had watched while she slept rankled her, especially because of that dream. Normally her dreams weren’t that explicit. Normally when she fell into bed, there was no time for dreaming, much less anything else. Usually that didn’t bother her, but today, she felt that loss in every lonely inch of her skin, her brain, her nerves.
She wanted to blame it on Mark Anthony and the Nile, but that wasn’t the entire truth. No, Sean O’Sullivan was partly to blame. Mostly. Completely. With his dark eyes, that silky brown hair and the musky cologne that tickled her nose—among other places. He was a walking, talking, live-action orgasm.
The suit had been tailored. She had noticed it along with the broad shoulders and the killer thighs. Cleo had a fatal weakness for killer thighs. Helplessly she licked parched, Sahara-dry lips.
“Miss Hollings? We’ll be there in ten.”
“Thanks, Chris.”
Her phone rang. The mayor, Bobby McNamara, i.e., her boss.
“Yeah?”
“You’ve talked to the transit authority negotiators, right? We can fix this?”
“Of course,” she answered, shocked that he was doubting her skills. She, Cleo Hollings, who had worked one term under the current administration, one term under the previous administration and, before that, had worked her way up through the office of public housing. Cleo had earned her stripes at an early age and knew how to yell.
“I’ll take care of it, boss. We’re golden.”
She hung up, looked out at thousands of cars trapped in bumper to bumper traffic and sighed wistfully. Union strikes did that to her. Frayed nerves or not, she needed no man.
Cleo Hollings, Wicked Witch of Murray Street, was back. No one, absolutely no one, would ever know she’d been gone.
THE LAW OFFICES OF McFadden Burnett were the largest in New York. Fourteen stories of attorneys, all in one building. It should have been a bad lawyer joke, but lawyers weren’t very good at making fun of themselves. Within the walls of the 1937 art deco building worked old lawyers, new lawyers, fat lawyers, skinny lawyers, neat lawyers, schlub lawyers, men lawyers and women lawyers, but they all had one thing in common no matter their differences: the responsibility to do whatever it took to zealously defend their clients to the fullest extent of the law.
Sometimes that mandate was easy because their clients shouldn’t be held liable. Sometimes not so much. As a lawyer, and as a human being, Sean O’Sullivan had learned to keep his judgments to himself.
The seventh floor was Sean’s floor. Medical malpractice. Since New York was the medical capital of the world, it followed that it was also the medical malpractice capital of the world, as well. Sean didn’t mind, the more the better. He loved the law. Loved the creativity of it, loved the structure of it, loved the fairness of it, as well as the unfairness of it. That was his job.
After he got into the office, he wheeled around the corner, and slid a mug of coffee onto Maureen’s desk. “You got the Cannery deposition for me?”
“Digested, indexed and in the database, Sean, just like you asked.” Maureen was a paralegal who had been at the firm for the last thirty-five years. With a diamond choker that must have cost a fortune, and elegant white hair that was styled at one of New York’s best salons, she probably didn’t need to work, but Maureen did, and Sean thanked her every day, because Maureen always knew what needed to be done and, even better, you could always count on her to deliver.
As such, Sean brought her coffee every morning and every afternoon. Two sugars. No cream, and a sprinkle of cinnamon on top. She took a sip and closed her eyes, obviously letting the caffeine rip through her veins. Then, when the ten-second break was over, she pulled out her pad and relayed the neatly stenographed messages.
“Katy called from the Environmental Fund, but the bossman heard the call come through, and he said that you’re not to call her back because he wants the last of Dr. Winetrapp’s affidavits completed and on his desk before lunchtime.”
“Anything else?”
“He wanted to remind you about the two internal medicine docs from Mt. Sinai that you’re supposed to schedule an interview for.”
“Next?”
“Wilson called about the Cornell case, I asked him if this was regarding a settlement offer, he wouldn’t tell me if it was regarding a settlement, but I knew it was regarding a settlement offer.”
Sean nodded with satisfaction. The Cornell case was next up after his current trial was over. It was a botched surgery that if the plaintiff had a better lawyer than Wilson they’d win. A fat settlement was the way to go for Wilson, and Sean was glad the man could read the writing on the wall.
Speaking of the wall, Sean checked the clock there. Nearly eleven. His boss, Bruce, would be pulling paper clips from his teeth, but Sean didn’t mind. The morning had been worth it. Getting up at the crack of dawn to watch Cleo Hollings have sex dreams, and then two hours talking to the lawyers at the hospital. Not as stimulating as Cleo, but productive nonetheless.
His brother’s bar would be back in order soon. Cleo Hollings looked like she worked harder than anyone. She would fix it, although he’d have to stay on her case until she did. Not that that was going to be a problem. Staying on her case, riding her until she cracked.
Man, he had always had a thing for redheads. But redheads that barked like drill sergeants? He was still carrying the extra four inches in his shorts from when she glared at him. She had the sexiest eyes.
Maureen waved a hand in front of his face and brought his attention back to the present. “Bruce wanted to know why you’re late, but I told him you called and said the transit strike was causing problems.”
“I love you, Maureen. What did the Environmental Fund want?”
“You don’t want to know.”
He slid a hip against her desk. “I want to know, Maureen.”
“Bruce will be furious. He’s your boss. Fury is not a good thing for a boss.”
“I want to know, Maureen.”
“I can’t tell you.”
“You can tell me.”
“I shouldn’t tell you.”
“You should tell me.”
“Bruce will kill me.”
“I won’t let him. You’re my favorite.”
“He’ll make my life miserable.”
“I’ll bring you Godiva every day,” he bribed.
“The little mocha truffles?”
Sean nodded.
“Now, see, why can’t all the lawyers be like you?”
“That’s a rhetorical question, Maureen, so what did the Environmental Fund want?”
Maureen pulled her glasses from her head and read the pink
