“SimGen?” What was she talking about? “No…I haven’t heard a thing from SimGen.”
“Indirectly, you have. They’ve been contacting all your clients and either cajoling or coercing them into dropping you.”
Patrick decided he’d sit now. It sounded so paranoid, but only for a second or two, and then it made terrible sense.
“How do you know? Howcan you know?”
“Not important,” Ms. Cadman said. “What matters is whether they’re succeeding.”
“What do you mean?”
She cocked her hip and released an exasperated sigh. “They want you to drop the sims. Are you going to stand up to SimGen, or cave in?”
Cave in…hell of a way to put it. At least he knew where Ms. Romy Cadman’s sympathies lay. So no way was he going to tell her he’d decided to do just that: cave in. His eyes drifted to those long legs. They looked strong.
“May I inquire as to your interest in this?”
“I want to see the sims get a fair shake.”
He glanced at her card again.Consultant …to whom?
“Are you with one of those animal rights groups?”
“My interest is personal. So what’s your decision, Mr. Patrick Sullivan, attorney at law?”
The subtle little twist she put on those last three words gave Patrick the impression that somehow she’d already guessed the answer.
“I haven’t come to one yet.”
She stared at him a moment, her expression dubious. Then she put her briefcase on the table and released the catches.
“Very well. If you’re sitting on the fence, perhaps this will tip you toward the sims.”
She gave the briefcase a one-eighty swivel, lifted the top, and Patrick found himself nose to nose with more cash than he’d ever seen in one spot in his life—he’d handled bigger checks, sure, but this wascash .
Hoping his eyes weren’t bugging, he lifted a packet and fanned it.
“All twenties, Mr. Sullivan.”
“How—?” The words seemed to catch in his throat. “How many?”
“Exactly twelve hundred and fifty. To spare you from doing the math, that’s a quarter of a million dollars. When I have your assurance that you will continue the fight, I will deposit all of it into the sim legal defense fund.”
Patrick eyed the money. This would take him a long way into that case; and with other contributions he could stir up during the proceedings, probably all the way through, with maybe a good chunk left over at the end.
Tempting…Jesus, it was tempting. The added prospect of spending time with this woman because of it made the offer even more tempting. Pamela had been gone for weeks and…
No. Staying with the sims meant being booted from the firm…going solo. He didn’t care for that idea. Payes & Hecht could be a cutthroat place at times, but even on the worst days he found a certain level of comfort in having a firm behind him. Like a security blanket—one trimmed with barbed wire, perhaps, but still…
And where would he be after the sim case, whatever the outcome? Who’d be his future clients? Sims? Hardly.
Uh-uh. Tempting as all that cash might be, he wasn’t going to commit professional seppuku for it. But he couldn’t say that to this beautiful woman.
Painfully he pulled his gaze away from the money and looked at her.
“I’ll take that into consideration, Ms. Cadman.”
“Good.” She snapped the cover closed on all that beautiful green. “When do you expect to finalize your decision?”
“Before the end of the day.”
“Wonderful.”
One word…but the acid she managed to lace through it seared him to the core. She was looking right through him, and her eyes, the twist of her lips, everything in her body language radiated contempt.
“My number is on the card. Call me when you decide.”
She turned and walked out, leaving him mired in a pool of dismay. A woman like that, you wanted her looking at you with admiration, not like something that had just crawled out from under a rock.
But what else was he supposed to do? What elsecould he do? Sometimes you simply had to be pragmatic.
Patrick sighed. The perfect cap on the worst weeks of his life.
He heard a patter behind him and turned toward the window. It had begun to rain. Great.
With his mood darker than the weather, Patrick stepped out into the hall. Off to his right he spotted the pretty lady with the briefcase full of pretty money waiting for the elevator.
“I’m going to grab a cup of coffee,” he told Maggie.
“Want me to get it for you?” she said, looking up from her computer screen.
“Thanks, but you’re busier than I am at the moment.”
Down the hall, laughter echoed from the open doorway of the kitchenette that housed the coffee maker and a small refrigerator. He slowed his approach when he heard his name.
A voice he recognized as belonging to Rick Berger, one of the younger associates, was saying, “…and so when Istill won’t give Skipper a steak instead of dog chow, he says, ‘I’ll get you! I’m calling Sim-Sim Sullivan!’”
More laughter. Patrick felt his face flush. Setting his jaw he turned and glanced back at the waiting area. The elevator doors were sliding open and Romy Cadman was stepping inside. He broke into a run.
“Ms. Cadman! Hold those doors!”
She turned and gave him a curious look, but put out a hand to stall the doors. He hopped into the cab beside her.
“I’ve made up my mind,” he told her.
She blinked, shock and disbelief playing tag across her features. “You mean—”
I know I’m going to regret this, he thought, but fuck ’em. Fuck ’em all.
“Damn right. Want to meet my clients?”
Her smile lit the elevator. “I’d love to.”
4
Romy’s head spun as she followed Sullivan’s BMW through the downpour to the golf club.
What happened back there? she wondered. There he was, standing in his office, and he’s clearly out of the picture—wouldn’t say so to her face, but she’d seen defeat in his eyes, his posture,I quit written all over him—and a couple of minutes later he’s jumping into the elevator with her and not looking back.
Had he truly been on the fence and she’d misread him? She’d been sosure …
Well, no use in beating it to death. He was still on board. That was what counted. She didn’t know how good Sullivan was, but at least the sims still had a lawyer.
He stopped next to a high privet hedge and she pulled in behind him. She grabbed her umbrella and stepped out of her car. The umbrella was auto open which was good because she had the briefcase in her other hand. She had no intention of leaving it in the car.
An umbrellaless Sullivan came splashing over to her.
“Let me help,” he said, reaching for the briefcase.
She handed him the umbrella handle. “Help with this.”
“Aaawww,” he said, grinning.
Nice smile. Gave him a boyish look. Like a mischievous child.
Together they sloshed through the soggy grass toward a barrack-like building.
“Most of the caddies and gardening sims should be in. Not a golf day. You’ll have to come back at night after the kitchen and dining room close to catch all of them.”
Patrick knocked and they were admitted by a grinning sim he introduced as Tome. Romy was prepared for the barrack, and her tours of the SimGen dorms prepared her for the vague musty odor that attended a crowd of sims. But she was totally unprepared for the reception.
Like Jesus’ return to Jerusalem: cheering, waving, jumping on furniture, and cries of “Mist Sulliman!” from a dozen sim throats. Everything short of throwing palm fronds at his feet.
Flushed and looking a little embarrassed, Sullivan turned and gave her a self-conscious shrug. “My clients.”