Prince Charming Doesn’t Live Here

by Christine Warren

  The stray thought wiped the burgeoning smile from Danice’s face. According to her dear friend Reggie, vampires didn’t turn into mist. That, apparently, was all Hollywood mythology. And Reggie ought to know, since she’d recently married a vampire and become one herself.

  Damn, Danice thought, shaking her head. Somehow she didn’t think she’d ever get used to thinking things like that, especially not here within the safe and utterly normal confines of an unrelentingly respectable law firm. And definitely not without someone jumping out from behind a door and telling her she’d been punked.

  The door opened again, this time wide enough for an actual human being—or an actual vampire, she supposed—to pass through, and Ms. Eberhart stepped aside to wave her in.

  “Mr. Yorke will see you now.”

  The older woman managed to make it sound as if an audience with Matthew Yorke IV was slightly harder to get than one with Elizabeth II, and significantly more important. Danice had to stifle the urge to curtsy.

  Instead, she nodded with a touch of arrogance of her own and strode forward toward the thin, stooped figure behind the huge, antique desk. As she extended her hand, she heard the click of the door closing behind her.

  “Mr. Yorke.” She smiled, shaking the old man’s hand firmly but carefully. It would hardly help her career if she were to unintentionally break something. “It’s certainly a pleasure to see you again, sir.”

  “Ms. Carter, please have a seat,” he replied in a surprisingly robust voice. He gestured toward the elegant and uncomfortable Queen Anne armchairs facing his desk, and Danice sat.

  She had seen Matthew Yorke up close and in person precisely three times before this afternoon, so she recognized him, but this was the first time she’d had the opportunity to observe the sharp intelligence in his faded blue eyes. Some people, she thought, might be too distracted by the wrinkled skin and thinning hair to notice that the old man watched the world around him with the canny patience of a wolf. She wasn’t one of them. Instinctively, she straightened her spine and met his gaze with her own.

  “I hope you won’t mind if I call you Danice.”

  “Of course not. Please do.”

  Matthew Yorke settled himself carefully into the huge, worn leather chair behind his desk and laced his fingers together over his stomach. “I had Patrice bring me a few tidbits of information about you the other day, Danice. I have to say, you’re certainly justifying the firm’s confidence in you so far.”

  A long, slow blink was all the outward reaction Danice allowed herself. Inside, she couldn’t decide if she should laugh or slap his face. The declaration had more than a touch of feudalism to it, carefully couched in a backhanded compliment. The man was either stuck in the Dark Ages or a master of psychological warfare.

  Maybe both.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, her voice bland. “I always do my best for the firm, of course.”

  His nod dripped with royal condescension. “You graduated at the top of your class from Columbia. We have high expectations for your future.”

  “As do I.”

  She detected a glint of what she thought might be approval in his eyes before he continued.

  “I was especially impressed with your handling of the Howard-McKinley matter,” he said, naming the case of a small software firm that had sued a former employee for breach of contract after he failed to prove as innovatively brilliant as he’d claimed when he’d been trying to get the job.

  “Thank you, sir, but I can hardly take all the credit. Alan Thorpe was the lead attorney there. My contribution was mostly in persuading the two parties to stop and listen to each other’s arguments. Once they managed that, it wasn’t so hard for them to come to terms over a settlement.”

  “Exactly.” Faded eyes gleamed as Yorke nodded. “I have a lot of lawyers working for me, Danice, and all of them know the law. Not all of them are able to talk sense into two offended parties who aren’t being remotely sensible. I think that’s a particularly valuable skill.”

  Danice shifted uneasily. On the one hand, she couldn’t bring herself to downplay her achievements to her own boss, but on the other, she was beginning to get an uncomfortable feeling about just what her achievements might have earned her. Somehow, she didn’t think it was an all-expenses-paid vacation to the Caribbean.

  “Thank you,” she repeated and carefully left it there.

  Yorke rolled his chair forward a few inches and leaned his arms on his desk. “And now I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you to come up here.”

  “I am curious, sir, but I presumed it had something to do with the file Ms. Eberhart brought me.”

  He nodded. “It does. Have you read through it?”

  “No. I only received it a few minutes before I came upstairs.”

  “Good. Then let me say first, and most important, that the matter in the file is one that must be handled with the absolute highest level of discretion. It’s not something I would like to hear being bandied about the building or over the watercooler.”

  “Of course not.” Danice struggled not to allow any of her indignation to seep into her tone. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know when to keep her mouth shut. Hell, even as they spoke she was keeping the secret of The Others from the entire damned world, wasn’t she?

  “Now, don’t be offended.” The elderly man smiled knowingly. “When I explain matters to you, you’ll understand how I take the details of this case quite personally. You see, it involves my granddaughter.”

  Two

  “Your granddaughter?” Surprise leaked out before Danice could stifle it. She’d assumed any case that came down from On High would be an important one, but she’d never expected to be trusted with a case of personal significance to an owner of the firm. She hadn’t even made junior partner yet.

  “That’s right. She’s my daughter Ruth’s child, and it might make me sound like some kind of unfeeling old bastard, but I have to tell you, the girl has always been my favorite.” He nodded at the notebook folder in her lap. “You might as well open that up now. You’ll likely want to take notes.”

  Still unsure of exactly what was going on, Danice did as she was told and opened the folder. She flipped to a blank sheet on the legal pad inside and took out a slim silver pen. Whatever this was about, she felt pretty confident it would at least be interesting.

  “My granddaughter’s name is Rosemary Addison,” Yorke began. “Her mother, Ruth, is my youngest, and if her stubborn streak is any indication, she’s also the one who takes after me the most. And she seems to have passed that trait on down to Rosemary.

  “Ruth married against my wishes. I never liked Tom Addison, and I can’t say that I don’t blame him, at least in part, for this whole mess. He was never good enough for Ruth, and the only time he ever paid any attention to his daughter was when he was scolding her. It’s a wonder she never ran away or ended up a teenage drug addict.”

  So far, Danice couldn’t quite decide what she was supposed to be making notes about, so she just wrote down the names he mentioned and other random words to make her appear to be listening. Which she was; she just wasn’t quite understanding at the moment. She had no idea what he might be leading up to, and frankly, she couldn’t even tell if she was supposed to.

  But somehow she wasn’t getting a very good feeling about it.

  “It’s all to Ruth’s credit that Rosemary turned out to be a good girl, if a bit high-strung and impulsive. And stubborn. But it’s Tom Addison’s fault that she was always looking for a man to love her, because that son of a bitch never did.”

  Danice blinked at the harsh words, but continued her pretend-note-taking. Is that so, Mr. Yorke? But tell me how you really feel? she thought.

  “So it’s Addison’s fault that Rosemary is in this mess. And that’s where you come in.”

  Danice’s head snapped up. “Um, excuse me, sir. Where, exactly, is it that I’m coming in?”

  Her question seemed to shake Yorke out of some sort of
spell of memories and irritation. He gave a tiny start and blinked at her once before his face settled into a wrinkled scowl.

  “Rosemary got herself mixed up with some lowlife,” he growled. “Some opportunistic bastard made Rosie fall in love with him, got her pregnant, and then disappeared. That son of a bitch broke her heart. He hurt her so badly, she never even told her family about it. I had to find out from some gossip columnist calling me up to ask if it was true that my granddaughter, Rosemary Addison, was unmarried and pregnant. This reporter told me that Rosie had been seen leaving an obstetrician’s office and going directly to a luncheon where she had to ask people if anyone had heard from this asshole because she had some very important news for him. As if my little girl would have to go chasing after some man in order to get him to do the right thing! If you ask me, the son of a bitch ought to be shot.”

  For a second, Danice found herself wondering if the file in her lap contained legal documents, or a gun and a silencer. It almost sounded as if Matthew Yorke wasn’t looking for an attorney so much as a hit man. Or hit woman.

  Hit person?

  “Back in my day, that folder on your lap would have contained a breach of promise suit,” he continued, still scowling. “Too bad that went out in the 1940s. But that doesn’t mean I’m letting that bastard get away with deserting my Rosie. I’m going to find the bastard for her, and then I’m going to make him pay. We can’t get him for breach, but we can sure as hell get him for paternity in New York, and since Rosie tells me they spent time at the family house in Connecticut because he claimed to be from around there, we’re going to slap him with their Marvin law as well. New York might not grant palimony rights, but Connecticut does.”

  Finally, the light began to dawn. “And you’d like me to handle the suits?”

  Yorke nodded. “I would.”

  Danice squirmed and searched her brain frantically for a way to get out of the assignment. Not only were paternity and palimony lawsuits stigmatic and messy, they were also painfully difficult to negotiate and seldom easy to win. And the last thing she needed in her quest for a partnership was to lose a case on behalf of the granddaughter of the firm’s senior-most senior partner. It would be career suicide. A warped form of hara-kiri, only messier and less dignified.

  “But first,” the old man continued, “I need you to talk some sense into my granddaughter. Not only is she currently refusing to let me file, she’s also withholding the name of the bastard from me, so I can’t even track him down and threaten to break his puny little neck.”

  Oh, yeah. This was just looking better and better.

  “Mr. Yorke,” she began cautiously, “I’m flattered by your confidence in me, but the firm has several attorneys with much more experience in family law than I have. I’m sure you’ve noticed that during my time here, I’ve spent more time in contracts and civil litigation.”

  “Of course I noticed that, Ms. Carter,” Yorke snapped, “but I also noticed that you’re female, bright, and close to my granddaughter’s age. It wasn’t the easiest chore convincing her to talk to an attorney in the first place, but I promised her I’d find someone she could feel comfortable with. That someone, my dear, is you.”

  So that was what it looked like when your life flashed before your eyes, Danice reflected morosely. It really was almost anticlimactic. In retrospect, the high points so far looked more like speed bumps than mountainous achievements.

  She forced a smile and worked to unclench her jaw. “Well, I suppose if you’re certain I’m the best choice…”

  “You’re the only choice.” His glare did little to comfort her. “Inside that folder, you’ll find the address of her parents’ summer house in Connecticut where she’s staying, and summaries of the New York paternity and Connecticut palimony statutes. It’s up to you to fill in the rest of what you’ll need to go to court. But most important is finding out this bastard’s name. I want it, and I damned sure as hell don’t want my Rosie to have to go begging someone else to put her in touch with him before I know it. I want that information as soon as you have it. If not sooner.”

  Oh, yes. An assignment like this would undoubtedly make her future with Parish Hampton.

  Make it into what, was the question.

  “Forgive me for asking, Mr. Yorke,” she began, trying frantically to find a way to voice her thoughts that wouldn’t have her clearing out her desk before the end of business. Which was in about six minutes from now. “But have you considered that your granddaughter might prefer to simply put this relationship behind her and move on with her life? I realize that few people dream of being a single parent, but it doesn’t sound as if the baby’s father is a terribly reliable sort to begin with, so maybe it would—”

  “Ms. Carter,” Yorke bit out, his pale eyes narrowing until she could barely make out the slits of blue in the mass of wrinkles, “I don’t care what year it is, or what the celebrities or the young kids are doing these days. My granddaughter is not going to be an unwed mother. No punk is going to knock up my little girl and just walk away without being punished. It wouldn’t have happened in my day, and it won’t happen today. Do I make myself clear?”

  Danice swallowed hard and wondered how difficult it would be to pass the bar exam in California. Or Alaska.

  Maybe Argentina?

  “Very clear, sir.” She bent over the pad in her lap and feigned making another diligent note about the case as she watched the deep black chasm at her feet opening wider and wider. Falling in, she thought, might be inevitable, but at the moment a painful and messy death didn’t sound all that bad. It might even beat the alternative of trying these cases. She’d have to give it some thought. “I’ll arrange to meet with Ms. Addison immediately. Was there anything else?”

  Yorke shook his head, rheumy eyes gleaming with a combination of malice and satisfaction. Unfortunately, Danice wasn’t altogether sure which emotion he had directed at her. “That’s all, Danice. Just make sure you handle this case as well as you’ve handled all your others, and everything will be just fine.”

  The edge of the chasm inched closer.

  “Of course. I’ll give it my best.”

  “I’m sure you will.” He leaned back in his chair, his expression softening back into the dignified mien he normally showed the world. Only by looking very closely could she detect the spark of Machiavellian intent behind his mask. “And I’m sure a successful resolution of this case will be the kind of thing the partners look on very favorably when they meet to discuss promotions in three months.”

  And right there, he held the carrot and the stick in the same gnarled hand.

  The problem, Danice reflected glumly a few minutes later as she stepped back into the elevator, was that while she would give her best to the situation, she had a feeling that the situation would be giving her little more than a headache in return. Well, a headache and some heartburn, she thought, already wishing for the pack of antacids she kept in her bottom drawer.

  Both sources of discomfort would be worth it, though, if they led to her junior partnership at the end of the year. Until just a few minutes ago, she had assumed she was another year away from the brass ring, but now Yorke was dangling it right in front of her nose.

  Danice glanced down at her notes as the elevator doors slid open. Hopefully, Rosemary Addison wouldn’t be screening away calls from the firm’s number. If this was going to be Danice’s fate, she’d prefer to go up in flame right now and get it over with. Better to go out with a bang than a whimper.

  Especially since she had a feeling she would still be whimpering while she burned.

  Three

  Danice didn’t believe in allowing herself to be handicapped, so she knew perfectly well how to drive. But she also didn’t believe in being an idiot, so she didn’t own a car. Keeping one in the city would have cost her nearly as much as leasing her apartment, and driving one through Midtown would have cost her sanity, so on a daily basis she did what all intelligent New Yorkers did: used her own tw
o feet and one of the few reliable public transit systems in America.

  Today, however, she was working, so she very cheerfully allowed Parish Hampton to order her a car service to drive her the thirty-odd miles from Manhattan to New Canaan, Connecticut. Not having to drive herself gave her the freedom to work during the trip, and working during the trip gave her the chance to plot the strategy she would take when she met Rosemary Addison in way too short a time.

  She had dialed the young woman’s number the minute she got back to her desk after speaking to Yorke. For several agonizing minutes, she’d feared she’d been right about the call screening, but after nearly seven rings Rosemary had finally picked up the phone. She had not, however, sounded all that happy to talk to an employee of her grandfather’s firm.

  Matthew Yorke IV, his granddaughter had informed Danice, had no right to stick his nose into her private affairs. She was twenty-six years old, and way past the age when she needed to answer to anyone else for her behavior or her decisions. If she wanted to go out to the docks during Fleet Week and sleep with every sailor who stepped off a ship, that was exactly what she would do, and nothing her parents or her grandparents could say was going to stop her. If she wanted to have a dozen illegitimate children and parade them in front of the tabloid paparazzi every day of their young lives, she’d do that, too. And if her grandfather didn’t stop trying to stick his nose in her affairs, she’d make sure she didn’t even know the damned father’s name herself the next time, so that he’d have no reason to think he deserved to know it, either.

  But if Danice wanted to come by the house, Rosemary supposed she could squeeze a meeting in at around ten the next morning.

  Oh, how Danice was looking forward to it.

  Glancing out the window of the moving town car, she could see that the landscape of concrete and asphalt that made up New York had faded away, leaving her surrounded by the leafy, tree-lined expanse of Connecticut’s Merritt Parkway. They wouldn’t be far from their destination now.