Just One Night, Part 3_ Binding Agreement(48)

In less than two minutes he comes out. The man I saw at Chipotle has been replaced by a guy who bears a much greater resemblance to my former fiancé.

He graces me with a practiced smile, shakes my hand as if I’m a client, and leads me to his private office. As soon as the door closes his smile drops and his eyes become wary, which is as much as I expected. What I didn’t expect . . . or at least was uncertain of, was the sophistication of the office itself. It’s nice, maybe even a little nicer than the one Dave had before. And it’s so very him. The walls are white, the desk is neat, not a single paper left out. The file cabinets gleam as if they’ve just been polished. There are no plants. No pictures. A Jack Nicklaus–autographed golf ball sits in a case. Dave isn’t a really big golf fan but he thinks he should be. It’s a little lie to enhance the bigger ones that he surrounds himself with.

“I guess you got a job,” I say while examining the autograph. If it wasn’t for the certificate framed directly above it, I would never know what this signature said. Writing on a golf ball with a felt-tip pen can’t be easy.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead he takes his time as he walks to the chair behind his desk, ensuring that he’s in his place of authority. “A quick glance at the company website would have answered that question,” he points out.

“Yes,” I agree. I turn, face him. “But it wouldn’t have explained why you referred one of your clients to me.”

He gives a slight nod. Clearly he had anticipated the question. “So Lynn Johns called you?” He smiles, a little maliciously. “It’s a small account but I figured you’d take what you could get. Tell me, Kasie, how does it feel to be playing in the minors again?”

I study his face. “No, you didn’t refer her just to see if I’d take a smaller account, to see if I’m desperate. So what was it? Is there a trap here I’m not seeing?”

He holds my gaze, but only for about five seconds before abruptly turning away. “She needed a consultant. Referring her to you seemed prudent.”

“Prudent?”

“Look around you,” he snaps. “I’m back where I was, different scenery, same position, same prestige. The rumors about my embezzlement disappeared within a week of our last conversation. You whispered a request into that man’s ear and suddenly my career has risen from the sewer, freshly scrubbed and smelling of lilacs.” He adjusts his position, his cheeks red with anger and embarrassment. “Guess that makes him my hero, too, huh?” he sneers. “Mr. Dade, the man who fucked my fiancée has now, in his infinite mercy, decided not to destroy the rest of my life. I suppose you’re here to ask me to thank him? To humiliate me just a little more?”

I let the words sink in and consider what they mean about Robert and my feelings about him. “No,” I say. “I would never ask you to thank a man for not making your destruction his goal. You don’t have to thank me either. Not with words, not with clients.”

“Yeah, well I prefer to play it safe if it’s all the same to you.”

He’s still not looking at me. It’s kind of funny. Here we are in his office that is so much nicer than mine. The view spans across the city to the hills. He has the power of a well-established firm of lawyers behind him. And yet he’s the one afraid of me. I haven’t been in this position for some time now and like an ex-smoker sucking up the secondhand smoke of others, I will always take a guilty pleasure in the scent of power.

But I won’t pick up the cigarette. “You can do what you like, I’m just telling you your future doesn’t depend on your support of me.”

“I don’t support you, Kasie,” he retorts. “All I’ll ever do is send you a client or two. Try not to sleep with them, will you?”

I smile at the insult; he’s earned the right to hurl it. And I’ve earned the right to walk away. So I do, leaving Dave to his success and anger.

* * *

I’M NOT IN the mood to go home. Instead I go to a small hotel, not far from Dave’s office. I find the bar, a quiet place with dark corners. I’ve only been in my seat for a minute before the cocktail waitress approaches. “What can I get you?” she says in a voice a little too high, a tone a little too bright.

I glance at the drink specials: açaí mojitos, peach Bellinis, gingered pear martinis . . . alcoholic sins hidden within antioxidant blessings. I don’t want to kid myself today.

“I’d like a scotch, please,” I say quietly.

“Any particular kind?”