Wills & Trust (Legally in Love Collection Book 3)

by Jennifer Griffith

Eight o’clock already? He glanced over the top of the dividers to the only windows in the room, and they were dark.

  If this Ballard case went right, maybe the partners would pony up an office for him. With a window.

  A guy could dream.

  “Nope. I’m all set. Just me and Insura-Care cozying up for the evening.” He patted the sickeningly tall pile of paperwork. “We might rent a Redbox and order in Chinese to get our romance fired up.”

  Vonda giggled at this. She must be as tired as his joke. “Lucky Insura-Care.”

  The to-be-read side of the piles was still taller than the already-read side. Dane would stay only until the balance tipped. Then he’d go home, tackle the rest tomorrow after the hearing— and Brooke.

  The party of the first part…

  It got a little fuzzy, but a bite of dry ham sandwich got him focused again.

  The correspondence issued and dated May 4…

  Yeah, this one was going to be pretty easy, once it went to court. The attorney pool could highlight the deeply buried fact that Insura-Care’s contract stated coverage for pre-existing skin conditions, and Ballard’s doctor defined his psoriasis as pre-existing.

  Piece of cake.

  He turned to his open computer file and started typing up verbiage for possible arguments while the hour hand on the clock slid farther and farther north.

  He didn’t look up until a soft hand rested on his shoulder and a female voice said, “Well, if it isn’t Rockwell.” A long, lean arm dangled across his chest, toying with his tie and constricting his breath. “I bet you do rock well.” She spun his chair around to face her, and Dane looked up.

  “Mrs. Jackson. What are you doing here this time of night?” Tweed’s partner’s wife— trophy wife— was tugging her bleached hair out of its fastener, shaking it onto her shoulders. Dane’s mouth desiccated. He looked around. Where was everyone? Where was anyone?

  “The same could be asked of you, Rockwell.” She murmured and leaned over, her breath booze-saturated and her blouse a button too open. “Why are you working when you could be playing?” She got closer and nuzzled his neck.

  “Mrs. Jackson,” Dane began, his teeth on edge. He scooted backward in his chair, but the desk prevented any further distance. “Wow. This is a lot of attention. You sure you’re thinking clearly?” Obviously, she wasn’t, or she wouldn’t be hitting on her husband’s employee.

  “I always do my best thinking in one-on-one situations.”

  One-on-one? Was he the only idiot still on the treadmill at this hour? His eyes shot to the clock. Twelve thirty-eight. Guh. He needed a cold drink of water, a hot shower, and a shave. Not a come-on from a woman ten years his senior and ten blood-alcohol-content points too high.

  “Mrs. Jackson, uh—”

  She wasn’t listening. She sat on his desk, flipping the back strap of her sandal down and sliding her black stocking over her knee. He gulped. Did women still wear stockings? Dane hadn’t seen women his age wear them in years. “I think you’d better go find a safe place to sleep off the buzz.”

  “Only if you help me find it.”

  Oh, no. No way. Not for all the millions of dollars he’d shoveled into the Tweed Law coffers.

  He tried a soft smile of condolence. “Heh-heh. I’m probably not your guy tonight, Mrs. Jackson.” He emphasized the Missus.

  “Call me sugar mama.” She reached out and grasped his necktie, giving it a tug toward her and yanking Dane up out of his seat. In two seconds, her lips were on his, and he was struggling against her, gasping for breath but only getting mouthfuls of her foul exhales. The further back he stretched, the stronger she gripped his necktie and the more she pressed her over-processed body against his torso.

  “Mrs. Jackson,” he repeated. “Mrs. Jackson!”

  “That’s Ms. Jackson, if you’re nasty.”

  Ugh. Now she was quoting ’80s pop songs? He hadn’t thought it was possible for her to become even less attractive, but in that moment she had.

  “You’re missing out on the best experiences in life, Rockwell.” She made another suggestive joke about his name, one he refused to mentally process.

  Dane had had enough. “Look. I’m not your guy.” He disengaged her fingers from his tie, but she entwined them in his own and pulled them up to kiss his knuckles, drooling a little. Nothing more repulsive than a sloppy drunk.

  “Oh, but I think you are. And I’m used to getting what I want.”

  “Your husband is my boss. I’m not going to disrespect him like that.”

  “Oh, but you’ll disrespect me?”

  Okay, whose rights were being disrespected here? “I just want to do my job.”

  “Right now, I’m your boss, and I’m telling you what your job is.”

  Nuh-uh. She did not just say that. Dane jerked his hand away from hers, and then pushed her off him. She landed with a thunk and half-spun in his office chair.

  “Playing hard to get. I like that,” she cooed.

  “It’s not playing.” He wasn’t smiling now. “You’re a nice person, I’m sure.” Not. “But I’m leaving. Go home. To your husband.”

  Hard to get? Ha. He wasn’t someone she could get, even had she been sober or fifteen years younger. Besides, that woman was no Brooke Chadwick.

  He practically ran out of the building. The glass door’s heft swung fast and hit his spine and backside as he exited. He knew he left Ballard v. Insura-Care files lay scattered and open on his desk; that was a security risk, but the nasty Mrs. Jackson had put his personal and job security at an even greater risk.

  The nerve of that woman. With every step on the concrete he got madder. As he crossed the entrance to an alley, the crunch of gravel under his shoes was like percussion for his anger.

  What kind of woman— ?

  What kind of wife— ?

  What kind of jerk— ?

  His blood churned as he stomped down the deserted sidewalk, the smell of an all-night coffee shop hitting him like a wave as he passed.

  It wasn’t like he could report it to HR. She wasn’t an employee of the firm. Yeah, it was sexual harassment, but he’d look like a loser if he made a big deal about it. In this day and age, men didn’t turn away aggressive women, they soaked them up, took what they could get. Some men, anyway. Not Dane.

  The smell of an all-night coffee shop hit him in a wave.

  He was no dummy. The situation left him vulnerable. She could forget the whole incident once she’d sobered up, and Dane would be fine. He’d forget it, too. Or she could get vindictive, which could make her say anything about it to anyone, depending on how mad she was. Or how crazy. She could invent any lie, to any degree. Hell hath no fury, and all that.

  Dane walked faster, shoving his hands in his pockets. A thousand what-ifs pinged in his brain. Even though it was nearly one in the morning, he knew he’d be getting no sleep tonight.

  He cursed under his breath. This was bad. Really bad.

  Chapter Ten

  Temporary Custody

  Brooke cursed her pinching high heels and straightened her pencil skirt. What did a person normally wear to the reading of a will in which she’d been named? She tugged at her blazer, wishing the Virginia sun would slip behind a cloud to cool her. She’d prefer not to be both nervous-sweaty and hot-spring-day-sweaty when she walked into the lawyer-filled room sans lawyer. Looking stupid and amateurish. Like prey.

  Her phone rang. She checked the screen: Quirt.

  “Yes, I should have listened to your wife and found a lawyer,” she said instead of hello. “It’s looking like a pond of piranhas here. But I’m going in now, and it’s too late.”

  “I have to get back to class— testing week— but I just wanted to wish you good luck. Maybe you’ll see someone you know,” Quirt said.

  Not likely.

  “I don’t even know the deceased.” No way was Brooke going to know a soul here so many miles from home, and even farther out of her life’s element.

  Brooke ended the c
all and stashed her phone in her purse as she came up to the registration desk and presented her ID.

  “Miss Chadwick.” The clerk scanned a printout. “Yes.” Huh. An approved list. “Counsel?”

  “None.” Brooke’s stomach flipped, tugging at the chain to the neon light that flashed above her head reading, Eat me alive, you legal wolves. I’m unarmed.

  What had she been thinking, coming alone? Lawyer or none, she should’ve brought a friend to lean on because—

  “Oh, Miss Chadwick, isn’t it?” A booming voice came from the short man entering the room, and Brooke’s veins emptied of blood. Sarge LaBarge. Charli LaBarge’s dad. Make that Charli LaBarge Crosby’s dad.

  Why did Quirt have to be right that she’d see someone she knew? And why did it have to be Sarge LaBarge?

  LaBarge rolled on, like the Sherman tank he was. “I recall when you were named Miss Chesapeake. Runner-up at Miss Virginia, as well, right? The judges had a very difficult choice that night, I say.” He scanned her up and down, and Brooke’s skin prickled against the intrusion.

  “I’m at a disadvantage, I’m afraid,” she lied. “Have we met?” She knew him by reputation and sight— the deep red of his fat lower lip was unmistakable.

  “Sergeant Faro LaBarge, heh-heh, though most people call me Sarge.” He extended a hand, and she took it, a cold lake filling those emptied veins of hers as though she’d shaken hands with the devil. “I’m really looking forward to item number sixty-three today.”

  Sixty-three? How did he— “You know what’s being bequeathed?” Was that a word? It seemed right. Oh, it was like she was walking around with her slip showing. Not that she wore a slip— likely to her late mother’s chagrin.

  “Your attorney should have received a listing. Oh, you didn’t bring counsel?” He sported a smug little pity-frown. “Oh, but maybe you’re acting as your own lawyer. So many of those Miss Virginia contestants claim they’ll attend law school. Did you?”

  He didn’t give her time to answer. “Now, my daughter Charli chose design school after triumphing in the beauty pageant world. I’m sure she could have won at Miss America if …”

  He rambled while rising panic shut out all sound to Brooke’s brain. She was alone, and if there was preparation she should’ve done for this reading, she had no idea what it even was. Now, here stood this man, her mortal enemy basically, if she had one. And he was trying to psych her out.

  Attorney-less, Brooke was so far out of her depth she couldn’t even see the surface above her.

  “…which is why I’ll be serving as my own attorney today. Just like you. We’re twinners.”

  “Twinners?” Brooke spluttered. That was the last word she’d have expected to come from Sarge LaBarge’s too-red lips.

  “And yet I’m the only one of us with a law degree, Miss Chesapeake.” His eyes narrowed to slits and a hiss emanated forth. “You’ll be just an also-ran today. Again. Just like at Miss Virginia.” His forked serpent tongue flickered out from those lips, the serpent. “Just like you were last year in the competition for marriage to Ames Crosby, as I always planned.”

  The back of Brooke’s throat collapsed, and she couldn’t draw breath for a moment. Sarge LaBarge turned and strode off on his short legs, chest puffed out, triumph in his gait.

  “It’s okay, Brooke,” a voice said beside her. “Some people have to belittle others to make themselves feel bigger.”

  She looked up and saw the familiar deep dimple, accompanied by a knowing twinkle in his eye. Dane— the most welcome, beautiful thing she could have seen at this moment. Quirt had been right in a good way, at last.

  “What are you doing here?” She tore her eyes from him when the clerk directed her toward the area for the reading. The room gaped before her, a chasm filled with upholstered folding chairs and a long table at the front, where the Fawn & Zimmerman attorneys were already setting up.

  “It’s a big legal deal, this reading.” He pointed to Sarge LaBarge, who was shaking hands with some other unlucky named-heir, who was frowning even deeper than Brooke had done earlier. “See? He’s off threatening someone else now. Try not to take his attention too personally. He spreads his charm around like sunshine— the farming kind.”

  Manure, he meant. Brooke’s mood lightened for the first time all day.

  They found seats toward the edge nearest the door. Dane looked tired. Brooke wondered why he was really here. Representing someone? A client? He probably couldn’t say. Attorney-client privilege or something.

  Two men took seats in front of them speaking loudly enough that though Brooke didn’t try to eavesdrop, they demanded she hear them.

  “Did you see item number fifty?”

  “The Lladro nativity scene? Nice, but nothing compared to number sixty-three.” Sixty-three— that was the number LaBarge had mentioned. Brooke listened in closer.

  “Oh, I got bored after Lladro. What’s sixty-three?”

  “Uh, hello. The reason we’re all here.” The guy pulled a paper from his blazer’s pocket and unfolded it for his neighbor to see. “Impressive.”

  Brooke tried to nonchalantly glance at the paper, but she couldn’t see it clearly. All she could see was what looked like an old baseball. She could tell it was old because of the stitching. Blue and red. Dead giveaway. So, Harvey Jarman had an old baseball, huh?

  But then she about fell off her chair as the man’s friend filled in the blanks for her.

  “Not the Called Shot. Wait. Really? As in Babe Ruth’s home run ball? From the World Series?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Every other noise in the room muffled to nothing. Brooke reached over and grabbed Dane’s knee and pressed it hard. This couldn’t be happening.

  “What’s wrong?” Dane asked. “Are you—”

  “Shh!” Brooke hissed.

  The list bearer tucked it into his pocket, and Brooke’s soul stretched after it in vain. Frustration bit at her.

  “The very one. Impeccable provenance. Never been out of the family. Whoever gets it is going to be very happy. It’s why every single person named in the will is sitting here today on pins and needles.”

  “And why the whole plaza is filled with reporters?”

  Brooke’s head started buzzing. The Called Shot Ball. It couldn’t be. No one had ever claimed to have had it in the past. Collectors of baseball memorabilia would list it on par with the Holy Grail. If Aunt Ruth had known it even existed, she probably wouldn’t have rested day or night until she’d at least seen it.

  Aunt Ruth would offer up one of her kidneys and possibly her left eye to get it for Left Field.

  Called Shot Ball. Called Shot Ball. The words fluttered above her head, making her covet, truly covet, a material object for the first time in her life.

  Whoever got item sixty-three had it made. Brooke had to decide whether she was above begging. Well, she wasn’t. Nor was she above groveling. What extent would she go to, though, for Aunt Ruth and Left Field’s sake? How low would Brooke Chadwick stoop?

  Her heart started pounding.

  “You okay?” Dane stretched an arm around her, and she unconsciously leaned into him, her breathing getting steadier in his embrace.

  “The last item listed in the will. It’s—” How could she explain? “— hefty.” She was in shock, especially knowing it couldn’t possibly become hers. She didn’t even know Harvey Jarman. Probably half these people here were related to him, and the other half— like Sergeant Faro LaBarge— he’d probably owed some favor.

  “Important, huh? Want me to go pull a few strings with the lady from Fawn & Zimmerman?”

  “You can do that?” Hope lit her for a second, until she realized he was joking. “Stop it.”

  They say it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. But now, Brooke knew, from the wrenching longing inside her for that singular object, she was better off never having known it existed.

  “The last item?” Dane asked. “It’s making you look
a little green.”

  Did he mean with envy or illness? Didn’t matter. If emotions were colors, she was neon green.

  “Thanks, pal. No, it’s just I overheard something,” she said as low as possible. Brooke needed to get a look at it herself. “You don’t have a list of what’s being bequeathed today, do you?”

  Dane tugged something from his own pocket and smoothed it before handing it to her. It probably belonged to his client. “I snagged it from an empty chair.” He leaned in, a little close, to the point she could smell the spice of his aftershave. Her upper lip tingled. “What’s going on that’s so important? Jarman secretly owned a lost Van Gogh?”

  Brooke scanned the list. “Lots of important stuff.” There was number fifty, the Lladro nativity scene, sure enough— as she’d overheard. There was a classic Italian sports car; a sailboat now harbored at Mobjack Bay, not too far from Maddox; a 5,500 square-foot house in Naughton; fly fishing equipment; stock in a mining company. Not a single kitschy thing, unless she counted the Lladro ceramic figurines from Spain.

  But if a figurine cost more than her car, it didn’t count as kitsch.

  “Fancy stuff. Check out the time-share in New Zealand.” He pointed at number fifty-eight. “I wonder if it comes with tickets to one of those Hobbit villages.”

  Her eyes fell on the last item, sixty-three: the alleged Called Shot Ball. She pointed to it and tapped her finger on it a few times.

  Finally, Dane noticed. “What’s that? Called Shot Ball? A short whiskey glass?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never—” She shook her head. “If it’s authentic, and that’s a big if, it’s the single most important artifact in baseball history.” Her voice was so low Dane had to lean his ear right up to her lips. She breathed his scent. This guy was all man. “If it’s real. And like I said, that’s a big if.”

  The attorney for Fawn & Zimmerman stood and cleared her throat, and Dane sat up straight, leaving Brooke missing his aftershave.

  “We will begin in an orderly manner.” She clipped a little microphone to her lapel, and Brooke decided to refer to her as Fawn, no matter what her real name was. “Once all sixty-three items have been declared, you may collect your bequest at the secure area.” She continued giving instructions, while Brooke alternately bated her breath and felt faint.