trip from Williamsburg to Virginia Beach. She had finals coming up and the trip to England. It was not a good time.
“Thanks for the offer, Brad. But I just can’t . . . I don’t have time.” She looked down at her food; it had not moved. “I promised myself I would study abroad this summer, then slow down some my third year and enjoy law school. I just . . . I don’t know . . .”
Her voice trailed off, and she knew she had left the door open, cracked ever so slightly. It was not part of the plan.
Brad apparently sensed it too. “Law school will always be there. England can wait. But this case—” He paused. “A case like this comes around once, maybe twice, in a lifetime. Don’t you see it? The moot court argument. Sarah Reed just walking into my office on another matter. It’s destiny, Leslie. You can’t say no to destiny.”
Brad was playing hardball, but Leslie had steeled herself. Sure, she would like nothing more than to work on a potentially groundbreaking case. But she had already decided. She had other plans. Plans that had been two years in the making. Plans that would cause less pain than working on a case for another widow—a case that would remind her every step of the way of the devastating loss of her own husband. And she couldn’t throw out her plans just because some irresistible man across a lunch table asked her to.
Could she?
“Okay,” she said, stunned by her own words. “But I’m worth at least fifty an hour.”
Brad smiled broadly, white teeth flashing, and lifted his tea glass for a toast.
“Deal,” he said. “You can start Monday.”
Leslie touched his glass gingerly with her own, convinced she had just made a huge mistake.
* * *
The driver of the large rig had been at it for twenty-two straight hours. His logs would say differently, of course, so that his company would not be cited for violating FTC regulations. The money was good, but he was getting too old for this. He would dump his load at the depot on Military Highway, then push on through to a rest area outside Richmond.
It was warm for an April night, so he kept his windows down. The fresh air would help keep him awake, keep the heavy eyelids open, and might even help him shake off those brews he had thrown down at the truck stop in Suffolk. He was pretty sure he had stopped after two or three, nothing he couldn’t handle, nothing he hadn’t handled before.
Blasts from a car horn stunned him awake. He jerked his head up just in time to see the driver of the car, wide-eyed, looking out the driver’s side window in horror at the truck careening toward him . . . felt a jolt, heard the surreal sound of shattering glass and smashing metal and the sickening thud of a car under the truck chassis.
* * *
Nikki Moreno heard it on her police scanner. A bad accident, possible fatality, at the intersection of Military Highway and Battlefield Boulevard—less than four blocks away. With any luck, she could beat the police to the scene.
She wasn’t dressed for this. It was Friday night, and she had gone straight from the beach to the parties. She was wearing shorts, a bikini top, and sandals. It would have to do.
She reached under the seat and pulled out a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. She made a mental note to replenish her stock. You never knew when opportunity might knock.
“Hang in there, pal, you’ve got to pull through,” she mumbled to herself as she gunned the engine. “You’re never worth as much dead.”
8
EVEN BELLA HAD TO ADMIT the case sounded good. The caller was Ralph Johnson, who had first come to Brad five years ago after losing two fingers in a saber-saw accident. Bella remembered how Brad had parlayed those two fingers into a nifty structured settlement with a total payout of more than $150,000. After Brad took his third, Johnson would have had enough for a down payment on a new home. In his euphoria, and without even consulting his wife, Ralph decided to get a new pickup,
“Thanks for the offer, Brad. But I just can’t . . . I don’t have time.” She looked down at her food; it had not moved. “I promised myself I would study abroad this summer, then slow down some my third year and enjoy law school. I just . . . I don’t know . . .”
Her voice trailed off, and she knew she had left the door open, cracked ever so slightly. It was not part of the plan.
Brad apparently sensed it too. “Law school will always be there. England can wait. But this case—” He paused. “A case like this comes around once, maybe twice, in a lifetime. Don’t you see it? The moot court argument. Sarah Reed just walking into my office on another matter. It’s destiny, Leslie. You can’t say no to destiny.”
Brad was playing hardball, but Leslie had steeled herself. Sure, she would like nothing more than to work on a potentially groundbreaking case. But she had already decided. She had other plans. Plans that had been two years in the making. Plans that would cause less pain than working on a case for another widow—a case that would remind her every step of the way of the devastating loss of her own husband. And she couldn’t throw out her plans just because some irresistible man across a lunch table asked her to.
Could she?
“Okay,” she said, stunned by her own words. “But I’m worth at least fifty an hour.”
Brad smiled broadly, white teeth flashing, and lifted his tea glass for a toast.
“Deal,” he said. “You can start Monday.”
Leslie touched his glass gingerly with her own, convinced she had just made a huge mistake.
* * *
The driver of the large rig had been at it for twenty-two straight hours. His logs would say differently, of course, so that his company would not be cited for violating FTC regulations. The money was good, but he was getting too old for this. He would dump his load at the depot on Military Highway, then push on through to a rest area outside Richmond.
It was warm for an April night, so he kept his windows down. The fresh air would help keep him awake, keep the heavy eyelids open, and might even help him shake off those brews he had thrown down at the truck stop in Suffolk. He was pretty sure he had stopped after two or three, nothing he couldn’t handle, nothing he hadn’t handled before.
Blasts from a car horn stunned him awake. He jerked his head up just in time to see the driver of the car, wide-eyed, looking out the driver’s side window in horror at the truck careening toward him . . . felt a jolt, heard the surreal sound of shattering glass and smashing metal and the sickening thud of a car under the truck chassis.
* * *
Nikki Moreno heard it on her police scanner. A bad accident, possible fatality, at the intersection of Military Highway and Battlefield Boulevard—less than four blocks away. With any luck, she could beat the police to the scene.
She wasn’t dressed for this. It was Friday night, and she had gone straight from the beach to the parties. She was wearing shorts, a bikini top, and sandals. It would have to do.
She reached under the seat and pulled out a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. She made a mental note to replenish her stock. You never knew when opportunity might knock.
“Hang in there, pal, you’ve got to pull through,” she mumbled to herself as she gunned the engine. “You’re never worth as much dead.”
8
EVEN BELLA HAD TO ADMIT the case sounded good. The caller was Ralph Johnson, who had first come to Brad five years ago after losing two fingers in a saber-saw accident. Bella remembered how Brad had parlayed those two fingers into a nifty structured settlement with a total payout of more than $150,000. After Brad took his third, Johnson would have had enough for a down payment on a new home. In his euphoria, and without even consulting his wife, Ralph decided to get a new pickup,
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