Sean. Donna Kauffman

he told her, tossing the stick again. The Labrador looked at the stick, glanced up the yard to where Digger was begging food from one of the endless number of aunts and uncles, and promptly left the stick where it lay—not interested if Digger didn’t want to play.

      “That’s a man for you, Recon,” he told her. “Always looking for the better handout. You’re better off taking care of yourself. That way you’ll never be disappointed.”

      Panting, she stared up at him with those liquid brown eyes then turned and trotted back, snagged the stick and loped back up the hill. Sean watched as she sauntered by Digger, flashing the stick, then racing off around the buffet table. Digger took one last longing look at Aunt Miranda’s chicken wing, then went tearing off after Recon.

      Sean hooted with laughter. “Well, I guess that’s my problem right there. I’ve never met the woman who wants me bad enough to keep waving her treasure under my nose when I get sidetracked by something else.”

      Which was probably the closest he’d come to admitting his real problem where settling down was concerned. He always believed the right woman would come along and he’d just know it, and the rest would simply fall into place.

      In the meantime he wasn’t averse to short-lived, very hot interludes. But he’d gotten so wrapped up in work lately that what little personal life he had had fallen by the wayside. Which had him thinking about his next assignment. Most men would kill for it. He was to deliver some documents and set up meetings with the head deputy in St. Thomas in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Five days of long meetings…but six nights of nothing to do but enjoy island life. He’d earned the assignment; he knew that. And it was pathetic to admit, but he was somewhat at a loss as to what he was going to do with those long nights.

      Digger trotted up to him then, stick firmly clamped in his little jaws. Recon stood behind him, wagging her tail.

      “Yeah, yeah, I hear ya,” he said with a shake of his head and a grin. “I’ll just make sure to pack my trusty stick.”

      NINTH JUDICIAL COURT Judge Laurel Patrick stared at the plane ticket in her hand and smiled. She should be upset at her father’s underhanded tactics. But Seamus Patrick knew how to get what he wanted, had learned that skill even before being elected to the Louisiana supreme court bench nine years earlier. Any other time she’d have privately snarled at him for using the annual Christmas party at her courthouse as a platform for announcing his present to her. Of course, it had been his courthouse long before it had ever been hers. Not that it was solely hers now, of course.

      She was one of a number of justices that heard cases in the Alexandria parish courtrooms. But she was part of the Patrick judicial dynasty, started in the United States by her great-grandfather, Donal, the first Patrick raised in this country, although originally established by several Patricks before him back on the bonny shores of Ireland. So it helped if she carved out her own spot, even if it was just in her own mind.

      Naturally, Seamus Patrick didn’t understand her need to carve her own niche. If he had, she wouldn’t be a justice. Hell, she wouldn’t even have been a lawyer. But she hadn’t had the nerve as a child, much less as a teenager heading off, scholarship in hand, to the college of her choice, to tell her father, or her grandfather, that the footsteps she really wanted to follow were those of her mother. And her grandmother before her. That of being a wife, raising children, making a home for them. She’d dreamed of that, of becoming involved in the community, in her church, as the women in her family had a long tradition of doing.

      All of which would have been a fine, even admirable, goal…if she’d had any brothers. Or even any sisters with a thirst for law. But she hadn’t. It had just been her. The last Patrick of the famous—though some would say infamous—Justice Patricks. The only one left to carry on the tradition. Skipping a generation to await any potential future justices she might procreate was simply not an option.

      She glanced at the brochure that had come with the plane ticket, still stunned by the gift. Four Days In Paradise, it shouted in hot-pink letters. Underneath was a photo of a white sandy beach and crystalline-blue water.

      But what Laurel saw was escape. Four days away from work that had, of late, caused a headache that wouldn’t cease, a stomach lining that a fistful antacids could no longer calm, circles under her eyes that makeup no longer completely covered, a complexion made sallow from too many nights pouring over filings, motions and briefs, and not enough time spent out in the real world having what other people called a life.

      “It’s a wonder Alan wants me at all,” she murmured. She gritted her teeth against the burning sensation in her gut that just the thought of him brought on. Why in the hell was he being so persistent? she wondered for the umpteenth time. And, for the umpteenth time, she didn’t have an answer.

      But what she did have was a plane ticket away from the bench…and away from Alan Bentley’s increasingly annoying and very unwanted attentions.

      Her father made his way through the throng of party revelers and tucked her against his side with one beefy arm. At the towering height of six foot five, Seamus was intimidating enough without his booming Irish voice and stern visage, both of which he used to great advantage in all avenues of his life.

      Despite the fact that Laurel had never been as passionate as he had been about the legal life they pursued, she did take great pride in her accomplishments, her stellar record and even the comparisons people made between father and daughter. Of course, he could still make her feel like a seven-year-old looking for his approval by memorizing all the liability torts in one of his ground-breaking civil suits with nothing more than a certain look…or an arm around the shoulder.

      Any other time she might have pulled away…with a smile and a affectionate dig at his orchestrations. But he’d honestly stunned her with his gift. Had he seen the telltale signs of the stress she was under? Had he suspected she needed a break, a chance to get a grip on a life that suddenly felt as though it was spiraling out of control? It wasn’t unreasonable to think so. For all that he’d railroaded her into her career, he’d done so with a deep love and honest affection that was hard to thwart and an unfailing confidence in her that had carried her through many a long night, both in law school, during her years as an assistant district attorney, and even now, on the bench.

      His gift had made her wonder if maybe she’d been wrong in keeping her escalating problems to herself. Right at that moment she wanted nothing more than to curl into his strength, his warmth, his security, and tell him everything. Tell him how concerned she was about her constant fatigue, about the emotional toll adjudicating cases was taking on her. How she respected the honor of her position, but wasn’t sure she wanted to continue on the bench.

      How she was being all but stalked by the current district attorney.

      “Hard feelings?” her father asked. “Don’t be cross with me. I knew if I’d done it in private, you’d have tossed that ticket right back in my face.”

      How right he was, too. And it was because he was too often right—annoyingly so—she found the strength to pull away from him to deliver her best Judge Patrick look.

      Her father merely raised his bushy eyebrows in anticipation.

      “No hard feelings,” she said. “But you’ll want to remember three things.” She ticked them off. “One, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Two, I know when your birthday is and that you’ll be hitting the big seven-oh.” She smiled a smile that only a newly minted defense attorney would mistake as friendly—and then, only once. “Three, paybacks are hell when delivered by other people. But when delivered by a Patrick, there is no time off for good behavior.”

      Seamus tipped his head back and roared with laughter, another trademark—and one often heard echoing throughout his chambers. “I wish your mother was here to see what a fine lass she brought into this world.”

      “Are you kidding? Mom would be horrified to know how deeply you’ve corrupted her only child.”

      Seamus and Laurel both smiled, as they always did when the subject of Alena Patrick came up. “She knew you were never going to