A Legal Affair (11 page)

“What do I have to do with this?”

“You’re the only one he’ll listen to.”

“What!” Daniela exclaimed. “Okay, this time I’m
definitely
hearing things. Since when does Kenneth Roarke listen to anyone but himself?”

Janie smiled cryptically. “I know you may find it hard to believe, El, but Kenny
does
value your opinion. Whenever something happens in the family, he’s always worried about what you’ll say, or think or do. Oh, he tries to pretend otherwise, put up a macho front, but I know better. He cares what you think of him.”

Daniela scowled. “If he spent less time worrying about my opinion and more time concentrating on your feelings, maybe he wouldn’t—” Seeing Janie flinch, she snapped her mouth shut, but it was too late. Shame engulfed her at once.

Wishing she could take back the harsh words, she said, “I’m sorry, Janie—”

Janie held up a hand, looking grim. “It’s all right. I know there’s no love lost between you and your brother, and I know you blame him for the problems in our marriage. But just remember, Daniela, that there are two sides to every story, and you shouldn’t allow your personal issues with Kenny to cloud your objectivity where he and I are concerned. You’re bigger than that.”

“I know,” Daniela murmured, suitably chastened.

“Want to talk about it?” Janie gently prodded.

An awkward silence ensued, the silence of two people who wanted to move forward but were afraid to take the next step. This was uncharted territory for them. In all the years they’d been friends, they had never discussed Janie’s marriage, or Daniela’s strained relationship with her brother.

At length, Daniela drew a deep breath and prayed she was doing the right thing by speaking her mind. “As you well know, Kenny can be an incredibly selfish person. For as long as I can remember, he’s always put his own needs above everyone else’s. Whenever we needed him, he was nowhere to be found. He caused my mother a great deal of stress and heartache, and I grew up resenting him for that.” She stared into the golden contents of her teacup. “I guess I’ve never really forgiven him. Sadly enough, whenever he acts like a bonehead, it reinforces my opinion of him and justifies the way I feel. I’m not saying that’s right or wrong. It’s just the way it is.”

Janie gazed at her with an expression of gentle understanding. “I think you and your brother have a lot to talk about and work through. Knowing him the way I do, I can tell you that he probably doesn’t have a clue where to begin to make things right between you two. I think he feels a lot of guilt over the way he let you guys down in the past, but instead of facing that guilt, he pretends it doesn’t exist.”

Daniela nodded slowly. “That’s probably true.” She gave Janie a long, measured look. “So you hope that by working in the same office, you and Kenny will see more of each other, giving you a greater opportunity to work through some of your own issues.”

Janie nodded, her eyes dark and earnest. “I love your brother, and I know he loves me. We both have our shortcomings, and God knows we’ve each played a hand in the situation we now find ourselves in. But I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make sure we don’t lose each other, once and for all. If working as a secretary at the agency helps me save my marriage, then so be it. Will you help me, Daniela?”

Daniela felt a constriction in her throat that had nothing to do with her sickness. “Of course I’ll help you,” she said, gruff and tender.

“Thanks, El,” Janie murmured gratefully.

“Don’t thank me. I only agreed because I was afraid you’d turn into Nurse Ratched if I didn’t.”

The two women laughed, until a violent coughing spasm overtook Daniela. With a tortured groan, she set aside her unfinished tea, then dragged her aching body from the sofa and down the hall to her bedroom.

She climbed into bed, and as she willed herself to sleep, it was an image of Caleb Thorne that permeated her thoughts. The memory of his kiss—the hot brand of his mouth upon hers, the searing possession of his embrace—made her temperature spike several degrees, which was the
last
thing she needed in her current condition.

She had to get better quickly. It was now a matter of personal safety, because if she didn’t have Caleb soon, she was going to burst into flames.

R
ita Owens had spent the better part of thirty years working for Crandall Thorne. In that time, she’d helped organize birthday and anniversary parties, had chauffeured carloads of youngsters to and from various school functions and had played gracious hostess to visiting dignitaries, politicians and mobsters alike. She’d shamelessly eavesdropped on closed-door conversations, and had refereed more than a few nasty brawls. Twenty-one years ago, she’d witnessed the untimely death of Crandall’s wife, a sweet, tortured soul Rita had grown to love more than her own flesh and blood. The sorrow of that unspeakable tragedy had been eclipsed only by the joy of watching Caleb, who’d been a shy five-year-old when Rita first joined the household, come into his manhood. A finer, more upstanding son you couldn’t find, and Rita took a certain amount of pride in knowing she’d had a hand in that. She’d never married, and the two children she’d birthed had never amounted to much, drinking and cavorting with the wrong crowd until their wild ways landed them in prison up north. As far as Rita was concerned, the only son she’d ever known was Caleb, and that was just fine with her.

Now, gazing out across the rolling expanse of green land that Saturday afternoon, a deep frown marred the smooth line of her brow. “Have you ever seen anything like it?” she murmured, half to herself.

Standing beside her in the large, sunlit kitchen, Ruth Gaylord shook her head. “Never.”

Mounted on a big sorrel horse, Caleb herded cattle through the pasture gate. The brim of his black Stetson shaded his eyes, but his mouth was set in a grim line as he attended to his task. His bare, muscled chest was covered in sweat and grime to the low waist of his filthy jeans. The jeans, along with his mud-caked boots, would never cross the threshold of the main house, if Rita had anything to say about it—which she always did.

The day was winding down, the sun sliding toward the far side of the mountain range and casting the ranch yard into long shadows and tall silhouettes. Most of the ranch hands had called it quits for the day, dispersing to their rustic lodgings for dinner and much-deserved rest.

Only Caleb and the Native American foreman, Wyome, remained behind, corralling the few wayward steers and heifers into the holding pen. In the pasture beyond, the cattle that had been herded in during the course of the long day grazed quietly.

“What are you two gawking at?” Crandall Thorne demanded upon entering the room and seeing the two women huddled together at the bay window.

“Come see for yourself,” Rita answered, with barely a glance over her shoulder.

Frowning, Crandall walked over and deliberately wedged himself between the two women. If they were gossiping about one of his laborers, he’d soon put a stop to it. Gossiping was one of the many things Crandall had little patience for.

The sight of his son astride the sleekly muscled black sorrel made his chest swell with pride. It was branding season at the ranch, and Caleb, his only heir, had arrived to lend a helping hand. To Crandall’s way of thinking, it was a sure sign that his son understood, and accepted, that one day these lands would belong to him.

Now if only he could convince Caleb to claim ownership of the law firm, as well.

As Crandall watched, Caleb shifted in the saddle and urged his mount into a canter, moving as one with the magnificent animal as if he’d been riding horses all his life.

“Well, what’s the problem?” Crandall demanded, dividing an impatient look between the two women.

“He’s been at it since before the crack of dawn,” Rita informed him in hushed tones. “Vaccinating, clipping ears, branding the cattle. Working nonstop, like a man possessed.”

“Hasn’t stopped for more than a water break,” Ruth chimed in. “I know, because
I’m
the one who took the water to him. Gave him a good tongue-lashing, too, about the dangers of becoming dehydrated and suffering a heatstroke. I don’t even think he heard me,” she added with a sad little shake of her head.

“A man gets henpecked enough,” Crandall griped, “he learns to tune a woman out.” But he, too, was a bit worried about his son, who’d arrived unexpectedly last night, and without uttering a word to anyone, had headed straight for the guest wing of the house, where he resided whenever he spent an extended amount of time at the ranch.

In silence the threesome watched Caleb for another long moment. “Must be a woman,” Rita concluded.

“I think you’re right,” Ruth agreed, and the two women exchanged looks of unconcealed delight.

Crandall scowled. Though a secret hope sprang to life in his chest, he had to be the voice of dissent. “Thorne men don’t obsess over women,” he informed his meddling housekeeper and nurse in an imperious tone. “Never have, never will.”

Ruth and Rita traded knowing looks again. “Well, you know what they say,” Rita began in a singsong voice.

“Never say never,” Ruth finished smugly.

Caleb spent the weekend at his father’s ranch hoping, through hard, honest labor, to purge the memory of a forbidden kiss. When he arrived on campus bright and early Monday morning, he told himself he could handle the sight of Daniela, could hear her soft, husky voice without wanting to drag her into the nearest janitor’s closet to have his way with her.

But as he would soon discover, his newfound resolve was not to be put to the test that morning.

At first he thought she was merely late for class again. But as the hour progressed without an appearance from her, he found himself distracted as he went through the motions of teaching class, calling students at random to recite cases—all the while taunted by one particular empty chair. As the minutes ticked off the clock and she remained a no-show, he went from feeling relieved to irritated, concerned and then, again, irritated.

When class was over, he detained April Kwan to casually inquire about her friend’s whereabouts.

“I haven’t spoken to her since Friday, Professor Thorne,” the girl informed him. “When I called her at home yesterday, a man answered the phone and told me she was sleeping.”

Caleb kept his expression neutral. “If you happen to see her before Wednesday,” he said in a deceptively mild tone, “tell her she might want to rethink the wisdom of skipping my class as early as the second week of the semester.”

April nodded, biting her lip worriedly as she backed away. “I—I’ll let her know, Professor Thorne.”

He gave a short nod, finished shoving lecture notes into his satchel, then headed from the classroom.

Shara caught up to him in the bustling corridor. “Hey there,” she greeted him above the noisy din of conversation and laughter. “I tried to reach you all weekend.”

“I was at the ranch,” he said somewhat distractedly. “How’s Devon doing?”

“Not so great. When I left home this morning, he was sleeping like a baby, poor thing. I’m going home to check on him after my next class.”

Caleb nodded, holding the door open for her, then following her from the building.

“When he’s feeling better,” Shara said, “I was thinking we could reschedule our evening plans. Are you free on Friday?”

Caleb inclined his head toward a student who called a greeting to him across the courtyard. “Let me check my schedule and get back to you,” he told Shara.

“All right,” she murmured, looking a little deflated.

When they reached the law faculty building, Caleb walked unerringly to his office and shut the door behind him. Dropping his satchel to the floor, he sank into the chair behind his desk and logged on to the computer.

His mouth was set in a grim line as he opened a file he’d been working on that morning. He had a lot of things to do, more than enough to keep his mind off beautiful, troublesome women who skipped class in order to play house with their boyfriends.

Daniela stepped from the steamy shower and wrapped her body in a thick cotton bath towel.

She’d spent the entire weekend in bed, alternately sleeping and tossing fitfully between the sheets. On Sunday, Noah had shown up to relieve Janie of duty. Heedless of his sister’s protests, he’d planted himself on the living room sofa and become immersed in mounds of paperwork while his “patient” slept in the next room. Pamela Roarke had called from Houston, and upon learning of Daniela’s illness, had promptly decided to cut her trip short. Daniela, not wanting to cheat her mother of spending time with her sister, had talked Pamela out of returning home by agreeing to let Sister Jenkins stop by the house and pray over her.

She’d been barely lucid as the sweet, diminutive churchwoman stood at her bedside, eyes squeezed shut, hands clasped tightly together while Noah hovered in the doorway, head bent in reverent silence, the ghost of a smile curving his lips.

What Magdalena Jenkins lacked in stature, she more than made up for in volume. As she prayed over Daniela, her deep voice resonated with authority, booming so loudly through the house that Daniela feared the neighbors would call the police to report a domestic disturbance. Once Sister Jenkins had finished petitioning God for His healing mercies, she smiled sweetly at Daniela and Noah, then left with barely a whisper.

Daniela fell asleep afterward, and didn’t awaken until five o’clock on Monday evening—eight hours later. As she climbed from bed and made her way to the bathroom to take a shower, she felt noticeably better than she had all weekend. Although she automatically attributed her improved condition to the long hours of rest she’d gotten, she couldn’t help but smile at the memory of Sister Jenkins’s morning visit and wonder if, indeed, her mother was right about the woman’s intercessory prayer gift.

Daniela towel-dried her freshly washed hair and dressed in a pair of high-cut cotton shorts and a matching tank top emblazoned with the famous quote Well-Behaved Women Rarely Make History.

She threw on her chenille robe, then made her way to the kitchen. Noah had checked her mail and stacked the letters neatly on the breakfast table before leaving for the office that morning.

While Daniela was listening to her phone messages and sorting through junk mail, the doorbell rang. Thinking it was Janie, who’d promised to stop by that evening to check on her, Daniela went to answer the door.

“What, you lost your key or some—”

The teasing admonition died on her lips when she saw who stood on her doorstep.

Not Janie, as she’d expected, but Caleb Thorne. Caleb. At her house.

Her eyes widened in shock. “W-What are you doing here?” she stammered.

Hands thrust into the pockets of low-slung Levi’s, he arched a dark brow at her. “Expecting someone else?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I was.” Self-conscious, she tugged the lapels of her robe together. “What are you doing here?”

“You missed my class,” Caleb said, deadpan.

“So I did.” Mouth curving, Daniela leaned in the doorway and crossed one ankle over the other, drawling, “Are you the truancy officer?”

He frowned slightly. “I came to see if you were all right.”

“How sweet. I’m touched,
Professor Thorne
.” She slid him a look beneath the dense sweep of her lashes. “Do you extend this courtesy to all of your absentee students, or just the ones you kiss?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. He held her gaze for a long moment, then turned abruptly and started away.

“Wait!” Daniela called, realizing she’d unintentionally pushed him too far. She hurried onto the porch after him in her bare feet. “I was only teasing you! Thank you for being concerned about me. I really do appreciate it.”

“Good night, Miss Moreau,” he said over his shoulder.

She reached out, grabbing his arm before he could take another step. Hard muscles bunched and flexed beneath her fingers, sending heat pulsing through her veins. He stopped, but didn’t turn around.

“I didn’t blow off your class,” Daniela said softly. “I have the flu. I’ve been sick all weekend.”

He turned then, dark, assessing eyes roaming across her face. “Now that you mention it,” he murmured, “you
have
looked better.”

Daniela grinned. “Touché. You should have seen me on Saturday, when my head
wasn’t
in the toilet.”

His mouth twitched. “Have a good evening, Miss Moreau,” he said quietly. “I hope you feel better.”

“Would you like to come inside for a cup of coffee?”

His gaze darkened, and Daniela knew he was remembering their coffeehouse excursion. A slow flush crawled up her neck. “Or, um, I could make you tea instead?”

When he hesitated, she warned half-seriously, “The longer we stand out here, the better the odds that old Mrs. Flores across the street will call the police to report you as an intruder. She’s ninety-eight years old and somewhat senile. Last year she called the cops on the mailman. The year before that it was the garbageman. Don’t look now—she’s staring out the window at us.”

Caleb scowled, but without any real rancor. Daniela tugged gently on his arm, and after another moment he followed her into the house.

Daniela swept a quick look around the living room, searching for anything that might betray her identity. Thankfully,
P.I. for Dummies
was not among the rows of assorted books lining the built-in cypress bookshelves, nor was her monogrammed leather briefcase anywhere in sight. Even if she could justify an interest in learning about private investigators, she’d have a hard time explaining to Caleb the reason she owned a briefcase stamped with the initials
D.R.

“I was about to brave my first meal in two days,” she told him, closing and locking the door behind him. “Do you like tortilla soup?”

“Sure,” Caleb answered, dipping his hands into his jeans pockets as he glanced around the living room with its overstuffed sofa and chairs, and lush canvas oil paintings on walls papered in gold leaf. “You have a very nice home.”

And you, sir, have a very nice tush,
Daniela thought naughtily. Aloud she said, “You like my shabby chic look? See, I knew you were a man of discerning taste.”