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The Billionaire's Fair Lady
Barbara Wallace
Hot-shot lawyer Mike Templeton is intrigued when actress-turned-waitressRoxy O’Brien rocks up to his office with a scandalous inheritance claim that could save his practice… After an uptown makeover Roxy feels every inch the heiress – but can she resist her intoxicating lawyer or will she be in danger of losing her heart?
“Mommy’s back!” Steffi jumped from her seat and ran toward the door. Mike followed behind. At this point he wasn’t sure who was happier to see them return. That is, he was eager to see how his investment paid off.
The main office door opened and—wow! Mike had to grab hold of the reception desk to keep his balance. The woman walking through the door with Sophie was… Was…
He’d lost his ability to speak. Her red mane had been tamed into thick strawberry plaits that tumbled about her shoulders. The skinny jeans and sweater were gone. Tossed in favor of a black and white wraparound dress and cardigan sweater that subtly showed off her curves. The hint of flesh dipping to a V between her breasts was as enticing as any low-cut camisole. And her legs… Discreetly, he stole a look at her bottom half.
Her eyes found his, looking for his reaction. Had her skin always looked this luminescent or was it the expertly applied make-up?
“You look amazing,” he replied.
“Then I guess the transformation is complete.”
A shadow flickered across her face…
Dear Reader,
When I finished writing Mr Right, Next Door! my editor and I agreed the hero’s brother, Mike Templeton, needed a story. It had become apparent to both of us that this supposed stuffed-shirt attorney had some secrets of his own to share. He needed his own heroine to help him shed that tightly wound exterior.
Growing up, I was fascinated by the story of Anna Anderson, the woman who claimed to be Anastasia, the daughter of Tsar Nicholas. What if, I asked myself, Mike Templeton found himself in the middle of a reallife Anastasia story? And what if the woman concerned forced him to look long and hard at the choices he had made in life?
Thus Roxy O’Brien was born. If anyone deserves an Anastasia type of story it’s Roxy. As far as she’s concerned her life has been the polar opposite of Mike’s: full of bad luck and bad decisions.
What this lawyer and this single mum are about to discover is that they aren’t so different after all. In fact they might actually be made for one another.
It was a lot of fun writing this story. By the way, I apologise in advance for the legal fudging that takes place. I confess, I let Mike’s and Roxy’s happy ending take precedent over… well, over legal precedent.
I hope you enjoy Mike’s and Roxy’s story. Please let me know what you think. Getting feedback from readers is always one of the highlights of my day. You can reach me at Barbara@barbarawallace.com.
Happy reading and best regards,
Barbara Wallace
About the Author
BARBARA WALLACE is a life-long romantic and day-dreamer, so it’s not surprising that at the age of eight she decided to become a writer. However, it wasn’t until a co-worker handed her a romance novel that she knew where her stories belonged. For years she limited her dreams to nights, weekends and commuter train trips, while working as a communications specialist, PR freelancer and full-time mom. At the urging of her family she finally chucked the day job and pursued writing full time—she couldn’t be happier.
Barbara lives in Massachusetts, with her husband, their teenage son and two very spoiled, self-centred cats (as if there could be any other kind). Readers can visit her at www.barbarawallace.com and find her on Facebook. She’d love to hear from you.
The Billionaire’s
Fair Lady
Barbara Wallace
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To the fabulous Donna Alward,
who talked me off ledges and pushed me to get this story on paper. You’re the best!
To Flo, the best editor a woman could ask for.
To the real Fran and Alice for providing the legal background information. Thanks for the help.
And, as always, to my boys Pete and Andrew,
who put up with an awful lot so I can live my dream of writing stories for a living.
CHAPTER ONE
HE DIDN’T believe her.
Color her not surprised. You’ve got to go uptown to fight uptown. Minute the thought entered her brain, she should have shoved it aside. After all, bad ideas were a Roxy O’Brien specialty. But no, she opened the phone directory and picked the first uptown law firm whose ad mentioned wills. Which was why she now sat in her best imitation business outfit—really her waitress uniform with a new plaid blazer—waiting for Michael Templeton, attorney at law, to deliver his verdict.
“Where did you say you found these letters?” he asked. His gold-rimmed reading glasses couldn’t mask the skeptical glint in his brown eyes. “Your mother’s closet?”
“Yes,” she replied. “In a shoe box.” Tucked under a collection of seasonal sweaters.
“And you didn’t know they existed before then?”
“I didn’t know anything until last month.”
That was putting it mildly. Her head was still reeling.
The attorney didn’t reply. Again, not surprising. He’d done very little talking the entire meeting. In fact, Roxy got the distinct impression he found the whole appointment something of a trial. Something to get through so he could move on to more important, more believable business.
To his credit, disbelief or not, he didn’t rush her out the door. He let her lay out her story without interruption, and was now carefully reading the letter in his hand. The first of what was a collection of thirty, all lovingly preserved in chronological order. Her mother’s secret.
You have his eyes.
The memory rolled through her. Four words. Fourteen letters. With the power to change her life. One minute she was Roxanne O’Brien, daughter of Fiona and Connor O’Brien, the next she was… Who? The daughter of some man she’d never met. A lover her mother never—ever—mentioned. That’s why she came to Mike Templeton. To find answers.
Well, maybe a little bit more than answers. After all, if her mother told the truth, then she, Roxy O’Brien whoever, could be entitled to a far different life. A far better life.
You have his eyes.
Speaking of eyes, Mike Templeton had set down the letter and sat studying her. Roxy’d been stared at before. Customers figured ogling the waitress came with the bar tab. And they were the polite ones. So she’d grown immune to looks long ago. Or so she’d thought. For some reason, Mike Templeton’s stare made her want to squirm. Maybe because he’d removed his glasses, giving her an unobstructed view of what were really very intense brown eyes. It felt like he wasn’t so much looking at her as trying to see inside. Read her mind, or gauge her intentions. A self-conscious flutter found its way to her stomach. She recrossed her legs, wishing her skirt wasn’t so damn short, and forced herself to maintain eye contact. A visual Mexican standoff.
To her relief, he broke first, sitting back in his leather chair. Roxy found her eyes drawn to the black lacquered pen he twirled between his long, elegant fingers.
Everything about him was elegant, she thought to herself. His fingers, his “bearing” as her high school drama teacher would say. He fit the surroundings, that’s for sure, right down to the tailored suit and crisp white shirt. Roxy wasn’t sure, but she thought she’d seen a similar look on the pages of a men’s fashion magazine. Simply sitting across from him made her feel every inch the downtown girl.
Except, if what her mother said was true, she wasn’t so downtown after all, was she?”
“Are all the letters this… intimate?” he asked.
Cheeks warming, Roxy nodded. “I think so. I skimmed most of them.” Like the man said, the letters were intimate. Reading them closely felt too much like reading a stranger’s diary.
A stranger who was her father. Come to think of it, the woman described on those pages didn’t sound very much like her mother, either.
“You’ll notice the dates, though,” she told him. “The last letter is postmarked. Nine months before I was born.”
“As well as a couple of weeks before his accident.”
The car accident that killed him. Roxy had read a brief account when doing her internet research.
The attorney frowned. Somehow he managed to make even that expression look sophisticated. “You’re positive your mother never said anything before last month?”
He was kidding, right? Roxy shot him a long look. What was with all these repetitive questions anyway? She’d already laid out her whole story. If he planned on dismissing her, then dismiss her. Why waste time? “I think I would have remembered if she did.”
“And she didn’t explain why?”
“Unfortunately she was too busy dying.”
The words were out before Roxy could pull them back, causing the lawyer’s eyebrows to arch. Clearly not the best way to impress the man.
Seriously though, how did he expect her to answer? That while on her deathbed, her mother laid out a detailed and concise explanation of her affair with Wentworth Sinclair? “She was pretty out of things,” Roxy said, doing her best to choke back the sarcasm. “At first I thought it was the painkillers talking.” Until her mother’s eyes had cleared for that one, brief instant. You have his eyes….
“Now you think otherwise.”
“Based on what I read in those letters, yes.”
“Hmmm.”
That was it. Just hmmm. He’d begun twirling the pen again. Roxy didn’t like the silence. Reminded her too much of the expectant pause that followed an audition speech while the casting director made notes. Here the expectation felt even thicker. Probably because the stakes were so much higher.
“So let me see if I have this straight,” he said finally, drawing out his words. “Your mother just happens to tell you on her deathbed that you’re the daughter of Wentworth Sinclair, the dead son of one of New York’s wealthiest families. Then, when cleaning out her belongings, you just happen to find a stack of love letters that not only corroborates your claim, but lays out a timeline that ends right before his death.” He gave the pen another couple of twirls. “Ties up pretty conveniently, wouldn’t you say? The fact both parties are dead and unable to dispute your story?”
“Why would they dispute anything? I’m telling the truth.” Roxy didn’t like where this conversation was heading one little bit. “If you’re suggesting I’m making the story up—” She knew he didn’t believe her.
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m simply pointing out the facts, which are convenient.” He leaned forward, fingers folded in front of him. “Do you know how many people claim to be long-lost heirs?”
“No.” Nor did she care about any claim but hers, which happened to be true.
“More than you’d realize. Just last week, for example, a man came in saying he’d traced his family tree back to Henry Hudson. He wanted to know if he was eligible for reparation from the city of New York for his share of the Hudson River.”
“And your point?” Anger ticking upward, she gritted her teeth.
“My point,” he replied, leaning closer, “is that he had more paperwork than you.”
Son of a—The man all but called her a fraud. No, worse. He was implying she made up the story like it was some kind of scam. As if she hadn’t spent the past month questioning everything she’d known about her life. How dare he? “You think I’m lying about being Wentworth Sinclair’s daughter?”
“People have done more for less.”
“I—You—” It took every ounce of restraint not to grab the nameplate off his desk and smash it over his head. “This isn’t about money,” she spat at him.
“Really?” He sat back. “So you have no interest at all in gaining a share of the Sinclair millions?”
Roxy opened her mouth, then shut it. She’d like nothing better than to say absolutely not and make him feel like a condescending heel, but they both knew she’d be lying. If it were only her, or if she lived in a perfect world, she could afford to be virtuous, but it wasn’t only about her. And Lord knows her world was far from perfect. That was the point. Being Wentworth Sinclair’s daughter could be her only shot at not screwing up the one worthwhile thing in her miserable life.
Try explaining that to someone like Mike Templeton, however. What would he know about mistakes and imperfect worlds? He’d probably spent his whole life watching everything he’d touched turn to gold.
Right now, he was smirking at her reaction. “That’s what I thought. Sorry, but if you’re looking for a payout, you’ll have to do better than a stack of thirty-year-old love letters.”
“Twenty-nine,” Roxy corrected, although really, why bother? He’d already made up his mind she was some lying money-grabber.
“Twenty-nine then. Either way, next time I suggest you try bringing a document that’s more useful, like a birth certificate perhaps.”
“You mean the one naming Wentworth Sinclair as my father?” The battle against sarcasm failed, badly, and she mockingly slapped her forehead. “Silly me, I left it at home.” When he gave her a pointed look, she returned it with an equally pointed expression of her own. He wasn’t the only one who could do judgmental. “Don’t you think if I had something like that, I would have brought it with me?”
“One would think, but then one would think your mother would have named the correct father thirty years ago, too.” He was folding the letter and placing it back in its envelope. Roxy wanted to grab his long fingers and squeeze them until he yelped. One would think. Maybe her mother had been afraid no one would believe her either.
“You know what,” she said, reaching for the stack of letters, “forget this.”
What made her think uptown would want to help her? Uptown didn’t care about people like her, period, and she’d be damned if she was going to sit here and let some stuffed-shirt lawyer look down his nose at her. “The only reason I came here was that your directory ad said you handled wills and estates, and I thought you could help me. Apparently I was wrong.”
She snatched her leather coat off the back of her chair. If Mike Templeton didn’t think her problems were worth his time, then he wasn’t worth hers. “I’m sure another law firm will be willing to listen.”
“Miss O’Brien, I think you misunderstood. Please sit down.”
No, Roxy didn’t feel like sitting down. Or listening to any kind of explanation. Why? Rejection was rejection regardless of how many pretty words you attached to it. She should know. She’d heard enough “thanks but no thanks” in her lifetime. And they felt like kicks to the stomach.
She jammed her arm into her coat sleeve. Emotion clogged her throat, and she absolutely refused to let him see her eyes water.
“By the way,” she said, adjusting her collar. “Your ad said you welcomed all types of cases. If you don’t mean it, then don’t say so in the headline.”
An unnecessary jab, but she was tired of playing polite and classy. Besides, being called a gold-digging fraud should entitle her to at least one parting shot.
“Miss O’Brien—”
She strode from the office without turning around, proud that she got as far as street level before her vision grew blurry.
Dammit. She’d have thought she’d be cried out by now. When would she stop feeling so raw and exposed?
You have his eyes…
“Why didn’t you say anything, Mom?” she railed silently. “Why did you wait till it was too late to tell me?”
Was she that ashamed of her daughter?
Not cool, Templeton, Not cool at all.
Mike had to admit, though, as indignant exits went, Roxy O’Brien’s was among the best. Ten years of estate law had shown him his share of scam artists and gold diggers, but she was the first who’d truly teared up upon storming out. She probably didn’t think he noticed, but he had. There was no mistaking the overly bright sheen in those green eyes of hers, in spite of her attempts to blink them dry.
Pen twirling between his fingers, he rocked back and forth in his chair. Couldn’t blame her for being upset. Like a lot of people, she must have thought she’d stumbled across the legal equivalent of a winning lottery ticket. If she’d stuck around instead of stomping off like a redheaded windstorm he’d have explained that making a claim against the Sinclairs wasn’t that simple, even if her story was true. There were legal precedents and statutes of limitations to consider.
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?”
“Well, first…” She picked at the label on her water bottle, obviously searching for the right words. “Are you sure you weren’t kidding? About it being a million-dollar claim? That wasn’t another one of your tests, was it?”
Ah, straight to the money. “I told you, I don’t kid. Not about case value. Although keep in mind, I’m not making any promises, either. I’m saying there’s potential. Nothing more.”
“I appreciate the honesty. I don’t like being misled.”
“Me, neither,” he replied. Seemed the hothead had a bit of a cautious streak after all. A good sign.
He watched as she peeled off a strip of label. “So what’s the next step?” she asked. “Do I take a DNA test or something?”
If it were so easy. “Easy there, Cowboy. Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s a little more complicated. You got any Sinclair DNA lying around?” he asked her.
Immediately her eyes went to the envelope. Cautious and quick. “I’m afraid you’ve watched too many crime shows. Getting anything off letters that old would be a miracle.” Besides, he’d already had a similar thought and checked online. “You’re going to need a more recent sample.”
“How do we get one?”
Now they were getting to the complicated part. “Best way would be for one of the Sinclair sisters to agree to a test. They are Wentworth’s closest living relatives.”
“But you said they would put up a fight.”
“Doesn’t mean we don’t ask,” he told her. “We give them enough evidence, and they’ll have to comply.”
“You mean, prove I’m a Sinclair, and they’ll let me have proof.”
Mike couldn’t help smiling. Definitely quick. He liked that. If he had to take a case like this, he preferred to work with a client who understood what they were doing. Made his job easier. “Never fear. We’ll make enough noise that they’ll have to pay attention. The squeaky wheel and that sort of thing.”
Frowning, she tore another strip. Some of the eagerness had left her face. Without it, she looked tired and, dare he say, a bit vulnerable. “You make it sound like I’m out to get them.”
“The Sinclairs would argue you are.”
“Why? I didn’t go looking for this. My mother dropped the story in my lap.”
“A story you promptly took to a lawyer to see if you have a claim to his estate.”
That silenced her. “I didn’t look at it that way.” Another strip peeled away. “I’m just trying to make my life better. If this guy—Wentworth Sinclair—was my father, he’d want that, too, wouldn’t he?”
Mike had to admit, if the relationship painted in the letter he read carried forward, she might be right. “Which is why we’re pursuing the claim. To help you get that better life.”
“What if they refuse to listen?”
“Then we’ll keep fighting,” Mike answered simply. Sooner or later, the Sinclairs would have to pay attention if only to make them disappear. He wasn’t kidding about the squeaky wheel; it always yielded some kind of result.
Roxy was looking down at the table. Following her gaze, Mike saw that at some point while talking, he’d once again covered her hand. When had he reached across? When the dimness hit her eyes? That wasn’t like him. He always kept an invisible wall between himself and his clients. For good reason. Getting too close led to making mistakes.
He studied the hand beneath his. She had skin the color of eggshells, pale and off-white. There was a small tattoo on the inside of her wrist as well. A yellow butterfly. The wings called out for a thumb to brush across them.
Mike realized he was about to do just that when she pulled her hand free and balled it into a fist. He found himself doing the same.
“Why?” she asked aloud.
Distracted by his reaction to the butterfly, it took a moment for her question to register. “Why what?”
“Why would you fight for me? If it’s such a long shot, why are you taking this case?”
Somehow he didn’t think she’d appreciate the truth, that he needed the money from this case as badly as she wanted it. “Told you, I like a challenge. As for fighting, I don’t believe in quitting. Or losing. So you can be assured, I’ll stick around to the bloody end.”
“Colorful term.”
“I also don’t believe in mincing words.”
“That so? Never would have guessed from your gentle desk side manner.” She smiled as she delivered the comment. Mike fought the urge to smile back, taking a sip of his drink instead.
“You can have hand-holding or you can have results.” Unfortunate choice of words given his behavior a moment earlier. “Up to you.”
“Results are fine,” she replied. “In my book, hand-holding is overrated. Sympathy just leads to a whole lot of unwanted problems.”
Add practical to her list of attributes. Maybe this case would go smoother than he thought, in spite of this morning’s dramatics. “I agree.”
“Still…”
Mike’s senses went on alert. Any sentence beginning with the word “still” never ended well. “What is it?”
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not looking for reassurance, but I’m wondering. When you say the word bloody, just how bloody do you mean?”
“The Sinclair legal team won’t hold back, if that’s what you’re asking. They’ll have no qualms about digging into your life.” Her expression fell, followed quickly by his stomach. She had a skeleton, didn’t she? “If you’ve got secrets, you best start sharing.”
“No secrets.” She shook her head, a little too vehemently if you asked him.
“Then what?”
“I’ve got a kid. A little girl. Her name is Steffi.”
Wentworth Sinclair’s granddaughter. That wasn’t what he expected to hear. “No problem,” he replied. His enthusiasm started building. Alice and Frances Sinclair would no doubt be very interested in the little girl’s existence. “In fact, this might actually make the case—”
“Whoa!” She held up her hand, cutting him off. “I don’t want her involved. She’s only four years old. She won’t understand what’s going on.”
Mike took a deep breath. “I don’t think you understand. The fact that Wentworth might have a granddaughter could go a long way in convincing the sisters to comply with our requests.”
She shook her head. “I don’t care. I’m not going to have her being upset. She can’t be involved. You’ll have to find a different way.”
“I don’t think—”
“Promise.”
What was he going to do? He wanted to tell her she was in no position to issue conditions, that as her lawyer, it was his job to do everything he could to win her case, meaning he was the one who would decide what tactics he could or couldn’t use. He also wanted to tell her there was no way he could keep such a promise. Sooner or later the Sinclair sisters would discover the child’s existence. Her fiercely determined expression stopped him from saying so. There was no way he’d get her to budge on the issue tonight. Push and he ran the risk of her walking away again.
“Fine.” He’d agree to her condition for now, and renegotiate their position later.
“Thank you.” Satisfied, she opened her now naked water bottle and took a long drink. “When do we start?”
The spark had returned to her eyes, turning them brilliantly green. She was leaning forward, too, enough to remind him her tank top was extremely low cut. His legal mind definitely did not appreciate the male awareness the sight caused. Definitely had to smooth out the rough edges.
“Soon,” he told her. “Very soon.”
He stayed the rest of the evening. Nursing his drink and scribbling notes on his yellow legal pad. Damn unnerving it was, too. His existence filled the entire room making it impossible to ignore him. Three times she messed up an order because he distracted her, mistakes Dion made clear he planned to take out of her check.
Why was he sticking around anyway? He’d returned her letter, they’d talked. Shouldn’t he be at his uptown apartment, drinking expensive Scotch by a fireplace? Surely he wasn’t sticking around for the ambience. No one came to the Elderion for the ambiance.
“Maybe he wants to negotiate payment,” Jackie teased. Ever since Roxy had mentioned the fact Mike was working on a legal problem for her the other waitress wouldn’t stop with the innuendos.
“Very funny,” she shot back, though the comment did make her hair stand on edge. They hadn’t talked about payment. How did he expect her to pay for his services?
His presence continued to dog her as she delivered a round to the table next to his. Thank goodness the patrons all ordered bottled beer. She wasn’t sure she could handle anything more complicated while standing in such close proximity.
Funny thing was the guy hadn’t looked in her direction. Not once, and she’d been checking fairly frequently. Staring she could handle. She got looks every night. So why couldn’t she shake Mike Templeton? Why did she feel that same penetrating scrutiny she felt back at his office every time she walked in his line of sight? All night long, it felt like he was right behind her, staring at her soul.
Another thing. He insisted on looking good. By this point in the night, the rest of the men in the place had long shed their jackets and ties. Heck, some were close to shedding their shirts. The room smelled of damp skin and aftershave.
Mike, however, barely looked bothered. His tie remained tightly knotted, and he still wore his suit jacket. Roxy didn’t even think there were wrinkles in his shirt. If he was going to stick around, the least he could do was try to blend in with the rest of the drunken businessmen.
“Why are you still here?” she finally asked, when her rounds brought her to his table.
He looked up from the chicken scratches he’d been making on his notepad. “I’d like to think the answer’s apparent. I’m working.”
“I can see that. Why are you still working?”
She expected him to say something equally obvious such as “I’m not done yet” but he didn’t. Instead he got an unusually faraway look in his eye. “I have to.”
No, Roxy thought. She had to. A guy like Mike Templeton chose to. In the interest of good relations, she kept the difference to herself, and instead tried to decipher the notes in front of her. “Smooth out the rough edges? What does that mean?”
“Part of my overall strategy. I’m still fleshing it out.”
“You planning to share it with me?”
“Eventually.” The vague answer didn’t sit well. Too much like information being kept from her, and she’d had enough of that this month. “Why can’t I see now?”
“Because it’s not fleshed out yet.”
“Uh-huh.” Uncertain she believed him, she bounced her tray off her thigh, and tried to see if she could find further explanation hidden in his expression. “In other words, trust you.”
“Yes.” He paused. “You can do that, can’t you?”
Roxy didn’t answer. “You want another Scotch?” she asked instead.
“Should I take that as a no?”
“Should I take that as you don’t want another drink?” she countered.
“Diet cola. And when the idea is fully formed, you’ll know. You don’t share your order pad before bringing the drinks do you?”
The two analogies had absolutely nothing to do with one another as far as she could see. “I would if the customer asked. If they didn’t like being kept in the dark.”
“Fine,” he said, giving an exasperated sigh. “Here.” He angled his pad so she could read better. All she saw were a bunch of half sentences and notations she didn’t understand.
“Satisfied?” he asked when she turned the notepad around.
Yes. Along with embarrassed. “You have terrible handwriting.”
“I wasn’t planning on my notes being studied. Are you always this mistrustful?”
“Can you blame me?” she replied. “I just found out my mother lied to me for thirty years.”
“Twenty-nine,” he corrected, earning a smirk.
“Twenty-nine. Plus, I work here. This place hardly inspires trust.”
“What do you mean?”
He wanted examples? “See that table over there?” She pointed to table two where a quartet of tipsy businessmen were laughing and nuzzling with an equally tipsy pair of women. “Half those guys wear wedding bands. So does one of the women.
“You see it all the time,” she continued. “Men telling women how beautiful and special they are while the entire time keeping their left hands stuffed in a pocket so no one sees the tan line.” Or promising comfort when all they really wanted was a roll in the sack.
“Interesting point,” Mike replied. “One difference, though. I’m not one of your bar customers.”
No, she thought, looking him over. He wasn’t. “I don’t know you much better,” she pointed out.
“You will.”
Something about the way he said those two words made her stomach flutter, and made the already close atmosphere even closer. All evening long, she’d been battling a stirring awareness, and now it threatened to blossom. She didn’t like the feeling one bit.
Jackie’s innuendos popped into her head.
“How do you expect me to pay out?” she blurted. He frowned, clearly confused, but to her the change in topic made perfect sense. “We never talked, and last time I checked you guys don’t work for free. How exactly do you expect to collect payment?”
Realization crested across his face, followed quickly by his mouth drawing into a tight line. “It’s called a contingency fee,” he said tersely.
“Like those personal injury lawyers that advertise on television? The ones that say you don’t have to pay them until you win?”
“Exactly. What else did you expect?”
He already knew, and she felt her skin begin to color. What could she say? She was paranoid. Life made her that way. “I didn’t. Why else would I ask?”
“If you don’t like that plan, you can pay hourly.” He looked around the bar. “If doing so fits your budget.”
Doubtful, and he knew that, too. “Your plan is fine.”
“Good. Glad you approve.”
“Do you still want your diet soda?”
“Please.”
Shoot. She’d been hoping he’d say no, so she wouldn’t have to visit his table again. “Coming right up. I’ll drop it off before I cash out.”
“You’re done for the evening?” He straightened in his seat at the news.
Roxy nodded. The ability to clock out earlier than other bars was one of the reasons she continued working at the place. She could get home at a decent hour and be awake enough to get up with Steffi.
Reaching for his wallet, Mike pulled out a trio of bills. “This should cover my tab and tip. I’ll meet you out front.”
“For what?”
“To drive you home of course.”
Drive her home. Maybe Jackie’s comment wasn’t so far off. She fingered the bills, noting his tip was beyond generous for one drink. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch.”
“Really?” She may have made her share of bad calls, but she wasn’t stupid. Uptown lawyers didn’t hang out at the Elderion and offer waitresses rides for no reason. She hadn’t forgotten what he implied about her mother. “You drive all your clients home in the middle of the night?”
“If they’re dressed like that, I do.”
What was wrong with the way she was dressed?
“For one thing, you’re not,” he replied when she asked.
A comment like that was supposed to make her want to get into a car with him? “I’ll have you know I’ve been riding the same bus for years without a single incident.”
“Well, aren’t you lucky.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it. After a while you develop a kind of invisible armor and no one bothers you.”
He frowned. “Invisible armor?”
“Street smarts, you know? People see you and realize straight off they can’t hassle you. You blend in.” It was outsiders like him that had to worry. Unfortunately, from the way he was already packing his things, Roxy had the distinct feeling he wasn’t interested in her argument or in taking no for an answer.
What the heck. Wouldn’t kill her to ride in a warm car for a change.
“I’ll meet you in five,” she told him.
Did she really think she was safe riding the bus wearing that outfit? Watching her sashay off, Mike rolled his eyes. For crying out loud, she wasn’t even his type.
In this lifetime anyway. A memory danced on the edge of his mind. Of other late-night bus rides and willing partners. He shook it away.
“You make this commute every night?” he asked when they finally met up. She’d slipped a leather jacket over her uniform. The waist-length jacket covered her bare shoulders, but still left the legs exposed.
“Five nights a week.”
They rounded the corner and headed to the pay lot, walking past the bus stop in time to see a drunken patron relieving himself on the wall. Did her invisible armor protect her from that, too? he wondered as the splash narrowly missed his shoe.
“I thought about adding a sixth,” Roxy was saying, “but that would mean less time with Steffi. I hardly see her much as it is. She sees more of her babysitter.”
“When you win this case, you’ll have all the time in the world.”
“At this point in my life I’d settle for not having to schlep drinks for a living. I don’t care what they say, the smell of stale beer doesn’t go away.”
“You never thought of doing something else?”
“Oh, sure. I was going to be a doctor but the Elderion was too awesome to give up.
“Sorry,” she quickly added. “Couldn’t help myself. I could have found a day job, but originally I wanted my days free for auditions.”
“Auditions? You’re an actress?” A strange emotion stirred inside him. He should be concerned her career aspirations made her more interested in grabbing fifteen minutes of fame than in seeing the case through. Instead the tug felt more like envy. He chalked it up to being in the bar. The night had him thinking of old times and old aspirations.
The driver had brought out his sedan from the back of the lot. As Roxy slid into the passenger seat, her skirt bunched higher, almost to the juncture of her thighs. Mike averted his eyes while she adjusted herself. Yeah, she blended in.
“I’m impressed,” he said when he settled into his driver’s seat.
“Don’t be. It was eight years of nothing.”
“Couldn’t have been that bad.”
“Try worse. Turns out you need one of two things to make it in show business. Talent or cleavage. I was saving up for the latter when I had Steffi.”
“So you quit for motherhood.”
“Couldn’t very well work all night, run around to auditions all day and take care of her, too. Since the whole acting thing wasn’t working out anyway, I figured I’d cut my losses and do one thing halfway decently.”
“Halfway?”
Her shrug failed to hide her embarrassment. Clearly she hadn’t expected him to pick up on the modifier. “The whole �wish I could spend more time with her’ thing. Not that I have a choice, right?”
“No.” He stared at the brake lights ahead of him. The city that never sleeps. Even after midnight, gridlock could snag you. “But then a lot of choices aren’t really in our control.”
“What do you mean?”
This time he was the one who shrugged as a way of covering up. He didn’t know what he meant. The words sort of bubbled up on their own. “That a lot of the time life makes the decisions for us.”
“You mean like how getting knocked up put my acting career out of its misery?” Her nonchalant expression was poorly crafted. No wonder she failed as an actress.
“She’s why I’m doing all this now,” she continued after a beat. “Partly anyway. I want her to have more choices than I can give her now.”
This time she wasn’t acting. The desperate determination in her voice was very real.
A thought suddenly occurred to him. “What about her father?”
“What about him?”
He’d hit a sore spot. He could feel her stiffen. “Is he still in the picture?”
“No.”
Interesting. “Any chance he’ll pop back in?”
“No.”
“You sure?” Wouldn’t be the first time an ex reappeared at the scent of a payday. From his point of view, the fewer complications the better.
“He’s not in our lives,” she repeated, her voice a little terse.
Her clenched jaw said there was more to the story. “Because he’s not…?” He left the end of his sentence hoping she’d fill in the blank.
“Because he’s not,” she repeated. “Why are you asking anyway? I thought this case was about my paternity.”
“It’s my job to know as many details as possible about my clients.”
“Even things that aren’t your business?
“Everything about you is my business.”
“I don’t think so,” she scoffed.
This was the second time tonight she’d tried to dictate what he could and couldn’t discuss. Time he explained how this relationship would work. Yanking the steering wheel, he cut off the car in the next lane and pulled to the curb. “Let’s get a few things straight right now. You came to me asking for help. I can’t do that without your cooperation. Your. Full. Cooperation. That means if I need to know what you had for dinner last Saturday night, you need to tell me. Do you understand? Because if you can’t, then this—” he waved his hand in the space between them “—isn’t going to work.
“Are we clear?” he asked, looking her in the eye. Although the lecture was necessary, she could very well tell him to go to blazes. He held his breath, hoping he hadn’t pushed her—and his luck—too far.
From her seat, she glared, her eyes bright in the flash of passing headlights. “Crystal.”
“Good. Now I suggest you learn to deal with tough questions, because we’ve only scratched the surface.” They were definitely revisiting her daughter’s paternity, too. There was way too much emotion behind her reaction.
They drove the rest of the distance in silence, eventually pulling up in front of a nondescript building, on a street lined with them. Tall towers with squares of light, the kind of buildings his architect brother would call void of personality. At this hour of night, with the green landscaping unlit, Mike thought they had an eerie futuristic quality.
He stole a look at his companion. She hadn’t moved since his lecture, her face locked on the view outside the windshield. With the shadows hiding her makeup and her hair tumbling down her back, he was surprised how classical her profile looked. Reminding him of one of those Greek busts in a museum, strong and delicate at the same time. If, that is, the pieces in the museum were gritting their teeth.
Her fingers were already wrapped around the door handle. “Want to wait till I come to a full stop or will slowing down to a crawl be good enough?” he asked her.
“Either will be fine.” Her voice was tight to match her jaw. Still upset over his lecture. He added the discussion to his mental revisit list. Thing was getting pretty long. “I’ll stop at the front walkway if you don’t mind. Road burn never looks good on a client.”
Without so much as cracking a smile, she pointed to the crosswalk a few feet ahead. “Here is fine. I’ll walk the rest of the way.” She pushed open the door the moment the wheels stopped spinning. Eager to get away.
“Roxanne!” Call it guilt or anxiety over his harshness earlier, but he needed to call her back and make sure they were truly on the same page. “Do we understand each other?”
“We do.” From her resignation, however, she wasn’t happy about it. Never mind, she’d be happy enough with him when they settled her case.
“You still want to proceed then?” he double-checked.
She nodded, again with resignation. “I do.”
“I have an opening at nine-thirty tomorrow. I’ll see you then.”
Resignation quickly switched to surprise. “You want to meet tomorrow?”
“Unless you’d rather meet tonight. We have a lot to go over, and you’re my only source of information. Sooner we get started, the better.”
Seeing her widening eyes, he added, “Is that a problem?”
“No,” she replied. “No problem.”
There was, but to her credit, she seemed resolved to solving whatever it was. “I’ll see you at nine-thirty.”
“Sharp,” he added. As if he had anything better to do. “Oh, and Roxanne? You might as well get used to spending time with me. In fact, you could say I’m about to become your new best friend.”
“Great.” Thrilled, she was not; he could tell by the smirk.
Surprisingly, however, he found the annoyance almost amusing. There was mettle underneath her attitude that would come in handy. Smiling, he watched her walk away, waiting till she disappeared behind the frosted front door before shifting his car into Drive. For the first time in weeks, he looked forward to a new workday. Roxanne O’Brien didn’t know it yet, but she’d just become his newest and biggest priority.
He had a feeling both their futures would be better for it.
CHAPTER THREE
RROXY could feel Mike all the way to her front door and this time the sensation had nothing to do with his “presence.” He was watching her.
Her new best friend. The idea was beyond laughable. She wasn’t entirely sure she even liked the guy with his bossy, arrogant, elegant attitude. Add nosy, too. What business was it of his whether Steffi’s father was around or not? Everything about you is my business. Recalling the authority in his voice, she got a hot flash. Men who could truly take charge were few and far between in her world. Most of them simply took off.
Bringing her back to Steffi’s father. What a nice big bitter circle. She really did have to stop overreacting when people mentioned him. Not every remark was a reference to her bad judgment.
No, those would come later, when the Sinclairs got involved. Maybe chasing down the truth wasn’t such a good idea.
Then she thought about Steffi, and her resolve returned.
Mrs. Ortega’s apartment was on the third floor. The older woman met her at the door. “She give you any problems?” Roxy asked.
“Nada. Went down during her movie, same as always. She had a busy day. I had all three grandchildren.”
“Sounds like a houseful.”
Steffi was curled up sound asleep on the sofa, the late-night news acting as a night-light. In her hand she clutched a purple-haired plastic pony. Roxy smiled. Her daughter was in the middle of a pony fascination, the purple-haired animal not having left her hand in a month.
Carefully she scooped her up. The little girl immediately stirred. “Dusty’s thirsty,” she murmured, half swatting at her amber curls. Roxy wasn’t quite sure she was awake.
“We’ll get him some water upstairs.”
“Okay.” The little girl nodded and tucked her head into the crook of Roxy’s neck. Her skin smelled of sleep and baby shampoo. Roxy inhaled a noseful and the scent tugged at her heart. Her little angel. Steffi might have started as a mistake, but she was the one decent accomplishment in Roxy’s life. She’d do anything not to screw it up.
After making arrangements with Mrs. Ortega for the next morning, she carried Steffi to the elevator. Stepping off onto the eleventh floor, she could hear the screech of a high speed chase playing on a television. Would it be too much to ask for it not to be her apartment?
Yes. Fumbling to balance her keys and her daughter, she opened the door to find the volume blasting. A thin, acne-prone stain wearing an orange-and-blue throwback jersey lay sprawled on the sofa. Roxy cringed. Wayne. When she first decided to take on a roommate, she figured an extra person would allow her to afford a better apartment and Alexis had been one of the few decent applicants who didn’t mind living with a four-year-old. Roxy didn’t realize till they signed the lease that the woman’s loser brother came along with the package. He showed up at all times of the night, offering some lame excuse as to why he needed to sponge off them for the night. If she didn’t need Alexis’s share of the rent money, she’d kick them both to the curb.
Another reason to hope Mike Templeton was as good as he said. “Can you turn the TV down?” she whispered harshly.
“Why? The kid’s asleep.”
She shot him a glare. Not for long. “Because you can hear it at the elevator.”
“Turn it down, Wayne.” Carrying a laundry basket on her hip, his sister, Alexis, came down the hallway. “No one wants to hear that noise.”
With a roll of his eyes, Wayne reached for his remote.
Alexis greeted her with a nod and dropped the basket on the dining room table. “Some guy came by looking for you. He find you?”
“Dude wouldn’t stop buzzing,” Wayne said. “Woke me up.”
Poor baby. “Yeah, he found me,” she told Alexis.
“New boyfriend?”
“No. Business. He’s a lawyer who’s going to be helping me with some stuff of my mother’s.” She flashed back to five minutes earlier, in the close confines of his car. Better get used to my company. You and I are going to be spending a lot of time together. Against her will, a low shiver worked its way to the base of her spine. Immediately she kicked herself. You know, Roxy, your outbursts of moral outrage might carry a little more weight if you didn’t find the man attractive.
“What kind of business?” Wayne asked. “You getting money?”
“I thought you said your mother didn’t leave you anything?” Alexis said. She paused. “Is this about that stuff your mother said?”
“What stuff?” Wayne asked.
Roxy ignored him. In a moment of extreme loneliness and needing someone to talk to, Roxy had shared her mother’s last words to her roommate. In fact, it was Alexis who first suggested she might have money coming to her.
“Yeah.”
“He going to help you?” Her roommate’s eyes became big brown saucers. Roxy swore the pupils were dollar signs. It made her reluctant to answer.
“Maybe.”
She could have answered no and it wouldn’t matter. Alexis had already boarded the money train and was running at high speed. “Get out. We’re talking Kardashian kind of money, right? I read those Sinclairs are loaded.”
“We aren’t talking any kind of money.” She especially wasn’t talking money with the two of them. “He said he’d look into things. That’s all. I have to put Steffi down before she wakes up.”
It was a wonder the little girl hadn’t woken up already with all the noise going on. She really must have had a busy day. Knowing her daughter had fun should have been a relief. Instead she felt a stab of guilt. She should have been the one providing the fun, not the elderly grandmother downstairs. The one who read her stories and fed her dinner. So many things she should be doing. What happened if she couldn’t? Would she fade into the background like her mother, there but not there, a virtual stranger in a work uniform?
She lay her daughter in the plastic princess bed and pulled the blankets over her. Almost immediately Steffi burrowed into the mattress, Dusty the horse still gripped in her fist. Roxy brushed a curl from her cheek, and marveled at the innocence. Mike Templeton better realize how much she had riding on his ability to climb legal mountains.
“Tell me everything you can about your mother.”
It was the next morning, and Roxy was sitting with her new best friend for their nine-thirty meeting. She half expected another lecture about her overreaction the night before, but he behaved as if it never happened. He even provided breakfast. Muffins and coffee, arranged neatly on his office conference table. Like they were having an indoor picnic.
“Standard client procedure?” she’d asked.
The question earned her an odd, almost evasive look that triggered her curiosity meter. “Figured you could use breakfast,” he’d replied when she remarked on it.
Now he sat, legal pad at the ready, asking her about her mother. “There’s not much to tell.” Her mother had always been an enigma. Thanks to those letters, she was now a total stranger. “She wasn’t what you’d call an open book, in case you couldn’t guess.” More like a locked diary.
“Let’s start at the beginning. When did your parents get married?”
“June 18. They eloped.”
She watched as he wrote down the date. It was barely legible. How could a man who moved his pen so fluidly have such horrendous penmanship?
“Seven months before you were born.”
“Yup. To the day. I always figured I was the reason they got married.”
“And you were their only child.”
“One and only. I used to wish I had brothers and sisters, though. Being the only one could be lonely sometimes. Now that I think about it, that’s probably one of the reasons I became an actress. I did a lot of pretending.”
“Trust me, siblings aren’t always great to have around,” he replied.
“You have brothers and sisters?”
“One of each. And before you ask, I’m the oldest.”
She wasn’t sure why, but the idea he had a family intrigued her. Were they all as smooth and refined as he was? She pictured a trio of perfection all in navy blue blazers. “Are they lawyers, too?”
“No, I’m the only one.”
“Tough act to follow, huh?”
Voice flat, he replied, “So I’m told.” Another unreadable expression crossed his face. Sounded like she’d touched a nerve. Sibling rivalry or something else?
She wanted to ask more, but he steered the conversation back to being one-sided. “Your father—the one you grew up with—is he still alive?”
“Looked alive at the funeral.”
Like she figured he would, he stopped writing and looked up, just in time to witness the shame creeping into her cheeks. “He took off for Florida when I was little. Guess he figured once he made a legal woman out of my mother, his job was done.”
“They’re divorced then.”
“Good Lord, no. They were Irish Catholic. They stayed married.” Instead they lived separate lives in separate states. Chained to one another by a mistake. Her.
Wonder what he’d think when he learned that he might not have had to marry her mother at all.
Mike scribbled on his notepad. “Interesting.”
“What is?”
“That neither sought an annulment. If your father knew about Wentworth, he’d certainly have grounds.”
“Oh.” She popped a piece of muffin into her mouth, swallowing it along with the familiar defensiveness that had risen with the conversation. Her mother’s story always cut so close to home. Reminded her too much of choices she did or didn’t make. She always wondered which path would have been better. Hers or her mother’s?
“Maybe he didn’t care,” she said, as much to herself as aloud. “I always figured he wanted out as easily as possible. My mother was—I’m not sure what word I’d use.”
“Quiet?”
Too simple. “Absent.”
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