Lawyer Up (12 page)

What
in
the
world
does
he
want
to
do
next?

Watching Jon hesitate, awareness dawned. Her eyes flared and her chest pounded.
Is
he
really
going
to…

Jon waited patiently until she met his gaze. Then he spoke quietly, sincerely, adoringly.

“Beth, I love you. Will you marry me?”

Slowly, he opened his hand, and she saw an exquisite, glittering diamond ring resting on his palm. Beth was unbelievably shocked, completely blown away—but there was only one answer to give.

“
Yes!
Oh my! Yes!”

THE PRAIRIE, JUST OUTSIDE A SMALL TOWN IN RURAL NEBRASKA

It felt like I had been standing there for hours as officials from this tiny, worn-out town made lengthy speeches that droned on and on. Everybody from the town's mayor to the old pastor was in attendance, but we were still a small group gathered together in the dusty front yard of an old, weathered clapboard house. It sat alone—almost planted—among what remained of the Great Plains' prairies.

I was sweating in the heat, the sun baking me in my black blazer and skirt. It had seemed a suitable outfit for this small if auspicious event—the dedication ceremony for a new homestead museum. Thanks to the bequest of my distant relative, this continuously working farm, dating to the 1880s, would live on for future generations. The colorful, nearly wild chickens that roved around attested to the fact that this was still a working farm.

Great-Aunt Elizabeth Jensen—for whom I'd been named—had lived her entire life on this farmstead, settled by her grandparents. It had been in our family for five generations. Looking around, I noticed a few elderly friends of my Aunt Lizzie—
very
elderly, since she had been ninety-eight when she died a year ago. I was the sole family member present and had traveled all the way from Philadelphia to Willow Pond, in the middle of Nowhere, Nebraska, to be here.

The heat was rising on the vast prairie—an almost visible sensation of withering air—and I considered removing my jacket. Sweat was trickling down my back as I gazed out at the tall, flowing grass that surrounded the old shanty house and small vegetable garden. A hawk—or maybe an eagle—silently circled above, slowly, leisurely in search of prey. I could hear the caw of distant crows. This place still felt wild—remote and desolate—even though it was right in the heart of our country.

I felt intensely weary, only partly a response to the interminable speeches. A loud sigh escaped my lips, and as heads turned in my direction, I realized I had drawn attention. Embarrassed, I stood straighter as I glanced about for my aunt's former attorney. He was a kind, elderly, small-town lawyer and the only person I really knew in Nebraska. I expected to meet with Franklin Ross immediately after the ceremony.

Mayor Smythe continued to ramble on about renewal and his hope that this new museum might bring in tourists, but sadly that was a lost cause here in Willow Pond. Heck, even the pond had dried up! Everything was old and worn-out—everything and everyone…
except
for the incredibly handsome man standing directly across from me, I suddenly realized with a jolt.

Who
is
he
? I wondered.

So young and virile with his shades and dark good looks—a sophisticated urbanite standing tall among, but somehow still separate from, these country people. His deeply tanned skin and jet-black hair hinted at Native American or Latino blood. The fine cut of his expensive suit spoke of wealth and power. Even with his black designer sunglasses, I could tell he was watching me, and I was caught in his intense scrutiny. The prickly heat I felt intensified, and I knew it had nothing to do with the sun.

What was he doing here?

He raised his chin a little and offered me a slight nod, an acknowledgment that he saw I was watching him. I glanced away, mortified to have been caught staring, but my mind continued to question. He had the aura of a predator, circling above us all, watching us like one of the birds of prey that were still high in the cloudless sky. What was this bold specimen doing here, alighting in the middle of a small clutch of dusty crows…and me?

I wondered then, suddenly, what he thought of me. Not an old crow, certainly, even with my dour, unfeminine clothing—but what did this mysterious stranger see as he continued to gaze unwaveringly at me? A shiver ran down my spine, both pleasure and anticipation—or was it trepidation?

I wished then that I was wearing something more attractive than the shapeless jacket and boring skirt. Not that I had a voluptuous body to display. I was a little too skinny, but with the right clothes—which these weren't—and high heels, I was considered pretty enough for a second look, and then guys noticed my mouth, my only distinctively sexy body part.

Men loved my lips—full, luscious, delectable, they said—but today I wore plain gloss, since my preferred bright red had seemed over the top for such a down-home place. If only I'd taken more care with my makeup and hair! The mousy brown color didn't look so bad when it was curled. Now all of me felt limp in the heat, but for the first time in months, I also felt a slight tingling inside.

My eyes were drawn back to him, and I saw that he was now watching the mayor. A quiet sigh escaped my mouth again. I guess my plumage wasn't sufficient to hold his attention. Freed from his scrutiny, I continued to watch him, drawn by the strength and masculinity he exuded, and by the curiosity I felt about an outsider in our midst—even though in reality I was an outsider too. Clearly, he was here alone.

I felt the tingling intensify, my body reawakening to desire. Even if I never saw this man again, it was still better to feel something other than the flat emptiness that had persisted since my latest breakup. As I watched, he raised his left hand to brush a wayward strand of his glossy black hair away from his eyes, and I could see clearly for a moment—no wedding ring. He was single!

I was startled to realize that Mayor Smythe had been calling me forward. I had stopped listening to him again, and now everyone was looking at me expectantly, including my enigmatic stranger.
Shame
on
you
, I admonished myself as I started forward. I should be thinking about Aunt Lizzie and this wonderful new museum in her name—not attractive mystery men. Facing the group, I started to speak about my aunt and her long life, and about the changes she had lived through even here in this quiet, isolated place. Fully caught up in my tribute, I momentarily forgot about the sexy stranger.

Afterward, a throng of excited locals gathered around me, wanting a few words with the only relative present. For nearly thirty minutes, I shook hands and accepted gratitude for Auntie's generosity. Finally, I thanked the mayor for his kind words and for spearheading the museum project. Only then did I realize that my mysterious, handsome stranger had left. How odd that an outsider had come to this small gathering and then vanished. I wished I'd had the chance to speak with him, and not just to find out why he was here.

Feeling deflated, fighting ennui's return, I walked back to my rental car alone, wishing I could shake the restlessness that plagued me. The truth of the matter…I was bored with life. While finally over my bad breakup, I was not interested in jumping into the thirty-something dating scene, although I greatly missed regular access to sex. My career was hard work but fulfilling in its way.

After opening the door, I climbed into the sedan and just sat there staring at nothing.

No, I thought, neither my single status nor my job was the problem. The zing had gone from my life. I needed some excitement, some jolt to make me feel energized. A man like my handsome, mysterious stranger would do, but, sighing, I realized that even if I actually met him, even if he were attracted to me, I probably wouldn't act on it. I was way too staid and dependable to really let go when I wanted to be wild and excitingly impulsive. It was as if I wore a confining cloak and my restless inner self struggled against its too-tight fit. Shedding that cloak, even just once, could provide the energizing boost I craved.

Sighing again, I started the car and headed toward town. Just a couple more duties remained, and then I would leave Willow Pond, probably never to return. I had become Auntie's executor when she'd died twelve months ago because there'd been no one else. All I had left to do now was sign some final legal paperwork and check on the upkeep of her grave before I could go to my hotel in nearby Hastings, a small city that seemed bustling compared to here. Tomorrow I flew back to Philly and my hectic job.

It was a short drive to Ross and Son Law Offices, a small-town practice on Main Street that had been around for probably a hundred years, back to when a branch of the Santa Fe railroad linked Willow Pond to the rest of the world. I guessed that Auntie's lawyer, old Mr. Ross, would be there waiting for me.

I was glad that I'd been able to come and offer tribute for this distant member of the family, but the weariness I had traveled here with seemed magnified by the loneliness of this quiet town. Sighing, I parked on the nearly empty street and headed for the little one-story wooden building, which was complete with a false two-story front that hinted at the frontier-town age of the structure.

AN OLD-TIME LAWYER'S OFFICE

After I opened the antique, beautifully crafted, heavy oak doors, my eyes squinted into the dim interior of the small storefront office. The part-time secretary, Mrs. Meyer, welcomed me and surprisingly gave me a motherly hug, saying how nice it was to see me again.

“Mr. Ross will be right back,” Mrs. Meyer said. As she returned to her old-fashioned desk, I settled onto a worn but comfortable leather chair.

Looking around, I saw that nothing had changed. It looked exactly like it had when I was here for the reading of Auntie's will a year ago. Probably nothing had changed in fifty years. An ancient, brown leather sofa and two matching chairs sat near the front. A low wooden fence separated this sitting area from a massive oak lawyer's desk and smaller secretarial one behind.

There were two green-glass banker's desk lamps and a solitary Tiffany floor lamp. All were probably valuable antiques now, but they gave off little light, leaving the entire high-ceilinged room perpetually dim, even on this bright afternoon. The only nod to modernity was a corner workstation that held a desktop computer and a small printer. The setting reminded me of those old-time black-and-white TV shows—all that was missing was Perry Mason.

Just then, the back door opened, and I stood to greet Franklin Ross. My mouth dropped, lips parting in surprise, and I stared as the mysterious stranger from the ceremony emerged through the door. Without his shades, his gaze was even more penetrating, his dark, almost-black eyes drawing me into their secretive depths. Never breaking eye contact, he swung open the low gate and stalked straight toward me. I startled and froze—a deer-in-headlights response. The tingling was back in a cascading rush that left me slightly dizzy.

“Hello Ms. Jensen. I'm Franklin Ross…Junior.” His hand was outstretched, and I reached up to place my hand in his. His fingers were long and lean, his grip strong as he easily encircled my smaller hand. The minute our fingers touched, I experienced an electric jolt that sizzled up my arm and straight down my body. Deep inside, my pelvis tightened in acknowledgment of the irresistible sexual attraction I felt toward this stranger. I wondered if that gasp I had heard was mine.

When I didn't immediately respond, he continued, “My dad is sorry he could not be here to see you today. He retired and moved to Arizona just a week ago. I work for a large practice in Omaha, but I'm keeping this office open to handle a few remaining cases and long-standing clients. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Jensen. My father spoke often about your kindness toward your aunt.”

I was in distress. Never in my life had I experienced such immediate, overpowering lust for a complete stranger, but after a moment, I managed to mutter the expected response.

“Ummm… It's nice to meet you too.”

I realized something then.
Young
Mr. Ross had stepped closer and was still holding on to my hand, his other hand having settled on top to capture mine between his two large, warm ones. My hand felt tingly, swathed within his, and I made no effort to pull back, liking the enveloping sensation of virile heat and sparking connection that continued to spiral up my arm.

His dark eyes pulled me in—like the hypnotic gaze of a snake—and I was caught. His lure was almost overwhelming, and I leaned imperceptibly toward him, toward his mouth. Breathless, my chest tight, I wondered if he was feeling this extraordinary attraction too. It seemed like he must be, because he also leaned in, even closer.

He cleared his throat then—a deep, rumbling sound—seeming to realize what he was doing. Abruptly he dropped my hand and stepped backward, but our eyes were still locked together, both of us breathing hard. It was as if we were alone in a strange, intimate cocoon, as if a cloud of fog swirled privacy around us. In that brief moment, nothing else in the world existed but the two of us.

Slowly, we became aware that the room's other occupant, Mrs. Meyer, had risen. I could feel her eyes watching us. The mood broken, I felt suddenly bereft, adrift in a dizzying sensual haze. I wondered if he'd endured even a little of what I'd experienced.

I watched as he gave his head the slightest shake, as if trying to clear his mind. After clearing his throat again, he said, “Ms. Jensen, would you like to follow me to my desk—or we can do it here.” He indicated the sofa with a low coffee table in front.

I nodded, whispering, “Here's fine,” and moved to sit down. I, too, needed to shake the crowding sexual fog from my brain, but given my pounding heart and now sweaty palms, it seemed unlikely I could dislodge it completely. When he sat down next to me, so close that I felt that alluring power reassert its draw, I knew it was a useless struggle. I would be wrapped in sultry lust until we parted ways, until I could get some distance from the man.

“We have just a few details to go over and I'll need your signature on a few documents. Shouldn't take too long,” he said. “Mrs. Meyer, could you please bring the folder and later serve as witness?”

After Mrs. Meyer brought us the paperwork, I listened with only half an ear to his lengthy explanation of each document. I didn't worry about it overly much. He might be new to me, but there was built-in trust from the nearly fifty years that his father had served my aunt's needs. Like father, like son.

But, though he did not know it, he held me in thrall with much more than trust. Curiosity, passion, and need all coursed within me. It was as if another person had taken over my body—a capable woman that nodded and commented on cue—while the real me watched from outside, a spirit drifting ever closer to the tantalizing man within arm's reach. I wondered again if he felt the same riveting connection.

Thirty minutes later, perhaps more—time lost its vibration in his presence—we finished the paperwork. I had signed my name numerous times, releasing my obligation over the museum and finalizing the estate's probate process. Witnessing everything, Mrs. Meyer had signed every document as well. Then she took the papers to the back to make copies.

“Well, that takes care of almost everything, except for the small plot of land that was left to you outside Hastings. Do you want to hold on to it for the rental income or sell it? I've received a couple inquiries from the neighboring farmers.”

“The income is minimal, especially with the property taxes, so I think selling might be a good idea, especially since I live so far away. Is that something you can handle for me?”

“Certainly. And on behalf of my father, I'd like to thank you again for the trust you and your family have placed in us over the years.” He smiled then, and I was swept ten times further under his spell. “I should have some bids within a couple weeks, Ms. Jensen.”

“Oh, please call me Liza,” I responded breathlessly.

He smiled again, making me feel warm and luscious. “That's a beautiful name…for a beautiful woman.”

Suddenly he seemed to realize what he had said, and he jumped in before I could respond. “I'm sorry. That must have seemed forward.”

I was momentarily speechless, unable to voice my true thoughts. I wanted to exclaim that he could say anything he wanted in that deep, sensual voice.
Ask
anything!

Wondering where my sanity had flown away to, I managed only, “I…um…thank you, Franklin.”

“I go by Lucky Hawk, or just Hawk, my middle name. My dad has always been Franklin, and…well…I like the identification with my mother's Omaha tribe.”

I was struck dumb again.

Hawk! He was called
Hawk!

Shivers raced down my spine. How strange that I had already known. Not
really
known, of course, but still… His predatory boldness, his sense of being above us all—I had felt it so strongly at the ceremony earlier. It was almost as if he was a living embodiment of the Native American belief that humans could take on the animal characteristics of their namesakes.

I very much wanted to tell Hawk about my eerie preconception, but he would have thought me crazy. It was easier to just sit there quietly, nodding my agreement, as he explained the remaining particulars of selling the land. My palms were sweaty and the quivering arousal continued unabated as I listened to Lucky Hawk, his deep, melodic cadence reminding me of the pulsing, calling beat of a faraway drum. It called to me.

Did he feel anything at all? Maybe this was all in my addled, sex-deprived mind. I wanted to slyly glance down—look for the sure sign of a man's desire—but didn't. I was beginning to find it hard to sit still, my lust making me twitchy. Still he talked on quietly with his eyes locked on mine, almost never breaking contact. There seemed to be a question in them—or was it just my imagination?

“…so if that's okay with you, I'll contact the land broker tomorrow,” Hawk finished.

Once again nodding okay, I added, “Thank you again for handling that.”

“You'll need to come back one more time to finalize the sale, or I can work through a Philly agent for the closing. Whatever you prefer.”

“Let me think about that. There isn't really any reason to return, I guess.” I wished then that I had a real reason to see Hawk again.

Then Mrs. Meyer was back, handing me the copies. She gave me another hug and wished me well. “Gotta run to a doctor's appointment.” Then she grabbed her purse, said her good-byes, and departed. Now it was just us two. The strange and wonderful intimacy from earlier, when we first met, came roaring back.

Then we were, standing by the door, shaking hands, and saying our polite good-byes. It was almost painful, a sense of pulling apart something that wanted to stay connected, but that was ridiculous. We weren't anything to each other. We were virtually strangers, really.

Hawk also seemed to be stalling before the inevitable parting.

“Where are you staying?” he asked suddenly. “I'm guessing it's too late to fly back to Philadelphia tonight.”

“Yes, it is. I found a little hotel in Hastings.”

Gesturing to the couch, Hawk said, “Since there isn't a decent hotel within forty miles, I just sleep there on the rare times that I need to come down from Omaha. It's actually pretty comfortable to stretch out…”

He trailed off then, no doubt seeing the oddly strained look I felt showing on my face. Staring at the large sofa, I could almost see Hawk lying there on his back, if not completely naked, perhaps with his chest bare. Then just as suddenly, I was there with him, both of us naked, and we weren't sleeping. Like a too-fast movie reel, images of the two of us flitted through my mind.

He was wrapped around me as I lay on top of him while we kissed madly, his dark skin a wonderful contrast against my pale, white flesh. I wriggled on top of him, needing skin-against-skin friction, while his strong hands roamed my back. Then, in a flash, he was on top and entering me, seating himself deeply, fully. My real-life pelvis clenched in response to my mental flight of
cinema
paradiso
.

His musings must have been similar because we turned back to each other simultaneously, bright, proper smiles on our faces. I thanked Hawk again for his help. Then, after a quick handshake, I went out the door.

There it was again—that bereft emptiness that made me want to turn back. I started walking briskly toward the car and heard the door reopen.

“Hey,” he called. “Would you like to grab some dinner before you head out of town? The local bar actually makes a pretty good burger.”

Turning back to Hawk, I felt absolutely giddy. I realized my happiness was over the top—it was just a quick dinner after all—but there was no stopping the surging excitement.

“Sure. That sounds good!”