by Arlene James
“Common law marriage!” someone echoed.
Charly lifted a stalling hand, prepared to explain the strategy she’d developed, even as something struck her as familiar about that exclamation and the voice that had made it.
“Put Newkirk and Li on it,” she instructed Helen. “Tell them to leave no stone unturned.” Nodding, Helen hurried out of the room. Charly braced her hands against the tabletop and took a deep breath, prepared to meet the client now, only to realize that he was not within sight. Sensing a presence at the window, she straightened and turned, one hand automatically tugging at the bottom of her suit coat.
“Charly?” he said, standing in front of the large, plate-glass window that looked down on Commerce Street. She blinked and smiled.
“Darren! What are you doing here?”
He stared at her, solemn as a judge in a hand-made designer suit. Slowly the hair rose on the back of her neck, but she couldn’t quite think why. She had meant to question him in this case. Eventually. In private. She frowned. How had Pratt known the identity of the “friend” she’d mentioned yesterday, and why had he called Darren in for this meeting?
“I…I tried to tell you last n-night,” he stammered.
She put a hand to her head, trying to make sense of what her instincts were telling her. “I know. I’m sorry. I was just so busy. I never dreamed you’d been contacted about this, but you could have mentioned it on the phone.”
Suddenly the door swung open and Cartere, always the voice of doom, pushed his big belly into the room, his bald head following. “Well, it’s hit the fan,” he growled, slapping a heap of newspapers onto the table. “And she throws hard ball, this Tawny person.”
Darren closed his eyes. Charly glanced at the newspapers. Faceup, the front page headline screamed, Stripper Sues RuCom Founder! Below it, a full spread above the fold, was a large photograph. Her attention caught, Charly tilted her head to get the best view. It was a waist-up photo of Darren in a tuxedo. The woman just behind him and obviously on his arm was a beautiful, sexy blonde with a big smile and enormous breasts, most of which were revealed by the cut of her dress.
A strange buzzing filled Charly’s ears. Somewhere in the distance she heard a familiar voice saying, “I didn’t realize you two already know each other.”
Someone else said, “Whoever’s advising Ms. Beekman is trying to force you to settle, D.K., by making their case to the press.”
“Prejudicing the trial,” agreed another.
Charly couldn’t seem to get air into her lungs, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t deny the truth slapping her in the face. Darren Rudd, her Darren, her soul mate, was D. K. Rudell. She turned wide, confused eyes on him. I believe in the value of the truth. But even that was a lie! It was all lies, everything he’d said and done.
“Just let me explain,” he pleaded, coming toward her with outstretched hands. “I wanted to tell you last night. I…I didn’t know, I’m not sure I ever even asked, who you work for!”
She couldn’t feel, couldn’t think beyond the awful realization of her own stupidity. Why hadn’t she known? Why hadn’t she realized? “No,” she said. “No.”
“Charly, listen, when I told you my name was Rudd, I…I only wanted you to get to know the real me without the reputation and the rest of it getting in the way.”
The real him. The real Darren, D. K. Rudell. She shook her head. “Oh, my God.”
“Charly, sweetheart, you have to understand.”
“Oh. My. God.”
“I was going to tell you. If you hadn’t been busy last night, I’d—”
“How could you?”
He bowed his head, and the full force of the lie buffeted her. He didn’t care. He had never cared, not about her, not about Ponce, not about the team. What was a little money to him, a lot of money, even? He was D. K. Rudell, retail genius, electronics mogul. Playboy. It was all just an elaborate game, a challenge. Could Darren Rudd get the girl as easily as D. K. Rudell? Could he make the committed mother and bleeding-heart attorney fall in love with him? That he could, that he had, was like a knife to the chest. Numbly she turned and walked out of the room away from the lie, not caring if she walked away from her job, her career, as well.
He caught her in front of the secretarial pool, his strong hands turning her sharply. “Sweetheart, you have to listen to me.”
The anger she hadn’t quite acknowledged erupted. “Get your hands off me!” She yanked free, arms wrapping about her upper arms protectively. “Don’t ever touch me again.”
His hands hovered about her but didn’t touch. “Honey, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. I was going to.”
“Spare me.” Turning on her heel, she strode toward her office, mind churning. Her job. Suddenly she understood that she was going to lose her job when she needed it most, just before the hearing. Ponce! Oh, God, how could she tell him? What could she tell him? Desperation clawed at her, ripping wounds in her psyche that flowed freely, bleeding anger, shame, regret and such disappointment that it nearly felled her.
Somehow she was standing in front of her desk, but she couldn’t quite think why. Then she spied her handbag. Her car keys were in that bag. She snatched it up just as Darren, D.K., whoever he was, shoved through the door.
“Charly, I love you,” he said.
Laughter spilled out of her, or was it crying? “Right.” She whirled on him. “And you never heard of Tawny Beekman.”
He gulped. The door bumped him, shoving him forward a few stumbling steps as Richard Pratt plowed into the room. He glanced at Darren but focused a glare on Charly. “What the hell is going on?”
“I’m leaving,” she said, proud that her voice shook only slightly. “Get someone else to front the case.”
“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear before. Your job depends—”
“Her job is not at risk here,” Darren interrupted firmly. Pratt glanced at him in surprise. “Whether she stays or she goes, her job is not at risk,” he stated bluntly. “Fire her and I’ll find some other firm to represent me.”
Pratt narrowed his eyes and stepped closer to Charly, hissing, “You are going to blow this for the firm.”
“Shut up, Pratt,” Darren ordered. Pratt snapped his mouth shut like a guppy trapping a hatchling. Darren eased in front of him. “Charly, I don’t expect you to work on this case. I didn’t realize you were even employed with this firm.”
“Obviously,” she snapped, daring him to deny that he hadn’t wanted her to know about Tawny Beekman.
“Maybe you told me who you work for,” he went on, “but if you did, I don’t remember. I was too busy falling in love with you.”
“In love!” Pratt parroted.
“Are you still here?” Darren growled, twisting such a glare over one shoulder that the other man stumbled backward.
“B-but Mr. Rudell,” he stammered. “You d-don’t understand. That’s Charlene Bellamy.”
“I know who she is, you idiot.”
“Which is more than I can say about you, or could,” she pointed out sharply. “Then again, I don’t make a habit of lying about my identity.”
“Neither do I,” Darren insisted.
“Except to me, apparently.”
Darren ran a hand through his hair. “Would you have given me so much as the time of day if you’d known?”
“No more than I intend to now,” she retorted, turning toward the door.
He caught her by the arm, then released her immediately, saying, “I understand why you’re angry, and I don’t expect you to represent me in this case, but Charly, please let me explain.”
“You, your case and your explanations can go straight to hell, Mr. Rudell,” she told him flatly. He clamped his jaw and looked away, a muscle flexing in the hollow of his cheek. It was Richard Pratt who threw himself in front of the door.
“You can’t walk out!” he exclaimed. To Darren he said, “You don’t understand. We need a female at the table on this, and she’s th
e only female on staff!”
“The only female?” Darren repeated skeptically.
“The only attorney,” Richard corrected.
“Hire another,” Darren ordered.
“He can’t,” Charly told him smugly, folding her arms. “No self-respecting female attorney in the state will work for this firm. Their bias against women is legendary, though to give him his due, Cartere is trying to change it, without much success, sadly. I wouldn’t be here if the Texas Women’s Law Association hadn’t filed a class-action suit against them. They were desperate for a token female by the time they got to me, and I was frankly too desperate myself to turn them down when they made me the offer.”
“If you’d bring in some money,” Richard snapped. He addressed Darren again. “She’s an excellent attorney, but every firm in town knows she’s got something against clients who can pay. Every penniless, hopeless cause in the state beats a path to her desk!”
“The law is about more than money!” Charly protested hotly.
“Can we just stick to the point?” Darren intervened. “I thought you guys were experts at my sort of case,” he said to Richard Pratt.
“They are,” Charly said, “but they’re usually sitting on the opposite side of the courtroom.”
Pratt ignored her, focusing on Darren instead. “As much as I hate to admit it,” he said, drawing himself up tight, “we need her.”
“I need her,” Darren corrected bluntly. “You need a personality transplant.”
Pratt sputtered, unable or unwilling to express his displeasure to this wealthiest of clients. Darren sighed and lifted a hand to the nape of his neck. For an instant Charly felt a stirring of something for him, sympathy, longing. Then, in the very same breath, she remembered the depth and breadth of his lies, the accusation against him. He had used her, for entertainment if nothing else. How it must have amused him. Why else would he have conducted a full-blown campaign to get to her? And she’d known it, blast him. She’d known it and allowed it, because she’d believed that he was good and kind and generous. She’d even allowed him to use her son. Why couldn’t she use him then? Why shouldn’t she? Suddenly she recalled that Pratt and a certain judge were very close friends. It bordered on unethical, but at the moment she couldn’t seem to care.
Striking a nonchalant pose, she lifted her chin and looked at Pratt. “First, I want a raise, a sizable one.”
Pratt muttered under his breath, but he nodded, glaring daggers at her and Darren, who still had not lifted his head. “Until I have the papers drawn up, Mr. Rudell is witness to my agreement to your terms.”
“That’s not all,” Charly went on, her heart slamming painfully inside her chest. “You’re friends with family court judge Stoner.”
Pratt nodded and shrugged uncertainly. “We play golf together twice a week. Everyone knows that.”
“I want you to speak to him,” she said flatly, “about my adoption petition.”
Darren looked up sharply. His gaze, when he turned it on Pratt was very pointed. Pratt swallowed and said, “I’ll do better than that. I’ll represent you at the hearing, if you want.”
Slam dunk. With Pratt on her side, the adoption was a done deal. She’d never have dared ask under any other circumstances, knowing full well the pay-back a worm like Pratt would have expected. But the worm had turned in her favor.
She slung the strap of her handbag over one shoulder. “Tell Helen to call me at home. I’m taking the day off.”
Pratt began sputtering objections, but Darren cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. “I didn’t do what she’s accusing me of, Charly,” he told her softly. “I won’t say I didn’t have an affair with her, but it was never more than mere sex, and even that was over before she moved into the empty apartment. I want you to know that.”
“Yeah, right,” she retorted. “That explains everything perfectly, Mr. Rudell.”
“Darling, I told you why I gave you a false name. I so desperately wanted a chance with you. Please tell me I still have it.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. They’d never had a chance. His lies had seen to that. “You can burn your team jersey,” she told him coldly, “and submit your formal resignation to the commissioner.”
He winced and gulped. “All right, if that’s what you want. But, Charly, someday you have to let me explain everything.”
Pointing her chin at Richard Pratt, she said, “Explain it to someone who cares.” With that she swept out of the room.
No one who saw her striding purposefully from the building would have guessed that she was dying inside.
“But why isn’t he?” Ponce asked for the third or fourth time. They were sitting in the car, directly behind the bleachers on the sideline of the soccer field where the team was scheduled to play shortly.
Charly tamped down her impatience and said, “He just isn’t. He has…important stuff going on right now.” She couldn’t bring herself to say Darren’s name, not yet, maybe never. She was having enough trouble just thinking of him as Darren Keith, better known as D. K., Rudell. At least he hadn’t lied about his given name.
“Not more important than the team,” Ponce argued, shaking his head. “I know.”
Charly held on to the frayed edge of her composure with the steely grip of pure desperation. “I realize he probably told you that, but—”
“He didn’t tell me,” Ponce insisted. “I just know.”
Sighing, Charly rubbed her forehead. She’d nursed a faint but intractable headache for days. “He isn’t coming, Ponce. I’m sorry, but you just have to accept that D—he isn’t going to be around anymore.”
Her son stared at her with doubtful, troubled eyes as if wondering why she couldn’t see what was so obvious to him. Then, shaking his head, he got out of the car. Charly stared at his empty seat for several moments, feeling lost and frighteningly vulnerable.
It had been her idea to fight fire with fire. Tawny Beekman was obviously intent on trying this case in the court of public opinion, either in an attempt to hurt Darren personally or in hopes of forcing him to settle out of court by making a fair trial in this venue impossible. Earlier, the identity of Ms. Beekman’s former roommate had been leaked to the press. The woman in question, whom neither Charly nor any other member of the firm had ever met by implicit design, had been only too glad to let the public know that she’d tossed out Tawny after catching her own boyfriend in bed with “the slut.”
The story had run on the front pages of the Dallas paper two days ago and in the Fort Worth press the next. Today’s press conference had been called to “clean the hands” of the firm and, by association, its client. Charly only wished that someone else could have been chosen for the public hand washing, but she knew that hers was a dual role, female figurehead and attack dog in a skirt. Today she would play the former to the hilt.
Stepping up to the microphone, she smiled and proceeded to thank the press for coming. She then read a statement, her hands trembling while cameras whirred and snapped. Her hair and cosmetics had been done by the top stylist in the area just for this occasion, so she knew that she was looking her absolute best, but the idea of appearing on the evening news gave her a serious case of the nerves. She would have to take special care to keep Ponce from seeing it.
After expressing formal concern for the tone of the press coverage to date, the statement went on to point out that their client, Mr. Rudell, had no part in setting the current press circus in motion. While he had nothing to hide, he naturally would have preferred that Ms. Beekman’s unfounded claims pass unnoticed. After reading the statement, she took a few questions.
When asked, despite the formal statement, if Rudell had any hand in bringing the latest information on Ms. Beekman to the press, Charly stated categorically that he had not, which was flatly true since, after mentioning the roommate’s name in passing, he had been neither consulted nor informed about what that information had put in process. When pressed as to whether or not the firm had
a hand in the previous day’s coverage, Charly indignantly stated that no member or employee of the firm had ever had contact of any sort with the plaintiff’s ex-roommate, who had been featured so prominently in the press recently. That, too, was true on its face. It had been the friend of a brother of a driver employed by a car service often used by the firm who had dropped the dime on Tawny Beekman’s ex-roomie.
Finally the question Charly and her team had been hoping for, in some form, surfaced. It was asked by an uncertain young woman with a reputation for getting her facts wrong, but it was asked in front of an avid throng of newshounds.
“What do these latest revelations have to do with Mr. Rudell’s relationship to Ms. Beekman?”
Charly bowed her head to hide her smile and appeared to fumble for an answer. “Well…not that Mr. Rudell would agree to necessarily answer that question, you understand—he is not, as you may have discovered, the sort of gentleman to kiss and tell—one, nevertheless, must ask oneself why a gentleman with his resources would consent to ‘set up as his de facto wife,’ as Ms. Beekman contends, a woman who was caught only days before in, ah, physical congress with another man, that is, her own roommate’s boyfriend.”
A murmur of rueful speculation went around the room, even as several hands shot into the air. Her mission accomplished by having created as much doubt about Tawny Beekman’s story as possible, Charly demurred to answer further questions, saying deprecatingly, “I’m afraid I’ve said quite enough, perhaps too much. I just find these allegations about my client absurd, since it’s painfully obvious that at no time did he take himself out of circulation. Oh! There I go again. Please you must excuse me. Thank you again for coming.”
The newspeople shouted questions even as she left the dais and exited the door behind it, but Charly merely tossed apologetic smiles over her shoulder as she made her escape. Out of sight of the reporters, all four of the partners met her to congratulate her on her performance. It was Pratt, however, who patted her on the shoulder and exclaimed proudly, “Girlie, I knew you had it in you to be a first-rate lawyer!” Charly rolled her eyes and kept on walking. “What?” he asked, Cartere groaning. “What’d I say?”