Janice Maynard - A Wolff at Heart

Pierce closed the small distance between them, running a hand through dark hair that was thick and a little shaggy. “Are you always this difficult?”

Their breath comingled. She could see a pulse beating in the side of his neck. His deep-brown eyes were too beautiful for a man. “I rarely brawl with my customers,” she muttered. “What is it about you?”

He stepped back. It irked her that her reaction felt more like disappointment than relief. “I’m not myself,” he said, looking somewhat abashed.

“Is that an apology?”

“I still don’t like lawyers.”

“You can’t really afford to be choosy, can you?”

His eyes flashed. “This wasn’t even my idea.”

“No,” she drawled. “Your mommy made you come.” She taunted him deliberately, curious to see if he would tell her to go to hell.

Instead, he surprised her by laughing out loud, his entire face lighting with humor. “This is the first time in my life that I recall ever paying to be insulted.”

She shook her head, bemused by the almost instant connection between them. A negative kind of rapport perhaps, but a definite something. “I do believe you bring out the worst in me.”

“Bad can be good.”

He said it with a straight face, but his eyes danced.

“I don’t flirt with clients,” she said firmly, shutting him down.

“Why is this office for rent?”

He shot the question beneath her defenses, leaving her gaping and struggling to find an ambiguous response. “Well, I...” Damn it. She was cool and deadly in a courtroom. But that was with hours of preparation. Today she felt quicksand beneath her feet.

Pierce cocked his head. “State secrets?”

She sighed. “Not at all. If you must know, I’ve sold my practice. I have an offer to join a firm in northern Virginia, just outside D.C. With one of my law professors.”

“I hear a but in there somewhere.” His curious gaze belied his earlier gruffness.

“I asked for time to think about it. I’ve been out of school for six years. Never taken more than a long weekend for vacation. Burnout is such a clichéd word. But that’s where I am.”

“You must be pretty sure of your decision if you’ve already sold your practice.”

“I’m not. Not at all. But even if I don’t take the offer, I’m ready for something new. I’d like to work as legal counsel for a nonprofit.”

“You can’t get rich doing that.”

“Have you ever heard the phrase follow your bliss? I want to live my bucket list as it comes...not wait until I’m old and half-dead.”

“I can relate,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

She doubted it. He had silver spoon, heir-of-the-manor written all over him. She glanced at her watch. “We’ll need to continue this later,” she said. “I have another appointment.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’ve found out all I need to know. You can give me your whole attention. I like that.”

Was it her ears, or did every word out of his mouth sound sexual? “I’m beginning a va-ca-tion,” she said slowly.

“Yes, I know. And some deep introspection. I can help you with that. Whatever your fees are, I’ll pay them. And together we’ll exhume the skeletons in my closet that honest to God, I’d rather not meet. But in the meantime, I’ll help you become more of a human being and less of an uptight lady lawyer.”

“I haven’t said I’ll take your case. And besides...what qualifies you to help me unwind?”

He adjusted the portrait over the fireplace until it hung perfectly straight. Then propped a hip on the corner of her very expensive desk. “You’ll see, Ms. Nicola Parrish. You’ll see.”

Two

Pierce had been forced to cool his heels for six days before Nicola wrapped up her appointments and was officially off the clock. Even now, he’d been coerced into helping her move out of her office in exchange for a face-to-face meeting. Fortunately, his father was holding his own, but Pierce wasn’t willing to wait much longer for the answers he needed.

At Nicola’s request he’d brought a truck he and his dad used to transport inner tubes and kayaks. Pierce had to give it to her—she was a master negotiator. He could think of several hundred things he’d rather be doing on a hot summer day than moving boxes.

His mood, however, took a definite uphill swing when he knocked at the street door and Nicola let him in. She looked far more approachable today. A simple headband kept her pale-blond hair off flushed cheeks. Brief khaki shorts left those gorgeous legs on display, and the outline of her breasts in a close-fitting white T-shirt dried his mouth. The black espadrilles on her feet made her look far too young to be a successful lawyer.

He cleared his throat. “Truck’s parked outside.” His tone was gruffer than he had intended, but he was trying to hide his reaction to her casual attire.

Nicola frowned. “You’re late.”

Eyebrows raised, he promised himself not to take the bait. “There was an accident on the way over. I had to take a detour,” he said mildly.

She swiped a finger across her forehead, grimacing. “It’s hot as Hades in here. Someone got the dates wrong and turned off my power two days early.”

“Bummer.” He stepped inside, not surprised to see the reception area reduced to a large pile of boxes. “Do you live on the second floor?”

“Good Lord, no. That would be a terrible idea for a workaholic.”

He followed her up the stairs, his gaze level with her curvy butt. “Most people who are workaholics don’t admit it.” It was a good thing he was about to do some literal heavy lifting, because he needed something to distract him from carnal thoughts about a woman he barely knew.

The room upstairs was just that, a fairly large open space with a tiny bathroom walled off in one corner. Clearly Nicola had used this level as a storage area, though in one corner there was a sofa and a table and lamp that indicated she might occasionally spend the night or at least catnap in the middle of a busy day.

She bent and picked up a medium-sized box, her gaze wry. “Self-deception is rarely productive. I know myself pretty well. Let’s get moving. So far I’ve got fifty-three boxes ready.”

His lips twitched. “Fifty-three? Not fifty-four or fifty-two?”

“Are you making fun of me?” She frowned, a tiny wrinkle appearing above the bridge of her perfectly classic nose.

He took the box out of her hands. “You finish packing and taping. I’ll load the boxes, Ms. Parrish. I outweigh you by at least eighty pounds, and since I doubt you’d trust me enough to actually fill a box, this makes more sense.”

She folded her arms across her waist. “You may as well call me Nikki. I think we’ve already damaged the lawyer/client relationship.”

Adding a second box to his load, he tested the weight and decided he might even manage a third. “You call it damage, I call it progress. I’d just as soon not have a desk between us.” Unless you’re sprawled on it and I’m leaning over you, licking your—

He brought himself up short, grinding his teeth. Attraction in this situation was not going to help matters. “Nikki it is. And you can call me Pierce.”

* * *

Nikki felt guilty. Not guilty enough to refuse Pierce Avery’s help, though. She had fully intended to hire movers, at least a couple of college guys who needed cash. But when Pierce had called her office repeatedly for three days, she’d been frazzled and testy and had finally told him if he wanted a second appointment so damn badly, he could help her move her office.

She hadn’t really expected him to agree. The ultimatum had been a toss-away comment, a reaction to his dogged insistence. Still, here they were. The guy with the big muscles handling her boxes with ease and the lady lawyer with the big brain reduced to panting over rippling biceps and the faint hint of aftershave that lingered in the stairwell.