by Jade Kerrion
An hour later, she finally walked into the law firm of Sanchez and Ryan, which occupied the glass-encased twenty-sixth floor of the Skylight building. The receptionist behind the desk greeted Nicole with a curve of her lips that was more smirk than smile. “A slow start today?”
Nicole didn’t bother to point out that technically, the firm wasn’t open yet. The fact was, it was a slow start for her. She was usually in the office by seven, and would have been if not for the doggy incident.
A rotten start to the new year. She went to her office located along an internal corridor. The offices with windows overlooking Central Park were reserved for the senior and junior partners in the firm. Five years out of law school and scarcely pushing the big three-oh, Nicole was next in line for promotion to a senior associate. From there, it would be another eight or ten years before she made partner, if she stuck around that long.
After what happened on Christmas Eve, long term didn’t seem as likely any more.
Her schedule, packed with client meetings and case preparation, kept her busy through the morning and lunch. At 4 p.m., she joined the senior partner, Mitch Ryan, for a meeting with Elyse Vogel. The law firm took on a few pro bono cases each year, usually on behalf of Hannah’s Home—a halfway house for battered women. Elyse Vogel had passed through the halfway house six years earlier with a newborn. Unable to care for her, Elyse had turned her daughter, Frances, over to the foster system, and now sought to adopt her.
Typically, the case would have been a little tricky, but not absurd, but things were complicated when, at the Christmas Eve party a few weeks earlier, Mitch’s wife, Charlotte, had accused Mitch of having an affair with Elyse. She had also exposed Elyse as a highly paid escort.
That inconvenient fact had been deliberately kept out of Elyse’s adoption application, and the Child and Family Services Division had a conniption when they found out. Mercifully, a wave of public sympathy rose for Elyse—a former escort who had given up her child to a better life and, having turned her life around, wanted to adopt the child. Who was the big bad state to stand in the way of a mother’s love? Riding high on the surge of social media, Elyse’s story had gone viral, and the state was backing down, promising to consider the situation fully before making a decision on Frances.
In Nicole’s mind, the case was as good as won.
Of course, she was much more circumspect in describing the situation to Elyse when they sat in the conference room together, but Elyse broke into a radiant smile. “Thank you so much. I can’t even begin to tell you how much this means to me—getting your help on the adoption in the first place, and then having you stick with me through all of this…mess.”
Mitch grinned. “It’s why I put the barracuda on your case.” He glanced at Nicole. “No one is more tenacious than she is.”
Nicole didn’t rankle at the name. She was a barracuda—cold-blooded with an instinctive ability to go for the kill. Prerequisites for success as a lawyer. Barracudas hunted in packs, though. She was a loner. She had always been a loner.
After she walked Elyse out, she returned to her office, but Mitch called out to her as she passed the conference room. “Let’s talk.”
She shook her head. “I’ve got my next client already waiting on the phone.”
“All right. Later then.”
She returned to her office, knowing that, at best, she had put off the conversation for a few hours. Mitch was as tenacious as she was. He had pursued her and she had let him. Why not? A quiet affair with both parties fully aware that it was never meant to go anywhere couldn’t possibly hurt anyone, could it?
Except that, Charlotte found out about his affair but locked onto the wrong target. Nicole’s jaw tensed. Her affair with Mitch had hurt an entirely innocent party—Elyse Vogel.
Nicole and Mitch had managed not to discuss it in the week between Christmas and New Year, but now that Elyse’s adoption file had been fished out of Shit Creek, there was no avoiding that conversation with Mitch.
Still, his work and her work kept them apart for hours. That was the beautiful part of their affair—there wasn’t any waiting around. No expectations. No calling up to check on the other person. No worrying if there would be a stray text or an inconvenient e-mail, or worse, a betraying photograph.
Nothing. Exactly the way she’d planned. Exactly what she wanted. It was as if their six-month affair had never existed anywhere except in their memories.
Nicole kept a steady pace working through the cases on her desk. Dinner was a pint of stir-fried noodles with tofu delivered from the little Chinese restaurant around the corner where the owner had Nicole’s credit card number memorized. Nicole was a creature of habit—good habits that she had worked hard to cultivate. A regular schedule was simply a symptom of the life she had worked so hard to build.
Each day set her past further behind her.
As the evening deepened, the individual office lights went off. The legal assistants and associates went out with friends or home to family. Eventually, the partners headed out too. Most of the office was shrouded in darkness when Mitch came to her door. “So, any updates on Elyse’s case since we spoke to her earlier today?”
Nicole looked up to see Mitch leaning against the doorframe, his hands jammed into his pants pockets. “The usual hoops and red tape, but nothing out of the ordinary. It won’t be fast—because no adoption in New York is ever fast—but the road ahead appears clear. Eight to ten weeks, and Frances will be home with her mother.”
“Nice work,” he complimented her.
“Thank you.” She smiled and turned her attention back to her computer monitor.
Mitch did not walk away. Somehow, she had not expected him to. He stared at the carpet, as if fixated on an invisible spot. “Are we done?” he asked, his voice pitched low.
“We were done on Christmas Eve,” she said, her tone neutral.
He nodded and turned away. To her, the motion seemed slow and sad, but she wasn’t crazy or deluded enough to believe that he had been in love with her or willing to leave Charlotte for her. She hadn’t wanted permanence or his love, but for a while, it was enough for her to be excited by his ambition and thrilled by his business influence and political power.
But that game was done—the unintended damage certainly more than done—and it was time to move on.
Yet, late in the night, when the office was empty, when the people with families, with partners, with friends had left, it was hard to recall why she shut the door on her affair with Mitch.
Companionship was companionship, even if it wasn’t ideal or intended for the long term, and somehow “because it was the right thing to do” did not sound as compelling or as consoling as it should have.
She straightened, her back and shoulders stiff. Because men can’t be trusted. Not in a real relationship. Those words rang truer, because she knew they were true.
Nicole released her breath in a sound that was almost a sigh as she slid her computer notebook into her business tote. She turned off the lights and closed her office door.
Her smartphone flashed an incoming text. Frowning, she glanced at the message from a number she did not recognize. I realize it’s late, but wanted to let you know your dog is fine.
She scowled. It wasn’t her dog.
The phone flashed again. You want to see him? I can keep the clinic open if you want to come by.
She glanced at her watch. It was almost midnight and it wasn’t her dog.
But she had hit it, and the best way to wash her hands of the responsibility was to pay the bill and have the vet either find a home for the creature or drop it off at the shelter. Might as well get it over with. Her to-do list did not have space for administrative hassles like stray animals, let alone any time for people like the rude man at the clinic that morning.
Well, she probably didn’t have to worry about ever seeing him again. He didn’t look like the type who would be at work eighteen hours later.
A smirk twisted her lips. W
hat was a half hour on top of an already absurdly long day? All it would take was thirty minutes of her life, and she would be rid of both the silly dog and that annoying man.
A heck of a return on my investment.
She sent a text: On my way.
Chapter 2
As Rico Vargas scrubbed his hands, he cast a quick glance at the digital clock over the sink. 7:41 a.m. He stifled a sigh. So much for coming in to the clinic early to get a head start on the paperwork. He should have known better; chaos started early in the city that never slept.
He turned to the dog lying on the table. The dog did not have any open wounds or broken bones—of that much he was certain from his quick examination in the backseat of the woman’s car. With luck, it would be just a strain—a simple fix.
From the other side of the clinic, a woman’s voice shouted. “I’m all done with the forms.”
He shook his head. How could anyone make such a simple statement ring with that much impatience and hostility? “You can just leave them on the desk.”
He heard the door slam. And have a nice day. He strode across the hall, picked up the completed forms, and took them back to the examination room. He grinned at the dog. “All right, let’s take a look at you.”
Seven or eight years old, judging by the teeth. Alert, well-fed, and well-socialized. He glanced at the form. “She thinks you’re a mutt?” He chuckled. “Pure bred Belgian Malinois, more like.”
The dog wagged its long tail.
“And what’s wrong with you?”
A careful examination confirmed his quick assessment. The dog had a badly sprained hind left leg. A simple splint would provide support while the muscles and tendons healed. Typically, given the size of the dog, its potential for viciousness, and the absence of the owner, it would be a two-person job. Rico gave the dog a steady look. There was no fear in the dog’s eyes, but neither was there any suggestion of viciousness or a quick temper.
Well, it was gamble on his intuitive assessment of the animal or wait an hour and a half before the veterinarian assistants showed up for work. He turned his back on the dog and tugged out the bandages and supplies from the drawers. “Don’t prove me wrong here.”
The straightforward procedure took only fifteen minutes, and Rico’s faith in the dog was justified. The Belgian Malinois did not so much as whimper, let alone snap. “Tough guy, aren’t you?” He stroked between the dog’s ears. “I bet someone’s out there right now, frantic at having lost you.”
He ran a scanner across the dog’s neck and was gratified to hear the soft beep of a located microchip. It provided a New York City address and a phone number, but no one answered when he called. “Probably canvassing the neighborhood with lost dog posters,” he said. “We’ll keep trying, big guy. Meanwhile, let’s get you some grub.”
Rico carried the dog into one of the large empty crates and filled two bowls with water and dog food. “It’s going to be busy over here,” he said, “but I’ll check in on you often.”
Over the next several hours, the clinic filled with employees and with customers of the human and animal variety. “Dr. Vargas, whose dog is that?” many people asked him over the course of the day.
“Accident victim. Came in this morning. I’m still trying to track down the owner,” Rico answered.
Through the day, Rico checked on his four-legged patient, regularly taking the dog out to the walled-in area behind the clinic where the dog could relieve himself. In the evening, Rico topped up the bowl of water and gave the dog a fresh serving of kibble.
No one had returned his call, though. Rico called again around 9 p.m. after the clinic closed, and he was the only one person left on the silent premises. The only other living soul was the large Belgian Malinois napping in the crate. No one answered the phone, however, and he left another message before sighing. He stared at the dog who lifted its head to look at him. “What am I going to do with you?”
He grimaced at the thought of sending the dog to the shelter, although his options were painfully few. The clinic wasn’t equipped to keep pets for more than an overnight stay, at best, and he couldn’t bring the dog home. His two Siamese cats would never stand for it.
A boarding facility, perhaps, but those cost a great deal, and the clinic, already running on narrow margins, couldn’t afford it, not even for so magnificent a creature.
But the shelter?
The thought nagged at him as he sat in the office, steadily winnowing through a heap of paperwork, the perennial curse of a business owner, and damn, if he didn’t hate it. He did, however, love being his own boss. The paperwork, he supposed, was a fair trade for not having to report to anyone else. It galled him, though, that he didn’t always have as much control as he wanted.
Like over the fate of the dog.
His gaze fell on the Belgian Malinois. It didn’t belong in the shelter.
Wait. The woman who had brought the dog into the clinic. Rico shoved aside the pieces of paper on his desk and found the forms she had filled out. He sent a text message to the listed phone number. I realize it’s late, but wanted to let you know your dog is fine.
He waited for a moment, and then followed up with: You want to see him? I can keep the clinic open if you want to come by.
What was another couple of minutes on top of an already late night? He glanced at the clock. 11:54 p.m. His eyes widened. Already?
Damn it! His brain had been stuck at 9 p.m.—not too late for a text message to a complete stranger, but midnight? He put his smartphone down. She wasn’t going to get back to him. The dog would be all right in the clinic overnight. As for him, he had to get home and snatch a few hours of sleep before returning to the clinic for another long day.
Rico turned off the light in his office and went over to the dog’s crate. “One more pit stop before I head out. Come on.” He unlatched the crate and provided support as the dog hobbled out. The night air cut through his leather jacket, and Rico hunched against the cold bite of the wind as the dog took a stroll around the yard, apparently in no hurry to do its business or to go back in. “Come on, big guy. I don’t have all day, or all night.”
Suddenly, his phone buzzed.
On my way.
She was coming? At midnight? Jeez.
And he had promised to keep the clinic open. Great. He rolled his eyes and braced himself for another meeting with her.
Just what I needed to end the day. He glanced at his watch. Or worse, start a new one.
Nicole parked at the back of the clinic, and for a moment, contemplated walking around the building to the front door. What the heck—it was past midnight; any expectation of social niceties had expired hours earlier. She hopped out of the car, her breath misting in the cold, scurried to the back door of the clinic, and pounded her fist on it.
It swung open, and for several moments, she stared in surprised silence at the face of the same man who had opened the door for her that morning.
He broke the silence first. “Is the front door buzzer not working for you?”
“Why have your parking lot around the back?”
“It’s New York City. How many people have cars anyway?”
The way he said it made her feel like a prissy, over privileged, up-town girl. Except that she wasn’t. She glared at him. Why should she feel guilty for a luxury she had worked hard to own? She stepped forward, the deliberate motion causing him to step aside for her. “How’s the dog?”
“Doing fine. His left hindquarters are badly strained but nothing a few days in a splint won’t fix. He’s resting well and eating well. There’s nothing to suggest it won’t be a straightforward recovery.”
She gaped at him. “You…you’re the vet.”
“Yeah. Rico Vargas.” His eyebrows drew together. “Who did you think I was this morning when I let you in?”
The janitor? “I wasn’t really thinking. I just wanted to get the dog off my hands.”
“So why are you here?”
“To settle th
e bill.”
“It’s a small one. I can write it off. Actually, there’s a bigger issue. The dog has a microchip. I’ve called the number a few times—no answer. No one’s called me back.”
“Wait. You’re saying the dog doesn’t have an owner?”
“The dog has an owner, but the owner’s not getting back to me.” He waved his hand to the crate where the dog sat upright, ears pricked. “We’re not set up here to keep the dog long term.”
“So send it to the shelter.”
He stared at her as if she had morphed into the Wicked Witch of the West.
Nicole suppressed an unexpected giggle at the comical look on his face. If he wanted witch, he’d get bitch, at least. She arched her eyebrows and pasted on her most innocent expression. “What?”
“We can’t send a dog to the shelter.”
“Hello? Stray dogs go to the shelter. I’m not making up the rules here. What’s one more mutt in there?”
“It’s not a mutt.”
“German Shepherd breeding gone wrong?”
“It’s a Belgian Malinois.”
“Whatever.” She shrugged. “It’s not my problem. I’m just here to settle the bill. It’s late. Tell me how much I owe you, and I’m out of here.”
“Look, you hit the dog. It’s your responsibility, and not just financially.”
“You may not think your clinic is equipped to handle the dog, but you’re a veterinarian, for God’s sake. You have those cages.”
“We call them crates.”
“I have leather couches and Berber carpets.”
“Great. The dog is going to love those.”
“He can’t come home with me. I don’t have anything to care for him.”
“He’s toilet-trained. You just need to take him out regularly. You can take a pack of dog food with you. Give him food and water, and he’s all set.”
“No, nothing’s all set. I can’t leave him in the house. I work all day.”
“It’s Saturday. You work on Saturdays too?”
“Oh.” She blinked.