The Billionaire's Fair Lady. Barbara Wallace

jammed her arm into her coat sleeve. Emotion clogged her throat, and she absolutely refused to let him see her eyes water.

      “By the way,” she said, adjusting her collar. “Your ad said you welcomed all types of cases. If you don’t mean it, then don’t say so in the headline.”

      An unnecessary jab, but she was tired of playing polite and classy. Besides, being called a gold-digging fraud should entitle her to at least one parting shot.

      “Miss O’Brien—”

      She strode from the office without turning around, proud that she got as far as street level before her vision grew blurry.

      Dammit. She’d have thought she’d be cried out by now. When would she stop feeling so raw and exposed?

       You have his eyes…

      “Why didn’t you say anything, Mom?” she railed silently. “Why did you wait till it was too late to tell me?”

      Was she that ashamed of her daughter?

      Not cool, Templeton, Not cool at all.

      Mike had to admit, though, as indignant exits went, Roxy O’Brien’s was among the best. Ten years of estate law had shown him his share of scam artists and gold diggers, but she was the first who’d truly teared up upon storming out. She probably didn’t think he noticed, but he had. There was no mistaking the overly bright sheen in those green eyes of hers, in spite of her attempts to blink them dry.

      Pen twirling between his fingers, he rocked back and forth in his chair. Couldn’t blame her for being upset. Like a lot of people, she must have thought she’d stumbled across the legal equivalent of a winning lottery ticket. If she’d stuck around instead of stomping off like a redheaded windstorm he’d have explained that making a claim against the Sinclairs wasn’t that simple, even if her story was true. There were legal precedents and statutes of limitations to consider.

      Of course, he thought, stilling his pen, she didn’t have to completely prove paternity for her claim to work. Simply put forth a believable argument.

      He couldn’t believe he was contemplating the thought. Had he fallen so low he’d take on an audacious case simply for the potential settlement money?

      One look at the meager pile of case files on his desk answered his question. At this point, he’d take Henry Hudson’s nephew’s case.

      This was what failure felt like. The constant hollow feeling in his stomach. The weight on his shoulders. The tick, tick, tick in the back of his head reminding him another day was passing without clients knocking on his door.

      It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Templetons, as had been drilled in his head, didn’t fail. They blazed trails. They excelled. They were leaders in their field. Doubly so if you were named Michael Templeton III and had two generations of namesakes to live up to.

      You’re letting us down, Michael. We raised you to be better than this. A dozen years after he first heard them, his father’s words rose up to repeat themselves, reminding him he had no choice. Succeed or else. He took on the challenge of starting his own practice. He had to make it work, by hook or by crook.

      Or audacious case, as it were. Unfortunately his best opportunity stormed out the door in a huff. So how did he get the little hothead to come back?

      A patch of gray caught the corner of his eye. Realizing what he was looking at, Mike smiled. Perhaps his luck hadn’t run out after all. He picked up the grey envelope Roxanne O’Brien had left behind.

      God bless indignant exits.

      Thursday nights were always busy at the Elderion Lounge. The customers, businessmen mostly, their out-of-town visits winding down, tended to cut loose. Bar tabs got bigger, rounds more frequent, tables more boisterous. Normally Roxy didn’t mind the extra action since it meant more money in her pocket. Tonight, though, she wasn’t in the mood for salesmen knocking back vodka tonics.

      “Six vodka tonics, one house pinot and two pom martinis,” she ordered. Despite being cold outside, the air was stifling and hot. She grabbed a cocktail napkin and blotted her neckline. This afternoon’s business jacket disappeared long ago and she was back to a black camisole and skirt.

      The bartender, a beefy guy named Dion, looked her up and down. “You look frazzled. Table six isn’t giving you trouble, are they?”

      “Nothing I can’t handle. Bad day is all.”

      Who did Mike Templeton think he was anyway? Arrogant, condescending… Just because he was lucky enough to be born on the right side of town, what made him think he had the right to judge her or her mother or anyone else for that matter?

      Wadding the napkin into a ball, she tossed it neatly into the basket behind the bar. “You’d think by this point I’d be immune to rejection.”

      “I thought you gave up acting,” Dion said.

      “I did. This was something else.” And the rejection stung worse. “You don’t know a good lawyer, do you?”

      The bartender immediately frowned. “You in trouble?”

      “Nothing like that. I need a business lawyer.”

      “Oh.” He shook his head. “Sorry.”

      “‘S’all right.” Who’s to say the next guy wouldn’t be as condescending as Mike Templeton?

      “Oh, my God!” Jackie, one of the other waitresses rushed up, earrings and bangle bracelets jangling. “Please let this guy sit at my table.”

      Busy stacking her tray, Roxy didn’t bother looking up. At least once a week, the man of Jackie’s dreams walked in. “What’s the deal this time? He look like someone famous?”

      “Try rich.”

      Here? Hardly. Unless the guy was lost and needed directions. Rich men hung at far better clubs. “I suppose he’s gorgeous, too.”

      “Put it this way. If he was poor, I’d still make a move. He’s that sexy.”

      Roxy had to see this male specimen for herself. Craning her neck, she surveyed the crowd. “I seriously doubt anyone with that much to offer—”

      Mike Templeton stood by table eight, peeling the gloves off his hands one finger at a time. His eyes scanned the room with a heavy-lidded scrutiny. Roxy’s stomach dropped. Jackie was right, he was the best-looking man in the room. Stood out like a pro in a field of amateurs. What on earth was he doing here?

      “Told you he was breathtaking,” she heard Jackie say. Before she could reply, he turned and their eyes locked. She stood rooted to the spot as he shrugged off his camel hair coat and draped it over the back of his chair. His actions were slow, deliberate, all the while holding her gaze. Goose bumps danced up her bare arms. It felt like she was the one removing layers.

      “I don’t suppose I can convince you to switch tables, can I? You’re not interested in dating anyway. I’ll give you both my twelve and fifteen.”

      Eyes still glued to the lawyer, Roxy shook her head. “Sorry, Jackie, no can do. Not this time.”

      Grabbing her tray, she purposely served her other tables before making her way toward him. With her back to that stare, his pull diminished a little, though she could still feel him watching her with every move she made. Reminding her of his existence. As if she could forget.

      Finally she had no choice—or customers—left and sauntered her way to his table.

      “You’re a difficult person to pin down, Miss O’Brien,” he greeted. “I went by your apartment first and some guy told me you were ‘at the bar.’ I took a chance and assumed he meant here.” He smiled, as though being there was the most natural thing in the world, which it was decidedly not. “We never finished our conversation from earlier.”

      The guy had to be joking. “What