“Gail Saunders,” Gail said, presenting the receptionist with a business card. “I have a three-thirty appointment with Dennis Murphy.”
“One moment please,” the pert young receptionist said, rising and vanishing down a hall, her footsteps silenced by the carpet’s velvety nap. Not Seventeen, Gail amended after watching the amplitude of the receptionist’s swaying hips. The Victoria’s Secret catalogue.
She returned after a minute. “Please follow me,” she said, pivoting and sashaying down the hall once more. Gail followed, feeling dowdy in her plain brown suit and stack-heeled shoes. She’d never been pert or particularly sexy, and that was fine with her. Crisp suits, knee-length skirts and shoes that didn’t hurt her feet were her style.
The receptionist pressed against a slightly open door, pushing it wider, and gestured inside. “Dennis? Ms. Saunders,” she announced, then stepped back to let Gail enter.
The first thing that registered on Gail was that Dennis Murphy’s office was larger than the entire suite that housed the public defenders’ offices across town. The second thing that registered was that his decorating budget must have exceeded her annual salary. The carpet was white—she contemplated the cost of rug-shampoo services—and the plants looked exotic. In the corner, wallowing in the spring sunlight that spilled in from two walls of windows, a large curving sofa of cocoa-hued leather beckoned. A mahogany coffee table nestled into the curve, displaying an incomprehensible piece of carved marble that had no doubt cost a minor fortune at some ritzy gallery.
Her gaze swung around to the other half of the office—and then nothing more registered on her but the man standing behind the desk. He was tall and lanky, clad in a custom-tailored suit that enhanced his physique in the most unnerving way. His hair was a mystifying shade midway between light brown and dark blond, and it looked both neat and tousled at the same time, as if he’d borrowed a gust of wind to comb it with. His smile was cautious, his nose strong enough to balance his sharp chin, and his eyes were the soft gray shade of rain clouds in April. But there was no rain in them. Framed by a crinkle of fanning laugh lines, they stared straight into her, as if bypassing her face in search of her brain.
Looking at him, she experienced an unfamiliar sensation, as if something hot had grabbed hold of her inner organs and squeezed tight. For the fraction of an instant, she wondered if it was lust. But before she could figure it out, it was gone, leaving anger in its wake. Dennis Murphy was a top-dollar lawyer trying to scare her into telling Leo to bug off. She shouldn’t feel anything but professional animosity toward him. Objectively, he wasn’t all that gorgeous. His nose actually had a bump in it. His hair needed serious taming. His smile was really rather tight, hinting at distrust. And those laugh-lines? Signs of age, symptoms of borderline myopia.
No, he was definitely not Gail’s type. As if she even had a type.
He strolled around the desk, his right arm outstretched. “Ms. Saunders? Dennis Murphy,” he introduced himself before his hand swallowed hers. His fingers were so long, so strong. His palm was so warm.
Her anger increased, a self-defensive reflex. Just let him try to charm me, she thought irritably. Just let him try. He’d learn pretty damned fast what she was made of, and it wasn’t spineless female mush.
“The newspaper must be scared,” she said briskly, trying not to flutter her tingling fingers once he released her hand. “I guess this situation is something their own legal staff can’t face up to.”
His smile increased slightly, folding curving dimples into his cheeks. “I can face up to it,” he assured her, waving toward the sofa. “Why don’t we sit, and I’ll have my secretary bring some coffee, and we can talk this thing over and make some sense out of the situation.”
She’d guessed right: charm was his first choice of weapon. She crossed the room to the sofa, grinning inwardly at having sized him up so quickly, and then grinning a little less as she caught a whiff of his after-shave. It was faint but spicy, and it revived that lustful sensation in her abdomen. Ignoring it, she sat primly on the sofa, although the upholstery was clearly not designed for primness. The soft leather cushions enveloped her, hugged her, invited her to lean back and relax.
She hated this man. By the time he’d joined her on the couch and tossed a notepad and pen onto the coffee table, she was absolutely certain that she despised him.
“Amazing that the two of us could be plying the legal trade right here in Arlington, and we haven’t crossed paths until now,” he remarked.
Gail nodded and smiled sweetly. “It is amazing. I’ve never even heard of you.”
Her comment got him, but he recovered well, his smile changing into something annoyingly sensual. “That’s because you do the good work that needs to be done, while I just collect fees for hours billed. You’re with the Public Defenders office, aren’t you.”
Either that meant he had heard of her, or—more likely—he’d done his research, just as she had. “Yes. I’m with the P.D. office,” she said evenly.
“So what the hell are you doing here?”
She hadn’t expected bluntness from him—at least not while he was wearing that damnably sexy smile. She refused to let him fluster her, though—and she was spared from having to answer by the arrival of an older, more sedate woman carrying a tray of coffee things. Murphy courteously rose to his feet and took the tray from her. “I’ll take care of it, Velda. Thanks.”
While he carried the tray to the table, resumed his seat, and filled two mugs with coffee from the decanter, Gail scrambled through her thoughts in search of her usual brass-edged poise. She wasn’t used to being swamped with charm—the police officers and criminals she worked with tended to be sorely lacking in that particular asset—and even though she had braced herself against Murphy, his charm had affected her somehow. She felt wary and suspicious. She needed to get tough.
“What I’m doing here,” she said, ignoring the steaming mug he presented to her, “is trying to clear a man’s name. The Gazette did sloppy work. They combined a two-year-old minor police record with some groundless accusations from unreliable witnesses in New York, and then they ran my client’s name across the front page of the newspaper. That’s wrong, Mr. Murphy. Pure and simple. They’ve knocked a human being down, and I’m here because I intend to make sure he gets back on his feet.”
“A million dollars is a lot of feet,” Murphy commented, setting her mug back on the tray when she refused to take it.
She tried not to follow his hand with her gaze. It was a pianist’s hand, she decided. The sort of hand that could play trills and octaves, very loudly. Or very softly. It could play sonatas. Impassionatas. Rhapsodies.
She loathed him.
“You know,” he said, lifting the other mug and taking a sip, “the Gazette happens to believe there are principles involved.”
“You bet there are principles involved!”
“Principles like freedom of speech. Principles like not letting reporters be silenced by frivolous law suits.”
“This isn’t a frivolous law suit.”
“A million dollars?” He snorted.
“I’m sure we can come up with a reasonable sum, Mr. Murphy. The newspaper’s initial offer does not qualify as reasonable.”
“What did your guy lose? A few weeks of work?”
“His dignity. His name.” The coffee smelled wonderful, but if she took her cup now, it would represent some kind of defeat. She inhaled carefully, as if she could filter the aroma out of the air as she breathed. “The first real job he had in America. His faith in this country. His trust in the system.”
“We’re talking big issues, eh? I get the First Amendment and you get the rest.” He chuckled and sipped his coffee, making her mouth water. She curled her hands discreetly into fists so she wouldn’t be tempted to reach for the mug. “Tell you what, Ms. Saunders—can I call you Gail?”
No. “Of course.”
His smile was offensively confident. “The way I see it, Gail, the big
issues break pretty much down the middle. And you know what’s in that middle? Money. That’s really what we’re talking about.”
“Maybe you think this is just about money, Mr. Murphy—”
“Dennis,” he purred.
She’d walk on burning coals in her bare feet before she’d call him Dennis. “No amount of money would undo the damage the Gazette has inflicted on my client. But a reasonable sum would remind the newspaper that it has to be more responsible about its reportage. It would give my client a chance to relocate somewhere where people haven’t seen his name smeared in the local press, and it would—”
A sharp buzz from the intercom on his desk cut her off. He held up a finger and arched his eyebrows, making her wonder whether this was a contrived interruption he’d arranged beforehand with his secretary. “Excuse me,” he said, carrying his mug across the room to the desk and pressing a button. “Yes?”
“Dennis, I’m sorry to break in,” a woman’s voice echoed through the speaker, “but Erin is on the phone.”
He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Did she say what she wants?”
“She said—I’m really sorry, but she said it’s very important and I have to get you right away.”
“She knows I’m working,” he grumbled. Was he really irked, or just pretending to be?
“Well, what do you want me to do? She said it’s important.”
“Okay, okay. Put her through.” He pressed a button to cut off the speaker, and lifted the receiver. Shooting Gail an exasperated look, he mouthed, “One minute.”
She suppressed a smile. This was good. Let him be rattled by Erin and her important business. Let him be distracted.
He spun away, presenting Gail with his back. “Yes? Sweetie, what’s up? You know I’m working... What?” His knuckles grew white where he gripped the phone. “Well, where the hell is she?... Damn it! How could she—okay, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t swear. All right, Erin, listen to me. Is Mrs. Alpert in? Did you call her? You know, she lives downstairs, and she... Oh, you did? No answer? Okay. Are you listening to me?... Yes, I know. Stay where you are. You and Sean. I will come home.... Yes, I will. Right now.... I know I’m working, damn it, but...okay, I’m sorry. No more swearing. Tell Sean that under no condition is he to put Pop-Tarts in the toaster-oven. Tell him he can eat the Pop-Tarts cold. Tell him I said so. I’ll be home very soon. Don’t open the door to anybody. And don’t you dare leave. Don’t even think about going near an ATM. Do you understand?... Okay? I love you. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes…. No, I won’t swear.”
He slammed down the phone and swore.
“Is something wrong?” Gail asked pleasantly.
“Yes, damn it, something’s wrong.” He shrugged, as if to throw off his mood, and turned back to her. “I’m sorry. That was my daughter. It seems the nanny told my children she had to step out for a minute—and that was an hour ago. She hasn’t come back. They’re all alone, and my neighbor who’s on call is out, and—” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, as if trying to squeeze his thoughts into alignment. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, yanking open a desk drawer and pulling out his keys. From a cabinet in the credenza behind his desk he removed a leather briefcase. “We’ll have to do this another time. I can’t leave my kids home alone.”
Well, no, he couldn’t. And try though she did, Gail couldn’t think of how this domestic crisis could possibly help his position in Leo’s complaint against the Gazette. It had to be real. He hadn’t fabricated it.
There was only one problem. “I don’t have another time to meet with you,” she said. “I rearranged my entire schedule to free up this afternoon. I can’t reschedule.”
“Well, what the hell am I supposed to do?” All pretense of the smooth, poised, successful attorney had vanished from his face. His eyes were definitely stormy now, and his dimples were nowhere in evidence. “I am not going to sit here and bicker over a freaking nuisance suit with you while my children are home alone.”
“It’s not a freaking nuisance suit!”
“Either we reschedule, or you can come home with me and we can discuss it there. Because, lady, I’m on my way.”
He was halfway to the door before she trusted herself to speak. Lady? He’d had the nerve to call her lady? What happened to May I call you Gail?
She detested him. Completely and utterly.
“I’ll come with you,” she said, chasing him out of the office.
Chapter Three
IT WASN’T THE FIRST TIME Dennis had ever tanked a meeting. It wouldn’t be the last. These things happened in the ebb and flow of a professional life, and he knew how to recover, how to move on and move forward and move things so they wound up where he wanted them to be. And he never let his ego get in the way.
But this time, this case...this lawyer...
He knew her type, the noble public-defender type. He recalled his law school class, which had split pretty evenly into those who saw law as a profession and those who saw it as a passion. The professional ones prepared themselves for jobs in business, studying torts and contracts and all the nuts and bolts that held the legal interactions of society together. The passionate ones—well, God knew what they studied, but they marched out of law school determined to save the world.
Back in law school, he’d been disgusted with the students who fell into the passion half of his class. Self-righteous prigs, holier-than-thou, smogging the atmosphere of lecture halls with questions about peach pickers in Honduras and the best way to legalize marijuana. Some of them were no doubt right this very minute defending peach pickers and pot-heads. Some of them were right this minute serving as public defenders.
He braked at a red light and peered into the rear view mirror. There she was, all prim and blond, as cool and astringent as mouthwash. Her chilly blue eyes stared at his car. Her hands draped the wheel. He could see her fingernails; they were unpolished and short. To get a decent manicure would seem much too frivolous to any properly devout public defender.
He wanted to pulverize her—her and her con-artist comrade from Russia. They thought they could wring a million dollars out of the Arlington Gazette? Ha. They’d be lucky to get five minutes of a judge’s time before he tossed the case out—after charging them for court costs.
Bob Hammond wanted Dennis to try to come to terms, though. He’d reminded Dennis that the newspaper had stated clearly in the original article that Kopoluski the Russki hadn’t been formally charged with anything yet. If Kopoluski’s lawyer wanted to waste time arguing over the word “kingpin,” so be it, but Bob wanted Dennis to put aside any notions of going to court over this nonsense, and try to reach a settlement, preferably for less than fifty thousand dollars.
Before Dennis settled anything with Gail Saunders, he had to settle things with the agency who’d sent him Betty Grover. He spread his leather-bound note-pad open on the empty seat next to him and flipped the pages until he found the agency’s phone number. The light turned green, and he accelerated through the intersection, simultaneously punching buttons on his cell phone. By the time someone answered on the other end, he was driving down Dudley at forty miles an hour, trying to ignore the six-year-old Volvo sedan cruising behind him.
His kids were home, alone and unsupervised, for God’s sake! He couldn’t expend precious gray matter on Gail Saunders and her cow-pie case, and her piercing eyes and her tidy blond hair, and the way she pursed her lips as if it she was trying to keep all her self-righteousness from spilling out in a tirade. He had to think of Erin and Sean.
“The only possible reason one of our trained and screened nannies would walk out on a job,” the lady on the other end of the line jabbered as he turned the corner, “is if your children did something terrible to her.”
“My children are angels,” he retorted. “My children are the easiest kids in the world.”
“Betty Grover would not have walked out on them,” the lady insisted.
“Maybe she wou
ldn’t have, but she did. Now just for the sake of hypothesis, suppose my kids did do something terrible. Let’s say—how bad could it be?—they called her a naughty name? They spilled soda-pop on her? What could they do that’s so terrible a trained child-care professional can’t deal with it? They played with matches? A trained child-care professional—for whose services your agency has billed me a usurious sum—would remove the matches from the children. If necessary, she would call the police. She would not walk out and leave them unsupervised.”
“Well, I’m sure—”
“You damned well better be sure,” Dennis roared. “Your entire business is based on reliability and responsibility. Now, how would you feel if word got out that the nannies you place in people’s homes are unreliable and irresponsible?”
“I’ll find you a new nanny,” the lady said in a tiny voice.
“And she’ll report for work tomorrow,” Dennis asserted. “She’ll come to my office at ten a.m. so I can check her out and give her my approval. Then she’ll pick my children up at school—”
“Of course. We’ll find a suitable nanny for you.”
“You damned well better,” he muttered, then jammed his thumb against the disconnect button.
The Volvo was still behind him, and Gail Saunders was still behind the wheel. Something about her assertive chin really got to him. And the prudish neckline of her blouse. It was a wonder she wasn’t choking. You’d think she was afraid some guy might want to take a peek at her body, the way she was tucked so tightly into her suit.
At the circular driveway in front of his building he paused, glaring at her via the rear-view mirror. He knew she couldn’t see his face, which was probably a good thing, because if he was going to get her to agree to a cheap settlement with the newspaper, he was going to have to seduce her into it, with courtesy and silky-smooth reassurances. He pressed the window button and the glass pane slid down beside him. Extending his arm through the open window, he pointed to the row of visitors’ parking spaces along the landscaped driveway.
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