Hard To Handle

“Good idea.” Nolan came up behind her, fighting the need to touch her, to skim his hands over the generous dips and swells of her bombshell curves. He fished the white gold key out of his pocket. “I’ll join you.”

She stiffened. “That won’t be necessary,” she said tightly.

He dipped his head to whisper in her ear. “Now what kind of gentleman would I be if I let you wander outside all on your own at night?”

The scent of her cologne teased him, resurrecting another long-forgotten memory. They’d been in law school, a time when he’d rarely had more than a couple of quarters to rub together. He’d taken on a tutoring job to earn extra money to buy her a stupid bottle of expensive perfume for Christmas. He’d be a fool to read too much into the fact that she still wore the scent, but that didn’t prevent the razor-thin slice of satisfaction from knifing through his common sense.

“‘Gentleman’?” She pulled away and pinned him with her gaze. “I wouldn’t use that term where you’re concerned, either.”

Selfish prick, more likely.

“Ouch,” he said, gripping his chest in a mocking gesture.

Facing Tucker, Mikki said, “Good to see you again, Tuck.” She cast a look in Rory’s direction and mouthed something he couldn’t see but that sent Tuck’s eyebrows skyward.

Swiping one of the tall, narrow glasses from the table in front of her, she quickly drained the contents, then exchanged the empty for the full one to carry with her. She bolted toward the back of the bar to the outdoor deck with its inspiring view of the harbor. He admired the brisk swing of the black fabric covering her sweet, rounded ass. How could one woman have that much power? he wondered, feeling as if he were tied in knots he’d never unravel.

He let out a sigh and turned to Rory. “I get the feeling she’s not too happy to see me.” He’d always liked Rory, but he wasn’t about to hazard a guess as to whether she currently returned the sentiment. Rory’s devotion to her sisters was as fierce as Mikki’s protectiveness of them.

“Can’t say I blame her,” she said without an ounce of sympathy.

Neither could he, but after all this time he’d thought Mikki’s temper might have cooled. At least a little. Apparently all that hot blood in her veins ran deeper than he’d anticipated. He only hoped she hadn’t inherited her ancestral desire for vendettas or he’d be a dead man before midnight.

Tucker clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Good luck, pal.”

“Thanks, I’m gonna need it.”

“You’ll need more than that when she finds out you’re back in town for good,” Tucker reminded him. “And why you’re here tonight.”

Tuck had a point. “Know where I can get a deal on a bulletproof vest?”

Now that he thought about it, full body armor sounded like a wise choice. And some riot gear. A few stiff shots of tequila to bolster his courage couldn’t hurt, either.

He left his friend in Rory’s capable hands and took off for the bar, placing an order for a Mexican boiler-maker, a double shot of Cuervo Gold with a beer chaser. As he waited for the bartender to return, a leggy redhead sidled up beside him with a smile that promised ample warmth against the evening chill. Once upon a time he would’ve taken advantage of the blatant come-on, but after Mikki, he just hadn’t been all that interested in other women. Besides, he hadn’t shelled out a sizable donation to Maureen Baxter’s pet cause to ensure he’d be given the key to Mikki’s locket because he’d been in a generous mood. He and Mikki had unfinished business.

“You look like you’d be a perfect fit,” the redhead purred, showing off the locket wedged between her impressive cleavage.

He wasn’t so much as tempted. “Sorry. This key is spoken for.”

She let out a breathy sigh. “Pity.”

He shrugged apologetically, unmoved by her practiced pout or her sleek curves wrapped in glittering electric blue. The redhead sashayed away, her attention already on another prospective key holder.

Drumming his fingers impatiently on the highly polished wood of the bar, he debated the wisdom of showing up at Clementine’s. He’d always been more of an adventurer than a deep thinker, preferring instead to move on with the business of living. There were easier avenues he could’ve taken, and he almost wished he’d given his half-witted plan to catch Mikki off guard more thought. Unfortunately the pressure from the senior partners to tie up a financially hazardous loose end quickly before finalizing the partnership agreement hadn’t left him much time to carefully consider his options. And he did have a responsibility to the firm he couldn’t ignore.

Initially he hadn’t paid much attention to the buzz around the office about the key party until he’d happened to overhear a trio of paralegals mention that Maureen Baxter was the driving force behind the fund-raiser. He’d been fairly certain Mikki would somehow be involved in the cause, so he’d placed a call to Maureen. Not only had she confirmed his suspicions, but he’d impulsively purchased two key-holder tickets along with the promise of a very sizable donation if Maureen guaranteed him the key to Mikki’s locket.

At first Maureen had staunchly refused—and he did appreciate her alliance to Mikki—but when he’d upped the ante, her ethics had taken a back seat to the money he’d promised to add to the coffer. To insure she wouldn’t suffer second thoughts, he’d doubled his original offer and had his assistant show up at Maureen’s office with a check in exchange for the key he wanted. In return, he’d received a pair of keys, one clearly marked for his use; the other he’d planned to give to Tucker.

Fingering the trinket in his palm, he didn’t harbor an ounce of guilt for buying Maureen’s cooperation. He did, however, carry more than a doubt or two about why he’d gone to such extreme. Granted, the news he had to deliver would best be served in person, but it sure didn’t necessitate a donation large enough to cover a respectable percentage of the funds needed for the building of Baxter House. Mikki would be livid when she found out what he’d done and, worse, why he’d done it.

Convincing Tucker to come with him hadn’t been an easy feat, but when Tuck’s sisters and sisters-in-law had ganged up on him, his long-time friend hadn’t stood a chance. The irony of the situation hadn’t been lost on him. As Tuck had gleefully pointed out, the first time Nolan had ever used the money and influence he’d run from most of life, it was to guarantee him a night with a woman who’d rather eat ground glass than be with him.

The bartender finally showed up with the tequila and beer, and Nolan immediately threw back the Cuervo, followed by a hefty swallow of the ice-cold Dos Equis that failed to alleviate the burning in his gut. Whether the booze or his unexpected physical reaction to Mikki was the cause, he couldn’t be sure. Quite frankly, he doubted it made a difference. In the end, he’d probably never understand the emotional hold she had on him.

He polished off his beer and debated ordering another. Five years ago when he’d left the Bay area, he hadn’t expected to ever return, at least not for good. After making a name for himself in Los Angeles, he’d been offered the position of managing partner at Turner, Crawford and Lowe with the caveat that he head up the family law division in the firm’s San Francisco offices. As much as it grated his nerves, he understood he’d initially been hired by the prestigious firm because of the Baylor name, but he’d earned the partnership by working his ass off and consistently racking up more billable hours than any other associate in the firm.

Once the buy-in was complete, he’d be one of three managing partners running the Bay area office of the Southern California-based firm. He already held the responsibility of monitoring the caseload of close to two dozen associates, a quad of law clerks anxiously awaiting bar exam results and twice as many paralegals plus numerous support personnel. In addition, he still managed his own caseload, which ran the gamut from more high-profile divorce actions to adoptions, all the way down to custody matters, as well as support and visitation modifications. He loved it all, too, which was a helluva difference from the live-hard-play-harder-but-leave-a-good-looking-corpse philosophy he’d cultivated most of his life.

He left the bar and made his way to the deck in search of Mikki. He supposed in part he had her to thank for his success. When they’d separated, he’d honored the Baylor family tradition by turning into a classic workaholic. He’d buried himself in his work, using the law as a means of survival because it’d been preferable to facing the truth—that by walking away from his marriage, he really was no better than the bastard of a father he despised.

Another of his less than sterling moments.

The truth was even tougher to face: that he hadn’t had the balls to tell Mikki he’d never wanted the divorce in the first place. As much as he tried to convince himself he’d been young and filled with an overdose of foolish pride, a semblance of wisdom did blossom with age. If faced with the same set of circumstances, he liked to believe this time around he wouldn’t hesitate to make the right choice, rather than behave like a selfish prick all because she’d filleted his ego by adamantly refusing to have a baby.

Based on her reaction tonight, convincing Mikki he’d changed wouldn’t be easy. Not that it mattered what she thought of him. They were finished a long time ago. Or were they?

He paused near the open, glass double doors. Did it make a difference what she thought of him? Had he merely acted in his usual impulsive manner or was there another motive he hadn’t been aware existed for ensuring Mikki would be his date for whatever prize her locket held?

The answer had him taking in a deep, unsteady breath. He couldn’t possibly be thinking in terms of second chances.

Could he?

He hadn’t wanted the divorce, even if he had run at the first sign of trouble in their marriage. He blamed immaturity and pride. She no doubt blamed him—period.

Still, he thought with a twitch of his lips, in their time apart he had learned to appreciate the value of patience and determination. An asset he figured he’d be calling on in abundance tonight, because once he informed her their divorce had all the validity of a fake ID, she’d no doubt push him to the limit.

Provided she didn’t shoot him on the spot.

WHAT THE HELL was Nolan doing here?

Mikki rested her arms on the smooth redwood railing and clutched her glass of cola firmly in her hand. The need to indulge in something stronger hadn’t waned so much as a fraction.

Just one drink, she thought. One. That’s all she needed.

Except she knew better. One was never enough. That first bitter taste of bourbon hitting her tongue would only be the beginning. The soothing warmth sliding down her throat was as much of an addiction as was the welcoming buzz of alcohol hitting her bloodstream. She’d have another, and another, until she’d numbed herself into a drunken stupor.

She leaned forward and lifted her face to gaze at the stars blanketing the darkened sky over the Pacific, then took in a long, unsteady breath. Partially hidden behind the cover of a bushy potted juniper, she tried ignored the few couples braving the damp night air to cuddle together away from the crush of the crowd inside Clementine’s. A piercing stab of envy reduced her diligence to not think about how alone she felt in comparison to mere wishful thinking.

A tremor passed over her skin, but she didn’t hold the cold Pacific breeze culpable, or her own foolishness in venturing outdoors without the benefit of a sweater to ward off the brisk chill of the May evening. Oh, no. Nolan held that honor. His unexpected presence was responsible for the shock waves of too many emotions to articulate rolling through her.

If she wasn’t careful, she’d roll right up to the bar and order a shot of bourbon to add to her cola.

What possible motive could he have for being in San Francisco?

She struggled to keep her teeth from chattering as she moved deeper into the shadows. His return could have something to do with the probate of his father’s estate, except Nolan had never made any secret of the fact that he rejected everything his rich, influential father represented. When she’d gone to pay her final respects to her former father-in-law, whom she’d only met on two occasions, it hadn’t exactly escaped her notice that the powerful state legislator’s son had been notably absent.

And to think Nolan had once possessed the gall to call her coldhearted because she didn’t want children. The man could write a bestseller on cool detachment. She’d even gone to her own father’s funeral—and she’d hated everything about the man who’d molested his own daughter.