Mr. Hall Takes a Bride

by Marie Ferrarella

  Jordan looked at Eric as if he’d lost his mind. This whole thing was just for three weeks. Two weeks and half a day, now. “Calm down, Eric. All I did was ask a simple question.”

  Eric had gotten good at reading between the lines. “With you, nothing is ever simple.” He knew Jordan better than anyone, with the possible exception of Jenny. “And I know that look, that’s the one you used to wear when you sighted someone who aroused your interest.” Usually, it was diverting, watching Jordan operate. But not this time. “I’m serious, Jordy, don’t mess with her.”

  Was that what it looked like to the outside world, to Eric? That he was “messing” with women? Jordan suddenly felt resentful of that image—and weary. He’d gotten tired of the pursuit, of the game. It seemed somehow juvenile to him now. He realized that he wanted what his little sister had. What his best friend had. A mature, stable relationship. Someone to talk to, not just make love with.

  “I have no intentions of ‘messing’ with her,” Jordan replied. “I just wondered what her story was.”

  If that was all—which Eric doubted—there was a simple solution. “Why don’t you ask her? As I recall, talking was not a problem for her.” He grinned, remembering getting cornered by the woman while Jenny mingled. “Getting her to stop, though, was another matter.”

  The subject, Jordan realized, was making him uncomfortable. He didn’t bother exploring why, he just changed it. “How’s Jenny doing?”

  Picking up his gym bag, Eric tucked his racket into it. A fond expression came over his face.

  “Losing her mind already. You know how she is, she likes to be busy. Lying in bed watching television, is not her idea of a dream come true.” He waited for Jordan to gather up his things. “I’ve hired someone to help take care of the house and a nanny for Cole until she’s back on her feet.” He chuckled. “Your mother came to help with the interviews.”

  Jordan pushed open the door, leading the way out. As they exited, another couple went into the room. “What asylum do I visit Jenny in?”

  Eric laughed. His mother-in-law could be overwhelming. “Actually, she was pretty helpful. Seems she has a lot of experience hiring housekeepers,” he deadpanned.

  “That’s because she used to send them packing in droves.” It had seemed as if there was a new housekeeper or maid on the premises every few months. “So she was always interviewing new ones.”

  They walked down a long, brightly lit corridor, passing the weight room as they went to the locker area. “Jenny wound up hiring someone your mother found completely unsuitable.”

  “Nice to know some things never change.” Jordan looked at his watch just before they reached the lockers. “I’ve got enough time for a quick shower and then I have to get back.”

  Other than when he was due in court, Jordan was usually very laid-back when it came to his personal time. “Sarajane keeping you on a tight schedule?”

  He blew out a short breath. “At least I got off for lunch.” Entering the locker room, they passed an attendant on his way out. “Monday I didn’t leave the damn office all day. About all I have time for is a nibble before the next person comes to my desk with their tale of woe. How does Jenny stand it?” he wanted to know. “How does she stay so upbeat, dealing with this kind of thing?”

  Eric arrived at his locker first. Stepping over the long bench, he began to work the combination lock. “She has me.”

  Jordan’s locker was two numbers down from Eric’s. “Like I said, how does she stay so upbeat?”

  Eric’s retort was suited to the locker room.

  “You hair’s wet,” Sarajane commented twenty minutes later as she passed him on her way to her desk, her arms laden with files. He’d just walked in the door. “Is it raining?”

  Having asked, she glanced over her shoulder to look through the front window, as if she didn’t trust any answer he might give her.

  Jordan bristled at her tone. He’d expected Sarajane to mellow toward him after he’d come to her rescue Monday night. Instead, it seemed as though the exact opposite had happened. She was even more cryptic, more demanding than she’d been the first day. If he didn’t know better, he would have said she was trying to drive him away.

  “I ran out of time at the gym and didn’t dry my hair,” he retorted. He couldn’t help adding sarcastically, “I know how you value punctuality.”

  “You went to the gym?” She said it as if he’d just committed one of the seven deadly sins.

  What the hell was her problem? “Yes. I’ve got a standing date with Jenny’s husband for a racquetball game every Friday.” He was standing toe to toe with her and he’d forgotten all about not letting her get to him. “Is that against one of your rules?”

  She didn’t like his tone and could feel her back going up. These good-looking men thought they owned the universe. “Rules?” She didn’t impose any rules, she just tried to keep everything running smoothly. “Did one of the balls hit you on the head? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I’m talking about you acting like a crazy woman. He kept his comment to himself, opting for something less damning—and less insightful. “What I’m talking about is that you’ve been frowning at me all week, as if you didn’t approve of anything I’ve been doing. If there’s something wrong with the way I’ve been handling these cases, just say so.”

  She squared her shoulders and lowered her voice. “All right. You lack heart.”

  He’d certainly never been accused of that before. “Excuse me?”

  Because they were garnering looks from the people who were seated near the front as they waited to be seen by one of the lawyers, Sarajane abruptly took his hand and marched to the back, bringing him to the tiny cubbyhole where she kept the office supplies and the vital coffeemaker. The entire area was hardly the width and breadth of a medium-sized closet.

  Sarajane shut the door so that their voices, mainly hers, wouldn’t carry. She told herself that she had no desire to embarrass him, only to change him.

  “You lack heart,” she repeated, saying the words more firmly this time.

  That was probably one of the most ridiculous accusations he’d ever had thrown at him. “I’m a lawyer, not a handholder.”

  Her eyes narrowed in exasperation as she fisted her hands at her waist. Somehow, the movement had her getting even closer to him. “These people need compassion, they need understanding—”

  “They need legal expertise,” he cut in, “and I thought I was doing a damn fine job in that department.” Blessed with a photographic memory, he’d been handling cases that were out of the realm of his usual field and recalling all sorts of old cases to draw on. “I’m not supposed to court them, I’m supposed to help them.”

  Was he really that thick? “Being compassionate is helping them.”

  He was finding Sarajane increasingly infuriating. The woman had no idea what she was talking about. “If they want someone to hold their hand, they can go to their friends, not waste our time.”

  Okay, she’d spell it out for this dolt. He might be a sharp lawyer in his field, but he was dull when it came to the attributes that counted.

  “If you’re compassionate, you find a way around the legal mumbo-jumbo that’s ensnaring them and help them even if it isn’t following the letter of the law.”

  “You’re talking about bending rules, aren’t you?” That wasn’t the way things were done, except on TV programs in quest for high ratings.

  Some things, she thought, irritated, were better left unvoiced. It was less incriminating in the long run. “I’m talking about you being the last line of defense these people have.”

  “I got Mrs. McCloskey back into her apartment,” he pointed out. He only remembered because he’d repeated the story to Eric.

  Trust him to forget the salient point. “Because I found out that her apartment was supposed to be rent-controlled.”

  Which she wouldn’t have done if he hadn’t given her the assignment, he thought, struggling to ma
intain his temper. “Bottom line, she kept her apartment.”

  Her eyes were blazing. “No, bottom line is that Mrs. McCloskey wouldn’t have kept her apartment if it had been left up to you to find a way to get her landlord to back off.”

  For the first time in his life, he was tempted to strangle someone. It was hard for him to think, to remain reasonable, with that perfume of hers filling his head. “What is it you want from me, Sarajane?” he demanded. “You want me to sit there and cry with them? Sorry, I don’t cry. But I do have a hell of a lot of cases committed to memory that might just be able to help a few of these poor slobs—”

  There, that was his whole problem, summed up in one word. “Hold it—hold it right there,” she declared suddenly. “That’s exactly what’s wrong with your attitude.” He looked at her, clearly mystified. “You think you’re better than they are.”

  The woman was insane. How did Jenny work with her? “No, I don’t,” he told her tersely. The thought had never crossed his mind. He staunchly believed in equality, especially before the law. “I do, however, think I’m better off than they are.” Maybe, in her mind, she’d gotten the two confused. Jordan gave her the benefit of the doubt even though, in his opinion, she didn’t deserve it.

  She tossed her head, sending her hair flying over her shoulder. From out of nowhere came the urge to run his fingers through the flowing mass.

  “A circumstance of birth.” She sounded almost haughty.

  “No argument,” he allowed. Then, in case she thought he’d done nothing but coast all his life, he added, “But I did work hard getting my education.”

  The man didn’t know the meaning of the word work. Like all handsome men, he’d gotten by on his looks and, in this case, on his father’s money.

  “What? Waiting tables at night, dragging yourself in in the morning, trying to stay awake during classes, holding down a second job because the cost of tuition kept going up?”

  Was she trying to make him ashamed of the fact that he hadn’t had to struggle to make ends meet? It wasn’t a sin to be wealthy. Only bleeding hearts thought so. He refused to be made to feel guilty about it.

  “No,” he answered, grinding out the word, “Studying.”

  She smirked. He probably hadn’t had to do much of that, either. More than likely, he’d found a way to buy the answers to tests.

  “Big deal.”

  He stopped abruptly, refusing to be dragged into this any further. It was like trying to shadow-box in the dark. “Why are you trying to pick a fight?”

  Her chin went up, bristling at what she took to be an accusation. “I’m not picking a fight, I’m trying to make you a better man.”

  There was something about the way she looked when she became so incensed that aroused him. And goaded him on. Was it him, or had the tiny space shrunk a little more? “You’d be the first to complain.”

  She took in a deep breath, her chest hitting his abdomen. Damn his arrogance, he was lumping her in with his women.

  “I’m not one of the bimbos you squire, Jordan,” she informed him indignantly. “I’m not some plastic Kewpie doll. I’m a real person.”

  Something rippled through him as she drew in another breath, her breasts pressing against him again. “You are at that.”

  He had no idea how it happened. How the heated words that were being exchanged like gunfire could possibly have led him to take the next step. Granted the space between them was less than a breath and with each word she uttered, he found himself growing more and more annoyed. Growing more impassioned, something she was accusing him of being devoid of.

  This was an argument about nothing. Nothing except the elephant in the living room: the very strong attraction he felt toward her and, he had a hunch, she felt toward him—most likely against her will.

  But all that was reasoned out later, when he looked back at it and tried to find an explanation for his actions.

  One minute he was engaged in a duel of words, the next there were no words. Others might be able to—and he had a feeling that Sarajane probably numbered among them—but as of yet, he had not mastered the ability to talk and kiss at the same time.

  And the kiss took center stage.

  Chapter Six

  It was Adrienne McKenna who had introduced him to the world of kissing the day she’d pulled him behind his parents’ pool house and put her lips to use in a way he’d never anticipated before. Adrienne had been the older woman in his life. She was twelve at the time and he was almost eleven. On that sunny, long-ago day, the degree of his attraction to the fairer sex heightened astronomically.

  Even though it had been over twenty years ago, Jordan felt it safe to say that Adrienne McKenna had absolutely nothing on Sarajane Gerrity.

  Jordan wasn’t certain if he’d caught the overly energetic, incredibly opinionated woman unaware, or if, for that matter, she’d been any more unaware than he was about the pending event, but lightning had definitely struck the second their lips met. He might have unconsciously initiated it, but heaven knew that she had provided the fuel.

  And then some.

  Kissing Sarajane was every bit as exciting—and as mind-boggling—as he’d thought it would be. And now, as he deepened the kiss, simultaneously digging his own grave, every inch of his body came alive.

  Alive? Hell, that was an understatement. He felt as if he were on fire and the temperature all around him was rising by the mega-second.

  Jordan ran his hands along her back, pressing her to him, savoring the sensation, the moment, even as he began to lose touch with reality.

  A second before it happened, she saw it coming. Sarajane had meant to pick her hands up and block any contact before it occurred. Meant to, but somehow she couldn’t quite seem to execute the simple movement. Couldn’t quite lift her hands up to wedge them against his chest and perhaps even to push him back. Instead, they remained at her sides, paralyzed by what she saw in his eyes.

  And then, the next moment, all of her limbs almost seemed simultaneously to go limp as he kissed her.

  And all sorts of explosions were going off inside her.

  The kiss was far more than just breathtaking, it was life-force-taking. It was a struggle for her simply not to get sucked in and obliterated.

  And then she rallied, because she knew if she didn’t, she’d go down for the third time without ever having broken the surface even once. She was not about to be a casualty of a card-carrying member of the DDG club, not if she could help it. Taken in twice—once by Rocco, once by Andrew—the third strike would have been a permanent out and she was not ready to sit out the game of life for the rest of her years. Not yet, by God.

  So, summoning all the fire, all the verve, that she had within her well-supplied arsenal, Sarajane suddenly rose up on her toes, wrapped her arms around Jordan’s neck and kissed the invading enemy back. Hard. With every fiber of her being.

  And, as sometimes happened with these things, succeeded in dangerously rocking her own world at the same time.

  Meltdown seemed imminent and only moments away. She could feel the heat traveling up and down her body, all but singeing her very core. She wanted him. Knew she wanted him. And knew, above all else, that she couldn’t allow that to happen.

  Ever.

  Survival instincts kicked in and Sarajane managed to slip her hands between Jordan and herself, although how was a mystery since there was less than enough space available there to fit in a buffalo-head nickel flattened by a runaway semi.

  Jordan felt her fingertips pressing hard against his chest. He moved his head back at the same time that he drew in a long breath, then let it out again. To his dismay, it sounded shaky.

  Clearing his throat, he loosened his arms from around her torso. But not without a sudden surge of regret. It took effort to summon the smile to his lips. “Well, glad we cleared that up.”

  Sarajane stared at him. He was kidding, right? They hadn’t cleared up anything. What they had done—what he had done—was muddy up the w
aters. A lot.

  How was she supposed to work with him now that she had almost gone up in smoke because he’d kissed her? And what made it even worse was that he knew it, damn it. He knew it.

  “I could have you up on harassment charges.” The desperate words all but leaped out of her mouth in self-defense against the emotions that were flying and colliding all through her like drunken butterflies without a flight plan.

  To her mounting anger and embarrassment, she saw a grin forming on his face

  “Where’s your evidence?” he asked mildly. “Anyone who was watching us a few minutes ago would say that you were the one who pulled me into this room, not vice versa,” he pointed out, his expression now the picture of innocence. “So, if anyone can cite harassment in this case…”

  Jordan let his voice trail off, the wicked smile on his lips displaying a sense of confidence he didn’t have at the moment. But then, his insides still resembled a burnt offering.

  Stunned, Sarajane stared at him. He wouldn’t dare—would he? It hit her that she didn’t know. She knew very little about this man other than what she’d read in the papers and what his doting sister had told her—two very opposite sides of the spectrum.

  “What?” she demanded angrily.

  He had her going for a second, he thought. The sense of triumph that he’d expected eluded him. “I was just pointing out the obvious,” he told her. “You were the one who took my hand and dragged me in here.”

  Her shoulders snapped back, more rigid than a surfboard. “I didn’t drag,” she retorted.

  He felt tempted to remain here, in this small space with her, and see where the escalating heat would eventually take them, but that kind of behavior belonged to someone still in college, possibly law school, but not a man who had passed the bar and pleaded the cases of men and women whose faces were on the pages of Fortune 500.