Lawyer Up (19 page)

Suddenly, strangely, Stockard crossed his legs and threw his free arm over his thighs. Sounding strained, he muttered, “Sorry I don't have more to offer you.”

There
is
so
much
you
could
offer
me
besides
food, and in this moment I would happily accept it.
But she didn't say that out loud either.

“Thank you. It was kind of you to share your small snack.”

“I wonder…do you have din—”

Without warning, the elevator heaved with a jerk and the doors vibrated open. Pat looked at Stockard. She willed him to finish the sentence.

“Are you both okay?” asked a technician, stepping into the elevator.

Answering yes for them both, Stockard stood and reached his hand down to help Pat up. She was almost afraid to touch him again, but she put her hand in his. The sizzle blazed and surged down her arm.

“Thank you,” she murmured breathlessly. “I mean…thank you very much!” That was better, stronger. She reached down and retrieved his jacket and handed it to him. She made sure their skin didn't touch.

“No problem. Always like to help damsels in distress, you know.”

They both paused outside the elevator.

Finish
your
sentence
, she urged silently.

He didn't. “Good evening then.”

“Well, um. Thanks again, boo-coo, for the snack,” she responded, using one of her favored Cajun expressions.

Then Pat turned and walked briskly toward the exit. She reminded herself once again that powerful, gorgeous men like him didn't go for plain, flat-chested women like her. Stockard was just being polite. That was all. And whatever she'd thought he was going to say…that wasn't it.

Her steps quickened. Pat suddenly needed to get away, needed air and space, but she was grateful that at least she'd managed to maintain her professionalism. Her ego was intact.

WRIT OF INJUNCTION

The next morning, as the case progressed, Pat became increasingly frustrated. While the judge had seemed to respond to her at first, she just couldn't compete with winking, sweet-as-sugar Candi. At first Pat had tried to match the other woman's flirtations move for move, but her efforts fell flat. That just wasn't her. And whatever she had thought she and the judge shared the night before was clearly a thing of the past. In fact, Judge Stockard seemed to be intentionally ignoring her, except when officially required to address her as part of the case.

As the day wore on, the situation just grew worse as the judge appeared to fall for Morgan's charms. The final straw was a surprise motion by the plaintiff. It came out of the blue, just minutes before court adjourned for the day.

“Your Honor,” Morgan simpered seductively, all but batting her eyelashes at him. “At this time, we would like to request a writ of injunction to stop any further planting on the disputed property until this court issues a final ruling.”

“On what grounds?” Stockard inquired.

“We maintain that the defendant's claim of usufruct lacks merit, and therefore any new crops will result in an obligation to reimburse the collective for their investment, resulting in an undue burden upon my client.”

Pat jumped to her feet. “Your Honor, any delay in planting this spring will result in a lower yield, and then the collective will be denied their long-standing usufruct rights.”

Smoothly interjecting, Morgan countered, “That's exactly my point, Your Honor. Allowing planting on the disputed land will only result in creating usufruct where there currently is no fruit to be enjoyed. Second…”

Pat watched, annoyed, as Morgan once again leaned forward and appeared to offer the judge a peep show down her blouse. Pat glanced from opposing counsel to Stockard. He was staring at Morgan, but Pat couldn't quite tell where he was looking. Was he
really
taken in by the woman's outrageous ploys?

With a satisfied smile, Morgan concluded, “…we maintain that a slight delay in spring planting will not cause undue loss in the unlikely event that we lose the case.”

Stockard looked at both women for a moment and appeared to be torn. Pat brightened, attempting her best come-hither smile but feeling awkward and ridiculous instead.

Then Stockard cleared his throat and decreed, “The law covering this situation is ambiguous at best. However, given that allowing spring planting to go forward would in fact place a new burden on the plaintiff, I hereby grant plaintiff's request for a writ of injunction to be implemented immediately.”

“Court is adjourned.”

Blam!
Stockard slammed down the gavel loudly. He immediately rose and walked toward his private chambers without a backward glance.

EMBRASSE MOI TCHEW ~ KISS MY ASS

As she angrily stuffed papers into her briefcase, Pat fumed. Would she lose this case because her bust size was too small? She sensed someone behind her but didn't look up. She was just too livid to talk at the moment.

“Pat, I really must thank you,” Morgan purred in her ear. “Watching your feeble attempts at charm was super entertaining. That was the most fun I've had in court in a long time.”

She paused, waiting for a reaction, but Pat refused to give her one. Clearly Morgan was trying to push her buttons.

“But really, honey-hun,” Morgan continued after a beat, “you must realize you haven't got a chance going up against me.” With that final volley, she turned to walk away.

Pat froze, her heart pounding in her chest. The woman had known just what to say to rouse her insecurities. Too late, Pat thought of a retort, only to hear Morgan whisper, “Pathetic. As if any guy would choose flat Pat over me.” The group of young female associates chortled appreciatively.

Pat pretended she did not see the sympathetic glances from her young male associates as she hurriedly closed her briefcase—it was all too humiliating—but she had to know if
he
had heard. She looked up and was relieved to see Stockard in deep conversation with the bailiff, but it was short-lived. Seeming to sense her watching him, Stockard turned and looked her straight in the eye, the slightest smile turning his lips. Pat wasn't sure then if he'd heard or not. Her face felt hot.

Mortified, she turned away and hurried from the room.

Exiting the courthouse, Pat wished she could go straight home, but she'd promised to meet a few friends at a bar near the French Quarter. She'd been so busy of late that it had been weeks since they last got together, and because they were gathering just to see her, Pat felt obligated to show up. It was a bit of a walk to Frenchmen Street and there was plenty of time, but still she picked up the pace, fearing rain and having forgotten her umbrella. As she hurried along, Pat glanced up at the stormy sky. The dark, swirling clouds above mirrored how she felt inside—angry, roiling, unstable.

As Pat pulled open the door to the Marigny Brasserie, she decided to have just one of their specialty cocktails and then plead a headache, but it was early yet and none of her friends had arrived. On the bright side, Pat was able to grab a prime table near the window where she could people-watch while she waited. She was a regular and this was one of her favorite hangouts, both for the contemporary Louisiana cuisine and the live jazz. She ordered her usual martini, a Persephone's Downfall. Tonight, the name seemed to portend the outcome of her trial.

Loud thunder boomed and Pat jumped. Almost instantly, the threatening sky exploded into a torrential rainstorm, sending passersby racing for cover. It was chaos outside, which fit very well with the turmoil she felt inside herself. How could she have been so stupid as to think she could ever pass herself off as a femme fatale, she wondered. And especially next to blond, curvaceous Morgan!

Tall, bland, and skinny! That's me, all right. And I sure don't need Candice Morgan to remind me
, she grouched silently.

Pat downed the rest of her cocktail in a big gulp and signaled the waiter for another. She was hungry too, but didn't feel like eating. Staring morosely into her empty glass—nothing to see outside now except the downpour—she thought about
him
. He was fast becoming the bane of her existence. Pat wanted to blame Stockard for everything wrong in her life. It was obvious that the Playboy Judge of Orleans thought all women should fall at his feet, but he only deigned to show interest in the ones with large bosoms. As far as Pat was concerned, he could fuck every big tit in the city.

“
Embrasse
moi
tchew
!
” she swore, slipping tipsily into the Cajun she'd learned from her closest friend, Creole.

“What?” asked the waiter as he placed her second drink on the table. “I thought you wanted another round, or did I misunder—”

“No,” Pat interrupted, chagrined that he thought she'd told him to kiss her ass. “Sorry. I wasn't talking to you.” It was a bad habit of hers to think aloud. Picking up the drink and smiling brightly, she added, “Thanks so much,” and took another big gulp.

That's better
, she decided as the sharp edges of her turbulent angst dulled with each swallow. Somewhere buried in her confusion was a vague awareness of the real reason why Stockard's apparent interest in the other woman bothered her so much. No amount of denying it would make it any less true—she was attracted to him…in a big, big way.

Love 'em and leave 'em reputation aside, Stockard was everything that made her wanting and hot—handsome, masterful, and extremely intelligent. The last made it all the more annoying—that he would choose a transparent bimbo over her, a top-of-her-class high achiever and soon, she hoped, full partner in the most prestigious law firm in New Orleans.

Pat took another big swig and silently vilified every handsome, powerful man in the world—a conceited group who all wanted eye candy rather than intelligent equals on their arms…and in their beds. She knew better than to desire a man like that, and yet there was something about Stockard that drew her to him every time, something she couldn't quite define. Pat swirled the orangey pink liquor in her glass, eyeing it like a crystal ball that would give her the answers she sought. What was it about the dishonorable Judge Emmit Stockard that caused her insides to flutter? A sort of virile magnetism that hinted at…
what
?

“What is it about you, Emmit, that intrigues me so?” she moaned aloud.

“Oooou,
ma
cher
, spill it!” Pat jumped at Creole's sudden appearance. “Who is this
Emmit
and exactly how
intrigued
are you?”

Merde! I've got to stop talking to myself
, Pat railed silently. Now Creole would want to know everything, and she didn't want to get into it with her friends. She just wanted to finish her drink, go home, and bury her head under a pillow to sleep away the mortification of what she had tried—and failed—to do that day.

The nattily dressed younger man slid into the seat next to her. “By the way, you look mahv-alus, sweetie. New lipstick?” He gave her a quick hug and signaled for the waiter. “I'm guessing this Emmit guy has something to do with your new look.”

“It's nothing really.” Pat felt fuzzy-brained, but tried to brush her comment off as a joke. “Umm. Just the usual…a corrupt, egotistical, misogynist judge who's the bane of my existence.”

“Oh, that's all!”

“Today I had to stop myself from yelling
pic
kee
toi
at him.”

“You're always such a funny drunk, girlfriend, but I don't think telling the judge ‘fuck you' is one of your more stellar ideas.” He chuckled. Leaning in, he urged, “Give your best friend, Creole, a kiss…and then tell me the real story. I haven't seen you lookin' this dreamy-eyed in a long, looong time.”

Creole ordered his favorite, a Louisiana Sazerac, before proceeding to pepper Pat with questions as he tried to get her to give it up. Creole had become her friend after she'd helped him pro bono when he had a run-in with the law as a young “artiste” living a bohemian life in NOLA's Faubourg Marigny neighborhood.

On her third Persephone's Downfall on an empty stomach, Pat was feeling quite a bit better and eventually spilled the entire story. By this time, two more friends had arrived and they all had an opinion on what she should do next.

“I think you should lodge a complaint,” said Jenn, her former college roommate.

“No. It's borderline. He hasn't broken any rules…yet,” returned Barbara, who was a lawyer at another firm. “Better to wait till he really F's up.”

Pat felt much better listening to her friends. Their outrage on her behalf transformed her mortification to indignation. The ladies argued the different options, although Pat was so fuzzy at this point that she mostly just nodded. Finally her closest friend weighed in.

“Naaah,” said Creole. “Waiting around to see what happens next. Girl! That ain't your style. Instead, you need to fight fire with fire, and that means turning up the heat.”

“Whaadya mean?” Pat slurred.

“I know what
you
don't seem to realize… That underneath that tough exterior”—he paused to swirl his hand in front of Pat's face like a magician—“there is a passionate, fiery woman just waiting to get out. All you have to do is let that inner siren out to play, and you'll have him eating out of your hand…or off your belly or whatever body part you choose.”

Pat pulled back in dismay, but the others eagerly agreed. Before she realized what was happening, they had planned a “makeover intervention” set to begin the next day.

“Oh, Creole, that's a great idea. I want in too! But you're the fashionista, so you have to take the lead. Didn't you once work at One Canal Place as a Saks personal shopper?” asked Barbara.

Creole nodded and told Pat, “We'll take you there tomorrow for a complete wardrobe overhaul. I still get an employee discount since I continue to cover a few of their valuable clients.” The group quickly made plans to meet at Pat's at ten in the morning.

“I'll bring coffee and beignets from Café du Monde,” Barbara offered.

“My stylist is the absolute best. He'll work wonders on your hair,” Jenn suggested. “He's impossible to get at the last minute, but I'll give my appointment tomorrow to you.”

“I'm not sure,” Pat balked. “You really don't need to go to all that trouble for me.”

“Patricia Laroque, you listen to me.” Creole pooh-poohed her resistance. “You have helped each of us at some point in our lives, and it is a chance to give something back.”

“And it sounds like great fun!” Jenn added. They all looked at her expectantly.

“I don't know,” Pat mumbled blearily. How had things gotten out of hand so quickly? “That's just not who I am. I mean, me…
really
…acting like a seductress?”

“Come on,” urged Jenn. “Remember, I saw you in those college plays. I know perfectly well that you can act when you want to. Just think of it
as
acting.”

“Girl, I know you can do it,” Creole interjected. “Look, the real question is…do you want to win or not?”

What
do
I
really
want?

The question had too many angles for her current muddled state, and Pat had to really work to focus, blocking out her friends' continued verbal encouragement.

She did not want to make a fool of herself…certainly.

Did not want to lose to Morgan…definitely.

And she wanted that promotion…absolutely!

Then there were those haunting dreams she kept having that left her longing for something she didn't quite understand. It was all stirred up inside her, but somehow Stockard seemed to be the key to her desires.

Is
it
possible
that
I
could
have
it
all?

Her friends took her silence as acquiescence. Before Pat could change her mind, they quickly escorted her home with instructions to eat something healthy and get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow would be a long, hectic day. She fell into bed exhausted and inebriated, quickly succumbing to a deep, shadowy sleep.