“I’d’ve thought we would schedule an appointment to discuss the Tilden will, but hey, I’ve got some time this morning, so we can talk now.” Quint seemed the soul of congeniality, but Rachel wasn’t fooled. The man was as congenial as a rattler whose rock had been overturned. ‘Tm willing to be spontaneous, just like you are.”
“I am not spontaneous!” No one had ever accused her of that! “I’d’ve thought we would schedule an appointment to discuss the will.” Of course that was the usual protocol. To have Quinton Cormack, of all people, point out her unorthodox behavior was mortifying.
“You could’ve fooled me.” He had a definite gift for subtext, managing to sound both scornful and sincere at the same time. Irritated, Rachel wondered how he did it and wished that she could, too.
“Dana, would you mind getting us some coffee?” Quint turned to his paralegal.
Rachel whirled around, suddenly remembering Dana’s presence. Since entering this office, she had been aware of no one but Quinton Cormack. It was as if the two of them were alone in some peculiar universe.
“And tell Helen to hold my calls during Miss Saxon’s visit.”
Rachel was unnerved. She was always so acutely attuned to everything going on around her. Her hypervigilance was practically a family legend. How could she have completely forgotten Dana Sheely’s very existence when the younger woman had been standing only a foot away from her? “I—I don’t want any coffee.”
“Hmm, you’re right,” Quint eyed Rachel assessingly. “The last thing you need is more caffeine. You’re so wired right now you’ll probably short-circuit after a couple sips of coffee. And we don’t want you bouncing off the walls. This isn’t a rubber room, after all.”
Rachel bristled and tried to think of an appropriately insulting rubber-room retort. None came to mind, which only rattled her more. She knew what he was doing. Keeping her on the defensive, enhancing his position with a personal attack. She should ignore it, she knew that too. Yet here she was, doing exactly what he’d set her up to do, taking issue with his insulting allegation. His ridiculous allegation.
“I am NOT wired, Mr. Cormack.”
“I beg to differ.” Quint’s grin of satisfaction only underscored her mistake.
Rachel balled her fingers into fists and breathed deeply. It was definitely time to regroup. “Let me explain my position in the simplest terms, which even you can understand. I don’t want any coffee because I didn’t come here to socialize. I do not want this visit to bear even the slightest trappings of a social call.”
“And drinking coffee would elevate your visit from a business meeting to a social call? Hmm, that’s interesting. Maybe you could fill me in on proper Lakeview etiquette, Miss Saxon. I’ve only lived here a little over a year and I’m not completely familiar with all the local nuances. What exactly constitutes a social call in this town? Give me the specifics.”
Quint moved from behind his desk to walk toward her, his pace unhurried. “Is a social call something like a date?” He exaggerated the inflection, his expression one of mock comic horror.
Once again, the object of his derision was her, Rachel noted darkly. Perhaps deservedly so? She was aware she must seem psychotically uptight, and he had no qualms calling her on it. She winced.
Dana looked amused. “I’ll run up the street to Starbucks and bring you a large Kona, Quint. You want it black, right?” He nodded, and she headed to the door. “Be right back.”
“Remember not to bring anything for Miss Saxon, Dana. Not because she’s as wired as the Tasmanian Devil on speed, but because—”
“We wouldn’t want anyone to think this was a date.” Dana rolled her eyes. “Got it.” She left the office amidst Quint’s laughter.
Rachel knew she should do the same. Laugh. Act blasé. Ignore the fury roiling through her. Wade was right; Quinton Cormack was trying to psych her out, and she shouldn’t let him. Determinedly, she attempted a blithe smile.
“Are you in pain?” Quint stepped directly in front of her. “Your face looks ready to crack.”
Rachel’s false smile was instantly erased and she glowered balefully at him. “Being forced to deal with you is painful, all right.”
“Because I whipped your pretty little butt in the Pedersen case?” There was laughter in his eyes. “Are you still holding a grudge against me for that?”
He smiled at her, a genuine smile, not one of those infuriating smirks that made her want to smack him. Rachel’s breath caught. He was incredibly appealing when he smiled like that, his face alight with humor.
Involuntarily, she found herself studying his face. He had interesting, strong features. A sharp blade of a nose, a well-shaped mouth, a dimple in his left cheek that she’d never actually noticed until today. Until right now. It also occurred to her that he was what her mother and sister would call “good-looking.” In fact, on second glance they would probably upgrade that description to “very good-looking.”
Her heart gave a peculiar little flutter. Disconcerted, Rachel sought an explanation. It certainly could not be attraction! She had proven her immunity to “good-looking” men for years by repeatedly rejecting each one that her mother and sister attempted to set her up with. In her experience, handsome men were fully aware of their appeal, trading shamelessly upon appearance and the predictable effect upon the opposite sex.
“Just because John Pedersen is the owner and boss of the Pedersen Car Shoppe doesn’t mean he can bully his employees,” Quint said softly, his legalese totally at odds with the warmth in his gaze. “Bullying by an employer is as taboo as sexual harassment. In fact, the highest incidence of workers’ compensation lawsuits currently under litigation include stress, embarrassment, and humiliation in the workplace.”
“And—And sharpie that you are, you managed to convince the jury that John Pedersen caused William Dumond stress, embarrassment, and humiliation at the Car Shoppe.” Rachel scowled at the very idea.
“Because I had a truckload of evidence to prove it. Your case was a dog, Rachel. It was unwinnable. Your side’s big mistake was in not convincing Pedersen to settle.”
Was he trying to console her? By excusing her performance in the case while enhancing his? Rachel was outraged. And more than a little bewildered. “Pedersen’s case was winnable. Don’t flatter yourself, my aunt Eve would’ve won it. I—I lost because I … because you …”
Words failed her. She’d spent hours obsessing over the details of the case yet now, given the chance for a rebuttal, her mind seemed to have crashed like an on-line service on overload.
Her gaze flew to his dark brown eyes and expressive black brows. In her worst dreams, she saw him directing contemptuous glances at her client during the Pedersen trial. Rachel was convinced those potent eyes and arched brows of his had been invaluable visual aids for his verbal arguments, winning a unanimous jury verdict along with a sizable cash compensatory award for his client.
“Aunty Eve isn’t Super Lawyer. I guarantee she would’ve lost that case, too,” Quint said firmly. “Anyway, it’s all in the past now. What do you say to wiping the slate clean and starting over?” He smiled that smile, the one that was practically a force of nature.
Part of her wanted to smile back at him. It would be so easy … A reaction to his own particular, disturbing magic? Rachel’s mouth was actually tilting upward at the corners when her steely control reasserted itself, reminding her exactly who she was dealing with.
Quinton Cormack, the enemy. The man was a slick, smooth operator, out to bilk the Tildens, Saxon Associates’ most important clients, out of God-only-knows-how-much. His power couldn’t be dismissed, not after the way he’d prevailed over the Pedersens.
Well, she was not about to fall under his spell! The break in her guard was only momentary. Rachel stiffened and did not smile.
At that precise moment, she realized that he was standing far too close to her, just as he had in the courtroom that fateful day. His proximity violated the rules of personal space go
verning social acquaintances and business colleagues. He had thrust himself into the special zone designated for intimate family or friends.
Not Rachel’s intimate family and friends, of course. All who knew her well, knew to maintain a certain physical distance from her. She was not the touchy-feely type. If someone mistakenly came too close, she subtly backed away, creating the needed distance herself.
She backed away now, but her movements were certainly not subtle. Her anger abated somewhat, displaced by the almost-overwhelming urge to turn and run. Only her fierce Saxon pride prevented her from indulging that catastrophic whim! She could imagine the gales of laughter her hasty retreat from him would evoke, were she foolish enough to make one. And she’d had more than enough of him laughing at her.
Rachel squared her shoulders, determined to put this smug, overconfident clod firmly in his place.
“I know what you’re doing.” She adopted her stentorian courtroom tone, and her voice boomed throughout the small office.
“Do you?” He stared down at her. “Then maybe you could fill me in because I sure as hell don’t.”
And now he was playing the part of befuddled male, needful of a wise woman’s guidance. Oh, he was a crafty one! Rachel met his eyes. An almost-tangible current sizzled between them. “This game of yours isn’t working, Mister Cormack.”
“No? Well, since I’m clueless as to what game, it’s a good thing you’re here for a play-by-play analysis, isn’t it?”
“I refuse to indulge in games of one-upsmanship with you. Out of the courtroom, of course.” Rachel took a giant step backward. He was still too close for comfort, and she was excruciatingly aware of his size and strength.
“Is that what we’re doing?” He took a step toward her, closing the distance, and they went through the paces again. Her retreat, his advance—until she had backed herself against the door. He stopped when she did, inches away from her.
“You’re deliberately trying to physically intimidate me—and it’s not working!” She was aware that she was obfuscating, a useful courtroom tactic, but not too convincing right here and now. His tactics were working all too well. She’d literally backed away from him, her breathing quickening, visible symptoms of a successful physical intimidation.
“It’s not working at all,” she added, striving for total denial.
“Just to set the record straight, I’m not trying to physically intimidate you. Which means I’m glad you aren’t—physically intimidated by me, that is.”
His voice sounded oddly thick, a husky rasp. Rachel raised her eyes to his.
She could feel the heat emanating from his body and a bolt of undeniable sexual electricity rocked her. Why did he have to be so masculine, so virile? And why was she acutely, and uncharacteristically, susceptible—to him, of all men?
A strange combination of confusion and fury tornadoed within her. She alternately felt like laughing and cursing. In her entire twenty-eight years, she’d never met anyone who affected her like Quinton Cormack. Everything he did or said got under her skin and provoked an overreaction.
In fact, he could do nothing and still evoke a response from her, Rachel admitted grimly to herself. Simply being in his presence unsettled her like nothing else ever had….
And then, shockingly, alarmingly, the floor began to shake and the framed pictures and diplomas on the walls rattled as the entire office seemed to go into motion.
Startled, Rachel pitched forward. She heard a great roaring sound and immediately remembered watching CNN’s earthquake coverage and the survivors who always mentioned a terrible, roaring-engine sound that accompanied those great jolts in the fault lines.
Now, the unthinkable had happened—an earthquake had hit New Jersey. If she survived, she herself might be one of those shaken victims talking to eager on-site reporters.
Automatically, she reached for the nearest, strongest, and most stable object to hold onto. That happened to be Quinton Cormack. Her fingers grasped the lapels of his gray suit jacket and she felt his arms come around her. He held her firmly, anchoring her against him. For a moment, she leaned into his solid frame, her eyes squeezed shut, feeling the strength and power of his arms encircling her.
“Relax.” His lips were somewhere around the vicinity of the top of her head. “It’s just the ten-eighteen commuter train into Philadelphia.”
Rachel opened her eyes. The sound was already receding into the distance and the building had stopped shaking. It wasn’t an earthquake, only the High Speed Line. Still too unnerved to feel the acute embarrassment that would surely follow, she lifted her head to see Quint gazing down at her. She felt a hot melting sensation deep inside her.
“Does that happen often?” Her voice was soft and slightly breathless. “It felt like we were being launched into space from a rocket pad. How do you stand it?”
“You get used to it. The trains run to and from the city twice an hour.” He dropped his arms that were holding her tightly against him, but not before running his hands over the curves of her hips, turning the release into an intimate and possessive caress.
Rachel quickly stepped aside, but Quint was already moving away from her. She watched him stride to the window and stop in front of it to stare out, his back to her. Compulsively, her gaze swept the long, strong length of him, lingering on the nape of his neck, where his thick dark hair was cut bristly short. She studied the width of his shoulders, his broad strong back, abruptly averting her eyes from a downward perusal.
Her nerves were tingling, her pulses were in overdrive, and her knees felt weak. She walked shakily to the nearest chair and sank down into it. She had been in his arms! And she was still reeling from the forceful sexual tension that had vibrated between them.
Silence fell, so heavy and charged that Rachel knew she had to break it. Otherwise, she would sit here and obsess about the feel of his hard body next to hers, about the unfamiliar but thrilling sensations his nearness had evoked within her. She felt dizzy and defenseless and more off-balance than she’d ever been in her entire well-ordered, controlled life.
“I—I guess I didn’t realize how close to the High Speed Line this office actually is,” she mumbled.
Inwardly, she groaned at the remark, which was nothing short of inane. This was a well-paid, functioning attorney? She cringed, waiting for Quint to annihilate her with a choice bit of sarcasm. Ruefully, Rachel decided she deserved it.
Instead, he seized upon her feeble comment and picked up the conversational ball, his tone—grateful?
“Yeah, we’re really close to the High Speed Line down here. Any closer, and we’d be on the track itself. My father boasted to me about the low rent he paid for his office space, and when I saw the place, I guessed why. Then the train went by and I knew why.”
“Maybe the landlord should pay you.” Rachel attempted a little joke, but glancing around, she wondered if it wasn’t a statement of truth.
The office was singularly unattractive, with peeling dull gray paint on the walls, ugly institutional furniture, and aging linoleum floors. Every frame hung on the walls was crooked, adding a peculiar lopsided feel. And to top it all off, this eyesore came equipped with sound effects. Twice an hour it sounded as if a runaway train was crashing through the office.
“There’s no getting around the fact that this place is a dump,” Quint said bluntly.
“I—didn’t say that.”
“Because you were being polite. Thank you.”
Clearly, she wasn’t the only one being polite. Rachel fiddled with the leather strap of her watchband, carefully keeping her eyes averted from him though she was achingly aware of his exact location in the office.
They were both being so cordial, it would’ve been funny under any other circumstances. But neither one was laughing.
She willed her breathing to return to a normal rhythm but didn’t have much luck. If someone were to enter the office and see her gulping for air, it might be assumed that she’d been running laps around the b
uilding. Surely, nobody would ever guess that Quint Cormack had held her in his arms, that she’d felt his body crucially hardening against her while she grew moist and soft, as though anticipating …
The sound of a double beep made her jump in her chair. Quint snatched up the receiver of his telephone. “Helen, I told you to hold my calls,” he snapped.
Rachel noted with a certain satisfaction that Quint’s usual laconic air was missing, replaced by a noticeable tension bordering on—uptight? Fascinated, she stared at him. Was it her imagination or had a flush of color stained his neck?
Quint looked up and saw her watching him. As her gaze became more intent, he suffered an abrupt loss of coordination, fumbling and accidentally pressing the button for his speaker phone.
Helen’s voice was broadcasted into the office.
“I know what you said.” Helen was not at all apologetic for her intrusion. “But this is one call you’re going to want to take, Quint. It’s Sarah Sheely on line one. She’s calling to tell you that your father’s house is on fire.”
3
“What?” Quint’s voice was loud and sharp as a shotgun blast.
Rachel jumped to her feet. Her entire body was trembling but she instinctively moved toward Quint.
“Hi, Quint.” A young woman’s voice sounded over the speakerphone. “Your father’s house is on fire and I’m—”
“Sarah, where’s Brady?” Quint cut in. “Is he all right?”
“Don’t worry, Brady’s here with me. Say ‘hi’ to Daddy, Brady.”
“Hi, Daddy!” A baby voice boomed throughout the office.
Rachel grasped the edge of the desk and stared at Quint, wide-eyed. He had a child? Quinton Cormack was a father? Certainly, she had never asked about his marital status—as if she cared!—yet she’d known early on that he was a bachelor. The existence of his child came as a distinct shock.
“See, Quint, Brady’s fine,” Sarah’s voice came over the line once again. “We’re at the neighbors across the street from your dad’s house. That’s where Carla called me from, and I drove right over.”
When Lightning Strikes Twice Page 4
