Читать книгу Baby Vs. The Bar - M.J. Rodgers - Страница 10

Remy Westbrook’s brown silk dress rustled its gold-and-persimmon flowers against the long slim legs of her five-foot-eight-inch frame. Her high heels clicked on the tiled courtroom floor, an echoing percussion to the rhythm of her long limbs. She held her head high on well-defined, erect shoulders that swung ever so slightly in sensuous synergy with her hips. Her thick, straight chocolate hair lifted off a lovely, serene face—sailing far down her back as though being blown by a slight breeze.

Despite the fact that the last time Marc had seen those legs they had been rising out of running shoes, he knew he would have recognized them anywhere. He also knew he had been wrong. If he had waited to see Remy Westbrook’s face, he definitely would not have been wasting his time.

Marc had always been a sucker for long legs, high heels and a long romantic dress—the combination never failing to set off a violin string or two in his head. But as he watched her enter the courtroom that morning, he suddenly found every red-blooded male corpuscle in his body throbbing to a steamy, sophisticated, sultry jazz beat.

He stared, openly and admiringly, following every inch of her progress, along with every other male eye in the courtroom. Yet she gave no sign that she was aware of any scrutiny. In complete contrast to the hot pulse of her walk, her pale face and serene cinnamon eyes broadcast an ultracool calm.

She passed within inches of him on her way to the witness stand, yet she did not as much as glance in his direction. He caught her fragrance—sweet spice kissed with pepper—a scent that enveloped his nose in one instant, only to vanish in the next, tantalizing a lot more than just his curiosity.

The court clerk swore her in. She claimed the witness chair on a collected downbeat and nonchalantly crossed those long, luscious legs. She leaned back, effortlessly serene and composed.

He stared at her, this time with a different object in mind. He’d always found quiet staring to be one of his most effective beginning techniques with an unexpected witness; in fact, he was capable of rattling even the calmest of countenances.

But he soon realized that this witness was unaffected by his stare. She sat smack-dab in the middle of this courtroom—clearly the focus of all attention—and yet she also clearly dwelt inside some quiet, self-contained center, totally separate and apart from these proceedings.

The way she walked on those luscious legs could melt any lawyer’s brief. But it was her detached, untouchable air that began to set off all sorts of interesting twitches inside his body. Being ignored by an attractive woman was not something Marc Truesdale was used to—and this one was definitely doing just that. His fascination grew.

“Please state your complete name for the record,” he said.

“Remy Westbrook.”

Her voice was liquid and languid, leaving a pleasant vibration in its wake. Marc honed in on her cinnamon eyes, determined to break through their tranquil shell. He drew his lips back in a smile, the kind of sincere smile that had proved effective on females from eight to eighty.

“Mrs. Westbrook, my name is Marc Truesdale. I’m the attorney for Mr. Louie Demerchant, the plaintiff in this case.”

She reacted not at all to his smile, in either expression or tone. “My name is not Mrs. Westbrook.”

He leaned forward, all polite attention. “Didn’t you just say your name was Westbrook?”

“I’m not married.”

“Oh, I see,” he said with another smile as he rocked back on his heels. Naturally, Binick had selected a single woman. A married one would have involved dealing with a husband, as well. Better to keep the dumb dupes or paid-off confederates few.

“Please excuse the error, Miss Westbrook. Or do you prefer Ms.?”

“I prefer Doctor.”

Marc did a double take. “Doctor? Of what?”

“I earned my Ph.D. in the genesis of developmental psycholinguistics within higher primates.”

Well, whatever that was, it certainly ruled out dumb. Which meant that Remy Westbrook had been bought. Marc felt a spate of disappointment, although he couldn’t clearly define why. He had no time to think about it. He only had time for attending to the business at hand.

“What do you do for a living, Dr. Westbrook?”

“I head the new Center for Primate Language Studies at the University of Washington.”

So she was a professional engaged in what was obviously important scientific research. It would be hard for this jury to believe this intelligent, attractive woman would lie. It looked like Binick had chosen his confederate well.

“Dr. Westbrook, did you avail yourself of the services of the Bio-Sperm company?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I wanted a baby.”

“You couldn’t find a husband?”

“I didn’t look.”

“Was that because as a busy professional woman you didn’t have the time?”

“No.”

“Then why didn’t you marry and have a child in the conventional way?”

Sato rose to his feet. “Your Honor, I object,” he said in his quiet, polite manner. “These questions are totally irrelevant to the issue at hand and constitute an unnecessary invasion of Dr. Westbrook’s life.”

The judge nodded. “I tend to agree. Mr. Truesdale, would you care to explain the purpose of your current thrust?”

“I’m trying to explore the motives behind the actions of this witness in order to determine her credibility, Your Honor. Since Dr. Westbrook is claiming to have given birth to David Demerchant’s child, I have every right to—”

“I am claiming no such thing,” she interrupted in that same liquid and languid tone.

“Excuse me?” Marc said, turning back to her.

“Dr. Westbrook, please do not answer any more questions until I rule on the objection before this court,” the judge admonished. “Mr. Truesdale, the only personal questions I will allow you to ask of this witness are those germane to this issue of the child’s paternity. Objection sustained.”

Marc nodded at the bench before eagerly turning back to his witness. “Dr. Westbrook, did you just say you’re not claiming to have given birth to David Demerchant’s child?”

“That’s right.”

“Then whose child did you have?”

“My child. He belongs to me. I’m here only because I was subpoenaed, Counselor. I would not have come under any other circumstances.”

So, she was playing the reluctant mother who had been dragged into the courtroom battle against her will. A most believable role. Yes, she was smart, all right. Too damn smart.

He belongs to me. How casually she had conveyed the fact that her child was a boy. Marc spared a quick glance at his client. The light of hopeful joy in Louie Demerchant’s eyes struck deeply at Marc’s sense of justice and fair play. This was such a cruel thing this woman was doing. Did she understand how cruel? Did she care?

He swung back to his witness. His fascination for the lady’s lovely legs, sensual walk and mysterious air had momentarily clouded his judgment. Well, not anymore. Work was work and women were women, and Marc knew better than to ever mix the two. He shot out his next questions in rapid fire.

“Dr. Westbrook, how many times were you inseminated with donor sperm from Bio-Sperm?”

“Just once.”

“When?”

“July 5, two years ago.”

“When did you give birth?”

“April 7 of last year.”

“How much did your baby weigh at birth?”

“Six pounds, twelve ounces.”

“Was he a full-term baby?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“The doctor confirmed my pregnancy at the end of August the previous year.”

“And you think you became pregnant and gave birth to your son as a result of the sperm you received at Bio-Sperm on July 5 of the month before?”

“I know it.”

“You know it? How can you know it?”

“I was only artificially inseminated once, Counselor.”

“There are other ways of becoming pregnant, Dr. Westbrook. How many times did you have intimate relations with a man during the months of June, July and August during the year when your baby was conceived?”

For the first time, Marc saw a slight stiffening in the relaxed shoulders of his witness. Remy Westbrook shifted sideways in her chair in order to face and address the judge.

“Your Honor, is that question permissible?”

The judge’s lined face looked apologetic. “Yes, Dr. Westbrook. You are instructed to answer.”

Remy Westbrook turned back to Marc, but this time he saw a tiny lick of golden flame in the center of her cinnamon eyes. Its heat gave him a small shock because of the message it conveyed.

It seemed he’d been dead wrong. Remy Westbrook was not tranquil and serene and untouched by these proceedings at all. She was blazing mad.

“None,” she answered, her tone still as mellow as ever.

“You had no intimate relations with a man during the months of June, July and August of that year? Three whole months?” he emphasized with raised eyebrows.

“None,” she repeated.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Engaging in intimate physical relations may be a nonselective, common, insignificant event to you, Counselor. I, however, take such an act seriously, am very selective and, hence, remember each and every occasion well.”

Her voice had retained its languid, liquid quality. But those cinnamon eyes now blazed with that golden, indignant flame.

Marc was struck with a sudden doubt. Could she be telling the truth? Had he entirely misread this situation—and her? Only one way to find out.

“Dr. Westbrook, in the event that irrefutable evidence is uncovered to prove that your child is the descendant of my client, Louie Demerchant, what do you intend to do about it?”

“Do about it? What do you mean ‘do about it’?”

“Do you intend to make a claim on the Demerchant estate on behalf of your child?”

“Certainly not.”

“Are you aware of how much money may be involved?”

“No, and I don’t care. I don’t want any of it.”

“You want none of a billion-dollar fortune?”

For the first time since she had entered the courtroom, Marc watched Remy Westbrook’s calm countenance ripple with a wave of surprise. She leaned forward in the witness chair. “A billion dollars?”

The courtroom rocked with excited whispers as its inhabitants responded to that staggering amount in their own shocked way. The judge rapped for order. The silence that followed was instant and absolute. No one wanted to miss anything that was going to be said.

“Yes, Dr. Westbrook,” Marc assured solemnly, his voice carrying to every corner of the courtroom in that silence. “If your son is the offspring of David Demerchant, he could be the sole beneficiary of a billion-dollar estate.”

She locked eyes with him for a moment. She had completely emerged from that quiet center, and Marc could feel the considerable will of the woman behind that cinnamon stare. Those initial interesting twitches that had begun inside him began to multiply by leaps and bounds.

And then, in the next instant, she leaned back in the chair and retreated again to that quiet inner center.

“I don’t care how much money is involved,” her liquid, languid voice said. “I want none of it.”

“Are you willing to go on record that you would refuse such a financial windfall, even if your child were David Demerchant’s?”

“I just did.”

And so she had. Which brought up some interesting new possibilities. Marc pushed on. “If your child does turn out to be David Demerchant’s, do you intend to grant Louie Demerchant visiting rights to his great-grandchild?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“If my son just happens to have Demerchant genes, those genes came to him purely by accident. It was neither David Demerchant’s intent nor was it mine to have a child together. We never even met. If he were still alive, even he would have no claim to my son, much less his grandfather.”

“You will not even let Louie Demerchant see this boy who could be his great-grandchild?”

“That’s right. I will not.”

“Your attitude seems rather extreme, does it not?”

“I do not believe it is. I paid for anonymous sperm. My contract with Bio-Sperm affords me exclusive rights to that sperm and any offspring produced from it.”

“How are you going to explain away these actions to your son when he is old enough to understand?”

“I won’t have to explain away anything. There is no real proof that my son carries Demerchant genes, and since David Demerchant is dead, obtaining such proof now is impossible.”

“So your son will never even know he might be a Demerchant?”

“He is not a Demerchant. He is a Westbrook.”

“You will not meet with Louie Demerchant to discuss this?”

“No, I will not.”

Marc smiled. Yes, the lady might just be telling the truth, after all. Binick and his attorney would have to be out of their minds to have encouraged her to make up this story.

Because, for the purposes of this suit against Bio-Sperm, her testimony wasn’t damaging at all to Marc’s case. On the contrary. He was delighted with it. Remy Westbrook was a keg of dynamite that he would soon be detonating right in Binick’s face.

Marc could already hear his closing arguments.

“Gentlemen of the jury. Even if Remy Westbrook had David’s child, Louie Demerchant will never know for certain, will he? What agony he will be forced to go through because of this uncertainty! And even if Louie Demerchant wants to believe he has this great-grandchild, the only hope of his line, he will never be permitted to see this child. Nor will this child ever carry the Demerchant name. He will not even be allowed to know who his father’s family was. What could be worse torture for a loving great-grandfather? And all because of yet another mistake that Bio-Sperm has made!”

As the rehearsal for his final statement to the jury whirled through his mind, Marc decided that if he had known of the existence of Remy Westbrook and her child, he would have talked Demerchant into asking for fifteen million instead of ten.

“Thank you, Dr. Westbrook,” he said aloud to his witness. “That’s all I have.”

“Do you wish to cross, Mr. Sato?” the judge asked.

Binick’s attorney nodded, rose and approached Remy. “Dr. Westbrook, I know you’ve had less than a week to learn of and digest these startling revelations, on top of which you have been subpoenaed and have been forced to reveal very personal parts of your life to this court. I can understand how upset you must feel.”

“Can you?” she asked in that languid voice, while even from the plaintiff’s table Marc could see the golden flame flickering again in the center of her eyes.

“Yes, and I truly regret the necessity,” Sato continued. “However, we are only interested in getting at the truth here. And as upsetting as this intrusion into your private life must be, I cannot believe that you would deny your son’s right to even know about his father and his father’s family.”

Marc rose to his feet. “I object. Counsel is making argumentative speeches, not asking questions.”

“Sustained,” the judge ruled.

“Dr. Westbrook,” Sato began again. “Do you love your son?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want the best for him?”

“Yes.”

“Then how can you even think of withholding the circumstances of his birth from him?”

“He’ll be told the truth, Mr. Sato. His genetics come from me and from an anonymous sperm donor.”

“But you know David Demerchant was his father. Bio-Sperm’s records clearly show—”

“I know nothing of the sort,” Remy interrupted. “And I don’t care what Bio-Sperm’s records show. With all the mistakes it has made in this matter, who knows who the sperm donor was?”

“Bio-Sperm knows, Dr. Westbrook. Your record clearly shows David Demerchant’s code and no code is ever reused even if—”

“Your Honor, I object,” Marc interrupted. “Defense attorney is making argumentative speeches again.”

“Sustained. Watch it, Mr. Sato.”

“My apologies,” Sato said, creasing his short, compact body with a small bow toward the bench. He returned his attention to the witness box. “Dr. Westbrook, how will you answer your son’s understandable curiosity about his father?”

“While he is very young, Counselor, I will teach him that it isn’t who his father is, but who he is that will give meaning to his life.”

“But aren’t you concerned that his sense of identity will suffer from not knowing his roots?”

“Roots? Haven’t we gone past that foolishness? We are not our parents, Counselor. Emotionally stigmatizing a child with the blame or fame of his ancestors only retards his real self from emerging.”

“And how do you intend to let your son’s real self emerge?”

“By teaching him that his sense of identity will come from his beliefs, his skills, his actions—no one else’s. The responsibility for who he becomes will be totally up to him. The only thing I or any parent can and should supply to a child is a nurturing environment filled with opportunities for growth and love.”

“Assuming all that to be true, Dr. Westbrook, what harm could come from your son learning of and becoming a part of the Demerchants’ nurturing environment filled with family love?”

“How do I know that the Demerchants are a loving family? Or that they share my ideas about how a child should be nurtured?”

“How do you know they’re not and do not?” Sato countered.

“I don’t intend to take chances with my son, Mr. Sato. I want him brought up right. I’m the only one who can ensure that will happen. These people have no role or business in his life.”

Sato smiled patiently at his contrary witness. “In time, Dr. Westbrook, I think you will change your mind. In time, when the shock you have been forced to endure wears off, I think you will want to share the love and joy you have in your heart for your son with his father’s side of the family.”

“Your Honor, I object,” Marc said. “Once again defense counsel is making speeches.”

“Sustained,” the judge said. “Gentlemen of the jury, Mr. Sato’s thoughts are not evidence. You will disregard them. Mr. Sato, you may continue only if you have a legitimate question for Dr. Westbrook.”

“I am finished with this witness,” Mr. Sato said politely, and sat down.

“Mr. Truesdale, do you have anything on redirect?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Marc said as he stood at the plaintiff’s table. “Dr. Westbrook, do you think you will have a change of heart and at some time in the future wish to have your son meet the Demerchants?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“As I have said before, even if I inadvertently received David Demerchant’s sperm—and I’ve seen no real proof of that—I have no intention of sharing my son with the family of some stranger. And that, Mr. Truesdale, is all the Demerchants are to me and my son—strangers.”

“Thank you, Dr. Westbrook. That’s all I have.” Marc sat down once again.

“You’re excused, Dr. Westbrook,” the judge said.

“I’d like to resume my examination of Stanley Binick now,” Marc said.

The judge glanced at her watch. “You may resume your examination after the lunch break. Court is adjourned until two o’clock.”

As Remy vacated the witness chair, Louie Demerchant grabbed hold of Marc’s suit sleeve.

“Go after her, Truesdale. I want to see that boy.”

Marc mentally took back everything he had previously thought about Remy Westbrook helping their case. In his eagerness to win this suit and see Binick pay, he’d forgotten about the emotional impact of this woman’s testimony on his client. That damaging impact wasn’t worth another million or another hundred million.

“Mr. Demerchant, please don’t put yourself through this,” he said. “Binick is just trying to give you false hope.”

“I don’t know that for certain. Neither do you, Truesdale. And you must admit, the woman seems to be telling the truth.”

“Still, it’s only Binick’s records that tie her to David. Even she doesn’t believe—”

“I don’t care what she believes. I have to know. Go after her, Truesdale.”

“You heard what she said. She’s not going to let you see him.”

“Offer her what you have to. Do what you have to, but get her to change her mind! I must see that boy!”

“You can’t know if he’s David’s just by seeing him.”

“I’ll know,” Louie Demerchant said with all the proud illogic of a hopeful great-grandparent, grasping at the smallest straw.

Marc shook his head, face-to-face with the futility of arguing with a man who was currently fully tanked up with emotion and running absolutely empty on reason. “All right. I’ll go after her and see what I can do.”

“Good man,” Demerchant said as he clapped Marc on the back.

Marc silently cursed himself for being a sap as he headed toward the back of the courtroom.

Nothing about this errand was going to be easy. Even getting close to Remy Westbrook was a monumental task. The hallway outside the courtroom was a mob scene of reporters pushing cameras and microphones at the lady as she tried to weave her way out. Marc watched and listened and waited for his chance.

“Dr. Westbrook, won’t you take a moment to talk to us?”

“No. I’ve been drawn into this spotlight against my will and I refuse to remain in it a second longer.”

“What name did you give David Demerchant’s son?”

“I didn’t have David Demerchant’s son.”

“What is your son’s name?”

“Westbrook.”

“You’re going to throw away a billion dollars?”

“Please, let me pass.”

“Are you really planning to keep the Demerchants away from your son?”

“Excuse me, please,” she said, still maintaining her mellow tone as she squeezed forward.

She squirmed through the crowd, pushed open a hallway door marked Women, and disappeared quickly inside. The sign on the door immediately halted the male reporters just outside it. They set their cameras down to wait.

Marc saw his chance and took it. He dove through the throng. Then, much to everyone’s surprise, he burst through the door with the Women sign on it.

He knew this door. It was the one he had come through this morning. Despite its outside labeling, it led to an exit stairwell as well as to the ladies’ room. Marc suspected the former was where Remy was really headed.

The moment the door closed behind him, he heard the quick click-clack of her high-heeled shoes on the metal stairs about a flight and a half below. He had been right. He hurried down the stairs after her. But even in those heels she moved fast. It took some effort to catch her.

“Dr. Westbrook, I have to talk to you,” he called.

Remy had always prided herself on keeping her cool, but this untenable situation was sorely testing her patience. She recognized the arrogant attorney’s voice right away. She kept moving down the stairs as fast as she could as she sent her response back to him. “No.”

His words followed her, as did the sound of his footsteps.

“Dr. Westbrook, I’m sorry about your being dragged into all this. Believe me, I’m on your side. I don’t think your child is David’s, either. I agree that Binick probably selected your record from his files only because the timing would sound right to the jury. He’s just using you and your child in order to try to lower the settlement Louie Demerchant will get in his suit against Bio-Sperm.”

Remy halted on the next landing and whirled on him. “If that’s really what you believe, Truesdale, why did you insist on so ruthlessly exposing my personal life on the stand?”

“Because I thought you were lying. At first.”

His deep-set, cobalt blue eyes stared at her as they had since the moment she had stepped into the courtroom. Their focused intensity was laser blue hot. His body was a tall, lean inverted triangle in a perfectly cut dark blue suit. The stairwell lights lit the thick polished brass of his hair, a color that perfectly matched his far-too-brassy manner.

But the smile he flashed her now was pure charm and overlaid that hard, finely chiseled professional face with an impossibly engaging light of boyish sincerity.

He was so obviously one of those men gifted from birth to simply fly over those obstacles that clobbered the rest of humanity. She thoroughly resented that in him. But resisting that surprisingly boyish smile was something even she was finding very difficult to do.

“Why did you think I was lying?” she asked.

“I thought you were in on this nasty scheme to get Louie Demerchant to think he has a great-grandchild. Binick knows Louie Demerchant would love to believe it’s true. He’s playing on the old man’s emotions, banking on the false hope working to his advantage. If the jury thinks there’s a great-grandchild, Binick believes they might deny Louie’s claim to damages or, at least, lower the damages.”

“I...see. Well, I’m sorry for Mr. Demerchant if that’s what Binick’s doing, but none of this has anything to do with me. Now, I really must go.”

As she turned, she heard the stairwell door a few flights up swing open. The pounding of the quickly descending footsteps told Remy that the news reporters were hot on her heels again. Should she take a chance and try to outrun them? If only she had time to change back into the running shoes stuffed in her shoulder bag!

She felt Marc’s hand on her arm.

“They’ll be here any minute,” he said. “This is the third floor. Duck in here and you can take the elevator down the rest of the way. That should throw them off.”

She nodded and sailed past as he pulled the door open for her. She got her bearings quickly and headed directly toward the third-floor elevators.

As soon as she reached the circle of elevators, she pressed the Down button. She felt Marc Truesdale move behind her, and then his hand was on her shoulder. She turned at his touch.

“Dr. Westbrook, I need to talk to you.”

His hand felt solid and strong and fired tiny trickles of warmth through her shoulder. She knew she could step back and shake it off. But she didn’t. He seemed to be on her side now. She decided she could forgive his earlier transgressions.

Besides, she liked the feel of that strong hand. She also liked the sophisticated, woodsy after-shave that clung to that finely chiseled chin beneath that boyish smile. She couldn’t deny the guy was handsome as hell, and all her female parts were happily sitting up and taking notice.

“What about?” she asked.

“Louie Demerchant believes if he sees your child, he’ll be able to know if—”

Remy felt an instant anger whip through her. She jerked back, quickly shaking off his hand. She kept her outward cool, but only just, as she quickly interrupted.

“First, you assure me you don’t believe my child is David Demerchant’s, and then you want me to parade him before Louie Demerchant so he can decide. What do you take me for, a fool?”

“No. Of course not. But don’t you see? Because of Binick’s deviousness, this claim of a great-grandchild is going to haunt Louie Demerchant until he can see for himself that your child can’t possibly be David’s.”

“And you think one look will assure him of that?”

That simple, boyish sincerity just oozed out of his smile. “I hope so.”

Remy silently cursed herself for being such a gullible sap. She should never have allowed herself to be taken in by that handsome face and boyish smile. No substance lay behind them. They were only weapons this man wielded to get his way.

“You hope so. Yeah, right, Truesdale. Well, forget it. Neither you nor your client are getting anywhere near my son.”

A downward-heading elevator dinged as it stopped on the third floor. Remy swung around to step inside its opening doors. Both of Marc’s hands landed on her shoulders this time and whirled her back to face him, forcibly staying her retreat.

The boyish smile faded into one flooded with earnest desperation. “Look, it’s not going to hurt your son for Louie Demerchant just to look at him.”

Remy angrily shook his hands off her shoulders once again. “Listen, Truesdale. This is over. I never want to see you or Demerchant or Binick again, do you understand?”

“Please—”

“Your pleases are wasted on me. Now, go away and leave me alone.”

She swung back to the elevator at the same instant that its doors closed in her face.

She sucked in an enormous breath and began to count to ten.

“Sorry,” Marc said from behind her, not sounding sorry at all. “While we’re waiting for another elevator, you can tell me about your son.”

Remy’s hands balled into fists. She told herself sternly that she must not lose her cool. She must remain in control. Otherwise, she was going to end up decking this guy.

Suddenly, the stairwell door they had exited a few moments before crashed open. Remy’s eyes darted to the sound in time to see a horde of newspeople come spilling out onto the third floor. It took only a second for them to spot Marc and Remy.

“There they are!” one of the reporters shouted, as they all took off at a run. Remy groaned. Marc swung boldly forward into the reporters’ path, his hands raised in a halting motion.

Remy ducked behind him, frantically pressing the Down button in futile hope an elevator would come before the reporters descended.

Her hope was indeed futile.

In seconds the reporters were swarming over them, lights blinding her, microphones shoved once again in her face as they shouted out their questions simultaneously, the sounds batting against Remy’s ears in a cacophony of confusion.

And then, through it all, Remy heard the faint ding of an opening elevator. She whirled around, fully intending to jump in and close its doors as fast as she could. She never got the chance.

Because at that precise second, someone plowed into her hard from behind, popping the breath out of her, plummeting her to the floor and pouncing squarely on top of her.

* * *

MARC TRUESDALE LIMPED into the Wednesday-morning partners’ meeting at the law firm of Justice Inc. He carefully slid his body into his customary chair across from Kay Kellogg. Kay watched him with amused blueberry eyes over her cup of herbal tea, a large solitaire diamond flashing on her ring finger, a grin subtly playing around her lips.

But Octavia Osborne was not nearly so subtle. She flipped back her long tumble of flame red hair and used the ends of her long, matching, perfectly manicured nails to send the morning newspaper skidding over the top of the conference table. Her aim, as always, was accurate. The newspaper stopped directly in front of Marc, its banner headline proclaiming, Bio-Sperm Delivers Billion-Dollar Baby to Demerchant.

“Looks like you had fun in court yesterday,” Octavia commented, a languorous smile lifting the corners of her generous mouth. “Or should I say during the noon recess?”

Marc followed Octavia’s expressive eyes to the enormous, three-column-size photo of him sprawled over Remy Westbrook on the floor of the King County courthouse. He wore a surprised look; Remy wore her dress up around her ears. Octavia quoted the caption beneath the picture word for word, “‘Baby’s mom and Demerchant’s attorney get away after morning session for ex parte communication.’ Really, Marc, and it was only a couple of months ago that you were chastising Kay here for getting personally involved with a client.”

Marc shook his head wearily in response to Octavia’s goading. “This lady is not our client, and, yellow journalism notwithstanding, the only thing between Remy Westbrook and me this morning is sore feelings.”

“Is that why you’re limping? A case of sore...feelings?” Kay asked in that soft voice of hers, a grin still playing around her lips.

Marc exhaled heavily. “I was only trying to keep the news hounds at bay. Was it my fault one of them shoved me into Remy Westbrook and we both toppled to the floor? You’d think she’d be a little grateful for my efforts. Instead, before I even had a chance to get off her, she kneed me in the...uh...uh...”

“Feelings?” Kay offered with a less-than-innocent look.

Octavia exploded into that uninhibited, throaty laugh of hers that sang throughout the conference room. Kay joined her in an echo of merry amusement.

Marc shook his head in good-natured disgust. “Women!”

Kay reached for a tissue to dab at her eyes. “Sorry, Marc. But if you had any part in getting a picture like that of me run in all the papers, good intentions or no, I probably would have kneed you, too.”

“Well, thanks,” he said sarcastically. “Have you two forgotten that as my partners you’re supposed to be supporting me?”

“If it’s a supporter you need, I can buy you an athletic one,” Octavia said, before bursting out again in laughter, once more echoed by Kay’s giggles.

Marc found he couldn’t keep a straight face, not in light of his partners’ playfulness. “Actually, an ice pack would probably be more useful,” he admitted as he joined in with a chuckle of his own.

Octavia and Kay increased the timbre of their howls.

“Let’s try to keep it down,” Adam Justice admonished as he silently entered the conference room, closing the door behind him, exactly on time for their meeting. “Remember, we have associates doing research in offices on either side and secretaries trying to answer phones.”

The laughter died a timely death.

Marc admired the dignity and solid professionalism that entered the room along with the person of Adam Justice. The man could do it all—try any case, administer any problem. Adam Justice was, in every way, an unbeatable legal machine.

Trouble was, his machine had no Off button. The only time Marc had ever seen Adam outside the office was once at the gym, where Adam had called him for a quick conference about an upcoming case. Even there, Adam had discussed only the case in his typical, all-business demeanor as he mechanically worked the weight machines in a rigid regimen that brooked no deviation. And allowed no pleasure.

Yes, that was what Adam Justice was missing. Pleasure. Marc worked hard, but he found pleasure in his work. That’s why he had joined the smaller firm of Justice Inc. two years before. Here he could take on the cases and clients he wanted and handle them according to his conscience. He might have less prestige than what he could get at one of the bigger firms, but being in control of his cases had added so much more pleasure to his work.

Adam Justice’s absolute control didn’t seem to afford him any pleasure, however. Marc suspected that the scar that jagged from Adam’s jaw to beneath his starched white dress shirt had something to do with it. He’d asked Adam about that scar once. Adam had changed the subject. He was not someone Marc thought he’d ever really know.

That was all right. Mixing work and friends was almost as ill-advised as mixing work with women. Life could be lived much more smoothly with everything organized into its proper place.

“You’re first up, Marc,” Adam said as he settled himself at the head of the conference table and opened his case folder. “How is the Demerchant vs. Bio-Sperm trial going?”

“Very well, despite Binick’s unexpected bomb yesterday morning. I’m working it so that this surprise baby will actually support the damages, not detract from them. Yesterday afternoon I got Binick’s lab technician and her assistant to admit that even they can’t be one hundred percent sure that the donor coding on Remy Westbrook’s record is accurate.”

“When do you think you’ll be able to wrap it up?”

“Judge has some other court business this morning. When we reconvene this afternoon, we go directly to closing arguments. Depending on how long the jury takes to deliberate, it’s possible we’ll have the verdict in today. At the latest, tomorrow.”

“And that’s when you take off for a two-week vacation, right?” Kay asked.

Marc smiled at her. “Gavin and I are going waterskiing before the October rains hit.”

“Any ideas on how we can counteract the impression left by this picture?” Adam asked as he pointed his pen at the newspaper’s front page.

Adam’s tone had not changed, but Marc felt the depth of his concern, nonetheless.

Marc leaned back in his chair. “Every time a reporter called for a statement about it, I told them that it was a reporter who pushed me into Dr. Westbrook, probably just to get a picture like that. I also warned them that if I ever found out which reporter it was, I was going to sue his tail off. They don’t seem too eager to print those comments.”

Adam shook his head. “No, naturally they wouldn’t. But I don’t like to leave it like this. Doesn’t look good for the firm. Clients don’t come to lawyers tainted by impropriety.”

Octavia laughed, the only one who never let Adam’s somber admonishments restrict her flamboyant spirit. She leaned across the table toward him, a twinkle of fresh spirit in her eyes.

“Thanks to Kay’s impropriety hitting the newspapers a couple of months ago,” she said, “we have a dozen new clients. You worry too much, Adam.”

“As senior partner, it’s my job to worry. Give it some thought, Marc. We need a positive follow-up story.”

“Winning the suit should help,” Marc said.

“See you do. We can’t afford to give the impression of laxity in our ethics. We must uphold stringent standards here at Justice Inc. Morality cannot be compromised.”

Marc knew his senior partner was right, of course. Even the impression of a laxity in ethics was a serious matter.

Which meant it was a good thing Adam Justice didn’t know what Marc was going to do right after this meeting was over. A damn good thing.