Dear Rita

He looked down at himself in surprise. He’d almost forgotten he was wearing a suit. He’d been toying with the idea of stopping home after he left the jail to change into something less stuffy and more appropriate for the evening, but was running so late that he’d decided not to. He could have explained that, but perversely said, “I don’t need to apologize because our practice is performing well, and I certainly don’t need to feel bad about what my clothes cost. I dress appropriately for my job. My clients expect me to be well groomed. It’s no different from a surgeon wearing scrubs or a fireman wearing his gear.”

She was as intent on needling him as he was on needling her. “Sure, your practice must be performing well. You people look out for yourselves. Just yesterday I got a letter from a woman whose husband, and his lawyer, practically ruined her. They’re probably divvying up the loot right now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But there are as many men out there who have been ruined by wives set to break them, more out of malice than financial necessity. A last shot fired at the end of a bad marriage.”

“So, you’re saying your male clients suffer as much during a divorce as your female clients?”

He thought about that for a second, wondering how to respond, and then said, “Divorce is painful for everyone, but to be honest, I don’t have a whole lot of female clients.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re saying you don’t represent women?”

“I represent anyone who walks through my door. But I’ve developed a reputation for being receptive to men and their special legal needs.”

She put her knife and fork down and scowled at him. “What exactly does that mean?”

“It means,” he explained slowly, even though it was obvious to him, “that I have many more male clients than female clients.” He couldn’t resist reminding her, “Men are entitled to legal representation under our constitution, you know.”

“So you spend your days huddled with other members of the Boys’ Club coming up with ways to make sure that, after years of devotion to their husbands, women are left without a penny after their husbands dump them?”

Dorian’s head hurt. He resisted the urge to rub it, wishing he had an ibuprofen tablet or two in his pocket. It hadn’t been a good day. He’d been battling one cause or the other since he’d set foot in Elcroft Green, and now he was sinking deeper and deeper into a new battle with a stranger.

It made no sense, but instead of calling a halt to the madness, he fired back irritably. “Not all divorces are the fault of the man, and if you think so, you’re sadly deluded, sweetheart. And furthermore, despite what your readers might tell you—and Lord knows why they’d want to spill their guts to an inexperienced slip of a girl like you, except perhaps because they’re sure that they’re only going to hear what they want to hear, and not necessarily something that makes a lick of sense—not all wives are devoted. No divorce I’ve ever worked on was the sole fault of one party. It takes two to tango.”

Indignation at being called “an inexperienced slip of a girl” was written all over her face, and the result was comical. He pressed on. “Furthermore, if there is a Boys’ Club, I’m not a member, and I don’t sit around scheming with other men to rob women, either of their money, or their children—”

She gasped. “Children?”

Maybe she hadn’t been listening. “As I said, I specialize in divorce and custody cases.”

“You take children away from their mothers?” The look she threw him could have bent steel.

“Most of the time, I negotiate for fair sharing of custody and visitation rights, depending on what’s best for everyone involved, especially the children. I’ve won custody battles for my male clients, but I’ve won them for my female clients, as well. I don’t win them all—nobody does. But I’d like to think that I help families adjust to a rocky period in their lives.”

“Help? How, exactly, does it help, tearing children out of their mothers’ arms?”

“No child is ever ‘torn out of their mother’s arms,’ as you put it, and I’m sure that even someone as biased as you would admit that not every woman is Clair Huxtable. There are mothers out there who aren’t at the stage of their lives where they can raise children as they deserve to be raised. Some can’t because they’re unemployed, or holding down too many jobs, or drink too much, or have issues to deal with. Some are simply bad mothers. And there are fathers out there who are aching to raise their kids right. Don’t tell me that you think it would be wrong to award custody to the man under those circumstances?”

When she hesitated, he knew he had her cold. It was a minor victory, but as sweet as any he’d won under judge and jury. He waited for her to say something, anything, to demonstrate that she was giving up her unwarranted attack in the face of his inescapable logic.

She did say something, but it certainly was no concession of defeat. “Lawyers!” she grunted, and attacked her cashew-covered duck.

“Feminists!” he threw back, and stabbed his pork.

It was several moments before he noticed two pairs of eyes on him. Clark and Cassie were watching with open curiosity. “Is everything okay?” Cassie asked.

Their spat had been louder than he’d thought. Tom-toms banged in his head, but he fibbed politely. “Everything’s fine.”

“Peachy,” Rita agreed, but didn’t look up from her plate.

“Good,” Clark said, but sounded doubtful, making Dorian feel ashamed of himself. Rita was getting on his nerves, but it wasn’t his night out, it was Clark’s. And in spite of her prickles, she was a cute little thing. Maybe he should lighten up and not spoil the evening for everyone. He smiled warmly at Cassie to put her at ease and tried to smile at Rita, as well, but she was studiously avoiding looking at him.

“What about dessert, then?” Clark suggested with forced heartiness.

Dorian tried not to groan. Although Cassie and Clark had finished their meal, neither he nor Rita had eaten much. He looked down at his plate. On one hand it would be a relief not to have to finish it off, on the other hand, he was reluctant to move on to the next course. Thai dessert would certainly not consist of something light and frothy and easy to slide down into the corners. It would be along the lines of sweet dumplings in sticky sauce or something equally filling. He was wondering if he could get away with suggesting just coffee when Rita spoke up.

“Actually, Clark, Cassie, I feel really awful about this, but I have a terrible headache, and I don’t think I’m being good company.” She threw an apologetic glance at Dorian. “I hate to duck out on you like this, but it really would be best if I just went on home.”

Good one, Dorian telegraphed. A graceful way to make a speedy exit. Who challenged anyone on an imaginary headache? It would work out best for everyone. Cassie and Clark were obviously having a great time in each other’s company; whatever Cassie’s little hang-up had been about being alone with Clark was overcome. They’d probably relish the idea of finishing their date as a twosome instead of a reluctant foursome. And he and Rita could sneak out, end this disaster, and go their separate ways.

Cassie was immediately solicitous. “Oh, poor baby! Is it really, really horrible?”

Rita grimaced and nodded. “It really, really is.”

Cassie threw a wistful look at Clark. “Maybe I should drive her home, Clark…”

That, he wouldn’t stand for. Just because he and Rita hadn’t hit it off didn’t mean his friend should cut his date short. He stepped in smoothly.

“Rita, if you haven’t any transport, I’d be happy to drive you home.”

Rita looked so aghast he wondered if the idea of a few more moments in his company would really be as bad as she thought. She blathered, “No, no! I won’t think of it. I can get the doorman to stop a cab—”

“But you’re sick,” Cassie interrupted, looking as concerned as if Rita had announced she’d contracted the Hanta virus. “You can’t go by cab if you’re sick!”

“I can, and I will,” Rita began, but Dorian decided to put an end to this silliness once and for all.

He got to his feet. “Nonsense. If you’re not feeling well, it would be stupid to try to get yourself home. Not to mention unforgivably rude of me. Come on, let me make sure you get to your door okay. It’s not often I get to play the knight in shining armor.”

Before she could protest, he reached out and took Cassie’s hand in his. “Cassie, it was a pleasure to meet you. Now I see why my partner was so taken by you. You have my word that you’re in good hands for the rest of the evening.” She beamed at his compliment.

He turned to Clark and the two men briefly shook hands. “Enjoy the rest of your meal, Clark. See you in the morning.”

Clark nodded. “Take care, Rita. I hope you feel better. Sorry you had a bad time.”

“I had a lovely time,” Rita said wanly, but was unable to keep herself from shooting a dark look at Dorian. It was so baleful, he tried not to laugh. “I hope we meet again.”

Clark glanced at Cassie. “I hope we will,” he said fervently.

Dorian took control of the situation by slipping his hand under Rita’s elbow and guiding her away from the table and out to the main doors. She kept pace with him silently, not even looking his way, until they had retrieved their coats and were standing on the sidewalk, under a crisp, bright autumn sky. Then she wrenched her elbow out of his grasp and spun on her heels.

“My car’s this way,” he told her, somewhat perplexed. “Where’re you going?”

“As I said, I’m going to have the doorman stop a taxi.” She signaled to the doorman, who was elaborately costumed in a silk tunic, pants and small hat. The man nodded, understanding her request, and stepped off the curb, peering down the street in search of a flash of yellow.

She couldn’t be that anxious to get away from him. “Don’t be silly,” he said firmly. “I said I would get you home, and I will.”

“Thanks,” she answered primly, “but I can take care of myself.” She ignored him for several moments, until a cab drew near. The doorman, a broad smile on his face, held the door open for her.

He could have let her get in without another word, but for some indefinable reason he hated the idea of it. They’d snarled at each other for the brief portion of the meal they’d shared. She’d gotten on his nerves virtually from the moment he’d taken his seat. But something, something, made him want the evening to end differently. Not this way, growling their goodbyes and parting company on a street corner. Maybe it was vanity. Maybe he was loath for her to leave with a lousy opinion of him, just because he’d had a bad day and had been all too happy to take it out on her. He put one hand on the door of the cab just as she was about to climb in. “Rita, don’t.”

Her eyes were wide. “What?”

“Let me take you home. There’s no reason for you to take a cab when I’m parked right here.”

She looked doubtful. “My apartment’s a long way off,” she said falteringly.

“All the more reason why you shouldn’t be making the trip alone. Come on. I promised Cassie I’d see you home safely. Don’t make a liar out of me.” He couldn’t resist adding with a smile, “I know you probably think that, as a lawyer, lying would be second nature to me, but it’s harder than you think.”

To his surprise, she smiled back, and the smile actually reached those beautiful eyes of hers, setting them afire. “But I’ve already hailed him…”

“I’ll handle it.” Moving quickly to deflect the cab driver’s impatience, he withdrew his money clip from his pocket and slipped him a bill, apologizing as he did so. Bored, the driver shrugged, accepted the money without a word and pulled away. He tipped the doorman, who was observing the entire exchange with a slightly perplexed look, and then gestured. “This way.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly, and was silent while he led her to his vehicle. To have called it a car was a bit of a stretch. It was, in fact, a hunter green four-wheel-drive twin-cab piece of space age engineering that came with just about every doohickey an outdoorsman would crave, from the tow-bar at the back to haul around his fishing boat, to the rack on top that could hold everything from a white-water raft to a tent. Her look of surprise pleased him.

“Teach you not to judge a book by its suit-and-tie cover.”

“Consider me schooled.”

Her humorous response made him relax. Maybe the drive back to her place wouldn’t be as tense as dinner. He helped her inside, as the running board was a little high, and her slim skirt, though it showed off her attractive curves, wasn’t much good when it came to climbing. He made sure she was comfortable, then came around to the driver’s side and hauled himself in with ease. The engine started with a soft murmur, and as soon as she gave him her address, he pulled away from the curb.

Rita still wasn’t saying much. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that she had closed her eyes and was massaging her temples with the tips of her fingers.

“You can drop it, you know,” he told her gently.

Her face was the picture of puzzlement. “Drop what?”

“The I’ve-got-a-headache act. I know neither of us was having a great time back there, and you did manage to get us out of it without hurting anyone’s feelings, but really, you don’t need to go on for my sake. I understand. We didn’t hit it off. No hard feelings.”

Then he noticed something he hadn’t before: a glimmer of moisture in her eyes. “Are you crying?”

“Not exactly,” she answered sharply.

“What the—why?”

“Nothing. It’s not an act.”

“What?”

“My headache. It’s not an act. I get these migraines sometimes, and this one’s…pretty bad. I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the head. And the nausea…it’s awful…”

He felt like a genuine heel. He’d all but accused her of lying, when, if he’d taken the time to really look at her, he’d have seen that she was in real pain. “If you feel like you need to throw up, let me know. I’ll pull over.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t throw up all over your precious Weekend Warrior Mobile.”

“That’s not what I meant at all!”

She covered her face with her hands and slumped forward in her seat. “Fine, whatever you say.”

Still ashamed of himself, he fiddled with the stereo. “Anything you’d like to listen to?”

“Silence would be great,” she told him from between cupped hands.

He snapped the stereo back off again. “You got it.”

Silence was just what he gave her, all the way to her apartment. He liked this part of town. It was old-fashioned and nostalgic without being run-down. It reminded him of the neighborhood he’d grown up in. He pulled up before her building, squinted at the brass plate fixed to the wall to ensure he had the right place, and alighted before she could bestir herself and try to get out without his help.

They stood on the sidewalk, solemnly regarding each other. “Got your keys?” he asked her.

She looked perplexed for a moment, as though seeing him through a blur of pain, and then rummaged in her purse. “Yes, got them.” She held them up, jangling them as proof. Then she turned toward the stairs. “Thank you for bringing me home.”

She wasn’t getting away that easy. He fell into step with her, locking his car and shoving the keys into his pocket. “I’m walking you inside.”

“You don’t have to,” she began hastily.

“Oh, yes I do. You’re not feeling well. I’m not driving off and leaving you until I know you’re safely inside.”

“I don’t need—” she began, a spark of indignation rising out of the mist of her pain, but just then she stumbled, and he caught her deftly and righted her.

“See? You can’t even make it to your own door.” He took her hand, which was limp, clammy and unresisting, in his. “Come.”

“But, Dorian…!”

Her protest was half-hearted, and he ran over it effortlessly. “But, nothing. A promise is a promise. I’m seeing you inside.” She gave no further resistance, so he unlocked the door to the main entrance and led her to the elevator. “Floor?”

“Third.”

He punched in the number. Once on the third floor, he looked around. There were just four apartments on each floor, and she wearily pointed out her own. By now, pity was consuming him, and he wanted urgently to get her inside so that she could rest. He selected the key that looked like it would fit the lock to her front door and began to insert it into the keyhole…

But the door yawned open before them without any further bidding.

Chapter 5

R ita stared in shock as her door opened at the lightest touch of Dorian’s hand. A creepy sensation overcame her, like worms crawling along the back of her neck. How could that be?

Dorian gave her a wary look. “You have a roommate?”

“No.”

“Boyfriend?”

“No!”

“Anyone have a key to your place?”

She frowned, her migraine making it difficult for her to think. “Cassie keeps my spares for me, but….”

“Stand back,” Dorian instructed, one arm moving her protectively to one side, with her back against the wall so that she was screened off from the entryway by both his broad body and the door. He bent forward, inspecting the keyhole and the lock. “Not even a little scratch,” he commented. “Nothing to suggest that the lock was picked.” He lifted his head to look at her. “You certain you locked up securely?”

Normally, she would have bristled at the suggestion. Did he really think she was enough of a knucklehead to have left her front door unlocked? But as memories of the evening tumbled upon each other, she tried to piece together their fragments. She’d left home in one heck of a hurry. Too much of a hurry to do her hair or put on some makeup, even. That thought made her run her fingers self-consciously through her messy corkscrews. Cassie had been downstairs in the car, waiting. Lord knew, Cassie had enough lip on her to make it very clear that she didn’t like to be kept waiting. So she’d hurried. But had she left in such haste that she had forgotten to lock up?

Dorian was still looking at her, waiting for an answer. “Rita?”

It was ridiculous. There they were, standing in the hallway, with her door agape, nothing inside but quiet darkness…and, perhaps, something, or some one else. She shivered again.

Dorian called her name again, more softly this time.

She looked at him, foolishly wasting precious seconds thinking how awesomely handsome he was, in spite of the concern that was wrinkling his brow. She found herself stuttering. “I…I…have no idea. I wasn’t feeling well, and I’d been a-a-asleep when Cassie came to get me. I rushed out to meet her.” She laughed self-deprecatingly. “I didn’t even have time to do my hair. I know I look a mess.”

His onyx eyes swept over her, once, and then again, more slowly, but if she was expecting a compliment, she was sorely disappointed. “Enough of a rush to forget to lock up?”

She was stumped on that point, but forgetting to lock the door was the better of the two options. “I don’t know.”

He straightened up and expelled air through his nose, shaking himself determinedly. “In any case, it’s pointless for us to stand here staring at the lock. I’m going in. Wait here.”

Was he serious? “I’m not waiting anywhere. I’m coming in with you.”

He gave her a long, sober look. “If someone broke in to your place, they could still be in there.”

A scary thought, but she insisted, “It’s my place. I’m going in with you.”

He sighed again. “Well, stay behind me. If I say to run, run all the way downstairs and outside, and don’t look back.”

She stifled a nervous giggle. “You planning to take a bullet for me?”

He threw her a dark look. “That was not funny.”

She had to concede that it wasn’t. “Sorry.”

She followed him inside, heart thumping. Her own apartment seemed alien to her, lit throughout only by the eerie glow of the bedside lamp she’d left on. Shapes loomed as their dense shadows made bogeymen out of everyday objects. To still her lurching stomach, she flicked on the lights as she followed Dorian from room to room, taking his advice and staying well behind him, even as she cursed herself for her cowardice. For once, she was willing to admit that if there was one thing that men were better at than women, it was hunting down skulking burglars.

They made their way to the last room, the study where she did most of her writing, and stopped. Dorian’s eyes were bright, his nostrils flared from the tension, and his deep chest rose and fell heavily. He stated the obvious. “Nobody here.”

“Maybe I did leave it open after all,” she mused. “You said yourself there were no marks on the lock or anything.”

“Not necessarily. They could have got in somewhere else, and used the door to leave.”

He was making no sense. “Got in where?”

“We’ll see.” Her study and her bedroom, which were side by side, faced the street. Along the far wall, which she had painted a deep teal, a color that helped her to relax and write, were three small windows. He checked them; they were all securely locked. Without saying anything, he returned to her bedroom, also painted teal. Three identical windows lined the wall, interspersed with small framed sepia drawings of men and women making love, their limbs so intertwined that it was almost impossible to tell where one body began and the other ended. Their huge, kohl-lined, almond-shaped eyes, full berry-colored lips and glossy black hair made them so exotic that he did a double take. His lifted brow asked a silent question.

“Those are, uh, recreations of ancient Buddahist drawings. It’s supposed to represent Tantric, uh, sex.” She felt fire in her cheeks. “My mother bought those on a trip to Calcutta. They’re not exactly my type of thing, but I, uh, didn’t want to offend her. So I put them up in here.”

He gave the drawings a slow once-over that left Rita squirming, before saying, “Your mother’s very progressive.”

“If only you knew,” she couldn’t stop herself from saying.

“What’s that mean?”

“Nothing.” She wished the damn drawings would spontaneously combust. It wasn’t every day a girl found herself standing in her bedroom with a stranger who didn’t like her, examining erotica on her walls. She wondered how to diplomatically remind him of his reason for being in her room in the first place. “Dorian…”

He took the hint. “Sorry.” He cleared his throat and focused on the windows, checking one lock, and then the next. The third was not only unlocked, but slightly ajar. He gave her a significant look. “You keep these locked?”

“Usually,” she said defensively. It was growing clearer and clearer to her that she’d screwed up and forgotten the door. She wasn’t happy about admitting that she went about leaving windows unlocked, too.

“Maybe they got in through here,” he suggested.

“From three floors below?”

As he shrugged, that suit she had so criticized pulled against his broad shoulders, drawing her attention once again to his heavy, beautifully shaped chest. He pointed downward at the old, elaborate columns decorating the facade of the building. They were old and worn, dating back to the same era as the carved angels that had been stripped off. “Somebody crazy enough to risk it could use that scrollwork as footholds.”

Maybe. She looked at the window again. It was divided into four-by-two metal bars in the shape of a cross. She pointed at the small spaces left by the bars. “A trained monkey might be able to get through there.” She pointed. “But not a person.”

He nodded speculatively, inspecting the lock and the window. “A trained monkey or an eight-year-old kid.”

“What?”

“Determination can make quick work of little obstacles like a narrow opening.”

“Even so,” she argued, “what would an eight-year-old kid be doing in my bedroom?”

“Whatever the grownup that’s controlling him forces him to do.” He said this with a grimace of bitterness.