The Billionaire's Fair Lady

“No problem at all. I didn’t want to risk the envelope being damaged. Besides…”

Roxy had been reaching for the stack, when his hand came down to cover hers. “I figured this would buy me a few more minutes of your time,” he finished, his eyes catching hers.

Warmth spread through Roxy’s body, starting with her arm and moving upward. Glancing down at the table, she saw his hand still covered hers. The tapered fingers were almost twice the size of hers. If he wanted, he would wrap her hand right up in a strong, tight embrace. Feeling the warmth seeping into her cheeks, she pulled free.

“For what?” she asked, gripping her tray tightly. Squeezing the hard plastic helped chase away the sensation his hand left behind.

“I told you. You left before we could finish our conversation.”

“Given what I stuck around for, can you blame me? I’ll go get your drink.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he said as soon as she’d spun around. “You’re going to need a lot thicker skin than that if you want to go after the Sinclairs.”

Roxy froze. What did he say?

“That is why you came by to see me, isn’t it?” he continued. “Because you want to make a claim against Wentworth Sinclair’s estate?”

She was afraid to say yes, in case the other shoe dropped on her head. Slowly she turned around to find the lawyer looking more than a little pleased with himself for having caught her off guard. Was he trying to tell her she had a case after all?

So help him, if he was playing with her….

“Look, here’s the deal.” He leaned forward, gold cuff links catching the light. “Your case is a long shot. Both parties have passed away, and the only proof you have is a pile of love letters. Not to mention thirty years have gone by. The courts aren’t exactly generous when it comes to claims that old. Truth is, scaling Mount Everest would be easier.”

“Thanks for the recap.” And here she thought there was something to his comment. “If that’s what you came all the way over here to tell me, you wasted the gas.”

“You’re not letting me finish again.”

Roxy stopped. Although hearing him out seemed like a waste of time to her. How many times did she need to hear him say her case wasn’t good enough for him? “Okay,” she said, waiting. “Finish. My case is harder than climbing Mount Everest. What else do you need to tell me?”

A slow smile broke out across his face. A confident smile that stilled everything in her body. “Only that I happen to really enjoy mountain climbing.”

CHAPTER TWO

“I’LL, um, go get your drink.” Spinning around, Roxy made a beeline to the bar. It was the only response she could think of. Did he say what she thought he said? He was taking her case?

“You look like a truck hit you,” Jackie remarked when she reached the bar rail. “What happened? Richie Rich turn out to be a creep?”

If she weren’t still in a daze, Roxy would comment on the hopeful expectancy in the other woman’s voice. “Not a creep. My lawyer,” she corrected.

“I thought you said you didn’t have one,” Dion said.

“I didn’t think I did.” She still wasn’t sure. She didn’t trust her ears. For that matter, she wasn’t entirely sure she trusted Mike Templeton. There had to be a catch.

Quickly she looked over her shoulder. There he sat, stiff and formal, arranging what looked like paperwork on the table. He certainly didn’t seem the type to lead someone on.

“If you’re serious,” she said, when her rounds finally brought him back to his table, “then what was all that business about Henry Hudson and not having proof?”

“Had to figure out how loyal you were to your story somehow, didn’t I?” he remarked, raising the glass to his lips.

“Un-freaking-believable.” It was a test. If it weren’t such an amazingly bad idea, she’d pour Scotch in his lap. She still might. “Do you have any idea how pis—How upset I was?”

“From the way you stormed out, I could hazard a guess. But that also tipped the scale in your favor. Either you truly believed your story or you were a damn good actress.”

She could give him a long list of directors and casting agents who could refute the latter. Still, a test? She had half a mind to tell him he could stuff himself regardless of whether he wanted to take on her claim or not. “I can’t believe you. Are you like this with everyone who tries to hire you?”

“Only the ones claiming to be heirs to multimillion-dollar fortunes.”

Millions? Was he joking? Roxy checked his expression. His face was deadly serious.

Oh, my. She dropped into the seat across from him. “Millions?” she repeated.

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know.” She swiped the hair from her face, trying to focus. “I knew they were rich, but… Wow.”

His test was beginning to make a bit of sense. Millions. A tingle ran up her spine.

“There’s no guarantee, mind you. Like I said, the courts seldom rule in favor of claims like yours.”

Mind still reeling, Roxy nodded.

“Plus, the Sinclairs’ lawyers will put up a heck of a fight. This isn’t the first time someone’s challenged their estate, I’m sure. Nevertheless, if we play our cards right, and there’s no reason to believe I won’t, we’ll both be looking at a nice little payday.”

Again, Roxy nodded. She didn’t know what else to do. His proclamation had stunned her to silence.

“Yo, Roxy! Table four!” Dion called. “Get your butt in gear.”

A few feet away, a trio of women with empty martini glasses were looking in her direction, visibly annoyed.

“You better get to your customers,” Mike noted.

He watched with amusement as the waitress half stumbled, half rushed away. Funny how her expression went from annoyed to dazed in literally the blink of an eye. The prospect of money could do that to a person. Made him jump in his car and drive to this place, didn’t it?

For a moment he’d been afraid he’d laid it on a little too heavy with that “test” stuff, but she accepted his behavior. All he needed to do now was get her to cooperate with the rest of the case. Shouldn’t be too hard. Especially given her alternative.

Leaning back in his chair, he sipped his drink and looked around the bar. As bars went, the Elderion was in the upper-lower half. Below average, but far enough up to avoid being a dive. Both the tables and the clientele had mileage.

Wentworth’s letter lay where Roxanne dropped it. He ran his finger along the edge of the gray envelope. The contents had long been committed to memory. “I can still smell your scent on my skin,” Wentworth had written for the opening line. College passion. He knew it well. That heady reckless feeling. The blind confidence the days would last forever. Until reality barged in with its expectations and traditions waiting to be fulfilled and impractical dreams had to be shoved aside.

Look at you. We raised you to be better than this, Michael.

A hollow feeling lodged in his stomach. He blamed the surroundings. Ever since walking in to the Elderion, he’d been possessed by the strangest feeling of déjà vu. Memories of another bar with dim lights and warm beer came floating back. When quality and atmosphere took a backseat to political debates and slow dancing in the dark.

His semester of ill-spent youth. He hadn’t thought about those days in years. They’d been jettisoned to the past when he took his first law internship.

A few feet away, his new client—least he hoped she was his new client—negotiated her way through the narrow tables with the grace of a dancer. Amazing she could navigate anything in that scrap of cloth she called a uniform. Without the pink-and-gray blazer for coverage, he had a perfect view of how the spandex skirt molded to her curves. An open invitation to check out the assets. As she bent over, the skirt pulled tighter. Forget invitation, Mike decided, try full-blown neon sign. Feeling an uncomfortable tightness, he shifted his legs. Definitely not what his usual client would wear.

But then, this case wasn’t his usual case. In fact, it was everything he’d been taught to avoid—splashy, risky, generating more notoriety than respect. Beggars couldn’t be choosers could they? Beat closing his doors and telling his family he wasn’t the Templeton they’d groomed him to be. Watching Roxanne dodge the palm of a customer right before it caressed her bottom, he retrieved his pen and made a quick note: smooth out the rough edges.

It was an hour later before Roxanne returned to his table, carrying with her a bottle of water. Mike tried not to stare at her legs as she approached. Given her outfit, it was a Herculean task at best. “You’re still here,” she said.

“Seemed silly to drive all the way back to the office when I could work here.” He’d stacked what little legal work he did have in piles on the desk.

“It’s eight o’clock. Most people have stopped working by now.”

“Maybe in this place, but I’m not most people.” He should know. It’d been drilled into his head enough growing up. “I also figured you’d have questions.”

“You’re right. I do.” She pointed to the empty chair. “Do you mind?”

“Your big bad boss won’t care?”

“I’m on my ten.”

“Then be my guest. What’s your question?”

“Well, first…” She picked at the label on her water bottle, obviously searching for the right words. “Are you sure you weren’t kidding? About it being a million-dollar claim? That wasn’t another one of your tests, was it?”

Ah, straight to the money. “I told you, I don’t kid. Not about case value. Although keep in mind, I’m not making any promises, either. I’m saying there’s potential. Nothing more.”

“I appreciate the honesty. I don’t like being misled.”

“Me, neither,” he replied. Seemed the hothead had a bit of a cautious streak after all. A good sign.

He watched as she peeled off a strip of label. “So what’s the next step?” she asked. “Do I take a DNA test or something?”

If it were so easy. “Easy there, Cowboy. Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s a little more complicated. You got any Sinclair DNA lying around?” he asked her.

Immediately her eyes went to the envelope. Cautious and quick. “I’m afraid you’ve watched too many crime shows. Getting anything off letters that old would be a miracle.” Besides, he’d already had a similar thought and checked online. “You’re going to need a more recent sample.”

“How do we get one?”

Now they were getting to the complicated part. “Best way would be for one of the Sinclair sisters to agree to a test. They are Wentworth’s closest living relatives.”

“But you said they would put up a fight.”

“Doesn’t mean we don’t ask,” he told her. “We give them enough evidence, and they’ll have to comply.”

“You mean, prove I’m a Sinclair, and they’ll let me have proof.”

Mike couldn’t help smiling. Definitely quick. He liked that. If he had to take a case like this, he preferred to work with a client who understood what they were doing. Made his job easier. “Never fear. We’ll make enough noise that they’ll have to pay attention. The squeaky wheel and that sort of thing.”

Frowning, she tore another strip. Some of the eagerness had left her face. Without it, she looked tired and, dare he say, a bit vulnerable. “You make it sound like I’m out to get them.”

“The Sinclairs would argue you are.”

“Why? I didn’t go looking for this. My mother dropped the story in my lap.”

“A story you promptly took to a lawyer to see if you have a claim to his estate.”

That silenced her. “I didn’t look at it that way.” Another strip peeled away. “I’m just trying to make my life better. If this guy—Wentworth Sinclair—was my father, he’d want that, too, wouldn’t he?”

Mike had to admit, if the relationship painted in the letter he read carried forward, she might be right. “Which is why we’re pursuing the claim. To help you get that better life.”

“What if they refuse to listen?”

“Then we’ll keep fighting,” Mike answered simply. Sooner or later, the Sinclairs would have to pay attention if only to make them disappear. He wasn’t kidding about the squeaky wheel; it always yielded some kind of result.

Roxy was looking down at the table. Following her gaze, Mike saw that at some point while talking, he’d once again covered her hand. When had he reached across? When the dimness hit her eyes? That wasn’t like him. He always kept an invisible wall between himself and his clients. For good reason. Getting too close led to making mistakes.

He studied the hand beneath his. She had skin the color of eggshells, pale and off-white. There was a small tattoo on the inside of her wrist as well. A yellow butterfly. The wings called out for a thumb to brush across them.

Mike realized he was about to do just that when she pulled her hand free and balled it into a fist. He found himself doing the same.

“Why?” she asked aloud.

Distracted by his reaction to the butterfly, it took a moment for her question to register. “Why what?”

“Why would you fight for me? If it’s such a long shot, why are you taking this case?”

Somehow he didn’t think she’d appreciate the truth, that he needed the money from this case as badly as she wanted it. “Told you, I like a challenge. As for fighting, I don’t believe in quitting. Or losing. So you can be assured, I’ll stick around to the bloody end.”

“Colorful term.”

“I also don’t believe in mincing words.”

“That so? Never would have guessed from your gentle desk side manner.” She smiled as she delivered the comment. Mike fought the urge to smile back, taking a sip of his drink instead.

“You can have hand-holding or you can have results.” Unfortunate choice of words given his behavior a moment earlier. “Up to you.”

“Results are fine,” she replied. “In my book, hand-holding is overrated. Sympathy just leads to a whole lot of unwanted problems.”

Add practical to her list of attributes. Maybe this case would go smoother than he thought, in spite of this morning’s dramatics. “I agree.”

“Still…”

Mike’s senses went on alert. Any sentence beginning with the word “still” never ended well. “What is it?”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not looking for reassurance, but I’m wondering. When you say the word bloody, just how bloody do you mean?”

“The Sinclair legal team won’t hold back, if that’s what you’re asking. They’ll have no qualms about digging into your life.” Her expression fell, followed quickly by his stomach. She had a skeleton, didn’t she? “If you’ve got secrets, you best start sharing.”

“No secrets.” She shook her head, a little too vehemently if you asked him.

“Then what?”

“I’ve got a kid. A little girl. Her name is Steffi.”

Wentworth Sinclair’s granddaughter. That wasn’t what he expected to hear. “No problem,” he replied. His enthusiasm started building. Alice and Frances Sinclair would no doubt be very interested in the little girl’s existence. “In fact, this might actually make the case—”

“Whoa!” She held up her hand, cutting him off. “I don’t want her involved. She’s only four years old. She won’t understand what’s going on.”

Mike took a deep breath. “I don’t think you understand. The fact that Wentworth might have a granddaughter could go a long way in convincing the sisters to comply with our requests.”

She shook her head. “I don’t care. I’m not going to have her being upset. She can’t be involved. You’ll have to find a different way.”

“I don’t think—”

“Promise.”

What was he going to do? He wanted to tell her she was in no position to issue conditions, that as her lawyer, it was his job to do everything he could to win her case, meaning he was the one who would decide what tactics he could or couldn’t use. He also wanted to tell her there was no way he could keep such a promise. Sooner or later the Sinclair sisters would discover the child’s existence. Her fiercely determined expression stopped him from saying so. There was no way he’d get her to budge on the issue tonight. Push and he ran the risk of her walking away again.

“Fine.” He’d agree to her condition for now, and renegotiate their position later.

“Thank you.” Satisfied, she opened her now naked water bottle and took a long drink. “When do we start?”

The spark had returned to her eyes, turning them brilliantly green. She was leaning forward, too, enough to remind him her tank top was extremely low cut. His legal mind definitely did not appreciate the male awareness the sight caused. Definitely had to smooth out the rough edges.

“Soon,” he told her. “Very soon.”

He stayed the rest of the evening. Nursing his drink and scribbling notes on his yellow legal pad. Damn unnerving it was, too. His existence filled the entire room making it impossible to ignore him. Three times she messed up an order because he distracted her, mistakes Dion made clear he planned to take out of her check.

Why was he sticking around anyway? He’d returned her letter, they’d talked. Shouldn’t he be at his uptown apartment, drinking expensive Scotch by a fireplace? Surely he wasn’t sticking around for the ambience. No one came to the Elderion for the ambiance.

“Maybe he wants to negotiate payment,” Jackie teased. Ever since Roxy had mentioned the fact Mike was working on a legal problem for her the other waitress wouldn’t stop with the innuendos.

“Very funny,” she shot back, though the comment did make her hair stand on edge. They hadn’t talked about payment. How did he expect her to pay for his services?

His presence continued to dog her as she delivered a round to the table next to his. Thank goodness the patrons all ordered bottled beer. She wasn’t sure she could handle anything more complicated while standing in such close proximity.

Funny thing was the guy hadn’t looked in her direction. Not once, and she’d been checking fairly frequently. Staring she could handle. She got looks every night. So why couldn’t she shake Mike Templeton? Why did she feel that same penetrating scrutiny she felt back at his office every time she walked in his line of sight? All night long, it felt like he was right behind her, staring at her soul.

Another thing. He insisted on looking good. By this point in the night, the rest of the men in the place had long shed their jackets and ties. Heck, some were close to shedding their shirts. The room smelled of damp skin and aftershave.

Mike, however, barely looked bothered. His tie remained tightly knotted, and he still wore his suit jacket. Roxy didn’t even think there were wrinkles in his shirt. If he was going to stick around, the least he could do was try to blend in with the rest of the drunken businessmen.

“Why are you still here?” she finally asked, when her rounds brought her to his table.

He looked up from the chicken scratches he’d been making on his notepad. “I’d like to think the answer’s apparent. I’m working.”

“I can see that. Why are you still working?”

She expected him to say something equally obvious such as “I’m not done yet” but he didn’t. Instead he got an unusually faraway look in his eye. “I have to.”

No, Roxy thought. She had to. A guy like Mike Templeton chose to. In the interest of good relations, she kept the difference to herself, and instead tried to decipher the notes in front of her. “Smooth out the rough edges? What does that mean?”

“Part of my overall strategy. I’m still fleshing it out.”

“You planning to share it with me?”

“Eventually.” The vague answer didn’t sit well. Too much like information being kept from her, and she’d had enough of that this month. “Why can’t I see now?”

“Because it’s not fleshed out yet.”

“Uh-huh.” Uncertain she believed him, she bounced her tray off her thigh, and tried to see if she could find further explanation hidden in his expression. “In other words, trust you.”

“Yes.” He paused. “You can do that, can’t you?”

Roxy didn’t answer. “You want another Scotch?” she asked instead.

“Should I take that as a no?”

“Should I take that as you don’t want another drink?” she countered.

“Diet cola. And when the idea is fully formed, you’ll know. You don’t share your order pad before bringing the drinks do you?”

The two analogies had absolutely nothing to do with one another as far as she could see. “I would if the customer asked. If they didn’t like being kept in the dark.”

“Fine,” he said, giving an exasperated sigh. “Here.” He angled his pad so she could read better. All she saw were a bunch of half sentences and notations she didn’t understand.

“Satisfied?” he asked when she turned the notepad around.

Yes. Along with embarrassed. “You have terrible handwriting.”

“I wasn’t planning on my notes being studied. Are you always this mistrustful?”

“Can you blame me?” she replied. “I just found out my mother lied to me for thirty years.”

“Twenty-nine,” he corrected, earning a smirk.

“Twenty-nine. Plus, I work here. This place hardly inspires trust.”

“What do you mean?”

He wanted examples? “See that table over there?” She pointed to table two where a quartet of tipsy businessmen were laughing and nuzzling with an equally tipsy pair of women. “Half those guys wear wedding bands. So does one of the women.

“You see it all the time,” she continued. “Men telling women how beautiful and special they are while the entire time keeping their left hands stuffed in a pocket so no one sees the tan line.” Or promising comfort when all they really wanted was a roll in the sack.

“Interesting point,” Mike replied. “One difference, though. I’m not one of your bar customers.”

No, she thought, looking him over. He wasn’t. “I don’t know you much better,” she pointed out.

“You will.”

Something about the way he said those two words made her stomach flutter, and made the already close atmosphere even closer. All evening long, she’d been battling a stirring awareness, and now it threatened to blossom. She didn’t like the feeling one bit.

Jackie’s innuendos popped into her head.

“How do you expect me to pay out?” she blurted. He frowned, clearly confused, but to her the change in topic made perfect sense. “We never talked, and last time I checked you guys don’t work for free. How exactly do you expect to collect payment?”

Realization crested across his face, followed quickly by his mouth drawing into a tight line. “It’s called a contingency fee,” he said tersely.

“Like those personal injury lawyers that advertise on television? The ones that say you don’t have to pay them until you win?”

“Exactly. What else did you expect?”

He already knew, and she felt her skin begin to color. What could she say? She was paranoid. Life made her that way. “I didn’t. Why else would I ask?”

“If you don’t like that plan, you can pay hourly.” He looked around the bar. “If doing so fits your budget.”

Doubtful, and he knew that, too. “Your plan is fine.”

“Good. Glad you approve.”

“Do you still want your diet soda?”

“Please.”

Shoot. She’d been hoping he’d say no, so she wouldn’t have to visit his table again. “Coming right up. I’ll drop it off before I cash out.”

“You’re done for the evening?” He straightened in his seat at the news.

Roxy nodded. The ability to clock out earlier than other bars was one of the reasons she continued working at the place. She could get home at a decent hour and be awake enough to get up with Steffi.

Reaching for his wallet, Mike pulled out a trio of bills. “This should cover my tab and tip. I’ll meet you out front.”

“For what?”

“To drive you home of course.”

Drive her home. Maybe Jackie’s comment wasn’t so far off. She fingered the bills, noting his tip was beyond generous for one drink. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch.”

“Really?” She may have made her share of bad calls, but she wasn’t stupid. Uptown lawyers didn’t hang out at the Elderion and offer waitresses rides for no reason. She hadn’t forgotten what he implied about her mother. “You drive all your clients home in the middle of the night?”