Kathleen Creighton - One Summer’s Knight

“Uh-huh.” It took a gallant effort, but he managed to straighten his face. “Well, now, that sounds interesting. Doin’ what, exactly?”

She looked desperately around her. “Well, like I could do your filing for you, you know, answer the phone…”

“I have both a part-time law clerk and a full-time secretary slash-receptionist to take care of that for me,” Riley said gently. The truth was, Danell, his secretary, did have a vacation coming up. He’d been putting off calling the temp agency; he dreaded it so. But something in him-the devil, most likely-was entertained by the situation, and he couldn’t bring himself to let Summer Robey off the hook. Not that easily.

Her brows had drawn together as she racked her brain for another offering “Well, I am a veterinarian. How about-”

“Sorry. No animals. Pets or otherwise.”

“Ah-hah.” She drew a shallow breath and he could see her relax, as though she’d already accepted defeat and was just spinning her wheels. “I could clean your house…mow your lawn…”

“I have a cleaning service. And a gardener.”

“Wax your car, carry your golf clubs…”

Riley stood, rounded the corner of his desk and put a firm hand under her elbow. The look of dismay on her face as he raised her to her feet was like a high-powered lamp; he didn’t have to see it to know it was there.

“I’m sure we’ll think of something you can do for me, Mrs. Robey,” he drawled. The muscles in her arm jerked beneath his fingers. As it had with that bunny rabbit all those years ago, pity overcame him and he let her go. “And I mean something even your dear old gray-haired mama would approve of.”

She surprised him with a breathless laugh. “I don’t know if that’s all that reassuring.” She was clutching her pocketbook in front of her like a weapon, as if a street mugger had her by the elbow. “Last I heard, my mother had dyed her hair marigold and was into massage therapy.”

Now, there was a thought. Riley allowed himself to dwell on it just a little bit while he eased her toward the door. But not for long, he did have a client waiting He reached past her for the doorknob “Now, first thing we’re gonna want you-”

She spun around suddenly, putting her back up against the door so he couldn’t open it, and at the same time trapping herself there between it and him. Her eyes, on a level with his chin, were silver as summer rain. “Does this mean…?”

Riley nodded, enjoying himself a lot more than he should have. “Well, sure. You’ve got yourself a lawyer.” He smiled down at her, a big wide one that showed his teeth. “A good lawyer.”

“Oh, thank you.” The words were a whisper, borne on a breath.

And he suddenly felt the need of one himself, his brain, for some reason, having become oxygen-deprived. He gulped for air before he said, “Mrs. Robey-”

“Please-it’s Summer.”

Summer? And he thought, Oh yeah, it is Hazy, hot and humid, and charged with electricity.

He got the door open and ushered her into the cool of the hallway. “Summer, what I’m gonna want from you is all the information you can come up with on your ex-husband-social security number, driver’s license number, credit cards, any aliases he’s used in the past, friends, relatives, habits and haunts-okay? I’m gonna want to get my investigator goin’ on this as soon as possible. And I’m gonna see if I can get the police to put some surveillance on your house and your phone, if that’s okay with you.” While he waited for her nod, he slipped around her and got to the waiting room door first. He opened and held it for her but kept her there with a touch on her elbow as he said in a low, private voice, “In the meantime, next time you hear from the FBI, I want you to give me a call, okay? And don’t say a word until I get there. Not one word.”

“I won’t,” she whispered. “Mr. Grogan…thank you Thank you so much.”

He nodded and watched her walk across the waiting room and out of his office Then he hauled in a discreet breath of oxygen-rich, lemon-furniture-polish-scented air and smiled encouragingly at the client who was pacing a path in the Persian rug. Muttering, “Be right with you,” he closed the door, then ducked into his secretary’s office.

“Danell,” he said briskly, “we’re gonna want to open up a file for Mrs. Robey. And would you see if you can get Tom Denby on the phone? If you can’t, leave him a message, tell him I’ve got a job for him. Oh-and let’s see, who do we know over in Augusta that might be able to get us a favor outta their police department? Look into it for me, would you?”

Danell slanted him one of her looks. “You got a billing address?”

Riley stopped short. Damn. He’d been hoping he could make it out of the office before the subject came up. He gave a blithe little wave without turning around. “Just bill it to the firm for now.”

“You said no more pro bonos. You told me to shoot you in the legs if you even looked like you were gonna take on another one.”

He hitched up his shoulders and peeked winningly at his secretary over one of them. For a girl not out of her twenties, Danell did have a look that could make him feel like he was twelve and trying to sneak by with a copy of Playboy under his shirt. “Who said anything about pro bono?”

She stared him down. “We’re way over quota for the month, you know we are.”

He hesitated for a moment, then walked back to Danell’s desk, put his hands on the edge of it and leaned on them. “Find a way to fit this one in,” he said softly, meeting her eyes. “Just this one more. Okay? I have a feeling it’s gonna be important.”

It had turned hot and muggy since the weekend, and since the Oldsmobile’s air conditioner didn’t work, the first thing Summer did when she got into the car after seeing Riley was roll down all the windows. Backtracking the way she’d come, she drove through downtown Charleston and found her way to the interstate. When she hit freeway speed, she rolled the windows back up partway so the wind wouldn’t whip her hair into a frizz during the long haul back to Georgia. By the time she’d done all that, more or less on autopilot, her brain had begun to function again.

Oh, Lord, I did it. She had herself a lawyer. A good lawyer. She felt confident of that. She’d done some research on this Riley Grogan, and from what she’d been able to gather, he was one of the best in Charleston, South Carolina. Relatively young-not much more than forty-but already highly respected… and rich, which was maybe a better measure of his effectiveness. He was also single, which she gathered was somewhat of an uncommon state for a respectable Southern male past twenty-five years of age to be in. Coupled with the fact that the man was handsome as sin, was known to dress as impeccably as any blue-blooded aristocrat, and had a reputation for being suave as the devil himself, that might have raised a few eyebrows and more than a few slyly phrased questions, were it not for his regular appearances at Charleston social functions with one marginally famous beauty or another draped on his arm. Hostesses known for their elegance and sophistication, it was said, were often reduced to stammers and blushes in his presence. If Riley Grogan still reigned at the top of a short list of the South’s most eligible bachelors, then the consensus of opinion-especially among mothers of Charleston debutantes-was that it must be because he simply hadn’t found the woman who could live up to his standards of beauty and style, wit and intelligence.

All of which impressed Summer not the slightest bit. She cared nothing for the man’s looks, pedigree or sexual orientation. There was one thing she cared about, and one thing only: what kind of lawyer was he? The Riley Grogan she’d run up against that day in court, that was the man she wanted working on her side. She had no use for charm and elegance. What she wanted was the street fighter-someone cold, calculating, ruthless and manipulative, tough as nails and mean as a snake. After all, her children’s lives were at stake.