Chapter Nine
Uncivil Action
The offices of Ullman Tweed should have sprung for better lighting. Dane rubbed his eyes with his fists. What with the money they were taking in hand over fist from generous juries, they could have at least picked up one incandescent bulb at the Home Depot. It’s not like future juries would be any less eager to stick it to the big pharmaceutical and insurance companies Tweed’s firm was known for attacking. The money fire hydrant wasn’t drying up anytime soon.
Meanwhile, that bluish-white flicker was shortening his lifespan.
“Sun ray lamp. Sun ray lamp.” Dane muttered as he typed in the online search terms. Sure, he should have been analyzing depositions for arguments in Ballard v. Insura-Care, but Superman needed a yellow sun. Didn’t the rat-maze overlords here expect every associate to be super? If not, where had hundred-hour work weeks come from?
He took a bite of the stale ham sandwich he’d left on the corner of his desk. Vonda came in and dropped yet another stack of files dead center in front of him. Mm. Another pile of files for an after-dinner feast.
“Hey, Mr. Rockwell?” Vonda lingered at his cubicle since he wasn’t anywhere near having a private office yet. “You need anything else? I’m heading out. It’s eight.”
Eight o’clock already? He glanced over the top of the dividers to the only windows in the room, and they were dark.
If this Ballard case went right, maybe the partners would pony up an office for him. With a window.
A guy could dream.
“Nope. I’m all set. Just me and Insura-Care cozying up for the evening.” He patted the sickeningly tall pile of paperwork. “We might rent a Redbox and order in Chinese to get our romance fired up.”
Vonda giggled at this. She must be as tired as his joke. “Lucky Insura-Care.”
The to-be-read side of the piles was still taller than the already-read side. Dane would stay only until the balance tipped. Then he’d go home, tackle the rest tomorrow after the hearing— and Brooke.
The party of the first part…
It got a little fuzzy, but a bite of dry ham sandwich got him focused again.
The correspondence issued and dated May 4…
Yeah, this one was going to be pretty easy, once it went to court. The attorney pool could highlight the deeply buried fact that Insura-Care’s contract stated coverage for pre-existing skin conditions, and Ballard’s doctor defined his psoriasis as pre-existing.
Piece of cake.
He turned to his open computer file and started typing up verbiage for possible arguments while the hour hand on the clock slid farther and farther north.
He didn’t look up until a soft hand rested on his shoulder and a female voice said, “Well, if it isn’t Rockwell.” A long, lean arm dangled across his chest, toying with his tie and constricting his breath. “I bet you do rock well.” She spun his chair around to face her, and Dane looked up.
“Mrs. Jackson. What are you doing here this time of night?” Tweed’s partner’s wife— trophy wife— was tugging her bleached hair out of its fastener, shaking it onto her shoulders. Dane’s mouth desiccated. He looked around. Where was everyone? Where was anyone?
“The same could be asked of you, Rockwell.” She murmured and leaned over, her breath booze-saturated and her blouse a button too open. “Why are you working when you could be playing?” She got closer and nuzzled his neck.
“Mrs. Jackson,” Dane began, his teeth on edge. He scooted backward in his chair, but the desk prevented any further distance. “Wow. This is a lot of attention. You sure you’re thinking clearly?” Obviously, she wasn’t, or she wouldn’t be hitting on her husband’s employee.
“I always do my best thinking in one-on-one situations.”
One-on-one? Was he the only idiot still on the treadmill at this hour? His eyes shot to the clock. Twelve thirty-eight. Guh. He needed a cold drink of water, a hot shower, and a shave. Not a come-on from a woman ten years his senior and ten blood-alcohol-content points too high.
“Mrs. Jackson, uh—”
She wasn’t listening. She sat on his desk, flipping the back strap of her sandal down and sliding her black stocking over her knee. He gulped. Did women still wear stockings? Dane hadn’t seen women his age wear them in years. “I think you’d better go find a safe place to sleep off the buzz.”
“Only if you help me find it.”
Oh, no. No way. Not for all the millions of dollars he’d shoveled into the Tweed Law coffers.
He tried a soft smile of condolence. “Heh-heh. I’m probably not your guy tonight, Mrs. Jackson.” He emphasized the Missus.
“Call me sugar mama.” She reached out and grasped his necktie, giving it a tug toward her and yanking Dane up out of his seat. In two seconds, her lips were on his, and he was struggling against her, gasping for breath but only getting mouthfuls of her foul exhales. The further back he stretched, the stronger she gripped his necktie and the more she pressed her over-processed body against his torso.
“Mrs. Jackson,” he repeated. “Mrs. Jackson!”
“That’s Ms. Jackson, if you’re nasty.”
Ugh. Now she was quoting ’80s pop songs? He hadn’t thought it was possible for her to become even less attractive, but in that moment she had.
“You’re missing out on the best experiences in life, Rockwell.” She made another suggestive joke about his name, one he refused to mentally process.
Dane had had enough. “Look. I’m not your guy.” He disengaged her fingers from his tie, but she entwined them in his own and pulled them up to kiss his knuckles, drooling a little. Nothing more repulsive than a sloppy drunk.
“Oh, but I think you are. And I’m used to getting what I want.”
“Your husband is my boss. I’m not going to disrespect him like that.”
“Oh, but you’ll disrespect me?”
Okay, whose rights were being disrespected here? “I just want to do my job.”
“Right now, I’m your boss, and I’m telling you what your job is.”
Nuh-uh. She did not just say that. Dane jerked his hand away from hers, and then pushed her off him. She landed with a thunk and half-spun in his office chair.
“Playing hard to get. I like that,” she cooed.
“It’s not playing.” He wasn’t smiling now. “You’re a nice person, I’m sure.” Not. “But I’m leaving. Go home. To your husband.”
Hard to get? Ha. He wasn’t someone she could get, even had she been sober or fifteen years younger. Besides, that woman was no Brooke Chadwick.
He practically ran out of the building. The glass door’s heft swung fast and hit his spine and backside as he exited. He knew he left Ballard v. Insura-Care files lay scattered and open on his desk; that was a security risk, but the nasty Mrs. Jackson had put his personal and job security at an even greater risk.
The nerve of that woman. With every step on the concrete he got madder. As he crossed the entrance to an alley, the crunch of gravel under his shoes was like percussion for his anger.
What kind of woman— ?
What kind of wife— ?
What kind of jerk— ?
His blood churned as he stomped down the deserted sidewalk, the smell of an all-night coffee shop hitting him like a wave as he passed.
It wasn’t like he could report it to HR. She wasn’t an employee of the firm. Yeah, it was sexual harassment, but he’d look like a loser if he made a big deal about it. In this day and age, men didn’t turn away aggressive women, they soaked them up, took what they could get. Some men, anyway. Not Dane.
The smell of an all-night coffee shop hit him in a wave.
He was no dummy. The situation left him vulnerable. She could forget the whole incident once she’d sobered up, and Dane would be fine. He’d forget it, too. Or she could get vindictive, which could make her say anything about it to anyone, depending on how mad she was. Or how crazy. She could invent any lie, to any degree. Hell hath no fury, and all that.
Dane walked faster, shoving his hands in his pockets. A thousand what-ifs pinged in his brain. Even though it was nearly one in the morning, he knew he’d be getting no sleep tonight.
He cursed under his breath. This was bad. Really bad.