The Billionaire's Fair Lady

“That is why you came by to see me, isn’t it?” he continued. “Because you want to make a claim against Wentworth Sinclair’s estate?”

She was afraid to say yes, in case the other shoe dropped on her head. Slowly she turned around to find the lawyer looking more than a little pleased with himself for having caught her off guard. Was he trying to tell her she had a case after all?

So help him, if he was playing with her….

“Look, here’s the deal.” He leaned forward, gold cuff links catching the light. “Your case is a long shot. Both parties have passed away, and the only proof you have is a pile of love letters. Not to mention thirty years have gone by. The courts aren’t exactly generous when it comes to claims that old. Truth is, scaling Mount Everest would be easier.”

“Thanks for the recap.” And here she thought there was something to his comment. “If that’s what you came all the way over here to tell me, you wasted the gas.”

“You’re not letting me finish again.”

Roxy stopped. Although hearing him out seemed like a waste of time to her. How many times did she need to hear him say her case wasn’t good enough for him? “Okay,” she said, waiting. “Finish. My case is harder than climbing Mount Everest. What else do you need to tell me?”

A slow smile broke out across his face. A confident smile that stilled everything in her body. “Only that I happen to really enjoy mountain climbing.”

CHAPTER TWO

“I’LL, um, go get your drink.” Spinning around, Roxy made a beeline to the bar. It was the only response she could think of. Did he say what she thought he said? He was taking her case?

“You look like a truck hit you,” Jackie remarked when she reached the bar rail. “What happened? Richie Rich turn out to be a creep?”

If she weren’t still in a daze, Roxy would comment on the hopeful expectancy in the other woman’s voice. “Not a creep. My lawyer,” she corrected.

“I thought you said you didn’t have one,” Dion said.

“I didn’t think I did.” She still wasn’t sure. She didn’t trust her ears. For that matter, she wasn’t entirely sure she trusted Mike Templeton. There had to be a catch.

Quickly she looked over her shoulder. There he sat, stiff and formal, arranging what looked like paperwork on the table. He certainly didn’t seem the type to lead someone on.

“If you’re serious,” she said, when her rounds finally brought him back to his table, “then what was all that business about Henry Hudson and not having proof?”

“Had to figure out how loyal you were to your story somehow, didn’t I?” he remarked, raising the glass to his lips.

“Un-freaking-believable.” It was a test. If it weren’t such an amazingly bad idea, she’d pour Scotch in his lap. She still might. “Do you have any idea how pis—How upset I was?”

“From the way you stormed out, I could hazard a guess. But that also tipped the scale in your favor. Either you truly believed your story or you were a damn good actress.”

She could give him a long list of directors and casting agents who could refute the latter. Still, a test? She had half a mind to tell him he could stuff himself regardless of whether he wanted to take on her claim or not. “I can’t believe you. Are you like this with everyone who tries to hire you?”

“Only the ones claiming to be heirs to multimillion-dollar fortunes.”

Millions? Was he joking? Roxy checked his expression. His face was deadly serious.

Oh, my. She dropped into the seat across from him. “Millions?” she repeated.

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know.” She swiped the hair from her face, trying to focus. “I knew they were rich, but… Wow.”

His test was beginning to make a bit of sense. Millions. A tingle ran up her spine.

“There’s no guarantee, mind you. Like I said, the courts seldom rule in favor of claims like yours.”

Mind still reeling, Roxy nodded.

“Plus, the Sinclairs’ lawyers will put up a heck of a fight. This isn’t the first time someone’s challenged their estate, I’m sure. Nevertheless, if we play our cards right, and there’s no reason to believe I won’t, we’ll both be looking at a nice little payday.”

Again, Roxy nodded. She didn’t know what else to do. His proclamation had stunned her to silence.

“Yo, Roxy! Table four!” Dion called. “Get your butt in gear.”

A few feet away, a trio of women with empty martini glasses were looking in her direction, visibly annoyed.

“You better get to your customers,” Mike noted.

He watched with amusement as the waitress half stumbled, half rushed away. Funny how her expression went from annoyed to dazed in literally the blink of an eye. The prospect of money could do that to a person. Made him jump in his car and drive to this place, didn’t it?

For a moment he’d been afraid he’d laid it on a little too heavy with that “test” stuff, but she accepted his behavior. All he needed to do now was get her to cooperate with the rest of the case. Shouldn’t be too hard. Especially given her alternative.

Leaning back in his chair, he sipped his drink and looked around the bar. As bars went, the Elderion was in the upper-lower half. Below average, but far enough up to avoid being a dive. Both the tables and the clientele had mileage.

Wentworth’s letter lay where Roxanne dropped it. He ran his finger along the edge of the gray envelope. The contents had long been committed to memory. “I can still smell your scent on my skin,” Wentworth had written for the opening line. College passion. He knew it well. That heady reckless feeling. The blind confidence the days would last forever. Until reality barged in with its expectations and traditions waiting to be fulfilled and impractical dreams had to be shoved aside.

Look at you. We raised you to be better than this, Michael.

A hollow feeling lodged in his stomach. He blamed the surroundings. Ever since walking in to the Elderion, he’d been possessed by the strangest feeling of déjà vu. Memories of another bar with dim lights and warm beer came floating back. When quality and atmosphere took a backseat to political debates and slow dancing in the dark.

His semester of ill-spent youth. He hadn’t thought about those days in years. They’d been jettisoned to the past when he took his first law internship.

A few feet away, his new client—least he hoped she was his new client—negotiated her way through the narrow tables with the grace of a dancer. Amazing she could navigate anything in that scrap of cloth she called a uniform. Without the pink-and-gray blazer for coverage, he had a perfect view of how the spandex skirt molded to her curves. An open invitation to check out the assets. As she bent over, the skirt pulled tighter. Forget invitation, Mike decided, try full-blown neon sign. Feeling an uncomfortable tightness, he shifted his legs. Definitely not what his usual client would wear.

But then, this case wasn’t his usual case. In fact, it was everything he’d been taught to avoid—splashy, risky, generating more notoriety than respect. Beggars couldn’t be choosers could they? Beat closing his doors and telling his family he wasn’t the Templeton they’d groomed him to be. Watching Roxanne dodge the palm of a customer right before it caressed her bottom, he retrieved his pen and made a quick note: smooth out the rough edges.

It was an hour later before Roxanne returned to his table, carrying with her a bottle of water. Mike tried not to stare at her legs as she approached. Given her outfit, it was a Herculean task at best. “You’re still here,” she said.

“Seemed silly to drive all the way back to the office when I could work here.” He’d stacked what little legal work he did have in piles on the desk.

“It’s eight o’clock. Most people have stopped working by now.”

“Maybe in this place, but I’m not most people.” He should know. It’d been drilled into his head enough growing up. “I also figured you’d have questions.”

“You’re right. I do.” She pointed to the empty chair. “Do you mind?”

“Your big bad boss won’t care?”

“I’m on my ten.”

“Then be my guest. What’s your question?”