Spraying clumps of dirt onto her lap, the goat leaped over the low wall and trotted toward the buck, looking for all the world like he’d found his new best friend. Short black tail perked up straight, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, he pranced around the deer, forgetting the woman he’d just assaulted. The buck continued its stroll, ignoring the goat.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, and she pressed a hand to her chest. “What just happened?” Neither animal answered. Connie was used to wildlife around her home. She’d bought the small house out in the woods because of its rundown back porch that let her sip her coffee and watch the mourning doves and woodpeckers flit about. She’d even seen an elk and a fox roam her property at different times. But a rabid goat with anger management issues was definitely a first.
A little freaked out, Connie sat frozen until the animals disappeared from view. Her heart began to level out when she remembered her court date.
She scrambled to her feet and jumped behind the wheel. Tires spinning, the back end of the Jeep fishtailed toward the low wall. Easing off the accelerator, she unclenched her grip on the steering wheel, trying to relax. Even though her clock said she had six minutes to make a ten-minute drive, she had to make it there alive.
Luckily, the only things that could slow down her morning commute in Pineville, Michigan, were two stop lights and Harper Smith’s tractor. Pulling around him, she gave the young man a wave and headed for the town’s main square.
She didn’t waste time looking for a space in the county parking lot. Pulling into a twenty-minute spot along the curb in front of the courthouse, she prayed for forgiveness from the parking gods and jumped down from her high seat.
Clutching her nylon portfolio, she raced up the front steps and through the doors of the two-story brick courthouse. Leon, the bailiff for Crook County’s Pineville courthouse, was finishing up a call in front of the double doors that led into the courtroom. He took one look at her and stepped in front of the door, barring her path.
“I’ll tell Judge Nichols you’re here, but that you need a couple more minutes. You should, uh”—he made little circular motions with his finger as he pointed at her—“go fix yourself up.”
Sucking down air, Connie thought about pushing past him. This was her chance. Her first case, after five long years of night school and online classes while holding down a full-time paralegal job. But now she was here, fully certified, with a new lease on life, and she just wanted to get her career as a lawyer started.
Stomach twisting with anticipation, palms itching, she didn’t want to wait one second more.
But her skirt was a dirty, wrinkled mess, and she smelled more than a little bit like wet goat. A trip to the restroom was only prudent.
Nodding her thanks to Leon, she found the empty ladies’ room and got a look at herself in the large mirror above the bank of sinks.
Leon had done her a huge favor by blocking the doors. She would have been laughed out of the courtroom looking like this. Tossing her portfolio and purse down on the low table by the door, she dug through her bag until she came up with a lint roller. She took off all the loose dirt she could, then wet some paper towels and worked on the rest of the stains.
Her stockings were ruined beyond repair, and she pulled them off. Luckily, her legs were still tan. And—she ran her hands up her calves—thank God, she’d remembered to shave the night before.
With a quick reapplication of some bobby pins to tame her long hair, a couple of spritzes of the travel-size perfume she always carried, she was ready to lawyer.
She hoped.
Pushing through the double doors, she got her first glimpse of the courtroom as an attorney. She’d been here before, delivering briefs for the lawyers she worked for. But it seemed bigger now. More stately. The gallery was empty save for two local attorneys she recognized, chatting quietly in the back row. The low gate separating the gallery from the well of the courtroom swung shut behind her as she strode to her table.
Opposing counsel and his client sat at the defendant’s table to the left. She ignored the men’s raised eyebrows, and nodded at Leon as she settled at the plaintiff’s table. He walked out a back door, and came back thirty seconds later, the judge behind him.
“All rise. The Honorable Judge Nichols presiding.”
Chairs scraped against linoleum as the older man hopped up the steps to his bench to sit in front of the seal of the State of Michigan. Settling wire-rim glasses on the edge of his nose, he opened a folder. “Sit, sit. Since we’re running a little behind today, let’s get started.”
Heat crept up Connie’s cheeks. She cleared her throat. “Your Honor, I apologize for my tardiness. I had a, uh, livestock issue.”
A snort came from the defendant’s table. She didn’t know if it was from Craig Evers, her opposing attorney, or his client. She snuck a glance. David Carelli looked as arrogant as ever, but at least he wasn’t rolling his eyes like his attorney. David ran a hand through his thick sandy-blond hair, and it fell in layers across his forehead, every strand landing back in its proper place. His haircut probably cost more than her suit.
She had to admit, it looked good.
Connie pressed her lips together, and turned to the bench. “As you can see, I’ve filed a preliminary injunction on behalf of my clients, Citizens Concerned for the Well-Being of Pineville. Defendant seeks to construct a new animal shelter in the heart of Pineville, in a neighborhood zoned for both commercial and residential use. My clients are concerned about the potential odor and noise pollution such a facility would bring, and would like to halt construction until we can have our own environmental impact report conducted. By a reputable company.”
David’s broad shoulders tensed beneath his designer suit. His attorney patted David’s arm, and pushed himself to his feet. “Your Honor, this suit is harassment, pure and simple. My clients have already gone through the permitting process—”
“Snuck the paperwork through, more like.” Connie pulled a signed affidavit from her portfolio. “Your Honor, I have here—”
The judge held up a hand. “Ms. Wilkerson, this is a preliminary hearing. It’s not the time to present anything of an evidentiary nature.”
“But . . .” She looked down at her files. Her documents, neatly tabbed with colorful stickies, called to her. A rainbow of organized evidence. She’d been up late the past two nights preparing for any question that she might be asked. All her ducks were in a row and she wanted to take aim.
David smirked at the judge’s rebuke, the curl of his perfect lips bringing her right back to her high school days. To when Carelli would mock her, looking too handsome by half as he made her feel small. Until she’d started dating Caleb. No one had messed with her after that.
She gripped the edge of the table. David was the duck she wanted to take down the most. Pineville’s leading general contractor, he was as dirty as he was hot. Everyone in town knew of his unethical business practices. He’d never been caught breaking the law, but there were too many whispers, too many greased palms for Connie to doubt he’d crossed that line.
She’d eagerly accepted this case as her first when she’d seen one of the codefendants was Carelli Construction. There was no downside. She’d get to fight against one of the most disliked men in town. The other codefendant was the Crook County Animal Shelter, normally a sympathetic organization. But a solid base of opposition to the shelter’s new location had formed. Public opinion seemed to agree that there was a lot of empty land outside downtown where a new shelter could be built instead.
She smoothed her hands down her skirt. By the end of this battle, she’d wipe that smirk right off David’s face.
Mr. Evers glanced at a large gold watch on his wrist. “Your Honor, as I was saying, the defendants have already filed their environmental impact reports with the city and been issued the permits to build. I see no need—”
Judge Nichols cut him off. “Mr. Evers, the variance is missing a signature.”
&n
bsp; “Excuse me?” The attorney shuffled through some papers. “The permit is properly signed—”
“The permit was conditioned upon the zoning board’s variance. It’s a five-person board, so three signatures are needed. This”—he held up a piece of paper—“has only two.”
“Samantha Beswick has been out on maternity leave for two months.” Evers shifted in his tassled loafers. “And Jack Delgado was out sick that day. So we had a majority.”
“And do you have the zoning board’s bylaws that state a quorum of three is all that’s needed to conduct business, rather than the full board?” The judge raised an eyebrow over his cornflower-blue eyes.
Evers blustered. “Your Honor, a copy of the bylaws isn’t necessary. The city accepted the variance. They issued the permit based on that belief. And they wrote the rules for the board. If they didn’t question the signatures, I hardly think you or I should.”
Connie sucked in a breath. She admitted she didn’t know much about being a lawyer yet. She was as green as the forest of pine trees that gave this area its name. But even she knew it wasn’t smart to cop an attitude in a court of law.
Judge Nichols smiled, his cheeks rosy, his expression deceptively sweet. “Mr. Evers, I’m so happy to hear you have complete faith in the competence of city hall. But I seem to remember you arguing before my court just eight months ago that the city of Pineville had ‘egregiously and flagrantly disregarded the dictates of Measure B.’ I’m paraphrasing, of course, but I’m sure Ardele”—he nodded his head at the court reporter—“could find your exact words. It’s duly noted in my courtroom that you now believe city hall to be beyond reproach.”
He took off his glasses, folded them, and slid them into a breast pocket behind his robes. “I’m allowing the temporary restraining order until such time as you can prove that city hall regulations allow a quorum of the zoning board to sign a variance. And if at that time plaintiff has her own environmental impact report to present, she may.” Pushing to his feet, he strode for the back door. “Ardele, calendar another hearing in two weeks. And Ms. Wilkerson”—he paused, one hand on the door—“welcome to the Michigan State Bar.”
The door to his chambers hissed shut. Connie’s shoulders sagged. Her first hearing as an attorney was over. And had been somewhat successful. She wanted to go celebrate with a caramel mochaccino. Extra whipped cream. She rubbed the back of her neck and wished she had friends in this town to celebrate with. But she’d burned too many bridges.
Putting her papers back in the portfolio, she blew out a big breath. Screw it. She was making a fresh start with her career. She could make one with the people of Pineville, too. Everyone deserved a second chance. And the people of this town were kind enough to give her one.
A wooden chair scraped against the floor. David shook hands with his attorney, his face grim. Evers clapped him on the back, a big grin on his face, as though he hadn’t just screwed the pooch in court. But he must have known. After one more full-wattage smile, the attorney picked up his briefcase and hightailed it out of the courtroom, leaving David and his sour expression behind.
New beginnings, Connie told herself. Everyone deserves a fresh start. With that mantra in her head, she stepped forward and stretched out a hand. “It’s nice to see you again, David. I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”
Okay, so getting a fresh start obviously didn’t include complete honesty. The only way she’d want to see David Carelli again was under just these circumstances: him, defeated by her, in court. But this was just a preliminary hearing, and a lot of battle remained ahead. She kept the gleeful smile off her face.
David looked at her hand and continued his perusal down her body, over her wrinkled skirt, stopping at her shoes. Drawing her hand back, she looked down. Dirt caked the heels of both pumps, and one ankle was streaked with brown.
He continued to stare at her legs, and she fought the urge to shift on her feet. He raised an eyebrow, and every inch of her bare skin burned. Without her pantyhose as armor, she felt exposed. Unprofessional. The crazy idea to give him a second chance dried up as fast as the mud on her shoes had.
David shook his head. “Crazy Connie. You sure do love living up to that name.”
Bile rose in her throat, but she kept her expression even. He’d never see how much that nickname hurt her.
Stepping into her space, he brushed his fingers over her skirt, at the place where hip curved around to meet butt. Before she could object, because yeah, it was definitely more butt than hip, he pulled away, a crushed three-leaf clover pinned between his fingers. “If you want to go for a quick roll in the hay, don’t do it before my court dates. My time is more valuable than your sex life.”
Her face flushed. Did she look like she’d just had sex? Was that the impression she’d given to Judge Nichols the first time she’d stood before him in the courtroom? She didn’t bother to correct David. His touching her ass was the high point of her sex life for the past year. But she’d die before telling him that.
She stepped away until she couldn’t smell his expensive cologne. “Talk to your attorney. If you’d like to meet to discuss a settlement, he has my number. My clients would be willing to reimburse you for part of the cost of your EIR if you drop your plans to build a shelter in their neighborhood.”
“How generous of them.” Pushing open the gate to the gallery, he waited for her to step through. “Perhaps they could extend their generosity to supporting our local animal shelter. I knew lawyers were supposed to be cold-blooded sharks, but fighting against puppies? That seems like a new low.”
Showing him a smile worthy of a great white, she said, “There’s plenty of room for those puppies. Outside of town. And don’t pretend that you give a damn about shelter animals. This is just another moneymaking scheme for you.” She turned at the doors, and looked up to meet his gaze.
The flash of vulnerability she saw gave her pause. He’d always had nice eyes. A deep aquamarine, the color as variable as the Mediterranean. But small lines of fatigue etched the corners. Her gaze dropped. The knot of his red silk tie was a smidge out of line under the French collar of his shirt.
For a man who put appearances before substance, those tiny flaws told a big story.
One that Connie didn’t have the time or inclination to read.
“You’re going to waste a lot of money in legal fees on this project, money that could be spent developing another site. A more appropriate site for an animal shelter.” She pushed out into the empty main hall of the courthouse. The front doors stood open, and through the square of light she could see a gardener riding a mower around the large front lawn of the building.
David fell into step next to her. “Well, listen to you. Trying to talk tough like a real lawyer.” Bending his head, he whispered in her ear “I know this is your first case. If you don’t want to be humiliated right out of the gate, you’d be wise to talk some sense into your clients.”
Her shoulder blades slammed together. Damn if one of the other attorneys at her firm hadn’t recommended just that. But taking Carelli down a notch was just too tempting. And representing the interests of her clients, of course. She couldn’t forget that.
“So kind of you to be concerned over my professional reputation.” Stepping into the sunshine, she dug in her purse and pulled out her sunglasses. “But don’t worry about me. I’ve got this.”
He laughed, a deep honey-coated rumble that rolled through her. If she didn’t despise the man so much, she’d have to admit he had a really great smile. But everyone in Pineville knew that his smile was the first warning before he screwed a person over good.
“You do know you have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning this case.” He cupped her elbow, pulling her to a stop. Connie fought the urge to yank her arm away. Or lean into his touch. Both inclinations were equally destructive.
She focused on his face. The look of sympathy had to be a ruse.
“Even if Judge Nichols rules we need a third signat
ure, we can get it. Connie . . .” He squeezed her arm before dropping his hand. “Talk to your clients. Make them see their case is hopeless. That’s what good attorneys do.”
Her body tensed. What the hell did he know about what good attorneys did? From all the times he’d been sued?
“As always, your advice isn’t wanted,” she ground out between clenched teeth. Spying a spot of green between his fingers, she grabbed the mangled clover and put it in her coat pocket. “And that’s my lucky clover.”
Without another word, she headed for her car. And the parking ticket wedged under her windshield wiper.
“It’s only the four-leaf clovers that are lucky,” David shouted, still standing in front of the steps. He smirked as she shoved the ticket into her purse. “You’re one leaf short.”
Hands in his pockets, he strolled away, a smile curving his lips, not looking anything like a man who’d just been defeated in court. Smug bastard.
Sliding behind the wheel of her Jeep, she pulled out the clover and put it on her dash. The crack on the passenger’s side of the windshield had spread a couple more inches during her absence. Eyeing the weed, she stuck her key in the ignition and turned. A few clicks greeted her ears. Pumping the accelerator, she tried again. Not even a click.
Her battery was good and dead.
She rested her head against the steering wheel. Even with her minor victory in getting the TRO, Connie knew this was a bad sign. She had all these grand plans to turn her life around, when in reality she was stuck in place.
David was right. Her victory was temporary. She’d probably lose her first case. The law wasn’t on her side.
Her whole life she’d been missing that damn fourth leaf in her lucky clover.
And it was starting to piss her off.
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Allyson Charles lives in Northern California. She’s the author of the contemporary romances Putting Out Old Flames and The Christmas Tree (Kensington Lyrical). A former attorney, she happily ditched those suits and now works in her pajamas writing about men’s briefs instead of legal briefs. When she’s not writing, she’s probably engaged in one of her favorite hobbies: napping, eating, or martial arts (That last one almost makes up for the first two, right?). One of Allyson’s greatest disappointments is living in a state that doesn’t have any Cracker Barrels in it.
The Christmas Tree Page 26
