Law Unto Himself E-Book

Kendra Little

• Herausgeber: Kendra Little
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Criminal lawyer, Adele Harvey, is having a bad day. Her parents are separating, her younger sister moves in with her baby, the client she thought was a woman turns out to be a man, and Ben Paxton, the guy she gave the bird to in the parking lot, is prosecuting. And he never loses.

Ben is a dozen mysteries wrapped in a sexy package. He's a billionaire yet he works as a prosecuting lawyer; he's new to the city, yet no one knows why he moved; he's hot yet he's single. Adele has her work cut out for her trying to solve his secrets and keep work separate from pleasure - not an easy task when she has to face Ben in the courtroom every day. To top it all off, it's up to her to prove her client is innocent of stealing sexually explicit artifacts.

WARNING: This fun novel contains a snarky heroine, bad language, some tame sex, a mystery, romance, Australian spelling, humour, and lawyers. If that doesn't sound like your cup of tea, don't read LAW UNTO HIMSELF. Otherwise, strap on for a fast-paced ride that will have you seeing the legal profession differently.

Leseprobe

Law Unto Himself

A Romantic Comedy Novel

Kendra Little

Contents

Copyright

About LAW UNTO HIMSELF

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Excerpt of THE BILLIONAIRE BOYFRIEND TRAP

Books By Kendra

About the Author

Copyright 2015 Kendra Little

[email protected]

Visit Kendra at http://kendralittle.com

Created with Vellum

About LAW UNTO HIMSELF

Criminal lawyer, Adele Harvey, is having a bad day. Her parents are separating, her younger sister moves in with her baby, the client she thought was a woman turns out to be a man, and Ben Paxton, the guy she gave the bird to in the parking lot, is prosecuting. And he never loses.

Ben is a dozen mysteries wrapped in a sexy package. He's a billionaire yet he works as a prosecuting lawyer; he's new to the city, yet no one knows why he moved; he's hot yet he's single. Adele has her work cut out for her trying to solve his secrets and keep work separate from pleasure - not an easy task when she has to face Ben in the courtroom every day. To top it all off, it's up to her to prove her client is innocent of stealing sexually explicit artifacts.

WARNING: This fun novel contains a snarky heroine, bad language, some tame sex, a mystery, romance, Australian spelling, humour, and lawyers. If that doesn't sound like your cup of tea, don't read LAW UNTO HIMSELF. Otherwise, strap on for a fast-paced ride that will have you seeing the legal profession differently.

1

My father wouldn’t get off the couch if the house was burning, let alone have the energy for an affair. So when my mother called and announced, "Your father is cheating on me" I did the only thing a girl could do when confronted with this information. I laughed.

"No way. There must be some mistake," I said trying to cover up the laugh.

"It’s not a mistake. And it's not funny. I'm leaving him."

That got my attention. Through thirty-two years of mind-numbing conversations about football, cricket and TV, my mother had never once mentioned leaving my father. I often wondered how she lived with him. The most exciting thing I'd ever heard her say to him was "lift your feet" when she vacuumed near the couch. I'd always thought she was a saint for putting up with him. An annoying saint, but a saint nevertheless.

On the other hand, Dad probably rarely spoke to Mum because he didn't want to start something he couldn't stop. Mum's social life was a saga worthy of Days of Our Lives, only the juicy stuff never happened to her. Until now.

"Whoa, slow down." I checked my watch. "Can this wait? I have to go to work. I'm starting a new trial—"

"That's just typical of you, Adele. Deserting your mother in her hour of need. And for what? A job!"

"It's a job I worked hard to get. I studied at university for years, remember?"

She sniffed but I didn't fall for her Poor Me act. "I need you right now, Adele. Your father's leaving me."

"I thought you were leaving him."

"We haven't discussed the details yet."

I plopped down on my couch and kicked off my black court shoes. "I can give you ten minutes max." I'd get chewed out by Sandra, the barrister I was assisting, but I didn't want to get branded by my mother for being the Heartless Daughter. That title firmly belonged with my sister. "So who's he having an affair with?"

"Rita Malinowski."

"Your neighbour?"

"Yes. Can you believe it? He could have at least gone trawling for women somewhere else."

Dad go trawling for women? I couldn't imagine him making the effort. Although trawling did sound appropriate—his second favorite hobby after watching sports was fishing.

"I thought Mrs. Malinowski was married. Or is she leaving her husband too?"

"Widowed."

I thought I heard a sob but I must have been mistaken because Mum never cried. Besides, why would she cry over losing something as useless as my father? I mean, I loved him the way a girl was supposed to love her dad, but he was like hair on your legs—served no purpose but ignoring it never made it go away.

"She probably killed her husband," Mum said. "He died under suspicious circumstances. I don't remember what they were, but I do remember they were suspicious. How do you think your father would like that if he knew?"

I had no idea what my father thought about anything and that was the way I wanted to keep it, thank you. "So how do you know he's cheating on you with Mrs. Malinowski? Did he tell you?"

"Of course not. I saw them talking."

I sighed. "If that's all there is to your suspicions then I'm hanging up. I'm running late."

"Wait, there's more. They were leaning very close to each other. Intimate. Then last night he came home late and he smelled of perfume. Her perfume. I’d recognize that cheap stuff anywhere."

"What was his excuse for being late?"

"He was working."

Oh crap. He was lying. Dad's job at the factory didn't require him to work late, and if it did, he'd sick the union onto his superiors. Yep, that's my dad. Never believed in a hard day's work in his life except when it involved packing the boat with beer for a day's fishing.

I checked my watch again. "Mum, I really need to go. I'll get in trouble."

"All right, but promise me you'll come by and speak to him."

"No way. I want nothing to do with this."

"But he's your father."

"And he's your husband! Mum, I'm nearly thirty. I think it's about time you and Dad stood on your own two feet and stopped relying on Trace and me to smooth things over."

Mum tsked down the line. "I've never relied on that sister of yours for anything. She's trouble. Have you spoken to her recently?"

"No, and I have to go. Talk to Dad. Call you later." I hung up and breathed out a measured breath. If my parents didn't give me a heart condition by the time I was thirty, it would be a miracle.

I slipped on my shoes, tucked the stack of folders and papers on my desk under my left arm, picked up my briefcase and fumbled for the keys in the little tray on the hall table. I used feet, teeth and fingers to lock all the deadlocks on my apartment door without dropping anything, then started down the two flights of stairs.

I lived in an apartment complex built before elevators were invented. Every morning I told myself this was a good thing because I saved money on a gym membership.

On the ground floor, I performed the same amazing maneuvers on the front door, only to come face to face with someone who made me drop everything.

"Trace! What the fuck are you doing here? And who's that?"

The tall, curly haired blonde with a baby in her arms broke into a grin. "Nice to hear you swearing, Adele. Thought I'd go to the grave never hearing fuck come out of your perfect mouth."

"I'm late, Dad's cheating on Mum and you're on my doorstep carrying a baby. Does that paint the picture for you?"

"Dad's cheating on Mum?" A little crease formed between her heavily made-up eyes. Then the crease disappeared and she grinned again. "You had me for a minute. I nearly believed you."

I stared at the baby, a bad feeling congealing in the pit of my stomach. "Tell me that's not yours."

Trace smiled and jiggled the baby. "This is Mitchell and yes, he's mine."

A million questions popped into my head, like Why the hell didn't you tell us you were pregnant and who's the father but I figured I'd leave the third degree to Mum since she's so much better at it than me and I was late already.

So all I said was, "Cool" even though I thought having a kid was the dumbest thing my twenty-five year old sister had done and she had a history of doing really dumb things.

I pushed past her. "I have to go. If you want to talk, we'll grab something to eat later."

"Actually I want to do more than talk. I want to stay with you. We're kind of homeless."

Crap.

Half an hour later I drove into the parking lot reserved for judges, barristers, solicitors and other self-important people at Melbourne’s old County Court building on William Street. I'd given Trace the keys to the apartment, done a quick prayer to the Powers That Be that all my stuff would be there when I got home and in the condition I left it in, and drove as fast as I could—which equates to a sloth's pace in Melbourne's morning traffic—to get to work on time.

But a convertible BMW wanted the same parking space, which was understandable considering it was the only one left and the only other option was to park a block away at the place that charged as much as a down payment for a house. Since the guy in the BMW looked like he could afford it, I took the initiative and pressed my foot to the accelerator as he inched forward.

He honked his horn so I got out and flipped him the bird. I haven’t given someone the finger since Tommy Glass called me a nerd in high school, but today was not a good day to mess with Adele Harvey. I expected that to be the end of it, but he got out of his car.

Uh oh. He was well over six foot and even under his expensive suit I could tell he had shoulders like a football star.

"You saw me waiting," he said leaning against his car door. It was an arrogant stance, and I hate arrogant men. I've dated enough to know exactly what they're like.

I turned on my sweetest smile. The one I used when I needed to play up the innocent female angle. Being petite—five foot two—and blonde goes really well with this smile and most people, especially guys, fall for it. "Sorry, but I'm in a hurry. I'm running late. Got to be inside in," I checked my watch, "five minutes ago."

"You're not the only one running late." He wasn't falling for the smile, damn it.

I opened the back of my Civic and took out my files, folders and other paraphernalia I needed to nail the trial about to start without me. "You snooze you lose." I winced at how juvenile that sounded.

Too bad. I couldn't take it back because the Giant was staring at me as if I were a moron. Well, I was a lawyer, and everyone knew lawyers were a juvenile race and besides, petty name calling was what I did for a living. I just hoped the Giant wasn't someone important, like the presiding judge on my case. I gave him another once-over as he stared at me. His brows knitted and steam practically rose from his ears. He was too young to be a judge and I knew every trial solicitor and barrister in Melbourne so I figured he was no one I should worry about.

"Anyway," I went on, driving my advantage home the way they'd taught us in law school, "ladies first."

"You're a lady?" He laughed but I got the feeling from his murderous glare that he didn't find anything funny. "Sorry, but I didn't realize it when you gave me the finger."

Pompous ass. I stalked towards the building as I heard his brand spanking new convertible drive off. Score one for Adele Harvey. Maybe.

I tried to look cool, calm and collected as I pressed through the throng of criminals, lawyers, jurors and witnesses in the County Court. I searched the crowd for Sandra but my heart sank when I saw her scowling at her watch and huffing. Hopefully she just needed a cigarette and hadn't noticed how late I was. She looked up, saw me and mouthed, "I'm going to kill you."

She might as well kill me because my career would probably be over if she spread the word about my tardiness.

"Where the hell have you been?" she shouted without raising her voice. Somehow only Sandra Walpole could do that. "You were supposed to be here half an hour ago." I opened my mouth to give her the full story of my miserable life when she held up a hand and said, "Unless you were hit by a bus, I don't want to know about it."

I thought that was an apt description of my morning so far. A bus crash.

"Come on, let's get in there before they start without us," she said.

"But the brief..."

"I'll wing it. Feed me anything you think necessary as we go along."

If it wasn't Sandra Walpole saying that, I'd be worried. But she was one of the best barristers in town and I was an okay solicitor. We could wing it.

I followed her into the courtroom. Sandra was shorter than me by two inches, but five times the girth with the leathery skin of a lifetime smoker. She could be anywhere between forty and seventy and the rumor around the courts was she was a lesbian but no one had any evidence. Although Marcia Walker claimed Sandra had felt her up at my firm's—Winters and Freedman's—Christmas party last year. But Marcia Walker was desperate and probably made a pass at Sandra thinking she was her boss, David Krempitt. An easy mistake to make since Marcia was blind drunk and David and Sandra look alike. They're both short, round, have cropped gray hair and smell like a pub.

Sandra made her way past the handful of reporters and other interested onlookers towards our desk. With her full court outfit of wig and black robe billowing around her, she looked like a character out of Harry Potter. Everyone looked suitably impressed except for the hardnosed court reporters and the hardnosed criminals. Sometimes it was difficult to tell them apart.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I noticed the prosecution team hadn't arrived yet. Then again, maybe they were preparing their case like we should have been. I sat between Sandra and our client, Cleo Merino, who made me feel like a midget. Accused of possessing stolen antiques, the stunning and stylish woman of Amazonian proportions towered over everyone in her three inch heels. With a flick of her waist-length glossy black hair, Cleo claimed she didn't steal the antiques, her lover had. Ex lover. Problem was, we hadn't been able to locate him. Our case wasn't looking good, but we were working on it. We really needed to find that guy.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I swung round. Eddie MacIntyre's moon face was only inches from mine and I reeled back from the fleshy starkness as much as from his foul breath. Apart from being a pain in the ass, Eddie was a solicitor for the Office of Public Prosecutions. That was my equivalent but he worked for the good guys, only because he couldn't get a better paying job for one of the big firms. His job was to run around and find information to give to the prosecutor assigned to the trial, like my job was to run around and find information for the barrister for the Defence, in this case, Sandra. Our jobs were fairly crappy most of the time, but sometimes a juicy murder came up and made it all worthwhile. Besides, people like us hope to become people like Sandra one day so we can make other people do the crappy jobs while we order whatever we want from the Tiffany's catalogue without taking out a second mortgage.

"Ready to lose, Harvey?" Eddie sneered like he'd said something funny.

I had a million come back lines, like But how can I when I'm not on your team? or I'm earning three times as much as you, so who's the loser? but instead I said, "It's not a game," which just made me sound like a loser.

Eddie laughed and winked at me. If we weren't in a court of law, I'd stab his toe with the heel of my shoe.

Sandra leaned over me and I nearly gagged from the smell of stale cigarettes. "Who's the prosecutor?" she whispered as quietly as someone with a pack-a-day voice can. "LaSalle? Bonner?"

"New guy from Sydney. Paxton." Eddie checked his watch. "He's late. Maybe he got lost." He laughed all the way to his seat. Dork.

"Shit," Sandra muttered. "I've heard about Paxton."

"He's good?" I asked.

"Real hotshot with a reputation for working his team hard. Took on the Milsome case and won."

I remember the Milsome trial. Sydney murderer who looked like getting off because of a lack of evidence and police ineptitude but the prosecution managed to convince the jury of his guilt and he got life. Not bad for a young, newly appointed prosecutor.

"So why'd he move to Melbourne?"

Sandra shrugged. "Who knows? A woman. A man. The weather."

"All rise," said the clerk as the judge entered. The room rustled as everyone stood.

"Maybe it's the sunny disposition of the Melbourne people," Sandra muttered. "What I do know is, he's in deep shit because Judge Judy up there hates tardiness."

Judge Judy was the nickname for Judge Donelli, the grouchiest judge on the circuit. Today she looked as humorless as always in a navy blue suit and slick-backed hair.

She scanned the courtroom as if she were God looking down on creation. Her gaze stopped at the prosecution's bench. "Where's Mr. Paxton?"

Eddie stood. "Ah, he should be here soon, Your Honor."

"Soon? Soon is not good enough, Mr. MacIntyre." She glanced at the door but it didn't move. "We'll give him five more minutes."

Five minutes ticked by slowly because no one dared speak while Judge Donelli presided. Just as the big hand clicked over to the five, the door at the back of the court swung open. Everyone turned around and a collective sigh of relief filled the room as a tall, wigged and robed figure entered.

I didn't contribute to the sigh. My reaction was more like oh shit as I sank into my seat. Mr. Paxton was the man I'd given the finger to in the parking lot. And he looked pissed off.

He bowed stiffly to the judge. "Sorry, Your Honor, I couldn't find a parking space."

Judge Donelli leaned forward. "In future, get here earlier before they're all taken, Mr. Paxton."

Mr. Paxton looked like he couldn't care less that he'd just been ticked off as he sat down. As I tried to hide behind Cleo to prolong Paxton's recognition of me, I wondered how a government employee—admittedly a well paid prosecutor, but still a civil servant—could afford a new convertible BMW. Maybe he was in debt to his eyeballs or maybe he was just crooked. Nothing in the legal world surprised me anymore.

I tuned in as the charges against Cleo were read out, followed by the opening statements. Paxton in action was an impressive sight. He was good. Confident but not so much that the jury would dislike him. But Sandra was just as good, and everyone knew that female barristers often got the verdict they wanted, merely because the jury believed women over men. Go figure. Personally, I wouldn't trust lawyers of either gender.

But Bentley Paxton—Sandra whispered his name to me and I tried not to laugh—dominated the room. With his height and deep voice, he commanded attention. And he got it. Even the press appeared to be listening to him. I, on the other hand, concentrated more on avoiding eye contact with him than listening to what he actually said. Whenever he looked in our direction, I dipped my head and pretended to read something. He didn't make any sign that he recognized me, not even a slight change in his tone. Oh yeah, he was good. No wonder he had a reputation that reached all the way from Sydney.

Hero desc this para I had to admit he was also handsome in the tall, dark, mysterious way. Which, let's face it, is the best way. Lashes that were a waste on a man framed dark brown eyes defying anyone in the courtroom to challenge him. His smooth olive skin stretched over high, regal cheekbones with only a hint of lines around the sharp edges of his mouth. It was as if the wrinkles didn’t dare settle on such a formidable human being.

Definitely HOT. Pity he already hated me.

Thinking about that got me thinking about the crappy morning I'd had. My parents were divorcing after thirty-two years of marriage, my crazy sister turned up on my doorstep with a baby and the guy I gave the bird to is prosecuting my client and has a reputation not only for winning but for squishing solicitors with his little toe, according to Sandra. What else could go wrong with my life?

The opening speeches completed, we were about to call our first witness, when Bentley stood up. "Objection," he said.

"Mr. Paxton, I know you're from Sydney and they do things differently up there," said Judge Donelli as the court sniggered, "but here in Melbourne, you can't object before the first witness has been called."

"This is an unusual circumstance, Your Honor. You see, my learned friends," he glanced at us and smiled jubilantly, "haven't done their homework. Cleo Merino isn't who she claims to be."

"Then who is she?" asked the Judge amidst mutterings, mostly coming from our bench.

"She's a he. Leo Merino."

Uh oh.

"And in 2009 Leo Merino was charged with receiving stolen goods."

Oh Fuck.

2

And there it was. The nail in the coffin. If I was wearing waterproof mascara I'd be crying. My life was officially crap because Sandra would chew me out first opportunity she got. I could already feel her glare boring a hole into the back of my head. Even worse, I'd be the laughing stock around the legal precinct. All because I didn't know my client was a man. A man! I mean it's not like I checked under his Prada skirt for any dangly bits when he walked into my office.

I somehow managed not to sink into my chair although my heart did enough sinking of its own. What made everything so much worse was that pompous assed prosecutor smiling at me as if he'd already won.

But no way was I going to lose because of a gender technicality. And neither was Sandra. We made a formidable team. Problem was, Sandra probably hated my guts right now for letting her down.

The Judge called Bentley and Sandra to the bench then announced a recess "so the defence can sort out who they're representing."

We went immediately into a room down the hall and shut the door.

Sandra turned to me. "Why the fuck didn't you know?"

I turned to Cleo. Or Leo. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me?"

She shrugged. "I forget sometimes."

You forget that you piss through a penis? I wanted to scream, but thought that wasn't a very sympathetic thing to say to a gender-challenged person. Instead I gave her, I mean him, a reassuring smile and said, "Don't worry, we'll work something out."

"What about this previous charge?" asked Sandra, fidgeting with the cuff of her robe and scowling up at Leo. She looked like she'd self-combust if she didn't light up a cigarette soon.

"I got off. I didn't think it was relevant. Besides, I just want to put that episode behind me."

"The charge?"

"No, the whole man thing." He flicked his hair in a way that would have most heterosexual guys melting at the knees. I could learn a thing or two from Leo since I hadn't made a man weak at the knees in... How long was it now? About a year, I think. Great, another crappy thing to add to my growing list—no sex in a year.

"Tell us all about it." Sandra crossed her arms. "The charge, not your sexual preferences." She nodded at me which I took to mean I should take notes.

Half an hour later, we had the details of the charge. Leo claimed he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He ran an art gallery and unknowingly bought two stolen paintings. The police disagreed over the unknowingly part and arrested him. Except the victim, an art dealer from another gallery, later withdrew the charge of theft so the paintings then became un-stolen. No one knew why he changed his mind. I guess some people just misplace things. Or maybe they know how to generate publicity.

Anyway, Leo got off, became a woman and started dating a string of wealthy and interesting men, culminating in the mysterious Mr. Ascot, last seen lunching in Lygon Street with my client.

The rest of the day went without any more major surprises, thank God. I also managed to avoid Bentley Paxton until six o'clock.

After a short briefing with Sandra, I headed for The Wig and Gavel on Collins Street. I considered going home to face my sister, her baby and my parents, but I just couldn't cope with more drama without alcoholic reinforcement.

Packed with solicitors and barristers, The Wig was standing room only. I headed straight for the bar—I needed a margarita after the day I'd had—saying hi to everyone I knew, which was just about the entire room, while avoiding two solicitors and a barrister I'd had the misfortune to date. As I dodged and ducked, someone standing at the bar suddenly turned and walked right into me, spilling the contents of four drinks down the front of my jacket.

"Hey!" I said, brushing beer off my lapels but only managing to spread it. "Watch where you're going!"

"Actually, you were the one who wasn't watching where you were going," said a voice as thick and rich as liquid chocolate. The same voice I'd been listening to all day.

I looked up into the fathomless eyes of Bentley Paxton, prosecutor. And he looked like a man who'd just wasted four beers.

"Oh, hi, Bentley," I said, hoping he'd forgotten about the parking incident this morning. "Let me buy you another round of drinks. Four beers?"

I didn't think the spillage was entirely my fault—he's tall, he should be able to see trouble coming from a mile away in a crowded bar—but I didn't want him to hate me. I like to be liked. It's a neurosis of mine—one of many so my sister tells me. Anyway, I wanted to explain the circumstances leading up to the rude gesture I'd given him in the parking lot. Maybe he'd be more sympathetic once he knew what a disaster my family was.

He scowled down at me. Or maybe not.

"Four beers," he said, "and call me Ben."

Glad to, because Bentley was hard to say without laughing. It was the sort of name that belonged to the landed gentry depicted in nineteenth century oil paintings with riding crop, funny pants, hounds at his feet and Georgian mansion in the background.

Ben waited behind me while I ordered the beers and my margarita. When the barman laid them out on the bar, Ben scooped up the beers in his bear-sized hands and disappeared into the crowd while I paid. Looked like I wouldn't get a chance to explain my day after all. And looked like Mr. Paxton's the jerk I originally thought he was when I first saw him in his BMW. Too bad he was such a hottie. What a waste.

Sighing, I took my margarita off to a table in the back corner where Lena and Allan, solicitors from my firm, sat chatting.

"It's about time," said Allan, looking up from Lena's cleavage. "We've been waiting for ages."

"Sorry, I got caught up with Sandra. We had a few points to go through."

"Like whether your client will be going to a men's or women's jail?" said Lena, giggling behind her hand.

"So you heard," I said on a groan.

"It was doing the rounds of the office before lunch."

I swallowed half my margarita, slumped back into my chair and looked woefully at my two best friends. "My reputation is toast."

Lena, sweet, lovely, well-endowed Lena, patted my hand. "Never mind. It'll all blow over soon." She smiled and I wished I could be more like her. Caring and generous, Lena never put herself above anyone else. Her personality was deceiving however. She was one of the most ruthless lawyers in Melbourne.

"Don't worry," said Allan, "I hear McDonald's is hiring." Allan was the complete opposite to Lena. Loud, brash but a hell of a lot of fun after a few drinks. The three of us had attended law school together and ended up at the same firm after graduation. No matter how busy we got, we never failed to meet up at least once a week for a drink. Sometimes it was every night. I had a feeling it was going to be an every night kind of week.

"You'll be fine," said Lena, giving Allan her best scowl, which was pretty pathetic since Lena was too nice to have perfected it. "Sandra will chew you out, so will McCarthy and that'll be the end of it."

Except Frank McCarthy, my boss, was a nasty bastard who got off on making his team feel inferior. I decided to avoid the office for a while.

"I hear you're up against Action Paxton," said Lena, staring past my shoulder.

I spun round and found myself looking at Ben Paxton. Unfortunately he took that exact moment to look up and stare right back. Damn, now he knew I was talking about him. His ego didn’t need the extra boost.

"He's gorgeous," said Lena, leaning closer to me.

"He's not that great," said Allan, thumping his beer on the table, spilling some of it. Allan's got a complex about good looking men because he's not one of them. Balding, slightly tubby, he was hardly a great catch, but he would make some woman very happy one day, if he ever got around to dating one. "And I hear he's an asshole."

"Amen to that," I said lifting my glass in salute.

"Ooh, details," said Lena. "What did he do?"

"He..." But for the life of me, I couldn't think what he'd done. I'd given him the finger, I'd taken the parking space which he got to first, and I sort of wasn't looking where I was going when I wore his beers. "He just is," I said. "He drives a new BMW. Convertible." Ha, take that, Mr. Paxton. I glanced over my shoulder again but he wasn't looking my way anymore. For some reason I couldn't explain, that annoyed me.

"Family money," said Allan. "I hear they're loaded."

"That doesn't make it right," I said. In fact, it made it worse. If there was one type of person I couldn't stand it was those who got everything given to them on a platter because of who their relatives were. Me, I had to work hard. I'm the first, and only, one in my entire extended family who ever went to university. I have the gene pool equivalent to many losers I've defended and yet I own my own apartment, a car and a wardrobe full of sensible shoes. The only thing ever handed to me on a platter was a bout of chicken pox in third grade, courtesy of our neighbor Rhonda Williams. When Mum found out Rhonda had a contagious disease she sent Trace and me around to play with her so we'd catch it. She claimed it was better for us to get it as children. I thought it was better we didn't get it at all.

Lena got up to order another round of drinks but Allan put his hand on her arm and she sat down.

"My turn," he said, looking down at her chest again. What was with him? Since when did he notice Lena was a woman? He'd never shown any interest in either of us, even back in university, but now he couldn't take his eyes off Lena's rack. Admittedly she had a good pair, actually a great pair, but he'd never looked below her neck line before.

"Make mine a Coke," said Lena and I seconded that. Although I wanted to numb the pain that was my family, I didn't think it was worth killing myself over them on the drive home.

Allan got up and I waited until he'd disappeared into the crowd before I leaned forward and said, "What's with him?"

"Huh?" Lena glanced around as if wondering who I was speaking about. She was sharp as a tack in the courtroom, but boy, could she do the dumb blonde thing well.

"Allan. He keeps looking at your breasts."

"Does he?" She hiked up her top which only made her boobs jiggle. "I didn't notice."

"How could you not? He's been staring at them all night. What I want to know is, why."

"Why?" She shrugged. "Because he's male. They have magnets in their necks that are attracted to breasts." Spoken like a woman used to having men look at her cleavage. Mind you, the one and only time I mentioned she might want to cover up her assets she looked at me like she felt sorry for me and my B cups.

"Yeah, but he's always been male and he's never noticed them before."

"It probably has something to do with Eddie," she said.

"MacIntyre? From the OPP? What's that little jerk got to do with anything?" I turned around to look at Eddie who was sitting with Ben, and got sprung by both men. Ben turned quickly away but Eddie leered and waved. Damn, now they both thought I wanted them.

"Eddie's been telling everyone they're fake. Which they're not."

"Why would Eddie say something like that?"

"Because I dumped him."

Whoa. Rewind. "You were going out with Eddie MacIntyre? Since when?"

"Just twice." Lena shrugged as if it were nothing. "And we weren't exactly going out. It was just sex."

"You had sex with Eddie MacIntyre?" I made a face but refrained from saying Eeeewwww because Lena's my friend and I'd hate to offend her.

"Yeah, it was pretty bad," she said with a giggle. "We did it in his office. The first time he took about five seconds and the second time he jabbed himself in the butt with a pencil."

"On purpose?" The mind boggled at that one. But it wouldn't surprise me if Eddie had strange sexual turn-ons.

"No! We were having sex on the desk and he rolled over onto a pencil. He needed three stitches."

I mentally stored that information away for a later date when I could use it against him. "So why didn't you tell me this earlier?"

Lena rested her elbows on the desk and sighed. "Because you think I'm a good girl and I didn't want to spoil your illusion of me."

"When did you decide to become a bad girl?"

"March."

Now it made sense. March was when Luke Freedman dumped her. Lena had been totally in love with the firm's partner who had the misfortune to be married. After a six-month affair, he decided to stay with his anorexic wife and Lena had been depressed for months. And Lena was never depressed. I'd wanted to shake her out of it, but she just wallowed in self-pity. At least now I had proof she was over it. Although I didn't know if having sex with Eddie MacIntyre was a good rebound choice.

Allan made his way back through the crowd with the drinks. When he sat down, he took up his beer and settled back into his latest hobby—ogling Lena's cleavage. She didn't seem to mind so I pretended not to notice. I also pretended not to wish a man would stare at my cleavage once in a while because it's not the politically correct thing for a career girl to desire.

Fifteen minutes later I'd caught up on all the day's office gossip and downed my Coke. "I have to go," I said. "Family crisis."

"Again?" said Lena. "What is it this time?"

I waved my hand and said, "I'll go into it another time." I kissed them both on the cheek and forged a path through the crowd. Unfortunately I had to pass Ben and Eddie's table to get to the door. I thought about poking my tongue out at the back of Ben's head but I'd done enough juvenile things for the day and I couldn't think of a good enough reason to dislike him. Snubbing me at the bar earlier was close, but I had spilled his beer and beer was sacred to Aussie men.

Just as I passed them, a hand struck out and grabbed my wrist. It was sweaty and fleshy so I knew without turning around that it was Eddie's.

"Excuse me," I hissed, "but can I get through?"

"In a minute," he said, not letting go. "So what did you think of today's proceedings?"

I snatched my hand away and accidentally thumped Ben in the arm. "Sorry."

"Don't mention it," he said laconically.

"Well?" asked Eddie.

"I thought it went okay," I said, moving away. Eddie had drunk a few too many and I wasn't keen to engage him in conversation. He was obnoxious enough when sober.

"Okay?" He laughed and a drop of saliva shot out of his mouth, narrowly missing me. "You found out your client is a man and he has a criminal charge."

"Dropped. And Winters and Freedman are not gender biased. We represent both men, women and the undecided."

"Sandra handled it well," said Ben.

I turned to him. "She's good."

"So I hear."

"Join us for a drink," said Eddie, patting the seat next to him. "Ben's buying."

"No thanks. Gotta go." I made to walk off, but Eddie grabbed my wrist again. This time he held it so hard I couldn't snatch it out. "Hey, let go!"

"C'mon, just one drink." He leaned closer and I nearly gagged on the smell of beer and cigarettes on his breath.

"Not now, Eddie, I have to go." I kept my voice deliberately polite even though I was running seriously low on that commodity.

"Okay, when?"

"When you learn to be nice. So I guess not in this lifetime."

I heard a rumble of laughter but it wasn't Eddie's. I turned to see Ben smiling at me. The last thread of my patience snapped. "What's so funny?"

Ben held up his hands in surrender. "Nothing."

"Well, it better be nothing," I poked him in the shoulder, "because I've had enough of you two."

"A little tense, aren't you?"

"That's because she's not used to losing," said Eddie still holding my wrist.

"Really?" Ben grinned. "That sounds like a challenge."

"You would take it that way," I said.

He leaned towards me and I could smell his aftershave. Subtle, woodsy, yummy. "Why's that?"

"Because you're pissed I took your parking space this morning."

He sat back. "I was there first."

"You were taking too long to park. If you weren't so worried about scratching that pretentious car, you'd have beat me to it." I tried to snatch my hand away but Eddie still held it firmly. "If you don't let me go, you little weasel, I'll scream my head off."

"Let her go," said Ben, his voice hard and flat. It was the voice of a man used to getting his way. If he spoke to me in that commanding tone, I wouldn't dare disobey. Eddie’s fingers sprang open and I was free.

"See you tomorrow," I said breezily, feeling anything but. Ben had ruffled me, partly with that voice, but mostly from his mere presence. Even sitting down, he was big, powerful, and I felt like an autumn leaf under his shoe. Crushable.

"Yeah," he said, "I can't wait."

I had no idea whether he meant it or not. Probably not, considering our relationship so far consisted of rude gestures, petty arguments and a beer-wasting collision.

I left The Wig and Gavel and headed back to my car. The streetlights were on although it wasn't quite dark, and people still bustled about. I pulled my jacket closer to keep out the stiff November wind but it didn't offer much protection so I walked faster. Melbourne's weather was a bit of a national joke with its four seasons in one day, and November could be the worst month to predict. The morning could be scorching hot, encouraging everyone to wear sexy little tops, but by the afternoon you could be freezing your ass off. I always carried a jacket and kept an umbrella in my briefcase regardless of what the weathergirl said.

My car was waiting where I'd left it in the old County Court parking lot and I jumped in and turned on the heater. The Civic didn’t have the most efficient system so the temperature wouldn't change until I reached home.

Peak hour was over and the traffic flowed easily, which was why I often stopped for a drink at The Wig. Okay, it wasn't the real reason, but it worked on my mother if she asked where I'd been. It only took ten minutes to reach my St Kilda apartment, and another ten minutes passed before I got out of the car. Facing Trace seemed a little too hard right now with the trial and Ben still occupying my head.

With a sigh, I hauled my files out of the Civic and up the two flights of stairs to my door. I heard a baby crying on the other side and seriously considered turning around and heading back to my car. But I needed to face her sometime so it might as well be now.

Besides, my sister was not driving me out of my apartment. Not this time.

"Hey, Trace," I said.

She sat on my couch, thumping Mitchell's back as the baby rested against her shoulder. He was still mewling, a bit like an alley cat only less tuneful.

"Hi. Good day?" she asked.

"No. You?"

"No. Mum called, I answered. She gave me the third degree. I think she's coming over soon."

I slumped into the armchair and groaned. "Why did you answer the phone?"

"Sorry. I didn't know it was her. You need caller ID."

"I need to move interstate." I kicked off my shoes and wiggled my stockinged toes. "Did you tell her about him?" I nodded at Mitchell.

"Not yet. I thought it could be a surprise."

"Oh, I think it will be."

Trace chewed her lip as she thumped Mitchell's back. I didn't know if the baby liked it because he kept grizzling but he didn't scream so I guess he didn't find it as annoying as I would.

"She needs to get used to the fact that her daughters don't always do things the way she'd like," said Trace.

"Daughter. Singular. I pretty much toe the family line."

"Except you're nearly thirty and not married."

"At least I'm not an unwed mother at twenty-five."

Trace grinned. "Want a hold?"

"No! And should you be thumping him like that? He's so tiny."

"They told me to at the hospital. He's got wind."

I got up and crossed the tiny room to the kitchenette. "So who's the father?"

"No one you know," said Trace tightly and I knew that was all I'd get out of her.

But I persisted anyway. "Is he going to contribute to Mitchell's upbringing? Financially? Emotionally?"

"No," said Trace as Mitchell projectile vomited onto my couch. "Sorry, I'll clean it up."

"Wow, my sister offering to clean something up. Motherhood has mellowed you."

She shrugged. "I suppose I can't be a hell raiser forever." She turned, a grin lighting up her pretty features. "But it was fun while it lasted. I had Mum and Dad freaked for a while."

"Not Dad. Nothing freaks out Dad. Except when the Blues lose a game." I looked at Mitchell as he settled into his mother's arms, content now that he'd thrown up all over my couch. "Although this might come close."

Trace's face softened as she looked at Mitchell. Her son had the same pale skin as her but his hair was dark, not blonde and his eyes, when they were open, were not as wide and imploring as my sister's.

"He's beautiful isn't he?" she said on a breath.

I placed a glass of orange juice on the coffee table in front of her and sipped from mine. "Yeah. Cute." Although he'd be cuter if I knew how long he was staying in my apartment.

"Sure you don't want a hold?"

"No thanks. Maybe later." Or maybe not. I'd never picked up a baby and didn't intend to until I had my own. Which at the rate I was going would be never unless I did what Trace did and have one out of wedlock. The idea appealed to me even less than cleaning up the baby sick on my couch.

Trace laughed. It was her old, carefree laugh, as if she had nothing to worry about. Maybe it's true what they say—the less possessions you have, the happier you are. Trace had nothing, except a beat-up old Toyota and Mitchell, and here she was, sitting on my couch without a care in the world. Then again, that had always been Trace. Getting into trouble and leaving me to clean up the mess. I hoped Mitchell wouldn't turn out to be another mess. I didn't know what to do with a baby.

We both watched as Mitchell drifted to sleep in Trace's arms, content with his lot in life and not knowing how much of a ditz his mom could be. It made me sleepy just watching him and I think I closed my eyes for a second but the buzzing intercom snapped me awake.

"Shit," said Trace. "That'll be Mum." She glanced around the apartment as if looking for a place to hide but with only one bedroom and a bathroom leading off from the lounge, there was nowhere to go.

I got up to get the door but Trace grabbed my sleeve as I passed, stopping me mid-stride. "If she gives me a hard time," she said, "I'm out of here."

"Don't worry, I'll keep her under control." Yep, that was me, I realized as I buzzed Mum up. The family mediator. Trace never could communicate with Mum or Dad without yelling, and Mum and Dad never could communicate with each other at all. I was the one who took care of everything. Just for once, it'd be nice to say "stuff you" to all of them and see what happened. Maybe they'd work out their differences on their own.

Yeah right. And maybe there'd be world peace.

3

When I opened the door to let Mum in I got the surprise of my life. Dad was with her. Apparently there was no sport on TV tonight. Or maybe he was feeling guilty about something.

Oh.

"Where is she?" Mum steamrolled past me in a multi-colored dress followed closely by the over-powering smell of Jasmine, a scent she'd worn for as long as I could remember.

"Hi," said Dad, giving me a kiss on the cheek. "How's work?"

"Busy," I said, "I started a new trial—"

"Oh my God!" my mother screamed. "Trace! What have you gone and done!"

Dad looked at me and I grimaced. "Brace yourself."

He sighed and looked grim in a resigned kind of way. I guess he was used to Trace's antics. We all were. Ever since she got arrested for exposing herself in a public place, we expected the worst whenever we heard from her. But I'm not sure if Dad was ready to be a grandfather.

I followed him into the lounge room and nearly slammed into his back when he stopped suddenly. "Jesus," he said. Then he sighed again. "It's yours, isn't it Trace." It wasn't even a question, that's how well my dad knew his youngest daughter.

"He's a he, Dad, not an it." Trace stood and held up the sleeping baby for them to see. "And his name's Mitchell."

Mum's face turned white so I took her elbow and steered her to the nearest chair. She sat heavily, never taking her eyes off Mitchell. "What have you done?" she whispered, pressing her hand to her chest.

"Would you rather be called Nanna or Grandma?" asked Trace, eyes wide and an innocent smile in place.

I rolled my eyes. "Trace, you're not helping."

"If she's going to lecture me—"

"I'm not going to lecture you," said Mum, colour returning to her cheeks, "I'm going to tell you how stupid you are. Do you realize how difficult it is for single mothers? I assume you are still single, or did you get married in the last year and not tell us that either?"

"I'm not married." Trace hugged Mitchell to her. "And before you ask, the father is not part of the picture. It's just me and Mitchell."

"Do you even know who the father is?" asked Mum.

"Of course! I'm not a slut."

Yeah, right. As if we’d fall for that.