Rage of Passion. Diana PalmerЧитать онлайн книгу.
disturbance. Not being able to pin down what had caused it was more disturbing than the disturbance itself.
He had a feeling it was something about Mallory.
The Sensuous files on the Green case had occupied him for several hours. Mallory being all business, she’d probably want to discuss the case during the flight, and he wanted to sound as if he’d given it some thought.
His life was crawling with women, and here he was, trying to impress Mallory. He guessed he’d never feel secure enough about his professional expertise to get over the early days, when he’d had to pull out all the stops to change people’s impression of him.
He got up, stepped over to the big windows of his office and looked out at the glitter of Chicago. Christmas lights already. In the posh suburb of Kenilworth where he’d grown up, his parents had always had the biggest, most beautiful florist-decorated Christmas tree in the neighborhood, if you could call a tree that had a recognizable theme a Christmas tree, and if you could call the collection of huge houses on large acreages a neighborhood. Under that tree were mountains of presents, everything he wanted plus things he didn’t know he wanted. And, always, a tiny box from his father to his mother, containing a diamond slightly larger than the diamond he’d given her the year before.
He’d been a spoiled rich kid, an only child who didn’t know the meaning of rules. With every advantage life could offer, instead of making the most of them, he’d run wild. He’d lost his driver’s license twice for speeding, had totaled three sports cars—somehow, he couldn’t imagine how—without hurting anybody. He’d done enough damage to end up getting accused of things he hadn’t done. His parents had had to post bail for him when he was arrested for burglarizing a neighboring house. He hadn’t, but he couldn’t blame the police for suspecting him. Stealing and drugs were about the only two things he hadn’t experimented with.
Oh, yes. He’d never gotten a girl pregnant, which he saw as something of a miracle—the miracle being that his father had deposited a huge box of condoms on his dresser every Friday morning.
Good grades would only have ruined his high school reputation. He’d played football, but the coach was a diplomat used to dealing with the rich parents of spoiled rich kids, and as long as the team made a decent showing, he didn’t impose many rules, either.
So Carter had managed to get into Northwestern University in Evanston by playing football. There the coach had made him quit smoking, drinking, eating junk food and staying up all night with the cheerleader of his choice to prepare himself for the game the next day. But nobody found out how smart he was until he took the LSATs before applying to law school.
One look at his scores, and the University of Chicago Law School had snapped him up. What they didn’t know was that he didn’t know how to study, and that’s where Mallory had turned his life around. He couldn’t remember exactly how it had happened, just that he’d called her, admitted he was floundering and asked for her help. And she’d been his unofficial, unpaid tutor. He’d never even taken her out for dinner. He’d been afraid to ask.
Did she remember what a dolt he’d been?
Carter frowned. He’d better do a little more work, get familiar with the details, have a few intelligent questions to ask Mallory and, even better, a couple of intelligent comments to make. In short, he’d better get off this nostalgia trip and focus on the damned files.
THE PHONE RANG JUST as Mallory finished packing the flexible wardrobe her mother had been claiming for years would get a woman through anything for any length of time. True to form, when she finished, she actually had room to spare.
“Mallory? Carter,” said the caller.
It was like a tummy punch, that deep, warm voice. “Hi, Carter.” She kept hers cool as a waterfall. That was just how great an impact her mother’s books had on her. A short session with that practical, unromantic voice had returned her to her normal, sane self. She would be fine on this trip.
“I’m calling with a question,” he said. “Why pea-green? Why not just green?”
Mallory blinked. “Well—” She was confident there was a reason, but the sound of his voice, the very fact that he’d called, was making inroads on her normal, sane self. It was maddening. “There are numerous shades of green, lime-green, forest-green, Kelly-green…”
“Would you be less upset if your hair were lime-green instead of pea-green?”
“Um. No, I suppose not.”
“Then the use of ‘pea-green,’ which has a negative connotation, instead of just ‘green,’ which is more neutral, is a deliberate attempt on the part of the plaintiffs to make the green sound as disgusting as possible.” He sounded triumphant.
“But I just said it wouldn’t matter if—”
“Just something to think about. Okay. See you at the gate tomorrow.”
“Okay, I’ll—” But he wasn’t there anymore. It was the first time he’d called her since law school, and all he’d wanted was to discuss the impact of pea-green over plain green on a potential jury.
She whirled to stare at herself in the mirror. She might not be gorgeous, but why, exactly, didn’t her colleagues think of her as a woman? Forget the colleagues. Why hadn’t Carter ever seen her as a woman?
She had to admit she looked none too sexy with her teeth clenched together. She whirled back, and her gaze fell on her suitcase. She still had room. What could she take that was a little more exciting than black and more black and a touch of white?
With frantic fingertips she went through the sparse collection of clothes in her closet, wondering why she bothered. She knew what she owned. More black, more white, a small navy grouping and the thrill of one gray suit and one beige. No surprises were hiding in there.
It was too late to go shopping, but not too late to call her friend Carol the Consummate Clotheshorse down on the fifth floor. Carol had flown back early from St. John’s, too, for a reason their friends understood, to make a raid on Marshall Field’s post-Thanksgiving, pre-Christmas sales racks. She’d have something old she’d be willing to loan.
“Carol,” she began, “I’m going to New York.”
“Mallory the Jet-setter,” Carol said. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
Mallory clenched her teeth. “It’s business,” she said crisply. “I was wondering if I might borrow one extra jacket from you.”
“Anything,” Carol said fervently. “If you’d wear something besides a suit and midheel orthopedic pumps, I’d give you rights to my whole closet. All my closets,” she corrected herself. “What kind of jacket did you have in mind?”
“Something that goes well with black,” Mallory said, floundering in the alternatives and also realizing this wasn’t the first time a friend had commented on her penchant for suits and dowdy shoes. It was just the first time it had upset her.
A dangerous thought ran through her mind. Herself in a low-necked, scarlet top, and Carter’s fingertips edging the cleavage, then dipping beneath the fabric…
She stammered the words out. “I was thinking…red.” There. She’d veered again. It was getting easier each time. Not processing her mail, then wine, now red.
“Ooh,” Carol said. “I’ve got a red jacket that would look great on you. I’ll bring it right up and hang it on your doorknob. I know you’re busy packing.”
Mallory was already having second thoughts, but a red jacket seemed like such a tiny veer that it hardly seemed worth worrying about. “Thanks, Carol. I’ll return the favor as soon as possible.”
“You can return it right now. Do you have any stamps?”
“Of course.” She had every staple of everyday life in bulk, just as the efficient woman should. “I’ll leave them on the foyer table. And Carol?”
“Um?”