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Of course, he thought, stilling his pen, she didn’t have to completely prove paternity for her claim to work. Simply put forth a believable argument.
He couldn’t believe he was contemplating the thought. Had he fallen so low he’d take on an audacious case simply for the potential settlement money?
One look at the meager pile of case files on his desk answered his question. At this point, he’d take Henry Hudson’s nephew’s case.
This was what failure felt like. The constant hollow feeling in his stomach. The weight on his shoulders. The tick, tick, tick in the back of his head reminding him another day was passing without clients knocking on his door.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Templetons, as had been drilled in his head, didn’t fail. They blazed trails. They excelled. They were leaders in their field. Doubly so if you were named Michael Templeton III and had two generations of namesakes to live up to.
You’re letting us down, Michael. We raised you to be better than this. A dozen years after he first heard them, his father’s words rose up to repeat themselves, reminding him he had no choice. Succeed or else. He took on the challenge of starting his own practice. He had to make it work, by hook or by crook.
Or audacious case, as it were. Unfortunately his best opportunity stormed out the door in a huff. So how did he get the little hothead to come back?
A patch of gray caught the corner of his eye. Realizing what he was looking at, Mike smiled. Perhaps his luck hadn’t run out after all. He picked up the grey envelope Roxanne O’Brien had left behind.
God bless indignant exits.
Thursday nights were always busy at the Elderion Lounge. The customers, businessmen mostly, their out-of-town visits winding down, tended to cut loose. Bar tabs got bigger, rounds more frequent, tables more boisterous. Normally Roxy didn’t mind the extra action since it meant more money in her pocket. Tonight, though, she wasn’t in the mood for salesmen knocking back vodka tonics.
“Six vodka tonics, one house pinot and two pom martinis,” she ordered. Despite being cold outside, the air was stifling and hot. She grabbed a cocktail napkin and blotted her neckline. This afternoon’s business jacket disappeared long ago and she was back to a black camisole and skirt.
The bartender, a beefy guy named Dion, looked her up and down. “You look frazzled. Table six isn’t giving you trouble, are they?”
“Nothing I can’t handle. Bad day is all.”
Who did Mike Templeton think he was anyway? Arrogant, condescending… Just because he was lucky enough to be born on the right side of town, what made him think he had the right to judge her or her mother or anyone else for that matter?
Wadding the napkin into a ball, she tossed it neatly into the basket behind the bar. “You’d think by this point I’d be immune to rejection.”
“I thought you gave up acting,” Dion said.
“I did. This was something else.” And the rejection stung worse. “You don’t know a good lawyer, do you?”
The bartender immediately frowned. “You in trouble?”
“Nothing like that. I need a business lawyer.”
“Oh.” He shook his head. “Sorry.”
“‘S’all right.” Who’s to say the next guy wouldn’t be as condescending as Mike Templeton?
“Oh, my God!” Jackie, one of the other waitresses rushed up, earrings and bangle bracelets jangling. “Please let this guy sit at my table.”
Busy stacking her tray, Roxy didn’t bother looking up. At least once a week, the man of Jackie’s dreams walked in. “What’s the deal this time? He look like someone famous?”
“Try rich.”
Here? Hardly. Unless the guy was lost and needed directions. Rich men hung at far better clubs. “I suppose he’s gorgeous, too.”
“Put it this way. If he was poor, I’d still make a move. He’s that sexy.”
Roxy had to see this male specimen for herself. Craning her neck, she surveyed the crowd. “I seriously doubt anyone with that much to offer—”
Mike Templeton stood by table eight, peeling the gloves off his hands one finger at a time. His eyes scanned the room with a heavy-lidded scrutiny. Roxy’s stomach dropped. Jackie was right, he was the best-looking man in the room. Stood out like a pro in a field of amateurs. What on earth was he doing here?
“Told you he was breathtaking,” she heard Jackie say. Before she could reply, he turned and their eyes locked. She stood rooted to the spot as he shrugged off his camel hair coat and draped it over the back of his chair. His actions were slow, deliberate, all the while holding her gaze. Goose bumps danced up her bare arms. It felt like she was the one removing layers.
“I don’t suppose I can convince you to switch tables, can I? You’re not interested in dating anyway. I’ll give you both my twelve and fifteen.”
Eyes still glued to the lawyer, Roxy shook her head. “Sorry, Jackie, no can do. Not this time.”
Grabbing her tray, she purposely served her other tables before making her way toward him. With her back to that stare, his pull diminished a little, though she could still feel him watching her with every move she made. Reminding her of his existence. As if she could forget.
Finally she had no choice—or customers—left and sauntered her way to his table.
“You’re a difficult person to pin down, Miss O’Brien,” he greeted. “I went by your apartment first and some guy told me you were ‘at the bar.’ I took a chance and assumed he meant here.” He smiled, as though being there was the most natural thing in the world, which it was decidedly not. “We never finished our conversation from earlier.”
The guy had to be joking. “What was there to finish? I pretty much heard everything I needed to hear when you insulted me and my mother.”
“You misunderstood. I wasn’t trying to insult you. Had you stuck around, you would have realized I was merely pointing out your story has some very questionable holes in it.”
“My mistake.” Misunderstood her foot. If that was his idea of a misunderstanding, then she was the Queen of New York. “Next time my life is turned upside down by a deathbed confession, I’ll try to make sure the story is more complete.”
She tucked her tray under her arm. “Is there anything else? I’ve got customers to wait on.” He wasn’t the only one who could be dismissive.
“I’ll have a Scotch. Neat.”
Great. He planned to stick around. Maybe she would let Jackie have the table. “Anything else?”
“Yes, there is. You forgot this.” Reaching into his briefcase, he pulled out a gray envelope. Seeing it, Roxy nearly groaned out loud. “Your mother took so much effort to preserve the collection. Seemed a shame to break up the set.”
She felt like an idiot. Figures she’d mess up her grand exit. She never was good at stage directions. “Thank you. But you didn’t have to drive all the way here to return it. You could have mailed it back to me.”
“No problem at all. I didn’t want to risk the envelope being damaged. Besides…”
Roxy had been reaching for the stack, when his hand came down to cover hers. “I figured this would buy me a few more minutes of your time,” he finished, his eyes catching hers.
Warmth spread through Roxy’s body, starting with her arm and moving upward. Glancing down at the table, she saw his hand still covered hers. The tapered fingers were almost twice the size of hers. If he wanted, he would wrap her hand right up in a strong, tight embrace. Feeling the warmth seeping into her cheeks, she pulled free.
“For what?” she asked, gripping her tray tightly. Squeezing the hard plastic helped chase away the sensation his hand left behind.
“I told you. You left before we could finish our conversation.”
“Given what I stuck around for, can you blame me? I’ll go get your drink.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he said as soon as she’d spun around. “You’re going to need a lot thicker skin than that if you want to go after the Sinclairs.”
Roxy froze. What did he say?
“That is why you came by to see me, isn’t it?” he continued. “Because you want to make a claim against Wentworth Sinclair’s estate?”
She was afraid to say yes, in case the other shoe dropped on her head. Slowly she turned around to find the lawyer looking more than a little pleased with himself for having caught her off guard. Was he trying to tell her she had a case after all?
So help him, if he was playing with her….
“Look, here’s the deal.” He leaned forward, gold cuff links catching the light. “Your case is a long shot. Both parties have passed away, and the only proof you have is a pile of love letters. Not to mention thirty years have gone by. The courts aren’t exactly generous when it comes to claims that old. Truth is, scaling Mount Everest would be easier.”
“Thanks for the recap.” And here she thought there was something to his comment. “If that’s what you came all the way over here to tell me, you wasted the gas.”
“You’re not letting me finish again.”
Roxy stopped. Although hearing him out seemed like a waste of time to her. How many times did she need to hear him say her case wasn’t good enough for him? “Okay,” she said, waiting. “Finish. My case is harder than climbing Mount Everest. What else do you need to tell me?”
A slow smile broke out across his face. A confident smile that stilled everything in her body. “Only that I happen to really enjoy mountain climbing.”
CHAPTER TWO
“I’LL, um, go get your drink.” Spinning around, Roxy made a beeline to the bar. It was the only response she could think of. Did he say what she thought he said? He was taking her case?
“You look like a truck hit you,” Jackie remarked when she reached the bar rail. “What happened? Richie Rich turn out to be a creep?”
If she weren’t still in a daze, Roxy would comment on the hopeful expectancy in the other woman’s voice. “Not a creep. My lawyer,” she corrected.
“I thought you said you didn’t have one,” Dion said.
“I didn’t think I did.” She still wasn’t sure. She didn’t trust her ears. For that matter, she wasn’t entirely sure she trusted Mike Templeton. There had to be a catch.
Quickly she looked over her shoulder. There he sat, stiff and formal, arranging what looked like paperwork on the table. He certainly didn’t seem the type to lead someone on.
“If you’re serious,” she said, when her rounds finally brought him back to his table, “then what was all that business about Henry Hudson and not having proof?”
“Had to figure out how loyal you were to your story somehow, didn’t I?” he remarked, raising the glass to his lips.
“Un-freaking-believable.” It was a test. If it weren’t such an amazingly bad idea, she’d pour Scotch in his lap. She still might. “Do you have any idea how pis—How upset I was?”
“From the way you stormed out, I could hazard a guess. But that also tipped the scale in your favor. Either you truly believed your story or you were a damn good actress.”
She could give him a long list of directors and casting agents who could refute the latter. Still, a test? She had half a mind to tell him he could stuff himself regardless of whether he wanted to take on her claim or not. “I can’t believe you. Are you like this with everyone who tries to hire you?”
“Only the ones claiming to be heirs to multimillion-dollar fortunes.”
Millions? Was he joking? Roxy checked his expression. His face was deadly serious.
Oh, my. She dropped into the seat across from him. “Millions?” she repeated.
“What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know.” She swiped the hair from her face, trying to focus. “I knew they were rich, but… Wow.”
His test was beginning to make a bit of sense. Millions. A tingle ran up her spine.
“There’s no guarantee, mind you. Like I said, the courts seldom rule in favor of claims like yours.”
Mind still reeling, Roxy nodded.
“Plus, the Sinclairs’ lawyers will put up a heck of a fight. This isn’t the first time someone’s challenged their estate, I’m sure. Nevertheless, if we play our cards right, and there’s no reason to believe I won’t, we’ll both be looking at a nice little payday.”
Again, Roxy nodded. She didn’t know what else to do. His proclamation had stunned her to silence.
“Yo, Roxy! Table four!” Dion called. “Get your butt in gear.”
A few feet away, a trio of women with empty martini glasses were looking in her direction, visibly annoyed.
“You better get to your customers,” Mike noted.
He watched with amusement as the waitress half stumbled, half rushed away. Funny how her expression went from annoyed to dazed in literally the blink of an eye. The prospect of money could do that to a person. Made him jump in his car and drive to this place, didn’t it?
For a moment he’d been afraid he’d laid it on a little too heavy with that “test” stuff, but she accepted his behavior. All he needed to do now was get her to cooperate with the rest of the case. Shouldn’t be too hard. Especially given her alternative.
Leaning back in his chair, he sipped his drink and looked around the bar. As bars went, the Elderion was in the upper-lower half. Below average, but far enough up to avoid being a dive. Both the tables and the clientele had mileage.
Wentworth’s letter lay where Roxanne dropped it. He ran his finger along the edge of the gray envelope. The contents had long been committed to memory. “I can still smell your scent on my skin,” Wentworth had written for the opening line. College passion. He knew it well. That heady reckless feeling. The blind confidence the days would last forever. Until reality barged in with its expectations and traditions waiting to be fulfilled and impractical dreams had to be shoved aside.
Look at you. We raised you to be better than this, Michael.
A hollow feeling lodged in his stomach. He blamed the surroundings. Ever since walking in to the Elderion, he’d been possessed by the strangest feeling of déjà vu. Memories of another bar with dim lights and warm beer came floating back. When quality and atmosphere took a backseat to political debates and slow dancing in the dark.
His semester of ill-spent youth. He hadn’t thought about those days in years. They’d been jettisoned to the past when he took his first law internship.
A few feet away, his new client—least he hoped she was his new client—negotiated her way through the narrow tables with the grace of a dancer. Amazing she could navigate anything in that scrap of cloth she called a uniform. Without the pink-and-gray blazer for coverage, he had a perfect view of how the spandex skirt molded to her curves. An open invitation to check out the assets. As she bent over, the skirt pulled tighter. Forget invitation, Mike decided, try full-blown neon sign. Feeling an uncomfortable tightness, he shifted his legs. Definitely not what his usual client would wear.
But then, this case wasn’t his usual case. In fact, it was everything he’d been taught to avoid—splashy, risky, generating more notoriety than respect. Beggars couldn’t be choosers could they? Beat closing his doors and telling his family he wasn’t the Templeton they’d groomed him to be. Watching Roxanne dodge the palm of a customer right before it caressed her bottom, he retrieved his pen and made a quick note: smooth out the rough edges.
It was an hour later before Roxanne returned to his table, carrying with her a bottle of water. Mike tried not to stare at her legs as she approached. Given her outfit, it was a Herculean task at best. “You’re still here,” she said.
“Seemed silly to drive all the way back to the office when I could work here.” He’d stacked what little legal work he did have in piles on the desk.
“It’s eight o’clock. Most people have stopped working by now.”
“Maybe in this place, but I’m not most people.” He should know. It’d been drilled into his head enough growing up. “I also figured you’d have questions.”
“You’re right. I do.” She pointed to the empty chair. “Do you mind?”
“Your big bad boss won’t care?”
“I’m on my ten.”
“Then be my guest. What’s your question?”
