She searched his eyes but saw no sign of worry.
“Do you expect that I’ll need it?”
“No.” He shook his head.
A wave of relief flooded her. There was no clear danger, he just wanted her to be prepared for anything that might threaten their family while he was gone.
“Ammunition’s in your sock drawer?” she confirmed.
He nodded, pulled open the door, and disappeared from view. The house immediately felt still and too quiet. She knew it would remain that way until Jeffrey returned.
She listened as the Jeep’s engine roared to life outside and waited until the sound faded at the end of the gravel driveway. Despite herself, she wondered where he was going, who he would be meeting, what important information he’d received during the middle-of-the-night phone call that had interrupted the silence two nights earlier. He thought she’d been sleeping, but she’d heard the undercurrent of excitement in his voice as he murmured into his satellite phone in the dark bedroom.
Stop it, she thought. Let Jeffrey handle his business; you handle yours.
She turned her attention back to her inventory of the bags. Clara’s feet had grown. Anna removed the too-small hiking boots from her orange backpack and set them to the side. She shifted Lacey’s boots to Clara’s bag. Bethany’s old pair should fit Lacey now, she thought. She scrawled a reminder in her notebook to check whether the same hand-me-down pattern would work for a Michael to Clay to Henry transfer, which would mean only the two oldest would need new boots.
Anna often lost herself in the mundane details of keeping her family organized, fed, and clothed on a strict budget with minimal waste. She approached the task seriously because she knew when the day came that the family had only itself to rely on, everyone would be counting on her most of all.
CHAPTER 4
The SUV slid along the empty country road lined with dirty, gray snow banks. No one else was out, and the snow was falling harder now. Sasha watched as thick flakes bounced off the windshield and melted, leaving skinny wet tracks on the glass. She felt Connelly glance away from the road and look at her.
She turned. “What’s up?”
Caught, he blinked, then grinned, “Nothing. Just looking at you.”
She suddenly felt like an eight year old. She stuck out her tongue and said, “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”
Connelly shook his head and turned his attention back to the road ahead. No snow plows had come through the small town, but Connelly guided the vehicle’s tires into the ruts that had been packed down into grooves in the snow by cars that had passed by earlier.
“Take a nap,” he suggested.
She wasn’t tired. She’d brought along some reading material, but it had remained in the bag at her feet. The truth was, she’d agreed to come along on the drive because the point of renting the lake house was to spend time together, away from their respective jobs and other commitments. She figured she could spend time with Connelly in the front seat of his SUV as easily as she could curled up under a soft blanket in front of a fire.
So, here they were. Nearing the hour mark in their together time on the road.
It had been a quiet forty-five minutes. It was funny: they’d been so comfortable together for a year. But then, Connelly’s move—and the way it had come about—had pried them apart, leaving an open space between them, where before there had been none.
The distance confused Sasha, and she wasn’t sure how to bridge it.
“What’s so important that they’re dragging you into the office on a Friday night, anyway?” she asked.
As she heard the words aloud, she winced. It sounded accusatory, when she intended only to make conversation.
Connelly flicked his eyes toward her, then back to the road. “Corporate espionage, apparently. I don’t have any details and couldn’t share them if I did.”
She understood. Of course, when she hadn’t been able to share information with him because of attorney-client privilege or other confidentiality issues, he had never been quite so understanding. Water under the bridge.
She waited a moment then said, “I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but, if I were you, I would loop in your in-house counsel now.”
Connelly bobbed his head. “That’s probably a good idea.”
He hit the Bluetooth connection and said, “Call general counsel.”
“Dialing general counsel,” the tinny, computer voice reported.
While the phone rang, Sasha stage whispered, “Make sure you tell him I’m in the car, so he knows the conversation’s not protected by privilege.”
Connelly rolled his eyes.
“Oliver Tate,” a rich, tenor voice boomed through the SUV’s speakers.
“Hi, Oliver, it’s Leo.”
“What can I do for you, Leo?” the man responded immediately, his voice betraying a hint of impatience.
Connelly cleared his throat and said, “Before I get to that, I want to let you know I’m in the car, so I have you on speakerphone. I also have my … friend in the car, and she tells me that means this conversation isn’t privileged.”
Tate’s voice took on a note of amusement. “Would this be your lady friend, the lawyer from Pittsburgh?”
Lady friend? Sasha swallowed a giggle.
Connelly flushed pink and said, “That’s right. Sasha McCandless.”
“Hello, counselor,” Tate said.
“Hi,” Sasha responded.
“With Ms. McCandless’s admonition firmly in mind, let’s get down to business,” Tate said.
“Sure thing, and I’m sorry to bother you on a Friday evening, but Grace called me to report a possible corporate espionage issue,” Connelly said.
As they neared the town of Frostburg and began their climb up the mountains, the temperature dropped, and the wind howled. Sasha hit the button to activate her seat warmer. Connelly must have seen her from the corner of his eye because he raised the temperature on the dashboard control.
Tate was silent for a long moment. Then he repeated, “Corporate espionage?”
“Yes, sir,” Connelly responded.
Tate exhaled loudly.
Connelly waited.
“That’s not good, Leo.”
“No, it’s not,” Connelly agreed.
He looked at Sasha, as though she might have something to add.
She shrugged at him.
“ViraGene is behind this.”
“We don’t know that, Oliver.”
Tate snorted. “I know it.”
“I understand where you’re coming from, but we shouldn’t jump to conclusions until we have all the details,” Connelly cautioned.
“Nonetheless, I think the facts will bear me out. Keeping in mind that Ms. McCandless is listening; do you have any details you can share?” Tate asked.
“I really don’t. Even if Sasha weren’t here, I don’t know anything beyond what I’ve said. Grace didn’t want to discuss it on the phone, which was the right decision. I’m on my way back to town from Deep Creek now. I can meet you in the office in two, two-and-a-half, hours,” Leo offered.
“That won’t work. I’m in Jackson Hole. I’ve got a little place in the mountains,” Tate said.
Little place in the mountains. Sasha was fairly sure that was inside the Beltway code for ‘luxurious ski chalet.’
Leo and Tate fell silent, considering their next steps.
Tate spoke first.
“I’d really rather not interrupt my vacation, particularly since this isn’t the sort of issue I’d handle personally.” His tone was equal parts sheepish and defensive.
Sasha twisted her mouth into a smile. That was the upside of being an in-house lawyer: instead of ruining Tate’s ski vacation, this little emergency would end up ruining the weekend for some unsuspecting associate at whichever outside firm Tate retained to handle it.
As if he were reading her mind, Tate went on, “Unfortunately, over my objection, our new legal budget froze rates for
all of our legal services providers. The unintended consequence of that brilliant cost-saving measure is that all of our work gets pushed down to some baby lawyer who can’t find his bar card with both hands and a flashlight.” Tate guffawed.
Sasha rolled her eyes.
Leo’s hands tightened on the wheel, making his knuckles go white. He was getting agitated.
“So, how do you propose we handle this, then?” he asked in a neutral voice, masking his annoyance.
Tate thought for a moment. Then he said, “Ms. McCandless, you handle complex commercial litigation, don’t you?”
Sasha’s stomach dropped as she realized where Tate was going with this.
“Excuse me?” she managed.
“Your firm handles trade secret, breach of contract, unfair competition—those sorts of matters—does it not?” Tate answered.
Sasha shook her head as if he could somehow see her through the phone.
“No. Well, yes. But, I absolutely do not handle criminal matters. And corporate espionage has the potential to veer into the white collar crime area,” she said.
Leo frowned at her.
She hurried to add, “I’m flattered to be considered, of course. It’s just a firm policy that I really cannot bend.”
Will not bend, she thought. Not ever again.
Tate was undeterred. “That practice limitation shouldn’t matter. If any crime has been committed here, we’d be the victim, not the actor. You’d simply have to interface with the authorities.”
He was right, of course. But, still. Sasha had vowed not to leave her comfort zone again. She was a civil litigator, not a comic book superhero. Corporate espionage sounded exciting, and she’d had too much excitement in the past eighteen months. She wanted to focus on the mundane aspects of practicing law: responding to discovery requests; taking depositions; putting together doorstop-sized briefs in support of motions for summary judgment. No intrigue. No adrenaline. No nightmares.
“That’s true,” she said, “but, I’m not a member of the Maryland bar.” It sounded like a weak excuse, even to her.
“Oh, that’s no problem,” Tate assured her.
She looked at Connelly. He was looking back at her, a pleading expression on his face.
She couldn’t.
“Mr. Tate, as much as I appreciate the offer, I don’t think it would be a good idea,” she said.
Tate exhaled audibly.
“Listen. I don’t care that you and Leo are involved, okay? That doesn’t bother me. What will bother me is having to tell my thirteen-year-old twins—who I’ve pulled out of school for the week—that we have to cut our trip short. And what will really bother me is dealing with their horrible mother when she finds out I am going to want to rejigger our visitation schedule yet again. I don’t have any litigators in our legal department—they’re all regulatory lawyers and patent folks—but they’ll give you whatever support you need.” He spoke in a firm tone that made clear he would brook no argument on the subject.
Sasha was prepared to argue anyway, but Connelly put his hand over hers. He caught her eye and mouthed the word ‘please.’
She stopped.
Connelly rarely asked her for a big favor. Or anything, really. The last request he’d made of her was that she marry him (maybe, that part still wasn’t entirely clear) and move to D.C. to be with him. She’d fumbled that question pretty badly. Couldn’t she just take the stupid case, appease Tate, and show Connelly that she was willing to put his needs first every now and again?
“Great,” she mumbled. “I look forward to working with your people on this.”
Leo blew a kiss her direction and turned his attention back to the road, all smiles now.
She looked out the passenger window while he said his goodbyes with Tate. Her mouth went dry, a hard lump lodged itself in her throat, and a knot took up residence in the pit of her stomach. All signs that she had made a mistake. A bad mistake.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
As Sasha hurried alongside Connelly through the hushed corridors of the sprawling Serumceutical complex, she tried to shake off her conviction that getting herself involved in her boyfriend’s company’s corporate espionage problem had been a mistake. She told herself this matter was in her wheelhouse: complex commercial litigation—a business dispute between competitors, by the sounds of it. She’d cut her teeth on unfair competition and interference with contractual relations cases as a baby lawyer at Prescott. And yet, she couldn’t deny the very real queasiness that she’d been fighting ever since she’d agreed to do it.
Connelly stopped in front of a frosted glass door. A nameplate on the wall announced this was his office. He waved his company ID card in front of a card reader mounted on the wall beneath his name. A red light flickered and a beep followed by a mechanical click indicated the door had unlocked. As he pushed it open, he turned and looked at her closely.
“You okay?”
She nodded and swallowed. “Yep. My stomach’s a little upset, that’s all. Your driving being what it is.” She threw him a grin.
He narrowed his eyes as though he didn’t buy her story, but then he smiled back at her and waved her into the office ahead of him. “After you, Counselor.”
Sasha stepped past him and into the office. The motion-sensing lights came to life, and Sasha looked around. The room fit Connelly. It was understated and warm. The furniture was Mission style: solid, sturdy, yet attractive. A brick red carpet anchored a seating arrangement, and a large photograph of the Sedona Red Rock Mountains, mimicking the red of the carpet, hung over the sofa.
“Nice office,” she said.
“Thanks.” Connelly moved over to the desk and pushed a button on his phone. “Grace helped me decorate it,” he said as the ringing of a telephone sounded through the speaker of the phone on his desk.
Grace was the woman who had called Connelly’s cell phone earlier in the day. She’d also helped him pick out his office furniture?
“Grace?” Sasha asked.
“You’ll meet her in a moment; she’s my deputy,” Connelly said, holding up a finger to forestall further conversation as a woman picked up the ringing phone on the other end.
“Roberts,” said the woman in a crisp, no-nonsense voice.
Connelly had often mentioned someone named Roberts when he’d talked about his new job. For some reason, Sasha had assumed Roberts would be a man.
She conjured up an image of the female Roberts. Late middle-aged, with cropped gray hair and a firm handshake. She probably wore pantsuits to work four days a week. But today was Friday, so, in the time-honored faux informality of casual day, she would be dressed in pressed khakis and a cotton button-down shirt—possibly light pink in a concession to femininity.
“I’m here,” Connelly said. “Come down to my office when you can.”
“Be right there, boss,” the woman replied and ended the call.
Connelly walked around his desk and joined Sasha near the seating area.
“Sit wherever you want,” he said. “Do you want anything to drink? Grace can make some coffee.”
Sasha raised an eyebrow. Connelly had his female underling fetching coffee? How 1960s of him.
“No, thanks,” she said, although she would have loved a cup. Poor Roberts.
There was a light rap on the door, and Connelly walked over to open it.
“We take security very seriously around here,” he told her over his shoulder. “No one else’s key card will open my door. Not even Grace’s.”
“How’s everyone else’s work?” she asked. Surely, the company didn’t program each individual employee’s card so precisely.
“Good question,” Connelly said. “We can get into the procedures after Grace gives us her report.”
He pulled the door inward, and a tall, shapely redhead with bright blue eyes strode into the room. The woman’s hair tumbled past her shoulders in big waves. Instead of the Brooks Brothers business casual uniform Sasha had imagined, Grace wore a fitted wrap dress
that highlighted her curves and knee-high black boots with a heel that put her about even with Connelly’s six feet in height.
Sasha suddenly felt even smaller than usual—at a hair under five feet and shy of one hundred pounds soaking wet, she was used to being the tiniest adult in a room. But this woman was a giantess. A gorgeous giantess.
“How was the drive?” she asked Connelly.
“Easy. I had company. Grace Roberts, this is Sasha McCandless,” Connelly said, gesturing toward Sasha.
Sasha stood and tugged down the hem of the oversized sweater she wore as a dress.
Grace followed Connelly’s arm and met Sasha’s eyes with a surprised look.
“Oh. Hello, there,” she said, crossing the room with a long, loping stride. She smiled broadly and stuck out her hand.
Sasha stepped forward to shake her hand and found herself eye-level with Grace’s breasts. A hint of smoke-gray lace peeked out from the neckline of her dress.
“Nice to meet you,” Sasha managed, ignoring the clutch of emotion in her stomach.
Grace turned back to Connelly and lowered her voice as if Sasha couldn’t hear her. “Um, I don’t think this is a conversation that your girlfriend should sit in on. Do you want me to set her up in one of the lounges with a magazine or something?”
Connelly laughed. “It’s okay. Sasha’s going to represent the company on this issue if it ends up in court. She can stay.”
Grace’s eyebrows shot up her forehead. “Really? Tate approved that?”
“It was his idea, actually,” Connelly said, giving her a confused look.
Grace was silent for a moment. Sasha could see her calculating what this news might mean.
Finally, the other woman said, “Oh, great. In that case, let’s get started. Welcome to the team, Sasha.”
Sasha smiled and hoped it looked more sincere than it felt. “Thanks.”
It suddenly seemed perfectly appropriate for Grace to be a coffee-fetcher.
She turned to Connelly, “Before we start, I think I would like that coffee, after all.”
Connelly shut his almond eyes for an instant, then exhaled slowly, and said, “I could probably use a cup, too. I’ll get it. Grace, can I bring you anything?”
Indispensable Party (Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller No. 4) Page 3