M.J. Rodgers - Heart Vs. Humbug

“I’d better call you later and let you know.”

“You expect to spend all day at the Building Department?”

“No, but I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to discover why this magician has suddenly materialized on the scene.”

* * *

BRETT ANSWERED THE KNOCK on his hotel room door, impressed that room service had responded so quickly. When instead the gorgeous redhead who had been dancing in and out of his imaginings all day appeared on the other side, he blinked a few times to assure himself his eyes weren’t playing tricks.

“Good evening, Mr. Merlin. I’m Octavia Osborne,” she announced with a thick, liquid voice as smooth and sweet as cherry brandy. “I want to talk to you.”

She glided by him into the room—not waiting for an invitation—treating him to a tantalizing whiff of a subtle, sophisticated scent that reminded him of warm sands and seductive tropical breezes. Brett stayed where he was, holding the door purposely open.

“How did you know I was here, Ms. Osborne? I’m not registered under my name.”

“Yes, that was most inconsiderate of you. It took me several hours to track you down.”

Brett assessed the situation. The lady’s bearing, speech and dress all exuded a classy, cultivated air. But it was seven o’clock at night, she had walked uninvited into his hotel room, and this could very well be an attempt at entrapment.

It wouldn’t be the first time a woman had tried to get him into a compromising position for a little legal blackmail.

“Relax, Mr. Merlin. I promise I will not attack you,” she said as though reading his thoughts. “Unless seriously provoked, of course.”

She had turned to deliver those final words with the challenge of a smile playing around her full lips.

Every legally encoded cell in Brett’s brain flashed alarm, exhorting him to immediately escort this woman out of his room.

But her smile spoke to every red-blooded male cell in his body, overriding even his well-developed sense of circumspection. Brett closed the door and stood silently contemplating his unexpected guest.

Octavia Osborne was stunning. He could think of no other word to describe her. She was over six feet in her high heels, with long, flowing flame-red hair, a glowing, golden complexion, and eyes so deep and startling a blue that he had only seen their like in the heart of the fabulous blue-white diamond he had fought so hard to possess.

The moment he’d seen her at the KRIS radio station that morning, he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. Brett kept her in his peripheral vision now as he walked over to where he had left his drink on the coffee table.

Yes, she possessed that kind of dazzling sparkle that would always draw his eye, but he’d learned the hard way to pass up the breathtaking beauties of the flesh and make do with the plainer and saner—if less exciting—specimens of the female sex.

He would not offer her a drink. He would do nothing to prolong her stay. He would hear what she had to say and then show her the door.

She whirled gracefully out of her cape, the color of a flambéed peach, slipped off her matching gloves, then proceeded to commandeer the most comfortable chair in the room.

He picked up his glass of Scotch from the coffee table, took a swig and sat across the room opposite her on the bench seat beneath the window.

“How may I help you?” he asked.

“I’m Mab Osborne’s granddaughter.”

Yes, Brett had already noted they shared the same last name. And despite the more than forty years separating the two women, the same flame of Octavia’s hair was buried beneath the silver of Mab’s. Both women also possessed an elegant air in poise and carriage that marked the familial tie.

“Why did you come here, Ms. Osborne?”

“To stop you from making trouble for Mab, of course.”

Brett wondered how. Would Octavia be like the many who had treated him to a bout of unsavory pleading and tears? Or like the few who had offered their bodies? He immediately pushed the tempting thoughts of the latter aside and decided to try to stave off whatever stratagem she had in mind.

“Ms. Osborne, your concern for your grandmother is understandable. But coming here tonight to try to sway me to drop my complaint to the FCC is not the proper way to go about helping her.”

“I don’t care about your complaint to the FCC. But I do care that you’re having the newspaper carry the story about this ridiculous FCC morals charge in order to bring ridicule to my grandmother.”

Brett was a little surprised at Octavia’s words. He hadn’t expected her to figure out that it was the sensational attention of a news story he was after.

“Ms. Osborne, I’m certain the newspaper will be happy to print your grandmother’s side of the story. All she has to do is call them.”

“Yes, you would like that, wouldn’t you. The more space they give to this ridiculous morals charge the better, right?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mr. Merlin, let’s deal with each other honestly, please. You’re Dole Scroogen’s attorney. You’ve deliberately set up this trumped-up morals charge to detract from my grandmother’s campaign against Scroogen’s building plans—plans that will seriously endanger the life-style of many elderly citizens.”

So, Octavia Osborne knew he was a lawyer and that the FCC charge was merely a smokescreen to help Scroogen get on with his development plans.

Was it Scroogen’s presence that morning in the radio station that had given the game away? Must have been. He’d told Dole to stay home and let him handle it. Fool should have listened to him. Now he had to deal with the damage control.

Brett swallowed some Scotch and continued to maintain his civilized tone of polite distance, so important in these matters.

“Ms. Osborne, I realize that change is always difficult to accept for those embedded in comfortable grooves.”

“A community made up of people who know and care for one another is more than just a comfortable groove.”

“Nevertheless, the law is on Mr. Scroogen’s side, and the law must prevail if progress is to be made.”

“Progress? You call ripping apart the seniors’ simple and gentle way of life and replacing it with overpopulation and pollution progress? Scroogen’s great-aunt wanted the seniors to have use of her land. That’s why she gave them a ninety-nine-year lease. What Scroogen is doing circumvents his great aunt’s wishes. He is wrong. I urge you to rethink where your loyalties lie.”

“Ms. Osborne, according to the law, it is your grandmother who is wrong. Mr. Scroogen received his great-aunt’s property without entanglements on her death. He has every right to do with his property as he pleases. And, as for my loyalties, they lie with my client. It is my sworn duty to fight for Dole Scroogen.”

She surprised him completely then by laughing, full and luscious, a sound that filled the room with music and inexplicably tightened the muscles at the back of his neck and down his spine.

“Your sworn duty,” she repeated, amusement still in her tone after she had gotten her laughter under control. “You say that as though you had no choice. Why are you, of all people, representing a man like Dole Scroogen?”

“What do you mean ‘of all people’?”

“I’ve approached you with candor and honesty, Mr. Merlin. I am disappointed that you do not choose to return them.”

“And I am disappointed that you refuse to accept that Mr. Scroogen is within his legal rights to proceed with the building of the condominium complex and evicting the Silver Power League for nonpayment of what is clearly reasonable rent for the facilities they are inhabiting.”