Trouble (9 page)

“I can pull more little shorties than you any day of the week, Pops,” he said to Mike over his shoulder.

Dara laughed.

“Get out,” said Mike, annoyed now, his eyes on Dara's hand still wrapped in Jamal's. “You got those copies finished yet?”

Jamal looked back at Dara and jerked his thumb at Mike. “You see what we're dealing with? I'm outta here.”

Dara laughed again as Jamal left. “When do you two take your act on the road?”

For the life of him, Mike couldn't think of anything to say.

Not when she smiled at him like that.

“Well,” he finally said, standing. “I should let you get back to work.”

“Oh,” she said, her smile wavering. “Okay.”

“Here you are!” said a voice from the hall.

Sean's voice.

Frozen with guilt-induced paralysis laced with a healthy tinge of annoyance, Mike recovered enough to take Sean's hand when he walked in and settled on the edge of Dara's desk as if he owned the place.

“I heard about the acquittal, man,” he told Mike over his shoulder. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Mike said tightly.

Sean had obviously come to collect Dara for their
friendly
evening together, Mike thought. Realizing he'd balled his hands into fists, he shoved them in his pockets.

“What are you doing here?” Dara asked Sean.

There was a hitch in her voice, Mike noticed, and she fidgeted in her chair.

Sean smiled down at her. “I thought we could grab dinner at the new sushi place on the river, if you're finished here.”

Yeah, okay. Mike needed to get out of there before his head exploded. “I'll see you two later.”

“What about basketball next week?” Sean called after him.

Mike stared at his brother's face and tried not to think about punching it.

“Yeah,” he told Sean as he left. “I'll call you.”

Dara watched Mike go, feeling rattled. She really needed to work on getting used to his physical presence. He was such a huge creature. So tall, so imposing, so disturbingly … masculine. The room seemed to shrink when he came and grow when he left. And the energy felt different—more charged—when Mike was there. It was like having a tiger come and go.

And his commitment to helping others, like Jamal, surprised her. She'd thought reputable attorneys, like Mike, the ones with expensive suits and nice offices, somehow sniffed out the thugs and only represented the Truly Innocent. But Mike wanted to make the legal system available to everyone, and she admired him for that.

Admiring him did funny things to her insides.

“Dara,” Sean said, waggling his fingers at her. “Hell-o-o! Anybody home?”

As usual, his dimpled smile was contagious. She couldn't help but laugh. Thank goodness he'd resigned himself to being friends with her and nothing more.

“You ready? I'm starving.”

“Not yet. I need to finish this memo.”

“By the way,” Sean said as he settled into the chair Mike had just vacated. “What was going on with you two when I walked in? Didn't you say he was arrogant? If you don't watch out I'm going to start thinking you actually like him.”

“That's just crazy talk,” she said, her ears burning.

Reassured by their polite conversation on Friday, Dara smiled at Mike when she passed his office first thing Monday morning. Apparently he didn't have court today. “Good morning.”

He was at his desk, typing on his computer. She took a good look at his office for the first time; he'd never invited her into his precious inner sanctum. His sleek glass desk sat in front of shelves full of books and African sculptures. His leather chair was tall and black, but the other chairs and the sofa were a muted black and tan pattern. African masks, paintings and mirrors hung on the walls. The office was sophisticated, light and airy and elegant. She loved it.

He glanced up, his gaze skimming lightly over her and then reverting to his screen.

His jaw tightened. “How are you?”

“Good.” She lingered in his doorway, taking off her jacket. “How was your weekend?”

“Fine,” he said without looking at her. He typed a few more words and seemed to remember his manners. “How was yours?”

Without waiting for her answer, he flipped through some papers on his desk.

“Good.” She loitered for a minute, determined to sneak past his invisible KEEP OUT sign and recapture the relaxed communication they'd had Friday. “I had some more thoughts about the transcripts I've been reading. Maybe if you have a minute, we—”

More typing. No eye contact. “Maybe later. I'm pretty busy.”

Her heart fell, but she tried not to take it personally.

So that was it. He was obviously busy right now. It had nothing to do with her.

“Oh, sure. I'll come back later.” She turned to go, nearly bumping into Jamal.

“What's up, Dara?” he said amiably as he turned into Mike's office.

“Hey, Jamal.”

“What's up, man?” Jamal said to Mike as she went into her own office, hung up her jacket and purse and settled at her desk.

“Did you see the game yesterday?” asked Mike, his tone animated, his voice muted only slightly by the wall.

She sat, trying to work, her blood doing a slow boil, while Jamal and Mike discussed the Bengals game for ten minutes or so. So much for Mike being “pretty busy.”

When Jamal finally left, she marched back to Mike's office to ask him about the transcripts. But he was putting on his jacket, briefcase in hand, and seemed unpleasantly surprised to see her, as if he'd looked up to discover a skunk headed his way.

“What's up?” he asked, glancing at his watch like Donald freaking Trump, too busy to give her the time of day.

“I wanted to ask you about the transcripts. Remember?” she said, determined to be pleasant.

“Right. Let's do it tomorrow. I've got court.”

He gave her the briefest hint of a smile, then left.

“Right,” she said, her belly sinking with disappointment. “Tomorrow.”

She was being too sensitive, she told herself. Tomorrow she'd catch him at a better time and she was sure he'd be more receptive. But when she poked her head in his office the next day, he was in the middle of a phone call.

“Sorry,” he mouthed.

“No problem.”

She made up her mind to try again in an hour or so. But half an hour later, he e-mailed to say he wanted another memo on a different case. Flabbergasted, she read the e-mail twice. Sitting at her desk, she could hear Mike, still in his office right next to hers. What was that? Fifty steps? Thirty feet? And he couldn't even come to her office to talk to her directly?

Every day was the same. When she was nearby, he stayed in his office with his head bent low over his paperwork, or on the phone. He communicated with her only through Laura or via e-mails or memos. She couldn't get him to talk to or even to look at her. He wouldn't stay in a room with her. She was not imagining it.

A week passed, then another. She told herself the same thing over and over—
it doesn't matter
—until it became a mantra. But by Thursday of her fourth week she was sulking, and on Friday she was in a solid funk.

Why had Mike banished her to Siberia when everyone else could soak up the warmth of his attention? Why did he hate her? Just because of a passing attraction they'd had? She'd never been jealous before, but now she resented the words, smiles and looks he gave everyone else. Every time she heard his laughter, she got more pissed off. The morning she saw him talking to the FedEx man and asking about the man's children by name, she fantasized about deleting all his client files from the office computer network. Maybe then he'd look her in the face. SOB.

Her foul mood carried over into the weekend. She didn't even feel like going to the movies Saturday night with Sean and Monica. She was a little snappish when Sean called to invite her, and when he hung up, her guilty conscience told her to call and apologize, but she didn't feel like doing that, either. She'd make it up to him on Monday.

Sunday morning, she woke up with the flu.

Probably induced by the stress Mike was causing her, which led to a weakened immune system and increased susceptibility to germs. Rotten SOB.

By that evening she was tired of being in bed, so she shuffled into the living room and parked on the sofa to wallow in her misery. She was just snuggling down under her ultra-soft throw when her phone rang. She stared at it indifferently for several rings—why couldn't she just die in peace?— then snatched it off the coffee table.

“Hello?” she snuffled.

“What's wrong with you?” asked Monica.

Dara dabbed her clammy forehead with a wet washcloth and shivered. “I have the flu or something.”

“Oh, God. Need anything?”

“No.”

“Good. You won't believe what happened last night. Sean and I went to Club Destiny after the movie. You know, the place where all the athletes hang out. Guess who's the owner's wife?”

“Yeah, no.”

“Okay, skip the guessing. It was Alicia Carey from high school, only she's Alicia Johnson now. Her husband is Mark Johnson. Used to play for the Falcons, I think. Anyway, you should see her. She's dripping with diamonds. Drives a Benz bigger than my apartment. She asked all about you and said to tell you hi.”

Dara grunted indifferently.

“So here's the unbelievable part. I saw in the paper this morning that there was a shooting at the club last night, after we left. Some guy was killed in the back room.”

“Uh-oh.”

There was more, but Dara was too listless to follow the thread of the conversation.

Eventually Monica let her go and Dara sank into a miserable stupor. Monday morning, she called in sick.

“Take care of yourself,” Mike's secretary Laura told her. “I'll tell Mike you won't be in. And don't come rushing back tomorrow if you're not ready.”

Dara hung up and snorted at the image of Laura informing Mike she wouldn't be in.

Dara? Dara who?
he'd say, his brow furrowed with concentration as he tried to recall what she looked like.
Does she still work here? What's she been up to?

By Tuesday morning, the fever had broken, but she was still weak and exhausted.

“Don't worry about a thing,” said Laura when Dara called in again. “We'll see you tomorrow.”

By early evening, Dara felt restless after spending the day studying and decided to get some fresh air. She showered, dressed and drove to the office to see if Mike had put anything on her desk while she'd been sick. She let herself into the darkened brownstone with her key and went upstairs. She'd just stay for a quick minute, then—

“Oh, my God!” she cried.

A shadowy movement by the window made her jump and fling out a hand for the wall switch. Light flooded her office.

It was Mike, she realized. Sitting in her desk chair and glowering at her, looking moody as a chain smoker who's run out of cigarettes.

“Where have you been?” he asked quietly.

Shit
.

Dara had caught him at what was, quite possibly, the lowest point in his life: skulking in her dark office, trying to catch a whiff of her perfume from her chair, wondering when he'd see her again. He'd thought seeing her every day was the worst thing that could happen to him, but no.
Not
seeing her every day was infinitely worse. So now he was pissed with her for getting sick and putting him through this misery.

And he was furious with himself for being such a goddamn idiot.

“Where have you been?”

She frowned. “I've had the flu.”

Yeah, and judging by her sunken eyes and pallor, not to mention her hoarse voice and congested breathing, the flu had laid her out.