A Case for Love (6 page)

When she’d booked the twenty-nine-year-old entrepreneur a month ago, she’d done so grudgingly. She’d read his interview in
Bonneterre Lifestyles
and seen the response it had generated from readers from their comments online.

Her conversation with Mother yesterday came back and made Alaine more than a little curious about his service. She pulled up the contact entry for him on the computer and dialed his number.

“This is Shon.” The few times she’d talked to him, he’d always sounded breezy and casual. No difference today.

“Mr. Murphy, it’s Alaine Delacroix from Channel Six. I hope I’ve caught you at a good time.” She leaned her elbows on her desk and supported her forehead on her free palm, her back starting to ache between her shoulders.

“Yes, Alaine. Please, call me Shon. Are we still on for tomorrow?”

“We are. Do you need directions to the studio?”

“No, no. Our offices are just a few buildings down from y’all.” Amusement laced his deep voice.

She could have kicked herself. Right there on the computer screen was the address. Now that she thought about it, the last time she’d talked to him, they’d discussed his proximity to the studio and the fact that he could just walk over.

“Right. Do you have any other questions?”

“Nope. Think I’m good.”

“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow around eleven thirty, then.” They exchanged farewells, and Alaine hung up, feeling like a complete idiot.

Before she made a total fool of herself tomorrow, she opened her Internet browser and went to Let’s Do Coffee’s Web site to find out how the program worked. She took notes and wrote questions to ask Shon tomorrow on air. The more she read about how his system operated, the more intrigued she became.

“Alaine, are you ready to meet about the remotes for next week—what are you doing?”

Alaine quickly minimized the screen to hide the personality profile she’d been filling out as part of the membership application process. “Just research for tomorrow’s guest. I’m ready for the meeting.”

She hid her grin until Pricilla turned to precede her to the small conference room. Yes, Alaine Delacroix was ready for a meeting: meeting the man of her dreams.

“I’m sorry, sir, she’s in a meeting right now. May I take a message or put you through to her voice mail?”

He’d left her a voice mail message yesterday, after trying for more than an hour to get past the dragon guarding the switchboard. But now that Forbes had actually reached a real, live person in the newsroom, he wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip by. “Before you transfer me to voice mail, please give me her direct phone number in case we get disconnected.”

“Hold on a sec, and let me look it up. I’m just an intern and don’t have everyone’s numbers memorized. Oh, here it is. Three-six-nine-four. Hold on, and I’ll transfer you.”

Well, her extension number was better than nothing. Not wanting to leave another message in less than twenty-four hours, he hung up and programmed Alaine’s extension into her information in his Blackberry. Now when he called, he could get to her straight from the automated answering system on the main line.

He took some files he was finished with out to Samantha’s desk.

The secretary looked up from her computer when he dropped the heavy folders into her in-box. “I suspected your chipper mood yesterday wouldn’t last all week.” She leaned over and looked at the files. “Ah. I see why. The case that just won’t go away.”

“My own personal Jarndyce and Jarndyce.”

Samantha frowned and thumbed through the folders. “I don’t see that one in here—and I haven’t run across that name. Is it new?”

Forbes smiled for the first time today. “No. It’s a fictional case in my favorite book. It went on for many, many years and financially ruined at least three generations of the Jarndyce family.”

Samantha returned to her computer. “Sounds boring.”

“There’s a romance story in it, too.” He picked up the stack of unopened mail and flipped through it. He never saw it at this stage—and never this much of it.

“Whatever. You’re supposed to be over at the courthouse in thirty minutes. The Pichon injunction.”

“Right. Thanks. Oh, file—” He looked up from the mail to see Samantha holding the thick folder toward him.

“Here you go, Mr. Bonneterre.”

“Thanks, Ms. Impertinence.” He took the folder.

“You’re welcome, Dudley Do-Right.”

Forbes laughed, glad to have a secretary with a sense of humor who could give as good as she got. In his office, he jammed the file into his attaché case, shrugged into his jacket, and headed out for the parish courthouse.

After going through the metal detector, he checked his courtroom assignment and went to the bank of elevators. One opened immediately and disgorged a bunch of people before he could step in. Some of the judges must be getting their earliest cases on the docket cleared quickly. He hoped his case didn’t get called early.

The elevator doors were nearly closed when a hand jutted between them and they reopened. “Sorry. Didn’t want to miss this one—oh hey, Forbes.”

The doors slid shut behind Russell LeBlanc, a high-school classmate who had turned his back on a fast-track position at a law firm to start a community legal aid office, where most of his cases were pro bono.

“Hey, Russ. So, we’re squaring off again today.”

“Yep.” The other lawyer grinned. “Don’t you ever get tired of defending all these businesses that are only out to protect their bottom lines?”

“Not when the cases brought against them are trivial nonsense.”

“We’ll see what Judge Duplessis has to say about that, won’t we?”

“Yes, we will.” Forbes tried to keep a stern expression but had never been able to resist Russell’s constant good humor. “How’s Carrie?”

“Home on bed rest.”

“So she’s okay?”

“Fine. We’ve gotten to twenty-eight weeks. We’re shooting for thirty-four. But with quads, you just never know.”

The doors slid open on the fifth floor. Forbes motioned Russell to exit ahead of him. “Quadruplets. I still can’t get my head around it. You with four kids all in law school at the same time.”

“Eh. You never know. One might go over to the dark side and decide to become a doctor or a teacher—or even worse, a social worker like their mom.” Russ cocked his head and laughed. “See you in court.”

Forbes waved and headed the opposite direction. He filled his small water bottle at the drinking fountain, then looked for his client.

Mr. Pichon paced the hallway near the main doors to the assigned courtroom. Forbes straightened his tie, adjusted his jacket, and approached.

“There you are.” Mr. Pichon plucked at the knot of his tie as if it was too tight. “I was starting to wonder ... no matter. Let’s get this done today. I’m tired of this property hanging around my neck like an abalone.”

“Albatross,” Forbes corrected under his breath.

“What?”

“Never mind. Mr. Pichon, again, my recommendation is that you not contest the injunction and that you look at the proposal from the community group.”

“I’ve looked at their numbers. I have six bidders coming in at twice what that group of yahoos wants to pay for my land.”

Forbes kept his expression neutral, his voice level. “Yes, but they have e-mails proving that three years ago you promised them that if they developed the lot into a park, you wouldn’t sell it without giving the community association the opportunity to purchase it for fair market value. That’s going to be a big sticking point for Duplessis.”

“But why should I sell it to them when I can make twice the money? Look, Guidry, you’re my lawyer, and you’re going to do this the way I want. I don’t care what’s done with the property so long as I get what’s coming to me.”

Sometimes Forbes did wish he’d taken Russell’s path in the legal field. “You know I’ll work to get you the outcome you want, Mr. Pichon. That’s what I’m here for.”

An hour and a half later, walking out of the courtroom, Forbes sent up a silent prayer of thanks that Judge Duplessis had been assigned this case. Duplessis, like Russ, had worked most of his career in legal aid centers and tended to rule in favor of the underdog, so long as there was any legal justification for it. Still, Forbes had made his arguments dance and twirl and spin—like that guy, Fred or Frank or whoever, in the old movies—until he’d had Duplessis in the palm of his hand. Then Russ had reminded the judge of the e-mails with the promises given by Pichon to the community group.

“Mediation. Mediation!” Pichon pulled at his thinning, steel gray hair and let out a string of curses. “I want to sell that blasted lot now, while the buyers are hot for it, not sit down across a table from these idiots and pretend like I’m the least interested in anything they have to say. It’s not my fault those people spent too much money building paths and gazebos and other idiotic things that they had no right to build on my property.”

Forbes didn’t want to reiterate what Russ had brought up in argument: that if the community had not pooled their resources together to rehabilitate the lot which Mr. Pichon had allowed to become a weed-choked dumping ground for trash and old appliances, no one in his right mind would be interested in buying it now.

“Mr. Pichon, I know you want to move on this, but we have to do whatever the judge orders.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Russ parting company with his clients. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak with opposing counsel.”

“Yeah. You do that, Guidry.” Mr. Pichon stormed off, still muttering obscenities under his breath.

Forbes waited for Russ to get off the phone.

“That was Carrie. She says hi.”

“Everything okay?”

“Oh, yeah. She just gets bored and so calls me every hour or so.” Russ smirked. “I guess I should be thankful, since I know we’ll have little enough time together after the babies come, but it’s really starting to...” He shrugged. “What’s up, old man?”

Forbes cocked a brow at the man only a few months his junior. “I wanted to volunteer for some pro bono work. I’m well short of where I need to be to get my fifty hours this year, and I know y’all are probably overwhelmed with cases. Just keep in mind—”

“I know—nothing going up against any of your firm’s clients. That severely restricts what I could be able to send you.” His friend grinned. “But I’ll keep you in mind. With Carrie likely to pop any day now, I’ll be needing the extra help. See you in mediation.”

“Right. Later.” Forbes reached for his Blackberry when it started vibrating against his belt. After clearing up the notes he’d written in a file for Samantha, he headed back to the parking garage.

The overwhelming workload that Russ carried must be inordinately stressful, yet every time Forbes saw him, Russ looked like he was having the time of his life. Though Forbes enjoyed most of his cases, certain clients gave him cases that made him feel like the Big, Bad Wolf in court. He hated looking across at the plaintiffs and seeing regular people—people who couldn’t afford a lawyer’s fee many times—and knowing that because of the legal dance he was about to do, they would lose their case. Meaning they would lose the time they’d taken off work to be there, lose money, lose their homes, lose the court costs they’d be required to pay. And when they won, he hated the fact that his clients blamed it on him instead of their own, usually unethical or at least unfair, business practices.

There was a certain glory in the job Russ did. He went to bat for the little guys. He made sure they got their date in court if their case warranted it. He helped them make their voices heard against corporate bigwigs with teams of lawyers on retainer and money to burn.

Forbes took the stack of files Samantha held out toward him without even speaking as he walked back into his office. He paused just inside the door and took in his surroundings.

Of course, there was nothing glorious about the dingy little office where Russ worked, with the secondhand, mismatched furniture and the strong smell of cat urine from the Siamese rescue center that used to be located in the converted house before Russ bought it for an office.

Though his work was sometimes unpalatable, Forbes would take partnership in a prestigious firm over legal aid any day.

Alaine tapped her thumbnail against her front teeth—but stopped when she realized what she was doing. She tried to turn her attention back to the staff meeting, but changes to the content on the Web site didn’t interest her much.

How could she have been so stupid? The least she could have done was wait until after the interview. But no. She’d had to jump the gun and activate her Let’s Do Coffee account last night. What if LeShon Murphy knew she’d signed up for an active matchmaking account? After all, he only had twenty employees. Surely whichever one of the data entry people saw her name pop up on a new account this morning would have told Shon. In their preliminary phone chat, he’d told her that he personally handled their high-profile clients. She qualified as that, didn’t she?

She’d just tell him it was for research purposes—that she hadn’t meant to activate the account ... or input her credit card info for the membership fee ... or click on the boxes to say she agreed to the morality clause and the terms of service and that she was seriously interested in meeting a variety of men they would choose for her based on the extensive personal profile and personality-type quiz she’d filled out.

He’d never believe her. Besides, the truth was that she did, in fact, want to make use of his company’s service.

She should have asked him to bring his wife—or girlfriend, whichever one he had. Getting the story on how they met would make a nice addition to the piece. She grabbed her pen from behind her ear and made herself a note to follow up with him about that. After all, if she was going to trust him with her love life, it would be nice to be sure he was happy and successful in his own relationship.

“Alaine. Alaine!”

Alaine looked up when Bekka Blakeley elbowed her and nodded toward the head of the table, where the news director glowered at her.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry, are we boring you?”

She could do without the sarcasm. “Just making notes for the interview I’m doing in less than two hours. Was there another question you wanted to ask me?” From the corner of her eye, she could see Bekka shaking her head in exasperation. Antagonizing the very person who could help her move to the news desk—probably not a great idea.

“The Web site. Any special requests from your viewers you’d like to pass along?”

“Just to get the recipes up sooner than Sunday or Monday. Since Chef O’Hara provides those for us when he films on Tuesdays, I don’t see why they’re not going up as soon as his segment airs on Fridays.”

“We’ll pass that along.” The head honcho of the newsroom smirked at her and moved on to Bekka. He always did that to her— made her feel like a high-school intern who’d accidentally walked into a place she shouldn’t be and wasn’t welcome. Well, her program had higher ratings than the ten o’clock news, so he could take his condescension and shove it where—

“Hey, are you okay?”

At Bekka’s whispered question, Alaine looked around. Everyone was getting up from the conference table.

“Yeah, just thinking ... about the interview I’m doing with LeShon Murphy today.”

“Just checking. You really zoned out there for a while.”

Alaine stood and tucked her steno pad under her arm, pen behind her ear. “These staff meetings are a waste of my time. No one ever says something that effects my show, and they’re not interested in anything I have to say anyway, so what’s the point?”

“The point is”—Bekka followed her out of the room—“if you want to move into main news, you’re going to have to start acting like you’re interested in what’s going on in the rest of the newsroom. And you have to make yourself heard—but not by alienating the one person with the most sway around here.”

Alaine shook her head, shoulders drooping. “I know. I knew as soon as I heard the words coming out of my mouth it was a stupid thing to say. I just get so tired of his constantly sniping at me. It’s like he doesn’t want me to be there.”

“Well, my suggestion—and it’s just my opinion—is that you do whatever it takes to impress him. To show him you not only deserve to be at that table, but that you also deserve to be moved up the ranks.”