a little too cocksure of his success with women.” He handed the stack to her and their fingers brushed. A bare slide of flesh on flesh.
Inexplicably the chatter in his head went silent. Silent. For the first time in…forever.
She jerked, dropping the papers. “Damn.”
The voices rushed back as if they’d never left at all. Jack’s heart slammed in his chest. Had he imagined it?
She gathered up the last of the papers and put them back in her expensive-looking briefcase. As she started to close the lid, the breeze caught a loose sheet. Jack grabbed for it at the same time she did. Their hands brushed again.
Silence. It was her.
Larsen Vale clicked her briefcase shut and rose. She met his gaze, briefly, as dispassionately as before. “Thanks,” she said, and turned away.
Jack stared after her, stunned. She’d quieted the voices.
Hope roared through his veins like a flood through a parched gully. She’d quieted the damn voices.
She was his salvation. His cure.
He hurried after her as she started across the parking lot. “Wait.”
She stopped and turned to look at him, a hint of a question in her eyes.
“I’m…Jack.” He thrust out his hand, partly from habit, partly from an intense desire to touch her again. “Jack Hallihan.”
She glanced at his hand, but made no move to take it. “I know.” Then she turned and walked away as if she hadn’t just changed his life.
“You’re an angel, Ms. Vale.”
LarsenVale cut a wry look at the mother of the bride standing beside her. “I’m afraid a lot of people would disagree with you, Mrs. Ramirez. But thank you. I’m glad I could help Veronica.”
Across the crowded, flower-bedecked fellowship hall of the Dupont Circle All Saints Church, her former client, Veronica Hernandez, and her new husband posed for the photographer while one of the bridesmaids artfully arranged the drape of the classic wedding gown.
Veronica’s mother, a compact woman in her fifties, smiled, tears in her eyes. “It will be different this time. Juan is not like Nicky. He is a good man. He will treat my daughter well.”
Larsen gazed at the newly married couple, at the glowing joy in the bride’s face, and remembered the first time she’d seen Veronica. Bruises had lurked beneath her heavy makeup like stones in a still pond, and fear had haunted her eyes. Now adoration lit those same eyes, an adoration mirrored in her new husband’s.
The signs were good that this marriage would be a far cry from Veronica’s last, but Larsen had long ago quit believing in fairy-tale endings.
“I must see to the cutting of the cake,” the older woman said shyly, and slipped away, leaving Larsen standing alone. A place she was all too used to.
Larsen didn’t mind her mostly solitary path through life, but there were times, like now, when she remembered other plans, other dreams. A man to love her. A wedding of her own.
But that was before she’d realized she was different—that love and family could never be hers.
She took a sip of the dark, sweet punch and grimaced inwardly, wishing Veronica had splurged on a few bottles of champagne. Nearby, a man eyed her with interest, earning her standard, back-off look. The man next to him leaned closer and said something that Larsen was pretty sure ended in bitch. The first man stiffened and turned his back on her in a hurry.
The encounter neither amused nor disturbed her. She wasn’t the man-hater everyone thought she was, though it was a miracle she wasn’t, given her line of work. Day after day she saw the disasters men made of their marriages and the pain they caused those who loved them. No, she didn’t hate them. She just didn’t let anyone get that close.
Unfortunately she’d been cursed with looks that invited nearly continuous male attention. Unwanted attention. So she’d developed a haughty manner that kept even the most determined at bay. She was perfectly happy on her own. No one making demands on her time or asking too many questions. She didn’t need anyone. She certainly didn’t need a man.
Larsen tossed back the rest of the sickly sweet punch.
If only her hormones agreed. She groaned at the memory of Jack Hallihan watching her from the deck of his friend’s boat yesterday, those laser-sharp blue eyes boring into her. An unwelcome rush of heat spiraled deep inside her.
She’d never actually met him before, but she’d known who he was. One of her law clerks had pointed him out in the courthouse last fall. Tall and broad-shouldered, with gorgeous blue eyes and a thatch of dark hair that appeared perpetually mussed, he’d walked with an easy confidence and casual strength that had drawn her attention and refused to let go, especially when he’d flashed a grin that had sent her pulse through the ceiling. She’d found herself watching for him every time she went to court for months afterward. She never again caught a glimpse of him.
Until yesterday, when she’d found him staring at her.
A flush of embarrassment rose into her cheeks as she remembered the way she’d dropped her papers at the touch of his hand, like a schoolgirl with her first crush. He hadn’t called her on it. She’d seen no amusement in those blue eyes, no knowing smile that said he knew she’d been affected by the touch. He’d barely reacted at all.
A day later and she was still reacting. Even the memory of their brief meeting had turned the air in her lungs warm and heavy. With a groan of self-disgust she headed for the punch bowl and a cool refill, her heeled sandals clicking on the bare linoleum floor.
She didn’t want to be attracted to a man. Attraction led to wanting and to wishing for things that could never be.
The conversation in the room eased as the guests’ attention turned toward the cutting of the cake.
As she poured another ladle of the dark red punch into her cup, she heard a soft sound of laughter and glanced up to find a girl standing in the doorway to the kitchen, her pretty, delicate features awash with a poignant wistfulness.
A tiny thing, barely five feet tall, she was far too thin. Larsen guessed she was in her late teens, maybe early twenties. She wore a pair of jeans and a Redskins T-shirt that were both miles too big for her as if she, and not they, had gone through the dryer and shrunk. Her skin was a deep tan in color, her head shiny and bald like a chemo patient’s.
Larsen’s heart twisted with sympathy and she took a step toward her. “Hi, there. May I bring you a piece of cake?”
The girl started and turned to Larsen with a guilty, wide-eyed gaze. “I…nay, m’lady.” The words stumbled out in a charmingly accented rush. “I should not have…nay.”
“It’s all right,” Larsen assured her. “There’s a piece for me and I really don’t want it. I’d be happy to bring it to you.”
The girl cocked her head as if pondering Larsen’s offer…or Larsen herself. The girl’s eyes, an amazing shade of violet, looked suddenly older than her years.
“My
