ACKNOWLEDGMENT

All authors try to be as accurate as possible; nevertheless, in order to tell a story, fictional liberties are often taken. I’m certainly no exception in this regard. However, Title VII is real, and violations of this civil rights law are illegal in the United States, where workers have the right to a harassment- and discrimination-free workplace. For more information, please visit www.eeoc.gov, or call 1-800-669-4000.

A special thank-you goes to Dwayne Swacker, Spanish teacher at Francis Howell High School, for his language expertise. Any errors in his work are mine.

Dear Reader,

There is no such thing as a normal life. But that’s not about to stop Christina Jones from searching for it. She’s not interested in the sexy volunteer firefighter who saves the day at her daughter’s elementary school, especially once she learns he’s the man whose day job involves the law firm where she’s just taken on a senior partnership. And Christina doesn’t need another “prince”—she’s already had that experience! As for Bruce Lancaster, firefighter/whiz lawyer, he’s about to discover that love comes in unexpected packages, and that to rescue his own heart, he may need to go above and beyond the call of duty.

For my tenth book, I wanted to write about those firefighters who lay their hearts and lives on the line every day, especially the ones who volunteer for the job and serve rural communities like mine. Setting the story close to my cousins’ home gave me an excuse to visit again.

I hope you enjoy reading about Christina and Bruce as much as I did writing them. They are very close to my heart. As always, feel free to e-mail me at michele@micheledunaway.com, and be sure to look for Olivia Jacobsen’s story later this year. You’ll remember her as Shane’s sister from About Last Night….

Enjoy the romance!

Michele Dunaway

Legally Tender

Michele Dunaway

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For the McMenamy family, who welcomed me as their own, especially John Michael and Lucy Kate. I am very proud of both of you and what you have done with your lives.

And to the staff at Francis Howell High School. Thanks for letting me work with such great people.

Books by Michele Dunaway

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

848—A LITTLE OFFICE ROMANCE

900—TAMING THE TABLOID HEIRESS

921—THE SIMPLY SCANDALOUS PRINCESS

931—CATCHING THE CORPORATE PLAYBOY

963—SWEEPING THE BRIDE AWAY

988—THE PLAYBOY’S PROTÉGÉE

1008—ABOUT LAST NIGHT…

1044—UNWRAPPING MR. WRIGHT

1056—EMERGENCY ENGAGEMENT

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 One

She had never felt so incompetent in her life. It was her fault the thick gray smoke billowed, the fire alarms blared and the fire trucks honked obnoxiously in the distance.

This time it wasn’t because she’d burned the Thanks-giving turkey. No. This time she’d ruined Halloween.

Her eyes watered as the acrid smoke traveled from the large gym into the elementary-school cafeteria. She could almost hear her ex-husband’s condescending voice over the clanging fire-alarm bells: “Christina Sanchez Jones, when will you learn to do something right?” And yet Christina had graduated with honors from prestigious Harvard Law School.

“Mama? Are you crying?” a tiny voice asked as the harsh bells finally ceased.

Christina blinked and glanced down at her eight-year-old daughter. Bella sported black cat whiskers. A beaded black headband complete with furry black-and-pink cat ears held her dark-blond hair away from her face. “We won’t have to cancel the Halloween party, will we, Mama? There wasn’t a fire. Only fake smoke.”

“No,” Christina said, wiping the back of her left hand across her eyes. Through the cafeteria windows, Christina could see that a fire truck had pulled into the parking lot. “We are not canceling. We still have bobbing for apples and a craft left to do. We just won’t have the haunted house.”

“That’s okay! I don’t care!” Bella shouted. She turned back to the other second-grade members of her Brownie troop. Like Bella, they were dressed in Halloween costumes. “The party’s still on!” she whooped.

“Why don’t you all go eat your snacks,” Christina suggested as a group of firemen raced through the cafeteria into the gym. Their heavy boots thudded on the freshly buffed floor. “Mrs. Sims,” Christina called, “let’s do snack now. Does that sound good?”

“Absolutely,” Mrs. Sims replied. Darla Sims was an unofficial troop leader, and within seconds, she had all the girls organized at a cafeteria table, eating pumpkin-shaped cookies and drinking witches’ brew—a concoction of orange juice, lime sherbet and white soda pop.

Christina sighed and entered the gym. The firemen were checking out what was to have been a haunted house.

There really hadn’t been a fire, but Christina should have known better. She should have realized that a smoke machine would not only create a spooky atmosphere, but it would also trigger the smoke detectors and, in turn, the school’s fire-alarm system. She’d known exactly what was happening the moment the first fire bell pealed. Now her mother’s voice resounded in Christina’s head. The good woman had supported Christina’s divorce from Kyle Jones, but she hadn’t wanted her daughter to move to Morrisville, Indiana. Too Midwest, too far from Houston, too small town and simply too far from home and the myriad of relatives who lived just a short plane ride over the Mexican border. “If you’re such a hotshot lawyer,” her mother had argued, “you should have been able to get around that seventy-five-mile child-custody restriction in your divorce decree. You should have been allowed to move anywhere. Like home. Morrisville, Indiana? Do they even have a McDonald’s in that town?”

The answer was yes. Morrisville did have the fast-food restaurant, right at the Highway 74 overpass and next to the town’s new gas station—

A deep voice cut through her turbulent thoughts. “They said you were the one in charge.”

Actually, the woman in charge of the Brownie troop’s Friday-night Halloween party was home with the flu. Her directions had included plugging in the smoke machine. But that didn’t give Christina an excuse. One of her role models was law-school graduate and thirty-third president of the United States, Harry S. Truman. To paraphrase Truman, The buck stopped with her.

Prepared to accept full responsibility, she turned and looked behind her.

And into the clearest blue eyes she’d ever seen. She resisted her instinct to step back, and took a deep breath. “I’m in charge,” she admitted.

“So you’re responsible for this?” The fireman made a wide sweeping gesture with his right hand, his serious gaze holding hers.

“Yes,” she replied as her breath lodged in her throat.

He had to be six-foot-one, only a smidgen shorter than her ex-husband, Kyle. As the firefighter continued to stare at her, Christina shifted under his appraisal.

She knew exactly what he saw: skin the color of a light suntan, hair the color of ripened wheat, brown eyes with a hint of gold, and a genie costume complete with exposed midriff and curled blue shoes that were fast causing her feet to ache. At five foot nine, she was model tall, and she’d long ago accepted that she was the nonstereotypical one in her Mexican family. She didn’t have the cliché dark hair and dark skin. Instead, her lighter hair and skin came from genes dating back to the time of Cortez, and intermingling of Spanish and Aztec blood.

She regained her composure. She’d dealt with being labeled incompetent and second rate long enough. She’d lived with not meeting anyone’s expectations, and she’d determined that, with her move to Morrisville, the only ones she had to live with now were her own.

She was a take-charge woman at this point in her life, in control of her own mistakes and her own destiny. She would lace on metaphorical boxing gloves and step into the ring with anyone who wanted to teach her otherwise.

She lifted her chin slightly to answer the attractive firefighter who waited impatiently. “Yes, I’m the one who plugged in the smoke machine. As soon as the alarm went off, I knew why. I guess the lady who left me directions for setting up the party thought the gym ceiling was high enough.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Obviously,” Christina said dryly. She would not let this college-age boy affect her or her newfound empowerment. However, as he took off his black helmet, she saw he was much older than she’d thought. Late twenties, perhaps, judging from laugh lines that weren’t showing any amusement at the moment. But if he smiled….

The man shrugged out of his firefighter’s coat. Underneath he was wearing a long-sleeved navy Morrisville Fire Department T-shirt. Suspenders held up his black firefighter pants. The man’s muscular build indicated he was a strong believer in physical fitness. Bodies were something Christina noticed—especially after having been married to a professional football player whose body was his life. The man in front of her wasn’t bulky enough to play pro football, but the hard, lean lines of his physique communicated innate strength.

The helmet had flattened the firefighter’s dark-brown hair. Now he tousled the strands with his free hand. “We’ll use fans to air out the gym and cafeteria and clear away any residual smoke. That’s about all we can do. You’ll need to clean the rest up yourselves,” he said.

“We will,” Christina promised.

He shook his head, obviously still disgusted by her foolish mistake. He moved aside as a member of his crew carried in a huge steel fan and proceeded to set it up on the floor by the gym exit door. “You’ll also need to leave the outside doors open. Luckily for you, it’s unseasonably warm tonight. It won’t get too cold in here.”

“Yes,” Christina said. She glanced down as a small hand tugged on hers.

“We want to see the fire truck,” Bella said hopefully, speaking for her friends. “Please, Mama?”

Christina shot the firefighter an apologetic look. Children, she tried to tell him. “Honey, he’s busy, and you should not be in here.”

“I’m never too busy for a group of kids,” the firefighter said, surprising Christina. He finally cracked a smile, one so endearing she suddenly wished he could have directed it at her, too, instead of only at Bella. “Come on, now that all you little girls have got us out here, you must see the fire truck.”

“Do you live at the firehouse?” Bella asked as she followed him, her long black cat tail swishing behind her.

“Nope,” the man said as the Brownie troop gathered around him. “We’re all volunteers. We come from our homes whenever we get the call that someone needs us.”

“The smoke machine set off the alarm,” announced Megan, the girl who had become Bella’s best friend.

“And that’s why we’re here,” he said with another large smile. “Now, walk around this big fan—careful now—and you can all see the fire truck.”

The firefighter’s grin widened, revealing straight white teeth. It was a Dennis Quaid smile, Christina decided, like in The Parent Trap or The Rookie. She’d watched both films recently with Bella. The grin, complete with dimples, covered the firefighter’s entire face. A lifetime ago he might have been her type, she thought wistfully.

The Brownie troop dutifully followed him outside, past the circular fan. Careful not to bump into it herself, Christina hovered at the door as several firefighters began to show the girls the equipment on the fire truck.

“Well, that’ll keep them occupied for a bit,” Mrs. Sims commented as she approached.

“Yes,” Christina said, her gaze never leaving the scene in the parking lot. “Even though it appears everything’s okay, I should probably go out there and supervise.”

“That sounds wise. I’ll get the crafts set up. The girls are pretty much finished eating. At least one thing will go right tonight. I don’t know what Lula was thinking. A smoke machine.”

“What a fiasco,” Christina agreed.

“Mistakes happen to the best of us. Don’t worry, Christina, those guys get called out of their homes all the time and at all hours. They know it when they sign up to volunteer.”

“Volunteer?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Sims’s brow creased for only a second. “I forgot that you’re not from here. Morrisville’s fire department is an all-volunteer force. No one’s paid. Even Batesville’s fire department is entirely volunteer, and Batesville is a much larger town that’s home to a Fortune 1000 company.”

Christina winced. She hadn’t realized that volunteer fire departments still existed. Actually, up until two weeks ago, she hadn’t realized quaint little rural communities like Morrisville, population 4,231, still existed. When she’d first interviewed with the law firm of Lancaster and Morris, she’d received a tour of the place, but it had lasted all of ten minutes—the time it took to drive from the Highway 74 exit, through the town square, to the farms on the other side of town.

“Most people around here who aren’t farmers work ten miles away in Batesville at one of the Hillenbrand Industries,” Reginald Morris, the senior partner, had told Christina during the tour. “There are several other smaller manufacturing companies in the area, but none with a large output. We’re hiring you for the case against the Morrisville Garment Company, a small company located just on the outskirts of our town. A Title VII class-action suit is being brought on behalf of a group of Hispanic women, mostly of Mexican descent. One priority for our success in this harassment case is having a partner who can speak Spanish and relate to our clients.”

“That’s a task I’m ready for,” Christina had replied. As a Hispanic female herself, she was drawn by the opportunity to help those women. They belonged to the same ethnic group as Christina, but they had never had any of the chances Christina had had. She felt compelled to help.

Of course, being an hour’s drive west of her philandering ex-husband Kyle in the city that revered him as a football god was also a bonus to landing the job. Bella could see her father, and Christina could meet the court-imposed distance restriction.

She’d been in Morrisville two weeks now, and had used the time to rent a house, enroll Bella in school and get herself involved with some of Bella’s classmates’ parents, before starting work on Monday, November first.

When she’d been asked to help with the Brownie-troop function, she’d jumped at the chance. And had made an absolute mess of things.

She approached the fire truck, and caught an ongoing conversation.

“He’s so hunky,” one of the little girls was whispering to a friend as the fire ladder lifted skyward. “My mom’s always wanting a new man. Says my daddy sleeps too much.”

“Mr. Hunk,” some other little girl agreed, latching on to the nickname.

With a smile to die for and a body to match, the man was compelling. Mr. Hunk. Christina could definitely agree with that assessment of the sexy firefighter.

Then again, Kyle had been a hunk, and look where that had landed her. Just because a man was as handsome as a prince didn’t make him one. These days a woman was better off if she was selective. Thankfully, Bella hadn’t overheard the girls’ conversation regarding the fireman. Christina had no desire to explain what a hunk was.

“Come on, girls, let’s do our crafts,” Mrs. Sims called from the cafeteria doorway.

“Coming,” Bella called.

“I’m going to go check the gym again,” one of the firefighters said. He followed the girls back inside.

Christina turned to the firefighter who had spoken to her earlier. Mr. Hunk. Although the moniker fit, she really had to purge how attractive he was from her mind. Finding a new man was not a priority. Establishing her career and raising her daughter away from the glitz of Cincinnati was. “Thank you for your patience.”

The firefighter shrugged, the high-wattage smile bestowed on the Brownies dimming fast. “It’s all part of the job.”

“Yes, but it isn’t actually your job. You volunteer.”

His blue eyes narrowed. “Exactly. I volunteer to do this job. We choose to do it because we help the community. This has been one of my easier calls.”

“You’re not disappointed when there’s no fire?” Christina pressed, oddly finding herself wanting to understand what made a man like him tick.

His crossed his arms. “In a way I am. Once the adrenaline high wears off, though, believe me, we don’t mind false alarms at all.”

“But you dropped whatever you were doing, and on a Friday night.”

“Yeah, well, that comes with the territory.” He paused as one of his partners passed by with the big fan. “Seems like the place is all aired out. Duty calls to help load up. Excuse me.”

Christina stood there for a moment. He deliberately ignored her presence and walked off, entering the school to retrieve the other equipment.

She laced her arms across her bare midriff and followed at a safe distance. Perhaps she was being too intense, too serious. She’d been so driven her whole life to prove herself—to her family, to Kyle. Perhaps she should just take things at face value. Maybe the firefighter meant exactly what he’d said. This was Morrisville, Indiana, and she was a fish learning to live in new waters.

And just because Mr. Hunk was the first man who’d aroused her interest in years—that meant nothing. Even if he found her appealing, she wasn’t ready to date again.

She reentered the cafeteria, and within moments the last of the firefighters had left the school. Soon the fire truck pulled away, taking Mr. Hunk with it. Thank goodness she’d never see him again, Christina thought. She could bury the bad memory of this night forever.

BRUCE LANCASTER TOSSED his firefighter gear on the coatrack and hooked his black helmet over a peg. He stepped through the laundry room and into the kitchen of his small three-bedroom ranch. He’d dropped everything the moment the fire call had come through, and the TV still blared the ESPN sporting event he’d been watching. His plateful of chicken strips was gone, his dinner now in the stomach of the very sleepy and contented cat sleeping innocently near the heat register.

Bruce set the bag of just-purchased fast food on the kitchen table. Wise men with chicken-loving felines knew how to make stops at drive-through restaurants on their way home from firefighting gigs.

Bruce sighed and snagged a French fry, the rustling of the bag waking the cat. Boris, more interested in food than sleep, had come to investigate the smells and was sniffing the sack. Bruce finished one more fry and put the bag in the microwave for safekeeping. After every firefighting run he always wanted a shower before he ate, and tonight was no exception, even though the fire had been a false alarm. He was making his way to the bathroom when the phone rang. He glanced at the Caller ID and picked the phone up. “Hi, Granddad.”

“Hi, Bruce. I didn’t have a chance to touch base with you this afternoon. Welcome back. You ready for Monday morning’s meeting?”

“Yes. I’ve got some files here at home and I’ll be making final notations over the weekend.”

“Great. I told your father not to take that three-month cruise with your mother. Not that I haven’t always liked her, mind you, but this is a crucial time for the firm. We would never have hired some outsider as a full partner while I was at the helm, that’s for sure, especially at the expense of a family member. You should have been named to that spot this year. Or two senior partnerships should have been offered. It’s an insult that they weren’t, and I’m in a mind to go talk to Reginald Morris again. He’s certainly not like his father. No family values whatsoever. I’m sure your father knew nothing about it. If he did, I’d have to disinherit him. Just who is this upstart Chris Jones, anyway? Heard he went to Harvard. Probably an upper-crust New Englander who speaks six languages.”

Tired, tonight Bruce didn’t smile the way he normally did at one of his grandfather’s legendary tirades. At seventy, Roy Lancaster had once argued a case successfully in front of the United States Supreme Court and received the majority opinion in his favor. Roy’s father had founded the firm, but Roy had been the one to build Lancaster and Morris into the reputable and respected law firm it was today.

“I’m not certain who Chris Jones is,” Bruce said slowly. He really didn’t have any idea. “I’ve been in Indianapolis for the past four weeks, finishing up the Benedict appeal. Since I returned only two days ago, I still haven’t met the guy. Heck, I’ve barely been in the office. The case requires someone who speaks Spanish, and I’m sure we’ll get along fine.”

“Always the politically correct one, aren’t you? In my day everyone learned English,” his grandfather scoffed. “None of this multicultural and bilingual fluff.”

“And I’m sure our plaintiffs will learn English, as well. They are legal immigrants, Granddad. It just may take them a while. Their rights have been violated, English or none.” Bruce raked a hand through his hair. He hated that his fire helmet made his hair stick to his head. “Can we talk later? I just got back from a fire call. I’m off to the shower.”

“Ah, firefighting. How I miss it,” his grandfather said wistfully, even though he hadn’t fought a fire in at least forty-five years. “Was it a big one? I didn’t hear anything on my police scanner.”

“No, just a smoke machine that set off the alarms at the elementary school.”

“Ah.” His grandfather sounded disappointed for a second. “So, will I see you at the club this weekend? Golf season’s just about over. This is probably the last nice weekend we’ll have. The grass gets really brown in November, and it becomes way too cold for golf.”

“I’m not planning on playing.”

His grandfather chuckled. “I see. A woman. Well, I’d better let you go.”

“Yeah.” Bruce let the fib stand and, after saying goodbye, dropped the cordless phone on his king-size bed. He’d been without a woman for a couple of months now, and celibate for longer than that. Maybe he was losing his touch, but the appeals case he’d just worked on had meant long hours and little free time to date. And he’d never been the one-night-stand type.

Now that the case was in the hands of the federal judges, Bruce hoped he’d have some leisure hours to scope out some new female companions. After all, the firm had hired Chris Jones as a full, senior partner. He could do the work.

Bruce backed into the hot shower spray and leaned forward so that the water cascaded over his neck and back. Who knew how much longer he’d be able to stay on Morrisville’s volunteer force. While Bruce would have loved to be a paid firefighter on some department in a larger city, it wasn’t what Lancaster boys did.

For multiple generations they’d been lawyers. Heck, one of his great-great-great-grandfathers had worked in Congress with Abraham Lincoln. The family accepted Bruce’s volunteer firefighting only because the Morrisville citizenry considered it an honor, a duty and a matter of civic pride. The fact that Bruce’s grandfather had once served in the fire department had also helped convince Bruce’s worrying parents that a few more years wouldn’t hurt. After losing one child at four months, his parents refused to lose another.

All in all, Bruce knew that he had a great life. At twenty-nine, he was well into his bachelorhood and enjoying it, much to the dismay of his parents. Morrisville girls married early, and the few women he’d met in Cincinnati didn’t want to move more than an hour west to Podunkville, U.S.A. Heck, the closest Wal-Mart was twenty-seven miles away in Greensburg. Domino’s Pizza didn’t even deliver out here. Bruce liked it that way.

His thoughts drifted to the woman he’d seen at Morrisville Elementary. She wasn’t local; his gut instincts told him that. And her ethnicity wasn’t pure Caucasian. Was she Mexican? The water pounded on his back, and he turned and let it cascade over his chest for a moment before he reached for the soap. Not all Mexicans fit the dark-skinned, dark-haired stereotype.

The surrounding counties had been experiencing an influx of legal immigrants lately, especially those from Mexico. That was why the Title VII case Lancaster and Morris was representing was so important and why Bruce wanted to take it to trial so badly. Those workers deserved the same legal protections that native-born American citizens had. Just because the immigrant women didn’t know the civil rights law didn’t mean that companies like Morrisville Garment could circumvent it.

Winning this case would be a landmark, and he could ride the wave of his success with it for a long time. He agreed it had been important to hire a partner who spoke Spanish and who could better communicate with the victims. He had taken French, which got him only as far as impressing a woman at Chez Jacques in Cincinnati.

But making this person a full partner? Admittedly, it stung Bruce that he hadn’t been named senior partner this year the way everyone, including him, had expected.

Luckily, he’d been in Indianapolis at the time and had avoided the town gossip, which for a week had centered on his being passed over in favor of an outsider. However, winning this case, even under someone else’s leadership, would seal his senior partnership.

Bruce tossed the soap back into the holder, reached for the shampoo and let his mind again remember the woman he’d seen at the elementary school. She’d seemed frazzled by the fire alarm. She’d been beautiful, though. Her brown eyes had been haunting, with a depth to them he hadn’t seen too often before. He’d wanted to smile and reassure her, but had deliberately kept himself aloof and professional.

Unfortunately, she had a child, that cute little girl dressed up for the party as a black cat. A child made whoever the woman was off-limits, despite the absence of a wedding ring on her left hand. No, he liked his women young, single and dependent free. He wanted them to be able to pick up and go on a weekend trip at a moment’s notice—which as a busy lawyer was often all he could afford. That meant no strings. No restrictions. No instant family. Although, when he did marry he wanted a lot of kids. He knew too well what being raised as an overprotected only child was all about. He rinsed his hair and turned off the water.

Besides, even if seeing her didn’t break the parameters he’d set for himself, he was on call this weekend, plus he had to finish the case file so he could discuss it with Chris Jones Monday morning. He had other things to worry about than a woman with a child, no matter how beautiful or intriguing the woman was. Before he had to turn the water on again, this time to cold, he pushed her image from his mind and reached for the towel.

Chapter Two

The insistent ringing Monday morning that invaded her dream of Antonio Banderas sweeping her away wasn’t her alarm clock. Or her cell phone. It was her doorbell.

Christina sat straight up in bed and studied her bedroom. Something was wrong, and it wasn’t the fading of her very pleasant dream. She blinked and attempted to focus. Except for the shrilling doorbell, the noises in the house were normal and the amount of light in her bedroom was the same as it always was at this time of the day.

Except that it wasn’t this time of day. It was an hour earlier. She’d set the clocks back yesterday, after her mother had reminded her during their weekly Sunday-night chat that Daylight Savings Time had ended. The clocks were to “fall back.”

The insistent noise at her front door still hadn’t stopped, and Christina shifted. The clock read 6:30 a.m. Who would be here this early? Bella’s carpool wasn’t due for another hour. Christina drew on her robe and rushed through her house. She peered through the peephole, groaned and pulled the door open. “Marci?”

Marci Smith stepped back a pace and frowned. “Christina? Did you oversleep? Remember, I’m driving today. Is Bella ready?”

Christina’s head pounded. “School’s not for another hour.”

Marci frowned. “What are you talking about? School starts in twenty minutes. Same time as every day. It’s seven-thirty.”

Christina’s eyes widened. “It can’t be. The clocks went back.”

Marci’s jaw dropped. She covered her mouth with her hand. “We don’t set our clocks back. This is Indiana.”

“Oh, my God.” Houston, Boston, Cincinnati—everyone in the United States sets his or her clock back. Right? “You mean I’m an hour behind? I have a meeting at eight-thirty and I’m not even showered? And Bella!”

“You go get Bella. I’ll wait here on the step. Megan’s in the car, watching a DVD. As long as I can see her, she’s fine.”

“Bless you,” Christina said. She turned on her heel and ran. Never had she moved so fast. She had Bella dressed, her teeth brushed and her hair combed in less than six minutes. Since Morrisville Elementary had a fantastic hot-breakfast program, Christina experienced some relief as she passed Bella over to Marci. At least Christina didn’t have to worry about her daughter missing the most important meal of the day.

She herself would miss it, however. She didn’t have time for her normal bagel, black coffee and perusal of the Wall Street Journal. Instead, she rushed about, showering and shaving in under ten minutes and hopping on one foot as she wiggled into her pantyhose and shoes almost at the same time. She applied makeup in record time, as well.

Perhaps it was a good thing that Morrisville was such a small town. She made it to work only five minutes late. Her heels clacked on the marble tile as she entered the old brick building that had housed the law offices of Lancaster and Morris for more than sixty years.

“Christina Jones,” she said when she reached the receptionist’s desk in the middle of the cavernous lobby. “I have a meeting with Reginald Morris.”

“Welcome, Ms. Jones. They’re expecting you. They’re already assembled in the grand conference room. Let me buzz them and tell them you’ve arrived.”

That grand conference room had been the room in which she’d interviewed. It easily seated twenty, and no doubt all the senior partners were already there. Waiting for her?

She hoped not.

“Thank you,” Christina said to the receptionist. The ornate three-story building, complete with a rotunda, was over one hundred years old. With high, arched ceilings and balconies, it had served as a county seat and courthouse before a new building had been erected in another town.

“Someone will be down in just a moment,” the receptionist said. “Feel free to have a seat.” She indicated a waiting area with old ornate chairs.

“I’m fine,” Christina said. She clutched the Hermès briefcase that had been her gift to herself for landing the job. She hadn’t been a shoo-in for the position. She’d competed against four other finalists.

Five minutes later, her feet beginning to throb from standing so long in her new two-inch Italian pumps, Christina turned as she sensed motion to her right.

“Ms. Jones.” Reginald Morris, the fifty-something man with whom she’d done almost all her interviewing, approached, and she gave him a professional smile.

This job was the ticket to her and Bella’s future. This job represented Christina’s finally taking the reins of her own life and becoming the lawyer she’d always wanted to be.

Even though she’d passed the bar, it had been a while since she’d practiced law. She’d graduated Harvard Law School at age twenty-four, after intense years of full-time study. She’d racked up wins in a few impressive cases after law school, been promoted to full junior partner and called an up-and-coming, promising lawyer to watch. Then Kyle Jones had swept into her life and swept her off her feet. He’d insisted that she quit work and stay home once they were married.

She’d become pregnant with Bella, and not once had she regretted those years of “being home” with her child. But she was thirty-four now, and getting a late start. So if Lancaster and Morris had hired her only because they needed a Spanish-speaking female, fine. If they’d made her full partner only because it gave them much-needed diversity, so be it. This job had gotten her foot back in the proverbial door. Working meant being her own independent woman. It was a first step, and she’d take advantage of it. She didn’t know where she’d go from here, but she knew it would be up.

“Mr. Morris. Good morning,” she said.

He gripped her hand and then placed his left hand on top. “Christina, welcome. We are extremely delighted you’re onboard. Your unique talents are going to win this case for our clients and for us. I have a premonition of great things ahead. Let me introduce you to all the senior partners.”

“I apologize that I’m a few minutes late.” Christina had learned that it was always better to be direct.

The corners of his eyes twinkled slightly. “Let me guess. You changed your clocks.”

“Yes,” she admitted.

He chuckled and patted her hand before he let it go. “Everyone who moves to Indiana makes that mistake the first year. Consider it a rite of passage or a bit of Hoosier State training. Of course, the legislature recently passed a law so that in 2006 the whole state will be on one time zone. Details to follow in April. We’re this way.”

“SO, ARE YOU READY to meet your new boss?”

“Lousy timing, Colin,” Bruce said as his best friend peeled himself off the door frame and entered Bruce’s office.

“When’s the meeting?” Colin asked.

Bruce turned his attention back to the mound of papers on his desk. Even though his paralegal had faxed or couriered everything important to Indianapolis each day, the paperwork had multiplied while he’d been gone. “The big powwow started already. I’m not welcome until nine.”

Colin winced. “Oh. That sucks. Even though you have to work with your new boss, you don’t get to greet this person until later. Man, that’s not fair. You should have been named a partner this year. Now me—I know I’ve got a way to go. I barely passed the bar, much to my father’s disappointment. He claimed my grandfather was probably rolling in his grave.”

“Bar scores are irrelevant. You passed. Besides, it’s not like you had to worry about finding a job. You’re a Morris and you were coming to work here.”

“Exactly. And you’re a fourth-generation Lancaster lawyer who scored the highest possible on the state bar that year and who has won some pretty impressive cases already. Your grandfather loves you. Your greatgrandfather would if he were around. Heck, even my dad loves you, which is why I don’t understand his decision. You should have been named full partner, also. To be passed over by someone outside just so the firm can claim diversity…well, I see it as an affront. And by a babe, too.”

“Babe?” The word caught Bruce’s attention. He put aside his legal brief and swiveled as Colin closed the office door. Bruce had to admit he hadn’t really been listening. When Colin got on a roll, he could be as long-winded as Bruce’s grandfather Roy. Bruce had learned to tune both men out.

“What do you mean, babe?” Bruce asked. “Some babe shot you down? You never lose out with women.”

“Top of the bar exam, but still, as always, a lousy listener. You’d think as your best friend I’d be used to it by now. I even notice things like your shirts, which by the way your new tailor did a great job on. So tell me, how did we survive rooming together all those years in college? Anyway, I’m not talking about my women, though later I’ll have to tell you about Gina.”

Bruce arched his brow. “Gina?”

“Gina,” Colin accented the capital letter G and made the shape of a woman’s curves with his hands. “She even taught this dog some new tricks.”

Bruce waved his own hand dismissively. He and Colin had always been confidants—sharing secrets and drowning sorrows when needed. “Okay, Gina later. If you weren’t talking about her earlier, then who?”

“Oh, yeah, the new babe. Our new partner. Christina.”

“Christina?” Bruce frowned as disquiet stole over him.

“Yeah, Christina Jones. Kyle Jones’s ex-wife. You know, the Cincinnati Bengals’ tight end?”

“She’s our new partner? Chris Jones is a female?” Bruce’s grandfather had had it all wrong. Bruce instantly knew that had been deliberate. Reginald Morris wasn’t a fool.

“Boy, you have been out of the loop up in Indy, haven’t you?” Colin checked to make sure no one could overhear him. “She’s one hot mama, if you get my drift. You know how I am with women. I’ve got to behave myself or I’ll end up being part of that sexual harassment suit you both will be working on.”

Colin attracted women like a magnet, but Bruce didn’t care about that. Bruce had worked on cases with females before, and all had been totally professional. If his new boss were Miss America, it wouldn’t matter.

But the fact that the senior partners had hired a female as full partner, instead of him, stung once again. However, he’d rise above this blow to his damaged male ego.

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said,” Colin chastised.

“Uh, no,” Bruce admitted. “I’m rather tired. I had a late call. Kitchen fire. A fry pan gone wild.”

Colin rolled his eyes. Unlike Bruce, he’d avoided volunteering. “Lovely. How about we meet for a cocktail tonight at the country club. Say about five? I’ll be over at the Ripley County Courthouse all day, doing closing arguments for the Watson case.”

“That’s fine. I’ll call you if anything changes.”

“Or if you need resuscitation after you see your new boss,” Colin said. And with that he opened Bruce’s office door. “Oh. Hey, Angela.”

“Hey, Colin,” Bruce’s paralegal said as she stepped her very pregnant body by Colin and into Bruce’s office. “Bruce, they just phoned. They’d like you in the conference room now.”

Bruce glanced at his Rolex watch, a law-school graduation gift from his father. It was only eight-fifty. “Early.”

“Maybe that’s a good sign,” Colin said with a nonchalant shrug.

“Maybe,” Bruce said. He took one last sip of coffee, stood up and grabbed a breath mint. He popped the candy into his mouth and slipped into his suit jacket as the mint dissolved. “We’ll see.”

“I have to get the name of your tailor,” Colin said, again eyeing the cut of Bruce’s suit. “That is a great suit. Would work wonders on the ladies.”

Bruce flicked a piece of lint off the subtle blue pinstripe. “Salvatore Bandoria in Indianapolis. He and his wife are both seventy and all they do is make custom suits and dress shirts the old-fashioned way, as they did in Italy. They don’t advertise. Remind me later to give you the phone number.”

“I will,” Colin said. “Good luck.”

Those words brought back the reality of the situation, and Bruce shook his head as he walked past his paralegal and his best friend. “Thanks, but hopefully I won’t require any.”

“Yeah, right,” Colin said with a wry grin. “You’re off to that frying pan. You of all people should know firsthand exactly how much damage frying pans can do.”

The fire late last night had scorched the entire wall of the kitchen, ruining the stove and several custom cabinets. But it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Deliberately not answering Colin, Bruce headed for the stairs. After all, how hard could a woman be?

“HE’S ON HIS WAY,” Reginald Morris announced. He smiled at Christina. “More coffee before you jump in and get your feet wet?”

“Please,” she said, and held out her cup. Unlike wine from Kyle, who had plied her with too much, coffee from Reginald Morris couldn’t hurt.

Besides, by acknowledging the truth of why she’d been hired, she’d prepared for the worst.

There was one other female partner, Susan Jenkins. She handled trusts and estates, and at fifty-seven, she’d been with Lancaster and Morris for almost thirty years. Reginald Morris handled corporate law, as did three of the other senior partners, including Reginald’s brother, Larry. There were ten senior partners total, including Christina, and all were present except for Roger Lancaster, who was on an extended trip with his wife and not expected until the week after New Year’s.

Christina accepted another cup of java just as a movement at the door caught her attention. This must be Bruce Lancaster, descendant of one of the firm’s founders. Everyone in the conference room had been raving about him all morning—he’d just done a fantastic job on an appellate case in Indianapolis, which was why she hadn’t met him earlier.

“He’ll be your right hand on this case,” Reginald had told her. “He’s the real reason the women brought their issue to us in the first place. His cleaning lady told him about her friends’ plights, and he insisted they come talk to him, since their complaints were falling on deaf ears at their company. He’s the one who, on their behalf, filed all the violations with the government. But he doesn’t speak a word of Spanish.”

Reginald’s voice suddenly interrupted Christina’s retrospective. “Ah, here he is now, Christina. I’d like you to meet the man you’ll be working closely with, Bruce Lancaster.”

Christina automatically pushed her chair back and stood. The small crowd of people around him parted, letting him come into her field of view.

Her knees weakened and she gripped the edge of the mahogany table for support. “It’s you,” she said, unable to control her reaction as her stomach figuratively dropped to the soles of her Ferragamo shoes when Mr. Hunk, the firefighter who’d seen her at her worst, strode forward and stopped.

“You,” he said, failing to mask the shock crossing his face.

Reginald’s head turned as if he were watching a Ping-Pong match. He smiled uncertainly. “You two know each other?”

This was not the way to start her career return—first by being late and now by acting like a simpleton. “No,” Christina replied.

“Yes,” Bruce contradicted.

“I mean, we’ve met,” Christina said, quickly covering. Damn the man!

“We have,” Bruce said. He smiled widely, that charming Dennis Quaid grin of superiority, of one used to being master of his environment.

With the authority that only a member of a family could take, he patted Reginald once on the back, all while not letting his blue-eyed gaze lift from Christina’s. “Reginald, Christina’s an excellent choice for our firm. Just terrific. Angela’s behind me with all the paperwork, so how about I bring her up to speed? Christina—may I call you Christina? Or did your résumé say Chris? That’s the name I originally heard from my grandfather.”

Christina planted her feet and struggled for mental balance. He had bulldozed her over. A jury would love him. Mr. Hunk was good, very good. “I prefer Christina.”

He held out his hand, and she extended hers. He clasped it firmly, the amount of heat suddenly creating a most unwelcome shock.

“Christina, again let me welcome you to Lancaster and Morris. As I said, my paralegal, Angela, is carrying stacks of papers to the small conference room, which I’ve commandeered for our use for the entire length of the case.”

“Great,” Christina said. He released her hand, which allowed her equilibrium to normalize.

Reginald cleared his throat and took command of the room again. “Well, then, we’ll let you two get to work. After all, time is money. Welcome aboard, Christina. I’m going to leave you in Bruce’s excellent hands. He’s one of the best lawyers we’ve got, and he’ll show you all the ropes.”

“Thank you,” she replied. She had been thrown to the lions.

And then, one by one, all the partners filed out of the conference room, leaving Christina alone with Mr. Hunk.

Now all pleasantness was gone. Bruce Lancaster was the man whose partnership she’d taken.

And both of them knew it.

Chapter Three

“Shall we?” he asked without preamble, demonstrating exactly who controlled the situation. With a wide sweep of his right arm, he gestured toward the double doors.

“Of course,” Christina replied, her voice perfectly schooled into the tone her mother always irritatingly called “lawyerly neutral.”

Christina grabbed her briefcase and clutched it to her side. This man would not affect her, and whatever fight he wanted to pick with her, she would not have it here, in the grand conference room, where anyone walking by could overhear them.

She stepped by him, taking little satisfaction that his nose wrinkled as her signature floral scent reached his nostrils. She paused just outside the doors, willing herself to remain poised and nonchalant. She had no idea where the small conference room was located.

“Need directions?” he drawled behind her.

She arched an eyebrow, and smirked. “You mean you know them?”

“Touché. Quick on her feet, with a bite to match the bark. Please, though, ladies first. The space we’ve been allocated is on the right, about three doors down.”

Christina drew her shoulders up and strode down the hallway. Luckily, there weren’t any curious faces to pass, and within seconds she’d entered the twenty-by-twenty-foot room. An early twenty-something woman whom Christina assumed to be Angela stood up. Her stomach protruded.

“Hi,” Christina said. She held out her hand. “I’m Christina Jones. You must be Angela. Congratulations on expecting.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ll be working with me on the case?” Christina asked.

“Only for the duration of it,” Bruce told her smoothly. “I’m sure you’ll have your own paralegal at some point. Make sure Reginald hires you one.”

Making it very clear that although Christina may have taken his promotion, she wasn’t getting his office staff, as well.

Angela’s gaze darted between the two of them, as if she was trying to decide what the best course of action was. “I’ll be here until Christmas, and then I’m on maternity leave for at least three months,” she said. Her face broke into a wide smile. “She’s my first.”

“I have a little girl,” Christina said, trying to find some common ground. “Bella’s eight.”

“Well,” Bruce said with an obvious cough before Angela could answer, “that’s all very nice, but we have work to do.”

“I’ve got all your files stacked and your messages are right there. Do either of you need anything else?” Angela asked.

“No, thanks,” Bruce said. “Just close the door behind you.”

“Will do. Nice to meet you, Ms. Jones.”

After Angela left, Christina faced Bruce.

“What?” he asked.

“You know, I’m surprised you didn’t have her branded before she arrived. Tell you what, Bruce. Why don’t you get all your anger off your chest early. Your paralegal, your partnership. Both now mine. Perhaps you should admit you’re upset. If we clear the air, it might help us work together. After all, as you pointed out, we have a job to do.”

“Do you have a degree in psychology, too?” He didn’t wait for her to shake her head. “I didn’t think so.”

In a movement of control, Bruce sat down at the table. Christina remained standing. “Let’s get a few things straight. I’m a Lancaster. I’m the founder’s direct descendant. Roy Lancaster is my grandfather. Remember the Supreme Court case Wedlock v. Storm? He argued that one, and only one judge dissented. I descend from multiple generations of legal stock. I was top of my class and got the highest score on the bar that year. I could have worked anywhere.”

She jutted her chin. “Your point is?”

The right corner of his mouth twitched. “Tell me, why should I be upset about waiting another year for a partnership? I’ll be old and gray and this will still be my firm, my heritage. It will belong to my children, my sons and daughters. So don’t try to use your pseudo-psychology on me. I’m not angry about the partnership. You couldn’t be more wrong.”

He paused for a few seconds, and Christina knew the litigator inside him wasn’t finished. He’d only just begun.

And as much as she didn’t relish the conflict, she found it slightly invigorating. She could already tell that he had a razor-sharp mind. He was quick on his feet, a man in control. He was self-assured, even when dealt a blow. She had to admit this man intrigued and stirred something inside her.

“Hmm,” he finally said, “let’s see how clever you really are and if we can do what you suggested and clear the air enough so that we can work together. How about you start by telling me what I have to work with. Since I was in Indianapolis, I missed your interview with Reginald. You only interviewed with him, correct?”

“Yes, once past the initial screening.”

“That’s what I thought. Your hiring went quickly. How many cases have you won lately?”

“That’s on my résumé. I’m sure you could ask to see it. Or tomorrow I’ll provide you a copy. I was a junior partner fast-tracked for a senior role at my last firm.”

“So you feel you’re qualified to work here?”

“Of course. There were other finalists and Reginald Morris thought I was the best. I did graduate Harvard top of my class. I did not just go there for an MRS degree.” She paused only briefly. “I also have impeccable references.”

He rolled his eyes. “Ah, stop avoiding the question. That’s not what I asked. I asked how many cases you’d won lately. Do me a favor and be frank. I can at least respect honesty. Now you might understand why I’m truly upset. It’s been eight years since you’ve last practiced. This is my case. I brought it in. I’m going to win it. While you might have had an impressive record years ago, your major qualification is that you speak Spanish.”

“We—”

“Don’t interrupt unless you have good reason to object. It’s impolite and frowned on, especially in court. Let me simply sum up. You are here to be the female attorney the women can relate to, and to play interpreter. That’s not any type of sexual harassment, either, just role definition and job description. You haven’t had trial experience in years, and I’m not going to let you waltz in here and start over with a case as important and groundbreaking as this one. You’re an outsider here, and that can be as grating as nails on a chalkboard.”

“I’m—”

He ignored her interruption. “None of these women will know what Harvard is, much less know where it is. Most of them didn’t even finish grade school. They won’t wear designer shoes. They can’t even afford the clothes that they make, even though they slave over each and every stitch. This is rural Indiana, not some big city. It’s not an area that’s culturally assimilated, or that has resources that celebrate ethnic heritage. You may be the same ethnicity as they are, but you are so far above them socially and economically that you might as well be one hundred percent white.”

“Are you done?” Christina asked, her posture rigid.

“No, I’m not.” Bruce swallowed, drawing his cheeks tight. “This is not playtime. It’s not some genie costume, set off a smoke machine and everything will still be okay. Harassment is real for these women, and any misstep might cost us this case, and their futures, dearly. That I will not allow.”

Christina froze her face into neutral and resisted the urge to clench her hands into fists and beat Bruce Lancaster into a pulp as she once had her cousin during a visit to Mexico City. She’d beenten. He’d pulled her pigtails.

Bruce Lancaster had done much worse. He’d insulted her integrity. He’d judged her incompetent based on a series of events beyond her control. He’d also belittled her—almost, but not quite, as much as Kyle.

Bruce was a jerk, probably just as bad as the ones they would be fighting. Mr. Hunk might be attractive, but he was not nice.

She took a deep breath and gave herself a much-needed continuance. She and Bruce would finish this conversation later, after she’d proved herself. Then she would rub his nose into every word he’d said. He deserved nothing less.

“Well,” she managed calmly, her face a mask to hide her inner fury. “Now that you’ve finished venting in a misguided attempt to put me in my place, shall we actually begin to work on the case, or shall we continue to simply waste more valuable time?”

He stared at her, blue eyes wary, and she knew she’d caught him off guard.

“You see, Bruce—may I call you Bruce? I might not have a win record as long or impressive as yours, or even have close to your extensive courtroom experience, but that doesn’t make me incompetent. I had an ex who spent years trying to prove that I was, and if he didn’t succeed in convincing me, you won’t, either. You’ve tried and convicted me based on circumstantial evidence and preconceived notions. Let me assure you, I won’t fail.”

“I don’t have time for you to,” he returned, his tone never losing its edge.

“And I won’t.” Christina leveled her brown eyes at him and held his gaze without blinking. Her body hummed with energy. “So why don’t we do what we’ve been hired to do for these women, hmm? Shall you and I declare a much-needed truce, at least until you find some real evidence against me?”

He crossed his arms and studied her. His gaze traveled from her tight chignon, over the designer blue suit and down to her matching heels. “The jury’s still out,” he said flatly.

“Fair enough,” she agreed. For now. Kyle had done enough damage over the years to her self-esteem. Bruce Lancaster had another thing coming if he thought she would simply roll over. She would never do that again, for anyone.

He gestured to a stack of brown expandable folders at one end of the table. “Those files contain the original interview notes. We’ve done no formal depositions at this time.”

Bruce rose, moved a few steps and tapped a different stack of folders. She noticed his tightly clipped and filed nails—guy’s nails that hadn’t been professionally manicured.

“These files contain the violation reports that we’ve filed with the EEOC,” Bruce continued. Christina knew the EEOC was the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, the government agency in charge of overseeing all Title VII violations.

“Over there are the books I’ve pulled that have case history and applicable laws. Precedent is on our side, but with the recent changes in affirmative action legislation, there may be some chiseling at the sexual harassment laws, as well. Some of the women’s cases are much stronger than others. We’ve already filed EEOC complaints on all of them, and submitted a demand letter to the company. If the company meets our demands, we’ll settle. But if not, once the EEOC allows us to, we’re filing in federal court for multiple violations of Title VII. Where do you want to start?”

“The beginning,” Christina said, regaining some calm now that he was being reasonable. “That’s usually the best place. Take me in chronological order.”

“Okay.” Bruce nodded and returned to his seat. She followed suit and sat herself opposite him.

They were still sitting there, engrossed in work, four hours later when Angela knocked on the door and opened it. So caught up in the case, Christina hadn’t even realized that the time had passed.

“I brought you both some lunch,” Angela said.

“Thanks,” Bruce replied easily, his demeanor relaxed, as if his working straight through the morning and lunch without a break was commonplace.

“I hope turkey sandwiches are okay,” Angela said as she handed Bruce the deli bag.

“Perfect,” Bruce said.

“They’re fine,” Christina agreed with a nod. Ever since she’d been pregnant with Bella, sliced turkey had held little appeal, mostly she ate vegan. But today she’d force herself to eat whatever sandwiches were in the bag. Her stomach growled. After all, it was after one.

Angela passed Christina the sack. “I bought two kinds of potato chips. Bruce likes sour cream and onion, but I got you plain, Ms. Jones.”

“Christina,” she corrected. “Plain chips are fine. Thank you for getting lunch.”

Angela smiled. “Oh, it’s no problem. I know how driven Bruce is. He wouldn’t eat at all if I didn’t force-feed him. Besides, I had an excuse to get a chicken salad sandwich from Kim’s Deli. Ever since I’ve been pregnant, I’ve craved her chicken salad.”

Angela paused. “So, do you require anything else? The small fridge on the floor over there is stocked with water and pop.”

Christina wished she’d known that earlier. Her throat was parched, and some soda would do her good. Having been raised in Houston, where everyone called the fizzy beverage “soda,” Christina still hadn’t gotten used to calling it “pop” the way these Indiana Midwesterners did.

“I think we’re fine,” Bruce said. His expression dared Christina to contradict him.

“I’m good,” she said. She pushed her chair back a little. “If you’d excuse me for a moment, though.”

“The women’s washroom is this way,” Angela offered, as if reading Christina’s mind. She held open the door, and Christina followed her out. Time to find more common ground and make some connection with Angela. If not, it would be long case.

“My feet are already tired. Is there a masseuse in there?”

“I wish,” Angela said, taking the bait and talking. “I’ve gained two shoe sizes. My husband has the nightly chore of rubbing my feet. He hates it, but it’s heaven for me.”

“You’re lucky to have a husband like that.” Kyle hadn’t done a thing except complain that when pregnant, she’d appeared as if she had a basketball wedged under her clothes.

“Oh, my Bryan is such a sweetheart,” Angela confirmed. “We got married two years ago and it still seems like a honeymoon.” Angela paused at the bathroom door. “You seem really nice, Christina. Don’t let Bruce get you down. He’s a slave driver, but that’s only because he’s so good at his job. He can’t do anything less than one hundred and ten percent. It’s not in his nature.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m fine,” Christina insisted.

Angela bought the white lie, for she said, “Perfect. He’s a great boss. He really knows his stuff. Scored the highest on the bar, as I’m sure you’ve heard. And whatever you do, don’t believe any of his so-called Casanova reputation. All made up by angry Morrisville women who can’t land him. He’s too married to his work. Anyway, call me if you have any more questions.”

“I will,” Christina said as she pushed the door open and stepped inside the women’s washroom. After finishing her business and washing her hands, she took a long moment to study herself in the mirror. Tendrils of wheat-colored hair had come loose, and she pinned them back up. Her brown eyes were puffy, the result of her thinking she’d get an extra hour of sleep during “fall back.” Thank goodness for Angela bringing food. When Christina had fled the house that morning, she hadn’t given a thought to lunch. Tomorrow she’d pack one.

She headed back to the small conference room. Bruce was on the phone, the remains of his sandwich lying on the restaurant wrapper. Next to it sat a twenty-ounce bottle of cola, half-full.

“Go research the dissenting opinion on Martin v. Blatt. The judges locked two-one on it, and the uproar was so strong that the legislature went and voted in a law claiming that justice wasn’t served. I think you’ll find what you’re wanting for your closing arguments there. The minute I hang up, I’ll put Jessica on it and have her fax you the documents.”

Bruce gestured toward Christina’s unopened food as he listened to the caller. Eat, he mouthed before speaking into the phone again. “No, I wouldn’t even open that can of worms. You don’t want the jury off track from the main case. Always hammer your point, and reiterate that justice should be served.” He paused. “Yeah. See you at five.”

He hung up the phone and stared for a moment at Christina. “Get some pop.”

He then pressed a button on the phone. “Jessica, Bruce. Dig up the dissenting opinion on Martin v. Blatt and get it over to Colin at Ripley, ASAP. Yeah. It’s that important. No, I’m not going over there myself today. Just put a move on it. As if the deadline was yesterday. Colin is counting on you.”

He ended the speakerphone call and raised his eyes to observe that Christina was still standing. “What? Do I have food on my face?”

“No.”

“I work through lunch,” Bruce offered as explanation. “Always have. It’s more efficient than taking five minutes to go outside and stare at the birds. Too cold for that, anyway, now that the front moved through last night.”

Christina walked over to the refrigerator and withdrew a 7-Up. Although she could use the caffeine, there was no Mountain Dew and she didn’t like colas.

“That was Colin Morris,” Bruce said, unexpectedly explaining the phone call. “You’ll meet him at some point, I’m sure. He’s a junior partner like me. He’s also Reginald’s son.”

“He needed help on a case?”

“Surprises are never desired in closing arguments, and the opposing counsel just landed a whopper. But Colin will rebound. He always does.”

“And you just popped the answer right off the top of your head.”

“Yeah.” Bruce let the words, “I’m that good a lawyer” remain unspoken, but Christina heard them and was begrudgingly impressed. “I have a photographic memory and I’m good at trivia. One of these days I’d like to go on Jeopardy”

“I don’t watch much television.” She didn’t. Bella had discovered the cartoon channels. When she was married, Kyle had had a VHS-DVD-CD player and a plasma TV in every room. Christina had little use for more than one TV and a DVD player.

“So, where were we?” Bruce asked as she unscrewed the cap and put the soda bottle to her lips.

“I’d like a few minutes to eat in peace,” Christina said. “Unlike you, I deliberately avoid working through lunch. That way I can have some time to clear my mind. I’d go find my office, but that would take too much time.”

“They really did just throw you into the job feet first, didn’t they? Fine. Eat.” Bruce tapped his fingers on the table.

“Stop that,” Christina said automatically, and unwrapped her sandwich. Bruce’s fingers stilled.

“Thank you,” Christina said. “That’s better.” She took off the top slice of sourdough bread. Sliced turkey, some white cheese that might be Swiss, tomatoes, lettuce, mayonnaise and black olives were underneath. Christina pulled some plastic tableware from the bag, removed the knife from the protective wrapper and began scraping the olives off the six-inch sandwich.

“That seems like a waste,” Bruce observed, his lips puckering.

“I don’t eat olives,” she informed him simply. “Of any kind.”

He shrugged. “Just make sure Angela knows what you like and she’ll get it for you.”

“I’ll bring my lunch from now on,” she said as she finished scraping.

“You have a food account,” Bruce replied with a backward roll of his shoulders. “All the partners have an allowance, including the junior ones. It’s there for times like today, or for when you entertain clients. Did they forget to tell you that, too?”

“It probably slipped my mind since I’m not entertaining at this moment,” Christina said. Lovely. Now she probably appeared even more incompetent, making Bruce Lancaster feel even more superior. “I just prefer to bring my own food. I’ll only be able to eat half of this.”

She should remove the cheese, as well, but the cheese would drown out the flavor of the turkey. Pregnancy sure had changed her taste buds as well as her figure. She’d needed a nutritionist, a personal trainer and ten months of hard work to get back to her prepregnancy shape. By that time Kyle had had two road affairs, both with cocktail waitresses he’d picked up.

Christina had managed her weight with diet and exercise ever since, although now maintaining her weight was more of a healthy choice, and not anything that had to do with pleasing Kyle.

She returned the bread to the top of the sandwich and cut the sandwich into halves. She pushed one half aside. Then she saw Bruce’s expression. “Are you still hungry? You can have the rest. Seriously.”

“If you don’t want it,” he said. His arm snaked forward and he retrieved the sandwich. “Angela usually gets me a foot-long, but maybe today she was trying to keep everything the same.”

Christina opened the bag of chips. It had been forever since she’d indulged and they were like forbidden fruit—too tempting. She’d only have a few. “She remembered your flavor of potato chips.”

“To forget that is sacrilege,” Bruce informed her as the conference room phone began to ring. He lifted the receiver. “Bruce Lancaster.” His face darkened as he listened. “No, it’s good you interrupted me. Tell her I’ll be right there. She has to go in to work today. She cannot stay off the job. That will allow them to legitimately fire her. Tell her that she’ll be safer today than ever before.”

He put the phone down and stood, his portion of her sandwich remaining untouched. “We’ve got a crisis. Can you eat that on the way? Or I can buy you a hamburger on the way back? That is, if you’re coming with me.”

Her decision was instantaneous, even though she had no clue what he was talking about. “Of course I am.” She rose to her feet. “What’s happening?”

“One of our plaintiffs is refusing to go to work today. She missed two days last week, and if she misses today without a doctor’s excuse, the company will have legitimate reason to fire her.”

“We’re taking her to the doctor?” Christina asked.

Bruce was already halfway down the hall. “No. We’re taking her to work.”

Chapter Four

Fifteen minutes later Christina understood what Bruce meant by her being an outsider. Not that it made his earlier comments about her competence less offensive or any less grating. He’d been right about one thing, though: this was a world she’d seen on TV, never in person. Even in Mexico City, her extended family lived behind walls in an affluent part of town, in luxury, with hired help. She had heard about those who lived in poverty and competed for handouts, but had never seen it for herself.

Here in Indiana, the words ghetto or slum didn’t come close to describing the three single-story rundown motel buildings that sat crumbling next to a barren parking lot. Two rusted-out cars languished next to overflowing garbage Dumpsters. The parking lot was a crisscross of cracks filled with brown weeds. A rusted swing set moved slightly in the breeze, and the chain-link fence surrounding what had once been an in-ground pool had fallen in places. This place was a land that time forgot.

“Oh, my God,” Christina whispered as Bruce’s Ford 350 diesel pickup truck pulled up next to one of the buildings. Yellowed curtains that had decades ago probably been crisp white moved in several of the windows as the curious tenants peeked out, then scurried away.

“Put an interstate through and it’s amazing what happens to places off the beaten path. This whole place ought to be condemned. But that’s another lawsuit for another time. Earning just minimum wage, these people can only afford this lovely oasis.”

“And they’re all legal immigrants with work visas?” Christina asked, still not quite believing what she saw. The day was cloudy and overcast, giving the whole area a cheap, B-horror-movie feel.

“All the women in the lawsuit are legal immigrants. That was one law that the Morrisville Garment Company didn’t violate. The migrant farm workers, who are mostly illegal, have already vanished for the season. This motel flourishes in the summer, with up to ten people in a room. No one but the churches pay much attention.”

“It’s a hellhole,” Christina said, stepping her Italian shoes around a crusty pile of dog feces. A gust of dry wind sent dirt particles flying. Any grass had long browned.

“You’ll learn to dress down except for court appearances. Professional, yet not flashy. The Average Joe does most of his clothes shopping at Wal-Mart in Greensburg.”

“You’re in a suit,” she pointed out, seeking clarification. Her last employer, then Kyle, had always insisted she dress to the nines. Even her maternity wear had been expensive designer creations.

“Yeah, but only because I had that meeting with the partners. These people immediately think of the immigration service when they see people in suits.”

Bruce walked up to one of the doors and knocked on the peeling paint. The number seven hung upside down by one nail and bounced erratically.

“María,” he called. “María Gonzales. Me llamo Bruce Lancaster. Open the door. I must talk to you. Clara sent me.”

The woman inside answered with rapid Spanish, but she still didn’t open the door. Bruce knocked again. “¡María, por favor!”

“Let me try,” Christina said. Already several doors had opened and heads had popped out, only to quickly disappear like in a Whack-a-Mole carnival game. “¡María! Soy Christina Jones, la social de Bruce. Por favor abra la puerta. Le necesitamos hablar. Es muy importante.”

“What did you say?” Bruce asked.

“I told her I’m your partner and I asked her to open the door. It’s important.”

“Oh.” He appeared impressed, maybe stunned. But Christina had little time for satisfaction in her small victory as the worn door opened a crack and landed against the crash bar.

A woman peered out and launched a tirade in Spanish. Christina translated. “She says that the boss still tries to keep her on the line too long and that the ladies’ toilets are broken and she cannot use the men’s room in her area. He also leers at her and grabs his crotch.”

“McAllister,” Bruce said, knowing instantly whom María meant. “He’s the worst. He’s Donald Gray’s nephew, which is probably the only reason no one’s fired him yet. I’m going to phone OSHA about the broken fixtures.”

“One more federal agency being involved can’t hurt our case,” Christina said. It was probably wise to call the Occupational Safety and Health Administration at this point.

“Rumor has it that they’ve been waiting for any excuse to get into the factory and snoop around for violations,” Bruce said. “Maybe clogged toilets will do it. While I call, you must convince her that she has to go to work. She cannot give them a reason to fire her. Tell her that will let the bad guys get away with what they did. Say something. She must go to work today. She’s already late.”

“She said that she doesn’t have time on her break to use the facilities in the other areas,” Christina said. “She says she’s getting a bladder infection.”

“Oh, wonderful. Tell her the law provides even nonunion factory employees with a bathroom break. If the toilets don’t function in her area, she can use other ones without docked pay. We’ll work out the correct federal agency for filing this new complaint later, but for today she must go in. You have to convince her. She doesn’t even understand me.”

Christina watched as Bruce pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and punched a number. “Angela, get me the name and number of someone at OSHA,” he said when she answered. “I want to know if it’s legal to have nonfunctioning bathrooms on a factory floor. After that, report this to the EEOC, as well.”

Christina stared through the small sliver of opened door. María Gonzales was a tiny woman, at most five-one. A roach crawled out from under a fallen leaf and scurried on the chipped concrete. Bruce crushed the bug with his foot.

Christina shuddered. She had a case to win and a job to do. No way would she ever be incompetent in front of Bruce Lancaster again, and it was time to prove herself. Besides, these women deserved much better than this hovel. They’d gotten through much already by being declared legal aliens. Just a little more time and their lives would be so much better.

“María,” Christina began, “tiene que ir al trabajo.” She saw the woman’s brown eyes widen with fear at being told she had to go to work. Christina shoved her foot into the opening, wincing as her toes became pinched between the door and the wooden frame.

“No. You will not shut me out.” Christina pushed her hand against the door to allow her foot some breathing room. The peeling paint stuck to her palm like children’s stickers. Using rapid Spanish, Christina launched into an explanation about why María needed to go to work.

It took her five minutes of intense arguing, but finally Christina removed her foot and María Gonzales fully opened the door. Bruce was still on the phone and had moved a distance away.

María stepped out of the motel room, and Christina thought that maybe all the arguing with her mother had paid off. She’d used one of her mother’s many emotional arguments almost verbatim on María. Before María closed the door, Christina could see an elderly lady and a small child inside. María’s family. The reason she went to work, and the people Christina had convinced María that she couldn’t let down.

“We’ll drive you to the factory, and then I’m going to meet your boss,” Christina said in Spanish. “Did you eat lunch?” Christina grimaced, knowing the answer the moment she asked the question. “We’ll stop and get you something,” she said.

Bruce flipped his phone closed and approached. María instantly lowered her head to her chest and gazed at her feet.

“Do not do that,” Christina snapped at her in Spanish. María peered up in surprise. “Do not cower with him. You have heritage. You have pride.” Christina nodded at Bruce. “We’re ready to go. I told her we would take her to work, since everyone else on her shift has already left and they took one car. I also said we would get her some food for her break. I want to meet the company president.”

“Donald Gray doesn’t see people.” Bruce said. “I’ve tried multiple times.”

“Yes, but I haven’t,” Christina pointed out as they reached Bruce’s truck.

Bruce considered for a moment. “Why not? It can’t hurt.”

Christina drew her suit jacket closer once they were under way. She’d opted for a silk shirt, and suddenly she felt exposed in her high-class wardrobe. No wonder María wore an Indianapolis Colts sweatshirt and faded blue jeans. The woman was working in a modern-day sweatshop.

After getting María some lunch, they drove to the factory in mere minutes, and Christina guessed that in the warmer months, many workers walked the distance.

How strange, Christina mused. She herself had gone to the finest schools in the United States and had never felt discrimination, but people like María Gonzales experienced it daily. People like María kept their deep-seated distrust of the government and struggled for the American dream, all the while attempting to assimilate into a culture they did not yet belong to or whose language they didn’t even speak. And they had no idea that the law was on their side, providing them safe working conditions and the right to be treated fairly.

Christina had pointed out to María that the American government had issued her a green card when so many illegal immigrants went without. María had to go to work; it was up to her to create a better future for her family. The law would help. Christina had promised it would. And she was determined to keep the promise.

Bruce drove onto the grounds of the Morrisville Garment Company, giving Christina her first look at the buildings that were the scene of such injustices. They were nondescript structures, like so many other manufacturing facilities. Bruce stopped at a guard shack, signed in, and within moments, María had been seen safely to her employee entry door and had clocked in. María’s immediate supervisor had been nowhere in sight, and Bruce parked the truck by the main entrance.

“May I help you?” An extremely bored receptionist turned her attention away from her fashion magazine. She was about eighteen, probably fresh out of high school last spring. She brightened when she saw Bruce’s dazzling smile.

“I’d like to see Donald Gray.”

“Do you have an appointment?” the girl asked, her expression hopeful.

Bruce shook his head and lifted the name plate. Julie, it read. “Not for today. Could you call him and tell him Bruce Lancaster’s here?”

The girl shook her head and bit her lower lip. “I can’t. He only sees people by appointment. I can take a message, though. You could leave a business card.”

Christina watched as Bruce gave what had to be his signature smile. The man could outsmile Dennis Quaid. If Christina didn’t know him so well, she’d be swayed, too. He had charm that could simply pull one into unprofessional thoughts.

Bruce pulled a card out of his pants pocket and toyed with it as if it were a poker chip. “Come on, Julie,” he cajoled. “Call him for me.”

“I shouldn’t,” she said, wavering a little under the deliberate high wattage.

“He’ll be glad you did. Trust me.” Those blue eyes twinkled, and Christina shifted her weight to the opposite leg, again acknowledging that Bruce Lancaster’s charm affected her, as well.

As for Julie, she picked up the phone and dialed. “Yes, this is Julie in reception. Mr. Bruce Lancaster of Lancaster and Morris is here in the lobby and wishes to speak with Mr. Gray.”

Her gaze darted back from Bruce to Christina. “There’s some female with him.” Julie lowered her voice. “She’s wearing Prada. I recognize it from last month’s Cosmo.” She waited a moment. “I’ll tell them.” Julie replaced the receiver. “Mr. Gray is unfortunately indisposed, but his legal counsel, Elaine Gray, is on her way down.”

“Thank you,” Bruce said. He cupped Christina’s elbow and moved her away from the reception desk. “It had to be your Prada. Elaine Gray never comes down, either.”

“What—your charm can’t sway her?”

Bruce grinned again. “Not since I went to prom with Marilee Becker, instead, no. She’s thirty-two, went to Washington University, worked for a St. Louis firm and then returned home two years ago after a failed relationship.”

“Out of curiosity, where did you go?”

Bruce turned slightly. “To Morrisville High School, like everyone else around here.”

“No. I mean to law school. I just realized that not only do I not have any business cards yet, but I also have no idea about your background.”

He leaned closer, and she stopped herself from stepping back. “I went to undergrad at Purdue and then Indiana University in Bloomington for my J.D. Yes, IU’s public, but going there’s a family tradition and it’s one of the best law schools in the country. Ah, here she is. Smile, Christina. You’re our ace. Make her worry.”

Bruce extended his hand. “Elaine, how are you? You’re looking exceedingly well. I’m sorry we just dropped in and I’m so glad you could take time out of your busy schedule to see us. Let me introduce you to Christina Jones, Lancaster and Morris’s newest partner.”

“Nice to meet you,” Elaine Gray said politely as she and Christina sized each other up. Christina was five-nine, and Elaine probably five-ten. Bruce was taller than them both, but not by much.

Elaine’s hair was platinum blond, almost white when compared with Christina’s natural honey-wheat color. Up on the latest fashions from when she’d been Kyle’s wife, Christina recognized a Dolce & Gabbana suit when she saw one, and that Elaine sported the latest haircut. Elaine extended her hand and gripped Christina’s. When she let go, Christina resisted the urge to flex her fingers to revive them. “I take it you’re new in town,” Elaine said.

“Relocated from Cincinnati,” Christina confirmed.

“Well, I hope you like it here. The shopping’s terrible. I have to make quarterly trips to New York to find anything decent to wear. So tell me, what brings you both by? Our meeting regarding your little matter isn’t until next week.”

Christina kept her instinctive bristle hidden. Title VII sexual harassment and ethnic discrimination were not “little matters.”

Bruce, however, remained calm, as if he’d known exactly how Elaine would react and exactly how to play her. “One of our clients, María Gonzales, returned to work today. Her supervisor has been threatening to dock her pay if she leaves her work area. Unfortunately, because the women’s facilities are inoperable, María must leave the area in order to carry out basic bodily functions. Elaine, my client should not have to fear going to work. Her supervisor cannot harass her for legitimate health and safety issues. On her behalf, I have contacted OSHA, and my paralegal will also keep our EEOC mediator abreast of this development.”

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