by MJ Rodgers
Before taking Adam’s formally offered arm, Whitney turned to Danny and extended her hand and offered a smile.
Danny pocketed Adam’s card and took her hand, looking a little dazed at the treatment he was receiving from her and Adam.
Whitney gave his hand a warm shake. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Danny. Thank you again for indulging my curiosity regarding your drawings. Do contact Mr. Justice’s secretary at your earliest opportunity. You will not be disappointed to learn the details of your inheritance.”
Whitney took Adam’s arm then and walked with him out of the small back room, not missing the look of incredulity that had the cigar drooping limply out of Edgar Kirkbin’s mouth.
“It was something less than discreet to tell Danny that he would not be disappointed to learn the details of his inheritance in front of his uncle,” Adam said as he held open the passenger door of the Jaguar for Whitney a moment later.
Adam’s voice was deep and even, his facial expression as calm and unchanging as always. But Whitney understood all too well the reprimand he was sending her. She slipped into the seat and waited for him to circle around to the driver’s side before responding.
“I was trying to give Danny a little dignity back after his uncle so rudely tried to snatch it away,” she said. “And you can’t pretend that you weren’t doing the same thing when you made such a point of mentioning ‘the legacy left to him.’ Why, you positively rode to the rescue of both me and Danny when that foul-mouthed Kirkbin started throwing his weight around.”
Adam fitted the key into the ignition but didn’t start the car. “You say that accusingly, Whitney. Am I to understand that such gestures offend you?”
“Offend me? They floor me. Mind you, I am perfectly capable of fighting my own cigar-smoking dragons with grabby hands, thank you. And I would appreciate your letting me do so in the future. But the fact that you took it upon yourself to dispatch that one so effectively has left me in awe, Adam Justice. Who would have guessed that inside all the formal armor you wear so well there really was a knight?”
Whitney leaned over to plant an appreciative kiss on his cheek. Her lips lingered on the smooth firm heat of his skin while a warm tingle wiggled down her spine. And then quite suddenly Adam turned his head, and she found her lips on his.
For one mouth-watering moment they stayed motionless-their breaths mingling, his warm and tantalizing on her skin as their lips barely brushed. Her pulse began to pound as his formidable presence invaded her body and that clean, sophisticated, woodsy scent of him filled her senses so fast she felt dizzy.
Then his deep voice strummed in her blood as he murmured against her mouth, “Penetrate any armor, Whitney, and what you will encounter is not the knight, but the man.”
Whitney willed her body to heed the serious tone of his warning, but the only response it gave was a soft, beckoning sigh.
His lips answered that sigh as they pressed against hers, spreading a luscious liquid warmth throughout her entire body. The heat was so sweet and intense that it shot like pain through her. In the space of a heartbeat she was totally lost to the pure ecstasy of it.
She moaned, her lips parting eagerly beneath his onslaught, wanting, craving the invasion. He moved in deeper, wetter, hotter. Her head swam with the scent and taste of him. Passion, swift and sharp, engulfed her, shooting down her spine, spearing deep in her womb.
She gripped his shoulders, drawing him closer—wanting more of him, so much more. She could feel his muscles tensing hard beneath her fingers. His arm circled her waist, and he drew her tightly against him, breast to breast.
The shock of feeling his rock-hard chest against her breasts sent a wave of high-powered voltage through her. She felt deliciously singed in every cell of her body. Adam Justice kissed with the same devastating perfection with which he did everything else.
The sudden, loud beep of a horn behind them caused Whitney to stiffen. Adam released her immediately and pulled back. They both swung around to look out the rear window.
A harried-looking woman in the driver’s seat of a van full of eager adolescents was gesturing at them impatiently. She obviously had been waiting for Adam to vacate the only parking space in front of the store.
Adam turned the ignition key and started the engine, obligingly pulling away from the curb.
“My apologies, Whitney,” he said, his voice cool and formal. “That was extremely poor judgment on my part.”
Whitney was still vibrating and breathless and thrilled to the bone. The last thing in the world she wanted to hear was that he was sorry he had made her feel this way. She studied his hard, polished-marble profile. Not even a strand of his hair was out of place. Just as though nothing had happened. And apparently for him nothing had.
It was at that precise moment that Whitney knew it wouldn’t be hard at all to hate this man.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re right. It was poor judgment,” she said, trying to sound as nonchalant as he, but fearing she sounded just disappointed.
“Next time I shall select a time and place that will preclude any interruptions.”
Next time? Whitney sighed as her arms relaxed along with her pique. Next time. He was planning on kissing her again.
On second thought she was beginning to think it might be very hard to hate this man.
She stole another look at his profile, a hundred questions crowding into her mind at once. “You seem pretty sure I’m going to want you to kiss me again.”
“Are you going to tell me you don’t?”
Whitney opened her mouth to say something, then closed it because she had no idea what to say.
She certainly couldn’t deny she wanted him to kiss her. Not after her enthusiastic response. She liked kissing him. Liked. What an understatement.
They didn’t speak for a couple of miles. It was just as well; Whitney doubted she could have managed any coherent conversation. She was shaken.
The logical part of her brain analyzed the situation and told her that she had simply been kissed. No big deal. She had been kissed before.
But another part of her—the part that was still whirling and humming and way out of control—knew it had been a lot more. She had never been kissed like that before.
She stole another look at the clean, classic lines of his profile and the beautiful shape of his mouth—that hot, demanding mouth. And her body erupted in a whole new set of tingles.
“Whitney?”
God, she loved how the beautiful cadence of his deep voice vibrated in her ears and melted her bones when he said her name.
“Yes, Adam?”
“Have you filed the proper papers with the court to establish your G.A.L. status?”
Here she was, still all tied up in emotional knots by his kiss, and there he was, right back to business.
She crossed her arms over her chest once more.
There’s a lesson to be learned here, she told herself. Don’t let yourself get so damn carried away just because some far too handsome, coldhearted hunk kisses you until your ovaries go into overdrive.
“Yes,” she answered in her best imitation of his formal tone. “Took care of it yesterday afternoon while you were with the bald lady.”
What the hell, if he could be so damn detached about this, then so could she.
“I’m reassured to hear that, Whitney. It would be disappointing to lose your company now due to an administrative oversight.”
Whitney looked over at his profile and saw the slight rise to the side of his lip.
And that’s when she understood. That comment had been Adam Justice’s very formal way of saying that he had liked the kiss, too.
“You do that so well,” she said after a semblance of thought and speech and breath had returned to her.
“And what is that?”
“Surprise me.”
Adam reached over to the stereo control on the dashboard and changed the music from a bold classical selection to a soft i
nstrumental one. “You are rather proficient at rendering surprises yourself.”
“Thank you.”
“It was not a compliment.”
Whitney smiled. “I know. Is it my imagination, or are you moving a bit stiffly today?”
“My muscles are a little sore.”
“Well, good for the bald lady.”
“There is no bald lady, Whitney.”
“Is there any lady?” In light of her current feelings, Whitney realized this was something she had better find out.
“That depends on why you are asking.”
Whitney turned in her seat to look at his profile. There was a message in his careful wording—a very clear message. She was beginning to realize that Adam Justice always selected his words very carefully.
“I asked because you kissed me, Adam.”
“If you are concerned about what complications might arise from something more than a professional relationship developing between us, the answer is no, there is no lady.”
Something more than a professional relationship. His formal phrase in his elegantly formal voice stirred up a whole new set of thrills and chills inside her. This situation was getting serious. Whitney knew that she was showing all the physical and emotional signs of coming down with a bad case of Adam Justice.
She reminded herself that she was smarter than this. These feelings for Adam might have crept upon her unawares, but now that she recognized them for what they were, it was time to put them in perspective. She hardly knew this man.
“Actually I asked because I was concerned that it might be a jealous lady friend who’s been following us,” she said, proud to hear a touch of nonchalance in her tone.
His pause was short and entirely unreadable.
“What makes you think someone is following us?”
“A brown Chevy pulled out behind us when you picked me up at my place. That same brown Chevy is behind us now. And although it’s a little too far back to be certain, it could be a woman in the driver’s seat.”
“Could it?”
“You tell me. I’ve seen you checking it out in your rearview mirror several times on our way to Tacoma and now on our way back.”
“You are observant.”
“You don’t seem too concerned that someone is following us. Aren’t you even the least bit curious? I could be dating a very jealous, grim-faced goalie with the Seattle Thunderbirds who is taking exception to my being here with you.”
“I would find that very difficult to believe.”
“Oh? Why?”
“If you were involved with someone else, I do not believe that you are the kind of woman who would have responded to me the way you did. On the contrary. I doubt you would have kissed me at all.”
He was right, of course. But he didn’t have to sound so damn sure of it.
“You think you know me that well, do you?”
“That well, yes.”
“I see that inborn confidence you exude extends into personal matters.”
“Thank you.”
“That was not a compliment.”
“I know.”
The side of his mouth was lifting again. Whitney turned her head so he couldn’t see her smiling. This handsome, stylish and sophisticated hunk had his own distinctive and compelling charm—no two ways about it.
“It would be helpful to find out why Patrice left Danny D’Amico so much money when he seems to have no knowledge of her.”
And there he was back to business again. Well, maybe she’d best get back to it, too. She gathered her most casual tone and concentrated on looking out of the windshield and ignoring the far too handsome man beside her.
“Maybe Danny’s mother is the connection.”
“That is the probable explanation,” Adam said.
“I wish Danny’s mother hadn’t had a doctor’s appointment this morning. My curiosity is just slightly less than my impatience. Where are we going now?”
“To keep our appointment with Dr. Rubin.”
“Won’t we be early?”
“No, I gave Dr. Rubin a two-hour span for our arrival, anticipating our meeting time with Mr. D’Amico might run short or long. The Rubin address is on the other side of Seattle. We’ll be there within my agreed-upon time frame. Once we get within cell range, I’ll call to let Dr. Rubin know we’re on our way.”
“That’s at least twice you’ve said Dr. Rubin. I thought there were two of them—Esther and Jacob?” Whitney said,
“When I called to set up the appointment for this morning, Dr. Esther Rubin said she would be the only one available to meet with us. Her husband, Jacob, has patients he is committed to see.’’
“What kind of doctors are they?”
“Psychiatrists,” Adam answered.
“Do you know if Patrice ever had occasion to see a psychiatrist?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Where do the Rubins practice?”
“Downtown Bellevue.”
“And they live in Seattle? Well, at least they’re driving against all the commuter traffic. Still, I feel for people who have to spend huge chunks of their time getting to and from work. I’m fifteen minutes away from the office—five of which is spent finding a parking space—and I even grump about that. You still living up on Queen Anne Hill?”
“How do you know where I live?”
“Patrice mentioned it that day in the office. She said she was happy with the house but wanted to change the decor—something about getting rid of the busy wallpaper, covering the furniture in white silk and doing the floors in black marble.”
“You have a remarkable memory.”
It was probably sounding too remarkable. Whitney cautiously added a disclaimer, reminding herself to watch her words in the future. “I don’t get too many clients who live on Queen Anne Hill. Or ones with the money to re-cover furniture in silk and redo floors in marble. Those things tend to stick in one’s mind.”
“COME IN, Mr. Justice, Ms. West,” Esther Rubin said as she showed Adam and Whitney into her old, gray, towering Victorian in an older residential section of Seattle.
Esther Rubin was a short, slim, silver-haired woman, with dark, curious eyes and Ben Franklin glasses perched on the end of her nose. Despite her sixty-odd years, she walked down the hallway with the energy of a youngster. She preceded them into a cool, large cavern of a living room, lined with faded wallpaper and filled with lots of furniture odds and ends, none of which matched, but all of which had a homey, lived-in look.
She gestured for them to be seated, then stood before them with her hands folded together at her waist. “How about some hot tea?” Esther coaxed, pointing to the bright yellow ceramic pot with the one yellow and two blue cups sitting on the coffee table.
“I’d love some,” Whitney said.
“Not for me, thank you,” Adam said.
Esther poured Whitney and herself a cup, then sat down next to Whitney and across from Adam on a worn love seat that had definitely seen better days. For practicing psychiatrists, the Rubins didn’t appear too prosperous.
“Dr. Rubin, I appreciate your seeing us on such short notice,” Adam began.
“I must admit, you rather piqued my interest, Mr. Justice. I don’t get many calls from lawyers telling me they have a confidential matter to discuss So what’s it about?”
“Do you know Patrice Feldon?”
Adam watched as Esther’s eyes squinted and a curious tightness gripped her shoulders She took a small sip of tea and set her cup down on the table.
“Yes, I do,” she said very carefully.
“Dr. Rubin, Patrice Feldon has died and named you and your husband as beneficiaries in her will.”
Esther’s eyes opened, and sadness flowed into them. Her shoulders slumped as the tension left them. “Patrice dead?” she said. “I can’t believe it. How did it happen?”
Adam looked at Esther’s sad eyes and slumping shoulders and suddenly found himself at a loss for words.
> “She died in an automobile accident, Dr. Rubin,” Whitney said, filling in the silence of Adam’s pause. “It happened seven years ago, but her body was only recently found.”
“Seven years ago?” Esther repeated, her head cocking to one side as she chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Why does that sound familiar? Who else was it who…wait, you don’t mean hers was the death reported in the news last week?”
“Yes,” Adam said.
Esther jolted upright on the love seat as she apparently recalled the particulars.
“Dear heavens, you’re that Mr. Justice. The news report said Patrice married you and then left with…oh…” Esther’s sentence trailed off without completion.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Justice,” she said hurriedly, clearly embarrassed. “I didn’t know. I mean when I heard the name Patrice Justice, I didn’t connect her with the Patrice Feldon I knew. They never ran Patrice’s picture, you realize. And when you gave me your name this morning, I didn’t think—”
“It’s all right,” Adam said, eager to end Esther’s continuing apology. “Dr. Rubin, did you watch the courthouse-beat segment with Fred Dykstra on last evening’s news?”
“No, I have dinner to get in the evenings. We have a big family here at present. I have time for very little else.”
“Then I will be the first to tell you that Patrice left an estate in excess of thirty million dollars.”
“Thirty million dollars?” Esther repeated, her eyes growing wide as her right hand clutched the frayed arm of the love seat.
“Patrice has stipulated that you and your husband are to receive a third of what remains after taxes, probate costs and whatever debts may arise are addressed,” Adam said.
“Where did Patrice get thirty million dollars?” Esther asked no one in particular. She was looking off into space, her eyes glazed and unfocused. Adam had the distinct feeling that the woman had not heard anything he had said from the time he first mentioned the sum.
“Dr. Rubin?” Whitney called after a moment, obviously trying to get the woman’s attention. When her first call received no response, Whitney raised her voice. “Dr. Rubin?”