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Authors: Barbara Delinsky

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“But he had no right to steal those things!”
“They do belong to him in part,” Justine reminded her softly. “But you're right. He shouldn't have taken anything. Tell me, is anything else missing?”
There was a pause at the other end of the line as the woman tried to think. “I—I think that's everything.”
“Jewels?”
“No! Thank heavens those are in the safe deposit box.”
“And who has the key?”
The voice was suddenly meeker in a dismal way. “Oh, Lord,
he
does!”
It was a common dilemma for many of Justine's clients, women who, for the bulk of their adult years, had been married and totally dependent on their husbands, even to
the extent of possession of the safe deposit box key. Nothing like that would ever,
ever
, happen to her, she had long ago vowed. Cases like the present one only reinforced her determination.
“Look, Mrs. Connely”—she attempted to soothe the woman—“don't let it upset you further. I will make some calls this afternoon and see about a temporary injunction. That will prevent him from removing anything else from the house. In the meantime, we'll just have to wait on reclaiming the other things until the hearing.”
“But my credit cards … the children need things … I have no money …”
“Your sister.” The lawyer thought quickly. “Can your sister help you out at all until next week?”
With a sigh the other woman reluctantly confirmed the suggestion. “I suppose she could … but I hate to ask. It's such a messy situation.”
“I know that, Mrs. Connely. But you can assure her that the loan is only temporary. After next week, we should have things straightened out. Sound fair?”
Mrs. Connely's voice reflected her more calmed state. “I guess so.”
“Fine, then. I'll give you a call back later when I have something to report. Why don't you call the hardware store right now and see about having those locks changed.”
“I will.” With a defeated “Thank you” and “Good-bye,” Mrs. Connely hung up the phone.
“All alone now?” John Doucette called gallantly from the door as Justine replaced the receiver and continued to make some notes, waving him away with a sweep of her arm. But he was not to be shooed off so quickly. “Did your toe survive that collision?” he asked, reveling in amusement as he sauntered up to her desk.
“I'm busy, John. Go call a client, will you?”
Actually, despite their sparring and John's frequent
badgering for a date, the two were good friends. John had been an associate when Justine entered the firm, putting them in the same class. The associates as a group were on the fringe of the firm, commiserating often about petty gripes, consoling each other on minor defeats, celebrating together those hard-fought victories. Justine respected his legal ability, and once she recognized him for the ladies' man he prided himself on being, she found she could enjoy him in reasonable doses. This day's dose, however, was growing oppressive.
“The fox is omnivorous and an opportunist, you know,” he informed her, as though nothing at all had passed since the demise of their earlier conversation. “He leaps and pinions his victim with his paws. Then his powerful jaw takes over the work.”
In a gesture of exasperation Justine lifted the heavy fall of curls from her forehead and held it momentarily atop her head. Her eyes sent a dagger of disgust his way. “Is this absolutely necessary? You really have gone beyond the line of duty. As I recall, you've already warned me on that score.”
His grin reflected his pleasure in needling her—and, for once, her seeming lack of immunity. “Just thought I'd make my point a little stronger. If you're determined to get involved with the man—”
“I am determined to get involved with
no one!”
She struck back loudly. “I don't understand why you keep harping on this—” In her frustration she flung her hand from her head down onto her desk, accidentally toppling a pile of books that had rested precariously on its edge. “Damn!” she swore softly, then looked up accusingly as she knelt to retrieve the volumes. “Look what you've made me do!” She turned frustration into humor. “You get me all rattled so that I don't know whether I'm coming or going. You do have a way with women, I can say that
much!” Flattery, even of the backhanded sort, always did the male ego wonders, she mused.
“Ah, you finally noticed!” He had come to help her pick up the scattered pile of books, serving himself up meekly for the friendly swat Justine took at his head.
“Hey, you two! What's going on here? I thought this was supposed to be a dignified law firm!”
Richard Logan joined the group, his boyish smile indicating his delight at the break in tradition. On occasion Justine wondered how his more staid father had managed to entice the younger, more adventurous Logan into the firm. This was one of those occasions.
“This man,” Justine began, nodding toward the now standing John, “is a menace to society. What he's doing in here is beyond me!”
“And you, Dick,” the object of her mini-tirade interjected, “what brings you into this madhouse?”
The smile that lit the young Logan's face bore its share of devilry. “An invitation.”
“Great!” John exclaimed humorously. “Where are we going?”
“You're
not going anywhere. It's Justine. She's been invited to join us for dinner tonight.”
Justine cocked her blond head toward John, her eyes green in their merriment. “That's terrific! Where are we going to dine?”
Might as well rub it in for effect,
she thought with a grin, taking revenge on John's earlier smugness.
“That hasn't been decided yet. But the command has been issued. You're not busy, are you?” Richard added as an afterthought.
“I am now. Dinner will be fine.” Then a strange and unbidden sense of unease crept into the recesses of her mind. “By the way,” she asked with studied nonchalance, “who's ‘us'?”
Richard looked from Justine to John and back before
answering, confirming in Justine's mind what she had uncannily feared.
Feared.
Though she didn't know why. But fear it she did.
“There will be yours truly, my father, Charlie, and … Sloane.”
The last name hung in the air for a long moment, before John broke the silence with his conspiratorial whisper. “The Silver Fox.” As Justine subconsciously caught her breath, both men turned to stare at her.
It was a dilemma of the worst order. Not only had she already accepted the dinner invitation carte blanche and with gusto, but she had spent the better part of two separate conversations with John Doucette declaring her immunity to Sloane Harper. Having burned her bridges behind her, there was nothing to do but accept the situation with a practiced, if superficial, grace.
“That's fine, Richard. Please give your father the message and thank him for the invitation. I'll look forward to it.” Her eyes bore an emerald steadiness that was almost convincing.
“I'll bet you will,” John whispered with a wicked grin as the other left the office. “It should be a very interesting evening. At least you'll be well protected!”
The last thing Justine needed, fresh on this minor setback, was John's continued taunting. Willing herself to calmness, she faced him straight on. “I do have an awful lot to do between now and then, John. If you don't mind, perhaps I could get to it … .”
“Not at all.” The dark-haired man gave a semblance of a bow, then turned and strode to the door, stopping there for a final shot. “Have fun, Justine … and be careful … .” The drawl in his voice rankled her. Ignoring it, she lifted the telephone receiver as if to make a call, then replaced it as soon as the doorway stood empty once more.
Absent fingers shifted the telephone messages around in her hand. Her mind was elsewhere. Sloane Harper, she had to admit, was a most attractive man. In truth, she had never been as fascinated by a man before. Unbidden, she recalled John's words, to be haunted, then bewildered by them in turn.
Omnivorous. Sly. A predator.
They connoted a man who was hard, shrewd, slightly sinister. Yet the man who had knelt earlier by her side, gently soothing both her stubbed toe and her injured pride, had been anything but hard or sinister. Shrewd, perhaps, if his true motivation was imagined at its worst, but certainly neither hard nor sinister. How ironic, she mused, that she should know nothing more about Sloane Harper than the fact that he talked in his sleep! CORE International was a mystery to her, as was all else about this man whose bold bearing had set her pulse to pounding.
Perhaps it was for the best that she not know much about him. Intuition told her that he might put her vows of independence to a test. But then, she reasoned, arguing against alarm, beyond a well-chaperoned dinner that night, she would probably not see him other than in passing along the corridors of the firm.
A frown marred her gentle features as a new question popped into mind. Why
had
she been invited to join the dinner party? After all,
she
would not be involved with Sloane as a client. Was it simply the fact that she was a woman, the firm's token female? Had she suddenly become a showpiece? Bristling, she recalled Daniel Logan's faintly patronizing remarks back in the hall. To date she had neatly managed to avoid that kind of extra attention. Why should it begin now? To her further chagrin, the fact of its presence, for the first time in the firm, was not as upsetting as it might have been. Could it be that she prized her femininity in the eyes of Sloane Harper?
There was only one solution to her wayward imaginings. Work. There was nothing like a sticky case to remind her that she was, first and foremost, a lawyer. Determinedly she focused her attention on the messages which awaited her. Girardi, at the district attorney's office—Fried, at the Social Welfare Bureau—Tompkins of Tompkins, Tompkins and Riley—Tony O'Neill, at the settlement
house—and Theodore Marston. Theodore Marston, attorney at law—and as sticky a divorce situation as she had run into. That would be the one to tackle first, a sure diversion which would require her total attention.
She diligently pushed the buttons on the telephone console, then waited while the secretary put her through. “Mr. Marston? This is Justine O'Neill. I received your message and wanted to get right back to you.”
The curt voice on the other end of the line was as firm and sharp-edged as was the man himself. “Ms. O'Neill, thank you for calling. I'm afraid that my client feels the terms you have suggested to be way out of line. I agree.”
“That's unfortunate,” she stated calmly, having expected just this reaction. It was a basic premise in negotiation to aim far higher than what one actually expected to attain; Justine had done just that. “Exactly what part of the agreement bothers you?”
“Most of it. The money settlement, the division of property, the visitation rights—you name it.”
Justine was prepared, tapping on a pad of paper with the tip of her pencil. “Mr. Marston, as far as the money is concerned, your client is a multimillionaire. Certainly this lump sum figure is not out of line, especially considering that the couple was married for twelve years.”
“It's too high, nonetheless. With a monthly child support payment to boot! We simply cannot agree to that.”
“And why not? The figure we're talking about would be very little to a man of your client's standing.”
“He has … other obligations … business commitments.”
“Yes, other obligations.” Justine had done her homework, having had the husband of her client thoroughly investigated. “I understand that one of those ‘other obligations' is a mistress. Is that true?”
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line as the opposing lawyer recovered from his surprise. He had,
obviously, thought this to be a little secret between his client and himself. “How did you ever get that idea?” he called her bluff.
But Justine was crafty enough not to show all her cards at once. “I have my sources. And we have uncovered more about your client that any judge will have to consider, should we finally go to court.” Again, silence reigned. Sensing her opening, Justine grasped it. “It might be a good idea, Mr. Marston, if we sat down across the table from one another and discussed these matters.
Then
we can negotiate a further settlement.”
She had played her hand to the hilt. Without delay an appointment was set up and the matter temporarily tabled. Justine's strength lay in analyzing her adversary, then using instinct to attain her goal. An in-person conference would give her that opportunity.
A sigh slipped through her lips as she crumbled the pink slip and tossed it into the leather wastebasket behind her.
Leaps, and pinions his victim with his paws.
Helplessly her mind reverted to thoughts of Sloane. But his touch had been so soft, so gentle, she mused, recalling the tingling sensation she'd felt. Catching her breath, she forced her attention back to the phone.
Girardi, at the district attorney's office, was the next order of business. “Mr. Girardi,” she began, following the suitable identification, “how is our case shaping up?”
“A little shaky, Justine.” Though the law firm, within itself, operated strictly on a first-name basis, she always resented the occasional outside male who presumed such a status as quickly as this one seemed to have done. She could only fight fire with fire.
“I'm not sure I understand, Jim. I thought it was an open-and-shut case of wife beating. Isn't that what the indictment read?”
“Ah, yes, ah, that was what we had originally determined.”
“However—” she anticipated him.
“However, there is new evidence that has just arisen. He, ah, claims now that it was self-defense.”
“
Self-defense
?” Justine's reaction was instant. “Jim, that woman was black-and-blue for weeks.”
“He claims she tried to attack him with a poker.”
Justine shook her head slowly, ingesting this new information. “Do you believe that?”
The assistant district attorney cleared his throat self-consciously. “I'm not sure. You're the one who represented the wife in the divorce. What do you think?”
“I think,” she countered strongly, “that it's highly unlikely!”
After a pause, Jim Girardi agreed. “I tend to be on your side. But he still wants to plea bargain. He's hoping for probation.”
“That would put him right back on the street, free to do God knows what! I can't see it. His ex-wife is a gentle person. If—and I do mean
if
—she held a poker in her hand, she must have had a very certain fear of the man.” Hesitating, she contemplated the next step. “Look, let me speak with Marie and see how she responds to the claim. Then I'll get back to you. Okay?”
“Fine. But make it fast. We can only hold him so long. If he gets a reduction in bail, he'll be on the street anyway.”
“I understand.” She grimaced. “Let me give her a call and then we'll know more. Talk with you later.”
Another pink slip sailed into the basket. Worrying ghost creases into her forehead, Justine jotted a note to herself. She was interrupted when the light on the console flickered. To her relief and pleasure it was the O'Neill who had called earlier, her half brother.
“Tony!” she burst out enthusiastically, responding to the unique place this man held in her heart. “It's been too long. How
are
you?”
“Just fine, Justine. How's the eager beaver doing?”
For the first time that afternoon a truly relaxed smile lit her face. “Not bad, for an establishment lawyer,” she poked fun at herself. “Tell me about you—what's happening?”
For several minutes she listened, leaning back in her chair with her stockinged feet propped against the edge of an out-drawn lower drawer as Tony outlined his latest endeavors. Chief social worker at the local settlement house, he had never a dull moment. But he thrived on it—as did she on her own work's excitement. Along with a father, fair skin, and similarly amber hair, this was another of the things they shared.
“Listen, Justine”—Tony grew more sober—“I wanted to thank you for what you did for the Aliandro boy. We're all delighted, now that he's been placed with foster parents.”
Gratified, she probed. “It's working out well, then?”
“So far, so good. It's a relief for him not to have to face a pair of battling, drunken parents every day and night.”
The case itself had been a rewarding one emotionally for Justine. “Every child should have the right to counsel. I'm glad I could have been of help.”
“You're terrific, you know! Any flak from the firm about cases like these?”
“No, no. They know that I insist on handling a certain number of
pro bono
cases. Just because a ten-year-old boy cannot afford to pay a lawyer shouldn't mean that he is denied his rights. That child has a
right
to a healthy home environment!”
“Well, thanks to you, he has one now. We're all in your debt!”
With a blush that her caller could not see, Justine minimized her effort. “It was my pleasure. Call me again soon?”
A mischievous guffaw met her ear. “Are you sure you
want that? I always seem to find more work for you …”
“That's what I'm here for, Tony. Please, do call!”
“Sure thing, Justine. So long!”
For long moments after hanging up the phone she contemplated the success of that particular case. Although ones such as this which Tony had referred her brought in no money, they were, in some ways, the most satisfying—particularly when the outcome was positive.
Once again the console lit. This time it was Dave Brody. “I've just managed to get tickets for the theater, Justine. A week from Tuesday. Eight o'clock. Can you make it?”
Momentarily buoyed by her conversation with Tony, Justine accepted the invitation with alacrity. “Sure thing! What will we see?”
“The tickets are for
Evita
. Have you been?”
“Nope. Sounds good. The reviews have been fantastic—and even though it's been running for so long, I haven't been. What time should I be ready?”
“If I pick you up at six thirty, we can grab something to eat beforehand. Something light.” He emphasized the “light,” knowing from experience that this date was not a heavy eater.
Grinning at his perceptivity, she agreed. “Six thirty. I'll be ready and waiting. See you then!”
Dave Brody was a steady friend, a knightly companion. Justine had met him at a party several years before, had been dating him occasionally ever since. A stockbroker by profession, he was an avid culture nut. In his company she had visited many a museum, enjoyed not only the theater but ballet and opera as well. Though her own appreciation was more geared for pure enjoyment Dave's knowledgeable commentary always highlighted their evenings together. And, she mused, turning to gaze out her twenty-first-floor window at the steep wall of concrete and glass across the avenue, he made no demands on her—either
sexually, or in terms of further commitment. His presence in her life suited her well!
Involvement with the male of the species in other than the processional or platonic realm simply did not fit into her life plan. There would be no misery for her such as she saw day in and day out through her work. She wanted no part of the hassles of marriage, the bickering about the sharing of responsibilities, the arguments about money matters and career. Above all she wanted none of the heartache she'd known as a child when her parents' marriage had fallen apart. She had suffered enough then to last her a lifetime. Indeed, the avoidance of sexual entanglement seemed a small price to pay for emotional well-being.

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