Heat Wave (17 page)

“Let’s run it through it one more time,”
Caleb said. “You have no idea what this two hundred thousand
dollars is all about.”

“Swear to God,” Jerry said.

“Because anything you tell
me is just between you and me, Jerry. Lawyer-client privilege. You
can tell me anything you know about that money—or any of your other
finances. I won’t tell the D.A. I won’t tell the police. I won’t
tell a judge. I
can’t
. I’m sworn to maintain confidentiality.”

“And I’m telling you, I don’t know what that
accountant is talking about.”

“Let’s set up a meeting with her, okay?
We’ll have her show us exactly what she found in your
accounts.”

“So I’m paying her by the minute, too?”

With a spare two hundred grand lying around,
Jerry could afford both Caleb and Blanche’s fees. “Right now, you
should be focusing on receiving a solid defense, not on how much
that defense is going to cost. The only way I can defend you
competently is if you’re completely honest with me.”

Jerry nodded. His eyelids drooped slightly.
Caleb was tempted to ask him if he needed a nap. But sarcasm
wouldn’t serve any purpose, so he refrained.

“I’ll set up a meeting with Blanche,
then.”

“Here?”

Caleb couldn’t imagine Blanche Larson
agreeing to a meeting in a bar. “If my air conditioning still isn’t
working, we’ll meet at her office. I’ll have Megan call you once
we’ve made the arrangements.”

Jerry regarded him for a long moment, then
shook his head. “I don’t like having an attorney who doesn’t
believe me,” he grumbled.

I don’t like having a
client who lies to me,
Caleb almost
retorted. Instead, maintaining his calm demeanor, he said, “I’ve
had clients lie to me before, Jerry. When they lie, I can’t mount
an effective defense. The only way I can defend you against these
charges is if I’m armed with the truth.”

“Even if the truth looks bad?”

“The truth usually
does
look bad for my
clients. If it didn’t, they wouldn’t need a lawyer. Or at least not
a lawyer as good as I am. So. We’ll meet with Blanche Larson and
try to figure out what that accounting glitch is all about.
Okay?”

“I’ll try to fit it into my schedule,” Jerry
said. Caleb wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be a joke. If it
was, Jerry had better avoid pursuing a career in stand-up
comedy.

And while he was at it, he’d better try to
fit shaving into his schedule.

Caleb rose when Jerry did, recited some
words of reassurance, reminded him not to talk to anyone about his
case, and watched him trudge across the room to the exit. Caleb’s
gaze snagged on the jukebox, and he contemplated slipping a quarter
into it to see if he could get “Heat Wave” to play. If he could,
maybe Meredith would go home with him, the way she had the last
time they were here together and the song played.

But Annie had told him you
couldn’t control what the jukebox played. He might insert a quarter
and get stuck listening to disco, or head-banging metal, or…hell,
he’d never been that big a fan of old Motown hits, either, although
they weren’t bad. His own music collection was heavy with West
Coast grunge. As far as he was concerned, Nirvana
was…
nirvana.

Somehow, he didn’t see himself seducing
Meredith to the raspy howls and slashing chords of “Smells Like
Teen Spirit.”

He carried what was left of his lemonade to
the bar and settled on the stool next to Meredith. “Hi,” he
said.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why did you
kiss me?” It was more an accusation than a question.

Because your mouth is
sexy,
he could have replied.
Because the last time I kissed you, we wound up
in bed, and it was amazing. Because I want to wind up in bed with
you again.
“I think you know why,” he
said.

She dropped her gaze to her glass. “I can’t
get involved with you, Caleb.”

All right. They didn’t have to get involved.
They could just have sex. A lot of sex. No strings attached.

Although he had to admit, as he studied her
delicate profile, her stubborn chin and her almost-too-small nose,
and the sway of her golden-blond hair against her cheek, that he
would welcome strings. She was smart. She was a fighter. She had
those pearly fingernails and toenails. Next time he got her into
bed, he’d have to spend a little more time enjoying her
extremities. Not that he had a fetish or anything, but her feet
were awfully pretty.

“If you’re worried about losing me as your
lawyer, we can figure that out. You don’t really need a lawyer,
anyway.”

“Yes, I do.” She tilted her face back up,
her gaze meeting his directly. “My principal is trying to force me
out of my job. He wants me to take a leave of absence for the rest
of the school year.”

Damn. “On what grounds?”

She shrugged. “Moral turpitude? I exposed
myself. Everyone in the school has seen my breasts.”

And beautiful breasts they were, he thought.
That thought was superseded by a more forceful thought: that this
was bullshit. That she was getting shafted. That he wanted to be
her hero, her savior. Her lawyer. “We’ll fight it,” he said. “I’ll
put that asshole through the meat grinder. By the time I’m through
with him, he’ll be giving you tenure, a raise, and gold-plated
chalk.”

A smile flickered across her beautiful,
kissable lips. “We use a whiteboard and markers, not chalk.”

“Whatever. This is crap, Meredith. You’re
not going to lose your job.”

“I appreciate your confidence.” She took a
sip of wine and sighed. “I don’t want gold-plated anything. I just
want my reputation back.”

“Then we’ll get it back.” Jerry Felton, his
evasive answers and his ridiculous beard, went forgotten. He was
Caleb’s main client right now, his big billable—and Caleb would
give him the best defense he could. But Meredith…

The injustice she was
confronting lit a fire inside him. He wanted to flatten the high
school principal. He wanted to reduce him to mincemeat, and then
feed him to a mangy dog. And then find the bastard who’d dumped ice
on her, and the other bastard who’d recorded the incident and sent
it to God knew how many classmates, so it could spread like a
pernicious stomach bug throughout the high school. He’d find out
who the
miscreants
were and lock them inside cages where decent people could
throw peanuts at them. And stink bombs. And—why not?—ice
cubes.

Caleb wanted to fight for her. He wanted to
win for her.

He wanted to be her hero.

She wasn’t hungry, but he insisted that,
hungry or not, she had to eat. “I’ll take you someplace nice,” he
said. “Maybe that’ll stimulate your appetite.”

He didn’t argue when she suggested following
him in her car. If she rode with him, they might wind up back at
his apartment, as they had the last time she’d sat beside him in
that sporty black Audi. Even though she hadn’t heard “Heat Wave” at
the tavern this time, she wanted him too much. She didn’t need the
song to make her want him. All she needed was to look at his lean,
lanky body and his dark eyes, to hear his low, intense voice, to
feel the outrage blazing through him. His anger was a heat wave all
its own.

That he could be so eager to fight for her
was more of a turn-on than the song, or the one quick kiss he’d
planted on her lips before returning to the booth where the town
manager had been waiting for him. Her father and her brother would
not have leaped to her defense, not even if she’d offered to pay
their usual exorbitant fees. They would have told her she deserved
to lose her teaching job, because she’d been a fool to untie her
swimsuit. Worse than a fool—an exhibitionist. Someone who was
“asking for it,” whether “it” was public humiliation or something
worse.

She
was
a fool, but honestly, what she’d
done had not been that unusual. She certainly wasn’t the only woman
who’d ever tried to get a line-less tan on her back at a public
beach. Nor was she the only person who’d ever been jolted into
unthinking action by an unexpected dousing of ice on a broiling hot
day.

She got into her car, ignited the engine,
and tailed Caleb’s car north on Atlantic Avenue. He turned at the
driveway to the Ocean Bluff Inn, and Meredith steered her car
behind his along the winding gravel path to a grand white clapboard
structure, four stories high, with a broad veranda spanning its
width and a lush lawn extending out in all directions, accented
with splashes of color from blossoming azalea, lilac, and
rhododendron bushes. The place was a landmark, listed in tourist
guides and mentioned by civic leaders as one of the region’s crown
jewels. But she’d never visited it before. Given her humble
level-one salary, she had to live frugally.

The visitors’ parking lot was more than
half-full, but she and Caleb found spaces not too far apart. He was
standing beside her car by the time she’d swung the door open.

“Are we dressed appropriately for this
place?” she asked. It seemed awfully elegant, and she was wearing a
plain old skirt and blouse, wilted at the end of a long day. Caleb
had on a suit, at least—or part of a suit. His jacket was slung
over his shoulder, his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up.

“We’re fine.” He touched his hand to the
small of her back as he escorted her across the
crushed-seashell-and-gravel lot toward the stairs leading to the
veranda. There was nothing romantic in the light brush of his hand,
and she told herself not to respond to it. “We could show up in
torn jeans and baseball jerseys, and they’d still seat us. I’ve got
an in with the manager.”

“Oh?”

He held open the main door and ushered her
into the inn’s lobby. She had only a few seconds to admire the cozy
colonial décor—a patterned rug covering the hardwood floors, a
burnished wood counter spanning one side of the room, chair rails
accenting the walls and dentil moldings adorning the ceiling, a
pair of upholstered wingback chairs flanking a polished table of
dark maple, lamps with brass stands, a broad staircase leading up
to the second floor, and a large pewter bowl filled with apples on
the counter. Before she could peek through the arched doorways or
glance up the stairs, a pretty, dark-haired woman behind the
counter let out a yelp and rushed around the counter to greet
Caleb, her arms wide. “Caleb!”

“Monica!” He returned her hug, then pivoted
her to face Meredith. “Meredith, this is Monica Reinhart. Her
family owns this place. Monica, Meredith Benoit. A…client.”

Monica flickered a glance at him, but didn’t
question his brief hesitation before he identified Meredith as a
client. She extended her hand to Meredith and smiled warmly. “It
looks like Caleb’s attracting a higher class of client these days,”
she said as they shook hands.

“Your boyfriend—a recent client of mine,”
Caleb elaborated for Meredith’s sake, “is plenty classy, even if he
dresses like a bum. And I might not have cleared his name if you
hadn’t helped. I keep telling you—if you ever get sick of the
hospitality business, my firm will hire you.”

“I won’t get sick of it. Are you folks here
for dinner?”

“We don’t have a reservation,” Caleb said
apologetically.

“Saturday night, that would have been a
problem. Today, no. Go on down the hall. I’ll let them know you’re
on your way.”

She leaned over the counter and lifted a
phone as Caleb led Meredith down a corridor. “She doesn’t look like
the sort of woman whose boyfriend would dress like a bum,” Meredith
noted, glancing back at Monica, who wore a tidy blazer, a silk
blouse, a tailored skirt, and conservative leather pumps with
modest heels.

“Her boyfriend’s a carpenter
and an expert sailor,” Caleb explained. “He was arrested for
importing drugs to the area on a sailboat. He was innocent, though.
Monica helped me to prove that. In fact, she
did
prove it. I just steered the guy
through the legal bureaucracy.” They’d reached a pair of double
French doors which opened into an formal dining room with huge
windows offering a glorious ocean view. The hostess was ending a
phone call as they entered, and she smiled at them. Evidently, her
caller had been Monica, alerting her to their impending
arrival.

Exonerating the innkeeper’s boyfriend
apparently earned a lawyer the royal treatment at the inn. Meredith
and Caleb were given a table right by one of the windows. Before
they could even open their menus, a waiter brought a bottle of
Zinfandel to their table, along with two crystal goblets. “Courtesy
of the house,” he said.

“It pays to have friends in high places,”
Meredith said, once the waiter had given Caleb a taste of the wine,
received a nod, and filled the glasses.

“You have friends where you need them,” he
said, his gaze steady. “Ed Nolan is a good friend to have. Even
when we’re on opposite sides, when I’m defending someone he’s
arrested, he’s a decent guy. There’s no bullshit about him. If
anyone can get a copy of that video for you, he can.”

“I’m not sure how viewing it will save my
job,” Meredith murmured, then took a sip of wine. She’d had a glass
of Pinot Grigio at the tavern, and now this. Appetite or no, she’d
better eat some food to absorb the alcohol, or she wouldn’t be able
to drive home after dinner.

“Do you have friends at work?” Caleb
asked.

“One of my closest friends teaches with me
in the English department,” she said, picturing Henry’s gentle eyes
and calming voice. How much clout did he have? He’d been the
department chair a few years back, but he wasn’t anymore. Still,
he’d been offering advice and support since this entire mess began.
His loyalty was unshakable.