Rory’s capable hands and took off for the bar, placing an order for a Mexican boiler-maker, a double shot of Cuervo Gold with a beer chaser. As he waited for the bartender to return, a leggy redhead sidled up beside him with a smile that promised ample warmth against the evening chill. Once upon a time he would’ve taken advantage of the blatant come-on, but after Mikki, he just hadn’t been all that interested in other women. Besides, he hadn’t shelled out a sizable donation to Maureen Baxter’s pet cause to ensure he’d be given the key to Mikki’s locket because he’d been in a generous mood. He and Mikki had unfinished business.
“You look like you’d be a perfect fit,” the redhead purred, showing off the locket wedged between her impressive cleavage.
He wasn’t so much as tempted. “Sorry. This key is spoken for.”
She let out a breathy sigh. “Pity.”
He shrugged apologetically, unmoved by her practiced pout or her sleek curves wrapped in glittering electric blue. The redhead sashayed away, her attention already on another prospective key holder.
Drumming his fingers impatiently on the highly polished wood of the bar, he debated the wisdom of showing up at Clementine’s. He’d always been more of an adventurer than a deep thinker, preferring instead to move on with the business of living. There were easier avenues he could’ve taken, and he almost wished he’d given his half-witted plan to catch Mikki off guard more thought. Unfortunately the pressure from the senior partners to tie up a financially hazardous loose end quickly before finalizing the partnership agreement hadn’t left him much time to carefully consider his options. And he did have a responsibility to the firm he couldn’t ignore.
Initially he hadn’t paid much attention to the buzz around the office about the key party until he’d happened to overhear a trio of paralegals mention that Maureen Baxter was the driving force behind the fund-raiser. He’d been fairly certain Mikki would somehow be involved in the cause, so he’d placed a call to Maureen. Not only had she confirmed his suspicions, but he’d impulsively purchased two key-holder tickets along with the promise of a very sizable donation if Maureen guaranteed him the key to Mikki’s locket.
At first Maureen had staunchly refused—and he did appreciate her alliance to Mikki—but when he’d upped the ante, her ethics had taken a back seat to the money he’d promised to add to the coffer. To insure she wouldn’t suffer second thoughts, he’d doubled his original offer and had his assistant show up at Maureen’s office with a check in exchange for the key he wanted. In return, he’d received a pair of keys, one clearly marked for his use; the other he’d planned to give to Tucker.
Fingering the trinket in his palm, he didn’t harbor an ounce of guilt for buying Maureen’s cooperation. He did, however, carry more than a doubt or two about why he’d gone to such extreme. Granted, the news he had to deliver would best be served in person, but it sure didn’t necessitate a donation large enough to cover a respectable percentage of the funds needed for the building of Baxter House. Mikki would be livid when she found out what he’d done and, worse, why he’d done it.
Convincing Tucker to come with him hadn’t been an easy feat, but when Tuck’s sisters and sisters-in-law had ganged up on him, his long-time friend hadn’t stood a chance. The irony of the situation hadn’t been lost on him. As Tuck had gleefully pointed out, the first time Nolan had ever used the money and influence he’d run from most of life, it was to guarantee him a night with a woman who’d rather eat ground glass than be with him.
The bartender finally showed up with the tequila and beer, and Nolan immediately threw back the Cuervo, followed by a hefty swallow of the ice-cold Dos Equis that failed to alleviate the burning in his gut. Whether the booze or his unexpected physical reaction to Mikki was the cause, he couldn’t be sure. Quite frankly, he doubted it made a difference. In the end, he’d probably never understand the emotional hold she had on him.
He polished off his beer and debated ordering another. Five years ago when he’d left the Bay area, he hadn’t expected to ever return, at least not for good. After making a name for himself in Los Angeles, he’d been offered the position of managing partner at Turner, Crawford and Lowe with the caveat that he head up the family law division in the firm’s San Francisco offices. As much as it grated his nerves, he understood he’d initially been hired by the prestigious firm because of the Baylor name, but he’d earned the partnership by working his ass off and consistently racking up more billable hours than any other associate in the firm.
Once the buy-in was complete, he’d be one of three managing partners running the Bay area office of the Southern California-based firm. He already held the responsibility of monitoring the caseload of close to two dozen associates, a quad of law clerks anxiously awaiting bar exam results and twice as many paralegals plus numerous support personnel. In addition, he still managed his own caseload, which ran the gamut from more high-profile divorce actions to adoptions, all the way down to custody matters, as well as support and visitation modifications. He loved it all, too, which was a helluva difference from the live-hard-play-harder-but-leave-a-good-looking-corpse philosophy he’d cultivated most of his life.
He left the bar and made his way to the deck in search of Mikki. He supposed in part he had her to thank for his success. When they’d separated, he’d honored the Baylor family tradition by turning into a classic workaholic. He’d buried himself in his work, using the law as a means of survival because it’d been preferable to facing the truth—that by walking away from his marriage, he really was no better than the bastard of a father he despised.
Another of his less than sterling moments.
The truth was even tougher to face: that he hadn’t had the balls to tell Mikki he’d never wanted the divorce in the first place. As much as he tried to convince himself he’d been young and filled with an overdose of foolish pride, a semblance of wisdom did blossom with age. If faced with the same set of circumstances, he liked to believe this time around he wouldn’t hesitate to make the right choice, rather than behave like a selfish prick all because she’d filleted his ego by adamantly refusing to have a baby.
Based on her reaction tonight, convincing Mikki he’d changed wouldn’t be easy. Not that it mattered what she thought of him. They were finished a long time ago. Or were they?
He paused near the open, glass double doors. Did it make a difference what she thought of him? Had he merely acted in his usual impulsive manner or was there another motive he hadn’t been aware existed for ensuring Mikki would be his date for whatever prize her locket held?
The answer had him taking in a deep, unsteady breath. He couldn’t possibly be thinking in terms of second chances.
Could he?
He hadn’t wanted the divorce, even if he had run at the first sign of trouble in their marriage. He blamed immaturity and pride. She no doubt blamed him—period.
Still, he thought with a twitch of his lips, in their time apart he had learned to appreciate the value of patience and determination. An asset he figured he’d be calling on in abundance tonight, because once he informed her their divorce had all the validity of a fake ID, she’d no doubt push him to the limit.
Provided she didn’t shoot him on the spot.
WHAT THE HELL was Nolan doing here?
Mikki rested her arms on the smooth redwood railing and clutched her glass of cola firmly in her hand. The need to indulge in something stronger hadn’t waned so much as a fraction.
Just one drink, she thought. One. That’s all she needed.
Except she
