Читать книгу Beauty Vs. The Beast - M.J. Rodgers - Страница 9

Damian watched his admission rivet Kay’s spine into stiff attention.

He had intentionally shocked her. He wanted to find out who the woman was inside that delicately petite five-foot two-inch frame.

From the moment he’d walked into her office, he’d sensed that Kay Kellogg was nothing like the image she presented.

Not that the image she presented was at all hard to take. Her long, honey-gold hair strained against its imprisonment beneath a silver barrette at the top of her head. Her eyes floated like plump blueberries in her milk-white face. She moved as gracefully as a slim willow, her soft voice sifting through the office like a gentle breeze rustling leaves.

And when she had taken his hand and his body had registered the strong current passing between them, he knew no woman had ever affected him so immediately or so thoroughly.

No doubt about it. Kay Kellogg possessed that kind of natural, land-mine femininity that instantly and spontaneously detonated deep in a man’s body, forcibly reminding him why he was happy to be a man.

She knew it, too, and the knowledge did not make her happy. That was evident by her lack of makeup and jewelry and the formalness and formidability of her dark blue linen suit and the high collar of her light blue cotton blouse.

She wore her clothes like armor. She was making a mistake. All that starched formality only served to accentuate the soft, beckoning woman beneath.

This valiant need she had to try to hide her femininity was far more disturbing and deadly to Damian than even all that land-mine femininity, because it stirred up all his protective instincts.

She didn’t react to his news, except for that initial and instant rigidity of spine. Her eyes remained focused on his, her hands steady, her soft voice absolutely even. She recovered exceptionally fast.

“Are you saying that the police don’t know you committed this murder?”

“I don’t consider I have committed a murder, Kay.”

“You just told me you killed Roy Nye.”

“I did.”

“Then it was an accident?”

“No, I deliberately set out to do it.”

Her eyes still remained glued to his; her composed voice did not falter. He was being deliberately obtuse. Yet she continued to deal with him calmly and coolly. She had an amazingly determined and disciplined mind within that delicate packaging.

“Kay, perhaps the situation will become clearer to you when I say that although Roy Nye is dead, Lee Nye is still very much alive.”

The small frown reappeared between her fawn-colored eyebrows. “How can one identity be dead and not the other?”

“Because I consciously sought to extinguish him. I was successful.”

“Are you saying you ‘killed’ the personality that was Roy?”

“We term it ‘extinguishing’ in psychological parlance. Once Lee Nye realized there was another personality inhabiting his body and taking over during the blackout periods, he was eager to be free of him.”

“And you agreed?”

“After I got to know Roy. He was in a self-destruct mode, inflicting ever-escalating harm. He was not amenable to change. If he had been allowed to continue, he would have taken Lee with him by killing off their shared physical self, as well as their separate personalities.”

“So you’re saying that to save Lee, you killed Roy.”

“Yes.”

“And now Roy’s widow is suing you in a wrongful death suit?”

“Yes.”

She sat back in her chair and pursed her lips in a moment of quiet contemplation. She had inviting lips—naturally pink and soft-looking. Still, they were deliberately unpainted and she definitely wasn’t pursing them in invitation. Good thing, too. Damian resolutely refocused his eyes on her small hands, resting steady and composed on her desk.

“Well, when Adam warned me that your case would be a surprise, he certainly didn’t exaggerate. This one is an original. A suit filed on behalf of a widow of a man who isn’t even really dead.”

“Make no mistake, Kay, Roy is dead. When I was successful in extinguishing him, Lee subsequently divorced Roy’s wife and shed all ties with Roy’s past, including having his name formally changed from LeRoy to Lee. The two individuals shared a body, but never a life. Roy is, as a matter of record, gone.”

“Psychologically speaking, Damian, I bow to your terms. But, legally at least, I think we should begin by attempting to dispute that fact.”

Her eyes were bright with possibilities. She tapped her fingers on the desk to an ever-increasing beat. Damian had the strong impression that they were impatiently trying to keep pace with her racing thoughts.

“I assume Mrs. Roy Nye knows all about your treatment of Lee and your part in extinguishing the Roy personality?”

“Yes. Lee fully explained the circumstances in court when he filed for divorce. Mrs. Nye didn’t contest the divorce. Lee told me later that she even seemed relieved.”

“Then why is she bringing this wrongful-death suit?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said Lee first came to you five and a half years ago?”

“Yes. I saw him for a year and a half before Roy was extinguished. However, Mrs. Nye didn’t file the wrongful-death suit until recently.”

“Any idea why she waited this long?”

“No.”

“Have you ever met her in person or talked to her over the phone?”

“No.”

“Even though you treated her husband?”

“I considered Lee to be my real patient. Her husband, Roy, was a destructive and dysfunctional personality fragment. I feel fortunate that I was successful in extinguishing Roy, thereby freeing Lee to take control of his life.”

Damian watched Kay inhale a deep breath and let it out with a shake of her head.

“Well, it’s certainly a unique cause of action Mrs. Nye will be bringing to court.”

“Will it stand up?”

“Logically, it shouldn’t. But with all the crazy things going on in the legal system these days, it’s hard to second-guess what a judge will let a jury hear. When were you served papers on this suit?”

“Four months ago.”

Her voice rose perceptibly. “Four months ago?”

“The pretrial motions are scheduled for this Friday. The trial is scheduled to begin a week from today.”

She leaned forward. “This Friday? A week from today? Why did you wait so long to seek legal representation?”

“I didn’t. I’ve been relying on the lawyer who represents my malpractice insurance company. After months of answering my frequent questions with vague assurances that he had everything under control, he finally called me into his office last week to tell me he was going for an out-of-court settlement.”

“What reason did he give?”

“He said that the publicity a suit like this could generate would only open a Pandora’s box of new suits against the psychologists that the insurance company represents.”

“Which he naturally wanted to avoid, being their legal representative first and yours second.”

“Yes. He was eager to approach the plaintiff with a settlement offer. In fact, he told me there was no way he would let a case like this get anywhere near the publicity of a trial.”

“Obviously you disagreed.”

“I have no doubt that what I did for Lee Nye was right, Kay. I’m neither apologizing nor paying off.”

“I take it the insurance company is no longer in the financial picture?”

“They’ve told me I’m on my own.”

“Without the insurance company’s resources, you realize this type of litigation could cost you quite a bit of money?”

“Adam discussed that aspect with me thoroughly. I have no intention of backing down.”

He felt her eyes assessing him. No surgeon’s knife could have been more precise in its careful probing. Yes, as he suspected from the first, this woman’s soft appearance and manner were quite misleading.

“I agree,” she said finally. “Backing down only invites others to advance. What we need is a good aggressive line of attack. I already see several possibilities we can pursue.”

Damian rose to his feet. He knew he had to stop this before it went any further. His curiosity and strong reaction to her had already let it go on far longer than prudent.

He extended his hand for a shake and set a small smile on his lips.

“I appreciate your listening to my story, but on reconsideration, I would be more comfortable engaging another attorney to represent me in this matter. Thank you for your time. Please send me your bill.”

She shot to her feet, but not to take his hand. Blue-white heat flashed in her blueberry eyes.

“You’d be more comfortable with another attorney? How can you possibly make such a decision without first hearing my ideas on the case and my strategy for your defense?”

He let his lips spread into his most soothing, reassuring smile, the one he’d been using for years on agitated patients.

“I’m certain your ideas and strategy are fine. My decision has nothing to do with your legal competency.”

She continued to ignore his outstretched hand. She did not return his smile. Her hands balled into fists. She rested her knuckles on the desk and leaned toward him menacingly.

“If you don’t doubt my legal competency, why are you dismissing me?”

He dropped his hand since she obviously wasn’t going to take it. He tried an earnest look and a calming tone, his most successful combination for difficult-patient situations.

“I don’t mean to offend you, Kay. I appreciate your reputation. Please understand that this decision is based purely on a personal idiosyncrasy.”

He followed his words with his most winning smile. Once again, she did not smile back.

“Rejection under the vague umbrella of personal idiosyncrasy, is offensive. I would hope you would at least afford me the professional courtesy of saying what you really mean. Don’t let my small size delude you. I’m not a child. I’ll be thirty in a few months. You don’t have to baby me.”

Damian’s smile faded as his eyebrows rose in surprise for the second time that morning.

So she was demanding the truth from him, was she? All right. He’d give her the truth. He looked her up and down. Deliberately. Not like a psychologist. Like a man.

“I have no illusions about your being a child. Far from it. It is precisely because I find you far too desirable a woman that you will not do. I’m facing a difficult lawsuit. I am not going to risk the possibly disastrous complications of getting personally involved with my attorney while I’m fighting for my professional life. Good morning.”

He pivoted sharply on the carpet and strode purposefully toward the door.

Her voice carried quite well considering its innate softness.

“Not so fast, Dr. Steele.”

He stopped and swung back to face her, irritated to be so strongly summoned by such a soft, yet clearly minatory, manner. That irritation crept into his words.

“There isn’t anything left to say.”

She moved quickly around her desk and marched toward him. She stopped directly in front of him, arms crossed over her chest, her chin up, her eyes sparking blue-white fire despite the saccharine smile that drew back her lips.

“I have two things to say. One, it takes two to get involved. And as difficult as it may be for you to imagine, I am fully prepared to struggle against succumbing to your charisma and live up to the ethical standards of my profession.”

She was so smug in her sarcasm. So damn smug. His irritation grew.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t—”

“The second thing I’d like to say is this,” she interrupted deliberately, still in that far-too-sweet tone. “If you, a psychologist, cannot control your impulses, then, Doctor, perhaps you’ve been spending your time on the wrong side of the analyst’s couch. I can get you the name of a good therapist if you don’t know one.”

Damian clenched his hands at his sides as an unwelcome heat rose in his chest and flared through his nostrils. How dare this pint-size attorney tell him that he needed psychological help and offer to find him a good psychologist. His voice lowered into a deadly warning hush.

“I have no trouble controlling my impulses,” he said, although at the moment he knew he was having a lot of trouble.

She took another step toward him, obviously ignoring the warning in his tone, her voice still too sweet, her eyes still too blue-white hot.

“Then we have no problem here, do we, Doctor? I will give you my word of honor that I will abide by my ethical code of having no personal involvement with a client, and you will give me your word of honor that you will not fire me for the duration of this case as long as I perform my legal services competently.”

Damian watched her silently for a moment, newly stunned by her challenge, wondering how she had managed to maneuver him into this untenable position.

How could he say no? He’d be admitting that he couldn’t keep his attraction for her under control. Which was absurd. Of course he could. At the moment, he was far more inclined to wring that slim neck of hers than kiss those soft-looking lips.

“So what’s it to be, Dr. Steele? Are you going to hire me, or are you going to spend some much-needed time on another analyst’s couch?”

She was so damn cool and confident and sure of herself. Behind that soft, feminine facade, he could clearly see a fierce feline with claws and a considerable set of sharp teeth.

What had ever given him the impression that this lady lawyer could be vulnerable?

Damian suddenly found himself smiling, the anger she had provoked in him fading. If she could think this quickly on her feet and prove to be this good an adversary in the courtroom, he’d be foolish not to engage her for his legal defense.

He held out his hand. “All right, Kay. You’re hired. And you have my word as a man of honor that I will not fire you for anything other than incompetency.”

She closed the small remaining distance between them and took his hand, giving it a good, solid shake, just as she had when they first introduced themselves. A small, triumphant smile lifted the sides of her lips.

“You won’t regret it.”

On the contrary, Damian was beginning to regret it already. The warmth of her hand was something he could feel right through to his solar plexus. She might be able to disavow the attraction between them, but he couldn’t. Her light scent was as addictive as sweet, warm sunshine. She was bright; she was beautiful; she was out of bounds.

A hell of a dangerous combination. Damn. He could see it now. His mistake had been in trying to walk away from her earlier. He should have run.

* * *

“SO, Kay,” Adam Justice began in the Wednesday morning partners’ meeting, “I see your case of Nye vs. Steele has already made the local news.”

Kay quickly swallowed her sip of licorice-spice herbal tea and set her mug on the oval conference table around which sat the four partners of Justice Inc.—herself, Adam Justice, Marc Truesdale and Octavia Osborne.

Kay swung her body to the right to look into Adam’s stone face, as cool and mysterious as his pale eyes and the scar that jagged from his jaw to disappear below his impeccable, starched-white dress shirt.

“Mrs. Nye’s tearful interview about the loss of her husband, Roy, was just an overt play for sympathy. The press is obviously giving her airtime only because of the unusual dual-personality feature of her case.”

“The news commentator mentioned that Dr. Steele couldn’t be reached for comment,” Adam said. “Did you advise him to avoid the press?”

“Yes. Pretrial motions are Friday morning. I believe I’ll be able to get the case dismissed entirely, in which case Dr. Steele doesn’t need to have his face flashed on the screen with that kind of negative publicity.”

Adam made a note on his case list, his full head of straight, jet-black hair nodding in silent, sober approval. Adam Justice’s reputation as a hard-driving, brilliant attorney was legendary throughout Seattle’s legal system.

And his sister, Ariana Justice—better known as AJ—ran a detective firm touted as one of the best in the state.

Yet even after five years of working with the two of them, Kay had learned very little about the human side of either Adam or AJ. Both brother and sister assiduously deflected any and every personal probe.

“What’s your angle on dismissal?” Marc Truesdale asked as he grabbed for his second bran muffin from the lazy Susan at the center of the conference table.

Marc was the opposite of Adam, open and easy to get to know. He’d joined the firm just two years before, yet Kay knew far more about him than she suspected she’d ever know about Adam. Marc was overwhelmingly good-looking, oozed charm and was only a few months older than Kay. And despite his reputation for romancing the ladies, Marc always treated her with the strict deference and respect of one colleague for another.

“My argument will be that since no corporal death has in fact occurred, there is no legal basis for a wrongful-death suit.”

Marc nodded. “Good logical approach. Think it will work?”

Kay smiled at his question. “I have an ace up my sleeve if it doesn’t.”

He smiled back. “You always do.”

“I had better have on this one. Getting up to speed for a trial by Monday isn’t exactly the way I want to spend my weekend.”

Octavia Osborne exploded into that rich, throaty, uninhibited laugh that danced around the room and brought out the worst of Kay’s envy. At five foot eleven, Octavia was a statuesque redhead whose perfect grooming and gorgeous clothes always exuded the kind of natural flamboyance and woman-of-the-world sophistication that Kay knew she could never emulate. Octavia leaned toward her, a knowing twinkle in her sagacious eyes.

“Come on, Kay. That’s just the way you’d like to spend your weekend. Talk about a lady with all work and no play in her life. You turn in almost as many billable hours each month as Adam here, and we all know he eats and sleeps in his office.”

Kay shrugged. She didn’t take Octavia’s observation as a reprimand. On the contrary. She was proud of who she was.

“Okay, I confess. I’m the product of a long line of workaholics. It’s in the genes. We Kelloggs enter the world with an inherent proclivity to pounce right from the womb into the work force. We can’t help but get excited about our jobs.”

Beautifully arched eyebrows rose above Octavia’s eyes. She plucked a couple of grapes from the lazy Susan with long, graceful fingers. She reminded Kay of one of those regal and ravishing ladies who graced ancient Grecian urns.

“But even those workaholic parents of yours found time to...ah...get excited about other things, otherwise you wouldn’t be here,” Octavia’s smiling mouth said. “Now, as a fellow partner in this firm, I sincerely appreciate all that hard work of yours that contributes to my paycheck. But as a fellow woman, I’m letting you in on a little secret. Taking time out for some fun can be rewarding, too.”

Kay looked away from Octavia’s directed glance and fiddled with her file of papers as Damian Steele’s ruggedly handsome face unexpectedly and unexplainably materialized in her mind.

Octavia leaned closer, a sweep of an ultralight, ultrasophisticated fragrance advancing before her. “You could always start by asking the sinfully sexy Dr. Steele to show you his couch.”

Kay felt the uncomfortable jolt of Octavia’s words, so close to her unbidden mental image. Her back straightened as she scrambled to collect her scattered thoughts. “He’s a client. You know I would never—”

“Never say never, Kay,” Octavia interrupted, holding up an admonishing finger, while at the same time letting the twinkle in her eyes and smile soften her reprimand as she popped the grapes into her mouth.

Kay’s shoulders relaxed. Her partner was just being her playful, kidding self. Why was she taking Octavia’s jab about Damian Steele so seriously? It wasn’t like Kay to be so touchy. No, it wasn’t like her at all.

Octavia relaxed back in her chair as a small frown interrupted the smooth surface of her forehead. “I wish I could remember where I heard his name before, though. I’ve never met him or I’m sure I would have recognized his face when you introduced him around. But his name is definitely familiar. It’s maddening not being able to recall.”

“So you’ve been telling us since Monday,” Marc said. “Could it be that after catching a glimpse of this Dr. Steele, you’re the one who’s interested in checking out him and his couch?”

Octavia stretched back in her conference chair. Beneath her long lashes, her eyes glowed in a combination of confidence and amusement.

“Me? Interested in a man whose life is devoted to hearing women confess their deepest secrets? Not on your life, Marc. I want a man who is far more fascinated with the woman who reveals nothing.”

“Who’s opposing counsel?” Adam asked.

The senior partner’s question brought Kay’s focus back to the case at hand, as he no doubt had intended it should. She turned in his direction.

“Name’s Rodney Croghan. Drew a blank with me. Ring a bell for anyone?”

Adam and Octavia both shook their heads.

Marc nearly choked on his last bite of bran muffin. He reached for his cup of coffee to quickly wash it down. “Rodney Croghan? You’re sure it’s Rodney Croghan?”

“You know him, Marc?” Kay asked, not too surprised that a name that didn’t seem familiar to anyone else in the room would register with him. Marc got around.

“I do if there aren’t two attorneys with that same name. I was down in Olympia visiting friends a few years ago when a buddy asked me to sit in on a case he was trying. Rodney Croghan, an unknown associate with a big firm, was his legal adversary. My friend thought he had an unbeatable line of attack, everything sewed up tight, no loose ends. Croghan wiped up the courtroom with him.”

“Croghan’s that good?” Octavia asked as she leaned forward, her interest immediately sparkling in her eyes and tone.

“I think devious would be a more accurate description,” Marc said. “Croghan tried some off-the-wall legal shenanigans you wouldn’t have believed. Took everyone in the courtroom by surprise. The guy walked a very thin, dangerously high, ethical tightrope during that trial, I can tell you. Made me queasy just watching him.”

Kay tapped her fingers on the conference table. “Lawyers generally stay in their hometown where they’ve established their name and are familiar with the process, people and legal procedures. What is Croghan doing up here in Seattle?”

“Good question,” Marc agreed. “Maybe you’d best give AJ a call and start her investigators on a background check of Croghan.”

“I’ll wait to see how Friday morning goes first before bringing in AJ,” Kay said. “I really do expect to get the case dismissed.”

“Which judge did you draw?” Adam asked.

“A stodgy one, but that’s good. Frederick I. Ingle III.”

“Not good,” Octavia said, shaking her head.

“Not good?” Kay echoed, clearly surprised. “How can you say that? I had Ingle a couple of years ago in a personal-injury suit and he couldn’t have been more by the book. If this Croghan tries any funny legal business, Ingle is just the judge who will slap him into place.”

Octavia shook her head. “Maybe a couple of years ago, Kay, but Ingle has expanded his professional horizons. Last month his first novel was published and he’s no longer the same man.”

“He’s written a novel? About what?”

“It’s supposed to be based on one of his cases.”

“How could his writing a novel about one of his cases cause a problem?”

“Because of what the critics have said about it. They admit his writing is competent but call his main character—who just happens to be a judge—boring, and then added something about if the author was truly writing from real-life experience, he needed to go out and get a new life. They weren’t too complimentary about his plot, either. ‘Yawning, mundane material,’ I think the phrase went.”

“So he didn’t produce a legal thriller. I still don’t see how that should affect my case before him.”

“Ingle has apparently taken the criticism to heart, Kay. He’s been seen in some wild getup, scooting around Seattle in a new red Corvette. Inside the courtroom, his legal judgment is taking a similarly...ah...colorful turn.”

“How do you mean?”

“He’s flat out told parties to suits that they better settle them out of his court because they’re simply too ‘mundane’ for him to have to preside over in a trial. Do you know how delighted he’s going to be when he finds out what your case involves?”

Kay took a deep breath and let it out, shaking her head. “Terrific. A shifty lawyer and now a judge in search of the story line for a bestseller. I was feeling pretty good about this case before I came in here this morning.”

“You’ll handle it,” Adam said in his quiet, matter-of-fact way. There was something about the solidness of her senior partner’s infrequent but well-timed assurances that always filled Kay with confidence. She found some new starch for her spine as she sent him a small smile.

“Just watch out for Croghan,” Marc cautioned.

“I’ll try to deflect any legal darts he throws my way.”

“Be careful he doesn’t do to you what he did to my friend and wait until your back is turned before throwing them.”

Kay nodded, a small frown forming between her eyebrows as an unbidden and unsavory image flashed into her mind. She could clearly see her back outlined with several circles of chalk marks, the bull’s-eye right between her shoulder blades.

* * *

“I’M NOT RELOCATING with you, Dr. Steele,” Tim Haley said in a voice cracking with nervous defiance. “I’m going to stay with Dr. Payton.”

Surprised, Damian turned toward his receptionist. Tim Haley stood behind his desk, his bespectacled eyes downcast, his freckles suddenly darker against his naturally pale skin, his tall, thin frame visibly quivering like that of a newborn colt.

Damian rested the box of patient files he had just carried out of his office on the edge of the receptionist’s desk and faced him. This was very atypical behavior for the shy, willing young man, who always strove so diligently to please. Very atypical.

“Tim, we’ve been together almost six years. I thought we were a good team. What’s wrong?”

Tim’s eyes rose briefly to Damian’s. The effort to maintain his confrontational pose had set even his normally neat shock of copper hair to shivering on his scalp.

“You know what’s wrong,” he said, his voice cracking anew.

Damian hadn’t known, but he was beginning to get a glimmer. “Tim, it’s not what you think. What you overheard—”

Tim’s eyes dropped to his desk as he quickly interrupted. “Dr. Payton told me everything. So, it’s no use, you see.”

Yes, Damian could see. Nothing he could say now would matter to the man. Only thing he could do was to try to leave on as friendly a note as Tim would allow. He extended his hand.

“I’m going to miss you, Tim. Best of luck in everything.”

Tim stared at Damian’s extended hand, biting his thin lips, quivering again with the conflict of his emotions. As the seconds ticked by and Tim didn’t take the proffered hand, Damian realized that Tim would not be able to engage in even this one, last, small gesture of friendship. It would have required that the receptionist leap across the professional and personal chasm that he had so recently and painstakingly dug between them.

Damian dropped his hand and exhaled an internal sigh as he picked up his last box of patient files. He consoled himself with the fact that it could be worse. This last day in his office could have spelled far more serious confrontational disasters.

As he turned to leave, he saw that he had clearly started to count his blessings too soon. Dr. Priscilla Payton stood in the doorway.

He stiffened as he stepped aside to let her pass. “Dr. Payton,” he said in as formally polite a tone as he could muster.

Priscilla Payton’s dark cap of short, straight, black hair seemed to rise on her head as though electrically charged. She stared at Damian with pupils so dark and enlarged, they looked like aimed bullets.

“Oh, right, it’s Dr. Payton now.”

Damian took a slow, deep breath. “I don’t mean to make this difficult for either of us. I thought you weren’t going to be in this morning. If I had known you’d be here, I would have cleaned out my office another time.”

Her eyes flashed as she spat out the word. “Coward!”

This was not a conversation Damian had any intention of prolonging. “I have to take these files to my car, and I’m due for an important appointment. So, if you’ll excuse me—”

“I won’t excuse you,” Priscilla Payton barked. She not only didn’t move from her position in the doorway, she spread her feet to block it further so Damian couldn’t get past.

“You want to know why I’m here this morning?” she said. “I’m here because I have an appointment with Bette Boson.”

Damian didn’t like the sound of this. “Ms. Boson is my patient. How can you have an appointment with her?”

“Because she’s not your patient anymore. She was waiting in reception that day when we had our little discussion, remember? She heard it all, every word. You think she’ll ever trust you again after what you did to me? You think she’ll ever even want to see you again?”

Damian remembered how Bette had nearly run out of the reception area that dreadful day. Maybe he really shouldn’t be surprised that she had decided not to continue therapy with him. Particularly since Priscilla had obviously talked to Bette before he could, just as she had talked to Tim Haley.

No use pointing out the total lack of ethics such behavior displayed. Priscilla was, obviously, in no mood to hear it.

“I want her videotapes, Damian.”

“Fine,” he answered. “I’ll pack them up and drop them off here on my way to the lake on Sunday.”

“Her videotapes aren’t still in your office?”

“I already moved all the videotapes to my home office. Now, if you’ll stop blocking the doorway, I’ll be on my way.”

Priscilla didn’t budge. Her hands set on her hips. “I saw Mrs. Nye on the news last night. I hope her attorney creams you in court.”

Damian was getting very weary of this vindictive trip Priscilla was on. Very weary. “I expected you to be a little more professional about our differences, Dr. Payton.”

“Me a little more professional? Ha! Look who’s talking.”

Enough was enough. Damian’s tone descended into an icy hush of warning. “This isn’t getting either of us anywhere, Doctor. Move aside.”

Her voice rose, even more belligerent and taunting. “What’s the matter? Can’t face a fight, Damian?”

Damian’s jaw clenched. “You know better. If you don’t stop blocking the doorway, Dr. Payton, I will physically move you out of the way. You make the choice. You have ten seconds.”

Damian watched Priscilla’s expression change from one of dare to one of growing disquiet as she read the intent in his eyes. He was not bluffing and she knew it. She scooted nervously out of the way.

“You always resort to violence, don’t you, Damian? Don’t you?”

Damian didn’t waste his time with a retort, nor a backward glance in her direction. He charged through the cleared pathway. He took the hallway in massive strides, shouldered his way through the outer doorway to the parking lot and made a beeline for his forest-green ‘61 Jaguar coupe, keeping cool in its private parking space beneath the shade of a thickly branched giant madrona tree.

This office complex had been his professional home since he had been lucky enough to find it tucked into a residential section along Lake Union seven years before. It wouldn’t be easy to find another that fit his needs so well.

Still, he was going to have to try.

Maybe it was good that this change was being foisted on him. Maybe he’d become too complacent. Maybe he needed a little shaking up.

Well, need it or not, he was certainly getting it. And to think it was only a year ago that he’d refused to be featured in the Seattle Times supplement as a prime example of the ruggedly individual and intellectual Pacific Northwest bachelor.

Ruggedly individual? Intellectual? What a joke. It seemed as if lately, all he’d been doing was marching straight into the sea of professional and personal suicide like some brainless lemming. What else could possibly go wrong?

Damian dug into his pants pocket for his key as he approached his car. He opened the driver’s side and carefully set the last box of patient records in the back seat. As he straightened up, he noticed a blue envelope beneath the windshield wiper.

He snatched it, expecting it to be yet another announcement for yet another new espresso shop. No wonder everyone was sleepless in Seattle. He was just about to throw the blue envelope into a nearby waste bin, when his eyes caught sight of the business card taped to its front.

His business card.

His eyebrows met in a dark frown. This was no casual advertisement. This was from someone who knew him. Damian slit open the sealed envelope and slipped out the single sheet of pale blue paper from inside.

The words on the page were large, blunt and perfectly even. They looked as if they had been formed by someone passing a thick black felt-tip pen over a stencil. He sensed a careful, composed and calm hand had modeled them. The meaning in the words themselves, however, gave him a sense of something quite different.

You are going to pay. I’m going to make sure of it.