by Julia London
“Hey,” she said, smiling softly, knowing full well the effect that had on most men.
“Hey,” he replied, snatching the bait and coming to his feet. He was tall, well over six feet, and broad-shouldered. He put his hands on his waist, grinning, waiting for her to say something.
Rebecca turned the charm up a notch and smiled shyly, looking up at him through her lashes. “I just noticed you sitting there,” she said, moving a little closer so that she was just inches from him, “and I was wondering . . .” She let her voice trail off, gave him another deceptively shy smile.
The man cocked a brow and with an appreciative smile, took her in, top to bottom. “Well, wonder away. In fact, would you like to take a seat and wonder?”
Rebecca smiled lustily.
He quickly moved the quesadilla and paper, making a spot for her.
She sat. She smiled. Thought it was a pity that he was really Hollywood handsome as he sat next to her, his gray eyes shining.
“I’m Matt, by the way.”
“Hi, Matt,” she said, and crossed her legs, baring her leg and leaning forward just enough that he could get a glimpse of her cleavage, if he dared.
Oh, he dared, all right. With a quick, furtive glance, he asked, “You were wondering?”
“I was wondering,” she said, lower still, so that he had to lean in to hear her, “if you’re always so . . .” She paused coyly.
He grinned. “So . . . what?”
“Cheap,” she whispered.
It had the desired affect; his brows suddenly dipped in confusion. “Excuse me?”
“CHEAP,” she said articulately, her smile gone. “You know, the type to screw your shoes on because you’re too tight to spend a whole buck on a quesadilla?”
He suddenly sat back, pushed a hand through his thick, sandy brown hair. “I’m sorry; I think you’ve confused me with someone else.”
“Rockefeller, perhaps?”
His frown deepened. “Look, lady, I don’t know what your problem is—”
“Other than the fact that you stole my paper and my quesadilla?”
“What?” he exclaimed, his voice admirably full of indignation for such a cheap ass. “I did no such thing!”
“Yes, you did!” she insisted. “I went to get a bottle of water—”
“Yeah, I know. I saw you,” he said, relaxing enough to give her a lopsided smile. “Actually, I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
Oh right, like she was going to fall for that. “Or my quesadilla, apparently.”
“No, just you. Because you left your quesadilla over there,” he said, pointing down the walk.
That drew her up short; Rebecca blinked, looked to where he pointed—there on the very next bench down was her neatly folded paper and her untouched quesadilla, just as she had left them. She quickly looked over her shoulder to the quesadilla guy, and realized, with a very sick feeling, that he had moved his cart between the time she bought her lunch and returned to buy her water. He had moved just enough to confuse her, which meant. . Oh. Dear. God.
Mortified, that’s what she was, absolutely paralyzed with mortification. She glanced at Matt from the corner of her eye, saw the smirk on his lips. “My sincerest apologies.”
He laughed, casually draped an arm across the back of the bench. “You know, I’ve had women do some crazy things to get my attention, but I can’t say I’ve ever had one be quite so inventive just to meet me.”
This was absolutely horrifying. “I assure you, I wasn’t trying to meet you—I made a mistake.” Like she’d have to do something that manipulative to meet someone like him? It was preposterous.
“Oh, yeah?” he asked, lifting that brow again. “Then why were you checking me out?”
“Checking you—that is absurd,” she said indignantly. She did not check men out. She was off men; she rarely even noticed them.
“So are you denying that when you were on the phone, you weren’t checking me out? Because baby, from where I was sitting, you couldn’t take your eyes off me.”
“I was on the phone. I wasn’t looking at anything.”
“Riiight,” he said with a wink. “If you need to deny it, that’s okay,” he said, and leaned forward. “But it makes me feel kind of special that you’d go to such lengths.”
“You’re out of your mind,” Rebecca said, and she came to her feet. “This may come as a shock to your obviously healthy ego, but I don’t need to concoct a scheme to meet a man. I am sorry to have bothered you.”
“No problem. It was quite entertaining. By the way, the full name is Matt Parrish. I figure you should at least get that for all your trouble.”
Of all the infuriating— “Really?” she asked, feigning wide-eyed surprise. “I’ll remember that. Matt Popinjay,” she said, and with a pert toss of her hair, turned to walk away, bristling. She marched to the next bench, picked up the quesadilla she bought and tossed it in the trash. And as she departed the capitol grounds, she told the smiling state trooper that the man seated on the bench beneath the big pecan tree was bothering her. The trooper assured her he would not bother her again.
From there, Rebecca walked as quickly as her Jimmy Choos would carry her to her Range Rover, and drove out of town, periodically shrieking at the windshield. How could she have made such a boneheaded mistake? All she could see was his smug look, but fortunately, by the time she reached the Little Maverick Preschool, she was calm again, because, she realized with a sigh of relief, she’d never see that man again. Thank God!
The school door opened as she parked and kids began to spill out. Grayson was the last to emerge, walking with his head down, his backpack almost bigger than he, his sandy brown hair (Bud’s hair) going in fifty different directions. The poor kid had really been down this morning when he found out that Bud was skipping out on him again. “Hey, honey,” she said as Grayson opened the door and crawled in, head first, onto his booster seat.
She helped him fasten his seat belt, noticed his corduroy pants had a hole in one knee. “So what happened to your pants?”
“I don’t know,” he said, leaning over to have a look.
“How was your day?” she asked as she started the Rover up. “Anything new?”
“I pushed Taylor down,” he said.
Rebecca frowned. “Why would you do such a thing?”
Grayson shrugged, returned to examining the hole in his pants. “I don’t like him.”
Grayson had always been a happy child, quick to make friends, but since they had moved to Austin, he seemed different. Not unhappy, precisely, but just not . . . happy. And when Bud canceled weekends on him, the boy didn’t take it very well. Rebecca pushed his bangs from his eyes and brushed the bit of dirt from a cheek that still had that baby roundness to it. “You can’t go around pushing kids down just because you don’t like them, Gray.”
He frowned, picked up her cell phone, and punched some of the buttons. “I wish Lucy lived here,” he muttered.
Rebecca would extract that little dagger from her heart later, but for now, she ignored it. Lucy had been Grayson’s nanny until the divorce was final, and the kid had not quite yet forgiven the universe for her loss. He had not wanted to move and he had not wanted to be with his mom. He had wanted to be with Lucy. “Maybe we can go and see her sometime,” Rebecca suggested with as much cheer as she could muster. Grayson said nothing, just bent over her phone, randomly punching numbers.
Okay. Maybe not.
They pulled out onto the highway, and Rebecca turned on the radio. “Drive on down to Reynolds Chevrolet and Cadillac! We’ll beat any deal in South Central Texas!” Bud’s voice blared at them. Rebecca quickly punched another button, but it was too late—Bud’s voice had registered on Grayson’s young brain.
“How come Dad isn’t coming?” he asked her for the third time that day.
Rebecca kept her eyes on the road, hating Bud. “He’s really busy, Gray. He’s trying,” she lied, and thankfully, her answer seemed to satisfy Grayson for t
he time being. Unfortunately, he would be disappointed again, and she could hardly bear the thought.
Yep, this day had turned out to be a real winner, all the way around.
Chapter Three
Being in politics is like being a football coach. You have to be smart enough to understand the game, and dumb enough to think it’s important.
EUGENE McCARTHY
By the look of things, Judge Gambofini was about to bust a nut, which was not terribly surprising. Gambofini was one of those guys who, once he donned the black robe, thought that he ascended to sitteth upon the right hand of some Supreme Court Justice and took umbrage at every little thing. Nevertheless, Matt didn’t think he’d ever seen him quite this pissed.
Matt and his partner, Ben Townsend (who together with a handful of paralegals constituted the Parrish-Townsend law firm), stood shoulder to shoulder in front of Judge Gambofini’s chamber desk, taking their licks. Which meant they were concentrating very hard on trying to look properly chastened. At least Matt was, anyway, seeing as how he was the object of the judge’s complete disdain, and he couldn’t get a good look at Ben. But a moment ago, when he had gotten a look at Ben, he had the distinct feeling that his partner intended to kick his ass up one side of the courthouse and down the other.
Okay, all right, so he hadn’t actually listed Betty Dilley on the witness list. But how was he supposed to know they’d dig her up and she’d actually come out with a couple’ of juicy, jury-bending tidbits about the plaintiff? The means was not as important as the end—the plaintiff was a lying cheat and had retaliated against Matt’s client, big time. Mrs. Dilley just happened to be the last nail in a coffin that wasn’t quite shut. Granted, Matt could have told opposing counsel about her long before today (he’d just conceded as much to Gambofini, which made him puff up like a giant red M&M), but he had succeeded in planting a seed with the jury that maybe there was something had about the plaintiff they really needed to hear. It was a move, in his opinion, that had practically saved their case. But for purists like Judge Gambofini, it was what he liked to call “courtroom theatrics.” And Judge Gambofini made it quite clear that he did not like “courtroom theatrics.”
“Mr. Parrish, do I make myself exceedingly clear?” the judge asked him, concluding today’s rant while a smug opposing counsel looked on.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Matt responded instantly and contritely.
But not contritely enough, apparently. “Look, Parrish,” the judge said. “I know you’re the hotshot big gun everyone is talking about, but I don’t care. You will not be allowed to stage your dramatic little antics in my fucking courtroom.” (Part of that remark—not the antics part, but the hotshot big gun part—caused Matt to exchange a curious look with Ben, who appeared to be just as mystified by it). “You may think this court is your own personal little playground for showing off, but you will abide by the rules, or you will find yourself in contempt and wearing an orange jumpsuit to bed. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Your Honor, you certainly do,” Matt said again, and wished Gambofini would hurry up so he could personally wipe the lipstick smirk off the face of the plaintiff’s attorney, Ann Pritchard.
“I should hope so, for your sake,” the judge said, rising from his chair. “Now clear my chambers before I get really upset.”
Matt and Ben nodded, waited for Ann Pritchard to precede them through the door. Once outside the judge’s chambers, Ann (who, coincidentally, happened to be one of the many women Matt had dated in the past, only now he was looking at her wondering how the hell that had ever happened) turned her smirk up to a full scoff and snorted, “I told you that would get you nothing but an ass-chewing. On top of that, the jury thinks you’re a jerk.”
“I guess we’ll know if I’m a jerk when the jury comes back, won’t we?” Matt responded with a wink.
“Dick,” Ann snorted and marched away, almost knocking down the only legal secretary the Parrish-Townsend firm had.
“Harold,” Ben sighed, looking sternly at their legal secretary, “Take a piece of advice from me. Never, ever, do what Matt does in a courtroom. Better still,” he continued, as Harold nodded solemnly, “never take on loser cases like this if you want to feed your family . . . or whatever.”
“Oh, you mustn’t worry, Mr. Townsend,” Harold said brightly. “I have no intention of ever becoming a lawyer.”
Ben missed that remark; he was too busy frowning at Matt. “Look, I don’t want to get called on the carpet anymore by Gambofini. Hell, I remember when he couldn’t argue his way out of a paper bag, let alone preside, but he thinks he can, so when you bring a case before him—”
“Ah, I beg your pardon, Mr. Townsend,” Harold politely interrupted before Ben could go off on what was a regular rant about Matt’s cases, “but I need to inform Mr. Parrish that Senator Masters has called three times today.”
“Masters?” Ben said, surprised, his rant suddenly forgotten. “Hey, that reminds me—what was that about you being a hotshot big gun?”
“Hell if I know,” Matt shrugged, and took the cell phone from Harold to call Senator Masters.
When happy hour rolled around, Matt drove his silver Jaguar XK to the warehouse district in downtown Austin. He screeched to a halt in front of Stetson’s, a popular steakhouse, tossed his keys to the valet, strode inside like he owned the joint, and flashed his most winsome smile at the hostess. “How’re you doing, Maria?”
She, in turn, lit up like a Christmas tree. “Great, Mr. Parrish! Are you by yourself tonight?” she asked, as Matt was rather notorious for bringing his many dates here.
“Just me. I’m meeting some friends—is Tom Masters here?”
“Right this way,” she said and, picking up a menu, asked him to follow her.
Matt followed her and her ass, which jiggled side to side in black spandex pants as she led him to the back of the restaurant and the table usually reserved for big shots. Matt should know—he sat there often enough. With a reputation for being one half of the best litigation team in town, his clients included CEOs of multinational corporations and heads of state and local governments who liked to be wined and dined. Matt spent almost as much time here as he did in the downtown loft he called home.
Tom Masters was the first of three men to come to his feet when he saw Matt behind the pretty hostess. “Parrish!” he called, sticking out his enormous hand. Tom had been one of the best high school lineman in Texas, but in recent years, he had gotten a little thick, both figuratively and literally. “Glad you could make yourself available tonight,” he said, shaking Matt’s hand with enthusiasm.
Right. Like he was foolish enough to turn down a state senator, even if it was one of his old college fraternity brothers. “Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. How are you, Senator?”
“Shit, Parrish! Call me Tom!” He laughed, slapped Matt on the shoulder. “Hey, you know Doug Balinger? And Jeff Hunter?” he asked, indicating his two companions.
Matt knew them by name only, and that they were the powerhouses behind the state Democratic Party. He shook hands, took a seat next to Tom, and asked Maria to bring him a bourbon, neat. The four men watched her walk away; Tom sighed longingly. “Now that’s a fine looking girl,” he said with a shake of his head.
“Matt, I read you did pretty well on that theater deal,” Jeff Hunter said. “What was it again?”
“The Cineworld case? We sued them over access for the handicapped,” he said with a shrug and left it at that. He was loath to talk shop in situations like this, because everyone and their dog was an armchair attorney.
“The paper said you did pretty well for the plaintiffs,” Jeff continued. “Didn’t the court rule that Cineworld had to provide so much handicapped seating on par with the rest of the crowd? And added a cool five mil for being inconvenienced?”
Doug snorted into his vodka tonic. “Must be nice.”
Actually, it wasn’t very nice at all—it was textbook discrimination, and Matt couldn’t stand seeing t
he little guy get trounced by big Cineworld-type conglomerates. Maybe his father was right about him—Matt could be a bleeding heart. “The deal was that Cineworld made it clear they weren’t changing business practices for a bunch of gimps in Austin, Texas,” he said coolly. “But my clients have severe handicaps that confine them to wheelchairs. If they want to see a movie like all the rest of us, they have to wait for video because Cineworld puts them down on the floor where they have to crane their necks just to see the damn screen. My clients asked them nicely, but Cineworld got pretty arrogant about it.” And Matt hated arrogance more than anything.
“I guess Cineworld’s thinking a little differently about it now, huh?” Tom said with a laugh.
“I guess,” Matt said as Maria reappeared and placed a bourbon in front of him.
“You’re a fighter, Matt. And that’s exactly the kind of attitude the Party is looking for—people who know the difference between right and wrong and have the balls to apply that common sense to the common good and get results.”
He wasn’t going to get the donation speech already, was he? The election was months away. Matt thought he should have ordered a double, and quickly turned to catch Maria, but she was too far away.
“We need that kind of thinking and that kind of person to help me win the Lieutenant Governor’s office next November.”
Just looking for a few good men, yada, yada, yada . . .
“We need that kind of drive and determination to breathe life into the state party apparatus.”
Don’t you mean breathe Cineworld’s money, Tom? Matt smiled and tapped his breast pocket. “Don’t worry—I got your few good men right here,” he said, withdrawing a checkbook.
But Tom surprised him, stopped him with a hand to his arm. “I’m not asking for money, Matt.”
Hello? Since when? Since when had Tom Masters ever wanted anything but money? More importantly, why was Matt wasting time here if it wasn’t for a contribution?