Just One Taste...(4)

For years he'd deliberately kept the details of his past sketchy. Having  a shady cousin who specialized in security matters worked in his favor  at times. Some of his history they would never learn-or understand-but  that also had its advantages. In his new life he wanted to walk in the  light. He was tired of wading through muck, even though he always  managed to find the gold in places nobody else wanted to go.

A talent or a curse?

He wasn't sure he cared anymore. At least the money he'd earned had its  uses. It provided comfort and security where once he'd suffered misery  and chaos.

He heard the stumbling shuffle behind him before he turned and saw the  heavyset man coming down the path. He guessed his age at under  twenty-five, possibly a former athlete who'd stopped intense training  and taken up late-night steak dinners and bourbon.

"Hallooo!" the guy said as he waved-and weaved-drunkenly toward Lucas.

Damn it to hell. I don't have time for this.

"Bea-u-ti-ful night, ya think?" the drunk guy mumbled, gesturing with the crystal tumbler in his right hand.

"Ou-" Lucas had to physically stop the Cajun French from leaking out. "Yes."

"I tell ya." The man clapped a friendly hand on Lucas's shoulder. "I  haven't seen a night like this 'un since our big hunt of oh-two. We were  stalking these turkeys … "

Please, dear God, not another hunting story.

"Fascinating," Lucas cut in. "Are you a professional?" From experience, he knew hunters loved this mistaken assumption.

Sure enough, the guy's chest puffed out. "Nah. Just do it on trips with the firm."

"What firm?" Lucas asked casually.

If possible, his chest expanded more. "Douglas and Alderman."

"Ah. Top drawer."

"You bet yer ass."

For a moment, Lucas wondered if the guy talked with that heavy slang at  the office. He couldn't imagine so. Douglas and Alderman were reportedly  both a couple of old-moneyed curmudgeons, who brandished  traditionalism, dignity and family pedigrees like swords.

"'Course he's gone and done it now."

"Who?"

"Broke the code."

Lucas angled his head as the guy took another long swallow from his glass. "Who broke what code?"

"Douglas. Joseph freakin' Douglas."

Ah. The premier curmudgeon. Who certainly wouldn't want to be gossiped about by a junior executive. Which this guy had to be.

Lucas fought against curiosity and ethics. The latter he'd given up some  time ago, and now wanted back. He should excuse himself. Hell, he  should run the other way.

He didn't move.

Though he'd never had the pleasure of a face-to-face introduction with  Douglas, earlier that evening he'd not-so-subtly steered his elegant  wife in the opposite direction from Lucas and the circle of people he  had been talking to. They were undoubtedly part of the crowd who would  likely never accept Lucas's change of specialty. Of course, his lineage  didn't include Civil War generals whose wife and children had held their  ground against union     troops in front of the family's plantation home,  then served them fried chicken, turnip greens and biscuits until peace  was declared, thereby saving one of the few seventeenth-century homes  still standing in Atlanta.

By contrast, Lucas's ancestors had probably been too busy helping  Blackbeard and Jean Lafitte pirate and profit in the Big Easy to bother  with turnip greens.                       
       
           



       

He wondered if Douglas's dissing could be an effort at intimidation. It  likely wasn't personal; he probably just didn't like competition.  Douglas's firm had a division that specialized in helping companies and  hospitals protect themselves against frivolous lawsuits-exactly the job  Lucas had just been hired to do by Geegan, Duluth and Patterson.

"I couldn't believe it," the drunk guy muttered, hanging his head. "Ya can't have two wills. Ya just can't."

Despite his effort not to listen, Lucas's legal antenna shot up. "No. You certainly can't."

"Mrs. Switzer, she's so nice. She's so broke. It's not right. We have to help her."

"Of course you do."

"But it's still not right. The other will, you know."

"The other will?"

"The one Mr. Switzer had Mr. Douglas draw up last month, just before he  died. Why did he have to even talk to that stripper? And in Daytona  Beach?"

"His client drew up another will?"

"No." He shook his head emphatically, then laid his finger against his  lips. "It's a secret. Mrs. Switzer's so nice. Did I tell you she always  calls me by name? She always says, 'Good morning, Anthony, how are you  today?' in that soft voice."

"How gracious of her."

"Mr. Switzer shouldn't have had that affair. Mrs. Switzer's so nice."

He definitely should have run, Lucas reflected. There was a time when he  would have relished having this kind of information about a competitor  or opposing attorney. Other people's bad habits-and subsequent  carelessness-had fueled more than one victory in his past.

A stripper, an affair, illegally ignoring a client's wishes? Two wills? It was an orgy of scandal.

He eyed the drunk junior executive next to him. Maybe the guy was full  of crap. He could have gotten Douglas mixed up with an episode of Law  & Order for all he knew.

He clapped the guy on the shoulder, then walked by him. "Sorry to hear about your troubles, mon ami, but I've got a hot date."

"Hey, ya never tol' me your name, buddy!"

Even if he had, the guy likely wouldn't remember it. But Lucas couldn't take the chance regardless. "No, I didn't, did I?"

He inclined his head, then headed inside through the kitchen door.



"HOW HOT?" MIA ASKED, her eyes blazing with excitement.

"Smokin'," Vanessa assured her as she stacked dirty dishes in a storage box.

"Ooh, you get all the good ones!"

Vanessa cut her gaze to her friend. "I do not. You do."

Mia grinned. "Oh, right."

"You get all the good ones, play with them awhile, then toss them away like old socks."

"Somebody has to try them out and warn the rest of you away."

"Half those guys want to marry you."

Mia wrinkled her nose. "Exactly my point. Yuck."

Vanessa shook her head and finished loading the box. Mia's mother had  been married and divorced four-or was it five?-times, so, not  surprisingly, Mia considered matrimony as the black hole of  relationships. She's happy until that "I do, you do, we do" business,  Mia always said, then dullsville becomes splitsville. No thank you.

Vanessa just hoped her friend wasn't playing the breakup game because she was afraid she'd follow in her mother's footsteps.

Oh, like you aren't afraid of following in your mother's footsteps? Red  bra, tattoo and attitude-you're a walking case of fear of  debutante-itis.

Vanessa mentally waved away her bothersome conscience. "Still, Mia, you  need to find a boyfriend. Somebody you love. Or can at least date for  more than a month."

"Why?"

Good question. She wasn't sure. Maybe it was this longing to reconnect  with her family that had her wishing for a lasting relationship in her  life. In the past, when things hadn't worked out with a guy, she'd  shrugged and moved on, but lately she found herself wondering if she  should consider her choices more carefully, if she should slow down and  look for a more serious relationship.                       
       
           



       

Mia grinned. "Remember that great line by Madeline Kahn in Clue? Something about how men should be like tissues-"

"Soft, strong and disposable. I remember, but she didn't have Colin-"

"Out." Mia waggled her hands in a shooing motion. "Go find Mr. Hot. I'll finish up."

The reminder of Lucas brought a wave of longing and heat sizzled through  her body. She was being brazen and rebellious again, flitting off into  the night with a man she'd met just an hour ago. A man whose last name  she didn't even know. A man who would no doubt turn out to be mistake  number 423.

She'd slow down tomorrow.

All but vibrating on the spot, she asked Mia, "Are you sure there's not too much to clean up alone?"

"I'll get Colin to help."

"Good idea. I'll call you later."

"I'm jealous."

"I know."

"And he's even safe. That ridiculous brandishing your invitation and a  picture ID business your mother insisted on actually worked out in your  favor."

Her mother was the overprotective type, which is exactly why neither  she, nor Vanessa, could classify what she was doing as safe. "He could  be a closet fetishist. Maybe he likes to wear women's underwear."

"Or he could be bad in bed."

Vanessa laid the back of her hand across her forehead. "Perish the thought."