Mr. Hall Takes a Bride
Marie Ferrarella

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Patience Smith,

my muse, my friend,

with eternal gratitude.

Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Marie Ferrarella for her contribution to the LOGAN’S LEGACY REVISITED miniseries.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Coming Next Month

Chapter One

“C’mon, Jordan, please? You owe this to me.”

Jordan Hall, high-profile defense attorney and much-sought-after man about town, had been en route to the airport to begin what he felt was a greatly deserved Hawaiian surfing vacation when a frantic call from his younger sister had brought him racing back to Portland and the house that she and her husband, his best friend, Eric Logan, shared with Jenny’s six-year-old adopted son, Cole. On the phone, Jenny had made it sound like a matter of life or death.

Now that he had discovered that there was no death, imminent or otherwise, Jordan had pulled himself together, masked his initial concern and looked down at his six-months-pregnant sister, who’d forced herself into a semi-horizontal position on the sofa. Knowing Jenny, it was a compromise. The doctor had probably had a bed in mind when he’d given her strict orders to rest.

Jordan crossed his arms and did his best to look annoyed, but Jenny was just too damn good to be annoyed at. She had a way of bringing out the best in everyone.

But this time, he was doing his utmost to resist.

“How, pray tell, do I ‘owe’ this to you?” he wanted to know, the “this” in question being temporarily taking her place at Advocate Aid, Inc., and dispensing legal advice with no compensation other than being on the receiving end of a grateful smile. “If we’re going to bandy about the subject of ‘owing,’ it’s you who actually ‘owe’ me, dear sister.” He saw her mouth drop open and felt a surge of triumph. Eric, perched on the arm of the sofa next to her, looked mildly amused by the exchange. “If not for me, you might still be buried hip-deep in charity work, never seeing the light of day or having Eric’s beatific smile bestowed on you on a daily basis.”

“Beatific?” Eric echoed with a wide grin. He fluttered his lashes at him. “Why, Jordan, I never knew you felt that way about me.”

Jordan grimaced. “I don’t, but for some reason, every card-carrying member of the female sex does. Including my sister,” he added needlessly, “your very pregnant wife.” Jordan looked pointedly at Jenny, continuing the stroll down memory lane. “If I hadn’t ‘arranged’ to have your friends bid on Eric in that ridiculous bachelors’ auction—”

“As I recall, you were part of the auction, too,” Eric reminded him.

Jordan shrugged casually. “What can I say? I’m a pushover for charity.”

“And wealthy, good-looking women,” Jenny was quick to interject. It was a well-known fact that people in the circles Jordan traveled felt that her brother had put the play in playboy.

Jordan’s eyes seemed to twinkle as he obligingly acknowledged, “That, too.”

“That foremost,” Jenny countered, shifting on the sofa, feeling very much like a prisoner. She was a mover, a shaker. By definition, that sort of personality and calling necessitated mobility. Imitating a still-life painting like this was making her crazy. When she thought about having to do it for the next three months, it was all she could do to keep from screaming. But that would only frighten Cole, so she struggled to contain her edginess.

Jordan looked at her, shaking his head. “Marriage has made you feisty, little sister.”

Eric laughed. “Feistier,” he corrected his best friend. “Marriage has made her feistier. This woman was never a cupcake.”

“Which is why I’m not going to give up.” Jenny congratulated herself on bringing the conversation back to its rightful place, centered on what she both wanted and needed her older brother to do. She’d come to her conclusion after a night of soul-searching. Also a night of calling everyone else she could think of to ask. Giving them first crack at filling in the very vital space. She’d gotten several tentative promises of “next month,” but no one was available immediately.

Jordan was her last hope.

“It’s only for three weeks,” she pleaded earnestly. “That should give me enough time to arrange for someone else to come in and pick up the slack.”

“Three weeks,” Jordan repeated. The look he gave his sister was fraught with suspicion. “By some odd coincidence, that’s also the exact length of my Hawaiian vacation.”

“Exactly.” Jenny pounced on the lead-in her brother had handed her. “You were slated to go on vacation anyway. This way, you won’t miss any time at Morrison and Treherne.”

Jordan sat down on the edge of the coffee table, facing his sister, and took her hand between both of his. “Let me define vacation, in case a workaholic like yourself has forgotten the meaning of the word. Vacation, as in lying on white sandy beaches with crystal-blue water lapping at your toes, a bikinied goddess lying beside you. Vacation, as in taking a long, languid cruise, sitting on the uppermost deck beside a pool, a bikinied goddess in the deck chair beside you. Vacation, as in—”

Jenny pulled her hand away, glancing over to the far side of the room where Cole was playing with his action figures, afraid he might have overheard. But the little boy she’d taken into her heart as her own when her best friend had died looked completely preoccupied with the world he was creating. “We get the picture.”

“Nowhere in that scenario, you might notice,” Jordan went on patiently, “does it call for me to be sitting in a two-by-four termite-riddled box, playing bleeding-heart advocate to thugs and criminals.”

Jenny sat up ramrod-straight, taking offense for the people she had come to care about as much as she might have cared for distant relatives who needed her help and her understanding.

“Just because they’re poor doesn’t mean they’re thugs and criminals, Jordy. You know that.” She looked at him, wondering if he was being serious or if he was just pulling her leg. She decided it had to be the latter. “I refuse to believe that you’re that shallow.”

That lopsided smile she knew and loved told her that her heart was right. He was pulling her leg. She’d won. He was just playing it out a little longer.

“I can bring you a note from my doctor,” Jordan offered.

Two could play this game, Jenny thought. She threw off the blanket that Eric had tucked around her legs. She glanced toward her husband now. “Okay, he leaves me no choice, I have to go in.”

Eric put his hands to her shoulders, holding her in place. “You have to have this baby, nothing else. The doctor said you needed bed rest.”

But she shook her head. “Those people are counting on me.”

“Your baby’s counting on you,” Eric countered.

Jordan frowned. Jenny had already told him that Advocate Aid were down one lawyer. And there was what he felt amounted to a tempest in a teapot. Jenny had prevailed upon him to give legal advice to a nonprofit fertility organization called the Children’s Connection. A birth father, Thad Preston, was trying to get his fifteen minutes of fame by saying that his girlfriend gave up their child for adoption without his consent. He claimed to be suing for custody but what he was suing for was attention. It made for juicy reading when he brought his distorted version of the truth to the Portland Gazette.

Once again, the Children’s Connection, just recovering from a series of unfortunate events, was cast in a bad light.

But all that was temporary and would pass in time. He didn’t see the need to give up his vacation for either organization. “And if Advocate Aid, Inc., has to close its doors for a couple of weeks or three, would that really be such a big deal? Would it make that much of a difference?”

Jenny stared at him. Was he serious? “You know how important time is in a trial. A person’s life can be permanently altered in the space of an hour. In the space of two minutes,” she emphasized with feeling, thinking about cases where the death penalty was involved. It was organizations such as her own that saw to it that justice was not only served, but equally distributed, even to those who couldn’t afford the price of a lawyer.

“Jenny,” Jordan began patiently, “you’re talking about penny-ante cases. The ones I take all involve high stakes—”

“Name me higher stakes than people’s dreams,” she challenged. When he didn’t answer immediately, she came in for the kill. “Jordy, you’re the smartest man I’ve ever known—no offense, honey,” she added, turning to look at Eric.

Broad shoulders rose and fell nonchalantly, accompanied by an amused expression. “None taken.”

“Speaking of whom,” Jordan’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Eric and nodded toward his brother-in-law. “Why can’t your illustrious husband get one of his lawyer buddies to take your place until you find someone else?”

Eric looked at him pointedly. “I am.”

“Besides me,” Jordan amended.

“Everyone else I know with a law degree is wrapped up in some trial or other,” Eric told him.

Jordan frowned at him. “How convenient.”

“You’re the only one with time to spare, buddy,” Eric concluded.

“Please, Jordan?” Jenny made another sincere entreaty. “Maybe you won’t wind up on the six o’clock news, but who’s to say these cases aren’t just as important to the people who are involved? Sure, there are cases involving criminal charges, but there are also cases that involve stopping foreclosures. The cases I see also deal with unfair lawsuits that steal everything from the accused, even when they’re innocent. Then there’s—”

Jordan rolled his eyes and looked at his best friend. He could literally feel his vacation slipping away from him. “She really isn’t going to stop until I say yes, is she?”

Eric’s amused expression only deepened. “She’s your little sister, Jordy. You should know that about her by now.”

Yes, he did. He also knew Jenny was a walking heart with legs. He’d never seen anyone who cared so much about her fellow man—and woman—even if they didn’t deserve it.

The last glimmer of his vacation faded off into the sunset. Since he was going first-class and had paid top dollar, he could easily exchange his ticket or get a refund. Nothing was being wasted—except for his time, he thought darkly.

But this meant a lot to Jenny.

Okay, how hard could it be? After all, he’d never lost a case yet and he was willing to bet every last one of his cases were far more complicated than anything he was going to face at Advocate Aid.

“Okay,” he said with resignation. “I’ll do it.”

“Jordy, you’re the best!” Leaning forward on the sofa, Jenny threw her arms around his neck.

“Yes, I am.” Extricating himself, he rose to his feet. There were things he had to take care of first if he was going to do this for her. “And you’d better name this baby after me.”

Cole picked this time to abandon his fighting figures and join them, throwing his arms around his favorite uncle’s waist.

“I’ve got to go, sport,” he told the boy, petting Cole’s silky hair.

“Even if it’s a girl?” Jenny wanted to know, referring to his request.

Jordan nodded, keeping a straight face. “Even if it’s a girl. ‘Jordan’ works both ways these days, remember?”

Jenny smiled for the first time since her brother had arrived at the house. For the first time since the doctor had knocked the air out of her lungs with his newest edict.

“Just as long as you do, that’s all that counts.” She beckoned him to lean down and when he complied, she brushed her lips against his cheek. “Thanks, big brother, I owe you one.”

He straightened, laughing. “You bet you do.”

She knew that tone. Somehow, her big brother meant to collect. Jenny looked at her husband. “I kind of feel as if I’ve just made a deal with Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Jordan’s taller,” Eric deadpanned.

“Also faster,” Jordan interjected, making his way to the front door, Cole shadowing his every move. After Eric, he worshipped Jordan most. Neither man could do any wrong in his young eyes. “At least fast enough to beat you at racquetball last week.”

Eric bit back a choice colorful word since Cole was in the room. “That was a fluke.”

Jordan looked at him smugly. “Would you care for a rematch?”

“Love one,” Eric countered. “Meet you at the court at one on Friday?” They had a standing reservation at the racquetball courts every Friday at lunchtime.

Jordan looked at his sister. “Brace yourself for a shattered husband.” He pulled opened the front door. “Okay, I’ve gotta fly.”

“Can I watch?” Cole asked eagerly.

“Maybe next time,” Jordan laughed, ruffling his hair. “See you, Jen,” he called back into the room. “Remember—” he winked when she looked up at him “—you name the baby after me.”

As he closed the door behind Jordan, Eric put his arm around Cole and walked back to where Jenny was lying on the sofa. A bemused expression played across his lips. “Don’t you think that was a little over the top, threatening to go in despite the doctor’s orders?”

She thought she’d been particularly passionate in her declaration. And she’d known Jordan wouldn’t allow her to take the risk, no matter how blasé he attempted to be about the matter.

Jenny smiled, satisfied. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Eric sat down on the sofa’s arm again and kissed the top of his wife’s head. “You know, Jordan and I have been friends just about forever and I never knew he was this malleable.”

Cole curled up in the space next to Jenny. She tucked her arm around the boy, so grateful for the way her life had turned out. And Jordan was right, she did owe a great deal of it to him. But that admission was for another time.

“You have to know what buttons to press,” she told Eric. “Beneath that devil-may-care, playboy exterior there really is a good guy.”

Eric laughed under his breath. In his experience, Jordan could stand his ground with the best of them. This was a side he was unaccustomed to. “Lucky for you.”

It wasn’t herself she was thinking of. “No, lucky for Advocate Aid.”

From what Jenny had told Eric about what went on in the small office, it sounded like five times the work for none of the pay. And there were no law clerks to pick up the slack or do any of the research. Something, he knew, Jordan took completely for granted. “Think he can handle it?”

She smiled fondly, thinking of the dynamo who ran the office and oversaw every detail with a keen, discerning eye. “Sarajane will make him handle it.”

Eric was acquainted with the office assistant only by reputation, secondhand information he’d gleaned from what his wife had told him in passing. Still, what he knew was impressive. And might have been intimidating to a man of lesser confidence than Jordan. Maybe even intimidating to Jordan.

“I kind of feel sorry for him.”

Jenny didn’t see it that way. “Jordan survived our mother.” Although loving, there was no denying that Elaine Winthrop Hall was a very opinionated woman who saw life only in her own terms. “After that, he can handle anything,” she replied with certainty.

At least, Jenny added silently, she sincerely hoped so.

When she woke up Monday morning, Sarajane Gerrity knew it wasn’t going to be a good day.

The March sky outside her window was an unusually brilliant shade of blue without a cloud in the sky, but she still sensed that something was off kilter in the universe, or going to go off kilter before the day was over. It was pure instinct, some innate way of being able to tell that all was not right with her world.

Not that, she thought as she slapped down the alarm button and dragged herself out of bed, it ever was a hundred percent right. Not with the poverty and the shattered lives that she witnessed parading through the tiny storefront office of Advocate Aid, Inc., five days a week. But at the end of the day, she liked to think, she made a difference in at least a few lives.

Her title was secretary, but that was an archaic term for what she really was: the person who kept track of everything. The person who, at any given moment, knew where to find Jenny Logan, Harry Reed, Sheldon Myers or any one of the myriad forms that were used in the office on an irregular basis.

In the old days, in one of those old movies she loved so much, Sarajane mused, she might very well have been referred to as a Girl Friday. Except that life had gotten a great deal more hectic since those days and now she could be thought of as a Girl Monday through Friday—and then some. There certainly was enough work to fill eighteen hours of each day.

She didn’t mind. At twenty-five, she had the energy for it, had the dedication for it. And it made her feel as if her life actually counted for something. It kept her going.

Sarajane had a need to help others, because doing so was her atonement to the two people who had mattered most to her and who she’d watched slip away, little by little, one to the world of alcohol and self-loathing, the other to the destructive oblivion of drugs.

The first had been her mother, the second, her older brother. When they’d died, leaving her on her own, she’d felt incredibly abandoned. Alone, she was able to understand how her mother had felt. Hopeless. Afraid. But she was determined not to let those feelings overwhelm her. Determined not to be swept away into a world of apathy or drowned by hopelessness. Hers was not to be the battle of the bottle, but it was an uphill fight, one that eventually would lead to her triumphing over her circumstances and making something of herself.

These people who trooped through Advocate Aid, Inc., looking lost and hopeless, reminded her so much of her mother, her brother. If she could somehow be instrumental in helping these strangers, then the pain of not being able to do anything to prevent the deaths of the two people who comprised the only family she’d ever known lessened. At least for a little while.

But today wasn’t about anything nearly so personal to her. Today, because of the late-evening phone call she’d taken from Jenny, was about battling an awful sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had too much to do to play den mother, but that was what it was going to amount to. She was going to have to take a newbie by the hand and lead him onto the right path. Since this newbie was Jordan Hall, she anticipated the job of acclimating the man to office procedures as being more difficult than wrestling alligators on a slick Everglades bank.

She’d never met Jordan Hall, but she’d dealt with him on the phone a couple of times when he’d called looking for his sister. And she’d seen a picture of him on the society page once. Dark-brown hair, deep-brown eyes, wicked smile. Movie-star handsome would best describe him. Movie-star handsome and born with a silver spoon in his mouth. That definitely did not make him a person who could even remotely relate to the kinds of people who came to Advocate Aid seeking help.

Be fair. Jenny comes from exactly the same background.

Yes, but Jenny, Sarajane thought as she hurried through her shower, praying that the hot water would last long enough for her to finish, was a saint. There was no doubt in her mind that Jenny Logan was in a class all by herself. It was too much to hope for that her brother was cast from the same mold.

Sarajane laughed shortly. If he had been, Jordan Hall would have shown up at the office in person a lot sooner, instead of being some disembodied voice on the phone who called once in a blue moon when he was being consulted.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” she told her reflection as she quickly passed a blow dryer over her auburn hair. She longed for straight hair as she watched the shoulder-length mass curl in several directions. With Sheldon gone for the next one to two weeks because of some sort of family emergency and now Jenny down for the count—for at least for three months—that left only Harry Reed and her to hold down the fort. She was good and she was quick, but she was not a lawyer. Being sympathetic to a person’s plight only went so far. It didn’t begin to untangle whatever legal web they found themselves in.

A legal web such as the one that had brought her mother down, forcing her to sell the small house that was all she had after her husband, a driver for the transit authority, had been killed in a freak bus accident. She’d been forced to sell because the relatives of the people who had died in that accident had sued not only the transit authority, but the family of the man they felt was responsible for the accident.

She was going to be late, Sarajane thought, annoyed at the minutes that had somehow managed to disappear. Grabbing her purse, she hurried out the door, heading to the parking garage where she kept her car. It seemed ironic to her that, after having grown up hating all lawyers, she found herself voluntarily working for them. Someday, when she had the time, she was going to have her head examined.

Someday. But not today.

Chapter Two

You win some, you lose some.

The old adage echoed in Jordan’s head as he made his way down the streets of a section of Portland he rarely, if ever, passed through.

The problem was, he didn’t like losing. Ever. Granted, it wasn’t something he was accustomed to doing, certainly not in the courtroom. And not in the bedroom, either.

But he’d kept his cool and said, “Perhaps another time,” when he’d broken the news to Gina over the phone after he’d left Jenny and Eric’s house yesterday. Gina Rivers, the model whose face graced a hundred magazine covers and whose body was considered near-perfect by every breathing male between the ages of ten and a hundred, was the woman who was to meet him in Hawaii. The woman he had intended to take his now-aborted vacation with. When he’d called her about the change in plans, she’d made a few sympathetic noises about how charitable he was being to his little sister, then coolly told him not to be concerned about ruining her plans.

Apparently she’d had someone waiting in the wings all along. There was a prince from one of those tiny principalities no one outside of Jeopardy paid much attention to who’d been after her to rendezvous with him for quite some time now. Since he was available at a moment’s notice, she saw no reason not to have him “fill in” as she’d put it.

Obviously all men were merely interchangeable bodies to her. Jordan didn’t particularly like being replaced so effortlessly. Granted there was no huge romance in the offing with this woman, no future, really, but he had anticipated sharing a good time with the supermodel for the space of three weeks.

For just a second, as he continued driving, the shallowness of his social life stared him in the face. He admitted, in the privacy of his mind, that he was just the slightest bit weary of beautiful, vapid women. Yes, a good many of them were experts at setting the sheets on fire, but once they were in a vertical position, there was not much to go on. Certainly not much in common with him. He found himself a little envious of Eric. Jenny was pretty and she had a soul, not the easiest combination to come across.

Still, he did enjoy himself, and he had been looking forward to this vacation, to shedding the responsibilities that he took very seriously and to just having a little mindless fun and relaxation for twenty-one days.

“You really do owe me big-time, Jen,” he murmured under his breath as he craned his neck to make out the faded addresses that graced the fronts of less than half the stores and buildings he passed.

It was hard to imagine, the way the streets were now, that this area had ever been new. The buildings looked as if they had been standing, enduring the less-than-clement Portland weather, for the last century or so.

Here and there Jordan saw half-hearted attempts at renovations, seemingly doomed before they were begun. Cheap paint was slapped onto surfaces to make them look newer than they were and to hide the multitude of flaws.

Oh well, he wasn’t here for the view or a tour, he was here for Jenny.

Jenny, the pure of heart, he thought with a smile.

He supposed his sister was right when she insisted that this was their duty. Growing up, they had both always had so much, had never wanted for anything. The best education, the best of everything, really. It only seemed right to try to pay some of it back.

This, Jordan decided, would fill his pro bono quota for the next year.

Maybe longer, he amended, slowing his car down even more as he realized that he was looking at the storefront office where he’d agreed to spend the next three weeks, shepherding the lost and the confused through the maze known as their legal system.

The sign in the window, which Jenny told him had once displayed the wares of an independent clothing store, brightly proclaimed: Advocate Aid, Inc., in bold black letters on gleaming white poster board. It only made the surrounding area appear that much more dingy and forlorn.

To Jenny’s credit—at least, he assumed as much—the display window was dust-free and clean, unlike the displays belonging to the businesses on either side of the legal aid office. To the right, ironically enough, he thought, was a pawn shop. The window was crammed with all sorts of things that had once been precious to someone, and that were now being sold in an effort to keep body and soul together. From the amount of dust that had accumulated, Jordan guessed that the items had last seen anything remotely close to a good cleaning somewhere during the Eisenhower era.

To the left of the office was a smaller store front which displayed an anemic blue light. The fixture was fashioned to proclaim that a seer of the future was domiciled just beyond the threshold. For a nominal fee, the secrets of the future could be shared.

Jordan paused, his sports car idling. He shook his head in disbelief. His sister had graduated near the top of her class. She could have had an office next to his at Morrison and Treherne.

“What the hell are you doing here, Jenny?” he wondered out loud.

And what was he doing here? he wondered silently. For that matter, where the hell was he going to park his car? More to the point, was it going to be there when it came time for him to leave? Cars like his were targets in seedy neighborhoods like this. A good team could strip it in no time flat.

Maybe he should have rented an inexpensive car for the next three weeks. Too late now, he thought with a sigh.

A sign indicating that there was parking behind the row of stores had him circling the block, looking for an opening. He missed it the first time around. When he discovered it on his second pass, he found his driving skills challenged. The alleyway that led to the lot was narrow, even for his sports car. He held his breath the entire time.

When he finally reached the lot, Jordan saw that there were several cars already there. Or maybe they’d just been abandoned, he amended, seeing the condition of the vehicle closest to him. It had at least twenty years on it and the years had not been kind.

Getting out, holding a container of cappuccino in one hand, Jordan engaged the security alarm in his car with his other, wondering if the gesture was a futile one. He had a feeling that anyone here probably knew how to disarm such an alarm in a matter of seconds, silencing it before it had a chance to go off.

Here goes nothing, Jordan thought, walking back out onto the street.

He passed a man rolling back the rusted iron security gates that protected the pawn shop from any break-ins. Short, squat, with arms that looked as if bench-pressing an elephant would have presented no hardship to him, the man wore his hair cropped so close to his head it appeared to be almost shaved.

Pausing as he secured the gates, the pawn-shop owner looked at Jordan and then nodded at the display window. “See anything you like?”

Jordan didn’t bother looking, although he did return the man’s smile. No sense in antagonizing someone whose biceps rivaled the circumference of truck tires. “Not at the moment.”

The pawn-shop owner continued staring at him. “Nice threads,” he commented. “I could get you a good price for them.”

Probably not anywhere in the neighborhood of what he’d actually paid for the Armani suit, Jordan thought. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You work there?” the man asked as Jordan put his hand on the doorknob.

“Temporarily.”

The man nodded knowingly. “That’s what they all say.”

Jordan didn’t bother to answer.

The door to Advocate Aid, Inc., was unlocked when he tried it. The second he entered, he knew that he had overdressed. The closet of his penthouse apartment was teeming with expensive suits, suits he regarded as part of his trade because his father had impressed on him at an early age that people judged by appearances and the Halls had always been judged well. Wearing a suit was second nature to him—when he wasn’t wearing the latest actress or model or drop-dead gorgeous debutante.

But designer suits were definitely out of place in here, he thought, closing the door behind him.

Walking in, he looked around slowly. His first impression didn’t improve. The area seemed almost claustrophobically small. His old bedroom in the family estate was bigger than this place that Jenny said had five people working in it when they were running at full capacity.

He didn’t understand how anyone could get anything accomplished here. It looked like an illustration for chaos. Every inch of the place was filled with books and papers, scattered and bound. Three of the desks had computers, all of which appeared to be on their way to a museum. The desks beneath them looked battle-worn.

Over in the corner there were ancient bookcases that appeared to be leaning forward, bowing beneath the weight of legal books and, he could only assume from this distance, dust.

It was enough to send someone of his orderly nature out into the street, gasping for air.

Jordan glanced at his watch. Jenny had told him to get here by nine. It was eight-thirty. He was early because that was his nature. He hated to be kept waiting and felt that keeping anyone else waiting was rude. But early or not, he hadn’t expected to be the first one here. He looked around again, but there was no one else in the office. Not unless they were hiding beneath the stacks of paper on the floor.

But the door was unlocked, he recalled.

Maybe they had decided to close down after all and someone had just forgotten to lock the doors. Not that there looked as if there was anything to steal here, he thought, looking around again.

A noise coming from the rear of the room caught his attention. It sounded like a door slamming. Maybe there was more to the office than he’d noticed. He was about to make his way to the back when he found himself almost colliding with a petite—she couldn’t have been more than five foot one—young woman with auburn hair and incredibly lively green eyes.

Her arms were full of files which she immediately transferred into his.

The woman didn’t bother with an introduction.

“Call Mr. Abernathy about tomorrow’s hearing. You have a ten o’clock appointment with Joan Reynolds. Mr. Wyatt wants to know why no one has returned his calls. He’s on line two and he’s not getting off until he talks to a lawyer.” About to take off again, she skidded to a halt in order to add, “Oh, and the temp called in sick again and Harry is stuck in traffic and says he’ll get here when he gets here.”

Only quick reflexes had Jordan saving himself from an unscheduled close-to-scalding cappuccino bath. He managed to switch hands just before this Energizer Bunny on steroids with the rapid-fire mouth dumped the files on him.

Still shell-shocked, he stared at her now. “Harry?” he repeated. His voice sounded hoarse to his ears.

The woman was frowning. And her eyes were passing over him as if she was judging him—and finding him wanting. “Harry Reed. The other lawyer who works here.”

Finished, she turned on her heel, giving every indication that she was about to disappear into the abyss from whence she had emerged.

“Hold it!” Jordan called after her.

Ordinarily, when he took that tone with the law clerks who were interning at Morrison and Treherne, they froze. If they looked up at him at all, it was with meek expressions on their faces. Whoever this whirling dervish was, she only paused in her flight, glancing at him over her shoulder. There was a look of barely suppressed annoyance on her face.

“Yes?”

“Just who the hell are you?” he demanded sternly. He wasn’t accustomed to being ordered around, fluffed off or ignored and she had done all three in the space of less than a minute.

“I’m Sarajane.” She said the name as if that was supposed to mean something to him. When he made no response, she added her last name impatiently. “Sarajane Gerrity.”

The frown on what seemed like an otherwise pretty face deepened. Exasperated, Sarajane turned completely around and crossed back to him. “You are Jenny Logan’s brother, aren’t you? Jordan Hall?”

That was a new one on him. He couldn’t remember himself ever having been referred to that way. If anything, Jenny was regarded as “Jordan Hall’s sister.” He was the one who had garnered fame and attention in the family, not Jenny. To have it stripped away so cavalierly was a completely new experience for him. Apparently, in this small corner of the universe, his sister had come into her own.

Way to go, Jen.

“Yes, I am,” he answered.

Sarajane nodded, as if she approved and he had given the right answer to her question. But the slight frown remained. “She said you’d be coming in today to try to help out.”

He noticed that she’d said try. As if she didn’t expect him to accomplish anything. Obviously the woman didn’t get out much. Or maybe she just didn’t read the local section of the newspaper. The cases he handled appeared in print with a fair amount of regularity. There was talk of making him a partner at the firm the next time around.

“She didn’t tell me about you,” Jordan countered. Jenny had called him again late last night, to tell him about the office manager or office secretary. He hadn’t paid that much attention really. She might have even said the woman’s name, he wasn’t sure. Besides, office managers weren’t people he ordinarily interacted with unless they forgot to order something he needed.

A buzzer sounded behind him. Jordan turned around just as the front door opened. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the woman with the disapproving expression suddenly transform, as if a magic wand had been waved over her. The frown vanished, replaced by a warm, welcoming smile. She looked positively sympathetic.

And positively beautiful, he realized.

Devoid of her frown, Sarajane Gerrity’s features softened. She looked almost radiant. Despite his best efforts not to, he found that his attention was immediately engaged.

Sarajane sailed by him as if he was nothing more than one of the desks or chairs in the place. Her attention seemed to be completely focused on the couple who had just walked in. He looked at the couple now. They appeared to be in their later fifties, possibly early sixties and life had not been kind to either of them.

He caught himself wondering what had brought them here and what had put that close-to-panic look on the woman’s face.

“Please, have a seat,” Sarajane was saying. She gestured toward two chairs in front of the desk closest to the front door. The desk had an incredible amount of papers piled on it. As she coaxed the couple to sit, Sarajane scooped away one of the piles of paper, depositing it onto the adjacent desk. “I was just about to make some coffee. Can I get either of you a cup?” Sarajane asked.

“No, no coffee.” The woman had an accent he couldn’t readily place. He watched her open her purse and take out a much-creased packet of papers. “Just help,” the woman entreated simply. “We got this in the mail—” she began, holding up the papers.

But Sarajane stayed the woman’s hand before she could launch into her tale. She nodded her head toward Jordan. “Mr. Hall over there will be right with you.” Retracing her steps back to him, Sarajane took possession of the files again, digging them out of his arms. “These will be waiting for you on the table,” she promised. She placed them next to the pile she’d just shifted from the first desk.

It was clear that the walk-ins took precedence over all the other instructions she’d fired at him.

“What about Mr. Wyatt?” he wanted to know. The light on the phone on what she indicated was his desk was blinking almost hypnotically.

Even as he posed the question, another line lit up and began to ring. Followed immediately by another. He had the feeling that this was business as usual in this place.

He looked at Sarajane expectantly and barely heard the sigh that escaped her lips. She tossed her head ever so slightly as her eyes met his. “I’ll take care of him for now.”

He couldn’t remember ever hearing more confidence infused into a sentence.

More lines began to ring until every light in the single row was lit. The buzzer went off again as two more people came in.

The man nodded in Jordan’s direction and made himself at home on one of the chairs along one wall. The woman, apparently less familiar with her surroundings than the man, took a seat as well, perching awkwardly on the edge of the folding chair, looking as if she intended to take flight at the slightest provocation. Upon closer scrutiny, Jordan saw that she looked as if she’d been crying.

In the background, Jordan could discern what sounded like the arthritic rumblings of a battle-worn coffeemaker going through its paces, the water grumbling as it was being heated.

This was a far cry from the plush corporate offices where he usually spoke to clients, Jordan thought as he took a seat at the desk opposite the couple that had come in first.

The second he put his full weight on it, the chair began to wobble beneath him. Caught off guard, Jordan grabbed either side of the desk to steady himself and keep from ignobly sinking to the black-and-white-checkered floor.

“Oh, and your chair has a loose wheel,” Sarajane called out without even turning in his direction. She was busy taking down the names of the two people who had just entered. “I’d be careful how I sat down on it if I were you.”

Maybe the woman was better suited to the fortune-teller’s shop next door, Jordan thought as he nodded at the distraught couple.

He put on his most confident smile, the one he wore for the paying clients. He’d been told it put them at their ease. “How can I help you?”

Those were his last words for the next twenty minutes.

Chapter Three

Sarajane was prejudiced against good-looking men.

She had firsthand experience with the nature of the beast. Her opinion was built on a very firm foundation. Fresh out of college, ready to take on the world, she’d lost her heart to a good-looking man with a golden tongue: Rocco Santori, an incredibly good-looking man who was as shallow as a puddle on the pavement.

Lonely, needing love, needing to feel that soothing rush that came from being committed to just one man, she’d actually thought that Rocco was the man she could spend the rest of her life with. In addition to his looks, he was bright, intelligent and intent on making something of himself. She’d poured her heart into the relationship—and he had poured words. Lovely, beautiful words that had turned out to be empty, holding only air and precious little else.

She’d left him when she’d discovered that he was sleeping not only with her, but with two other women as well. Each of them had his promise of exclusivity to wrap their dreams around. It turned out that he was seeking to further his own career by using the women he slept with to his best advantage, to feed his ego, to make him feel invincible.

She couldn’t get away fast enough. After that, she was wary, but her heart being what it was, she fell in love with someone almost a year later. Again, she was hopeful. Again she gave away her heart. Because Andrew Hopkins seemed different.

Seemed, but wasn’t.

Like Rocco, Andrew belonged to the DDG Club, the Drop Dead Gorgeous Club. She came to the conclusion that all men who qualified for that club never bothered developing their personalities, or, more importantly, their scruples, feeling that their looks absolved them of ever having to trouble themselves with a sense of decency or morality.

In her experience, good-looking men didn’t have to try as hard or do as much and they were still forgiven, still worshipped. All because of their looks. If they had the body to go along with that, almost any woman they encountered was lost.

Almost.

She now belonged to that small but exclusive group that could see right through the men of the DDG Club. Men like Jordan Hall, she thought, covertly observing him throughout the morning. Clinically speaking, Jordan was even better looking than either Rocco or Andrew had been. But it didn’t matter. She’d had her shots. She was immune to handsome faces and biceps that rippled and butts that quarters could be bounced off. She’d take a homely, honest man any day.

If she were taking men, which she wasn’t.

Mentally, she’d decided to retreat from the male-female battlefield for the present. Given that she was only twenty-five, she figured she had time to get back in the game—if she ever wanted to. And right now, that was doubtful.

Sarajane frowned thoughtfully to herself as yet another call came in and she picked up the receiver. She had fully expected Jenny Logan’s high-profile brother to fade, to give up. It hadn’t taken a stretch of her imagination to envision him backing away from his desk and heading for the door an hour after his arrival.

Especially after the Trans had arrived. Twelve people, all talking at once, a few lapsing into Vietnamese when they grew excited. One of them—the mother, she had discovered after joining the fray to try to untangle what was going on—had been the victim of identity theft, which, according to what the woman’s oldest daughter had figured out, had begun over nine months ago. Mrs. Tran was being brought to court on all kinds of non-payment charges. There were bounced checks and staggering outstanding credit-card balances for items Mrs. Tran knew nothing about.

Trying to unscramble this information and make sense of what was going on would have tried the patience of a veteran, someone accustomed to dealing with ongoing chaos on a daily basis. Someone like Jenny. To someone like Jordan, who probably had never broken a sweat in his life or been made to struggle with any task, she just assumed, the matter would outdistance his ability to cope by several leagues.

Sarajane was amazed to discover that he did indeed have coping skills. More than that, he had an actual presence and could make himself heard above the noise, above the raised voices all competing for center stage with their version of the situation. As she watched, somewhat in awe, the way one did when confronted with a fish that actually possessed legs and could walk on land, Jordan called for order several times, refusing to continue until he finally succeeded in getting it.

The Tran family abruptly stopped talking and sat in respectful silence, waiting for Jordan to frame his questions. When he did and they began answering in unison, their voices blending in an eager cacophony of half words and sounds, Jordan called for order again.

Careful not to lean back in his chair, Jordan pushed it slightly back from the desk and scrutinized the gathering.

“Look, people, we’re not going to get anywhere if you all keep competing with each other. Now appoint a spokesperson and just have that person talk. And if you hear that he or she is getting it wrong,” he added, “raise your hand.”

“Like in school?” the youngest Tran, a girl with the very Americanized name of Tiffany, asked.

Jordan nodded, a hint of a smile reaching his lips. Tiffany, Sarajane observed, instantly brightened, like a flower absorbing its first rays of the summer sun. “Like in school. Now, talk amongst yourselves and decide who is going to give me the particulars—and don’t forget to consult with your mom.” He nodded at the woman who was at the center of all this. A woman who, it was quickly established, spoke almost no English.

“She’s not my mother, she’s my aunt,” Tiffany corrected him.

Jordan inclined his head, accepting the correction. “Whoever she is, it’s her story to get out.” A better idea came to him. Opening the middle drawer, he silently made a wish for paper. The lined yellow legal pad he discovered in the center of the drawer almost made him feel giddy. He took it out and handed it to the girl, who looked at him quizzically.

He tapped the pad and looked first at Tiffany, then at some of the other members of the family who were standing at his desk. Only the older woman and her husband were sitting. “Be sure not to leave anything out,” he instructed.

He’d intended to get up and get himself a cup of coffee. He’d long since finished the contents of the container he’d brought with him. But instead, just as he was about to stand up, the phone on his desk rang. And rang.

Exasperated, he bit off a few choice words, saying them silently instead, and picked up the receiver. He did his best to ignore the Tran family who were huddled together on the other side of his desk, conferring and dictating to Tiffany.

“Jordan Hall.”

There was silence on the other end. And then a female voice asked almost timidly, “Is this Advocate Aid, Inc.?”

Unfortunately, it is, he thought. “Yes, what can I do for you?”

The woman on the other end quickly launched into a tearful tale about not being able to locate her son whom the police had come and arrested several hours ago. When she’d called first one precinct, then another, no one would tell her where her son was being detained. Jordan made notes as fast as he could.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tiffany had finished writing. She pushed forward the yellow pad and looked at him expectantly. He acknowledged her with a quick nod.

“I’ll have to call you back, Mrs. Rodriguez,” he said into the receiver. The words on the other end flowed more rapidly and freely. “Yes, yes, I promise. Ten minutes. Twenty, tops.”

He became aware of Sarajane’s presence at his elbow even as he was hanging up the receiver. Was she bringing him yet another person to deal with? He wasn’t sure he could handle that right now. His cool was dangerously close to a meltdown. “What?” he bit off, looking at her sharply.

Sarajane didn’t say a word. Instead, she silently placed a mug filled with coffee on the desk beside his elbow and withdrew.

Jordan knew he’d sounded like some curt jerk. He usually hung on to his temper a great deal better than that.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he called after her, momentarily forgetting that they were far from alone. Sarajane didn’t stop walking or even turn around. But she did raise her hand over her head and made a little waving gesture, as if to brush away his words from the air.

For the time being, given the source, he took it as a supreme compliment.

The action continued nonstop. They were joined by Harry, who finally showed up sometime before eleven, and a woman named Rachel Sands, who was on loan from somewhere for the week. Both were lawyers. But Jordan quickly learned that Sarajane ran the show. It was Sarajane who directed the almost constant influx of human traffic, organizing them, getting them to fill out a minimum of forms and seeming to prioritize their cases and degree of need.

But even with Sarajane at the helm, the work was daunting and constant. It didn’t even let up long enough for him to duck out for some lunch. Instead, after his stomach had rumbled a number of times, he was given a sandwich from a local take-out place. The wrapper on the sandwich sported a logo: What’s For Lunch? He vaguely recognized it as belonging to a place he’d passed in his search for Advocate Aid’s office.

As with the coffee, Sarajane dropped the sandwich off at his desk. Jordan looked at her quizzically as the man sitting before him continued with his narrative about losing his job after not giving in to the sexual advances of his female boss. In response to his silent query, Sarajane merely shrugged.

“Don’t want you keeling over from hunger,” she told him as she walked away.

The next moment, he realized that the man had stopped talking and was eyeing his sandwich.

“You going to eat all of that?” the man asked him sheepishly, then added, “I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday morning.”

He supposed skipping lunch wouldn’t kill him. Jordan pushed the sandwich over to the man who accepted it with profuse thanks.

Jordan realized that his eyes had slipped shut. He stretched out his legs beneath his desk, trying to shake sleep from his body. It was, in his estimation, one of the longest days of his life, including the time when he was nine and had broken his leg. His parents had been vacationing in Europe and it had been his nanny, a no-nonsense young woman from Australia named Emily, who’d brought him into the hospital emergency room. Because Emily insisted, he’d been kept overnight for observation. The TV in his room was broken and he’d spent the duration of the evening staring at a spider weaving a web in the corner of the ceiling. Time had dragged by like a sloth climbing up a tree with glue on its feet.

What he’d gone through today made him long for the serenity of the hospital room.

The moment he saw Sarajane flip the lock on the outside door, pulling down the shade that indicated they were closed for the night, he could have cheered. It was past eight. Darkness had long since descended on the city.

All he wanted to do was go home and pour himself a tall drink and forget about this place. “Is that it?” he asked rhetorically. “We’re done?”

“For the day,” Sarajane replied crisply. About to walk right past him, she abruptly changed her mind and paused at his desk.

Jordan was in the process of shutting down his computer. Or trying to. The closing message seemed to have frozen on his screen and showed no signs of making good on its promise. He hit several keys that ordinarily sped up the process, but all he heard was clicking noises. The message continued to sit on the screen.

“What?” he bit off, feeling her eyes on him. All day long, he’d had the sense that he was being dissected and evaluated, part by part. Which was all right, except that he also sensed that in her estimation, he was coming up lacking. Which was not all right.

“Is there a problem?”

The cheerful note in her voice seemed out of place and irritated him more than he was willing to admit. Jordan reined himself in. “Can’t seem to shut down the damn computer.”

“Move aside,” she directed, using her small body to edge him out of the way.

“It’s all yours.” Annoyed, he took a few steps back.

Taking his place, Sarajane proceeded to hit the same keys he had. The machine continued to be just as unresponsive. He felt oddly vindicated and then was surprised as she suddenly dropped down on her knees. As he watched, mystified, Sarajane crawled under his desk. She hit the switch on the power strip that his computer and monitor were plugged into, first once, then again. The first time she drained all the power from his computer and monitor, the second hit brought the electricity flowing back to them. Since she hadn’t turned either the computer or monitor back on, they continued to remain dormant, ready to go through their paces another day.

The view from where he stood was nothing short of intriguing. The trials, literally and otherwise, of the day were mentally shelved as Jordan found himself staring at the woman’s rather tight posterior muscles and the way her skirt strained against them when she reached.

He wondered if she worked out or if nature had been incredibly kind and generous to her. He had a feeling it was probably a little bit of both.

Sarajane wiggled back out again. He stepped to the side and offered her his hand to help her up. She stared at it for a second, then chose to use his desk for leverage and rose to her feet.

He decided her action said more about her than about him. “Independent to a fault?” he guessed.

She supposed that was one way to put it. Sarajane dusted off her knees, plucking out a staple that had gotten caught in her skirt. “That way, I don’t get disappointed.”

He shook his head. “Cynical attitude for someone so young.”

She didn’t particularly like the patronizing way he’d said that. “Practical,” she countered, then blew out an annoyed breath.

He was astute enough to pick up on the warring vibrations she was giving off. “What?”

She was tempted to say, “Nothing,” but that wasn’t exactly truthful and the truth was very important to her. So she told him. “I was going to tell you that you did good.”

Jordan studied her for a moment. Several times during the course of the day, he’d heard her being incredibly sympathetic and considerate with the people who’d crossed their threshold. Yet her tone now indicated that kind words did not come easily to her.

“But?”

“No buts,” she told him. “You did good today. Better than I figured you would.”

“Thanks. I think.”

She began to walk away, then stopped. “By the way, Mary Allen is holding back.”

“Excuse me?” After seeing more than twenty people, plus the crowd scene that comprised the Tran family, he was getting the names and faces confused. He tried to remember which one had been Mary Allen.

“She’s holding back,” Sarajane repeated. “She’s not giving you the full story about the parental abduction charges.”

Now he remembered. Mary Allen was the young single mother trying to regain custody of her two daughters. She looked like a little girl herself, hardly old enough to have children, especially not children aged seven and six. Talking to her, and watching her flirt with him, he’d gotten a sense that something was missing from her story. But he hadn’t pressed her for it. By the time she had come to his desk, it was after four and all he could think about was getting out and going home to his wide-screen plasma TV and his comfortable sofa that didn’t tip dangerously when he leaned back.

Walking away from his desk, he saw that Sarajane was moving about the rear of the office, shutting down lights and checking to see that computers were off. “You know her?” he asked.

One of the phones had the receiver off. Sarajane replaced it. She shook her head in response to his question. “No.”

“Then how do you know that the woman was holding back?” He wasn’t challenging her, he was genuinely curious.

She looked up at him, silent for a moment, as if debating whether or not he merited an answer. “You get a sense of things after a while. I can always tell when people are lying.”

Jordan couldn’t help being amused. His firm paid professional profilers good money to make judgments like that about jurors who were being selected. He doubted if Sarajane Gerrity had had any professional training in that field. “Can you, now?”

Something in his voice caught her attention. She looked up at him sharply.

“Yes,” she replied firmly, silently daring him to argue with her. “I can.”

But if she meant to bait him, he wasn’t taking it. Instead, he nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Jordan watched as she returned to the small desk she presided over. Opening the lowest drawer, Sarajane took out her purse. Still moving, she extracted her wallet and took out a dollar bill and change.

He drew his own conclusions. Lengthening his stride, he caught up to her before she reached the back door. “Can I give you a lift?”

The other two people who had been in the office today had both left within five minutes of each other several minutes ago. He and this firecracker of a woman were alone now. It gave him a moment to study her, and think, again, that when her mouth wasn’t barking out orders, she really was a rather beautiful woman.

“Provided that my car is still in the lot,” he added, remembering his feeling about leaving the vehicle unattended.

She didn’t care for his presumption. “How do you know I didn’t drive here?”

He nodded at her hand. “You’ve got money in your hand and as far as I could see this morning, there was no valet parking.”

There was no way this was going to get personal between them. They were just going to work together for the next three weeks and it was clearly up to her to get the most out of him—professionally. She had no desire to add another layer to that.

“Thanks,” she said coolly, turning off the last light. She stood in the doorway, waiting for him to walk out. When he did, she locked the door and activated the security code. “But the bus drops me off almost at my door.”

“So could I.”

She was well versed in men like Jordan Hall. He wouldn’t drop her off at her door. He’d try to talk his way into her apartment. That was about the last thing in the world she wanted.

“Maybe some other time,” she replied. And with that, she pulled up the collar of her coat and walked deliberately away, heading for the bus stop on the next block—and away from him.

Jordan stood and watched her for a moment, then told himself that she had no need or desire for a guardian angel. And he had both when it came to that drink he’d promised himself.

With a shrug, he turned in the direction of the parking lot, hoping for a miracle. Trying to remember where his insurance papers were, just in case.

Chapter Four

When he thought about it later, Jordan wasn’t exactly sure why he took that route to go home. It certainly wasn’t the fastest way to get out of the area and back to his own home ground. Maybe, after a day spent trying to be generally selfless and sympathetic for no other reward than the expressions on the faces of the people he’d dealt with for the last twelve hours, he’d begun to be predisposed to selfless acts.

Besides, there had always been a little of the defender of the fairer sex in him. He’d cut his teeth on books dealing with tales of chivalry dating back to the Knights of the Round Table.

Or maybe he’d just seen too many superhero movies.

Whatever the reason, Jordan decided, once he’d found that his car was still exactly where he had left it, with not so much as a single graffiti mark on it, that maybe he’d just drive by Sarajane’s bus stop to make sure that the whirling dervish was all right.

Not that he expected her not to be. Jordan had no doubts that anyone foolish enough to try to take advantage of the young woman would get far more than he bargained for. She might appear to be soft and frail, but he had a strong feeling that she knew how to take care of herself. Her mouth alone should have been registered as a lethal weapon with the local authorities. Once she started talking, an avalanche of words would quickly bury the person on the receiving end, and they wouldn’t stand a chance against her.

Jordan smiled to himself. Sarajane could probably have a great future in politics if she wanted to go that route.

Still, all arguments to the contrary, Jordan turned his vehicle left instead of right, just to assure himself that everything was okay.

The closest bus stop along the thoroughfare was located near the end of the next block. There was a streetlight situated several feet away from the rectangular sign proclaiming the area to be an official bus stop, but the bulb had gone out and apparently no one had gotten around to replacing it. Except for the light from the half moon, the area was deeply embedded in shadows. Looking, Jordan could barely make out two forms next to the bus-stop sign.

One, because of the diminutive height, had to be Sarajane. The other, taller, bulkier, obviously was a man waiting for the same bus. A man Jordan surmised Sarajane knew, given how close he was standing to her.

All right, he thought, she was okay and he was way overdue for that drink he’d been promising himself. Time to get home.

But when he reached the end of the block, intent on making a U-turn so he could take the shorter route back to his penthouse apartment, Jordan could have sworn he saw the man grab Sarajane by the arm.

And she didn’t like it, Jordan realized. She was struggling.

Without thinking, Jordan stepped on the accelerator. The light was still red when he went through it, cutting across two lanes to reach the right side of the street, and Sarajane. The sound of brakes screeching behind him, coupled with the blast of a horn, told him he had narrowly avoided colliding with another vehicle. He didn’t bother looking back. His entire attention was focused on the two figures at the bus stop.

Coming to an abrupt, skidding halt almost directly next to the pair, he knew he’d made the right call even before he got out of the car. Sarajane was definitely outraged, but there was no mistaking the trace of fear on her face.

He was out of his car like a shot, leaving the driver’s-side door hanging open. “Let her go,” Jordan ordered.

The man was even bigger up close. There were no whites to his eyes, only the disturbing reddish tint that came from hardened drinking. The smell of whiskey emanated from him and his clothes were rumpled, as if he’d slept in them at least once. The expression on his dark, stubbled face was malevolent, enraged by the intervention.

“Get your own ho,” the man jeered, his expression growing uglier and more threatening by the moment. He looked as if his hamlike hands could easily smash to bits anything and anyone who roused his displeasure. “This one’s mine.”

“Think again.” Pushing Sarajane behind him, Jordan put his body between her and her would-be attacker.

To her surprise, the man who had tried to drag her away from the bus stop released her hand. Breathing hard, she stared at Jordan’s back. “What are you doing here?” she cried.

“I would have thought that would be obvious,” he fired back, never taking his eyes off the brute before him. There was a quick movement. Jordan realized that the man had pulled out a knife. From the way he held it, the creep knew how to make it do his bidding.

“Back off,” the stranger snarled. He followed the command with a particularly coarse label he affixed to Jordan.

Jordan’s mouth curved in a humorless smile. “My mother really wouldn’t like hearing you call me that,” Jordan said, his voice a steely calm that Sarajane found unsettling.

“You for real?” the other man jeered.

“My friends tell me so.”

The answer was given at the same time that Jordan moved with a speed that took the other man completely by surprise. One minute he was apparently in control, the next he was on the ground, with the heel of a finely crafted Italian-leather shoe against his neck, his arm being yanked up and behind him. From the way he screamed, the pain from the movement was excruciating. Another barrage of words flew out of his mouth, ignited by the heat of his fury.

“I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch!” the man raged, trying to get up. He screamed again as Jordan pulled harder.

“Get my cell phone out of my coat pocket and call 911,” Jordan ordered Sarajane. “I’d do it, but my hands are full at the moment.” He had both wound tightly around the mugger’s arm, pulling it up and back as hard as he could. It was dangerously close to being snapped out of its socket.

Stunned, feeling like someone trapped in the middle of an action movie, it took Sarajane a moment to come to. “I’ve got my own cell phone,” she told him.

She was arguing with him? Now? “I don’t care if you stand on top of the streetlamp and let loose with a Tarzan yell,” Jordan ground out, “just get the damn police over here.”

Sarajane realized that her hands were shaking as she pulled her phone out of her pocket. The fact that she’d been so badly affected by this lowlife bothered her a great deal. She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves.

Hearing nothing, Jordan glanced in her direction. She looked white, even in the sparse moonlight. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” she said with more bravado than she felt. “I’m fine.”

She’d lived in areas like this all of her life and never once had she ever come close to being assaulted or robbed. For the most part, she hardly ever gave her own safety a thought. It just wasn’t one of the things she worried about.

But this put everything in a different light. This made her acutely aware of her own vulnerability, placing it smack on her doorstep. She didn’t like it.

Taking another breath, she pressed the three keys that universally connected people to help. Someone answered on the fourth ring.

“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

Sarajane turned away from the scene and Jordan. It was the only way she could get herself to speak.

“Hey, man,” the assailant growled, “let me go. No need to call in the cops. This was a joke, just a joke.”

“Then you’d better do something about your sense of humor,” Jordan told him coldly.

The man tried to squirm, but with Jordan’s heel in his neck, there was nowhere he could go. “You want money? I’ll give you money.”

“Save it,” Jordan snapped. “You’re going to need it for your lawyer.” He glanced toward Sarajane to see how she was doing and yelled to her, “And we’re not taking on his case.”

Having given the pertinent information to the dispatch operator on the other end of the line, Sarajane ended her call. She turned around again as she returned her phone to her pocket. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the man squirming on the ground.

“No way in hell,” she affirmed.

The assailant tried to get up again and failed. “She was asking for it,” he spat out. And then he screamed again as Jordan yanked his arm up higher.

Sarajane jumped at the bloodcurdling sound. She looked at Jordan, but his expression was mild, as if he’d done nothing more than just stretched his own muscles.

She couldn’t draw her eyes away from Jordan. There was obviously more to the man than she thought.

“I’m taking you home, so don’t bother giving me any excuses or arguments,” Jordan informed her.

“I won’t be giving any,” she told him.

It was more than an hour later. The police had responded fairly quickly, arriving on the scene within ten minutes of her call. They took both her and Jordan’s statements, then cuffed the would-be assailant, depositing him in the back of the squad car amid a hail of profanities. One of the arresting officers had told Sarajane that she would have to come down to the precinct to formally press charges tomorrow.

She’d nodded, promising to be there first thing in the morning.

Jordan took her gently by the arm and brought her over to his vehicle, now parked several feet away from the bus stop; one of the officers had asked him to move it.

He looked at her carefully, wondering if he should insist that they go to the emergency room of the closest hospital. “You sure you’re all right?”

She wished he wasn’t being so nice. If he’d lectured her, she could have rallied, could have had something to fight. But he had come to her rescue and was being her knight in shining armor. How was she supposed to rail against that? He didn’t play fair.

Sarajane shrugged. “My faith in humanity’s a little shaken up right now, but yes, I’m all right.”

He opened the passenger door for her. “He didn’t hurt you?”

She didn’t sit down right away, afraid that her knees would start to buckle if she tried to get into the vehicle. She paused to pull herself together. “Maybe just my pride.”

He didn’t follow. “Your pride?”

Sarajane nodded. Her thoughts began to explore what might have happened if Jordan hadn’t shown up when he did. But it was too painful to think about and she pulled back. Damn it, she was supposed to be independent and self-sufficient. “I should have been able to handle the situation.”

She was being too hard on herself, and she definitely expected too much from herself. “From what I saw, it wasn’t a debate. If it had been, you would have cut him to ribbons. But you’re what—?” He looked at her. “Five foot nothing? That guy looked like he was at least twice your size.”

She raised her chin defensively. “He was bigger than you and you handled him,” she protested, then stopped abruptly. It had all happened so fast, she wasn’t certain exactly what she had seen. “How did you handle him, anyway? I mean…”

Her voice had trailed off. She’d obviously realized that she was insulting him, Jordan thought, but he took no offense. The other man had been an animal and probably outweighed him by fifty pounds, if not more.

“Easy. I was one of those ninety-eight-pound weaklings as a kid.” He continued to hold the door open for her. She took her cue and got in. Her knees were weak, but mercifully didn’t collapse out from beneath her. He raised his voice as he rounded the hood to get to his side of the vehicle. “My father got me a personal trainer to build up my confidence and my body.”

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