M.J. Rodgers - Baby Vs. The Bar

Besides, she liked the feel of that strong hand. She also liked the sophisticated, woodsy after-shave that clung to that finely chiseled chin beneath that boyish smile. She couldn’t deny the guy was handsome as hell, and all her female parts were happily sitting up and taking notice.

“What about?” she asked.

“Louie Demerchant believes if he sees your child, he’ll be able to know if—”

Remy felt an instant anger whip through her. She jerked back, quickly shaking off his hand. She kept her outward cool, but only just, as she quickly interrupted.

“First, you assure me you don’t believe my child is David Demerchant’s, and then you want me to parade him before Louie Demerchant so he can decide. What do you take me for, a fool?”

“No. Of course not. But don’t you see? Because of Binick’s deviousness, this claim of a great-grandchild is going to haunt Louie Demerchant until he can see for himself that your child can’t possibly be David’s.”

“And you think one look will assure him of that?”

That simple, boyish sincerity just oozed out of his smile. “I hope so.”

Remy silently cursed herself for being such a gullible sap. She should never have allowed herself to be taken in by that handsome face and boyish smile. No substance lay behind them. They were only weapons this man wielded to get his way.

“You hope so. Yeah, right, Truesdale. Well, forget it. Neither you nor your client are getting anywhere near my son.”

A downward-heading elevator dinged as it stopped on the third floor. Remy swung around to step inside its opening doors. Both of Marc’s hands landed on her shoulders this time and whirled her back to face him, forcibly staying her retreat.

The boyish smile faded into one flooded with earnest desperation. “Look, it’s not going to hurt your son for Louie Demerchant just to look at him.”

Remy angrily shook his hands off her shoulders once again. “Listen, Truesdale. This is over. I never want to see you or Demerchant or Binick again, do you understand?”

“Please—”

“Your pleases are wasted on me. Now, go away and leave me alone.”

She swung back to the elevator at the same instant that its doors closed in her face.

She sucked in an enormous breath and began to count to ten.

“Sorry,” Marc said from behind her, not sounding sorry at all. “While we’re waiting for another elevator, you can tell me about your son.”

Remy’s hands balled into fists. She told herself sternly that she must not lose her cool. She must remain in control. Otherwise, she was going to end up decking this guy.

Suddenly, the stairwell door they had exited a few moments before crashed open. Remy’s eyes darted to the sound in time to see a horde of newspeople come spilling out onto the third floor. It took only a second for them to spot Marc and Remy.

“There they are!” one of the reporters shouted, as they all took off at a run. Remy groaned. Marc swung boldly forward into the reporters’ path, his hands raised in a halting motion.

Remy ducked behind him, frantically pressing the Down button in futile hope an elevator would come before the reporters descended.

Her hope was indeed futile.

In seconds the reporters were swarming over them, lights blinding her, microphones shoved once again in her face as they shouted out their questions simultaneously, the sounds batting against Remy’s ears in a cacophony of confusion.

And then, through it all, Remy heard the faint ding of an opening elevator. She whirled around, fully intending to jump in and close its doors as fast as she could. She never got the chance.

Because at that precise second, someone plowed into her hard from behind, popping the breath out of her, plummeting her to the floor and pouncing squarely on top of her.

* * *

MARC TRUESDALE LIMPED into the Wednesday-morning partners’ meeting at the law firm of Justice Inc. He carefully slid his body into his customary chair across from Kay Kellogg. Kay watched him with amused blueberry eyes over her cup of herbal tea, a large solitaire diamond flashing on her ring finger, a grin subtly playing around her lips.

But Octavia Osborne was not nearly so subtle. She flipped back her long tumble of flame red hair and used the ends of her long, matching, perfectly manicured nails to send the morning newspaper skidding over the top of the conference table. Her aim, as always, was accurate. The newspaper stopped directly in front of Marc, its banner headline proclaiming, Bio-Sperm Delivers Billion-Dollar Baby to Demerchant.

“Looks like you had fun in court yesterday,” Octavia commented, a languorous smile lifting the corners of her generous mouth. “Or should I say during the noon recess?”

Marc followed Octavia’s expressive eyes to the enormous, three-column-size photo of him sprawled over Remy Westbrook on the floor of the King County courthouse. He wore a surprised look; Remy wore her dress up around her ears. Octavia quoted the caption beneath the picture word for word, “‘Baby’s mom and Demerchant’s attorney get away after morning session for ex parte communication.’ Really, Marc, and it was only a couple of months ago that you were chastising Kay here for getting personally involved with a client.”

Marc shook his head wearily in response to Octavia’s goading. “This lady is not our client, and, yellow journalism notwithstanding, the only thing between Remy Westbrook and me this morning is sore feelings.”

“Is that why you’re limping? A case of sore...feelings?” Kay asked in that soft voice of hers, a grin still playing around her lips.

Marc exhaled heavily. “I was only trying to keep the news hounds at bay. Was it my fault one of them shoved me into Remy Westbrook and we both toppled to the floor? You’d think she’d be a little grateful for my efforts. Instead, before I even had a chance to get off her, she kneed me in the...uh...uh...”

“Feelings?” Kay offered with a less-than-innocent look.

Octavia exploded into that uninhibited, throaty laugh of hers that sang throughout the conference room. Kay joined her in an echo of merry amusement.

Marc shook his head in good-natured disgust. “Women!”

Kay reached for a tissue to dab at her eyes. “Sorry, Marc. But if you had any part in getting a picture like that of me run in all the papers, good intentions or no, I probably would have kneed you, too.”

“Well, thanks,” he said sarcastically. “Have you two forgotten that as my partners you’re supposed to be supporting me?”

“If it’s a supporter you need, I can buy you an athletic one,” Octavia said, before bursting out again in laughter, once more echoed by Kay’s giggles.

Marc found he couldn’t keep a straight face, not in light of his partners’ playfulness. “Actually, an ice pack would probably be more useful,” he admitted as he joined in with a chuckle of his own.

Octavia and Kay increased the timbre of their howls.

“Let’s try to keep it down,” Adam Justice admonished as he silently entered the conference room, closing the door behind him, exactly on time for their meeting. “Remember, we have associates doing research in offices on either side and secretaries trying to answer phones.”

The laughter died a timely death.

Marc admired the dignity and solid professionalism that entered the room along with the person of Adam Justice. The man could do it all—try any case, administer any problem. Adam Justice was, in every way, an unbeatable legal machine.

Trouble was, his machine had no Off button. The only time Marc had ever seen Adam outside the office was once at the gym, where Adam had called him for a quick conference about an upcoming case. Even there, Adam had discussed only the case in his typical, all-business demeanor as he mechanically worked the weight machines in a rigid regimen that brooked no deviation. And allowed no pleasure.