M.J. Rodgers - Heart Vs. Humbug

A single eyebrow arched up her forehead. “You, Brett Merlin, accuse me of hiding the fact that I’m an attorney? You, who marched into my grandmother’s radio station yesterday and handed her a fallacious complaint you sent to the FCC without mentioning the fact that you were only doing it because you are a high-powered attorney hired by Scroogen to make trouble for her?”

She paused in her ultra-composed—and obviously rehearsed—indignation to turn to the reporter standing just beside her.

“You did get all that, didn’t you?” she asked sweetly.

“Every word,” he answered as he pointed at the tape recorder that had suddenly materialized in his hand. The young man then turned and shoved the mike into Brett’s face.

“Is what Ms. Osborne said true? Is your FCC complaint against Mab Osborne merely an attempt to make trouble for her?”

“Let’s not get off the subject here,” Brett said quickly. “We are at the future site of an exciting new condominium complex that will bring both jobs and prosperity to this community, a complex that could be delayed by the discovery of this stone carving. The question you should be asking is, who might be responsible for putting the carving on this stone?”

“Are you saying you don’t believe this is an Indian relic, Mr. Merlin?” the reporter asked, the inflection in his voice obviously hoping Brett would say just that.

“I’m saying that no one here is qualified to make such a determination,” Brett answered cautiously.

“Is the legal procedure that Ms. Osborne delineated accurate, as you understand it?” the reporter pressed.

“Only if this really is an ancient native American artifact,” Brett said.

Brett turned back to the foreman. “Mr. George, would you ask your tribe’s cultural representative to come over now? If he looks at the carving and says it isn’t early native American, it would be a quick and easy solution that would save a lot of time and needless involvement of others.”

“I’ll use the phone in my truck,” George said, and quickly made for his vehicle parked at the curb.

“This carving may originate with another tribe and, therefore, be beyond the expertise of a Suquamish cultural anthropologist,” Octavia said. “No, Mr. Merlin. Quick and easy will not suffice. This find must be reported and handled according to the prescribed law for its protection.”

Octavia then turned to the reporter. “You appear to be in on the beginning of what could be a major new native American find. This could make an excellent continuing story.”

Her words had the effect of redoubling the young man’s photographic efforts. With every picture the news reporter snapped, Brett watched Octavia’s smile grow.

“Stop this,” Scroogen yelled at the reporter, and then waved his arms at the seniors. “Get out of here. You’re trespassing. The rest of you construction workers, get back to work.”

“Wait, Dole,” Brett said, wondering if this wasn’t exactly what Octavia Osborne wanted Scroogen to do—right in front of a reporter.

“I can’t wait!” Scroogen protested.

Brett grabbed Dole’s arm and lowered his voice so the others couldn’t hear.

“Legally, you have to wait, Dole.”

“I’m under time-sensitive contracts to develop this land. If I renege on those contracts, I’ll be ruined!”

“Keep your voice down and slow down. A little delay will not ruin you, Dole, so save the dramatics. I very much doubt this so-called ancient carving is legitimate. Far more likely it is a contemporary artistic endeavor.”

Brett paused to look directly at Octavia, who was urging the reporter to take even more pictures.

He returned his attention to his recalcitrant client. “Look, Dole, you have no choice now but to report this as prescribed by law. But if what I suspect is true, it won’t take long before this supposed relic is relegated to the trash bin as a phony. At the most, it should only be a few days’ delay. A few days won’t jeopardize your schedule.”

“But—”

Brett poked Dole in the ribs before conveying the rest of his caution beneath his breath. “Would you rather someone serve you with a court order to cease and desist all your building operations, giving the media a chance to turn this so called ‘find’ and your construction site into a real sideshow?”

“That could happen?”

“I’ve no doubt that Octavia Osborne would see to it,” Brett said. “Dole, don’t you get it? This attorney wants you to screw up and turn this into a fight. That’s why she made sure that damn reporter is on hand. This has all been carefully orchestrated to cause you trouble.”

“I thought you told me less than an hour ago that Octavia Osborne couldn’t cause me any trouble?”

“Yes, well, I admit I underestimated the lady and the foolish lengths she’d go to. Still, she’ll find she’s caused more trouble for herself than you. Now, use the car phone to call the Community Development Department and report this ‘find.’”

“Why don’t you do it?”

“Because you’re the developer. And because I’m going to be having a word with this reckless attorney and put the fear of God into her, so we don’t find ourselves facing any more of this kind of foolishness. Go, Dole. The sooner you make the call, the sooner we can put an end to this delay.”

As soon as Dole obediently, albeit reluctantly, turned toward the direction of the car, Brett turned toward Octavia. She stood in the middle of the seniors and the workmen and the reporter, jabbering confidently.

He could have understood her taking any legal avenue available to protect her grandmother’s interests. But not this flagrant disregard for the law.

Brett Merlin knew how to quell an unscrupulous adversary’s slams at his clients. He knew how to make such an unethical attorney quaver and crawl.

And he knew he was about to do all this to Octavia Osborne.

* * *

OCTAVIA DIDN’T HAVE to see Brett’s eyes to feel them. She wasn’t sure why this was so. She suspected it was because of the power behind those eyes, a power that was almost palpable.

He was coming at her from behind. She could feel the change in the air pressure, the spark along her skin, the rush of blood through her heart, the tingle in her fingertips, with every step that drew him closer.

At the precise second he came to a stop behind her, she cut short an answer to the reporter’s question and swung around to face him squarely. He was a man to be faced squarely.

“Yes?” she asked.

The sprinkle of light silver in the center of his black eyes had solidified into stone. She sensed his surface anger and something deeper and more dangerous—and much more difficult to control. The tingling in her fingertips increased.

“I want to talk to you,” Brett said. “Alone, please. This way.”

He bowed in the direction he wished her to go, and then simply waited with the stiff dignity of someone who was accustomed to being obeyed.

Men had made the mistake of trying to order Octavia around. One or two had even tried to take her arm to coerce her. None got a second chance to repeat either mistake.

But Octavia was rather fascinated by the approach Brett Merlin was using to get his way. There was such a polite refinement to it, such an outrageous self-assurance.

What a thoroughly annoying and exciting man. She could barely wait to find out what other emotions this man would engender in her.

But she controlled her curiosity, deliberately making Brett wait, while she turned back to the reporter to conclude their interview. Only then did she deign to accompany Brett to a point some twenty-five feet away from the crowd. She stopped when he did and turned to face him.