by Stone, Jean
First Loves is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A Loveswept eBook Edition
Copyright © 1995 by Jean Stone
Excerpt from The Notorious Lady Anne by Sharon Cullen copyright © 2013 by Sharon Cullen.
Excerpt from Along Came Trouble by Ruthie Knox copyright © 2013 by Ruth Homrighaus.
Excerpt from Strictly Business by Linda Cajio copyright © 1988 by Linda Cajio.
All Rights Reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.
First Loves was originally published in paperback by Bantam Fanfare, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc. in 1995.
eISBN: 978-0-307-80176-0
www.ReadLoveSwept.com
v3.1
To E. J.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
About the Author
Editor’s Corner
Excerpt from Sharon Cullen’s The Notorious Lady Anne
Excerpt from Ruthie Knox’s Along Came Trouble
Excerpt from Linda Cajio’s Strictly Business
1
“On two counts of murder in the first degree, we find the defendant not guilty.”
Meg Cooper clutched the defense table, closed her eyes, and savored the rush. It sped through her veins and poured into her heart. Victory. Again.
Holly Davidson—the twenty-one-year-old daughter of a now dead shipping magnate—threw her silver-and-gold-sequined arms around Meg. The New York State Supreme Court, Manhattan Criminal Branch, room 33, erupted in cheers.
“We did it!” Holly shouted above the noise. “Son of a bitch, we did it!”
No, Meg wanted to reply, we didn’t do anything. I did it. I defended you, and now you are free.
“The jury is discharged with the state’s thanks,” the judge declared.
“Champagne at Neon City!” Holly squealed to the crowd of friends who had shoved their way toward the defense table. Through the chaos Holly’s heavily mascaraed eyes met Meg’s. “You’ll be there, won’t you, Meg?”
Meg slipped her yellow pad into her briefcase and snapped the lid shut. “I’m afraid not,” she answered. She’d done her job. Her only hope now was that she’d never lay eyes on Holly Davidson again.
She took her briefcase and pushed her way through the mass, dodging the flashing bulbs and television cameras and microphones thrust into her face, as she headed for the back of the courtroom.
Outside the room another bevy of reporters stood poised for the attack.
“Congratulations, counselor!” came the shouts.
“How does it feel to win again?”
“Do you think you’ll get a judgeship?”
Meg buttoned the jacket of her slender Armani suit and tucked a shock of her copper-colored hair behind one ear. The rush of victory was already fading, daunted, as always, by cold reality.
“No comment,” she said.
“Ms. Cooper. Please …”
Meg shook her head and ducked past the zealous ranks of the nation’s media. Such underpaid people with so much passion, she thought. So much passion, and so much power.
The group clung to her as she opened the outer door. More people crowded on the stairs. Gawkers. Supporters. Fans. Protestors. Clinging together in the posttrial side show she never got used to.
She hurried down the steps, shutting out the questions, knowing the media would punish her for her aloofness with tomorrow’s headlines, but not caring. For Meg Cooper had stopped letting the media push her around long ago.
The firm’s limo waited among a string of tinted-window stretches by the curb, but Meg waved off her driver. She felt like walking.
She heard a voice call out, “Here’s Holly!” The crowd surged en masse toward the victorious Holly Davidson, who had enough money and fame to get away with anything, even murder.
Meg quickly headed up Fifth Avenue, away from the clamor, toward her Upper East Side brownstone. She had done it. She had won. She had set a murderer free.
“No jury in its right mind will convict a twenty-one-year-old girl on a defense that her father sexually abused her,” had been the words of the firm’s senior partner, Avery Larson. “Not in this day and age.”
“She’s not a ‘girl,’ Avery,” Meg had protested. “She’s a shrewd, conniving brat who used her father’s money to finance her career, then killed him and her mother, too.”
“She claims her mother knew of the abuse.”
“Maybe she did, if it ever happened. But is that enough to justify murder?”
“Counselor …”
“Dammit, Avery, the girl killed her own parents!”
“So did the Menendez brothers,” Avery had said, then scowled. “Are you worried about your client, or are you afraid that you’ll lose?”
Meg stood rock still. She stared at Avery. He stared back. “I’m not going to lose,” she said.
He leaned back and put his feet on his desk. “Then make the government do its job, counselor.”
Meg hated the way Avery referred to the prosecutors as “the government,” as though they were the almighty threat to society, to justice.
“If they don’t do their job right,” he’d continued, “that’s not your fault. It’s their incompetence. I also don’t think I have to remind you that Holly Davidson has become a valued client.”
A valued client, Meg knew, meant a wealthy client. Now that Holly was acquitted, the girl would inherit over two billion dollars.
And the “government” had, once again, failed at its job, because Meg was smarter, Meg was better. And because Meg craved the rush—that elation that came from winning.
Case closed. Case dismissed.
Meg tilted her head up toward the warm spring sun, squinting her cinnamon-colored eyes, eyes that were well-trained to gaze squarely at juries as she said, “My client is telling the truth.” She would be thirty-nine years old this year, at the peak of an explosive career. No one would have guessed that Meg had set out—once upon a time—to become a champion of women’s rights. But the world was changing, values were twisting. Fame and flash were what brought clients to the firm. Huge retainers kept her partners smiling. So Meg had become the savior of the scandalous rich, the queen of courtroom glitz, the sought-after maker of the tabloid headlines she had spent so many years trying to avoid. Now, by winning the Holly Davidson case, nothing was out of her reach. Well, almost nothing.
It had been three weeks since her relationship with Roger Barrett had ended. “I don’t love you,” she had announced. “I can’t go on sleeping with you.” They’d been together four short months. Meg knew he loved her, but she couldn’t bring herself to love him, to love anyone. And she couldn’t pretend.
Meg stopped walking. Home was empty, except for Raggedy Man, her three-year-old Persian.
Home was where nobody cared that she was brilliant and gorgeous and had just brought off the trial of the year. There was nothing at home for her. Nothing, and no one. No one but Raggedy Man.
She stared at the sidewalk, hesitated for less than a second, then turned and walked down East Fifty-fourth, in the direction of Park Avenue, toward the offices of Larson, Bascomb, Smith, Rheinhold, Paxton, and Cooper. Toward the next challenge, and the lure of the rush.
Meg’s office was not unlike the offices of many other top criminal-defense attorneys in the city: mahogany and leather, brass and books. But where her partners displayed smiling photos of their spouses and children and children’s children in neat golden frames atop their credenzas, Meg had chunky pots of tired philodendrons. Her view beyond the heavy green drapes, eight floors down to the avenue, was close enough to watch the endless parade of yellow cabs and anonymous faces flooding past, yet removed enough to feel sheltered from the grit of the street, the grime of the people.
She stood by the window, looking down. Holly Davidson was now free to walk Park Avenue, Fifth Avenue, or any other avenue in the world. Holly Davidson, who had used their live-in chef’s fillet knife to quietly slit the throats of her billionaire father and socialite mother while they slept. Meg knew that sexual abuse was becoming an all-too-popular defense in murder trials. It sickened her, mostly because it was so damned unfair for the ones who really suffered. In another few years, Meg thought, these defenses won’t hold up at all. The judges, the juries, would have heard the arguments one too many times. Then, worse than guilty people getting off, innocent people would go to jail. It was the system. It was the American way. And they—the defenders—would be forced to create new tactics, new angles, to beat the government.
She moved from the window, sat at her desk, and tried to focus on her work. Though she almost always won, Meg was often let down after a trial. It was, she reasoned, the downside of the high. The crash.
She folded her hands on her desk and studied her fingernails. They were perfectly trimmed and glossed. Neat, but colorless. Without personality, without passion. Neutral. Like her life. A long way from the glamorous, high-profile image alluded to by the press.
She balled her fingers into fists. There was only one solution to her depression. Meg needed another case. Another case to dig into, to get lost in. She needed another case, and she needed it now. Right now.
She sat up straight and pressed the button on her intercom. “Janine? Is Avery in?”
“Nope. But Danny Gordon just walked in. He’d like to see you.”
Danny Gordon was one of the investigators retained by the firm. He often worked alongside Meg on her most difficult cases: he had, in fact, worked on the Holly Davidson case. Danny was a few years older than Meg. He was slightly wild looking and slightly cocky. But unlike many of his counterparts, Danny was very bright and very tuned-in to his work. He was also, Meg knew, very gentle, vulnerable. They had almost slept together once, three years ago. But Meg had known what would happen. She would use him to curb her loneliness until he fell in love with her. Then she would leave him. So instead of being a lover, Danny became something Meg had never known: he became a friend.
“Send him in,” she said now.
He blew through the door as if he’d been shot from behind. “Counselor! My congratulations on seeing justice served once more!”
“Can it, Danny.” Though Danny knew the system—was part of the system—he always became a disgusted cynic whenever the guilty went free.
He flopped his compact, yet muscular, body onto a leather chair and brushed a hunk of flyaway dirty-blond hair from his forehead. His brown eyes sparkled. They always did, for even in his posttrial disgust, Danny’s underlying strength was never jarred. He simply did not take it personally. He was, Meg knew, one of that rare breed of happy, self-contented human beings, the kind of man who exuded such confidence in himself that even his daily dressed-down attire of denim shirts and faded jeans was never challenged, not even by Avery.
“You split from the courthouse pretty fast,” he said.
Meg didn’t answer.
“You won the case, my dear. It should be the Post headline in the morning. ‘Cooper Frees Holly.’ ” He stretched his hands to mimic the type.
She shrugged. “Jurisprudence.”
“Touché.” Danny leaned forward on the chair. “Maybe now you’ll be able to afford a new plant,” he said, motioning to a wilting philodendron.
Meg glanced behind her. “Not everyone has your talents, Danny.”
“Orchids don’t take talent, babe. They take love. Nurturing.”
Meg had seen Danny’s fabulous garden of orchids that flourished under the skylight of his rooftop apartment, where the gentle hiss of humidifiers spritzed the blossoms at timed intervals. It was more than love, she suspected. Orchids were Danny’s obsession. Lavender. White. Pink. Yellow. He once told her that he grew them for their erotic vision, their soft, supple petals, their sensuous female folds and curves. It had made Meg feel naked. Exposed.
She turned back to Danny. “I know,” she responded. “And I kill my plants.”
“You don’t kill them, Meg. Your plants commit suicide.”
“Very funny. But you didn’t come here to talk about my horticultural deficiencies.”
He rested his elbows on the desk and folded his hands under his chin. His eyes stared into hers. Meg shifted on her chair.
“Avery is going to be pissed that you skipped out on the interviews,” he said.
“He knows I like to be alone after a verdict.” More than once Avery had expressed his displeasure over Meg’s aversion to publicity.
“This was no ordinary verdict, Meg.”
“Then I guess I’m no ordinary attorney.”
He smiled, a slightly mischievous, knowing smile. “And I won’t even mention the fact that you didn’t have the graciousness to attend your client’s victory celebration. One that will most probably make every trash tabloid and trash-tabloid TV show this side of planet Jupiter.”
Meg found herself smiling, too. “I guess that makes me the fool, doesn’t it?”
“Not if you agree to have dinner with me instead.”
Meg frowned.
“An early dinner,” Danny continued. “Nothing more. Unless, of course, you already have a date.”
Meg shook her head. She hadn’t told Danny about her breakup with Roger Barrett; she’d been too embarrassed that she’d “done it again.”
“Then we’re on. Our own celebration. Even though this case pisses me off, I’m happy for you. I’m glad you won.”
“Really?”
“Really. Now let’s drown my sorrows and toast your victory with a giant bowl of spaghetti.”
As the maître d’ escorted them to a table in the back, Danny whispered from behind, “I hate it when you’re taller than me. It’s a macho thing, you know?”
He was, Meg knew, referring to the three-inch heels added to her five-foot-seven-inch frame. Danny stood only about five nine. In his boots. Meg smiled. She never knew quite how to respond to his directness. But she knew that Danny would be good medicine for her tonight. He would help ease the loneliness of the crash.
They sat down and Danny smoothed the tablecloth. “Red-and-white-checked,” he said. “My favorite.”
Meg laughed. “You’re such a sweetheart, Danny.”
“Whoa! Is that an endearment coming from the Ice Maiden?”
Meg winced. “Ice Maiden” was a label the press had given her when she’d defended a Wall Street financier accused of raping the daughter of a Mideast diplomat. The sixteen-year-old girl with the huge dark eyes had sobbed in the courtroom, effecting great sympathy. But Meg’s defense had implied that Daddy’s little girl was far from innocent. And she’d convinced the jury. Because “the government” hadn’t done its job. So now the press called her the Ice Maiden. They didn’t know how right they were.
Meg lowered her eyes. “Please don’t call me that.”
Meg forced a grin. “Yes,” she said. “You are.”
They ordered a bottle of Chianti and sat silently for a few moments. Meg stared into the candle, trying to relax.
“So what’s next on the docket?” Danny asked.
Meg shook her head. “Don’t know. We really didn’t expect this trial to go so quickly.”
“Are the partners disappointed that their fees will be less than anticipated?”
She placed a hand across his. “Let’s not talk about it, okay?”
He looked down at her hand. “I’m sorry, Meg. But sometimes it bugs the shit out of me. Watching the defense of guilty people.”
She pulled back her hand and took another sip. For some reason the wine burned her throat. “I’ve defended a lot of innocent people, too,” she said. “Like Donald Haggerty.” She was referring to the case of the crusty old man accused of killing his daughter-in-law because she was after the family fortune. Meg had argued that Haggerty’s son, who had been the most believable witness for the prosecution, was actually the murderer. The jury had agreed.
“No offense, babe,” Danny said, “but you defend anyone who’s willing to pay the firm’s outrageous fees.”
She gripped the stem of the wineglass. Danny, of course, was right. But if Meg didn’t do it, someone else would. And someone else would reap the benefits. She had faced this issue years ago. And she had made her decision. “Donald Haggerty was innocent,” she said, though her tone was oddly without authority.
“And he is rich. Not to mention that the case made headlines.”
Meg took another sip of wine. Don’t let him get to you, she thought. You did your job. She set down her glass and stared into the shining red liquid. She knew Danny well enough to know he wasn’t condemning her; he was only coming to terms with today’s verdict, blowing off steam. And easing the guilt of his part in the trial, of gathering the evidence that had helped Meg get Holly off.
“Face it, Meg,” Danny continued. “Do you honestly think there would have been an acquittal today if Holly wasn’t so …” He seemed to struggle for the right word.