Mad About the Man (5 page)

She, the quiet, composed brainiac who smelled like a fresh spring rain and looked as if there were entire worlds hidden behind her eyes. He, the arrogant, leader-of-the-pack prankster who would give his left nut if she even once looked at him with anything other than disdain.

Even now, she was all buttoned up in her neat lawyer suit, her blond hair combed into carefully controlled perfection. She wore just the right shade of lipstick on her mouth—blush pink—and exactly the right shoes: feminine yet sensible two-inch navy blue heels that were professional without being dowdy.

He wished he could peel her out of the jacket and unbutton her fine silk shirt so he could see if her bra was utilitarian cotton or decadent lace. Next, he'd take off her shoes and roll down her panty hose so he could run his hands along the slim, bare curves of her thighs and calves and ankles. Then he'd tug her to him and pull her down to straddle his lap, pushing her skirt high while he kissed her deep and long and slow. Taking her mouth and caressing her body until she was trembling and wet, until she was begging him to sheath himself inside her soft, feminine heat.

But that would have to wait for later, he thought, giving himself a firm mental shake. All things in their own good time.

He supposed it would have been wiser if he'd behaved like the mature man he was when they'd met the other day. Instead, he'd shot off his mouth just like he had when he'd been a stupid moron kid. She hated his guts just as much as she had when they'd been in the seventh grade—and he had the black eye and bruised cheek to prove it. But he wasn't a quitter; never had been, never would be.

She detested him, sure, but things didn't have to stay that way. He'd find the means to push her buttons, only in a good way this time.

He studied her again, careful not to let any of his thoughts show. The question he'd asked her had been an honest one; he did want to know about her. Everything she'd done. Everyone she'd met. Where she planned to go in the future.

He knew she wasn't married; he'd ferreted out that bit of information during his phone conversation with McNeal on Sunday. He also knew she lived in a small one-bedroom apartment that was located in a safe, quiet neighborhood, and that before this past year, she'd been a lawyer for the DOJ in Washington, D.C.

Still, he wanted to hear the details from her.

Why she fascinated him, he didn't entirely understand. But he was a man who'd built an empire on gut instinct, and his instincts told him not to let her slip away for a second time. At least not until he had a chance to scratch the itch she still gave him, even after all these years.

Brie shrugged, her face unreadable. “What is there to tell? I've done the usual things. Gone to school, found a job, lived my life.”

“So you're just an average young woman making her way in the big city.”

“Something like that.”

“What about a husband? Children?” he went on, even though he knew the answer.

“No. Neither.”

“Boyfriend, then? What about that Collingsworth guy? Are you and he—”

“No!” she said, sharply enough that he knew he had nothing to trouble himself over in that regard.

“Anyone else? Live-in lover perhaps? Or do you prefer keeping your options open?”

“Whatever I prefer doing in my private life is private, Mr. Monroe, and none of your concern. You have hired me to serve as your attorney and to represent your business interests. Anything more goes beyond the scope of our association. Assuming you really are serious about having Marshall McNeal Prescott represent you, that is.”

He drummed his fingers against the sofa back. “And why wouldn't I be serious?”

“Well, if I am being completely candid—”

“Most definitely. I insist on honesty in all our dealings.”

She paused, studied him for an instant. “Then
honestly
, given your history, you've never before shown any interest in obtaining new counsel. That is in spite of numerous attempts by any number of well-respected firms over the years to acquire your business. Yet suddenly, out of the blue, you have decided that you want my firm to represent you.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“I want
you
to represent me. Your firm doesn't matter.”

“Mr. Monroe—”

“Maddox,” he said, smiling. “Come on, Brie. It's no use pretending we're strangers, however much you might wish we were.”

“But we are strangers.” She looked him square in the eyes. “We were anything but friends as children, and we most definitely don't know each other now as adults.”

“But all that is going to change, now that you're my lawyer.”

“Assuming I agree to be your lawyer.”

He arched a brow. “But you already have. Or was McNeal mistaken when he told me you've accepted a partnership?”

“He shouldn't have—”

“Of course he should. He works for me now too. From what I understand, you're more than qualified for the step up—highly deserving, in fact.”

“I've been with Marshall McNeal Prescott less than a year.”

“Yes, but you've been a practicing attorney for eight years with experience in both the public and private sectors. You graduated from Harvard and Harvard Law at the top of your class, served as an editor of the
Law Review
, and landed a position at a prestigious New York law firm straight out of college.”

Her lips parted with surprise, but he continued before she could say anything. “You left corporate law to work for the Department of Justice in Washington, D.C., for a few years before returning here to the city to resume your original career track,” he went on. “You're considered one of Marshall McNeal Prescott's best and brightest litigators and were already well on the way toward partnership. My . . . suggestion that you be offered partner did nothing more than move up the timetable. I'm sure you and they were already thinking along those lines well before I came along.”

“You had me investigated?” she said on a sudden gasp of understanding.

He shrugged, unapologetic. “Of course. I'm a businessman, Brie. I do my homework. You don't really think I'd put the legal concerns of a company worth nearly a billion dollars in the hands of someone who doesn't know what she's doing?”

Her breasts rose and fell as she drew in several rapid breaths. “Why, you—”

“Don't worry. I told my investigator to focus on the business side of things. He left out most of the personal stuff. You're whistle clean when it comes to drugs, not even an occasional puff of a joint on the side.” He made a smoking motion with one hand.

“Of course not,” she shot back, her blue eyes ablaze.

“Still the incorruptible princess, aren't you, Brie-Brie? But then, I always liked that about you. You've got integrity.”

The kind of integrity a man wanted to corrupt for his own personal pleasure.

He thought again about tugging her onto his lap, spearing his fingers into her hair, and kissing her until neither one of them could think straight. But she'd already decked him once. He didn't want her to have an excuse to give him a second black eye.

“Here are our drinks,” he said as the waiter reappeared. “I'm sure our lunch will be ready any minute.”

She accepted the iced tea, her hand tight on the glass.

For a second he wondered if she was going to toss it at him. Instead, she raised it to her lips and took a long drink.

Steadying her nerves?

He always had been able to get a rise out of her. He couldn't wait to see how long it took him to bring the banked passion he sensed in her to the fore.

Brie set her drink down with a slight click, then looked him in the eye again. “You still haven't told me why.”

“Why what?”

“Why me?”

Rather than answer, he took a long swallow of his own glass of iced tea. Despite his offer of wine or a cocktail, he didn't drink alcohol. He'd been sober for more than ten years now, and he had every intention of remaining that way. He'd even refused the painkillers they'd offered him at the hospital for that reason.

“Good or not,” she continued, “there are lots of excellent attorneys in the city, including the ones at your old firm. Why pick me when we never got along and when I gave you what looks like a very painful black eye the first time we ran into each other in over twenty years?”

A slow grin spread over his mouth. “Oh, that's easy. I want you in my bed. I thought we'd start with business first, then work our way up to the pleasure.”

B
rie stared for a long moment, then tossed back her head and laughed. The very idea of her and Monroe, it was . . . well . . . it was laughable. They despised each other for one thing. For another, she didn't hook up with men she worked with—at least not any longer. She'd more than learned her lesson a few years earlier when she'd had an affair with a fellow lawyer. To say it had ended badly was an understatement; it was a mistake she would never let herself make again.

“Are you finished?” he asked in a carefully polite tone.

“A-Almost.” She held up a finger and gave way to one more belly laugh before she forced herself to sober up. Her lips twitched a couple more times before she was finally able to hold it together. Catching her breath, she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I didn't know you even had a sense of humor, let alone such a good one.”

He gave her a look that put her in mind of a predator. “Who says I'm joking?”

“You must be. The two of us together? It would be like a WWF match. It wouldn't be lovemaking. It would be hatemaking.”

“What does love have to do with it?”

“Hey, that's an old song, isn't it?”

“Laugh if you want, but I'm going to have you, Brie Grayson.”

“No, you are not. I don't sleep with clients.”

“Who said anything about sleeping? I'm talking about sex.”

“I don't do that with clients either.”

“We'll see.”

“No, we won't.” She stood and reached for her leather satchel. She pulled out a folder and laid it down on the coffee table. “Here is the client agreement and letter of retainer. You can sign it and messenger it over to my office. In the meantime, I'll ask one of the other partners to handle your legal work.”

“No.”

“No, what?” She arched a brow.

“The understanding was that you would handle my legal work. If you refuse, then the deal is off. McNeal told me you agreed to all the terms.”

“I did, but that was before you added an additional term.”

“The sex, you mean? Oh, that's not a term of our arrangement. When it comes to my corporation, I'm all business, and our personal dealings will have no bearing on said business. Just consider the other a future side benefit to be enjoyed by both parties when the time is right.”

“The time will never be right.”

He smiled that arrogant grin of his. “We'll see. Lunch must be ready by now. Let's go into the dining room.”

“Look, Monroe, this isn't going to work out between us, so we might as well put an end to our association right now.”

“Why won't it work out?”

She studied him for a long moment. “Truth?”

“Always. I expect scrupulous honesty in my lawyer, at least when it comes to her dealings with me.”

Brie's lips twitched upward again. “Then honestly it's because we're about as
in
compatible as two people can get. I didn't like you when I was twelve and I don't like you now. We go together about as well as peanut butter and sardines.”

He took a moment to consider. “Well, you're right that they wouldn't go together on a sandwich, but in an exotic Asian dish, the combination might prove both spicy and delicious. Besides, why is likability a prerequisite to our working together? Or do you like everyone you represent?”

Tiny frown lines settled between her brows. “No, but—”

“Then I don't see the problem. Now, lunch. My chef is the temperamental sort who's been known to fling pans when he's displeased. Since he's one of a handful of Michelin three-star chefs in the city, I've learned not to piss him off.”

Her eyes widened. She'd known the restaurant at the M Hotel boasted a fine-dining restaurant with one of the city's top chefs at the helm, but she had never imagined the culinary master himself would be cooking her lunch.

She scowled. Monroe really was diabolical. Did he know she was a foodie and would find a chance to sample such exquisite cuisine nearly impossible to resist, or had it just been a stroke of luck on his part? Knowing what she did of him, she guessed the former. First he tempted her with a partnership at her law firm and now a meal made by one of the best chefs in the United States and possibly the world.

What a bastard.

“You and I are strictly business,” she said, staring him in the eye. “I am your attorney and only your attorney. Understood?”

“Completely.”

“There'll be no asking me out and no more talk of sex. Ever.”

His face was smooth and serious. “If you prefer.” He motioned toward the dining room with a hand. “Shall we?”

She was a little surprised by his sudden, easy agreement but accepted it anyway. Letting her nose lead her toward the delicious scents of freshly baked French bread and some sort of bacon derivation she suspected might be braised pork belly, she walked on.

It was only later, after she'd eaten one of the best meals of her life, had put the signed representation agreements back into her briefcase, and had just climbed back into the company Escalade, that she realized Monroe hadn't actually promised anything when it came to not pursuing her on a personal basis.

Because, as a lawyer, she ought to have realized that the words “if you prefer” did not mean “yes.”

*   *   *

A vacuum whined somewhere in the distance, the evening cleaning crew busy sweeping, emptying trash cans, and switching off lights as they finished their work.

Brie paid them no attention, her thoughts focused squarely on the motion she was preparing. Her fingers moved swiftly over her computer keyboard, pausing every so often to flip through her notes to locate a pertinent citation or other necessary piece of information.

She was reconsidering a section of the paragraph she'd just written when the theme music to
Mad Men
started playing on her cell phone. She didn't need to check to know that it was her older sister—the advertising executive—calling.

Smiling, she hit “answer” and put the phone up to her ear. “Hey, Madelyn.”

“Hey, yourself,” her sister said in a cheery voice. “What are you up to? Home having dinner, I hope.”

“Nope, I'm still at work, and yes, I know it's nearly”—she paused and flicked a quick glance at the clock on her credenza—“eight. I've just got a little more to do. Then I'm shutting down for the night.”

“You ought to shut down now, but you already have a mother, so I won't nag. Just promise you won't stop by the deli and take a sandwich home for dinner.”

“Promise,” Brie said, leaning back in her chair. “I'll order Chinese takeout instead.”

Madelyn laughed and groaned.

“Hey, don't turn your nose up at Chinese takeout. The place I go is authentic Szechuan and delicious.”

Brie arched her spine, only then becoming aware of the stiffness in her neck and shoulders. Maybe she should pack it in and go home. For more reasons than she wanted to think about, it had been a really long day.

“So, what's up?” Brie asked. “Or are you just calling to check on me?”

“Of course, but we'll get to that part in a minute. First, I was wondering if you'd like to have lunch with me tomorrow. It's one of my non-telecommuting days, so I'll be in the city.”

“Sure. I'd love to. Let me just check my calendar.” Clicking a couple of buttons on her computer, she brought up her daily planner. “I have a client meeting at eleven thirty, but it shouldn't run more than a hour. How about one?”

“One sounds great. Now, what restaurant?”

They batted around a few possibilities before settling on a trendy new Italian spot that had recently gotten a slew of rave reviews.

“How are Zack and the twins?” Brie asked.

“They're wonderful,” Madelyn said, her obvious pride and contentment in being a wife and mother bubbling through every syllable. “Holly and Hannah had a stomach bug last week, but they're all better now and up to their usual antics. They tried dressing poor Millie in doll clothes yesterday, but being the self-respecting cat she is, she wiggled out of the dress and headed for high ground. You know what a sweet cat Millie is, so I'm sure she didn't mean to, but Holly got a minor scratch during the escape attempt and, oh, the tears. Thank God for Hello Kitty Band-Aids. That helped turn the sniffles into smiles. Not to be left out, of course, Hannah demanded that she be bandaged too. Zack had to apply new bandages to both girls after tonight's bath.”

Brie laughed, imagining her adorable nieces wielding their considerable God-given charm.

“So, how about Zack? Has he heard any more about the chief creative director slot?”

“It's all just speculation at the moment, but supposedly the old chief at Fielding and Simmons is retiring come October. If he does, Zack is a shoo-in for the job.”

“That must have you both excited.”

“Cautiously optimistic, since we're trying not to count chickens and all that. But I have my fingers crossed for him.”

“Of course, you do.”

“If he gets it, though, you know what this will mean, don't you?”

Brie laughed again. “Are you referring to your never-ending one-upmanship and the fact that he'll outrank you again?”

“Exactly. We're both all even now as creative director for our two separate firms, but if he gets this promotion . . . well, chief jobs don't grow on trees. It could be years before I make the cut, if I ever do at all.”

“You will. You're too good not to. In the meantime, the extra money will make a nice consolation prize.”

“I know. Maybe to console myself we should all go on a fun family vacation. Somewhere with warm trade winds, tall, cool drinks, and a soft sand beach. Zack and the girls and I could all use a week to do nothing but relax.”

“Sounds heavenly.”

Brie envied her sister, wondering where Madelyn got the energy to chase after a pair of spirited three-year-old girls, hold down a high-pressure career at one of the best advertising agencies in Manhattan, and keep the romance alive in her undeniably happy marriage. Although Brie had to give some credit to Madelyn's husband, Zack, who adored his wife and children and did his half of the domestic chores and child rearing without complaint, in spite of his own high-powered position at a rival advertising firm.

Or at least he didn't complain often—the laundry the only real bone of contention between them. If it were up to Zack, Madelyn observed, they'd throw all the dirty clothes out and continually buy new—that or use a laundry service and the dry cleaner's as he'd done when he'd been a bachelor. But with two growing girls, that option was out.

There'd been one particularly memorable argument after he'd mistakenly washed one of her red silk blouses on hot with a load of white towels and underwear. The miniaturized blouse had gone straight into the trash, while the whites had turned a delicate shade of pink the twins had dubbed “princess colored.” Madelyn had given up after that and agreed to do the laundry on her own. To compensate, Zack had been assigned one hundred percent of the sweeping duty. Zack loved to sweep, so it had been an easy compromise.

Otherwise, they were the most happily married couple Brie knew with the possible exception of her parents, who were already thinking up ways to celebrate their ruby wedding anniversary in a couple more years. And her older brother, P.G., and his wife, Caroline, who had a rock-solid marriage and a love that had grown even deeper since Caroline's battle with cancer and her subsequent remission.

Come to think of it, once the newest lovebirds, Ivy and James, tied the knot, she would be the only single Grayson left. The only one who couldn't seem to find the right mate and settle down. At the rate she was going, she might never find anyone.

She dated here and there, as much as her workload allowed—which admittedly wasn't much—but she'd gone out with a few guys since her return to New York City. Still, as interesting and attractive as some of them had seemed at first, their appeal had dimmed on further acquaintance. And it wasn't that they were dull or self-absorbed or lacked compatibility; it was just that she couldn't imagine spending one more day with any of them, let alone a lifetime.

She'd been in love once, and when it had ended, the aftermath had crushed her to her core. She never wanted to love that blindly again. Never wanted to feel so vulnerable and naive and, yes, gullible. She was a smart, sophisticated woman, and yet she'd let herself get used, let herself be hurt almost beyond repair. She'd built up a layer of reserve since then that no one got past. And maybe that's why she couldn't find anyone. Because her trust had been violated, she didn't trust anymore.

“So, I heard you had a rather interesting weekend in the Hamptons,” Madelyn said, pulling Brie back into the conversation. “Did you really hit one of the other players in the face with a tennis ball?”

Brie flinched at the memory. “Yes, I did, but he's fine.”
If you call having a face that looks like a punching bag fine.
“I see James and Ivy have been busy running their mouths.”

“Oh, I didn't hear it from them. Zack told me.”

“Zack? Where did he hear about it?”

“One of his clients. Apparently it's making the rounds. The local paper ran a short article and some blogger picked up on it. It's gone out to other news agencies.
Huff Post
gives it a mention and CNN actually had it on the crawl tonight.”

“What!” Brie's fingers spasmed around the phone.

“Guess the guy you hit is some big-deal business hotshot and one of America's ten most eligible bachelors. After seeing his picture, I can see why.”

“He isn't that good-looking.”

“If you say so. Seemed pretty hot to me.”

Brie gave the computer keyboard a few quick taps.