mean the one naming Wentworth Sinclair as my father?” The battle against sarcasm failed, badly, and she mockingly slapped her forehead. “Silly me, I left it at home.” When he gave her a pointed look, she returned it with an equally pointed expression of her own. He wasn’t the only one who could do judgmental. “Don’t you think if I had something like that, I would have brought it with me?”
“One would think, but then one would think your mother would have named the correct father thirty years ago, too.” He was folding the letter and placing it back in its envelope. Roxy wanted to grab his long fingers and squeeze them until he yelped. One would think. Maybe her mother had been afraid no one would believe her either.
“You know what,” she said, reaching for the stack of letters, “forget this.”
What made her think uptown would want to help her? Uptown didn’t care about people like her, period, and she’d be damned if she was going to sit here and let some stuffed-shirt lawyer look down his nose at her. “The only reason I came here was that your directory ad said you handled wills and estates, and I thought you could help me. Apparently I was wrong.”
She snatched her leather coat off the back of her chair. If Mike Templeton didn’t think her problems were worth his time, then he wasn’t worth hers. “I’m sure another law firm will be willing to listen.”
“Miss O’Brien, I think you misunderstood. Please sit down.”
No, Roxy didn’t feel like sitting down. Or listening to any kind of explanation. Why? Rejection was rejection regardless of how many pretty words you attached to it. She should know. She’d heard enough “thanks but no thanks” in her lifetime. And they felt like kicks to the stomach.
She jammed her arm into her coat sleeve. Emotion clogged her throat, and she absolutely refused to let him see her eyes water.
“By the way,” she said, adjusting her collar. “Your ad said you welcomed all types of cases. If you don’t mean it, then don’t say so in the headline.”
An unnecessary jab, but she was tired of playing polite and classy. Besides, being called a gold-digging fraud should entitle her to at least one parting shot.
“Miss O’Brien—”
She strode from the office without turning around, proud that she got as far as street level before her vision grew blurry.
Dammit. She’d have thought she’d be cried out by now. When would she stop feeling so raw and exposed?
You have his eyes…
“Why didn’t you say anything, Mom?” she railed silently. “Why did you wait till it was too late to tell me?”
Was she that ashamed of her daughter?
Not cool, Templeton, Not cool at all.
Mike had to admit, though, as indignant exits went, Roxy O’Brien’s was among the best. Ten years of estate law had shown him his share of scam artists and gold diggers, but she was the first who’d truly teared up upon storming out. She probably didn’t think he noticed, but he had. There was no mistaking the overly bright sheen in those green eyes of hers, in spite of her attempts to blink them dry.
Pen twirling between his fingers, he rocked back and forth in his chair. Couldn’t blame her for being upset. Like a lot of people, she must have thought she’d stumbled across the legal equivalent of a winning lottery ticket. If she’d stuck around instead of stomping off like a redheaded windstorm he’d have explained that making a claim against the Sinclairs wasn’t that simple, even if her story was true. There were legal precedents and statutes of limitations to consider.
Of course, he thought, stilling his pen, she didn’t have to completely prove paternity for her claim to work. Simply put forth a believable argument.
He couldn’t believe he was contemplating the thought. Had he fallen so low he’d take on an audacious case simply for the potential settlement money?
One look at the meager pile of case files on his desk answered his question. At this point, he’d take Henry Hudson’s nephew’s case.
This was what failure felt like. The constant hollow feeling in his stomach. The weight on his shoulders. The tick, tick, tick in the back of his head reminding him another day was passing without clients knocking on his door.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Templetons, as had been drilled in his head, didn’t fail. They blazed trails. They excelled. They were leaders in their field. Doubly so if you were named Michael Templeton III and had two generations of namesakes to live up to.
You’re letting us down, Michael. We raised you to be better than this. A dozen years after he first heard them, his father’s words rose up to repeat themselves, reminding him he had no choice. Succeed or else. He took on the challenge of starting his own practice. He had to make it work, by hook or by crook.
Or audacious case, as it were. Unfortunately his best opportunity stormed out the door in a huff. So how did he get the little hothead to come back?
A patch of gray caught the corner of his eye. Realizing what he was looking at, Mike smiled. Perhaps his luck hadn’t run out after all. He picked up the grey envelope Roxanne O’Brien had left behind.
God bless indignant exits.
Thursday nights were always busy at the Elderion Lounge. The customers, businessmen mostly, their out-of-town visits winding down, tended to cut loose. Bar tabs got bigger, rounds more frequent, tables more boisterous. Normally Roxy didn’t mind the extra action since it meant more money in her pocket. Tonight, though, she wasn’t in the mood for salesmen knocking back vodka tonics.
“Six vodka tonics, one house pinot and two pom martinis,” she ordered. Despite being cold outside, the air was stifling and hot. She grabbed a cocktail napkin and blotted her neckline. This afternoon’s business jacket disappeared long ago and she was back to a black camisole and skirt.
The bartender, a beefy guy named Dion, looked her up and down. “You look frazzled. Table six isn’t giving you trouble, are they?”
“Nothing I can’t handle. Bad day is all.”
Who did Mike Templeton think he was anyway? Arrogant, condescending… Just because he was lucky enough to be born on the right side of town, what made him think he had the right to judge her or her mother or anyone else for that matter?
Wadding the napkin into a ball, she tossed it neatly into the basket behind the bar. “You’d think by this point I’d be immune to rejection.”
“I thought you gave up acting,” Dion said.
“I did. This was something else.” And the rejection stung worse. “You don’t know a good lawyer, do you?”
The bartender immediately frowned. “You in trouble?”
“Nothing like that. I need a business lawyer.”
“Oh.” He shook his head. “Sorry.”
“‘S’all right.” Who’s to say the next guy wouldn’t be as condescending as Mike Templeton?
“Oh,
