The Billionaire's Fair Lady

Of course, he thought, stilling his pen, she didn’t have to completely prove paternity for her claim to work. Simply put forth a believable argument.

He couldn’t believe he was contemplating the thought. Had he fallen so low he’d take on an audacious case simply for the potential settlement money?

One look at the meager pile of case files on his desk answered his question. At this point, he’d take Henry Hudson’s nephew’s case.

This was what failure felt like. The constant hollow feeling in his stomach. The weight on his shoulders. The tick, tick, tick in the back of his head reminding him another day was passing without clients knocking on his door.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Templetons, as had been drilled in his head, didn’t fail. They blazed trails. They excelled. They were leaders in their field. Doubly so if you were named Michael Templeton III and had two generations of namesakes to live up to.

You’re letting us down, Michael. We raised you to be better than this. A dozen years after he first heard them, his father’s words rose up to repeat themselves, reminding him he had no choice. Succeed or else. He took on the challenge of starting his own practice. He had to make it work, by hook or by crook.

Or audacious case, as it were. Unfortunately his best opportunity stormed out the door in a huff. So how did he get the little hothead to come back?

A patch of gray caught the corner of his eye. Realizing what he was looking at, Mike smiled. Perhaps his luck hadn’t run out after all. He picked up the grey envelope Roxanne O’Brien had left behind.

God bless indignant exits.

Thursday nights were always busy at the Elderion Lounge. The customers, businessmen mostly, their out-of-town visits winding down, tended to cut loose. Bar tabs got bigger, rounds more frequent, tables more boisterous. Normally Roxy didn’t mind the extra action since it meant more money in her pocket. Tonight, though, she wasn’t in the mood for salesmen knocking back vodka tonics.

“Six vodka tonics, one house pinot and two pom martinis,” she ordered. Despite being cold outside, the air was stifling and hot. She grabbed a cocktail napkin and blotted her neckline. This afternoon’s business jacket disappeared long ago and she was back to a black camisole and skirt.

The bartender, a beefy guy named Dion, looked her up and down. “You look frazzled. Table six isn’t giving you trouble, are they?”

“Nothing I can’t handle. Bad day is all.”

Who did Mike Templeton think he was anyway? Arrogant, condescending… Just because he was lucky enough to be born on the right side of town, what made him think he had the right to judge her or her mother or anyone else for that matter?

Wadding the napkin into a ball, she tossed it neatly into the basket behind the bar. “You’d think by this point I’d be immune to rejection.”

“I thought you gave up acting,” Dion said.

“I did. This was something else.” And the rejection stung worse. “You don’t know a good lawyer, do you?”

The bartender immediately frowned. “You in trouble?”

“Nothing like that. I need a business lawyer.”

“Oh.” He shook his head. “Sorry.”

“‘S’all right.” Who’s to say the next guy wouldn’t be as condescending as Mike Templeton?

“Oh, my God!” Jackie, one of the other waitresses rushed up, earrings and bangle bracelets jangling. “Please let this guy sit at my table.”

Busy stacking her tray, Roxy didn’t bother looking up. At least once a week, the man of Jackie’s dreams walked in. “What’s the deal this time? He look like someone famous?”

“Try rich.”

Here? Hardly. Unless the guy was lost and needed directions. Rich men hung at far better clubs. “I suppose he’s gorgeous, too.”

“Put it this way. If he was poor, I’d still make a move. He’s that sexy.”

Roxy had to see this male specimen for herself. Craning her neck, she surveyed the crowd. “I seriously doubt anyone with that much to offer—”

Mike Templeton stood by table eight, peeling the gloves off his hands one finger at a time. His eyes scanned the room with a heavy-lidded scrutiny. Roxy’s stomach dropped. Jackie was right, he was the best-looking man in the room. Stood out like a pro in a field of amateurs. What on earth was he doing here?

“Told you he was breathtaking,” she heard Jackie say. Before she could reply, he turned and their eyes locked. She stood rooted to the spot as he shrugged off his camel hair coat and draped it over the back of his chair. His actions were slow, deliberate, all the while holding her gaze. Goose bumps danced up her bare arms. It felt like she was the one removing layers.

“I don’t suppose I can convince you to switch tables, can I? You’re not interested in dating anyway. I’ll give you both my twelve and fifteen.”

Eyes still glued to the lawyer, Roxy shook her head. “Sorry, Jackie, no can do. Not this time.”

Grabbing her tray, she purposely served her other tables before making her way toward him. With her back to that stare, his pull diminished a little, though she could still feel him watching her with every move she made. Reminding her of his existence. As if she could forget.

Finally she had no choice—or customers—left and sauntered her way to his table.

“You’re a difficult person to pin down, Miss O’Brien,” he greeted. “I went by your apartment first and some guy told me you were ‘at the bar.’ I took a chance and assumed he meant here.” He smiled, as though being there was the most natural thing in the world, which it was decidedly not. “We never finished our conversation from earlier.”

The guy had to be joking. “What was there to finish? I pretty much heard everything I needed to hear when you insulted me and my mother.”

“You misunderstood. I wasn’t trying to insult you. Had you stuck around, you would have realized I was merely pointing out your story has some very questionable holes in it.”

“My mistake.” Misunderstood her foot. If that was his idea of a misunderstanding, then she was the Queen of New York. “Next time my life is turned upside down by a deathbed confession, I’ll try to make sure the story is more complete.”

She tucked her tray under her arm. “Is there anything else? I’ve got customers to wait on.” He wasn’t the only one who could be dismissive.

“I’ll have a Scotch. Neat.”

Great. He planned to stick around. Maybe she would let Jackie have the table. “Anything else?”

“Yes, there is. You forgot this.” Reaching into his briefcase, he pulled out a gray envelope. Seeing it, Roxy nearly groaned out loud. “Your mother took so much effort to preserve the collection. Seemed a shame to break up the set.”

She felt like an idiot. Figures she’d mess up her grand exit. She never was good at stage directions. “Thank you. But you didn’t have to drive all the way here to return it. You could have mailed it back to me.”

“No problem at all. I didn’t want to risk the envelope being damaged. Besides…”

Roxy had been reaching for the stack, when his hand came down to cover hers. “I figured this would buy me a few more minutes of your time,” he finished, his eyes catching hers.

Warmth spread through Roxy’s body, starting with her arm and moving upward. Glancing down at the table, she saw his hand still covered hers. The tapered fingers were almost twice the size of hers. If he wanted, he would wrap her hand right up in a strong, tight embrace. Feeling the warmth seeping into her cheeks, she pulled free.

“For what?” she asked, gripping her tray tightly. Squeezing the hard plastic helped chase away the sensation his hand left behind.

“I told you. You left before we could finish our conversation.”

“Given what I stuck around for, can you blame me? I’ll go get your drink.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he said as soon as she’d spun around. “You’re going to need a lot thicker skin than that if you want to go after the Sinclairs.”

Roxy froze. What did he say?