Mistletoe Over Manhattan

5

"The wedding was a hoot," Athena said. "I had to compete with all that Eurotrash the princess runs around with and I knew there wasn't a designer on the face of this earth who would impress them, so I went down to the West Forties and bought just tons and tons of silk chiffon in a bunch of colors, and then I-"

Maybe she's had lipo and they accidentally suctioned out her brain along with the fat. Carter forced a smile toward the gorgeous creature sitting opposite him at Le Bernardin. Athena was six feet tall and even skinnier than she'd been the last time he saw her, when she'd weighed maybe ninety-six pounds. The dinner she wasn't eating would cost him $250, easy.

"-Fashion Institute, and he just swirled it all around me like a toga." Athena paused briefly. "Sort of like a toga, because togas are usually white, aren't they? But this wasn't-this was all those colors I picked out, so-"

Thank you for clarifying. He tried to imagine having a conversation like this with Mallory, but he couldn't. Wonder who Mallory's going out with. Somebody she's known a long time? A family friend? A relative?

It was true that he and Mallory had had a conversation about socks. What had that scene in the sock department been all about? She'd come prissing over to interfere in his sock purchase-like she knew better than he did how many socks he needed-and standing there, feeling pretty annoyed by her know-it-all attitude, he'd had the strangest urge to kiss her. The closer he'd gotten to her, the stronger the urge had become. He'd had to get a firm grip on himself to keep from giving her a sizzling one right there in the store.

Then he'd gotten all upset again when she and Santa Claus had done all that whispering to each other. What, he wanted to know, were they whispering about? Did Santa Claus ask her for a date? Carter had been slouching, but this thought bolted him upright in his chair. The way the guy had come on to her-it didn't seem ethical. Santa Claus was supposed to be faithful to Mrs. Claus. Carter drew his eyebrows together.

"When that anorexic bimbo Simonetta saw me, she screamed. Then she ran up to me and said, 'Who did that divine dress?' but she said it in Italian, and I thought she was trying to attack me for outbidding her on that apartment she wanted, so I got really mad and was about to start pulling her hair, but Fernando rushed up in the nick of time and told me what she'd said in English-"

"Dessert?" Carter said, hoping he didn't sound as desperate as he felt.

"Soon as I finish telling you," Athena said. "So I told her I'd found a brand-new designer and wasn't telling anybody about him until I was sure I had his absolute and total loyalty." She pursed her glossy, puffy lips into a stern line.

"You stole her apartment," Carter said. "Don't you think you owe her a dress designer?" Good God, I'm getting into the conversation. Another ten minutes and I'll be asking her if she thinks I'm more a Brioni type or a-who is that other guy, the one with the sloppy double-breasted suits? Ambrose. Armand. That's it, I think, Ar-

Athena stamped her four-inch spike of a heel on the floor beneath the table. It was dramatic enough to make him jump. "There was no designer," she said in a newly gritty voice. "He was just a student at the Fashion Institute of Technology. That was the whole point, that I did something really creative and knocked the lace Wolford stockings off Simonetta, and you weren't even listening."

"I was," he protested. "He wrapped you up like a toga. I mean, the stuff you bought, he wrapped it around you like a toga of many colors." He was pretty embarrassed about his manners. When you dated around, as he did, you were bound to have one of these bored-to-catatonia nights once in a while, but you learned to act decent for the duration of the catastrophe and just not call the woman again.

He must have enjoyed his last date with Athena or he wouldn't have called her again. Funny, he couldn't remember his last date with Athena.

"I was gorgeous." Athena's voice went up another notch. "I am gorgeous. And you aren't paying the slightest bit of attention to me." She stood up. "I wouldn't eat your dessert if it were the last dessert anyone ever offered me. I'm going to meet Fernando at the Fressen bar. He pays attention to me." She cast disapproving eyes down as much of him as she could see. "He," she added as a final blow, "wears Armani."

That's the guy's name, Armani. Regretting nothing but the fact that he had been rude to Athena and had forgotten a household word like Armani, Carter summoned the waiter.

Dinner, now that he thought back on it, had mainly consisted of a lot of plates. On the way back to the St. Regis, he bought and devoured a Double Meat, Double Cheese Bigger Burger with plenty of mustard from the packets he'd stashed in his pockets.

It was significant that he couldn't remember the last date he'd had with Athena. One thing for sure, there wouldn't be another one. Brie, now Brie was a hardworking, sensible girl, a bond salesperson on Wall Street. They'd eat steak and she'd order hers rare. Tomorrow night would go better.

He wondered how Mallory's night was going. If Santa Claus had asked her out, Carter swore he'd report it to the store manager.

After her lecture from Maybelle, Mallory was still feeling stubborn about the woman's insistence that she wear Carol's red jacket tomorrow. It was too sexy for the work scene, Mallory had argued. She'd buy something a little brighter in a day or two.

However, since she'd told Carter she was going out for the evening, she'd better look as if she'd just gotten home if he came in unexpectedly. So she switched her black pants for the black skirt and the black shell for the white one and put her jacket back on. She was in the sitting room working and paying a little attention to a movie on television when she heard a keycard slice into the lock and saw the door open. Startled, she looked up. "Carter. You're home early." Just seeing him made her heart do a flip-flop.

"You got home first." He glared at her. "Was it a great date?"

"Just fabulous," she said with a smile she hoped would mislead him. "But I got to thinking about the case."

"Me, too." He sounded grumpy. "I'm going to take my stuff into my room and work awhile."

She jumped up. "You can work here. I'll go to my room. I thought you'd be-"

"Well, I wasn't. I'm home, okay? But stay where you are."

"No, no, I'll…" He was looking at her so impatiently she trailed off, deciding to drop it. His door slammed, and the suite fell into silence.

Mallory lowered the volume on the movie one more increment and went back to reading the full account of Sensuous's early attempts to settle the Green case with its green complainants. It still seemed to her that her company's offer had been extremely generous. Ms. Angell had seen her chance, though, and had convinced the clients she'd rounded up that being green could be worth millions.

As Maybelle had implied, Ms. Angell was the one who would be worth millions when the dust settled. Lawyers.

She was a lawyer, too. What was she doing, criticizing the habits of members of her own profession? But she would not personally do what Ms. Angell was doing, and she was fairly sure Carter wouldn't, either. Of course, how did she know what Carter would or would not do?

He hadn't enjoyed his date with Athena enough to spend the night with her, and Mallory was simply thrilled. And he'd been curious about her "date." That was even more thrilling.

She looked down at herself. Maybe Maybelle was right. It would be pretty hard to believe she'd had a hot, intense encounter with anybody in these clothes. She was more appropriately dressed to give a speech to a kindergarten class. But the red jacket was just too, too-

"Mallory!" A shout came from Carter's room. "Do you have a-" his door burst open "-copy of Lindon v. Hanson, you know, that other hair-dye case-"

"Right here." Mallory fumbled for the printout in her briefcase. In his sock feet, with his shirt half open, Carter looked rumpled, sleepy and devastatingly desirable. She pulled out the document and with it, a half dozen sheets of paper that fluttered to the floor.

He swept them up with one large hand. "I told Brenda to copy it to my laptop, but I guess she didn't. Or she filed it somewhere only she could find it." He'd lowered his voice to a grumble. "I don't know why nobody does anything right anymore. They just aim it and see if it flies. Hey, what's this?"

Mallory could see what he was holding and felt deeply embarrassed, her privacy violated. "Um, that's my, ah, packing list, or wardrobe schedule, I guess you'd call it. Here's your-"

"So that's how you do it, pack in a briefcase. 'Tuesday-black pants, jacket, black shell. Wednesday-black skirt, jacket, white shell, scarf. Thursday, Friday, Monday'-what do you do over the weekend? Go naked?" He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

She gritted her teeth to hide the shiver that ran through her. "Not in the wintertime. I wear the black pants with a sweater. Give me that."

He waved her off. "'Monday-black jacket, black skirt, cream shell.' Hey, the black jacket's sure getting a workout."

"You only need one black jacket." She viewed him coldly.

"What if something happens to it?"

"Nothing happens to a black wool jacket you can't fix with a little cool water."

"Nothing?"

"If it does, you send it out for a rush cleaning."

He narrowed his eyes. "What if it's too much of a rush? What if, for example, something happened right now? You honestly think the hotel is going to get a jacket cleaned and back to you by morning?"

"Well, no, but what could happen?" He was fishing in his pants pocket and, for some reason, it made her nervous.

"Oh, maybe something like this." In one swift gesture he tore a corner off a small plastic packet and aimed the opening in her direction.

Blobs of yellow flew through the air and plopped onto her clothes. She leaped up. "Carter! This is… this is… mustard!"

He gave her a wicked smile. "Right. Now what are you going to do?"

"I am going to my room," she said frostily, and did.

There she viewed the ruin of the jacket she'd planned to wear every single day. There were a few spots on her skirt she could probably handle, or she could wear her black pants again, which smelled only faintly of the coffee she'd spilled on them in Maybelle's office, but even if she got the mustard off the coat, she'd smell like a delicatessen all day tomorrow.

She buried her head in her hands. She'd have to wear the red jacket, after all.

Carter opened his bedroom door warily to find Mallory emerging from her room looking as if she were expecting an ambush. He met her in the center of the room, where they eyed each other like opposing lines in a football game.

Mallory's team was the one in red. He cleared his throat. "You did have something else to wear."

"Fortunately." She brandished the ruined black jacket.

He hadn't gotten a rip-roaring, let's-laugh-it-off, no-harm-done conversation going, that was for sure, but, wow, was she ever a bombshell in red. A surprisingly curvy, sexy red number that fired up the old imagination, and that wasn't all it fired up.

Feeling the need for something to hold over himself, he said, "Give me that." He took the jacket, stuffed it in the plastic bag the hotel provided and stuck it outside the door of the suite. "The laundry will pick it up and have it back tonight. It'll be on my bill," he added, and by the time he'd done all that practical stuff, he felt more in control. And increasingly foolish as she eyed him silently.

"What were you thinking?" she said at last.

"I don't know. The devil made me do it?"

"Why did you have mustard in your pocket? Did you take Athena out for hamburgers?"

"No, Athena and I had some very pricey raw fish. Then I took myself out for a hamburger."

"Oh." She shouldered a gleaming black leather handbag, grabbed the handle of her rolling briefcase and started toward the door. She glanced back at him briefly. "Thank you for having coffee sent up early."

"I thought it might help us get going." He stubbed a toe into the carpeting, and that brilliant bit of conversation didn't net him any response at all.

His role was to follow her to the elevators, which he did, feeling like an embarrassed kid shuffling along in her wake. What had made him do something so childish as to squirt mustard on her? He hadn't been in a food fight since his sophomore year in high school. When a very pretty junior girl told him what a "sophomoric" thing it was to do, that had ended his food-fighting forever. So this bizarre behavior of his must have something to do with the mood he'd come home in after enduring two hours of Athena's empty blathering to find Mallory all neat and dressed and working. Could she never fail to one-up him? That mood, plus the effect she was having on him, were making him feel like a kid again-and not in a nice way.

But while he stared at her back, thinking these thoughts, he made an important discovery. She had the cutest, roundest little butt any man could hope to find on a woman. He hadn't realized he was a butt man, but now it seemed he was. Suddenly she turned, and he whipped his gaze upward, but not before she caught him staring at her rear end.

She flushed and gave him a grim look. The tips of his ears felt hot and he tried to return her look with a nonchalant one.

Great start on getting her to respect you. All he'd accomplished so far was to make Mallory look a little less respectable in that sexy red jacket. The jacket that showed her butt. Quit it, Compton. They'd landed in the lobby, and he could smell eggs and bacon, hear clanking silverware. He intended to have a huge breakfast.

She'd be sitting down. That would help. If he could keep his eyes off the neckline. It plunged down between her breasts, which the jacket pushed out and clung to. Thank God she was wearing one of those things she called "shells" underneath it.

Heat was traveling through him in waves, and this was only breakfast. He had to keep his hands off her. If he didn't, her respect for him would decrease to an all-time low. He was tough. He was strong. He could do it. No problem.

"Ms. Angell," Carter said, and held out his hand. "Carter Compton."

"Mallory Trent," Mallory said, and held out her hand. "Glad to meet you in person at last after all our phone con…" She trailed off. The problem was that Phoebe Angell was still holding Carter's hand and appeared to be melting right there in front of both of them.

She was as tall as Mallory and there the resemblance ended. Phoebe Angell had raven's-wing hair in a short cut that stuck up in various directions, snapping black eyes, skin like almond custard, gunmetal-gray lipstick and fingernails, and a black leather skirt short enough to get a lawyer disbarred in Illinois. She wore it with a surprisingly proper, perfectly pressed white shirt. Her shoes were red, with trendy pointed toes and four-inch heels. In a word, she was dramatic.

Mallory supposed she could dress this way because she'd gone into practice with her father. The law offices of Angell and Angell had a prestigious midtown location on a high floor. With just the two of them plus a support staff of aides and paralegals, the suite wasn't large, but it was luxurious. Mallory wondered what was driving Phoebe Angell so hard, why she seemed to feel that winning this case would be the turning point in her professional life.

The three of them stood just inside Phoebe's office where Phoebe had greeted them. An enormous portrait of Alphonse Angell himself dominated the wall opposite her desk. A formidable-looking man, he hadn't even managed a smile for his portrait. Mallory wondered how Phoebe got any work done under the vigilant scrutiny of his cold black eyes. She shivered. It was possible Alphonse Angell could win in a face-off against her own father. Maybe even against her mother, and that was saying something. She felt a flash of sympathy for Phoebe Angell, which she quashed, mainly because Phoebe was still clinging to Carter's hand.

Having assessed the opposition with her own hand still flapping around emptily in front of her, Mallory sent a sidelong glance toward the man who was supposed to be on her side. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but he did seem to be trying to get his hand back, and his smile was still an impersonal one.

"Thank you, Phoebe," Mallory said sharply, giving up on the possibility of a handshake, "for offering us your conference room for the depositions."

"Hmm?" Phoebe said dreamily. "Oh, yes." She released Carter and regained her poise with admirable speed, herding them toward the conference room in question, which was several doors down from her office. "It seemed the sensible thing to do, to depose the plaintiffs here since they live close by. The green dye was all in Lot Number 12867 which was shipped to New Jersey."

We know that. Mallory kept her gaze level with the woman's eyes.

"And besides," Phoebe said, sealing her fate with Mallory, "I've never known a Midwesterner who wasn't looking for a junket to New York. And I have to say I can't blame you." She rolled her eyes, dismissing the Midwestern work ethic, standards and values,

Marshall Fields, the best pizza in the world and Frank Lloyd Wright architecture in that one gesture. Mallory didn't know where to start-"It's not a junket," "Keep your hands off Carter" or "I'll meet you out back by the Dumpster and we'll see about changing your attitude toward the Midwest."

Carter's elbow nudged her. She was sure it was accidental that he nudged her just below her breast. Nonetheless, it took the breath out of her, so she didn't say or do anything drastic, just surreptitiously hiked her skirt up a bit.

"Will your father be involved in the case?" she asked Phoebe, hoping to distract both her and Carter from the little alteration project she was attempting by sliding her hand up under the red jacket and turning over her waistband.

"Father's involved in a big case in Minneapolis," Phoebe said abruptly. "He won't be on the premises. I'll be discussing the case with him, of course. He's very interested in it." Her eyes darted toward her own office, where the portrait hung.

"We're going to depose Tammy Sue Teezer this morning, right?" Carter said, starting to layer the table with the contents of his briefcase.

"Right," said Phoebe. "She'll be here in a few minutes. The court reporter's already here and so is the cameraman. I've arranged for coffee and pastries this morning, sandwiches and cookies this afternoon. If you have time to get started with Kevin Knightson, he'll be on hand at one o'clock. Anything else?"

"That should take care of us," Carter said. "We'll get set up."

"Yell if you need anything before Tammy Sue arrives," Phoebe said, curling herself around the doorframe and finally disappearing.

"Junket," Mallory muttered.

"Black Widow spider's what she is," Carter whispered. "Her plaintiffs must have been putty in her hands."

"Slime," Mallory said. "It's green."

"Good joke," Carter said without a hint of amusement in his voice. "Now, I'm going to put the witness at the head of the table and I'm going to sit to the side. You sit on my left, the court reporter asked for her own little table, which is there." He pointed. "The cameraman gets the foot of the table with a direct view of the witness and the Black Widow can sit beside her client. How about that skirt? I can't imagine you going to work in a skirt like that."

Get ready for a surprise, mister. The thought careened wildly through Mallory's mind and crashed against her skull. Was she actually thinking of following Maybelle's advice, of tarting herself up to get Carter's attention?

He'd certainly been fascinated by her rear end this morning.

A soft ache slid down her body as she remembered the hot glitter in his eyes when she caught him staring. And what had she done? She'd glowered at him. Even if she fine-tuned her outside, she'd still have a lot of work to do on the inside.

"Earth to Mallory."

"Oh, sorry," she said. "The arrangement sounds fine. Tammy Sue Teezer," she added. "Can that possibly be her real name?"

"That question's on my list," Carter said.

"I'mall set," said the cameraman. From his position at the foot of the table, he would videotape the depositions. If the case went to trial, the jury could view the tape to see the witnesses in person.

"Ms. White?" Carter said to the court reporter, a middle-aged woman who sat poised over her shorthand machine.

"Ready to go," she said.

"Bring in the first witness," Carter said.

Phoebe appeared at the door with a woman who was probably not as young as she seemed at first glance. Her black leather skirt was shorter than Phoebe's and her biker jacket was half leather, half zippers. Her hair was short, curly and a peculiar shade of green at the ends. The peculiar shade could probably be explained by the fact that the hair that had grown out was bleached almost white. The peroxide hadn't taken out the green, just toned it down some.

"Hi," she said, struck a pose for the cameraman, then sat down and splayed out fingernails that were red in the middle and green around the edges.

She made quite an impression. "Good morning, Miss Teezer," Carter said, and choked. Damn it, he was going to laugh. He darted a desperate look at Mallory, who sent back a repressive frown. He managed to introduce himself and her, then said, "Try to relax. You're not on trial here. We're all just friends and business associates trying to come to an equitable solution to a difficult problem."

It would be hard to imagine anyone more relaxed than Tammy Sue. She sat back in her chair, rested one booted foot on the other knee and popped her chewing gum.

"State your full name, please, for the court reporter."

"Like I said, Tammy Sue Teezer."

"Is this the name you were given at birth?"

Her red lips went into a pout. "No."

"What name were you given at birth?"

"Kimberly."

"Kimberly-?"

"Kimberly Johnson."

"Thank you. Your occupation?"

"May I ask my lawyer a question?"

"Of course."

Listening to the murmurs from across the table, Carter picked up his pen and began to worry it between his index and middle fingers. He'd promised himself to stop doing that. He was doing better at his other promise-turn women off, not on. He'd done the best he could with Phoebe Angell, but he sensed trouble in his future. He was not going to use testosterone to settle this case, no matter how practical a solution it might-

"Services," Tammy Sue said sweetly. "Personal services."

"I already know from your answers to interrogatories that you have a career in personal services, Tammy Sue," Carter said. "I'd like you to tell me exactly what services you perform. Do you understand the question?"

Tammy Sue tilted her head up in thought. "Yes. I guess you could say I perform services that are personal in nature." She beamed at the cameraman.

"You need to be more specific," he said, getting frustrated. Why was she being so evasive?

"No, she doesn't," Phoebe answered for Tammy.

"Yes," Carter persisted, "she does. Are you a nurse, Tammy Sue? A personal trainer? A housekeeper? A manicurist?"

"I object to the question," Phoebe said.

"Carter," Mallory said quietly, "perhaps we could refer to Tammy Sue as being in 'escort services' when we're speaking to the jury."

Duh. How slow could he be? "Fine," Carter said. He cleared his throat. "Place of residence? Or shall we slide past that one, too?"

"I live at 455 West Eighteenth Street." Tammy Sue answered this one proudly, but her chin began to tremble. "I hope I can go on living there. I used up most of my savings back in March and April when I couldn't work because of my hair."

If he had wondered why Phoebe Angell had chosen a prostitute as one of her prime witnesses, it was very clear now. He was no longer in the mood to laugh two hours later. He'd run through his list of neutral questions. Had she followed the directions? Yes she had. To the letter. Had she worn latex gloves? The dye ran down into the gloves. Had she tested the dye on one strand of hair first? No, because she'd been using that Sensuous shade since she decided to go from blond to red and it had always worked before.

Now it was time for the big question. "So you weren't able to-solicit-any clients for what period of time? And what do you charge per-uh, service? And how many, um, services of this sort do you average per day?"

He hoped he looked cooler than he felt. "I object strenuously to that question," Phoebe said. "Ms. Angell, you know as well as I do that damages can't be assessed unless we know the income lost."

Phoebe looked at her client, then back at Carter. "We'll get back to you on that one."

"Okay. I reserve the right to re-depose this witness after you provide the information. Tammy Sue," he said at last, "I think that will do for now. Thank you for your cooperation. The rest of us-" and he included the court reporter and cameraman in his circling gaze "-should break for lunch."

When he and Mallory were alone, he said, "Don't you think more highly of me for not recognizing a prostitute when there's one right in front of me?"

To his surprise, she giggled. He wasn't sure if that was a good sign or a bad one.