Page 35

" S o, I hear you've got a drug problem," said a familiar voice. I didn't even have to look up to know it was Jake; my thighs clenching was enough of a clue.

I switched the clenching from thighs to jaw and looked up at him. "I do not have a drug problem. And how did you get in here? I asked Max to lock the door when she and Mr. Ellison went to lunch."

He just smiled. "Sorry. The door was unlocked. I thought you might want to go get some lunch and repent your wicked ways. I can set you up with a good rehab program here locally, if you like."

No matter how good he looked in faded jeans and a black t-shirt, I was not going to lunch with this man.

No way.

"Are you buying?" somehow came out of my mouth. Damn traitorous body parts.

He grinned. "Yep. Is now good?"

I sighed and shoved my hair back out of my face. "It's not like the clients are banging down my door to get to me. Even if they'd been planning a visit to December Vaughn, Attorney at Law, that newspaper article would have scared them away."

"I wouldn't worry about it. This sort of thing blows over. Anyway, how many people who need a lawyer really read the paper every day?"

I groaned again. "Enough, trust me. The phone has been ringing off the hook today with people wanting to ask questions about the 'junkie lawyer.' At least three different callers whom I seriously suspect of being drug dealers have called to feel me out about representing them 'on the barter system.'" I stood up and walked around my desk, taking care to avoid stepping too near to him. No need to get trapped in a pheromone cyclone on an empty stomach, I always say.

He laughed again and fell into place behind me on the way out of my office, so close I imagined I could feel his breath. Just thinking about it gave me the shivers.

"Are you all right?"

"Air conditioning. Too high. Need to get that fixed," I squeaked out. Seriously, I need to get a life .

I reached the front door without spontaneously combusting and tried to open the door. The locked door. I turned to look at Jake. "I thought you said the door was unlocked."

He gave me his innocent face. "Maybe I locked it accidentally when I came in?"

"Hmmm." It sounded suspicious, but what was I going to do? Accuse him of breaking into my office? Picking the lock to invite me to lunch? It sounded crazy, even to me. But after the phone call the night before . . .

"Hey!" I opened the door and then held it for him. "Your friend Gina doesn't have a partner in crime, does she? A guy with severe sinus problems?"

He stopped and looked at me, eyebrow raised. "What are you talking about? Did somebody sneeze on you?"

"Hilarious." I locked the door behind us and stepped out into the temperate climate that is Florida in June at lunchtime. It feels exactly like stepping into a wet blanket in the middle of a blast furnace. My hair instantly shot into frizz mode, which is not exactly a good look for me. But I resisted the urge to pant like a dog. Barely.

Jake walked over to a very new-looking black Mustang convertible and opened the passenger door. Great. Good manners and good taste in cars.

Clearly, the man is scum.

"Nice car," I grudgingly said, as I climbed into the car and sank onto the (leather, what else?) seat.

His gaze flicked over to the front of the building and back at me, and his lips quirked. "Well, it's no ancient Honda, but it'll do."

He shut the door just as I was working up a great comeback, so I settled for steaming in my seat – literally and mentally. By the time he climbed into the driver's seat, I was ready. "Oh, yeah? Well, some of us have responsibilities and drive grownup cars."

He shot a glance at me as he put his seatbelt on. "You hate the Honda."

"I hate it."

"But it's . . . practical."

"Right. Practical sucks."

He grinned, but said nothing else on the way to the restaurant. Too steeped in gloom and car envy to attempt small talk, I moped and stared out the window. By the time we arrived at Pete's Steakhouse, I'd nearly forgotten about my stupid criminal phone buddy.

Jake hadn't.

When he opened the door for me again, his face was serious. "Now, what about this guy with sinus problems?"

I rolled my eyes. "Some guy called me at home last night. Well, on my cell phone, but he knew I was at home. He made some lame threats and mentioned my curtains. But after the allergies stuff, it was hard to take him seriously."

Jake stopped dead. "What the hell are you talking about? Curtains? Allergies?"

I walked past him on the sidewalk, intent on getting inside the restaurant, where there had to be air conditioning. "Oh, he said, if you can believe it, 'this town isn't big enough for both of us.' Then I asked him if he had allergies, but he said 'or else' and I asked 'or else what?' and that made him mad, and—" I pushed open the door and, yes ! Cool air washed over my overheated face.

I walked inside and said "Two," to the questioning expression on the hostess's face, then turned back to Jake, who looked really confused. "Where was I? Oh, right. There was no 'or else,' or at least it was just 'or else you'll get hurt really bad,' which is totally lame, but then he knew I didn't have curtains up and accused me of being a bad lawyer. Which, you know, creeped me out and honked me off all at the same time."

"This way, please," said the hostess. I followed her through the small, dim restaurant, which had about a dozen tables scattered about with traditional red-and-white-checked tablecloths. The air smelled incredible, though, like grilled steak with all the trimmings. I took a deep breath and realized I was starving. And the place was quiet enough. I could be incognito. Nobody even glanced up at me.

The hostess handed me my menu, and I sat down and opened it, then suddenly realized Jake hadn't said a word. He was staring at me with his mouth hanging open a little.

I watched the hostess amble away, then snapped my menu shut. "What?"

He shook his head slowly, but at least he shut his mouth. Then he started laughing.

And he kept laughing.

Frankly, it was annoying.

Finally, he calmed down and sucked in a big breath. "You – you – are you even sane? Why do I feel you're speaking in a foreign language?" He looked around and lowered his voice. "Is it the drugs? Are you in withdrawal or something?"

"It is NOT the drugs! I. Do. Not. Do. Drugs!" I shouted.

All the noise in the restaurant stopped, and I realized twenty-some people were all staring at me. "Way to be incognito, Vaughn," I muttered.

Brody clutched at his head. "Okay, okay, I was just kidding. Will you please explain what the hell you were talking about?"

I sighed. "Fine. As soon as we order. All this drama is making me hungry." I discreetly unbuttoned the button on the waistband of my skirt while he studied the menu. I was planning on eating a big steak. With dessert, even.

After the server took our order and spent a good five minutes flirting with Jake (not that it annoyed me), I told him the whole story. He didn't laugh it off as I'd hoped, and his mouth settled into a grim line.

"This bothers me a lot. Not so much the cheesy threats, but that somebody was surveilling your house. This may be a stupid question, given your general pushy nature, but have you pissed anybody off lately?"

"Hey! Who are you calling pushy? I'm a trial lawyer, not a . . . a . . . florist. I do what I do to help my clients," I huffed out, tired beyond belief of hearing the same old song out of a brand-new singer.

"Right. I'm sure you're a terrific advocate, Counselor. I was talking about your prickly attitude around innocent bystanders. Like me, for instance," he said.

"I don't—" I started out snapping at him, but then had to flash a sheepish grin. "I don't know. Something about you rubs me the wrong way, Brody."

He leaned forward. "I'll have to work on the right way, Vaughn."

My face flamed as red as the checks in the tablecloth, but I was saved from answering by the server returning with our drinks and salads. I dug in, famished. Being horny always makes me hungry.

If I spend much time with Jake, I'm going to need to buy pants with elastic waistbands.

" W hat is that ?" I asked, as Mr. Ellison dumped a giant metal monstrosity on my desk.

He looked wounded. "It's a toaster, of course. For you to borrow until your stuff gets here. I went home at lunch and picked it up for you."

I looked down at the most enormous toaster that I'd ever seen. It covered half of my desk. "What do you eat, dinosaur bread? Why is it so huge?"

"That's good old American engineering, girlie. Had it since nineteen forty-seven, and it's still going strong." He stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, smug in the knowledge of American superiority over sliced bread.

I gingerly picked it up and watched a shower of toast crumbs rain down on my desk. "Er, not that I'm ungrateful, but have you ever cleaned it out in the past sixty years?"

He flashed a big grin. "I knew you'd ask that. I clean it out once in every year that ends with a three, whether it needs it or not."

Trial lawyer or no, I had no response for that, so I left it alone.

"Well, thank you. It was very thoughtful of you to, er, think of me. I'm sure I'll think of you whenever I toast something," I said, pasting a polite "I'm the boss, and I need to set the standard for courtesy," smile on my face.

"You're welcome. Now about Mrs. Zivkovich's problem. Me and Eddie, from down at the chess games at the park, can take care of that worthless son-in-law of hers for you. I still got my baseball bat from the old days."

I could feel the migraine itching to explode under my right eye. Threatening phone calls, junkie lawyer, Jake for lunch, toasters, and baseball bats. Somebody stick a fork in me. "Baseball bat? Did you play ball?"

He chortled. "No, I busted heads. Back in my union-busting days. Boy, I could sure tell you some stories. The lawyers like to got killed back then." He sighed. "Yep. Them was the good old days."

And lawyer-icide. Great. Shakespeare and Mr. Ellison.

"Breaking heads is not ? — "

"I could do kneecaps," he offered.

I closed my eyes and prayed for patience, or at least some migraine meds, then opened my eyes again. "Breaking heads, kneecaps, or any other human body part is not acceptable for any employee in this law firm. As much fun as you had in the good old days of assaulting people, we're going to handle this one my way, okay? A little more civilized?"

He frowned, and his scrawny shoulders slumped inside of his winter-weight cardigan. "Fine. I figured you'd say that, anyway. But if you can't handle it your way, you let me know. I'll be glad to round up Eddie and the gang and help that scumbag see the light, if you know what I mean."

Probably satisfied that he'd left me speechless once again, Mr. Ellison turned and shuffled off down the hall, whistling tunelessly. I stared helplessly after him for at least a full minute, then moved the toaster to the floor in the corner and spent another five cleaning the crumbs off my desk.

The phone rang, and I glared at it. Probably the IRS, the way my day was going. "Max?"

"D, it's Charlie Deaver. He saw the paper and was upset. I think you should talk to him," she said. "Line two."

I punched the button. "Charlie? It's December."

"Hi, Ms. Vaughn. I, well, I saw the paper, and?—"

"Please, call me December. And that libelous tripe you saw in the paper was ridiculous. I'm going to take strong action against them. Please be sure that I am certainly not, nor have I ever been, a druggie of any kind." I started jotting notes, trying not to bang my head against the desk.

Head banging is so unprofessional.

"Well, I know your Aunt Celia pretty well, and I can't imagine she would recommend a druggie – a person with drug issues – to me. So, if you're sure there's no problem . . ."

"Charlie, I promise you that there is no problem. I have never had a substance abuse issue of any kind in my entire life. I don't even smoke cigarettes! I hope this doesn't affect your good opinion of me, but of course I'll understand if you feel you need to seek different representation," I said, not holding out much hope. The poor man just lost his wife, and then he had to read in his morning paper that his attorney was a pothead.

Great start to our working relationship.

"No, it's okay. I'm a pretty good judge of people, and you looked like a good person to me. I'm sticking with you."

I silently breathed out about a lungful of air. "Thank you, Charlie. You won't regret it. Now let me update you on where we stand with BDC's past-due discovery."

We chatted for about ten minutes about my pending motion to compel and the case and set an appointment for him to come in for an in-depth interview. By the time we hung up, he sounded a lot more confident about his decision to stick with me. I decided I'd had enough for the day and packed up my briefcase, then headed out to Max's desk. "I've had it. I'm walking out with you. Any progress on my furniture?"

She grimaced and shook her head. "No, and I think they're screening my calls now, because I got voice mail the last five times I called. But Legal Aid called to say they don't care if you're an axe murderer, they're still sending you the overflow cases for your pro bono day tomorrow. And your ex-husband called and asked—" she looked down at her notes. "Let me be sure I get this straight. Okay, three things: Do you want him to fly down here and help you with your furniture problem? Do you need money?"

I rolled my eyes. "Mike will never see me as a grownup if I keep letting him bail me out. Plus, I think he's still trying to find a way for us to get back together. So, no, I?—"

Max held up her hand. "I said three things. The third was, do you mind if he dates your former secretary?"