Ward who heads the society has a thing for you.”
“She’s nearly eighty.”
“Mrs. Ward told me she has a thing for younger men,” Maureen told him with a knowing glance.
Sean frowned. “I’ll call Katy back.” He wasn’t nearly so enthusiastic anymore. Oh, well.
Maureen wagged a finger at him. “Don’t forget. Little mocha truffles.”
Sean tapped a finger to his brain. “Like a steel trap. No worries.”
There were seventeen e-mails in his in-box. All from Bruce. All reflecting various stages of anxiety and neurosis. Everyone on the fourteenth floor called Bruce the Tin Man because he had no heart. Both literally and figuratively. Bruce was pushing sixty, had high blood pressure, high cholesterol and high anxiety, so four years ago, the talented surgeons at New York-Presby (McFadden Burnett clients) had given him an artificial heart. After the surgery, nobody at the firm could tell the difference.
“Bruuuuuuuuuuce,” called Sean, cruising into his office.
“It’s about time. Why aren’t you answering your cell?”
Sean pulled his phone out of his pocket. “You called? What the—?”
“Come on, O’Sullivan, where are we at?” Bruce called everyone by their last name. Apparently, calling employees by their first names indicated some semblance of humanity and a caring, giving spirit. All of Bruce’s employees understood. You could only expect so much from an artificial heart.
Bruce, his face flushed and nervous, waved Sean in. The cause for Bruce’s anxiety was the thirty-five-million-dollar lawsuit Davies, Mutual Insurance v. New York General, the individual doctors and their dogs and cats.
The hospital was part of America’s third largest hospital chain, and one of McFadden Burnett’s ka-ching-iest clients. The insurance company hadn’t wanted to pay for a kidney transplant, saying that dialysis was all that was necessary for the patient. After the patient didn’t recover, the insurance company was siding with the patient’s estate, blaming the hospital for the wrong treatment that had affected the outcome. Sometimes that was truly the case, but right now, the insurance company had got caught being cheap, and they didn’t like it.
That was the beauty of the legal system. One day, the bad guys were on one side, the good guys on the other, and the next, somebody had rolled the dice, messed up the board, and though the game stayed the same, the players had all traded places.
“Depositions are done. I got the medical report from the lead physician, and found a doc from Indiana who is a trial virgin, completely untouched and uncorrupted by the U.S. judicial system. He’ll be perfect for court. My team’s been prepping him. We’re ready for trial. The insurance company is dog-meat.”
Bruce took a deep breath, and popped another bloodpressure pill. “Your brother called.”
“Why are you answering phones?”
“I thought it was you,” said Bruce in his needy voice.
“Which brother?”
“The bar owner. He left messages for you on your phone.”
Sean pulled his phone from his pocket, noted the absence of coverage and swore. He headed for his office phone and dialed Gabe’s cell.
“What?”
“They shut Prime down, Sean. What the hell did you do? You were supposed to fix this problem, not make it worse. For the past two years I’ve been fighting with the health department, the building department, the liquor board and the gas company, but nobody’s ever shut the place down before. And do you know what today is? It’s Thursday and tomorrow is Friday. Do you know what people like to do on Friday? Drink.”
Sean frowned. This was supposed to be fixed. “Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. Who shut it down?”
“Some pencilhead from the mayor’s office. Along with the health department. Along with the historical society. Along with the state liquor authority. It was a huge party. You should have been there.”
No way. No freaking way that Cleo Hollings had done this. She was at the bargaining table. She couldn’t have done it. Women didn’t pull this crap on Sean. Ever.
“The mayor’s office? You’re sure?” he asked enunciating carefully, wanting to know exactly where the blame belonged. It would only take one short phone call from her. Thirty seconds or less. Yeah, she could have done it. And she had been mad. Tired, cranky…frustrated. He remembered those sleepy eyes and got himself aroused once again, which only made him madder. So Cleo Hollings really wanted to go head-to-head with him? Fine.
“Posted a notice on the door, it’s all here in black and white. Not serving drinks tomorrow, Sean.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he answered tightly. “We’ll have you opened before happy hour.”
“Are you sure?”
Sean’s smile wasn’t nice. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
2
STRIKE NEGOTIATIONS were stalled, and Cleo came back to her office in a foul mood. The lead negotiator had started by yelling at her, Cleo had yelled back, and things went downhill from there. When she returned to the bull pen where her offices were, Sean O’Sullivan was there waiting. He looked flushed, heated with anger and…yes, even then, resembling Mark Anthony.
This no-life stuff was starting to fry her brain.
“You had one of your little flying monkeys shut down the bar, didn’t you?” he ranted, striding into her office, daring to read her the riot act—her—in her own office. Suddenly his hotness factor didn’t matter so much, although he did have a great angry voice. Good tone, a lot of malevolence and that trace of New York that made most people fear for their lives.
Belinda, one of her interns, came and stood in the doorway. “We tried to stop him, but he knows the security guards. I’m sorry.”
Cleo looked at Belinda, looked at the man. Pointed to Belinda. “I’ll handle this.” Belinda didn’t look happy, she never looked happy, but she obeyed.
And then Cleo turned to the matter at hand. Sean O’Sullivan. “We’re in the middle of a strike and I’m supposed to be running point with the transit authority. Do you honestly believe I have time to mess with you?”
“Somebody did.”
“Not me,” she said, defending herself because she was tired of everybody accusing her of everything. Undeservedly. Sometimes she deserved it, but not today, and especially not this.
He held up his hand, his eyes puzzled. “You didn’t do this?”
“Nor did any of my little flying monkeys, either,” she said, with a tight smile.
The man took a long breath and stuffed his hands in his pockets, but not before she noticed the fists. Somebody had a temper.
“Someone from
