Unbreakable (3 page)

I dabbed a napkin to my mouth and set it over my half-eaten salad. “My mother has meticulous taste and all the time in the world. It’s a perfect task for her.” I checked the time. “I have to get these invitations to the post office today and then run to the bank.”

“But you just got here!” Minnie cried.

“You don’t eat enough to maintain such a hectic schedule,” Rashida said.

“It’s how she maintains such a cute figure,” Antoinette put in.

“I have a one-fifteen,” Lilah said. “I’ll walk you out.”

It didn’t escape my notice that no one protested Lilah’s departure. I wondered if she’d noticed too. I reached for my wallet. “My turn?”

“No, it’s me,” Rashida said, waving me off. “You’re next Monday.”

“Of course I am,” I said, rising. “Ladies.”

#

“Are you okay?” Lilah asked as we waited for the valet.

I gave her a sideways glance. “Of course. Why?”

“You were late, for starters, and you’re never late. And secondly, since when do you lose track of whose turn it is to pick up lunch?”

I laughed. “I hardly think either qualifies me for an intervention.”

Lilah crossed her arms over her beige blazer. “This is me you’re talking to. Not Her Ladyship Antoinette.”

I shouldered my bag. “I’m fine. Waiting for the Munro verdict, which is slightly nerve-wracking. You know how that is.”

Lilah nodded. She was an attorney as well—the best attorney—in a small, boutique firm in Brentwood. Few things escaped her sharp eye, and judging by the way she was watching me now, that included me. She arched a feathery brow expectantly.

I opened my mouth to say that nothing was wrong, that she was being overly protective, and instead heard myself blurt: “I had that dream again.”

“Again?”

I nodded. “It was vivid. And realistic.
Very
realistic. I woke up feeling…excited, and…”

“Horny?”

“Lilah! Really!” I glanced around to make sure no one else waiting in the brilliant August sunshine was listening.

“Well? You’re human, for chrissakes. It’s allowed.”

I felt my skin grow hot but Lilah was the only person who knew of my and Drew’s…
difficulties.
I always felt a bit better for talking to her about it—not that I made a habit of it. It was embarrassing enough what little she did know. If she knew the whole truth…

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Drew was already showered and dressed, and I would have been late had we…”

“Had sex?” Lilah puffed out her cheeks. “You can’t even say the words.”

I ignored that. “He’s working hard. He has to, if he wants to make chief counsel. I’m sure he’s just too tired…most nights.”

“Most nights,” she scoffed. “Every night. He’s always too tired. He’s always working, and so are you.” Lilah took my arm gently but firmly. “And now this talk of not having kids? What is that all about? Is this your mother’s idea?”

“Really, Lilah. Give me some credit, will you? I’m a grown woman…”

“Do you remember when we were in junior high, talking about our perfect lives? Being a lawyer like your dad was number one. But being a good mom to your kids—being there for them like your mom wasn’t. That was always your next priority. Always.”

I bristled, an angry retort on my lips. But Lilah had known me for too long; she was the only person who could talk to me like that and get away with it.

“That was junior high, Lilah,” I said placidly. “I also dreamed of marrying Chad Durant and living in Fiji every summer to watch him surf. I grew up. Things change.”

Lilah gentled her tone as the valet pulled up with her BMW. “Yes, things change. They
can
change. Just remember that when you think it’s too late.”

She took off, leaving me to ponder her words. Irritation welled in me. First Don Knight and now Lilah. Today was supposed to be my victory day and instead I was plagued with lectures.

“Is my car anywhere close to being ready?” I snapped at the valet. “I’ve got a schedule to keep.

Alex

I marched into the towering edifice of United One Bank, my shoes tapping over the marble floor. I managed a brief smile for the portly security guard but it quickly fell away when I saw half of Los Angeles had decided to do their banking at lunchtime as well.

“Damn.”

A mahogany teller counter stretched across half the main area’s length—buzzing with personnel. To the right, rows of desks bearing green-shaded lamps were occupied with bankers and customers who had come to discuss loans or mortgages. The waiting area before these desks was also filled with people. The tall-ceilinged room echoed with at least fifty voices.

I took my place in the teller queue behind a tall blond man in jeans and a rugged brown jacket. The whiff of perfume—I recognized Burberry—filled my nose as a beautiful, immaculately dressed young woman of Indian heritage stepped in line behind me. She spoke animatedly to seemingly no one; her Bluetooth device hidden underneath her shoulder-length hair.

I settled in to wait, wondering if I should be making my own calls to Abed, to make sure nothing was going haywire with any of my cases. But he knew me well: waiting until I came into the office to give me news was a bad idea. I checked my cell phone for messages and saw none. No word from my team, and nothing from the court’s clerk that told me a verdict had been reached.

I eased a sigh and then tightened up again when I realized I hadn’t filled out the withdrawal form, or whatever the hell it was I needed, to get the cashier’s check out of my firm’s expense account.
Isn’t all banking electronic by now?
I wondered, irritation mounting.

The line behind me had grown and the line in front wasn’t moving. I made a questioning motion to the young woman behind me to save my place. She nodded and waved a gold-ringed hand absently without interrupting her conversation. I hurried to a wooden bank of slips, grabbed one, and stepped back in line with a brief smile of thanks.

Another problem presented itself: I hadn’t a writing surface. The man in front of me had a broad back.
Maybe he’d let me make a desk out of him.
I smirked and admired his physique from behind. Broad shoulders, narrow waist. His jeans fit him rather nicely.
Nice ass,
I thought and tingles of a very real, likely very bright blush colored my neck.

Oh, grow up,
I laughed at myself…and stole another quick glance before rummaging in my bag. I pulled out a small stack of engagement party invitations, figuring the thick stationary would make a sufficient backing. I fished out a pen and started to fill out the little withdrawal form when woman behind me issued a sudden laugh and bumped my elbow. The little stack of envelopes flew out of my hand to scatter around my feet and that of the man in front of me.

“Sorry, so sorry,” the woman muttered to me but didn’t cease her conversation.

“Honestly,” I muttered, and knelt to gather the envelopes. The blond man in front of me turned and knelt to help. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

I looked up and might have gasped. I prayed I hadn’t but
someone
issued a sharp intake of breath, and my neck went beet-red again. I could feel the fire of it burning my pale skin.

Hello, gorgeous.

The face bent close to mine was ruggedly handsome with a strong jaw, chiseled chin, broad mouth with full lips, and—most surprisingly for a man with lighter hair—rich brown eyes, which were sharply intelligent and soft at the same time. I smelled his clean scent—aftershave and something like freshly chopped wood—and it seemed that scent settled into my chest and remained there, warm and clean.

Wow, you’re being extra ridiculous right now.

“Have I got something stuck in my teeth?” the young man asked, amused. His voice was deep, gravelly…

Sexy.

I gave myself a mental shake and gathered the rest of the spilled envelopes. “No, I just…I thought I recognized you from somewhere. Are you an actor?”

He made a face. “Not remotely.”

“Oh. Well, you never can tell around here. And you look like you could be one. An actor.”
Or a model. Jesus, those eyes…

He shrugged and smiled crookedly. “I think I look like me.”

I smiled back.
Good answer.
I had never seen a man as good-looking—on screen or in real life—as this man in front of me. If I were a romantic sort—which I wasn’t—the word
breathtaking
would not be overstating it.

We both rose from the floor. His eyes were warm but he seemed to stiffen slightly as he took in my suit, my jewelry, my bag. He ran a hand through his unruly blond hair and handed me the envelopes he’d gathered. “Yeah, so. Here you go.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Sure thing.”

He turned his back to me and I wondered at the small twinge of disappointment that nipped at me.
Focus, Gardener,
I admonished.
Judge Kirkpatrick could call us back at any moment.
The thought wasn’t a millisecond old when my iPhone chimed an incoming text from Abed. I’d told him to loiter around the courthouse after lunch in case anything of import occurred.

The foreman has requested the jury see Exhibits 14 and 23 again.

“Damn.” Those exhibits: Munro’s toxicology report, and the deposition of the eyewitness who had seen the idiot climbing the shelf to get at a brass doorknob he didn’t even need. They were the weakest aspects of my case.
I wanted to demand from my paralegal when deliberations would wrap up, but of course there was no way to tell.

I sent:
Thnx. Keep me posted,
and dropped my phone back in my bag along with the invitations.

The blond man in front of me sighed impatiently and checked his watch—a nice looking silver timepiece with a beat-up leather band. He carved a hand through his hair. “Is it just me or has this line come to a complete standstill?”

“It’s not just you,” I said, steadfastly ignoring the little tingle that sparked in my belly at the sound of his low, bedroom voice. I cleared my throat. “Looks like they’re short a teller or two.”

“Or ten. Fucking hell,” he muttered. “Oh, hey, sorry, but there isn’t a worse day for this kind of…”

“Bullshit?” I supplied with a wry grin.

He laughed, and some of the tension in his face relaxed. I tried my hardest not to stare. If he was breathtaking just standing there, there wasn’t a strong enough word for how he looked when he smiled.

“I’m Cory Bishop, by the way.” He extended his hand and I took it. Large, rough, calloused. Working man’s hands.

“Alexandra Gardener,” I said. “Alex.”

“Nice to meet you, Alex,” he said, and it seemed his smile softened around my name.

I shouldered my bag to buy time for a response. No man had ever affected me this way, and I grew irritated with myself for letting him. “It’s always busy when you’re in a hurry and traffic lights are always red when you’re running late. Murphy’s Law.”

“Is that your specialty?”

“No, litigation. How did you know?”

“That you were a lawyer?” He shrugged. “Lucky guess. Mostly lawyers and accountants around here. Or movie producers.”

“Or actors, but we’ve already established you’re not one of those,” I said lightly.

Cory’s smile tightened. “Nope. Just in the area for work and in need of a bank before I get back. Looks like I picked the wrong one.”

He rocked impatiently in his work boots, his hands jammed in the front pocket of his jeans. I thought the conversation was over but he was still half-turned to me.
Nothing wrong with small talk. Passes the time.
A good excuse. Plausible. No objections. But the simple fact remained that I wanted to talk to him, to keep looking at his handsome face, and prove I could do so without melting into a puddle. I put on my jury-face, the one I wore when I didn’t want anyone to see how some bit of testimony landed on me.

“So what line of work are you in?” I asked.

“I’m in construction. A journeyman.” Cory said. “It’s sort of like an apprentice to a general contractor,” he said, answering my confused look. “You have to pile up a bunch of hours doing that first before you can become a contractor yourself.”

“Never heard that term before, journeyman,” I said. “Sounds rather exotic. Nomadic.”

“Yeah, well, it’s neither. Not unless you count driving to job sites nomadic.”

The line moved ahead by one person. I noticed that Cory and I were no longer standing tandem, but side-by-side.

“What exactly does a litigator do?” Cory asked. “Litigate…that’s argue, right?”

“Well, yes. I’m a trial attorney. I specialize in personal injury, and some medical malpractice when it relates to product liability.”

He scratched the light stubble on his cheek. “So if someone’s pacemaker blows, you’re there to win them some money?”

I bristled to hear my work spoken of in such black and white monetary terms, even if that’s what it often boiled down to. I straightened to my full height and still only came up to Cory’s chin. “Something like that.”

A shadow seemed to pass behind his eyes. “You don’t happen to do…what is it? Family law?”

“No, but there’s an attorney in my firm who does. Would you like his number?”

Cory looked as if he were about to say something, changed his mind, and said instead, “Nah. I’m good, thanks.”

The line inched forward and a silence fell between us, though Cory hadn’t resumed his spot ahead of me. For lack of something better to do, I checked my phone for any news from Abed. Nothing.

“No news is good news, right?” Cory said, watching me return the phone to my bag.

“Usually, though I’m hoping for some,” I said. “A short jury deliberation usually means a guilty verdict.”

“You’re in the middle of a trial right now?”

“Just finished closing arguments today.”

“And if they come back guilty, that would be good for you?”

“Yes,” I said. “Very good. It’s probably the most important case I’ve taken on, in terms of…uh, reward.” I waved the last word away. “Anyway. I’m expecting the call that says the jury is done deliberating.”

“Could come at any time, eh?”

“The sooner the better.”

“Well, if you get the call and have to bail, I’ll hold your place in line. It probably won’t have moved anyway.”

“Probably not.”

I smiled and he smiled back. The bank’s air conditioning was working overdrive against the Los Angeles summer heat, but I felt warm all over. And good. It felt nice to stand beside this handsome man and bask in his smile. I was in Business Mode for so many hours in the day, at work, at the Courthouse, even with the Posse—our talks often felt like sparring matches instead of friendly conversation. But now, it fell away like a stiffness loosening in my limbs. I did yoga four times a week to keep the stresses of my job from wrapping me tight and squeezing. Talking to Cory Bishop for all of five minutes had the exact same effect.

We stood in a comfortable silence, and I glanced here and there before venturing to make eye contact again. I caught him watching me, filling his eyes with me, and then he grinned and rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish and charming and beautiful.

“Hey, listen—” he stopped, froze, really, and whatever he had been about to say was lost forever. His eyes widened at something over my shoulder. I started to turn but he grabbed me, shoved me roughly behind him.

“What are you doing…?”

The glass doors of the bank shook on their hinges and I turned to watch with a shocked, detached fascination as six or so armed men streaming inside. They wore dark, non-descript clothes, their faces hidden behind Halloween masks. Each had a huge, black, automatic weapon strapped around his shoulder and gripped in his gloved hands.

A scream—the first that set off a chorus—echoed in the cavernous heights of the bank as one man drove the butt of his weapon into the security guard’s midsection.

Time slowed, and it felt as if some spell had been cast turning summer to winter. I felt I’d been suddenly submerged in ice-cold gelatin. My heart crashed hard against my chest like a wrecking ball, and I clutched Cory’s arm in a vise grip. I could feel the coarse denim of his jacket against my skin. Tangible. It helped to battle the surreal scene that was unfolding before me.

Cory turned to me. I saw fear spark bright in his dark eyes, but they held a grim determination too. “Get down!” he shouted, breaking the strange slow-motion spell.

Time shot forward and I heard screams, tromping footsteps, and cries. But I couldn’t move. I felt rooted in place. Cory grabbed me and suddenly I was on my stomach, my face pressed to the cold floor, my hands still clutched around his arm. My heart was now pounding so hard I could hardly distinguish one beat from the next.

It had only taken seconds—seconds stretched and warped by a terror I hadn’t thought it possible to feel—and I sucked in air to calm myself as above me and around me, armed men infiltrated the bank, brandishing their enormous weapons, shouting, swearing, and striking people who didn’t move or obey fast enough.