“What firm?” Lucas asked casually.
If possible, his chest expanded more. “Douglas and Alderman.”
“Ah. Top drawer.”
“You bet yer ass.”
For a moment, Lucas wondered if the guy talked with that heavy slang at the office. He couldn’t imagine so. Douglas and Alderman were reportedly both a couple of old-moneyed curmudgeons, who brandished traditionalism, dignity and family pedigrees like swords.
“’Course he’s gone and done it now.”
“Who?”
“Broke the code.”
Lucas angled his head as the guy took another long swallow from his glass. “Who broke what code?”
“Douglas. Joseph freakin’ Douglas.”
Ah. The premier curmudgeon. Who certainly wouldn’t want to be gossiped about by a junior executive. Which this guy had to be.
Lucas fought against curiosity and ethics. The latter he’d given up some time ago, and now wanted back. He should excuse himself. Hell, he should run the other way.
He didn’t move.
Though he’d never had the pleasure of a face-to-face introduction with Douglas, earlier that evening he’d not-so-subtly steered his elegant wife in the opposite direction from Lucas and the circle of people he had been talking to. They were undoubtedly part of the crowd who would likely never accept Lucas’s change of specialty. Of course, his lineage didn’t include Civil War generals whose wife and children had held their ground against Union troops in front of the family’s plantation home, then served them fried chicken, turnip greens and biscuits until peace was declared, thereby saving one of the few seventeenth-century homes still standing in Atlanta.
By contrast, Lucas’s ancestors had probably been too busy helping Blackbeard and Jean Lafitte pirate and profit in the Big Easy to bother with turnip greens.
He wondered if Douglas’s dissing could be an effort at intimidation. It likely wasn’t personal; he probably just didn’t like competition. Douglas’s firm had a division that specialized in helping companies and hospitals protect themselves against frivolous lawsuits—exactly the job Lucas had just been hired to do by Geegan, Duluth and Patterson.
“I couldn’t believe it,” the drunk guy muttered, hanging his head. “Ya can’t have two wills. Ya just can’t.”
Despite his effort not to listen, Lucas’s legal antenna shot up. “No. You certainly can’t.”
“Mrs. Switzer, she’s so nice. She’s so broke. It’s not right. We have to help her.”
“Of course you do.”
“But it’s still not right. The other will, you know.”
“The other will?”
“The one Mr. Switzer had Mr. Douglas draw up last month, just before he died. Why did he have to even talk to that stripper? And in Daytona Beach?”
“His client drew up another will?”
“No.” He shook his head emphatically, then laid his finger against his lips. “It’s a secret. Mrs. Switzer’s so nice. Did I tell you she always calls me by name? She always says, ‘Good morning, Anthony, how are you today?’ in that soft voice.”
“How gracious of her.”
“Mr. Switzer shouldn’t have had that affair. Mrs. Switzer’s so nice.”
He definitely should have run, Lucas reflected. There was a time when he would have relished having this kind of information about a competitor or opposing attorney. Other people’s bad habits—and subsequent carelessness—had fueled more than one victory in his past.
A stripper, an affair, illegally ignoring a client’s wishes? Two wills? It was an orgy of scandal.
He eyed the drunk junior executive next to him. Maybe the guy was full of crap. He could have gotten Douglas mixed up with an episode of Law & Order for all he knew.
He clapped the guy on the shoulder, then walked by him. “Sorry to hear about your troubles, mon ami, but I’ve got a hot date.”
“Hey, ya never tol’ me your name, buddy!”
Even if he had, the guy likely wouldn’t remember it. But Lucas couldn’t take the chance regardless. “No, I didn’t, did I?”
He inclined his head, then headed inside through the kitchen door.
“HOW HOT?” MIA ASKED, her eyes blazing with excitement.
“Smokin’,” Vanessa assured her as she stacked dirty dishes in a storage box.
“Ooh, you get all the good ones!”
Vanessa cut her gaze to her friend. “I do not. You do.”
Mia grinned. “Oh, right.”
“You get all the good ones, play with them awhile, then toss them away like old socks.”
“Somebody has to try them out and warn the rest of you away.”
“Half those guys want to marry you.”
Mia wrinkled her nose. “Exactly my point. Yuck.”
Vanessa shook her head and finished loading the box. Mia’s mother had been married and divorced four—or was it five?—times, so, not surprisingly, Mia considered matrimony as the black hole of relationships. She’s happy until that “I do, you do, we do” business, Mia always said, then dullsville becomes splitsville. No thank you.
Vanessa just hoped her friend wasn’t playing the breakup game because she was afraid she’d follow in her mother’s footsteps.
Oh, like you aren’t afraid of following in your mother’s footsteps? Red bra, tattoo and attitude—you’re a walking case of fear of debutante-itis.
Vanessa mentally waved away her bothersome conscience. “Still, Mia, you need to find a boyfriend. Somebody you love. Or can at least date for more than a month.”
“Why?”
Good question. She wasn’t sure. Maybe it was this longing to reconnect with her family that had her wishing for a lasting relationship in her life. In the past, when things hadn’t worked out with a guy, she’d shrugged and moved on, but lately she found herself wondering if she should consider her choices more carefully, if she should slow down and look for a more serious relationship.
Mia grinned. “Remember that great line by Madeline Kahn in Clue? Something about how men should be like tissues—”
“Soft, strong and disposable. I remember, but she didn’t have Colin—”
“Out.” Mia waggled her hands in a shooing motion. “Go find Mr. Hot. I’ll finish up.”
The reminder of Lucas brought a wave of longing and heat sizzled through her body. She was being brazen and rebellious again, flitting off into the night with a man she’d met just an hour ago. A man whose last name she didn’t even know. A man who would no doubt turn out to be mistake number 423.
She’d slow down tomorrow.
All but vibrating on the spot, she asked Mia, “Are you sure there’s not too much to clean up alone?”
“I’ll get Colin to help.”
“Good idea. I’ll call you later.”
“I’m jealous.”
“I know.”
“And he’s even safe. That ridiculous brandishing your invitation and a picture ID business your mother insisted on actually worked out in your favor.”
Her mother