The Knight, the Waitress and the Toddler

by Arlene James

  “You didn’t tell him about the baby.”

  “No, of course not,” Laurel replied mildly.

  “There’s something more, though,” Fancy pronounced ominously, “something you’re not telling me, and it’s got you worried.”

  Laurel rolled back her eyes. It would be useless to deny it. Fancy had the scent and would bug her until she told. According to Fancy it was a sixth sense she’d developed during her days as a stripper because of the married men who had hit on her. She’d learned to identify them with one look, and they were the only kind Fancy would date. The single guys, she said, always wanted to change you, make you into something you weren’t, and what Fancy had been back then was an “exotic dancer.” Showbiz, or so she said, was in her blood. Laurel didn’t know about her blood, but she knew about her heart: it was as big as all outdoors. She couldn’t have asked for a better friend.

  Laurel folded her arms and put her back to the mirror. “I think I blew it.”

  “Oh, that’s plain silly,” Fancy retorted dismissively. “You’ve got that pitch down to a science by now.”

  Laurel shook her head and dropped her gaze. “I asked him to marry me.”

  “What?” Fancy’s horror was second only to her own. Laurel stared at the toes of her nylon shoes while Fancy gaped at the top of her head. “Y-you asked that man to marry you, that Edward White?”

  Laurel nodded miserably. “At the moment, it just seemed the only thing to do. It would certainly guarantee that he’d get his fee.”

  Fancy let loose a few of her more colorful phrases, but then she came right back to the meat of the issue. “You didn’t ask any of them others, did you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “It was Danny that gave you the idea, wasn’t it? That sorry excuse for a…person with something between the legs.”

  Laurel smiled. She couldn’t help it, knowing as she did what Fancy thought of the man, though Fancy would have choked before she’d have called him such. Laurel shook her head. “I can’t blame this on Danny or anyone else. It was a stupid idea. I thought of the community property thing, and somehow it just seemed like the only guarantee I could give him, so…”

  Fancy’s silvered lids elongated, drawing her eyes into slits and blocking them with the heavy fringe of store-bought lashes. “He turned you down, did he, this White?”

  Laurel averted her eyes and said evasively, “It was an unbelievably stupid suggestion.”

  “But one you didn’t make no one else,” Fancy pointed out shrewdly. “He something to see, is he, this White?”

  Laurel swallowed. “H-how do you mean?”

  “You know perfectly well what I mean,” Fancy retorted, her hands on her hips. “I know you, honey, and inheritance or no inheritance, he’d have to flip your switch before you’d consider, let alone propose, even a marriage of convenience. You learned your lesson too well with muscle man Bryce.”

  Laurel thinned her lips in a grimace. “Don’t remind me.”

  Fancy tapped her toe. “You’re attracted to this guy.”

  Laurel closed her eyes in embarrassment. “That isn’t why I suggested marriage,” she defended weakly.

  “No?”

  “No. I told you, it was the only way I could think of to guarantee his fee.”

  “The only guarantee is that you’d be legally hitched,” Fancy pointed out. “What if you didn’t win your case? Ever think of that?”

  Laurel gulped. “N-no, actually.”

  “Well, you were thinking of something,” Fancy prodded.

  Laurel searched for the answer to that and couldn’t find it. “I— I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “I gotta see this man!” Fancy drawled.

  Laurel opened her mouth to beg her friend and co-worker not to pursue that ambition, but Shorty stuck his head through the door just then.

  “Hey, I got orders up out here!” he chided in his Spanishaccented English. He was the only totally bald Mexican Laurel had ever known and not short at all. The nickname came from his position as short-order cook, not his stature.

  “Hold your horses!” Fancy barked at the same moment Laurel called, “Sorry!”

  Fancy made a face that clearly stated the matter would not be dropped permanently, whirled and pushed through the doors. Laurel was thankful for the reprieve. She bent and lifted one foot at a time to tie her shoes. What had she been thinking to propose marriage to Edward White? Had she really expected him to agree? And why had he kissed her? More questions, always more questions, but this time she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answers.

  Edward pecked feverishly at his computer. He’d promised himself that he wasn’t going to do this today. He was not going to devote any more time to following this electronic trail. He was going to sit and wait for some of the other feelers he’d put out to produce some sort of feedback. He had other cases to work on, after all, legitimate cases, cases for which people had paid him cold, hard cash. It was just so frustrating, though. He’d found definite proof that at least three of the charities to which Laurel’s grandmother had left money were fakes, but he hadn’t been able to tie Abelard Kennison to any of them. The total funds involved added up to less than three hundred thousand dollars, a mere pittance compared to the original forty million. The old girl had really strained herself giving one tenth of the whole sum to her only living relative.

  Then again, what he knew of Laurel Heffington Miller did not exactly inspire confidence. He could hardly believe that she had waltzed in here and proposed marriage to him! Still, what he knew of Abelard Kennison was ten times more damning. If anyone had been victimized here, it was surely Laurel Miller. The kiss he was not going to think about, period.

  The speaker phone buzzed. Without taking his eyes off the screen, Edward reached out and hit the appropriate button. “Yeah?”

  “Williams is on the phone for you, sir.”

  That got his eyes off the screen. “Great!” He rubbed his hands together, punched another button and picked up the telephone receiver, kicking back in his chair. “That was quick.”

  “You sounded urgent the other day” came the drawling male voice.

  “What do you have?” Edward asked noncommittally.

  “A list of names, all of them elderly clients whose estates were handled by our boy Abe, all deceased, all cared for at the end by a practical nurse named—are you ready?—Bryce Miller.”

  Edward sat straight up in his chair. “Bingo.”

  “Thought you’d like that.”

  “How’d you come by such an interesting, and comprehensive, piece of information?”

  “Hey, now,” objected the other man good-naturedly. “Do I ask you trade secrets?”

  Edward chuckled. “Okay, okay. Fax the list to my private line, and thanks.”

  “My pleasure. Anything else I can do for you?”

  “Stay on the charity trail. There’s got to be a Kennison connection somewhere.”

  “Will do.”

  Edward hung up the phone, well pleased. Moments later, the fax machine on the far left-hand corner of his desk began to whine. Edward leaned back and linked his hands behind his head, grinning as the machine spat out the single sheet of paper. The paper in hand, Edward studied the list of names, committing each one to memory. Then he carefully stored the paper away inside a metal box with a combination. He placed the box inside a locked desk drawer. Tossing and catching the key, he decided it was time to call on Bryce Miller.

  A pale, achingly thin girl wearing an ill fitting maid’s uniform answered the door.

  “Who are you?”

  Edward pulled a business card from his coat pocket and handed it to the girl. “I’d like to see Mr. Miller, please.”

  Without so much as another glance, the girl turned and bellowed down the hall, “Bryce, some shyster wants to see ya!" She flipped her hand over her shoulder, an apparent signal for Edward to come in, and promptly disappeared behind a swinging door. Edward was just about to foll
ow when a blond man with bulging biceps stepped into the hall from another door farther down the way.

  Bryce Miller was of medium height with short, flat-topped, golden blond hair. Attired in chinos and a blue tank top obviously chosen for bringing out a similar color in his eyes and showing off muscle, he looked Edward up and down before saying dismissively, “I already have a lawyer.”

  Edward took an instant dislike to him. “Don’t you mean ‘employer’?” he suggested pleasantly.

  Miller slanted grayish blue eyes and presented his perfect profile, surgically enhanced, if Edward was any judge. “What’s your beef?”

  “No beef,” Edward answered with an easy shrug, “but I’m not soliciting business, either. My name’s Edward White, and I’m here on behalf of…your ex-wife.” He’d almost said a client.

  Miller’s entire demeanor changed. A flicker of apprehension came first, then a very studied composure, a definite softening. “How is Laurel?” he asked with a genuine note of interest to mark the low, tender tone.

  “Well enough.”

  Miller made a great show of relief and switched abruptly to a sort of forced bonhomie. “I’m so glad. Come in and have a seat, won’t you?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Edward followed him into what had once been a splendid study or library. The oak shelves were empty of books now, however, and except for two low-backed, overstuffed easy chairs upholstered in a heavy flowered damask, the furniture had been replaced with weight machines and workout equipment. A Federal-style butler’s cart bearing crystal decanters and glasses sat to one side of a clean, redbrick fireplace. Miller walked over to it, unstoppered a decanter and poured a full measure of bright red liquid into a glass. “Cranberry juice,” he said, holding it aloft. “Good for the kidneys. Would you like one?”

  “No thanks.”

  Miller nodded at one of the chairs, and Edward made himself comfortable, long legs crossed. Miller took the other, perching on the edge, legs spread and elbows balanced upon knees. He looked Edward over again, then slugged back a long draught of juice.

  “Where is Laurel? I haven’t seen her since she moved out of the last apartment.”

  It came out entirely too casually but with just the right touch of concern. Edward smiled to himself. He was pretty good, considering his IQ had to come in somewhere below that of a poodle. “Mr. Miller, I came here—”

  “I don’t care!” Miller declared, coming to his feet.

  “Excuse me?”

  Miller walked back to the butler’s cart and refilled his glass. “Whatever it is,” he said over his shoulder, “I don’t care.” He turned to face Edward again, feet braced apart as if he dared Edward not to believe what he had to say. “I still love her, and I know she still loves me. If we could just talk, the two of us, alone, I’m certain we could patch things up.”

  Edward lowered his gaze. “I’ll tell my…Ms. Miller, that you’re interested in a private meeting, though I’d say it’s a little late, considering that the divorce is final.”

  “I don’t care about that, either,” Miller vowed. “All I care about is her.”

  “Oh, then you won’t mind signing over her fortune,” Edward said smoothly, “and the house, of course.”

  Anger flashed across Miller’s face, but then he put on an expression of misery. “I can’t,” he said sadly and pushed his free hand over his hair, not disturbing so much as a lock of it.

  Edward wanted desperately to tell him that he wasn’t buying his act, but he knew that would be counterproductive. Instead, he brought both hands together in his lap and made himself smile with understanding. “And why is that?”

  Miller registered surprise so patently false that Edward felt the urge to slap him. “Don’t you know?” Miller whispered.

  Edward clenched his hands into fists and forced disinterest into his voice. “Know what?”

  An impressive parade of emotions fixed themselves to his face one after the other, first indecision, then sadness and resignation, followed by grim determination. “No, I won’t embarrass Laurel like that. She’s too precious to me, despite her, ah, problems”

  He made a sudden, impassioned plea. “Please, Mr. White, if you could just give me an address or a telephone number, I know we could work this out.”

  For some reason, the very idea of Laurel “working out” anything with this muscle-bound bozo made Edward’s stomach turn. He didn’t realize that he was clenching his teeth until he unlocked them to speak. “As I said, I’ll mention your request to Laurel, but I warn you that she does not appear to want to work out anything, Mr. Miller, except access to her inheritance.”

  Miller moved quickly across the room and dropped down onto the edge of his chair again. “I know I could make her remember how good it was between us before she got this notion into her head that I’m some kind of enemy. I blame that on her divorce lawyer,” he said bitterly.

  “Daniel Hardacre has much to answer for,” Edward stated noncomittally.

  “If you won’t tell me how to contact her,” Bryce pleaded, “then just ask her to come and see me. Please. And tell her that I love her, that I can’t stop thinking about her, that it’s lonely in our bed at night….”

  Spurred by sudden images of Laurel and this walking muscle wrapped around each other, Edward shot to his feet. “I…” He cleared his throat. “I, um, must again state my, that is, Laurel’s position. She wants her home back and control of her inheritance.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” Miller said flatly, and Edward had the unassailable sense that he had just heard the truth for the first time since he’d walked in here.

  “I see. Well, I was afraid that would be your position,” Edward said, bluffing for all he was worth. “I had hoped that it wouldn’t come to litigation, and you understand, of course, the obligation to try to settle the matter outside of court. That being impossible, however, I’ll be on my way. I’ll let myself out. Thank you for the time.”

  He didn’t wait for Miller to speak or anything else, just walked out the same way he’d come in and hurried down the elaborately manicured path to the big, boxy, luxury sedan parked at the apex of the broad circular drive. He was mad at himself by the time he got there. What the hell was wrong with him anyway? He’d nearly blown it. He’d all but declared himself the attorney of record, and what a pretty fix that would have been. What was it about this case that made him want to leap right in? He wanted to see Kennison go down, yes, but he’d wanted that for years. No, in all honesty, he had to admit—to himself, if no one else— that what compelled him was Laurel Miller herself, but he couldn’t for the life of him understand why.

  Oh, she was attractive, no doubt about that, but he saw and dealt with attractive women every day. He didn’t find himself assaulted with visions of them with other men or wanting to throttle those other men. Mostly he didn’t think about those other women at all. Then again, no other woman had ever proposed marriage to him within moments of making his acquaintance.

  Oh, if he’d let himself, he supposed he would still think of Kendra in that vein. He had intended to marry her, after all, but that had been before Parker had chosen her as the wife meant to ensure his guardianship of his orphaned infant niece. And to think that as Parker’s attorney it had been his own idea! It wasn’t supposed to have been a real marriage at all, but it certainly had become that, and only the fact that both Kendra and Parker were happy together made the situation at all palatable. Maybe it was that marriage-of-convenience scheme that drew him to Laurel Miller. Maybe he could identify with her moment of madness because he’d experienced a similar one himself. Yes, that had to be it, that and the chance to put Kennison away once and for all. But that’s all it was. That’s all it could be.

  Wasn’t it?

  Chapter Three

  Laurel groaned, slipped her foot free of her shoe and flexed her toes. It had been a long day, but at seven-thirty they only had a half hour to go before they could lock the doors. With any luck, they’d be out
of here in another hour, so long as no one walked in that door and ordered a hot meal, forcing Shorty to fire up the grill again. Laurel stretched her arm across the bar counter and laid her head upon it, pulling the offending paper hat free with her other hand.

  Next to her, Fancy snapped the tiny elastic band on her hair net and chomped her gum. “What a day,” she moaned.

  “Hey, Fancy,” Old Plug shouted, rousing from his nap in the booth nearest the door. “Did I ask you to marry me?”

  Without blinking so much as an eyelash, Fancy shouted back, “Yeah, Plug.”

  “Are you gonna do it?”

  Laurel giggled into the bend of her elbow, and Fancy kicked her with a sideways swing of her foot, saying loudly, “Naw, honey, I can’t—not this month. I ain’t got a free day for weeks.”

  “Oh,” Plug said with no obvious emotion. “Okay.”

  Laurel giggled again.

  “Will you shush!” Fancy hissed in her ear.

  “I can’t help it. I think it’s sweet, the way he never gives up.”

  “You wouldn’t think it was so funny if he was after you all the time.”

  “You’re his dream,” Laurel pointed out.

  Fancy snorted inelegantly, snapped her gum and said, “You know, the sad thing is, I remember him from the good old days as well as he remembers me, and he was quite a man back then. Nothing special, but he had all his hair and all his teeth and he was kind of shy with women. If he liked the bottle a little too much, well, which one of them didn’t? Who’d have thought he’d turn out this way, living on the street, drinking away his life?”

  “It is sad,” Laurel agreed softly. “Doesn’t he have any family or anyone to take care of him?”