“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not looking for reassurance, but I’m wondering. When you say the word bloody, just how bloody do you mean?”
“The Sinclair legal team won’t hold back, if that’s what you’re asking. They’ll have no qualms about digging into your life.” Her expression fell, followed quickly by his stomach. She had a skeleton, didn’t she? “If you’ve got secrets, you best start sharing.”
“No secrets.” She shook her head, a little too vehemently if you asked him.
“Then what?”
“I’ve got a kid. A little girl. Her name is Steffi.”
Wentworth Sinclair’s granddaughter. That wasn’t what he expected to hear. “No problem,” he replied. His enthusiasm started building. Alice and Frances Sinclair would no doubt be very interested in the little girl’s existence. “In fact, this might actually make the case—”
“Whoa!” She held up her hand, cutting him off. “I don’t want her involved. She’s only four years old. She won’t understand what’s going on.”
Mike took a deep breath. “I don’t think you understand. The fact that Wentworth might have a granddaughter could go a long way in convincing the sisters to comply with our requests.”
She shook her head. “I don’t care. I’m not going to have her being upset. She can’t be involved. You’ll have to find a different way.”
“I don’t think—”
“Promise.”
What was he going to do? He wanted to tell her she was in no position to issue conditions, that as her lawyer, it was his job to do everything he could to win her case, meaning he was the one who would decide what tactics he could or couldn’t use. He also wanted to tell her there was no way he could keep such a promise. Sooner or later the Sinclair sisters would discover the child’s existence. Her fiercely determined expression stopped him from saying so. There was no way he’d get her to budge on the issue tonight. Push and he ran the risk of her walking away again.
“Fine.” He’d agree to her condition for now, and renegotiate their position later.
“Thank you.” Satisfied, she opened her now naked water bottle and took a long drink. “When do we start?”
The spark had returned to her eyes, turning them brilliantly green. She was leaning forward, too, enough to remind him her tank top was extremely low cut. His legal mind definitely did not appreciate the male awareness the sight caused. Definitely had to smooth out the rough edges.
“Soon,” he told her. “Very soon.”
He stayed the rest of the evening. Nursing his drink and scribbling notes on his yellow legal pad. Damn unnerving it was, too. His existence filled the entire room making it impossible to ignore him. Three times she messed up an order because he distracted her, mistakes Dion made clear he planned to take out of her check.
Why was he sticking around anyway? He’d returned her letter, they’d talked. Shouldn’t he be at his uptown apartment, drinking expensive Scotch by a fireplace? Surely he wasn’t sticking around for the ambience. No one came to the Elderion for the ambiance.
“Maybe he wants to negotiate payment,” Jackie teased. Ever since Roxy had mentioned the fact Mike was working on a legal problem for her the other waitress wouldn’t stop with the innuendos.
“Very funny,” she shot back, though the comment did make her hair stand on edge. They hadn’t talked about payment. How did he expect her to pay for his services?
His presence continued to dog her as she delivered a round to the table next to his. Thank goodness the patrons all ordered bottled beer. She wasn’t sure she could handle anything more complicated while standing in such close proximity.
Funny thing was the guy hadn’t looked in her direction. Not once, and she’d been checking fairly frequently. Staring she could handle. She got looks every night. So why couldn’t she shake Mike Templeton? Why did she feel that same penetrating scrutiny she felt back at his office every time she walked in his line of sight? All night long, it felt like he was right behind her, staring at her soul.
Another thing. He insisted on looking good. By this point in the night, the rest of the men in the place had long shed their jackets and ties. Heck, some were close to shedding their shirts. The room smelled of damp skin and aftershave.
Mike, however, barely looked bothered. His tie remained tightly knotted, and he still wore his suit jacket. Roxy didn’t even think there were wrinkles in his shirt. If he was going to stick around, the least he could do was try to blend in with the rest of the drunken businessmen.
“Why are you still here?” she finally asked, when her rounds brought her to his table.
He looked up from the chicken scratches he’d been making on his notepad. “I’d like to think the answer’s apparent. I’m working.”
“I can see that. Why are you still working?”
She expected him to say something equally obvious such as “I’m not done yet” but he didn’t. Instead he got an unusually faraway look in his eye. “I have to.”
No, Roxy thought. She had to. A guy like Mike Templeton chose to. In the interest of good relations, she kept the difference to herself, and instead tried to decipher the notes in front of her. “Smooth out the rough edges? What does that mean?”
“Part of my overall strategy. I’m still fleshing it out.”
“You planning to share it with me?”
“Eventually.” The vague answer didn’t sit well. Too much like information being kept from her, and she’d had enough of that this month. “Why can’t I see now?”
“Because it’s not fleshed out yet.”
“Uh-huh.” Uncertain she believed him, she bounced her tray off her thigh, and tried to see if she could find further explanation hidden in his expression. “In other words, trust you.”
“Yes.” He paused. “You can do that, can’t you?”
Roxy didn’t answer. “You want another Scotch?” she asked instead.
“Should I take that as a no?”
“Should I take that as you don’t want another drink?” she countered.
“Diet cola. And when the idea is fully formed, you’ll know. You don’t share your order pad before bringing the drinks do you?”
The two analogies had absolutely nothing to do with one another as far as she could see. “I would if the customer asked. If they didn’t like being kept in the dark.”
“Fine,” he said, giving an exasperated sigh. “Here.” He angled his pad so she could read better. All she saw were a bunch of half sentences and notations she didn’t understand.
“Satisfied?” he asked when she turned the notepad around.
Yes. Along with embarrassed. “You have terrible handwriting.”
“I wasn’t planning on my notes being studied. Are you always this mistrustful?”
“Can you blame me?” she replied. “I just found out my mother lied to me for thirty years.”
“Twenty-nine,” he corrected, earning a smirk.
“Twenty-nine. Plus, I work here. This place hardly inspires trust.”
“What do you mean?”
He wanted examples? “See that table over there?” She pointed to table two where a quartet of tipsy businessmen were laughing and nuzzling with an equally tipsy pair of women. “Half those guys wear