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Remy ducked behind him, frantically pressing the Down button in futile hope an elevator would come before the reporters descended.
Her hope was indeed futile.
In seconds the reporters were swarming over them, lights blinding her, microphones shoved once again in her face as they shouted out their questions simultaneously, the sounds batting against Remy’s ears in a cacophony of confusion.
And then, through it all, Remy heard the faint ding of an opening elevator. She whirled around, fully intending to jump in and close its doors as fast as she could. She never got the chance.
Because at that precise second, someone plowed into her hard from behind, popping the breath out of her, plummeting her to the floor and pouncing squarely on top of her.
* * *
MARC TRUESDALE LIMPED into the Wednesday-morning partners’ meeting at the law firm of Justice Inc. He carefully slid his body into his customary chair across from Kay Kellogg. Kay watched him with amused blueberry eyes over her cup of herbal tea, a large solitaire diamond flashing on her ring finger, a grin subtly playing around her lips.
But Octavia Osborne was not nearly so subtle. She flipped back her long tumble of flame red hair and used the ends of her long, matching, perfectly manicured nails to send the morning newspaper skidding over the top of the conference table. Her aim, as always, was accurate. The newspaper stopped directly in front of Marc, its banner headline proclaiming, Bio-Sperm Delivers Billion-Dollar Baby to Demerchant.
“Looks like you had fun in court yesterday,” Octavia commented, a languorous smile lifting the corners of her generous mouth. “Or should I say during the noon recess?”
Marc followed Octavia’s expressive eyes to the enormous, three-column-size photo of him sprawled over Remy Westbrook on the floor of the King County courthouse. He wore a surprised look; Remy wore her dress up around her ears. Octavia quoted the caption beneath the picture word for word, “‘Baby’s mom and Demerchant’s attorney get away after morning session for ex parte communication.’ Really, Marc, and it was only a couple of months ago that you were chastising Kay here for getting personally involved with a client.”
Marc shook his head wearily in response to Octavia’s goading. “This lady is not our client, and, yellow journalism notwithstanding, the only thing between Remy Westbrook and me this morning is sore feelings.”
“Is that why you’re limping? A case of sore...feelings?” Kay asked in that soft voice of hers, a grin still playing around her lips.
Marc exhaled heavily. “I was only trying to keep the news hounds at bay. Was it my fault one of them shoved me into Remy Westbrook and we both toppled to the floor? You’d think she’d be a little grateful for my efforts. Instead, before I even had a chance to get off her, she kneed me in the...uh...uh...”
“Feelings?” Kay offered with a less-than-innocent look.
Octavia exploded into that uninhibited, throaty laugh of hers that sang throughout the conference room. Kay joined her in an echo of merry amusement.
Marc shook his head in good-natured disgust. “Women!”
Kay reached for a tissue to dab at her eyes. “Sorry, Marc. But if you had any part in getting a picture like that of me run in all the papers, good intentions or no, I probably would have kneed you, too.”
“Well, thanks,” he said sarcastically. “Have you two forgotten that as my partners you’re supposed to be supporting me?”
“If it’s a supporter you need, I can buy you an athletic one,” Octavia said, before bursting out again in laughter, once more echoed by Kay’s giggles.
Marc found he couldn’t keep a straight face, not in light of his partners’ playfulness. “Actually, an ice pack would probably be more useful,” he admitted as he joined in with a chuckle of his own.
Octavia and Kay increased the timbre of their howls.
“Let’s try to keep it down,” Adam Justice admonished as he silently entered the conference room, closing the door behind him, exactly on time for their meeting. “Remember, we have associates doing research in offices on either side and secretaries trying to answer phones.”
The laughter died a timely death.
Marc admired the dignity and solid professionalism that entered the room along with the person of Adam Justice. The man could do it all—try any case, administer any problem. Adam Justice was, in every way, an unbeatable legal machine.
Trouble was, his machine had no Off button. The only time Marc had ever seen Adam outside the office was once at the gym, where Adam had called him for a quick conference about an upcoming case. Even there, Adam had discussed only the case in his typical, all-business demeanor as he mechanically worked the weight machines in a rigid regimen that brooked no deviation. And allowed no pleasure.
Yes, that was what Adam Justice was missing. Pleasure. Marc worked hard, but he found pleasure in his work. That’s why he had joined the smaller firm of Justice Inc. two years before. Here he could take on the cases and clients he wanted and handle them according to his conscience. He might have less prestige than what he could get at one of the bigger firms, but being in control of his cases had added so much more pleasure to his work.
Adam Justice’s absolute control didn’t seem to afford him any pleasure, however. Marc suspected that the scar that jagged from Adam’s jaw to beneath his starched white dress shirt had something to do with it. He’d asked Adam about that scar once. Adam had changed the subject. He was not someone Marc thought he’d ever really know.
That was all right. Mixing work and friends was almost as ill-advised as mixing work with women. Life could be lived much more smoothly with everything organized into its proper place.
“You’re first up, Marc,” Adam said as he settled himself at the head of the conference table and opened his case folder. “How is the Demerchant vs. Bio-Sperm trial going?”
“Very well, despite Binick’s unexpected bomb yesterday morning. I’m working it so that this surprise baby will actually support the damages, not detract from them. Yesterday afternoon I got Binick’s lab technician and her assistant to admit that even they can’t be one hundred percent sure that the donor coding on Remy Westbrook’s record is accurate.”
“When do you think you’ll be able to wrap it up?”
“Judge has some other court business this morning. When we reconvene this afternoon, we go directly to closing arguments. Depending on how long the jury takes to deliberate, it’s possible we’ll have the verdict in today. At the latest, tomorrow.”
“And that’s when you take off for a two-week vacation, right?” Kay asked.
Marc smiled at her. “Gavin and I are going waterskiing before the October rains hit.”
“Any ideas on how we can counteract the impression left by this picture?” Adam asked as he pointed his pen at the newspaper’s front page.
Adam’s tone had not changed, but Marc felt the depth of his concern, nonetheless.
Marc leaned back in his chair. “Every time a reporter called for a statement about it, I told them that it was a reporter who pushed me into Dr. Westbrook, probably just to get a picture like that. I also warned them that if I ever found out which reporter it was, I was going to sue his tail off. They don’t seem too eager to print those comments.”
Adam shook his head. “No, naturally they wouldn’t. But I don’t like to leave it like this. Doesn’t look good for the firm. Clients don’t come to lawyers tainted by impropriety.”
Octavia laughed, the only one who never let Adam’s somber admonishments restrict her flamboyant spirit. She leaned across the table toward him, a twinkle of fresh spirit in her eyes.
“Thanks to Kay’s impropriety hitting the newspapers a couple of months ago,” she said, “we have a dozen new clients. You worry too much, Adam.”
“As senior partner, it’s my job to worry. Give it some thought, Marc. We need a positive follow-up story.”
“Winning the suit should help,” Marc said.
“See you do. We can’t afford to give the impression of laxity in our ethics. We must uphold stringent standards here at Justice Inc. Morality cannot be compromised.”
Marc knew his senior partner was right, of course. Even the impression of a laxity in ethics was a serious matter.
Which meant it was a good thing Adam Justice didn’t know what Marc was going to do right after this meeting was over. A damn good thing.
Chapter Three
Remy snatched up the morning newspaper and ground her teeth as she read the extra-large headline. But the steam really began to curl out of her ears when she read the caption below the three-column picture of Truesdale straddling her with her skirt over her head.
She slammed the paper down on the lab table in her office and snatched at the coffeepot.
“Good morning, Remy,” her sister said as she rolled her wheelchair over. “Sorry I’m late, but I’ve been fiddling with... Hey, what’s wrong?”
Remy shoved the nozzle of the coffeepot into her mug and poured. “That’s what’s wrong, Phil. Did you see it?” she asked as she nodded at the newspaper.
Dr. Phillida Moore shifted her wheelchair and glanced over one of her well-muscled shoulders at the headline. “Oh, yeah, that.” She tsk-tsked. “Really, Remy. And you assured me yesterday morning you were only going to the courthouse to give testimony.”
Remy squinted her eyes. “Oh, very funny. I swear that’s the last time I ever put on a dress and heels again.”
Phil’s mouth twisted into a crooked grin. “Look on the bright side. You were wearing sexy underwear, at least. Why, right this minute there are probably dozens of love-starved men out there who are cutting this picture out of their morning paper so they can make you their latest pinup.”
Remy shook her head. “How marvelously comforting that image is. Thank you so much.”
Phil chuckled. “What shall your big sister do? Track down this attorney and run over his feet with my wheelchair? Or should I go after the photographer? The newspaper editor? The caption writer?”
Remy grinned as the anger drained from her thoughts. Phil was great for getting Remy’s thoughts away from those things she couldn’t do anything about. Which was precisely what Phil had intended to do, of course.
“I already took care of the attorney.”
“Now that’s my little sister talking,” Phil said proudly, the expression on her strong angular face matching the humor in her tone.
“You can don your avenger cape and start with the photographer, though,” Remy added. “Want some coffee?”
“I would sell my right wheel for a cup,” Phil said, grabbing a mug off the table.
Remy smiled as she dumped a couple of sugar cubes and then some coffee into her sister’s mug. “You were starting to tell me why you were late?”
“Oh, the wheelchair ramp on my van got stuck again. The guy from the auto club finally came by and fixed it.”
But not until Phil had sworn and fussed, trying to fix it herself for a couple of hours, Remy was certain. Phil hated not being able to do everything for herself, because she could so clearly do most everything for herself. She simply refused to let the wheelchair stop her. Phil was the strongest and most determined person Remy had ever known.
“You could have left the wheelchair, put on those new steel-strong plastic legs the doctor fitted you with and hailed a taxi. I thought you walked really well in them last time.”
“Yeah, sure. I saw the video of how well I walked. Kind of reminded me of Frankenstein’s monster.” Phil laughed. “Too bad the faculty’s Halloween party next month isn’t a costume ball. Talk about typecasting!”
Remy’s brow furrowed. “That’s nonsense and you know it. Just let your hair grow a bit, put on some makeup and walk in wearing a long black dress. You’d be smashing.”
Phil chuckled with very little mirth. “Oh, I’d be smashing, all right. Into everything.”
“Phil, if you don’t try—”
“Hey, I don’t need phony legs, Remy. Or any phony compliments about how gorgeous I could be all dolled up. I like this old mug of mine. I like my wheelchair just fine, too. I can move faster with these wheels than most people can walk, present company excepted, of course. I know what’s best, kiddo. Always have.”
Yes, Phil always seemed to. For as long as Remy could remember, she’d been following her older sister’s advice. And benefiting from it. Phil was strong where it counted. She had taught Remy to be strong, too.
The telephone rang. Remy answered it with her name as she always did when she was at work.
“Dr. Westbrook, this is Kate Saunders from Channel Five. I’d like to interview you sometime this morning about—”
“No,” Remy interrupted coolly. “No interviews.”
“But—”
Remy hung up the phone quickly and turned to Phil. “That’s the third newsperson this morning and it’s not even ten o’clock.”
She downed some of the steamy coffee, forgetting to sip in her pique. It burned her throat. She paid little attention. The thoughts firing through her mind were suddenly a lot hotter.
Phil grinned. “You should get harassed by the press more often. Puts a nice color in your cheeks.”
Remy ignored the tease this time. “Three of them were waiting for me when I drove up this morning. Fortunately, Braden got here at the same time and misdirected them over to another building so Nicholas and I could sneak inside and lock the door. Although, we were still waylaid on the steps by some fool dressed in a knight’s armor who went down on bended knee and proposed to me.”
“No kidding? Ha!” Phil yowled, her head thrown back. “What a hoot! Who was he?”
“One of my students a semester ago. But he’s not the worst of it. You wouldn’t believe the guys who have been making a play for me. Last night after the TV news flashed my picture and mentioned the reason for my appearance at the Bio-Sperm trial, I got a call from a plumber who once fixed my sink, the owner of the dry cleaners I frequent, and even the guy who sold me my car—all asking for a date.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Let’s just say the last time I repeated that type of language I was twelve and you washed my mouth out with soap.”
Phil smiled.
“And, as if these news hounds and money-hungry lotharios weren’t enough,” Remy continued, “my first call this morning was from an attorney who said he’d be happy to represent me in my fight to get the Demerchant money, and he’d do it for only a third of the estate.”
Phil shook her head. “They sure start crawling out of the woodwork when a lot of money is mentioned.”
Remy took another sip of her coffee. “It’s Binick’s fault. He’s the one who made up that lie about Nicholas being Louie Demerchant’s great-grandson.”
“Are you sure it is a lie, Remy?”
“Of course it’s a lie. Think about it. Binick knows he’s responsible for destroying David Demerchant’s sperm. If Louie Demerchant wins that ten-million-dollar suit against him, Binick’s going bankrupt. He told me that himself when he and the process server arrived on my front doorstep with the subpoena.”
“He actually told you the ten-million-dollar award would bankrupt him?”
“Yes, like he thought that would influence me. And when I made it clear it didn’t, he acted like I should be pleased to learn I had received David Demerchant’s sperm. Probably thought I’d jump at the opportunity to claim the dead man’s money.”
“Which reminds me,” Phil said. “Why aren’t you?”
“Phil, Nicholas is not a Demerchant, so taking any of that money would be dishonest. And even if he were, I wouldn’t want it. Too much money is just as corruptible as too much power, since one inevitably leads to the other.”
“For a billion dollars, I wouldn’t mind being corrupted a bit.”
Remy put her cup down and studied her sister’s face, surprised to see its strong features set in a serious look. “Where is this mercenary streak coming from?”
Phil laughed. “It’s always been there, Remy. Face it, you turned out to be the only incorruptible kid in the family.”
“I don’t believe that.”
Phil smiled. “Yes, that’s what I like most about you. You’re putty in my hands. Don’t worry, I’ll stand...uh...sit by you through the worst of this, even if you refuse every cent.”
Remy rested her hand on her sister’s shoulder. One of Phil’s strong hands covered hers.
“Hey, this hand is going to mush. Have you been keeping up with your weights?” Phil asked before removing her hand and wheeling herself away.
Remy knew Phil’s intentional change of subject came because of her difficulty in displaying her gentler feelings.
