Trouble (8 page)

“I really doubt that.”

“Who do you think you are?” she shouted.

His sarcasm gave way to grim resignation.

“I'm your new boss.”

Dara's first week as Mike's unpaid intern—his firm was downtown in a rehabbed brownstone—passed in a blur. She settled into her hours, which were before classes, from eight to ten every morning. She met his staff, which consisted of a receptionist, a single mother going to night school named Amira, and an overworked secretary named Laura. She started on her first project, which was reading a trial transcript for signs of reversible error that Mike could use on appeal. She showed up early and worked hard.

She did not see Mike. At all.

Her first day, a Monday, she was relieved to hear he was in court most mornings. By Wednesday, her relief had turned to a generalized dissatisfaction. By Friday, every day she worked but didn't see or hear from her boss, except through his secretary, felt like a personal affront.

When an air-conditioning issue at the law school caused her classes to be canceled on Friday afternoon, she decided to go back to the office and finish her memo about the trial transcript. Just so she could give it to him and show how hardworking and conscientious she was, thereby forcing him to eat his words.

Not because she wanted to see him again. Perish the thought.

Dara waved hello as she breezed past Amira at the front desk and hurried to her office, feeling the thrum of excitement she always felt when she was in Mike's territory. The brownstone was sunny and open, understated and beautiful. Heavy leaded glass with beveled edges cut in intricate patterns framed the massive oak door that stood at the top of several steps leading up from the sidewalk. Inside was a large foyer with a round mahogany table centered on a Persian rug and adorned with a beautiful arrangement of burgundy silk hydrangeas. A gracefully curved staircase led to the offices upstairs. The waiting area had overstuffed chairs in dark greens and blues and the mahogany woodwork everywhere was simple but elegant. There was also a small law library, a kitchen, Mike's office upstairs, Dara's small office next to his, a conference room and another office, barely a broom closet, that belonged to
Jamal
.

Jamal, like Mike, had been invisible all week.

She'd just settled into her chair and booted up her computer when she heard Mike's voice in her doorway.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

Gaping at her—he'd've been less surprised to see Jimmy Hoffa sitting behind her desk—he forgot about the coffee he'd wanted to get downstairs. She should have been gone hours ago, not turning up at the office at unauthorized times when he shouldn't have to see her at all.

He'd spent the last several days reliving their confrontation in the classroom and trying to understand what had happened to him that day. Never before in his life had he embarrassed a student in class--and he subbed up at the law school whenever his schedule allowed--but it'd infuriated him when Dara hadn't backed down when they'd argued. People were generally a little intimidated by him, because of his size if nothing else, but Dara clearly wasn't. So he'd needled her and hadn't been happy until he'd made her speechless. Her rage thrilled him because it told him he got to her like she got to him. But then, of course, he'd felt like a garden slug trailing slime.

And what about her claim that she and Sean were only friends? Could it be true? Not that it mattered to him either way. The point was that Sean cared about her and would never forgive Mike if he went after his dream woman. Period.

So Dara was strictly off-limits and always would be.

Unfortunately, he couldn't think of anything besides Dara for more than thirty seconds.

Well, it was going to stop. Now. He was absolutely determined to endure her internship without interacting with her in any meaningful way because that was the only way he could control his raging attraction to her.

If only she would make it easier on him. Right now, for instance, she sat there looking as bright and beautiful as a summer rainbow in a purple dress that was just clingy enough to emphasize her spectacular breasts. And if it did
that
to her breasts, what must it be doing to her ass?

At this, his brain veered off in several distracting directions. What kind of underwear must she be wearing? Panties? Thong? And were they black? White? Lacy? Cotton?

Every possibility was unsettling.

So was her scent.

It was some subtle floral perfume that was, he was sure, supposed to be as innocent as a fluffy white kitten. Unfortunately, on Dara, it made him think of making love to her in a field of flowers until she begged for mercy.

Jesus. Why the hell was she here?

“I work here.” Her icy tone indicted him as a slacker boss. “Did you forget?”

Like he could.

What did she care, anyway, if he never talked to her again? And who was she to call him on the carpet? Wasn't
she
the employee?

Unbelievable.

“I haven't forgotten.”

She pressed her lips together and reached for her pen. “So how's the trial—”

“What I meant,” he interjected, “was what are you doing here
now
?”

She waved a hand. “My classes got canceled, so I came back to finish my memo and get it to you.”

Memo?
“I didn't ask you to do a memo.”

“I know, but I thought it would be helpful.”

“Thanks,” he said begrudgingly, surprised.

A smug little smile flitted across her mouth. “How's the trial going?”

He hesitated, trying to figure her out. Was this all a monstrous trick designed to fuck with his brain? Why was she determined to be pleasant? Did she know how it tied him up in knots?

He had piles of work waiting for him on his desk, but they now seemed comically insignificant. He sat in the chair across from her desk.

“Our client was acquitted this afternoon.”

“That's wonderful!” she said. “You must be thrilled.”

He watched her, that glorious smile wreaking havoc with his mental circuitry.

“Ah … Not really. He'll probably be robbing another gas station next week. It's his calling.”

Her mouth fell open. “You mean he really did do it?”

“Of course, he did it. Don't tell me you thought criminal defense attorneys only represented innocent people.”

She blinked. “Well, no. I've just never heard anyone be so blunt about it before.”

“My job—our job—is to make sure our clients get the full protections they're entitled to under the legal system.”

“But what if this guy holds up another gas station next week and this time he kills someone? How would you feel then?”

He asked himself that same question a thousand times a day. “Terrible. But I'd remind myself I took an oath to represent my clients zealously, and it was the jury, or the judge, not me, that decided to let him go.”

“So criminal defense attorneys are like prostitutes or mercenaries. You'll represent any murderer or rapist or child molester who has the money to pay you.”

That made him laugh. “I don't represent people accused of rape or child molestation. I don't have the stomach for that.”

“But murder!”

“Usually, my clients have some excuse, like self-defense, or that it was a crime of passion, something the jury may understand. Anyway, I thought this was the kind of work you want to do.”

She frowned thoughtfully. “I don't know. You have to be really passionate about something to be as good at it as you are, and I'm not sure I have the nerves for this.”

Whoa. Unexpected compliment.

He must have gaped at her, because she looked away and began to straighten the files on her desk.

“I also do some personal injury work,” he continued. “I've got a big case that's set for trial in a couple of months. Our client is a thirty-three-year-old man who was hit by an eighteen-wheeler while he was driving home from work. Now he's a quadriplegic—”

“Oh no!”

“And he's had a huge loss of income, plus crazy medical bills for the rest of his life. He's married with three small children.”

“Oh, God. That's so awful! Why doesn't the truck company just settle? It's not going to come off very well in front of a jury.”

“I've been asking that same question for three years.”

“Three years! You've been working on the case that long? How much would you settle for?”

“Three or four million.”

Her mouth dropped open. “That's a whole lot of money, Mike.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, well, I'll ask you what I'm planning to ask the jury. Would you give up your ability to care for yourself—even to scratch your own nose when it itches—and to run around in the grass with your kids for three or four million?”

Grudging respect gleamed in her eyes. “You're good. How long have you been out on your own?”

He couldn't resist her keen interest any more than a kid could resist cotton candy.

“When my father died a few years ago, he left me and Sean a little money. So I left the big firm I was at—and the big firm money—and struck out on my own. Now I do a lot of nail biting and counting pennies.”

She smiled knowingly, as if she possessed some fabulous secret about the future of his little firm. “I'm not worried. And you know what they say: No guts, no glory.”

“Do you know something I don't know?”

She looked away, cheeks reddening as she smoothed her hair. “No. But I'm sure you'll work very hard and do what you need to do.”

Her confidence in him was intriguing. Enticing. And he was doing a poor job of not letting her under his skin.

“How is everyone treating you?” he asked after a long pause.

She raised her gaze back to his. “Great. But who's this mysterious Jamal?”

“Jamal is my indentured servant.”

She grimaced. “I thought that was me.”

“No. As my law school intern, you're one half-step higher on the totem pole than Jamal. He's seventeen. He got into a little trouble, and I represented him several months ago, after he tried to steal a car. After that, he came to work for me while he gets his GED at night. So now he does all kinds of things around here.”

Dara looked alarmed. “So you hired him—just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“And you trust him?”

“Look, Dara. He's grown up with a single working mom and four younger brothers. He's had no male role models in his life. No one was around to make him get his ass out of bed and get to school. So now I do it.”

“I need to meet him.”

Mike twisted around in his chair. “Jamal!” he bellowed. “Jamal! Get in here, man!”

Dara raised her eyebrows at him. “
This
is how you teach him how to behave in the office?”

Mike grinned, then turned again as Jamal rushed in. Tall and dark-skinned, with short hair, Jamal was wearing a white shirt, tie and dark pants. He was also carrying a stack of papers.

“You told me to make these copies, man,” he complained.

Then he saw Dara and froze, his mouth dropping open.

Mike struggled not to laugh at Jamal's stupefaction. Dara could certainly make a first impression.

“Jamal, this is Dara,” he told him. “She's our intern for the next few months. Be nice to her. Show her around. Help her out.”

Jamal took her all in with one sweeping glance. Then he broke into a grin as he came around to Dara's side of the desk and shook her hand.

“You're beautiful,” he told her.

“Man, get your hands off her,” Mike snapped before Dara could respond. “And don't try any of your sorry moves on her, either. I've already warned her about you.”

Jamal hung on to Dara's hand and grinned at Mike. He had the kind of speculative gleam in his eye that always put Mike on his guard. The kid saw way too much for a youngster.