Baby Vs. The Bar. M.J. Rodgers

her, microphones shoved once again in her face as they shouted out their questions simultaneously, the sounds batting against Remy’s ears in a cacophony of confusion.

      And then, through it all, Remy heard the faint ding of an opening elevator. She whirled around, fully intending to jump in and close its doors as fast as she could. She never got the chance.

      Because at that precise second, someone plowed into her hard from behind, popping the breath out of her, plummeting her to the floor and pouncing squarely on top of her.

      * * *

      MARC TRUESDALE LIMPED into the Wednesday-morning partners’ meeting at the law firm of Justice Inc. He carefully slid his body into his customary chair across from Kay Kellogg. Kay watched him with amused blueberry eyes over her cup of herbal tea, a large solitaire diamond flashing on her ring finger, a grin subtly playing around her lips.

      But Octavia Osborne was not nearly so subtle. She flipped back her long tumble of flame red hair and used the ends of her long, matching, perfectly manicured nails to send the morning newspaper skidding over the top of the conference table. Her aim, as always, was accurate. The newspaper stopped directly in front of Marc, its banner headline proclaiming, Bio-Sperm Delivers Billion-Dollar Baby to Demerchant.

      “Looks like you had fun in court yesterday,” Octavia commented, a languorous smile lifting the corners of her generous mouth. “Or should I say during the noon recess?”

      Marc followed Octavia’s expressive eyes to the enormous, three-column-size photo of him sprawled over Remy Westbrook on the floor of the King County courthouse. He wore a surprised look; Remy wore her dress up around her ears. Octavia quoted the caption beneath the picture word for word, “‘Baby’s mom and Demerchant’s attorney get away after morning session for ex parte communication.’ Really, Marc, and it was only a couple of months ago that you were chastising Kay here for getting personally involved with a client.”

      Marc shook his head wearily in response to Octavia’s goading. “This lady is not our client, and, yellow journalism notwithstanding, the only thing between Remy Westbrook and me this morning is sore feelings.”

      “Is that why you’re limping? A case of sore...feelings?” Kay asked in that soft voice of hers, a grin still playing around her lips.

      Marc exhaled heavily. “I was only trying to keep the news hounds at bay. Was it my fault one of them shoved me into Remy Westbrook and we both toppled to the floor? You’d think she’d be a little grateful for my efforts. Instead, before I even had a chance to get off her, she kneed me in the...uh...uh...”

      “Feelings?” Kay offered with a less-than-innocent look.

      Octavia exploded into that uninhibited, throaty laugh of hers that sang throughout the conference room. Kay joined her in an echo of merry amusement.

      Marc shook his head in good-natured disgust. “Women!”

      Kay reached for a tissue to dab at her eyes. “Sorry, Marc. But if you had any part in getting a picture like that of me run in all the papers, good intentions or no, I probably would have kneed you, too.”

      “Well, thanks,” he said sarcastically. “Have you two forgotten that as my partners you’re supposed to be supporting me?”

      “If it’s a supporter you need, I can buy you an athletic one,” Octavia said, before bursting out again in laughter, once more echoed by Kay’s giggles.

      Marc found he couldn’t keep a straight face, not in light of his partners’ playfulness. “Actually, an ice pack would probably be more useful,” he admitted as he joined in with a chuckle of his own.

      Octavia and Kay increased the timbre of their howls.

      “Let’s try to keep it down,” Adam Justice admonished as he silently entered the conference room, closing the door behind him, exactly on time for their meeting. “Remember, we have associates doing research in offices on either side and secretaries trying to answer phones.”

      The laughter died a timely death.

      Marc admired the dignity and solid professionalism that entered the room along with the person of Adam Justice. The man could do it all—try any case, administer any problem. Adam Justice was, in every way, an unbeatable legal machine.

      Trouble was, his machine had no Off button. The only time Marc had ever seen Adam outside the office was once at the gym, where Adam had called him for a quick conference about an upcoming case. Even there, Adam had discussed only the case in his typical, all-business demeanor as he mechanically worked the weight machines in a rigid regimen that brooked no deviation. And allowed no pleasure.

      Yes, that was what Adam Justice was missing. Pleasure. Marc worked hard, but he found pleasure in his work. That’s why he had joined the smaller firm of Justice Inc. two years before. Here he could take on the cases and clients he wanted and handle them according to his conscience. He might have less prestige than what he could get at one of the bigger firms, but being in control of his cases had added so much more pleasure to his work.

      Adam Justice’s absolute control didn’t seem to afford him any pleasure, however. Marc suspected that the scar that jagged from Adam’s jaw to beneath his starched white dress shirt had something to do with it. He’d asked Adam about that scar once. Adam had changed the subject. He was not someone Marc thought he’d ever really know.

      That was all right. Mixing work and friends was almost as ill-advised as mixing work with women. Life could be lived much more smoothly with everything organized into its proper place.

      “You’re first up, Marc,” Adam said as he settled himself at the head of the conference table and opened his case folder. “How is the Demerchant vs. Bio-Sperm trial going?”

      “Very well, despite Binick’s unexpected bomb yesterday morning. I’m working it so that this surprise baby will actually support the damages, not detract from them. Yesterday afternoon I got Binick’s lab technician and her assistant to admit that even they can’t be one hundred percent sure that the donor coding on Remy Westbrook’s record is accurate.”

      “When do you think you’ll be able to wrap it up?”

      “Judge has some other court business this morning. When we reconvene this afternoon, we go directly to closing arguments. Depending on how long the jury takes to deliberate, it’s possible we’ll have the verdict in today. At the latest, tomorrow.”

      “And that’s when you take off for a two-week vacation, right?” Kay asked.

      Marc smiled at her. “Gavin and I are going waterskiing before the October rains hit.”

      “Any ideas on how we can counteract the impression left by this picture?” Adam asked as he pointed his pen at the newspaper’s front page.

      Adam’s tone had not changed, but Marc felt the depth of his concern, nonetheless.

      Marc leaned back in his chair. “Every time a reporter called for a statement about it, I told them that it was a reporter who pushed me into Dr. Westbrook, probably just to get a picture like that. I also warned them that if I ever found out which reporter it was, I was going to sue his tail off. They don’t seem too eager to print those comments.”

      Adam shook his head. “No, naturally they wouldn’t. But I don’t like to leave it like this. Doesn’t look good for the firm. Clients don’t come to lawyers tainted by impropriety.”

      Octavia laughed, the only one who never let Adam’s somber admonishments restrict her flamboyant spirit. She leaned across the table toward him, a twinkle of fresh spirit in her eyes.

      “Thanks to Kay’s impropriety hitting the newspapers a couple of months ago,” she said, “we have a dozen new clients. You worry too much, Adam.”

      “As senior partner, it’s my job to worry. Give it some thought, Marc. We need a positive follow-up story.”

      “Winning the suit should help,” Marc said.

      “See