Page 88 of A Dead End Wedding

I switched the clenching from thighs to jaw and looked up at him. "I donothave a drug problem. And how did you get in here? I asked Max to lock the door when she and Mr. Ellison went to lunch."

He just smiled. "Sorry. The door was unlocked. I thought you might want to go get some lunch and repent your wicked ways. I can set you up with a good rehab program here locally, if you like."

No matter how good he looked in faded jeans and a black t-shirt, I was not going to lunch with this man.

No way.

"Are you buying?" somehow came out of my mouth. Damn traitorous body parts.

He grinned. "Yep. Is now good?"

I sighed and shoved my hair back out of my face. "It's not like the clients are banging down my door to get to me. Even if they'dbeen planning a visit to December Vaughn, Attorney at Law, that newspaper article would have scared them away."

"I wouldn't worry about it. This sort of thing blows over. Anyway, how many people who need a lawyer really read the paper every day?"

I groaned again. "Enough, trust me. The phone has been ringing off the hook today with people wanting to ask questions about the 'junkie lawyer.' At least three different callers whom I seriously suspect of being drug dealers have called to feel me out about representing them 'on the barter system.'" I stood up and walked around my desk, taking care to avoid stepping too near to him. No need to get trapped in a pheromone cyclone on an empty stomach, I always say.

He laughed again and fell into place behind me on the way out of my office, so close I imagined I could feel his breath. Just thinking about it gave me the shivers.

"Are you all right?"

"Air conditioning. Too high. Need to get that fixed," I squeaked out.Seriously, I need to get a life.

I reached the front door without spontaneously combusting and tried to open the door. Thelockeddoor. I turned to look at Jake. "I thought you said the door was unlocked."

He gave me his innocent face. "Maybe I locked it accidentally when I came in?"

"Hmmm." It sounded suspicious, but what was I going to do? Accuse him of breaking into my office? Picking the lock to invite me to lunch? It sounded crazy, even to me. But after the phone call the night before . . .

"Hey!" I opened the door and then held it for him. "Your friend Gina doesn't have a partner in crime, does she? A guy with severe sinus problems?"

He stopped and looked at me, eyebrow raised. "What are you talking about? Did somebody sneeze on you?"

"Hilarious." I locked the door behind us and stepped out into the temperate climate that is Florida in June at lunchtime. It feels exactly like stepping into a wet blanket in the middle of a blast furnace. My hair instantly shot into frizz mode, which is not exactly a good look for me. But I resisted the urge to pant like a dog. Barely.

Jake walked over to a very new-looking black Mustang convertible and opened the passenger door. Great. Good mannersandgood taste in cars.

Clearly, the man is scum.

"Nice car," I grudgingly said, as I climbed into the car and sank onto the (leather, what else?) seat.

His gaze flicked over to the front of the building and back at me, and his lips quirked. "Well, it's no ancient Honda, but it'll do."

He shut the door just as I was working up a great comeback, so I settled for steaming in my seat – literally and mentally. By the time he climbed into the driver's seat, I was ready. "Oh, yeah? Well, some of us have responsibilities and drive grownup cars."

He shot a glance at me as he put his seatbelt on. "You hate the Honda."

"I hate it."

"But it's . . . practical."

"Right. Practical sucks."

He grinned, but said nothing else on the way to the restaurant. Too steeped in gloom and car envy to attempt small talk, I moped and stared out the window. By the time we arrived at Pete's Steakhouse, I'd nearly forgotten about my stupid criminal phone buddy.

Jake hadn't.

When he opened the door for me again, his face was serious. "Now, what about this guy with sinus problems?"

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