Nightcap

“Digested, indexed and in the database, Sean, just like you asked.” Maureen was a paralegal who had been at the firm for the last thirty-five years. With a diamond choker that must have cost a fortune, and elegant white hair that was styled at one of New York’s best salons, she probably didn’t need to work, but Maureen did, and Sean thanked her every day, because Maureen always knew what needed to be done and, even better, you could always count on her to deliver.

As such, Sean brought her coffee every morning and every afternoon. Two sugars. No cream, and a sprinkle of cinnamon on top. She took a sip and closed her eyes, obviously letting the caffeine rip through her veins. Then, when the ten-second break was over, she pulled out her pad and relayed the neatly stenographed messages.

“Katy called from the Environmental Fund, but the bossman heard the call come through, and he said that you’re not to call her back because he wants the last of Dr. Winetrapp’s affidavits completed and on his desk before lunchtime.”

“Anything else?”

“He wanted to remind you about the two internal medicine docs from Mt. Sinai that you’re supposed to schedule an interview for.”

“Next?”

“Wilson called about the Cornell case, I asked him if this was regarding a settlement offer, he wouldn’t tell me if it was regarding a settlement, but I knew it was regarding a settlement offer.”

Sean nodded with satisfaction. The Cornell case was next up after his current trial was over. It was a botched surgery that if the plaintiff had a better lawyer than Wilson they’d win. A fat settlement was the way to go for Wilson, and Sean was glad the man could read the writing on the wall.

Speaking of the wall, Sean checked the clock there. Nearly eleven. His boss, Bruce, would be pulling paper clips from his teeth, but Sean didn’t mind. The morning had been worth it. Getting up at the crack of dawn to watch Cleo Hollings have sex dreams, and then two hours talking to the lawyers at the hospital. Not as stimulating as Cleo, but productive nonetheless.

His brother’s bar would be back in order soon. Cleo Hollings looked like she worked harder than anyone. She would fix it, although he’d have to stay on her case until she did. Not that that was going to be a problem. Staying on her case, riding her until she cracked.

Man, he had always had a thing for redheads. But redheads that barked like drill sergeants? He was still carrying the extra four inches in his shorts from when she glared at him. She had the sexiest eyes.

Maureen waved a hand in front of his face and brought his attention back to the present. “Bruce wanted to know why you’re late, but I told him you called and said the transit strike was causing problems.”

“I love you, Maureen. What did the Environmental Fund want?”

“You don’t want to know.”

He slid a hip against her desk. “I want to know, Maureen.”

“Bruce will be furious. He’s your boss. Fury is not a good thing for a boss.”

“I want to know, Maureen.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“You can tell me.”

“I shouldn’t tell you.”

“You should tell me.”

“Bruce will kill me.”

“I won’t let him. You’re my favorite.”

“He’ll make my life miserable.”

“I’ll bring you Godiva every day,” he bribed.

“The little mocha truffles?”

Sean nodded.

“Now, see, why can’t all the lawyers be like you?”

“That’s a rhetorical question, Maureen, so what did the Environmental Fund want?”

Maureen pulled her glasses from her head and read the pink message slip. “The West Side Ladies Botanical Preservation Group is trying to convert the half lot on 34th street into a park. The city has different ideas. They specifically requested you for representation, no surprise. I think Mrs. Ward who heads the society has a thing for you.”

“She’s nearly eighty.”

“Mrs. Ward told me she has a thing for younger men,” Maureen told him with a knowing glance.

Sean frowned. “I’ll call Katy back.” He wasn’t nearly so enthusiastic anymore. Oh, well.

Maureen wagged a finger at him. “Don’t forget. Little mocha truffles.”

Sean tapped a finger to his brain. “Like a steel trap. No worries.”

There were seventeen e-mails in his in-box. All from Bruce. All reflecting various stages of anxiety and neurosis. Everyone on the fourteenth floor called Bruce the Tin Man because he had no heart. Both literally and figuratively. Bruce was pushing sixty, had high blood pressure, high cholesterol and high anxiety, so four years ago, the talented surgeons at New York-Presby (McFadden Burnett clients) had given him an artificial heart. After the surgery, nobody at the firm could tell the difference.

“Bruuuuuuuuuuce,” called Sean, cruising into his office.

“It’s about time. Why aren’t you answering your cell?”

Sean pulled his phone out of his pocket. “You called? What the—?”

“Come on, O’Sullivan, where are we at?” Bruce called everyone by their last name. Apparently, calling employees by their first names indicated some semblance of humanity and a caring, giving spirit. All of Bruce’s employees understood. You could only expect so much from an artificial heart.

Bruce, his face flushed and nervous, waved Sean in. The cause for Bruce’s anxiety was the thirty-five-million-dollar lawsuit Davies, Mutual Insurance v. New York General, the individual doctors and their dogs and cats.

The hospital was part of America’s third largest hospital chain, and one of McFadden Burnett’s ka-ching-iest clients. The insurance company hadn’t wanted to pay for a kidney transplant, saying that dialysis was all that was necessary for the patient. After the patient didn’t recover, the insurance company was siding with the patient’s estate, blaming the hospital for the wrong treatment that had affected the outcome. Sometimes that was truly the case, but right now, the insurance company had got caught being cheap, and they didn’t like it.

That was the beauty of the legal system. One day, the bad guys were on one side, the good guys on the other, and the next, somebody had rolled the dice, messed up the board, and though the game stayed the same, the players had all traded places.

“Depositions are done. I got the medical report from the lead physician, and found a doc from Indiana who is a trial virgin, completely untouched and uncorrupted by the U.S. judicial system. He’ll be perfect for court. My team’s been prepping him. We’re ready for trial. The insurance company is dog-meat.”

Bruce took a deep breath, and popped another bloodpressure pill. “Your brother called.”

“Why are you answering phones?”

“I thought it was you,” said Bruce in his needy voice.

“Which brother?”

“The bar owner. He left messages for you on your phone.”

Sean pulled his phone from his pocket, noted the absence of coverage and swore. He headed for his office phone and dialed Gabe’s cell.

“What?”

“They shut Prime down, Sean. What the hell did you do? You were supposed to fix this problem, not make it worse. For the past two years I’ve been fighting with the health department, the building department, the liquor board and the gas company, but nobody’s ever shut the place down before. And do you know what today is? It’s Thursday and tomorrow is Friday. Do you know what people like to do on Friday? Drink.”

Sean frowned. This was supposed to be fixed. “Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. Who shut it down?”

“Some pencilhead from the mayor’s office. Along with the health department. Along with the historical society. Along with the state liquor authority. It was a huge party. You should have been there.”

No way. No freaking way that Cleo Hollings had done this. She was at the bargaining table. She couldn’t have done it. Women didn’t pull this crap on Sean. Ever.

“The mayor’s office? You’re sure?” he asked enunciating carefully, wanting to know exactly where the blame belonged. It would only take one short phone call from her. Thirty seconds or less. Yeah, she could have done it. And she had been mad. Tired, cranky…frustrated. He remembered those sleepy eyes and got himself aroused once again, which only made him madder. So Cleo Hollings really wanted to go head-to-head with him? Fine.

“Posted a notice on the door, it’s all here in black and white. Not serving drinks tomorrow, Sean.”

“I’ll take care of it,” he answered tightly. “We’ll have you opened before happy hour.”

“Are you sure?”

Sean’s smile wasn’t nice. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

2

STRIKE NEGOTIATIONS were stalled, and Cleo came back to her office in a foul mood. The lead negotiator had started by yelling at her, Cleo had yelled back, and things went downhill from there. When she returned to the bull pen where her offices were, Sean O’Sullivan was there waiting. He looked flushed, heated with anger and…yes, even then, resembling Mark Anthony.

This no-life stuff was starting to fry her brain.

“You had one of your little flying monkeys shut down the bar, didn’t you?” he ranted, striding into her office, daring to read her the riot act—her—in her own office. Suddenly his hotness factor didn’t matter so much, although he did have a great angry voice. Good tone, a lot of malevolence and that trace of New York that made most people fear for their lives.

Belinda, one of her interns, came and stood in the doorway. “We tried to stop him, but he knows the security guards. I’m sorry.”

Cleo looked at Belinda, looked at the man. Pointed to Belinda. “I’ll handle this.” Belinda didn’t look happy, she never looked happy, but she obeyed.

And then Cleo turned to the matter at hand. Sean O’Sullivan. “We’re in the middle of a strike and I’m supposed to be running point with the transit authority. Do you honestly believe I have time to mess with you?”

“Somebody did.”

“Not me,” she said, defending herself because she was tired of everybody accusing her of everything. Undeservedly. Sometimes she deserved it, but not today, and especially not this.

He held up his hand, his eyes puzzled. “You didn’t do this?”

“Nor did any of my little flying monkeys, either,” she said, with a tight smile.

The man took a long breath and stuffed his hands in his pockets, but not before she noticed the fists. Somebody had a temper.

“Someone from this office shut the bar down.”

Tony, intern number two, appeared in the doorway, and asked, “Need help, Miss Hollings? I know your meeting with the mayor is coming up. I can kick this guy out,” he said, ignoring the fact that this guy could take him down in ten seconds or less. Tony was like that—loyal, yet short on brains. He’d go far in city government.

“It’s a bit late for that, Tony. I’ll look after it, thank you for trying.” Tony gave Sean one more look and then left the office.

Cleo glanced at her watch. Tony was right about one thing, the mayor was going to be here any second, waiting for an update. “You will leave. Now is good.”

The stranger slammed her door shut, and settled himself on her couch as if he planned to stay. He looked around the room, the picture of casual indulgence. “I don’t care if you have time or not. Somebody in this office is screwing up my brother’s life and I’m not happy about it.”

“Nobody from this office is interested in your bar. I have a meeting with the mayor.”

“Still haven’t fixed that strike yet?” he asked, and this time, it was her hands that fisted.

Jackass. Mark Anthony? Fat chance of that. Mark Anthony would never question her governing skills, not even if he thought that Cleopatra had sabotaged his fiefdom. Okay, maybe then.

“So if there is a strike that’s keeping everybody so busy,” he continued, “how come someone from this office, someone from the health department, someone from the historical society and somebody from the state liquor authority are all out posting a notice on the door at my brother’s bar?”

Cleo’s eyes narrowed at that. Out of habit, she turned her angry voice into her soothing constituent voice. It wasn’t easy, but a necessary job requirement. “I can’t do this at the moment, but I promise that I’ll look into it as soon as the strike is over.”

“Gee, now I think I’ll sleep better,” he snapped back, seeing her soothing constituent voice for what is was. A sham.

“I like you better when you’re nice,” she ventured, which was a half truth. She liked him better when he was nice, but he got her insides all tight and humming when he wasn’t. Disturbing, yet true.

“Most people do,” he responded, and then pulled out a phone in the middle of her office, as if he owned the joint.

Cleo pointed at the door. The man smiled back.

Jackass.

“Mike. It’s Sean O’Sullivan. How you doing? How’s the wife? Really, what is this, number four? Getting busy, aren’t you? So listen, talk to me here. I’m running down to the station at Prince Street, late for court, you know how it goes, and I race down the stairs, and when I get to the bottom, it’s all empty, so I whap myself on the head for being such an idiot that I forgot about the strike. You guys are killing me here. You know what you’re doing to my career, and don’t laugh….”

Cleo watched him. Fascinated. He was a lawyer. It explained much. But who was Mike?

“I know you don’t have anything to do with it, but what’s the real holdup on the strike?”

“Yeah, mayor’s a dickhead, I know, I know. I didn’t vote for him.”

Sean stood up, and began pacing around the office as he talked, completely taking over the place. He ignored her Rutgers diploma on the wall, ignored the press pictures next to it, ignored the picture of Bobby McNamara at his inauguration and even ignored the half-knitted afghan that she hadn’t stitched on in ten years, but still kept her warm when absolutely necessary. He ignored everything, including Cleo.

“Pay raise of ten percent? That’s nutso in this day and age, Mike. Why don’t your guys take something less? I don’t know. Five seems reasonable to me.”

Two seemed reasonable to Cleo, but she started to pay closer attention. Mike, whoever he was, seemed to know things.

Sean nodded, stopping a moment to tap the mayor’s bobblehead on her desk, which nodded back. “They’re holding out for seven?”

Hell would freeze first. A seven percent raise? Was everyone in this town insane? Probably. Including her.

But she wasn’t stupid. She scribbled a note and shoved it at him.

Pension?

He took it. Nodded. “Okay, so what about the pension stuff? What if the transit authority pulled a Detroit, and put some money into a kitty, letting the unions fund it after that?”

Establishing a trust? Oh, creativity. Cunning. And it would save billions in the long run. Cleo liked that. She really, really liked that.

She scribbled a number on the paper and Sean jacked his thumb higher.

Cleo motioned her thumb down.

Sean scribbled a counter number on the paper, and Cleo pulled out her calculator and started running numbers. This could work. She looked at him with surprise. He noticed and flashed a cocky grin as if she should have never doubted him.

“I know, I know, the transit guys are whackjobs, too, but you think they’d bite? They should bite on that. I want to ride the subway again, Mike. It ticks me off. This is my city. Besides that, we’re a few weeks away from Thanksgiving. You got all those kids wanting to see the parade, the giant balloons, Santa Claus. Come on, Mike, those guys can’t disappoint the kids. Santa Claus uses the subway, too, and the kids know it.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m a dreamer. Anyway, just wanted to put a bug in your ear. You know me, always ready to whine about something. Listen. We’ll have to go out to dinner. You and Peggy and the rug rats…

“Nobody special here. Same old, same old, whoever’s on speed dial is good enough for me.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t think hell’s freezing anytime soon…. Uh-oh, boss is yelling. Bad news. Gotta go. Thanks, Mike.”

Sean hung up the phone and looked at Cleo, not missing a beat. “Can you do it?”

“I can’t do it,” she said, only to be contrary, because she was back to being aroused, and it ticked her off that union negotiations could affect her like that. The transit authority could fund the trust, and possibly stave off a fare hike until 2012. The mayor would be a hero.

“I bet you can do it. The city would be stupid not to put it out there. They’ll save millions in the long run.” He collapsed on her couch, again like he owned the place.

“Who’s Mike?” she asked.

“Mike Flaherty. Legal representation for the national transit union in their civil rights cases. We went to Penn State together. And the transit authority was once a client of the firm. Not my area, but I know Mike. He’s a good guy. Peg’s really great.” He talked like he knew everybody in New York, and she began to wonder if he did.

“Who are you?”

“Sean O’Sullivan.”

“I remember your name. Who are you?”

“Lawyer. McFadden Burnett.”

“What do you practice?” she asked, hoping he was contract negotiations. Boring, by the book, pansy-ass contract negotiations.

“Medical malpractice defense.”

Medical malpractice defense? In the jungle of law, med-mal defense lawyers were the carnivores. The ones with sharp teeth and a bloodthirsty mind. Oh, it would be a sick, misanthropic woman to have that depraved factoid twist her panties in a knot. A very tight, pressurized knot. Very, very sick.

Unfortunately, all she could think about was Sean leaning over the conference room table, taking a deposition, hammering away at the witness, over and over, pounding, pounding until they were weeping for him to stop…

Very, very sick.

“You sure he can follow through?” she asked, calling upon every inch of her humanity, and methodically untwisting her panties.

Sean shrugged. “He doesn’t have any reason to lie to me. Try it and see. It’s a starting point for negotiations, since whatever you’re doing isn’t working. And don’t go over five-and-a-half percent on the wage increase. Mike was saying seven, but he always shoots high by a couple of points. I played poker with him a few times. Not pretty, especially after he’s had too much to drink.”

“I’m going to owe you for this, aren’t I?” she asked. She didn’t have debts, not even a mortgage. She hated owing favors, she hated payback, but she had a feeling that Sean O’Sullivan was hard-core about payback, demanding his pound of flesh, pounding away until she was weeping….

Oh, gawd. This was only, only from lack of sleep. And possibly lack of sex, because the hallway quickie at last year’s Christmas party with George from media relations did not even count in the big scheme of things. And it certainly was right up in there in Cleo’s “mistakes that I won’t make again” file.

Sean O’Sullivan smiled at her, with a slow show of teeth, and a look in his eyes that said, “I don’t do quickies.” Cleo shivered. “You’ll owe me, but only if you think you can get ten thousand unionized transit workers in line in the next twenty-four hours.”

She could feel the hot flash in her blood. Medical malpractice, she reminded herself, trying to stop the bubbling in her veins. It didn’t help. “I can have them crying for mercy in two.”

“Dinner tonight. And you’re going to listen to me about Prime.”

“Negotiations,” she shot back.

“A drink, then,” he countered. “After the talks.”

She looked at him, studied that squared, stubborn jaw, considered the shadowed, take-no-prisoners gaze and scrutinized the nose that had probably been broken twice. She understood why.

“All right,” she replied, against her own better judgment. She would be needed at home, and probably had only about an extra thirty minutes to herself, but that was more than enough time. In her world of transit workers, wastewater, taxation and permits, it wasn’t often that a Sean O’Sullivan walked in. Nope, he was her orgasm, and she was going for it before he walked out again. “It might be late before the talks wind up,” she warned.

“The later the better,” he replied, tossing his card on the desk, causing the mayor’s bobblehead to shake with disapproval.

In the upper cavity of her chest, there was a strange thudding, a chamber long forgotten. Sean O’Sullivan was a player, she reminded herself. A walking orgasm and nothing more. Thirty minutes and out. And hopefully, the thirty minutes would be well worth it.

Cleo took the card in her fingers, knowing it was better to get things over with, repay the favors and get back to the chaos of her own life.

BOBBY MCNAMARA, THE MAYOR OF New York City, was in his first term, a lifelong liberal, yet he had the magical ability to attract the money-backed vote of the Wall Street Republicans. The crime rate was down, unemployment was down, tax revenues were flowing like New York’s finest Finger Lakes wine, and the housing bust had yet to quash the Manhattan real estate market. In the five boroughs of New York, times were definitely good. The McNamara administration had been a tremendous success, in no small part due to Cleo’s long hours and hard work.

The mayor was a good-looking man, distinguished, in that fifty-year-old, news anchor way, with a gravelly voice that matched his appearance. Bobby had the usual politician’s eye for the ladies, but he never stepped out of bounds, which is why he and Cleo worked together so well. There was lots of gossip over the years, but Cleo kept her nose down, Bobby kept his nose clean, and without any smoke to fuel the fire, the gossip always died away.

However, whenever Bobby was nervous, the fingers on his left hand played in the air, never staying still. Right now, Bobby seemed to be typing out War and Peace.

“We’re getting killed, Cleo,” he said, taking a moment to reread the latest headline about the strike, “STALLED,” and then grimaced painfully. “Tell me you can work a miracle.”

“I can work a miracle,” Cleo assured.

“Really?” he asked.

“Yeah. Trust me, boss. We’re fine.” Okay, that was cocky, possibly stupid because she didn’t know if Sean’s insider info would amount to anything or not; however, he had been sure of himself. Arrogant. Confident. Attitudes like that didn’t come from delusions, they were earned.

The talks were in a midtown hotel, and before Cleo left her office, she showered, changed, and yes, the green cashmere was the best date dress she kept in her office, and no, she did not pull her hair back into a ponytail because it flattered her cheekbones. It was because she needed to keep her hair out of her eyes while she ran numbers during the talks.

Happily, a mere two hours later, Cleo knew that Sean O’Sullivan had been right. The city’s chief negotiator and the transit union boss were sorting out the final details of the agreement, and Cleo walked from the room, nearly dancing with the power of it.

Her first call? That was easy. A heads-up to the mayor to shave and wear the Brooks Brothers jacket in navy that matched his eyes and showed up well on television because the strike was nearly over.

City Hall was empty except for the security guards. Somehow everyone knew the strike had been settled. The security guards waved as she walked alone to her office. Cleo was dead on her feet, but there was a smile on her face. The Wicked Witch of Murray Street was smiling. Anyone who knew her would call it job satisfaction. Sean O’Sullivan would call it anticipation. He would be right.

Once in her office, she checked for new messages. If there was an emergency at home, she had to call him and cancel. The chance would be gone because Cleo didn’t get chances like this often. She wanted to see him, wanted to feel his arms, his mouth. Wanted to feel those killer thighs wrapped around her, and feel her blood race. It had been so long since she felt like this, and it was selfish to want tonight. However, if they were fast, and she made it home before midnight, everything would work out fine.