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Authors: Barbara Delinsky

BOOK: Don't Tempt Me
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With a sigh she repeated her stock excuse. “I like you, John, really I do. But you're my colleague. We're both members of this firm and you know—at least, you
should
know by now that I won't date someone I have to work with on an everyday basis. Work and play just don't mix.” She went through the motion of lifting the handful of pink telephone messages from the edge of her phone in hopes that he would take the hint and leave. To her dismay he merely moved closer, perching on the corner of her desk with the utmost of arrogance. Oh, indeed, she thought, he could be charming and witty when it pleased him. He could also be downright annoying, as instinct told her he was now about to be.
“You'd go out with Harper in a minute, wouldn't you, Justine?”
“Harper?”
“Tch, tch. Ever the innocent. Sloane … is that more to the point?”
Her response came too quickly and with slightly too much vigor, belied by the faint crimson tinge which flew to her cheeks. “Whatever
are
you talking about?”
“I saw how he shook you up. It's amazing—the unflappable Justine suddenly flapped. Voices carry quite a way in these hallowed, hollow halls,” he teased softly and without anger. “He's a very good-looking man. Very wealthy. Very successful. Very available. And he was very interested in you … .”
“John, you're babbling!” she decried firmly, appalled at the extent of her transparency in those few, devastating moments in the corridor. “Haven't you better things to do with your time?”
John would have no part of her diversionary nonchalance. “He's called ‘the Silver Fox.' Did you know that?”
“As a matter of fact,” she scoffed through thinned and suddenly dry lips, “I didn't.”
He nodded smugly, enjoying her discomfort. “That's right. ‘The Silver Fox.' And do you know why they call him that?”
“No, John,” she sighed loudly, exaggerating the echo, “why
do
they call him that?”
“Because he's sly. A predator. He stalks little things like you and gobbles them up.”
The image of herself feeling hopelessly trapped by Sloane's magnetic appeal flitted about her brain. Purposefully she cast it aside. “Aren't you getting carried away with the dramatic? If he's called ‘the Silver Fox,' it may be nothing more than a reference to his hair.”
“Striking, wasn't it?”
“Yes. In truth it was. It's good to know that one man, at least, has managed to avoid the Grecian Formula habit!”
John patted his own dark hair gingerly. “Now, now, Justine, that's hitting below the belt. People in glass houses—”
“John! That's enough!” She couldn't begin to count the number of times she'd been accused of coloring her hair. But its strawberry-blond shade was rich and natural, a
legacy from the father she hadn't seen in over twenty years. Thought of him made her momentarily testy. “What
is
the point of this whole conversation?”
John's eyes flickered mischievously. “Just trying to tell you about the man you may be involved with.”
“I
won't
be involved with Sloane Harper!” she countered, again too vehemently, her temper beginning to fray. “He's a corporate client of the firm. From what you yourself say, he needs neither a divorce attorney nor a family law specialist. If I hadn't returned to the office at that particular moment, I wouldn't even have met him.” The thought brought with it a gamut of emotional twinges, not the least of which was an eerie sense of premonition.
“But aren't you glad you did?” John drawled slowly, recognizing the very tiny bud deep within that she struggled to ignore. “And, looking as gorgeous as you do …”
“John, I had a speaking engagement today. Of course I'd be more dressed up than usual.” Her tone was one of exasperation, yet as she looked down at her lightweight wool dress, a gentle blue plaid with a mandarin collar and pleats down the front and back tucked in at her slim waist by an apricot tie that blended miraculously with her coloring, she was grateful for the coincidence. John, of course, must never know
that!
“You're really off base with this one,” she murmured defensively.
Silence hung strangely heavy in the air as he studied her. “Am I?” he asked slowly, then straightened and stood. Justine had been momentarily shaken by his pensiveness. As he stepped toward the door, she released her breath, only to catch it on the rebound. John's posture grew simultaneously alert. Halting in his progress, he stood stock-still. There, beyond his dark frame, was Sloane, filling the doorway with his presence.
“Excuse me,” he spoke softly. “Am I interrupting anything?” His dark eyes swung from Justine to John, studying
the latter for an instant of sizing-up before returning to her. His words suggested a legal conference; the faint twist at the corners of his lips suggested something entirely different.
“No, no, Mr. Harper,” John spoke smoothly, extending his hand in introduction. “I'm John Doucette, also of the firm. Justine and I are finished.”
The finality of his declaration held far deeper meaning for the two lawyers and would, in future days, come to be recalled by each. Sloane took it at face value, his inner thoughts well hidden behind a benevolent smile.
“I suddenly realized,” he began confidently, “that I still had Ms. O'Neill's notebook.” To her chagrin she saw that it was true. “I was worried that perhaps she might be needing it this afternoon.”
As Sloane advanced into the room, Justine was intensely aware of the smug grin on John's face. Determined to simply retrieve the notebook and amend her lapse, she stood quickly to circle the desk, totally forgetful of the fact that she'd slipped off her leather pumps. The fact was brought painfully home as she stubbed her toe on the steel leg of the desk.
“Aahhh! My God!” She doubled over and grabbed the corner of the desk. Her jaw clenched, she pushed herself back into her chair.
“I'll leave you two now” came John's merry call from the door. He had seen any number of Justine's minor calamities, and the knowing smile on his face as he saw Sloane circle the desk spoke for itself. Mercifully, he disappeared.
“Are you all right?” Kneeling down beside her chair, Sloane quickly lifted the stockinged foot which her own fingers tried desperately to massage.
“Yes, I'm fine,” she murmured in disgust, too intent on relieving the pain to succumb to the mortification she
might otherwise have felt. “That was a stupid thing for me to do. I'd forgotten about my shoes.”
Her hand was cast aside as long brown fingers probed her silk-sheathed toes gently. “I don't think you broke anything,” he decided as he lightly rubbed the offended area. “Do you do this type of thing often?”
Only then did his eyes lift. They were dark and contained a blend of concern and query. Justine felt a melting sensation spiraling through her and swallowed sharply. So John's nonchalance had tipped him off, she rued, then laughed at her characteristic clumsiness.
“I'm the firm's own calamity department—but then, they didn't tell you that, did they?” An eyebrow arched before her, its color a more equivocal mix of gray and black. “No, I didn't think so. Well, you may as well know, since you've just found out anyway.” She grinned, poking fun at herself easily. “They call me ‘Calamity J' for short. I may know my law, but when it comes to things mechanical—even stationary”—she sent an accusatory glance at the desk leg, now barely visible beyond Sloane's large and hunkered frame—“I'm a complete disaster!”
“Ah, so the lady does have a fault?”
“Just that one.”
His presence filled the room, warming her. “Well, that's a relief! We wouldn't want the image to totally crumble!” His teasing was so gentle that she could not imagine offense. “And it is good to know that you have at least one weakness, like the rest of us!”
“And yours, Sloane? What might that be?” It was her hope that some knowledge of this man's imperfections might ease the flagrant attraction she felt toward him.
His dark eyes studied her, serving, on the contrary, to enhance the lure. He seemed to be debating, in good humor, the wisdom of any such revelation. Shaking his silver head slowly, he stalled. “No, I don't think I should tell you … .”
“Come on! I told you mine … .”
“Correction … you
showed
me yours. And, if my suspicion is right, you'd rather not have done so.”
“No one likes to look like a complete ass!” she jibed in self-reproach.
“You don't look foolish, and you know it. You're human.”
“And you? What is it, Sloane—this weakness of yours?”
Again he deliberated, drawing out the wait for what she was sure had to be intended effect. Finally he spoke in a velvet hum. “You won't tell anyone?” She shook her head and furrowed her brow in sign of sincerity. “All right then. And … you won't laugh?”
“Sloane …” she warned softly.
“I … talk in my sleep … .”
Having expected something cataclysmic, Justine's shoulders drooped. Lips curling down in dismay, she chided him. “Is that
all
?”
“
All
?” He feigned astonishment. “It's terrible. Entire monologues spilled out in the middle of the night. Trade secrets. Confidential information. Personal brainstorms. Everything! It's terrible!”
“Only if you aren't careful about your bedmate!” she quipped, then instantly wished she hadn't. “I mean,” she went on quickly, “if there's just
anybody
around at night …” Realizing that she was making things worse, she stilled.
“Precisely.”
It was one word, yet the gleam in his eye spoke volumes. Justine bit her lip to stem further blunder. Her toe felt fine now, free of pain yet tingling beneath the hand that continued to hold it. As the seconds passed, the tingling spread upward, through her body, lodging in the knot at her throat. Her eyes linked with his in helpless captivity. Finally, she forced herself to speak.
“My foot is much better. Thank you.” At her hint he
put the injured appendage gently to the carpet and straightened. If his height had struck her when he stood with the group of lawyers, now it was positively towering. Defensively, she looked down at her desk. “And thank you for returning the notebook. You were right. I would have needed it at some point, and I might very well not have realized where it was.”
“I doubt that,” he breathed softly. “But I'd better be getting back to the conference room. Wouldn't want to keep your friends waiting.”
Justine admired the broad sweep of his back as he made for the door with long, leisurely strides. “Thank you again.”
He turned briefly, cocked his head, and smiled. “My pleasure.” Then he was gone, leaving her at last to a solitude which she needed badly.
But her solitude was limited by the presence of the telephone. As if on cue, a soft buzzer rang and the light on the console lit.
Her tapered finger pressed the appropriate button. “Yes, Angie?”
“Mrs. Connely on 78 for you, Ms. O'Neill.”
“Thanks. I'll take it now.”
With a flick of her finger Sloane Harper was temporarily forgotten. “Mrs. Connely? Justine O'Neill, here. What can I do for you?”
A high-pitched voice crackled over the line. “Oh, thank goodness you're in, Ms. O'Neil! I don't know what to do. It all happened so quickly—”
“Slow down, Mrs. Connely. Try to relax. Now, what seems to be the problem?”
“He came in the middle of the night. We must have been sleeping. I didn't hear a thing. I guess he used his own key—”
“I thought you were going to have the locks changed
last week?” Justine interrupted, hiding the frustration which suddenly surged through her.
“I was … but I didn't get around to it. I was so busy … with the children and all … that I guess I forgot.”
“Forgot?”
Setbacks were part of the game, Justine reminded herself quickly. Clients like this distraught woman expected instantaneous results from their lawyers yet were often not willing to make an effort themselves. Stifling her annoyance, Justine probed further.
“Okay now, tell me what happened. Exactly what did he do?”
“He took everything! My silver. My credit cards. Our bankbooks. Even the fur jacket he gave me last year.”
As her client talked, Justine grabbed a pad of paper, cradling the receiver between jaw and shoulder as she quickly jotted down some notes. “Anything else?”
“That's enough! He wasn't supposed to touch a thing until after the preliminary hearing!”
“I know, Mrs. Connely. But this happens all too frequently. We are scheduled for a hearing next Wednesday. Until then, there's not too much we can do about it.”

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