The Billionaire's Fair Lady. Barbara WallaceЧитать онлайн книгу.
to memory. “I can still smell your scent on my skin,” Wentworth had written for the opening line. College passion. He knew it well. That heady reckless feeling. The blind confidence the days would last forever. Until reality barged in with its expectations and traditions waiting to be fulfilled and impractical dreams had to be shoved aside.
Look at you. We raised you to be better than this, Michael.
A hollow feeling lodged in his stomach. He blamed the surroundings. Ever since walking in to the Elderion, he’d been possessed by the strangest feeling of déjà vu. Memories of another bar with dim lights and warm beer came floating back. When quality and atmosphere took a backseat to political debates and slow dancing in the dark.
His semester of ill-spent youth. He hadn’t thought about those days in years. They’d been jettisoned to the past when he took his first law internship.
A few feet away, his new client—least he hoped she was his new client—negotiated her way through the narrow tables with the grace of a dancer. Amazing she could navigate anything in that scrap of cloth she called a uniform. Without the pink-and-gray blazer for coverage, he had a perfect view of how the spandex skirt molded to her curves. An open invitation to check out the assets. As she bent over, the skirt pulled tighter. Forget invitation, Mike decided, try full-blown neon sign. Feeling an uncomfortable tightness, he shifted his legs. Definitely not what his usual client would wear.
But then, this case wasn’t his usual case. In fact, it was everything he’d been taught to avoid—splashy, risky, generating more notoriety than respect. Beggars couldn’t be choosers could they? Beat closing his doors and telling his family he wasn’t the Templeton they’d groomed him to be. Watching Roxanne dodge the palm of a customer right before it caressed her bottom, he retrieved his pen and made a quick note: smooth out the rough edges.
It was an hour later before Roxanne returned to his table, carrying with her a bottle of water. Mike tried not to stare at her legs as she approached. Given her outfit, it was a Herculean task at best. “You’re still here,” she said.
“Seemed silly to drive all the way back to the office when I could work here.” He’d stacked what little legal work he did have in piles on the desk.
“It’s eight o’clock. Most people have stopped working by now.”
“Maybe in this place, but I’m not most people.” He should know. It’d been drilled into his head enough growing up. “I also figured you’d have questions.”
“You’re right. I do.” She pointed to the empty chair. “Do you mind?”
“Your big bad boss won’t care?”
“I’m on my ten.”
“Then be my guest. What’s your question?”
“Well, first…” She picked at the label on her water bottle, obviously searching for the right words. “Are you sure you weren’t kidding? About it being a million-dollar claim? That wasn’t another one of your tests, was it?”
Ah, straight to the money. “I told you, I don’t kid. Not about case value. Although keep in mind, I’m not making any promises, either. I’m saying there’s potential. Nothing more.”
“I appreciate the honesty. I don’t like being misled.”
“Me, neither,” he replied. Seemed the hothead had a bit of a cautious streak after all. A good sign.
He watched as she peeled off a strip of label. “So what’s the next step?” she asked. “Do I take a DNA test or something?”
If it were so easy. “Easy there, Cowboy. Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s a little more complicated. You got any Sinclair DNA lying around?” he asked her.
Immediately her eyes went to the envelope. Cautious and quick. “I’m afraid you’ve watched too many crime shows. Getting anything off letters that old would be a miracle.” Besides, he’d already had a similar thought and checked online. “You’re going to need a more recent sample.”
“How do we get one?”
Now they were getting to the complicated part. “Best way would be for one of the Sinclair sisters to agree to a test. They are Wentworth’s closest living relatives.”
“But you said they would put up a fight.”
“Doesn’t mean we don’t ask,” he told her. “We give them enough evidence, and they’ll have to comply.”
“You mean, prove I’m a Sinclair, and they’ll let me have proof.”
Mike couldn’t help smiling. Definitely quick. He liked that. If he had to take a case like this, he preferred to work with a client who understood what they were doing. Made his job easier. “Never fear. We’ll make enough noise that they’ll have to pay attention. The squeaky wheel and that sort of thing.”
Frowning, she tore another strip. Some of the eagerness had left her face. Without it, she looked tired and, dare he say, a bit vulnerable. “You make it sound like I’m out to get them.”
“The Sinclairs would argue you are.”
“Why? I didn’t go looking for this. My mother dropped the story in my lap.”
“A story you promptly took to a lawyer to see if you have a claim to his estate.”
That silenced her. “I didn’t look at it that way.” Another strip peeled away. “I’m just trying to make my life better. If this guy—Wentworth Sinclair—was my father, he’d want that, too, wouldn’t he?”
Mike had to admit, if the relationship painted in the letter he read carried forward, she might be right. “Which is why we’re pursuing the claim. To help you get that better life.”
“What if they refuse to listen?”
“Then we’ll keep fighting,” Mike answered simply. Sooner or later, the Sinclairs would have to pay attention if only to make them disappear. He wasn’t kidding about the squeaky wheel; it always yielded some kind of result.
Roxy was looking down at the table. Following her gaze, Mike saw that at some point while talking, he’d once again covered her hand. When had he reached across? When the dimness hit her eyes? That wasn’t like him. He always kept an invisible wall between himself and his clients. For good reason. Getting too close led to making mistakes.
He studied the hand beneath his. She had skin the color of eggshells, pale and off-white. There was a small tattoo on the inside of her wrist as well. A yellow butterfly. The wings called out for a thumb to brush across them.
Mike realized he was about to do just that when she pulled her hand free and balled it into a fist. He found himself doing the same.
“Why?” she asked aloud.
Distracted by his reaction to the butterfly, it took a moment for her question to register. “Why what?”
“Why would you fight for me? If it’s such a long shot, why are you taking this case?”
Somehow he didn’t think she’d appreciate the truth, that he needed the money from this case as badly as she wanted it. “Told you, I like a challenge. As for fighting, I don’t believe in quitting. Or losing. So you can be assured, I’ll stick around to the bloody end.”
“Colorful term.”
“I also don’t believe in mincing words.”
“That so? Never would have guessed from your gentle desk side manner.” She smiled as she delivered the comment. Mike fought the urge to smile back, taking a sip of his drink instead.
“You can have hand-holding or you can have results.” Unfortunate choice of words given his behavior a moment earlier. “Up to you.”
“Results are fine,” she replied. “In my book, hand-holding is overrated. Sympathy just leads