doing a musical version of Teahouse of the August Moon off Broadway,” Franco explained. “What do you think?”
Since she really didn’t want to think anything about it, A.J. said, “Cleo has stopped eating.”
“Poor thing,” Franco said.
Cleo yipped again.
Five yards short of the glass doors, A.J. halted and broke one of her rules. “What do you know about Dr. Fielding?”
Franco’s brows shot up. “He’s a very successful pet therapist—works a side specialty putting his clients through past-life regressions. Charges a bundle for it.”
She took another step toward the door, then stopped. “Cleo doesn’t need a past life regression. She’s young, she’s lonely and she’s healthy. What she needs is a man.”
“Don’t we all?” Franco asked in a heartfelt tone.
A.J. blinked. No, she wasn’t talking about herself. Her problem was she had too many men in her life. She didn’t need any more. She was definitely talking about Cleo. “What good does it do her to win top prizes at the Westminster Kennel Show if she’s lonely and she can’t eat—and worse still, she can’t even play with the other dogs in the park? She’s doomed to be lonely until Mrs. H. locates the perfect pedigreed poodle for her.”
“Honey, she’s doomed to be lonely forever if she keeps attacking them. How’s the lawsuit going?”
“You know I can’t talk about it,” A.J. said. No one at the firm was going to let her forget the fact that the first lawsuit she brought to Hancock, Potter and King was a dog-bite case.
“I heard tell that the other poodle had to have eight stitches and they’re suing for millions in pain and suffering.”
Too late, A.J. realized that Franco’s gaze was moving over her in a slow, careful assessment. Was he going to recognize the skirt? He’d been after her to wear it, and she’d sworn to him that she never would.
“Nice blazer,” he said. “That shade of lemon yellow looks great on you. I was right. Your colors are definitely light spring. Most definitely.”
When his gaze moved lower to her shoes, she let out the breath she’d been holding. Maybe he wouldn’t notice.
Fat chance, she thought. Franco noticed everything. On top of that, he was a man, and, according to Samantha and Claire, men noticed things about the skirt that women were oblivious to. She began to inch her way backward toward the door.
Suddenly, Franco lunged past her, teetering on the three-inch-high clogs, and threw himself against the plate-glass door to block her exit.
“You’re wearing it. I knew you would. You almost had me fooled there for a minute. I actually thought you were talking about Cleo—but you’re talking about yourself. You’re actually going to see if you can reel in a man with that skirt. And you owe me an Alexander Hamilton. I told you that sooner or later, you’d succumb to the power of the skirt. Hand it over!”
Calmly, she reached into her purse, pulled a ten-dollar bill from her wallet, and placed it in Franco’s outstretched palm.
Quick as a blink, he pressed it to his lips and then shoved it in the pocket of his kimono. Finally, he fastened his eyes once more on the skirt as he minced around her in a slow circle. “Very nice.”
Cleo yipped again.
Franco fixed her with a look. “Settle down, girl. I’m not one of your stud poodles. My hands are registered lethal weapons.”
“How can you tell it’s the skirt?” A.J. asked. Then a disturbing thought struck her. “You’re not…starting to…” How was she going to put it? “You’re not starting to have any special feelings for me or anything?”
Startled, Franco stopped in his tracks and stared at her. “Perish the thought. I’ve already found my true love.” He winked at her. “And Marlon wasn’t wearing a skirt.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just a little nervous.”
Franco patted her arm. “That’s perfectly natural. I remember exactly what it was like to be single and alone in New York. Terrible. It’s a dating wasteland out there, and any little thing that will help is a blessing. I remember those singles’ bars were right out of a horror movie. And you know how I feel about them.”
Everyone knew how Franco felt about horror movies and just about everything else. His favorite movie was The Wizard of Oz. He hated Chinese food, loved sushi, preferred his opera sung in the original language and subtitled, hated free rock concerts in Central Park but had no objection to free Shakespeare because those performances were less crowded. And, above all, he loved living in New York.
It occurred to A.J. that there wasn’t much she didn’t know about Franco since he was bound and determined to share all aspects of his life with anyone who lived in the building—even on a summer sublet. And he had a knack for prying as much information out of the tenants as he imparted to them.
Stepping back, he glanced at the skirt again. “But you won’t have any trouble attracting men while you’re wearing that little number.”
“I don’t want to attract them—at least, not the way you mean. I just want to influence them. At eight-thirty this morning, we have our monthly department meeting at Hancock, Potter and King. Trial cases will be assigned, and while I would have preferred to get one on my own merits, I’ve decided that desperate measures are called for.”
Franco grinned from ear to ear. “I’d say you have a good shot. When you stand in the doorway with the light behind you, that skirt becomes almost transparent.”
“Transparent?”
“A woman with legs like yours shouldn’t have any trouble influencing men.” Opening the door, Franco gave her a little shove into the street.
“You and Cleo should make quite a team.”
As the door swung shut behind her, A.J. drew in a deep breath and let it out. As much as she might dread it, the gauntlet she had to run each morning to make it out the door was good training for the job facing her at her uncle’s law firm. Today was the day, she promised herself as she charged up the street with Cleo in tow. By five o’clock tonight she was going to have a client, and she would be on her way to court.
Cleo’s sad little whine had A.J. automatically tightening her grip on the leash and glancing across the street. A St. Bernard had pulled his owner to a dead stop and the dog was straining at his leash to cross the street.
Quickly, she tightened her grip on Cleo’s leash. “I know you’d rather go play, sweetie. But we don’t have time this morning.”
Drawing in another deep breath, she strode toward the corner. The one thing that she hadn’t shared with Franco, or either of her roommates, was that if Uncle Jamison did not assign her to a trial case today, she was going to have to think about resigning from the firm. It was the last thing in the world she wanted to do.
EVEN THOUGH HE HAD his eyes on Pierre Rabaut walking down the steps of the museum, Sam knew the moment that the little blonde and the poodle stepped
