I came in on Sunday, too, as a matter of fact.” He’d had to make up for his late start Saturday after the Kylie experience.
“You were here on Sunday?” Tuttleman asked Cole.
Sunday work was a bit unusual. Impress-the-boss was a stupid game, but Cole would play it until he was in a position to change the rules—once he’d achieved some stature as a partner. And if he couldn’t shape things to better suit his values, he’d start his own firm with like-minded colleagues.
“Most of the day, yes,” he said. No phones and no interruptions meant for productive hours. He’d been the only one in the place.
“You bring a dog with you, by chance?”
“Uh, yes. I’m watching a neighbor’s dog. Why?” Dread filled him.
“Well, it left something outside my office door, which I discovered this morning. On my shoe.”
“Oh. Sorry. I kept him in my office, but I did come out to the kitchen to make coffee. He must have…um, gotten confused.” Cole’s face went hot and he caught Trevor’s smirk.
“Have someone in reception cancel my complaint about the cleaning crew then. And don’t let it happen again.”
“Sure. Of course.” He wouldn’t be surprised if the dog hadn’t done it on purpose. Radar had resisted all Cole’s efforts to establish rapport, ducking away from a pat with an indignant shake and a glare: Hands off, pal. I have a life.
He’d gotten confused on Cole’s kitchen floor, entryway and the floor of his bedroom. And now the beast had nixed his workaholic points via dog-doo on Tuttleman’s loafers.
As soon as the meeting ended, Cole headed to the restroom to splash water on his face. In the mirror, he caught sight of the fading love bite Kylie had left and tugged his collar up to cover it. It was a silly thing, but he liked having a reminder of how very hot those hours with her had been.
The sex had been incredible. They had been so in synch, so hot, but he was uneasily aware there was more to his reaction than that. He liked Kylie. Her quick wit, her energy, her directness, the way she finished his sentences, but more than that, the way she’d looked at him while making love—as though she was lost and he was the one to find her.
What was wrong with him? He sounded the way he had in that sappy Close-Up. He made a mental note to tell Jane to erase the gooey part.
He and Kylie had had great sex that they both had needed, and now they’d moved on. But he sure liked her. They hadn’t really said goodbye. Maybe he’d call her, see if she’d gotten caught up with her work over the weekend. K. Falls PR was her company, right?
But he wanted more than that. And what was the point? They had a deal. One night. A second night could never be that good.
But maybe she wanted to see him, too. Perhaps she’d said something to her sister. He should at least thank Jane, right? He had piles of work to do and Trevor was prepared to duel to the death for partner. He needed full focus. He should stick to work. Absolutely. No time for childish phone calls….
Jane wasn’t in, it turned out, and Gail kept going on and on about Deborah Ramsdale, so he figured it was all for the best. His foolish impulse had been wrong. He would forget all about Kylie.
His intercom buzzed. It seemed there was a reporter on the line for him. Seth Taylor…working on a story about Personal Touch.
“How did you get my number?” he said to the guy as soon as he could get a word in. He glanced up to make sure no one could overhear him through his open office door. Hiring a matchmaker would sound desperate to people around here, no matter how practical it was.
“The receptionist mentioned your name while I was there—something about a mistake? So, I looked you up. Would you mind telling me about your experiences with the agency?”
“Not for publication, thank you.” The last thing he needed was his name in a story.
“I need an honest evaluation from a client whose name I didn’t get from the company. To be fair. You can understand that. And you’d be anonymous, of course.”
The guy wanted dirt, Cole could tell, and that raised his hackles. Jane Falls had integrity and compassion. And an incredible sister…
Forget that. The date with Kylie had to stay a secret. That was probably the mistake the guy had overheard Gail mention. “I’ll answer your questions, as long as you don’t use my name.” He had to help Janie. She’d given him a date with an incredible woman and the best sex of his life. Even if it had been a mistake.
“PERSONAL TOUCH, how can I help you?” Janie managed to sound serene, despite the fact she was answering phones for the again-AWOL Gail. No way did it take two hours to get your teeth cleaned.
“Personal touch, huh?” the caller said in the husky register she recognized after a half-dozen sex calls this morning. “How about your personal touch on my personal—?”
She cringed at the body part he’d named, but before she could correct his error, another line rang. “Hold, please.”
“Oh, I am holding. So tight.”
Gross. Just when she thought the perverts had fixed the number in their grubby Rolodexes, a new batch started in asking to be rubbed, stroked, spanked or licked. She was tempted to screen, but her policy was to greet everyone who called. It was too easy for a client to lose his or her nerve as it was.
Before long, she had Mr. I-Need-a-Spanking on hold and was refusing to describe her underwear to Sir I’m-Wearing-a-Silk-Thong. Then the third line rang. Gail better bring in the dentist, hygienist and the entire waiting room after this.
“Please hold,” she said to Sir Panties, who undoubtedly already was. “Personal Touch, how may I help you?” she said to the third caller.
“It’s Gail. Sorry, but my car wouldn’t start. The good news is that a nice man just offered to jump-start me. He’s divorced and lonely, and I told him—”
“Just get here, Gail, please.” Gail amiably refused to talk dirty to anyone and saw her mission to be convincing the confused, lonely callers to join Personal Touch and the perverted ones to get help from a therapist on the list she’d taped to her desk. Fed up, Janie punched one of the pervert lines and said, “I’m not interested in your underwear, I will not spank you and I refuse to touch Mr. Big.”
A tentative male voice said, “Jane?”
Damn. The pervert had hung up and the new caller knew her. “I’m sorry. I thought you were a per—Never mind.” Lord. She did not belong on the switchboard until this problem was solved.
“It’s Cole Sullivan, Janie.”
“Oh, Cole. I’m sorry. Our number got mixed up with a sex line. Let me get rid of this guy.” The blinking light went blank. Mr. Silk Thong must have “held” long enough to meet his needs and hung up for a cigarette.
She went back to Cole. “Again, I’m so sorry. How can I help you?”
“I thought you should know that a reporter called me. A Seth Taylor? From Inside Phoenix magazine.”
“He called you?” How did he even know about Cole? Her heart leaped in her throat.
“He overheard you and Gail talking about me, I guess, and wanted my impressions. He seemed to expect me to complain. I didn’t though.”
She remembered that Seth had appeared at the tail end of her conversation with Gail. He must have eavesdropped first. Now she really did have to call the publisher to complain. This was frightening. “If you don’t mind my asking, what did you say?”
“That I’d delayed my use of your services, but that I’d been pleased so far. I didn’t much like his attitude.”
“Thank you so much, Cole. I’ve been worried about that reporter. And you’re right—he is looking for problems. You’ve saved the day, I think. Please let me rebate six months of your dues. As a thank-you and to apologize for the inconvenience.”
“That’s not necessary. As a matter of
fact, I’d like to thank you for—”
“It is necessary. We so appreciate your patience about the mistake with Deborah. We’re so eager to—”
“I had a great time.” Cole cut her off. “With Kylie, I mean.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Kylie could be charming. Thank goodness she’d charmed Cole or Seth would have had terrible ammunition against her. She had to get off the phone to call the magazine.
“Your sister is…an interesting person.”
“Yes, she is.” He sounded dazed. The skin on the back of her neck began to tingle. “Again, we appreciate your flexibility. We thought if Deborah called you from London—”
“I hope I didn’t bore her.”
“Bore Deborah?”
“Kylie.”
“I’m sure you didn’t.” Uh-oh. Cole was hanging on to the topic entirely too long. “The main thing is that you had a good time.”
“I did. Very good. Great. Please tell Kylie.”
“Sure,” she said, thinking that was a very bad idea.
“Is something wrong?” Cole asked.
“Not really. It’s just that it’s a sore subject—me dragging Kylie on a date when she’s so busy—so I’d rather not bring it up.” That was decent cover.
“Oh, right. I see.”
“She does a lot for me—too much, really. It’s a sister thing.”
“Sure. But if the subject arises, tell her I enjoyed her… it…the dinner.” Oh, brother. Oh, no. Deborah had better call him ASAP. If not sooner.
She hung up from Cole, still uneasy, and called Harvey Rheingold, who promised to fix the problem, leaving her not quite certain what that meant. Then Kylie walked in, looking—uh-oh—dreamy. Kylie meandered toward Janie’s desk, a file folder in her hand. Meandered? Kylie marched or strode or charged. “The roses look nice,” she said wistfully, surveying the expensive bouquet she herself had sent. She turned eyes as glazed as Krispy Kreme doughnuts to Janie. The flowers had arrived the morning after the mistake date.
Warning goose bumps shot down Janie’s arms. On the phone, Cole had sounded the way Kylie looked. What had happened between them?
“They’re lovely, Kylie. What made you send them?”
Kylie’s face turned as pink as the flowers, confirming Janie’s fears. Kylie rarely blushed. “The real thing is warmer…more…I don’t know. And the smell is fabulous. You left out how good the smell is.”
“True.” Luckily, the trash fire smell from yesterday had faded. Janie had no intention of mentioning that to her sister. It was bad enough she had to explain that the magazine story had gone awry. How could she have given that smart-ass skeptic Seth Taylor the benefit of the doubt? Distraction by attraction, dammit.
“So, what brings you in?” she asked, wondering what she should say about Cole.
“I thought I’d show you what I’ve done so far.” She sat on the chair beside Janie’s desk and handed her a folder.
Janie flipped through pages she’d already seen, while Kylie absently described the upcoming radio promotion, the Web site correction and the business plan trade-out she’d achieved. She’d done a remarkable amount of work over the two weeks since they started the project.
“You showed me all this Sunday, Kylie,” she said gently. “Is there something new?”
“Oh, right.” Kylie blushed. Again.
Janie had to be sure it was Cole who had derailed her sister. “Cole Sullivan called me today…because the reporter for Inside Phoenix contacted him with concerns.”
“He did? Cole called?”
Damn. Kylie had skipped over the reporter part altogether. Something was definitely up. “Luckily, he said good things about us to the reporter, who was digging for dirt. I got Mr. Rheingold’s promise that he’ll fix it, whatever that means.”
“Mr. Rheingold?” Kylie absorbed the news slowly. “The reporter was digging for dirt?” She sat forward, anxious now.
“Yes, but I’m handling it, so don’t worry. You’re already doing so much for me.”
“Good. Did Cole, um, have a nice time?” Oh, dear. If her sister wasn’t leaping to make calls or demanding Janie breathe into a paper bag, she was really enthralled.
“He had a great time.” Janie sighed.
“Good. I was afraid I bored him.” Kylie’s face flared pinker than the roses and she shoved her hair around both ears. “We talked and…talked.”
Holy Hannah. Had they made out? Surely not slept together?
“So, on the magazine story…do you think I should give Cole some pointers. In case the reporter calls again?”
Janie leveled a look at her. “What are you doing, Kylie?” If Cole got sidetracked by an infatuation, it could throw off his reaction to Deborah, who tended to be a bit high-strung. “I appreciate your filling in on the date, but Cole’s anxious to meet Deborah now, remember?”
“I just want to touch base with him…about the reporter and all.”
“We don’t want anything to distract him from his perfect match, do we?”
“Of course not.” Kylie blushed furiously.
“All right,” Janie said, copying down Cole’s numbers and handing them over. “Just to touch base.” She had to trust Kylie to do the right thing. Kylie and Cole were both sensible people. But since when had lust been sensible?
“Thanks,” Kylie said, grinning far too broadly, looking far too pink. She bolted for the door.
“You forgot something.” Janie held up the folder.
“Right.” Kylie came back to retrieve it. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Janie had a pretty good idea and didn’t want to think about it. “Though you didn’t ask, I still haven’t gotten Marlon Brandon on the line.” If she couldn’t talk with her disgruntled client, there was no way to settle out of court.
“Oh, right.” Kylie blinked, seeming to pull herself back to work mode. “Sounds like I’d better find an attorney.”
“Give me a few more days. I’ll try working through his receptionist. She likes me. If we can save legal fees…”
“Sure. Keep me posted.”
“I will.” The issues were piling up—phone-sex calls, a screwed-up magazine story, a lawsuit no closer to being settled and her sister so lust-dazed she could complicate a match made in heaven.
Janie sighed and looked toward her window. At least she still had roses, even if they’d been sent for the wrong reason. As she watched, two petals shivered to the tabletop.
Nothing was perfect. Not even roses.
6
“THAT WAS NO crack this case fell through,” Cole said to Trevor, stunned by the towers of Littlefield file boxes around them at his table. “More like the Grand Canyon. There’s no environmental impact, three missed filing dates and no tax records.”
“Tuttleman wants it done, so we’ll do it,” Trevor said, then shot him a calculating look. “Unless you’re not up to it…?”
“Oh, I’m up to it.” Cole wouldn’t drip from so much as a paper cut around this Armani-clad shark.
“That makes one of us.” Trevor sounded surprisingly vulnerable and looked a little pale today, now that Cole focused on him. “I’ve got the Bowman buyout, the Valley Rentals sale and a flight attendant with a ticket to Bali and a body that makes men walk into walls.” He sighed. “Sucky timing.”
“My bad on the deadline.” Trevor had had the class not to bring that up since his blunder.
“What the hell. Doing the impossible racks up the partner points. I’ll get my Palm Pilot and we can book meetings.” He headed off without his customary swagger.
The pressure got to young turks, too. Because of his late start on law school, Cole at thirty-three was older than most of his partner-bound colleagues. He considered commiserating with the guy, but that would be self-indulgent. They’d both known the game when they signed on. You gave it all you had, sacrificed everything and it came back to you tenfold in stature, income and security.
Cole couldn’t wait to get there, ful
fill his dream and his parents’ pride in him. He planned to fund something extravagant for their retirement—a condo in La Jolla or maybe Hawaii. If he could ever convince either of them that their students would survive when they left the classroom for some well-deserved rest, that is.
He, on the other hand, had to push hard. Rest wasn’t an option. There were other approaches, he supposed. Like Trisha’s. She’d bought him lunch the other day to ask for his help covering crucial meetings so she could accompany her husband on a business trip.
Cole had readily agreed, flattered by her trust in him. You’ve got your head on straight, she’d told him, a reference to his advanced age, he assumed. She was midtwenties, but seemed wiser than her years—feet flat on the ground and no nonsense. She didn’t even sound bitter about being passed up for the Littlefield plum.
I love the law, but my life is more than that. He admired her for making the best of a bad situation.
Trisha was smart and fast, able to quickly cull critical details from a file. She was a better writer and more organized than he. If he ever opened his own practice, he’d want Trisha with him, if she were interested.
But that was way down the line.
First, he had to make partner. And that meant turning the Littlefield case around fast. Getting married would help his cause, too, he’d concluded after a recent golf game, where he’d teamed with Rob Tuttleman against two guys from the law firm where Tuttleman had failed to make partner.
Over celebratory brews—they’d won big—Tuttleman had waxed nostalgic. “I thought all it took was hard work and brilliance,” he’d said of his failure. “But the partners wanted stability, and, frankly, debt. A mortgage, country club dues, orthodontia. Maybe they were right, because I didn’t get serious about billables until I married Sandra. Maybe it was chicken and egg, but it worked. Word to the wise, Sullivan,” he’d said with a slow wink, tossing back the last of his third “’tini,” as he called them. “Word to the wise.”
So, a wife would be a good asset. But that wasn’t the main thing. He thought about Trisha’s face when she talked about her husband. She practically glowed with love. This brilliant lawyer, this self-sufficient woman needed her husband to be happy. And it was obvious he felt the same about her.
