Springtime in Halifax was not known for its warmth or sunshine. Nor was Lyons McGrath Barrett, one of Halifax’s premiere boutique law firms.
Kate Lange allowed herself a one-minute break and gazed out her window on LMB’s associate floor. Drizzle specked the glass, obscuring the line of cars snaking along Lower Water Street. Friday night rush hour was just beginning.
She turned back to her desk—an elegant mahogany-finished number with matching credenza—forcing her eyes to focus on the separation agreement spread out in front of her. The fourth this week. The twenty-seventh since she’d joined LMB. She grimaced. The irony was not lost on her. She’d left Marshall & Associates because of a preponderance of family law clients.
A rapid knock on the door broke through her thoughts.
Her pulse jumped in her throat.
It was Randall Barrett. Himself.
She’d never met LMB’s managing partner before. He’d been in absentia during her job interview. She suspected it was because she was the former fiancée of Ethan Drake, the criminal investigations detective he believed sent an innocent man to jail. Two years before, Ethan investigated Randall Barrett’s old soccer buddy, Dr. Don Clarkson, for the death of a critically ill patient. The media buzzed with the story: Had Dr. Clarkson misjudged the amount of morphine the patient could handle or had he perpetrated a mercy killing? The autopsy was inconclusive. The case hinged on the testimony of the patient’s son, who claimed Dr. Clarkson had assured him his mother would not suffer any longer. Randall Barrett believed Ethan unduly influenced the teen.
Don Clarkson bankrupted himself with his defense but was convicted nonetheless. Randall Barrett stepped in to handle his appeal. But despite Randall’s attempts to convince the Court of Appeal that Ethan had thrown the investigation, the appellate judges upheld the conviction two to one. Neither Randall Barrett nor Ethan Drake had gotten over it. The hostility ran deep.
Kate stood, smoothing her skirt. “Hello, Mr. Barrett.” She gave him a brilliant smile, grateful she wore the new suit she’d bought with her last paycheck. It had been a toss-up between replacing her old articling clothes or the old kitchen piping, but the lure of the Jackie O–style suit had been too strong. When she heard the pipes groaning that night, she’d regretted her extravagance. But she couldn’t bring herself to take the sleek cream suit back and ask for a refund. She’d learned a long time ago that there were no returns in life.
Now, eyeing Randall Barrett’s exquisitely tailored gray suit, she was glad she’d kept it. He, of all people, needed to see that she belonged in this office, that her name would have a place on LMB letterhead. Because it didn’t, not yet. Not for another two months.
And only if she cut it.
He smiled, showing off his strong, white teeth. It did nothing to ease her jitters. “Please, call me Randall.” He raised a brow. “May I come in?”
She straightened. Flushed. “Of course.”
He walked toward her, filling her office with plain, old-fashioned male virility. Geez. Now I know why all the single women in the firm get flustered when his name is spoken.
He stopped in front of her desk. A manila folder was tucked under his arm. In her heels Kate was almost as tall as he was, but his charisma gave him the benefit of a few extra inches. His brilliant blue eyes drilled into hers.
She forced herself to hold his gaze. It gave nothing away. Which was what she supposed she could expect. But it still rankled. Known for his keen analyses and eloquent arguments, she could learn a lot from him. If he gave her a chance.
His eyes sharpened, then drifted away, lazily scanning the piles of folders on her desk, resting for a moment on the stack of Reports of Family Law. “You busy?”
Now there was a loaded question. She had no doubt that he’d used that casual inquiry on every new associate who entered the firm’s hallowed corridors. If she said no, she’d surely go to billable hours hell. And if she said yes, she’d sound churlish to LMB’s top dog.
“Can never be too busy,” she said.
A blond brow lifted. “Good.” He tossed the file on her desk. “You’ve got a new client. She’s waiting for you in the reception area.”
He’d done this on purpose, wanted to test her. She flipped open the file, knowing Randall Barrett wouldn’t be giving her what she wanted—that wasn’t his style—yet unable to control the small hitch of hope that maybe,