The Proviso

by

Moriah Jovan

* * * * *

Knox Hilliard’s uncle murdered his father to marry
his mother and take control of the family company. Now, he and his
cousins Sebastian and Giselle are on a quest for justice and to
restore Knox’s inheritance to him. None of them expect to find love
along the way.

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

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Kansas City, MO 64157

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The Proviso

Copyright © 2008 by Moriah Jovan

All rights reserved

ISBN-13: 978-0-9817696-0-8

ISBN-10: 0-9817696-08

Editor: Lorna M. Lynch

Proofreader: M. Elizabeth Palmer

“Legend of a Cowgirl” lyrics used with permission
from Imani Coppola.

Rand, Ayn. Atlas Shrugged: 35th Anniversary Edition.
New York: Dutton, 1992.
Excerpted under Fair Use.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved
above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or
introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or
by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or
otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the
copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,
and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously.

This title is available in print at
b10mediaworx.com
.

* * * * *

A lot of people contributed to the creation of this
story

whether they know it or not,

but only one pulled me through it by my hair.

I love you, Dude.

* * * * *

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Dude and our Tax Deductions #1 and #2

Monica Tachibana, Elizabeth Palmer, Julianne Weight,
Jan Leonard, Sheila Reams, Jeanne Johnston, Deb Lefler, Jennifer
Cavanaugh, Janice Feldman, Teresa Alexander, and Dawn Triplett

Lorna Lynch for her critique and Elizabeth Palmer for
her proof

Nick and Katherine Senzee, and Andy and Chad
Livingston

James McKinley (sorry ’bout that “romance novel
ending,” Prof) and Lois Spatz, Professors Emeriti, UMKC Department
of English Language and Literature

My critique group in ’94 who, I’m pretty sure, would
not appreciate being named here. They suffered through a Knox who
was far, far more cruel, knew a Bryce and Giselle who were vastly
different, and only started to get to know Ford.

The rest of my family (most of whom won’t read this
because they’ll know that since I wrote it, it’ll be filthy), who
love me no matter what

Vince Melamed, Gary Barnhill, Trisha Yearwood, and
Don Henley, for the song “Walkaway Joe,” which, in 1994, made me
start wondering about how much a mother might sacrifice to save her
child . . .

* * * * *

OKH ENTERPRISES

SUCCESSION PROVISO

April 3, 1985

Upon owner and president Oliver Lake Hilliard’s
death, OKH Enterprises (hereinafter referred to as the Company)
shall be managed by a chief executive officer appointed by the
Board of Directors at will and whenever the need arises. The
Company shall then revert to the full control and ownership of F.
Knox Oliver Hilliard on December 27, 2008, his fortieth birthday,
provided he has married and produced an heir.

Oliver Lake Delano Hilliard

Kansas City, Missouri

4/3/85

* * * * *

AUGUST 2004

“Check out the way he walks. I wonder if he fucks as
good as he looks?”

Miss Justice McKinley looked down at the textbooks
on the desktop in front of her and felt violated by the predatory
tone coming from the woman in the row behind her. Really, she’d
thought she’d left all this junior high queen bee business when she
graduated from college, but apparently, some girls just never grew
up.

She was very beautiful, Sherry was, glossy black
hair, very thin, very well dressed—and she knew it. She stood out
in the lecture hall full of students who watched and listened to
Chouteau County prosecutor Knox Hilliard’s
bon mots
in
between student introductions.

Sherry’s worker bees laughed and slid comments back
and forth about Sherry’s tastes, most of which, in Justice’s
opinion, were unprintable. Justice even flinched at one
particularly nasty remark that she couldn’t avoid hearing, then the
back of her chair was kicked and she tossed a glance over her
shoulder in irritation.

“Sherry,” Worker Bee Number One whispered, “stop it.
She’s gonna get mad.”

“What’s she going to do, read me Bible stories? Look
at her! She’s drooling all over her pretty little dress. She
wouldn’t know what to do with him if she had him.”

Justice swallowed at the cruelty in the girl’s
voice, the nanny-nanny-boo-boo singsong close in her ear, and she
cringed at the whisper. “I bet she wants to fuck Knox Hilliard as
much as I do. Pay attention, little girl.”

It was a good thing Justice was in front of Sherry
and her courtiers because her face flooded with color. She averted
her gaze from Professor Hilliard and tried to cool the hot rage and
mortification that welled up inside her. It wouldn’t have bothered
her so much if Sherry hadn’t cut so close to the truth.

Then it was the Queen Bee’s turn to introduce
herself. She kicked Justice’s chair again and Justice blinked away
stinging tears before looking up at the handsome attorney.

“Miss Quails,” Professor Hilliard said, his deep
voice resonating from the front row of the lecture hall all the way
to the most remote corners of the back. “Your turn. What kind of
law do you want to practice?”

“Corporate,” she said shortly, “but what I really
want to talk about is what you’re doing this weekend?
All
weekend?”

The room held its collective breath at her
brazenness and the professor stared at her as if she’d lost her
mind. Then a smile, quick and blinding, flashed across his face.
Justice stared at him in awe, as she had for the entire two hours
she’d been in this class. If Justice had ever needed to see an
example of male beauty and masculine grace, Knox Hilliard was it.
Too bad he was only subbing for the real professor.

He began to chuckle as he came closer to Sherry and
therefore, closer to Justice. “See me after class and I’ll see what
I can arrange,” he murmured, his predatory tone matching Sherry’s
perfectly.

“Certainly . . . Knox.”

He still chuckled as he continued with the next
person down the row. Justice averted her eyes. Soon she heard, “And
what about you, Miss McKinley?”

Justice started, and looked up at him; he watched
her expectantly. She could feel her face burn and she cleared her
throat. Her nerve endings tingled and she felt slightly nauseated.
“I—I want to be a prosecutor,” she said and then, to her horror,
she added, “like you.”

Sherry and her clique snickered openly.

Surprise flickered in the man’s ice blue eyes and he
smiled in kind bemusement. “Why?”

Justice swallowed again. She felt as if she were on
trial, as if her answer would determine her whole future. In three
years, half the people in that classroom would be competing for the
coveted coup of being hired and trained by Knox Hilliard. Yes, her
answer today
would
determine her whole future.

“I—I want to help people,” she began, caught up in
the suddenly changing colors of his eyes and for a brief moment,
she forgot all about Sherry. “I think that criminals . . . that
they have too many rights. It’s too easy to hurt others for fun and
profit.” She went on, gaining confidence in her opinion and
strength in her voice as she always did when she spoke on something
she believed in.

“There’s no sense of right and wrong anymore. Um,
personal property rights—meaning oneself and one’s belongings—were
meant to be held sacred. That’s what the Founding Fathers wanted.
Life and valuables are cheap now, partly, um, because of the
eroding family base and partly because the legal system doesn’t
punish criminals well enough. I want to help make the law a
deterrent again—to, oh, legally avenge those whose lives are
violated by someone else.”

Silence reigned throughout the lecture hall, and
Justice could not quite meet the probing gaze of the professor. She
stared at her books and tried to hold back tears of frustration and
embarrassment.

Then Sherry laughed. Her friends laughed. The room
exploded in laughter—raucous, jeering guffaws aimed at Justice, who
was only now aware that she had displayed an appalling naïveté for
her entire class to see.

This was going to be a long three years.

“ENOUGH!”

The roar was violent, livid, and thoroughly
effective as it echoed off the walls of the abruptly silent room.
Justice’s head snapped up to see Professor Hilliard leisurely
stroll across the dais away from her, his hands in the pockets of
his fine gray suit. His face was hard as he glared up at the rows
and rows of open-mouthed students.

“How dare you,” he murmured, his tone dangerous. His
lazy syntax and country twang were gone. He spoke with precision,
his diction flawless. His easygoing manner had disintegrated to
hard cynicism in the blink of an eye and Justice stared at him,
confused—his outrage had been so immediate, so effortless.

“How dare you denigrate the career goals of a fellow
student. I daresay none of you have thought that deeply about what
you want and why you want it. None of you have displayed that kind
of passion or expressed yourselves so eloquently that the room was
enthralled with what you said. None of you were courageous enough
to say what you really thought. How dare you sit on your
pretentiously cynical asses and laugh at idealism. Idealism is what
created this country; it’s what drives it; it’s what allows you to
be here on daddy’s money.”

He pointed to different sections of the room in
turn. “You. You. You.” He began the trek back across the platform
toward Justice. She caught the faintest whiff of an elegant cologne
as he leaned alongside her toward Sherry. “And you, Miss Quails,”
he purred, and it was not a nice purr.

Justice gulped, glad she was not on the receiving
end of the latent violence in his voice. “
You
can go fuck
yourself, because I certainly won’t.”

The collective gasp was palpable. Sherry stammered
in confused outrage, even as Professor Hilliard’s regard softened
and settled upon Justice who, with tears of mixed gratitude and
mortification in her eyes, looked away from his large harshness and
golden darkness.

Fingertips under her chin gently forced her face
around and up. She blinked to get rid of her tears before his
clever ice—no, now dark—blue eyes saw them.

“Do you believe in vigilante justice, Justice?”

She gulped. “No,” she whispered.

“What about theft versus crimes against the
body?”

“Property is to be held as sacred as the body and
vice versa,” she responded in a voice made stronger after clearing
her throat.

“Revenge?”

“No excuse.”

“Biblical and all that.”

“Yes.”

“Black and white?”

“No. Right and wrong.”

Justice followed his line of reasoning without
effort because she knew these things, believed these things,
believed in the brilliance and genius of the Founding Fathers.

They had touched, somehow, this experienced attorney
somewhere in his mid-thirties and Justice, a twenty-two-year-old
(today) law student who’d been in classes for a whole five
days.

His thumb drifted across her cheekbone as he stood
looking down at her; Justice was only minimally aware of the
lecture hall full of spellbound students. His mind connected with
hers even as his fingertips connected with her skin.

“Very good, Justice,” he murmured.

She stared up into Knox Hilliard’s sapphire eyes and
fell in love.

* * * * *

Giselle Cox reached out and brushed the girl’s
shoulder. She started, turned, nearly cowering in fear of whatever
cutting remark she assumed Giselle would make, her hazel, almost
amber, eyes wide.

“You were very good in there,” Giselle said quietly,
aware of the wary glances cast their way because she got attention
wherever she went whether she wanted it or not. Today, she wanted
it; no one who knew any better would bother this girl now that
Giselle had marked her just by talking to her.