Keeping Company (7 page)

Oh, hell, Alaina admitted to herself as she watched her secretary hang a perfectly horrid painting, she liked Marlene. The woman was undeniably weird, but she had a good heart. They had struck up an odd, argumentative sort of friendship practically the moment they’d met when Alaina had been inspecting the duplex as a prospective buyer.

“Marlene, you are not hanging that atrocious thing in here,” she declared, planting her hands on her hips. She glared at the painting, which appeared to be an abstract of a woman with nine eyes and three breasts.

Marlene gave her a shrewd look. “What do you think it looks like?”

Instantly wary, Alaina held her true impression and said noncommittally, “It looks like an inkblot.”

“It
is
an inkblot. You catch on fast for a lawyer.”

Alaina ignored the insult. She waved a regal
hand at the splotch of blue on white. “It’s coming down. I won’t have prospective clients subjected to a Rorschach test the second they come into the office.”

Shrugging tiredly, Marlene heaved a much-put-upon sigh, her broad shoulders sagging. She shook her head and tugged up one shoulder of her huge, purple, tie-dyed T-shirt. “If you say so, but you’re missing the boat on a slick screening process.”

“And you’re missing the boat altogether,” Alaina muttered under her breath as she turned to go into her private office to sort through her law books.

The suite she had rented consisted of three rooms and was located in a small, relatively new professional building just off Anastasia’s main street. She looked around at the pristine white walls where her diplomas would hang, at the freshly laid gray carpet, at the two large windows that let the warm fall sunlight stream in through textured vertical blinds, and a proud, satisfied smile turned her lips. She had her much-coveted
corner office, and she wasn’t going to have to sell her soul for it.

This was going to be
her
practice. Alaina N. Montgomery, attorney at law. There were no senior partners to pay homage to. There were no duel-to-the-death, winner-take-all divorce cases, no trumped-up personal injury cases, no let’s-make-the-kid-a-wishbone custody cases. There were no clients either, but that was only a temporary condition, a minor detail she wasn’t concerned about in the least. She had ample confidence in her own abilities, and ample funds in her bank account to keep her going until she built up a clientele. The important thing was, she would be her own boss.

It wasn’t that practices had been unethical at Abercrombie, Turtletaub, and Flinch. The firm was one of the most prestigious, highly respected in the Chicago area. And heaven knew, Alaina had taken to their aggressive style of law like a shark to water. It was just that within the last year or so she had begun suffering from a strange sort of dissatisfaction with her lot in life. One day she’d realized she had everything she’d wanted—
money, prestige, a certain amount of power—but she wasn’t happy, and she didn’t know why. And then, of course, there’d been that unpleasant business with Clayton.

She frowned, her hand absently stroking the spine of a leather-bound tome on jurisprudence. Odd, but she couldn’t quite remember what A. Clayton Collier looked like. She could remember too clearly what his wife had looked like the fateful day she’d come to call. She remembered every detail of Mrs. Collier, right down to her red snakeskin pumps and matching handbag. But when she tried to call a man’s face to mind, it was Dylan Harrison’s she saw with his unruly hair and devilish grin.

Even though she’d met him only once and that had been nearly a week ago, she could remember his handsome features with alarming clarity. She remembered everything about him, every word they had exchanged, every glance, every arc of awareness that had passed between them.

Giving herself a mental shake, she began sorting through her books. The man had a wife and child and no scruples whatsoever. That was a
combination she had learned to avoid. And if his marital status weren’t enough to dissuade her from thinking about him, he ran a bar and bait shop, for Pete’s sake. What on earth would she have in common with a man who sold swill and chum? Nothing.

Then why did she keep thinking about him? Why did she keep thinking of the way he’d traced his finger along her jaw? And why did she keep reliving that instant when he’d held her against the side of her car, his sexy mouth just a heartbeat from hers? Even when she’d suspected he was a lunatic, she’d been attracted to him.

A chill swept over her as she had a horrid thought. She suddenly envisioned Mrs. Dylan Harrison chasing her around her office wielding a giant fishhook.

Alaina swore through her teeth as she forcibly dismissed the image and returned her attention to her task.

“You’re coming to dinner tonight.” The announcement made from the door of her office was a statement of fact, not a question.

Alaina looked up at her secretary and frowned.
Ever since she’d moved into the duplex, Marlene had been trying to fix her up with a seemingly endless parade of eligible men. The woman was worse than Jayne when it came to matchmaking and utterly shameless in her efforts. It was embarrassing to say the very least. Alaina kept promising herself she would refuse the next time, but for some unfathomable reason, she had a hard time telling Marlene no.

This time was no exception. She sighed up into her stylishly cut bangs and tucked a strand of chestnut hair behind her right ear. “Promise me this isn’t another blind date.”

Marlene scowled, an expression that gave her an alarming resemblance to Deputy Skreawupp. She wouldn’t quite look her boss in the eye. “It’s a dinner party,” she said flatly.

“Swear it.”

“I swear it’s a dinner party.”

“A cleverly evasive answer if ever I’ve heard one. And believe me, I’ve heard zillions.”

Going on the offensive, Marlene shook a finger at Alaina. A quartet of silver and turquoise bracelets rattled on her thick wrist. “You’re too
suspicious for your own good. What’s the matter with you, thinking I’d stoop to trapping you into a blind date?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Alaina said, her arms sailing upward in an exaggerated shrug. “Maybe the fact that you advertise in the yellow pages under ‘Matchmakers.’ ”

“A person’s got to make a living.”

“Not at the expense of my social life. After last week’s fiasco, I ought to turn you down flat.” She shuddered at the memory and made a face. “I ought to sue you for emotional—not to mention sartorial—suffering.”

“What? You didn’t like Quenton Stockley?” Marlene’s expression clearly indicated her incredulity at the prospect.

Alaina still marveled at the fact that she’d agreed to go out with the man. Marlene had shown up at her door one evening, unannounced, with Quenton in tow. Quenton Stockley was an anemic little man with terminal hay fever and what Alaina sincerely hoped was the last polyester leisure suit in the continental United States.

It was all Dylan Harrison’s fault she had sacrificed an evening of her free time to Quenton Stockley. She had gone out with him only to escape her constant disconcerting thoughts of Dylan the dastardly philanderer.

Marlene propped a meaty fist on her hip. “What was wrong with Quenton?”

The list was endless. Alaina decided to choose one major fault and leave the rest. “He took me to a Three Stooges movie festival.”

“So?”

“Grown men poking each other in the eyes is not my idea of cinema.”

Marlene made a face and waved a beringed hand at her. “You’re too fussy.”

“I’m tastefully discriminating,” Alaina corrected. “And for the billionth time, Marlene, I am
not
looking for a man. Please get that through your thick head.”

A determined look on her face, the secretary stepped closer, trapping Alaina against the side of the table that was temporarily serving duty as a desk. She closed her eyes with a dramatic fluttering of her lashes and began running her hands all
around Alaina’s head and shoulders, not quite touching her.

“Jeez, Marlene, stop it,” Alaina whined, cringing. “You know I hate when you do that.”

The woman stepped back, shaking her head reproachfully. “Your aura is all out of whack.”

“Small wonder,” Alaina mumbled, turning back to her books, “what with you attacking me every time I turn around.”

“A woman your age ought to have a man in her life,” Marlene announced.

“What for? I can take out my own garbage,” Alaina quipped. Her dark brows suddenly snapped down low over her eyes and turned to bore a look into her secretary’s retreating broad back. “What do you mean—a woman my age?”

“Dinner’s at seven.”

“Okay, guys, I’m leaving now!” Dylan called, hastily checking his appearance in the dusty mirror that hung above the cluttered table in the front entry. He ran a hand back through his unruly hair and gave his hand-painted leather tie a jerk to set
it straight, then he turned to say good-bye to his children.

Nine-year-old Sam stood there with an exact-scale replica of the starship
Enterprise
cradled in his arms. He had his mother’s sandy hair and his father’s lanky frame and an expression that was far too mature for his age. “You appear magnetically prepossessing this evening, Dad.”

Dylan blinked, a little taken aback as he always was by his son’s rather adult intellect. “You’ve been reading the thesaurus again. Do you like my tie?”

“It’s awesome,” Sam said seriously.

“Thanks.” Dylan dug through the rubble on the table for his car keys as he spoke. “I won’t be late, but you guys will be in bed by the time I get home, so I’ll call by eight-thirty.”

The Harrison children exchanged a significant look. As usual, Sam acted as spokesman. “You’ll tuck Cori in when you get home, won’t you?”

Dylan hunkered down in front of his little girl, a tender smile turning his lips. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Cori leaned against the family dog, Scottie, an
enormous shaggy beast of indiscriminate background. The little girl’s brown eyes stared up owlishly at her father. Dylan’s heart clenched in his chest.

He had been hurt when Veronica had divorced him and moved to L.A. to pursue her career, but his deepest pain came from the knowledge that what had happened between himself and his wife had left lasting scars on their children. Sometimes he thought he’d never forgive himself or Veronica for that. What they’d done to each other had been the choice of consenting adults; their children had been innocent casualties in the war.

Sam had somehow seen the need to grow up overnight. Bypassing the rowdy, carefree phase of childhood, he was a quiet, meticulous, studious adult in the body of a nine-year-old boy. He spent much of his free time in academic pursuits or working with their extensive collection of science fiction memorabilia rather than with friends. And he had grown fiercely protective of Cori, seemingly determined to fend off any threat of hurt to his little sister.

Cori, who had been only five at the time of the
breakup, had reacted by retreating into herself. She was too young to understand or deal with her emotions regarding her mother’s departure from the family, Dylan doted on her—on both children, really, but on Cori in particular—doing his level best to make her feel safe and secure in his love. But even now, nearly two years after the divorce, Cori rarely spoke unless asked a direct question that couldn’t be answered by a nod or a shake of her head.

Dylan hooked a finger under his daughter’s chin and tilted her face up to plant a kiss on her cheek. “No wild parties while I’m gone. Mind Mrs. Pepoon.” He wrapped his arms around her and gave her a hug. “I love you.”

“Love you, Daddy,” Cori murmured, bussing his cheek.

Reluctantly pulling back, Dylan reached up and ruffled Sam’s sandy hair. Standing, he gave a proper Federation salute to his son. “Mr. Spock, you have the con.”

“Aye aye, Captain. I hope you have an enjoyable repast.”

Dylan shook his head. “I’m sure I will. Why don’t you watch some TV tonight?”

Sam gave him a quizzical look, wrinkling his freckled nose.

“See you later, Mrs. Pepoon!” Dylan called to his housekeeper.

Taking one last glimpse in the mirror, he was gone.

He was not looking forward to this evening. Marlene Desidarian had been hounding him for weeks to come to dinner, and he had managed to put her off, but she was a friend and he’d known he couldn’t delay the inevitable forever.

Marlene had doggedly been struggling to marry him off ever since they’d met when he’d first moved to Anastasia after the divorce. No matter how many times he told her he wasn’t interested in trying matrimony a second time around, she persisted.

The entire situation left him feeling vaguely queasy. After the breakup of his marriage to Veronica he was understandably wary of making a commitment—not only for the sake of his own
heart, but for the sake of his children as well. What if a second marriage didn’t work any better than the first? It would kill him to put Cori and Sam through that kind of hell again. On the other hand, he harbored a genuine fear that his children were being cheated. He worked very hard at being a good father, but maybe his kids needed a mother too.

Well, he sighed as he pulled his Bronco up along the curb in front of Marlene’s duplex, maybe someday he would find a woman he could feel safe marrying. She would be a far cry from Veronica, that was for sure. No more ambitious career women for him. He had thrown off the trappings of the yuppie lifestyle in favor of a saner existence. Next time—if there was a next time—he would find a woman so domestic, she’d make Donna Reed look bad. In the meantime …

He steeled his resolve and looked up at the neatly painted Victorian house, cream with blue trim, bulging with bay windows that gleamed amber in the fading light of dusk. He was ready. He could take anything Marlene the matchmaker would throw at him this evening.

*  *  *

Alaina Montgomery. Those legs couldn’t possibly belong to any other woman. Dylan’s heart slammed into his ribs as his gaze slid down from a shapely derriere decked out in a snug, well-cut gray skirt to the backs of two elegant knees and a pair of calves that made his palms break out in a sweat. His fingers twitched to trace down the length of the silk stockings that housed those gorgeous limbs. Shapely calves tapered to slender ankles that led to feet encased in Italian leather pumps.