“I’ll have bottled water, with dinner,” Brad stated, and looked at me.

“I’m fine for now, thank you.”

“Would you like to hear the menu?” she asked. I nodded in response, and Brad gave a curt nod.

“It’s pretty basic. We have spaghetti, chicken parmesan and lasagna.” I waited for more, but from her pregnant pause, that was apparently it. I ordered the spaghetti, and Brad asked for both chicken parm and lasagna. The waitress left, and I looked at Brad, the candle now illuminating his handsome face.

“So they’ll serve us out here? On the hood?” The idea seemed preposterous but fun, if not a little messy.

He nodded. “The inside restaurant is pretty small. It fills up quickly. When they first opened, and word started spreading about their food, the line would snake through the parking lot. They started taking drink orders from the waiting crowd...then things just progressed to where they’re at now. I should have asked if you like Italian. Their menu is so limited...”

I waved my hand, erasing his concern, and took a sip of wine.

“So. Broward?” I prompted him.

“Right. I understand that it seems cold to you, us discussing this so quickly after his death, but it is a business situation. We can mourn his passing after work, but this is a decision we needed to make quickly. There are clients and cases to contend with, not to mention the necessity to sell his shares so that we can settle with his estate. Claire will need and appreciate the money.”

My eyes clouded a bit at the mention of Broward’s wife, and I wondered, briefly, if Brad had been in contact with her.

“So, what did you decide? You and Clarke?”

“We decided not to absorb Broward’s interest, but to allow an outside attorney to purchase his shares. We don’t have the time or expertise to take on Broward’s clients, and don’t have any junior partners ready to fill his shoes. Today we chose a replacement and extended an offer, which was accepted. Tomorrow we’ll make a formal announcement and will introduce him to the team.”

I turned it over in my mind, thinking. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Whoever takes his place will be your new boss. There is a chance that he or she won’t want to train a new employee—in that case H.R. will either reassign you or terminate your new position.”

Terminate my new position. The phrase just screamed law school rejection. I sipped my wine slowly. “So. If I was to be reassigned, it would probably need to be to an attorney with a large caseload, someone who would need an additional hand.” I looked up at him suggestively, a wry smile crossing his face as he leaned over and looped his arm around my waist, bringing me to him, his lips pressing gently on my head.

“Well, I would love to have you under me.” His words, a growl against my hair, made me smile. “But, as much as I would enjoy that, we both know I am the last attorney Human Resources would assign you to.”

I sighed, his logic solid. “Okay, so scratch my transfer to your office. You’re saying if Broward’s replacement decides I’m gone, then poof, I’m fired?”

“Look at it from his standpoint. A new attorney, coming into a strange office, trying to retain his current clients, plus take on Broward’s, learning the staff—he is not going to want to train a new employee or bother getting to know you if you are leaving in a semester. I wouldn’t. You would be the first person on my cut list.” His face serious, he looked down at me, his brown eyes clear and straightforward.

“But...you’re a partner—the biggest one! Can’t you keep me there?”

“You mean, since you’re sleeping with me?” His voice had a hard edge to it, and I recoiled, glaring at him.

“Fuck you, Brad. This opportunity could pave my way to law school acceptance, not to mention a possible job after graduation. You understand my predicament—I’m asking you to help! I’ve never asked you for anything!” I fought to keep my voice from rising, but wanted to throw my damn fruity wine in his face.

He met my furious eyes and smiled, disarming me in an instant. The damn man had the most annoying habit of making me want to laugh when I should be choking him. “Julia, anything I do to help you will only shine light on us. As far as they are aware, I don’t even know who you are. I can’t start campaigning for you without drawing undue attention on us. You are the one so bent on keeping us a secret. I have been, and will continue, going to bat for all of Broward’s staff, including you. But I can’t make any promises. I just want you to understand that it is important to make a good impression.”

I blew out a frustrated breath and kicked off my flip-flops, watching them bounce of the bumper and land on the grass. “Okay. I’ll try to make a good impression.”

He leaned over and kissed my neck, his delicious scent making me weak. I reluctantly turned my head and we kissed, his hand coming to my chin and his mouth owning mine. I scooted a little closer and our tongues clashed in perfect contrast, his strength meeting my own fiery spirit. He moved his hand lower, played with my breast through my thin T-shirt and then slipped a hand inside the neckline, teasing my nipple with his strong fingers. There was a soft cough and we parted, my face flushed. Oh my God.

The redhead was back, this time with a teenage boy who locked his eyes on my chest and caused me to look down, seeing my neckline askew and slight cl**vage showing. I hurriedly fixed my shirt and Brad cleared his throat.

“You need something?” he asked the teen, his inflection causing the boy to snap to attention and deposit three foam containers onto our hood, looking everywhere but at me. I felt the urge to laugh, and instead focused on the waitress, who placed two ice-cold bottled waters in front of us. She pulled a wine bottle from under her arm and asked if I wanted more. I held out my cup and she gave me a generous refill. Then they both made a hasty retreat.

Brad smiled and I laughed, and we dug into the containers, opening all three and sharing the contents. The food was delicious, authentic Italian, and I ate quickly, moaning every once in a while at the taste.

After ten minutes, I leaned back, stretching my stomach out, Brad still eating beside me. I hadn’t even considered the fact that Broward’s death would affect my employment status. And what if his replacement was a jerk? Or didn’t want me? I didn’t know which would be worse. Somewhere else in the lot, a car radio started, and strands of an Alabama song drifted over to us.

Brad finally leaned back also, and I leaned against him, my head on his shoulder.

“So, tell me about this new guy,” I said grudgingly.

“His name is Scott Burge. He has the same area of focus as Broward, and should bring some big clients over to CDB. He seems very intelligent, if a little boring.”

“So, basically a clone of Broward.” A clone who, hopefully, had better judgment when it came to choosing extracurricular clients.

“Maybe. You never really know what someone is like until you work with them. As I said, he’ll be introduced tomorrow, though he won’t take full office hours till next week.”

“So I’ll meet him tomorrow.”

“Yes. I’d dress to impress.”

“Is he a horn dog?”

He snorted. “Not that he mentioned in our meetings, but no, he doesn’t seem the type. Boring, yes. Sexual, no.”

Burrowing into his warmth, I didn’t feel like talking, and he seemed content, planting a soft kiss on my head. We sat there, quiet and looking at the city lights and listening to muted country music, till the candle flickered and died and the bugs came and found us.

Twenty-Nine

I stood nervously in the conference room, dressed in a black sleeveless turtleneck, tweed pencil skirt and black peep-toe heels. I had spent an extra fifteen minutes that morning making sure that my hair and makeup looked professionally perfect. The entire West Wing staff, which I still thought of as “Broward’s staff,” was assembled in the room, ready for an 11:00 a.m. meeting. There was expectant silence in the room as the wall clock clicked to 10:59 a.m.

The conference room door opened. A man in a gray suit strode up to the podium. He was traditionally handsome, the blond-haired, blue-eyed variety that fills every department store flyer in the Sunday paper. He wore glasses, which he adjusted before looking out at the room.

“Good morning. My name is Scott Burge. I would first like to extend my deepest sympathies to you for the loss of Kent Broward. I was personally acquainted with Kent, and had nothing but the utmost respect for him. I know that he has left big shoes to fill.”

I studied him carefully, trying to decide what I thought of him. His clothes hung well on his frame, and his face had just enough strength to be attractive, almost abnormally so.

He paused, clearing his throat and straightening his tie, a gesture I recognized as a nervous one. “That being said, I have come to a partnership agreement with Attorneys Clarke and De Luca, so I will be a permanent fixture in this firm, and the firm name will now be Clarke, De Luca & Burge. I will only be in the office for a few hours today, but will start full-time next week. I would appreciate all of your patience and assistance in familiarizing me with the current caseload and statuses of all ongoing litigation.” He nodded once and then closed his notebook, apparently done. There was a scattering of applause, no one knowing whether or not to clap, and Burge left the room.

Chatter started all around me and I moved, heading to the restroom and then to my office, passing Broward’s old office on my way. I paused, unsure, and then knocked lightly on the open door, waiting for Burge to look up. He did, and beckoned me in.

The office looked strange without Broward’s bald head behind the desk. The office had always been packed with file boxes. That hadn’t changed, but now different prints hung on the walls, and Broward’s family photos had disappeared. New carpet was underfoot. Probably because of the bloodstains.

“Can I help you?” His voice was authoritative, strong, and he looked up at me with clear blue eyes, his skin tan and smooth, his eyes passing briefly over me before they returned to my face.

“I’m Julia Campbell. I was the intern and, starting next week, will be a part-time assistant for this wing. I just wanted to introduce myself.” I gestured awkwardly to the doorway. “My office is adjacent to yours. If you need anything, just call out.”

He stood, and I realized he was Brad’s height, taller than me in my three-inch heels. “Are you in law school, Ms. Campbell?”

“No.” I flushed. “I’m an undergrad. I’m still two semesters from graduation but have already started the process of applying to law schools.”

“And what did you do for Broward?”

I sensed a hint of sexual innuendo in his question, but brushed it off, meeting his eyes with professionalism. “I worked mainly with corporate document prep. Any basic filings, annual reports, meeting minutes, operating agreements, he would send to me. I prepared them and then sent them back for his approval.” A slight exaggeration of my duties.

He nodded, looking pleased. “And you had experience in this previously?”

“No, Broward taught me.” I crossed my fingers behind my back, hoping God would give me some leeway given the situation.

He nodded thoughtfully and then smiled. “Thank you, Julia. I look forward to working with you.” He reached his hand across the desk and I shook it firmly.

“Likewise, sir.” I smiled and left his office, my self-confidence patting my back and smiling broadly. I entered my office and sat down, attacking my work stack with renewed enthusiasm.

* * *

THE SOON-TO-BE EX-MRS. Windthorp sat in Brad’s large office, facing his desk. She was exquisite, born beautiful and enhanced by the city’s top plastic surgeons. She wore a tight white tube top with a cashmere cardigan over it, and had long tan legs barely contained with a black miniskirt. Brad flipped through her file, glancing at her occasionally over the top of it. The file listed her age as thirty-seven, though she didn’t look over twenty-six. Her husband was Brett Windthorp, a silver-spoon trust fund baby who had intelligently quadrupled his family’s wealth. His current net worth was listed at seventy-two million dollars. Married six years, no children. No prenup. Brad closed the folder.

“Mrs. Windthorp, why—”

“Call me Lisa.” A cultured voice, probably from a pageant-queen childhood.

“Fine. Lisa, why do you want a divorce?”

“I’m unhappy.” She folded her arms, enhancing her perfect cl**vage in the process. Brad looked away, back at the file.

“We’re going to need more than your unhappiness to go to the judge with. Tell me about Brett.”

“What about him?” She sounded almost petulant in her response.

“Just give me a synopsis.”

She delicately sighed, her br**sts heaving. “He’s boring. All he does is work, and expects me to entertain myself all day. When he’s not working, he’s either playing golf or spending time with his friends, who he wants me to entertain, as well. It’s just not what I expected marriage to be.”

Brad met her gaze, her response verifying all of the reasons why he never wanted to remarry. “Okay, so irreconcilable differences. And what do you want from the settlement?”

She seemed surprised by the statement. “Why, everything, of course. I thought that was what you did.”

Brad flexed his hands under the desk, hating his job at this moment. Being good at it made it even more difficult at times. He leaned forward. “You are not going to get everything. You’ll be lucky to get half. You have no children and have been married less than seven years. You need to take a realistic look at this marriage and reassess your expectations.”