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Out of Order
Barbara Dunlop


Free-spirited? Of course. Unorthodox? Surely!Jailbird? No way. Until the cops come with irresistible proof–and handcuffs!Yep, Shelby Jacobs is busted for gunrunning–but all she knows is that her boss is a jerk. More temp jobs won't cover her bail–or even get a decent lawyer. Luckily, Shelby's roommate's fiance's partner (don't ask) can take the case. Trouble is, the feelings Dallas Williams stirs in Shelby are quite indecent–especially as she knows she'll never fit into his structured world.Still, since Shelby always pays her debts, she takes a temporary job with Dallas's irm–and promptly starts interfering with his other cases. Will her impulsive ways lead to another fall?And does she care?







Dear Reader,

When I came up with the character of Shelby Jacobs, I envisioned her as the sidekick in my first Flipside novel. But it quickly became apparent that this woman was in control of the story. She’s hip, sassy and not afraid to speak her mind.

Sure, her life might be a little out of control at the moment, but she’s working on that. And she knows she’s the bane of Dallas Williams’s existence, but she figures that’s his problem. She only gets in his way when it’s absolutely necessary, and she’s the one fighting their sexual fascination. He’s perfectly willing to throw caution to the wind and complicate their lives unbearably.

I hope you enjoy Shelby’s journey, from getting arrested to rescuing risqué photos to falling for the one man she needs to avoid. I had an absolutely delightful time writing her story, and I’m excited to share it.

If you’d care to drop me a line through my Web site at www.barbaradunlop.com (http://www.barbaradunlop.com), I’d love to hear from you.

Happy reading.

Barbara Dunlop




“What have you got on her?”


Dallas asked, turning to the uniformed officer.

The arresting officer opened his black notebook. “We have three hundred pirated copies of Midnight Run, two-dozen Uzis, ten AK-47s and a bazooka.”

Shelby sucked in a quick breath. “I didn’t—”

“As your attorney, I’ve advised you to keep your mouth shut.”

Her eyes emitted more sapphire sparks. This time Dallas felt them for sure. Perfect. Sexual awareness. Perhaps one of the officers would be good enough to shoot him now.

“Name?” the desk sergeant repeated.

Shelby mutinously kept her mouth shut.

“You can answer that,” said Dallas with a sigh.

“Why thank you. Shelby Jacobs. I didn’t know about any of the guns. I’ve—”

“Just your name,” interrupted Dallas.

She clamped her jaw shut again and muttered something between her clenched teeth. It was going to be a long night….




Out of Order

Barbara Dunlop





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Flipside author Barbara Dunlop writes romantic comedy stories curled up in a log cabin in Canada’s far north, where bears outnumber people and it snows six months of the year. Fortunately, she has a brawny husband and two teenage children to haul firewood, feed the horses and plow the driveway while she sips cocoa and muses about her upcoming chapters.

A two-time winner of the RWA Golden Heart Award, Barbara has written for the Temptation, Duets and Flipside lines for Harlequin. She loves to travel to writers’ conferences to meet fellow authors and explore new cities—though reporting the first leg of the journey by dogsled can sometimes be exhausting.

Barbara loves to hear from readers in big cities and small towns all over the world. You can contact her through her Web site at www.barbaradunlop.com (http://www.barbaradunlop.com).




Books by Barbara Dunlop


HARLEQUIN DUETS

54B—THE MOUNTIE STEALS A WIFE

90B—A GROOM IN HER STOCKING

98A—THE WISH-LIST WIFE

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION

848—FOREVER JAKE

901—NEXT TO NOTHING!

940—TOO CLOSE TO CALL


For my son, Eric




Contents


Chapter 1 (#u7e1e752b-1a09-52e4-bfdb-43e1381e7e88)

Chapter 2 (#u7f5bfabf-3630-5d69-8f1e-cd7aabec7aac)

Chapter 3 (#u8284d669-f1f2-513e-8f12-ba8d23060c65)

Chapter 4 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)




1


WHEN THE COP burst through the front door of Gerry’s Game-O-Rama video arcade with his gun drawn and his eyes suspicious slits in a pug-dog face, Shelby Jacobs should have guessed her day was headed straight downhill.

His partner whipped around the steel-bar reinforced door and Shelby took a startled step away from the cash register, subconsciously getting ready to duck if the bullets started flying.

She’d known when she’d taken this job last week that Black Street wasn’t in the best part of Chicago. But it was the first one she’d been offered. It was near the El Station and only fifteen minutes from her friend Allison’s apartment.

And beggars, as they said, couldn’t be choosers.

“Nobody move,” shouted the pug-dog cop as he hustled between video terminal number six and the Rally Car Challenge, twisting his gun from side to side to keep everybody in his sights. His holster hit a half-empty bag of popcorn, scattering white kernels across the black strip of rubber that disguised a cracked concrete floor.

Cop number two held his position, gun at the ready, eyes scanning the crowd of a dozen or so streetwise teenagers, all but daring somebody to make a sudden move. The gamers’s hands stilled on the controls and the pings and simulated tire squeals died away.

Shelby found it a little hard to believe that desperate criminals would drop in for a round of Midnight Run between heists. But, what did she know? Once you’d robbed the bank, she supposed you had the rest of the day to kill.

Squat and broad-shouldered, his divided chin tipped at an arrogant angle, the pug-dog cop came to a halt in front of Shelby.

Her hand reflexively tightened around a fistful of game tokens as her stomach clenched to the size of a walnut.

He tipped slightly forward, his unibrow dropping even lower over his dark eyes. “I’m lookin’ for Gerry Bonnaducci.”

The unexpected statement surprised the fear right out of her. “You want Gerry?”

“Where is he?”

“What did he do?” Gerry had been right here since ten o’clock this morning. Shelby could vouch for that.

“Put your hands on the counter.” Pug-dog’s voice lowered to a growl as he trained his gun on her.

Staring down the steel-gray muzzle of his .38 was definitely enough to convince Shelby to give up Gerry. Employee loyalty only went so far.

“He’s in the back,” she said.

“Put your hands on the counter where I can see them”

“But—”

“Now!”

Right. Shelby slapped her palms against the faded, gray Formica countertop, crunching the metal tokens against her palm.

A muscle in the cop’s cheek twitched and he shifted his gun, barrel pointing to the ceiling. He nodded to his partner, who nodded back and fixed his attention on Shelby.

Then pug-dog crept along the counter toward the office where Gerry was feeding coins into the separating machine. The sound of quarters, dimes and nickels clanked and clattered through the closed door, counterpoint to the repetitive rap music and synthesized voices patiently giving next instructions to the frozen players.

Shelby wondered if she should give the players refunds for their interrupted games. Gerry was a bit of a tightwad, but surely under these circumstances they deserved a replay.

Pug-dog kicked the office door open with his black boot.

“Freeze,” he yelled, planting his feet apart, both hands training the gun on Gerry.

Gerry swiveled in his seat. His eyes widened, and the cigar dropped out of his mouth, knocking once against his striped tie before hitting the concrete floor, leaving an ash trail as it rolled to a stop.

He didn’t protest or ask any questions while pug-dog slapped the cuffs on his chubby wrists and began reciting his Miranda rights. He looked for all the world like he’d done this before.

Great. Now she was working for a criminal. What was with her? Did she have a bad-boss magnet stuck to her forehead?

Last week, her cheating, scumbag boyfriend had fired her from the Terra Suma Cocktail Lounge in Minneapolis. That time she’d lost her job, her home, her boyfriend and her future all in one fell swoop.

At least she hadn’t been sleeping with Gerry. Thank goodness for small favors.

Really small favors.

She was jobless again. And who knew when or if she’d get a paycheck for this week’s work.

This did it. She was getting a real job next time. Even if it meant college courses at night. Even if it meant, Lord help her, moving back in with her parents.

She never should have dropped out of philosophy in third year. Come to think of it, she never should have taken philosophy in the first place. She should have taken accounting or business management or nursing. Something with a future—

“Hands behind your back, ma’am.”

Shelby turned to see cop number two circling around the end of the sales counter.

“But—”

“Behind your back, ma’am.” He was taller than his partner, younger, with dark, wavy hair and brown eyes. He strode toward her, his broad chest a wall of silver badge and imposing navy-blue uniform.

“Why?” It was more a squeak than a question as she tipped up her chin to maintain eye contact.

“You’re under arrest on suspicion of selling pirated software and prohibited firearms.” He unclipped the handcuffs from the back of his utility belt.

Shelby stared at the dangling steel bracelets in morbid fascination. “Firearms?”

“Hands behind your back, ma’am.” The cop latched onto her nerveless wrist, twisting it neatly into the small of her spine.

“But I didn’t…I’m not…”

“You can tell it all to the judge.”

“The judge?” A series of rapid clicks echoed in her ears as the cold cuffs clapped tightly around her wrists.

“Gerry,” she called, trying not to let panic collapse what was left of her stomach. “Tell them I had nothing to do with this.”

“Nothing to do with what?” asked Gerry as pug-dog steered him toward the exit. He shook his head in apparent disgust. “It’s a bogus bust.”

“The detectives are out back searching your warehouse right now,” said pug-dog, shooing the twelve teenagers out of the Game-O-Rama in front of him.

“But, I’m innocent.” Shelby couldn’t get arrested. It was nearly four-thirty, and Allison was expecting her. They were going dancing at Balley’s tonight.

She’d hauled herself out of bed early this morning to drop her emerald dress off at the Flower-Fresh Dry-cleaner’s. Which, by the way, closed in half an hour.

“So am I,” called Gerry.

The second cop clapped his hand on Shelby’s shoulder, and she felt a renewed jolt of panic as he urged her into a walk.

“Don’t you need evidence or something?” she asked, mind racing for a way out of the predicament. She wasn’t a criminal. She was a cashier, a cocktail waitress. Sure, maybe she didn’t have the best judgment in the world, particularly when it came to men, but that was hardly a crime.

His look was grim, all business. “We have some pretty compelling evidence.”

“On me?”

“On you.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Did you or did you not make a pickup in the company van at Michigan and Eighteenth yesterday afternoon?”

Shelby searched her memory as they cleared the counter and headed for the door. “That was coffee.”

The cop rolled his eyes. “Two hundred-pound crates of coffee?”

“Two sixteen-ounce cups of coffee.”

“I’m talking about the merchandise they loaded in the back.”

“Who loaded? What back?”

“The two crates of Uzis. Surely you remember that little detail. We have it all on videotape.”

Uzis? Shelby blinked. “Uzis?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She’d been inside the coffee shop all of three minutes. “How can that be? It was coffee. I bought coffee.”

The cop pushed the door open in front of her, and car horns and engine revs overtook the beeps of the computer terminals. “That’s your story, and you’re stickin’ to it?”

An exhaust-filled breeze hit her square in the face. “It’s the truth.”

“Right,” he drawled. “The Uzis in your warehouse tell a different story.”

“I didn’t even know we had a warehouse. And I’ve never seen an Uzi. Well, except on television. And that one time at the airport in Brazil. I’m an innocent bystander.”

“I believe the technical term is ‘accomplice.”’

“This is outrageous,” Shelby protested, anger asserting itself over her confusion.

But then they crossed the sidewalk, and her momentary bravado disappeared. She cringed, suddenly conscious of the drivers and pedestrians passing by on the busy street. Not that she’d ever see them again. And not that she was the first person to be arrested on Black Street.

Still…

“You can tell it all to the judge when we get downtown,” said the cop.

Shelby felt the first ray of hope. “You mean, right away? Like tonight?” The judge would have to believe she was innocent. Maybe he’d free her before Allison could worry. And then her life could carry on as normal—such as normal was this month.

“Could we stop at Flower-Fresh on the way to the station?” she asked.

“No.”

“But, my dress—” She caught the look in his eyes and snapped her mouth shut.

“You won’t need a dress where you’re going.”

Shelby swallowed, gaze sliding away from his, her optimism bottoming out. “You mean, the station house, right?”

“I meant the lockup.”

“They might put me in jail?”

“That’s the usual procedure.”

“But, I didn’t do anything.”

The cop reached down to open the back door of his cruiser. “That’s what they all say.”

“Don’t I get a telephone call?” Allison’s new fiancé was a lawyer. Maybe Greg could rescue her.

“Not yet. Watch your head.”

Staring into the murky, pungent depths of the cruiser’s back seat, Shelby’s entire body recoiled in a wave of instant claustrophobia. She had to fight an urge to kick the cop in the shin and make a run for it.

She was going to Balley’s tonight—to drink shooters and laugh with Allison about rotten, cheating boyfriends and their nasty blond floozies. She wasn’t going to get strip-searched, eat gruel and sleep on a lumpy prison mattress with a woman named Spike.

But the cop was a whole lot bigger and stronger than she was. He planted her firmly on the bench seat.

“There’s been a mistake,” she whispered.

“Then you have nothing to worry about.” He slammed the handleless door shut and headed around the hood of the car.

Shelby hated to disagree with the nice policeman, but she had plenty to worry about. The cops didn’t believe she was innocent. Gerry wasn’t going to help her. And they had her on videotape making an Uzi pickup at a coffee shop cum firearms depot.

Her shoulders slumped and she let her head drop back against the hard seat, closing her eyes in defeat.

Gunrunner was going to look even worse than philosophy major on her résumé.

IF HONOR and principles weren’t already keeping lawyer Dallas Williams on the straight and narrow, the thought of spending more than ten minutes in the Haines Street lockup certainly would.

It had to be one of the most depressing places on earth. Fluorescent overheads buzzed and flickered against faded, gray ceilings. Prisoners shouted profanity from the long lockup hallway behind the desk sergeant’s counter. And the smell of mildew permeated the punky, dark walnut paneling, circa 1930.

“Got that arrest report ready for Dallas Williams?” the desk sergeant called to the officer behind him as two uniforms brought a man and a woman to the desk for processing.

Dallas automatically shifted away from the handcuffed female. He was here to get background information on a witness in an embezzlement hearing, and then he was out of here.

“Be about two minutes,” the sergeant called to Dallas. He gestured to the royal-blue, molded plastic chairs that lined the opposite side of the hallway. “Want to have a seat?”

Dallas shook his head. “No thanks.”

Rule number one in the Haines Street lockup was to stay well away from both the furniture and the clientele. He didn’t need gum stuck to the backside of his Armani’s. And he had no desire to chat with the colorful southside characters camped out, waiting for friends and relatives to post bail.

He felt the female prisoner staring up at him and glanced down to meet green eyes that were surprisingly clear and lucid.

“Are you Dallas Williams?” she asked.

She was five-foot-six, with wavy auburn hair that just brushed her tanned shoulders. She was too fresh-faced to be a Lakeshore Drive hooker, but that black tank top and the tight miniskirt gave him pause. She was willowy thin, and he was sure she wasn’t nearly dangerous enough to warrant the cuffs.

“Of Turnball, Williams and Smith?” she continued when he didn’t answer.

“I am,” he acknowledged with a cautious nod.

She smiled, tipping her head to one side, revealing white teeth that had probably cost her parents a fortune. She looked instantly relieved, as if he’d just admitted to being her guardian angel. “Thank goodness. I was going to try calling Greg, but this is even better.”

The desk sergeant pushed a manila envelope across the scarred countertop. “Here’s your report, Mr. Williams.”

“Thanks.” Dallas picked up the police report and started past her for the door. Last thing he needed was to let this woman pour out her soul.

“Wait,” angel-eyes called, lurching toward him before the arresting officer grabbed her firmly by the elbow and yanked her back.

Focusing on her hairline, and ignoring a jolt of hostility toward the officer, Dallas gave her a polite nod of goodbye and kept moving.

“You have to help me,” she cried.

Dallas shook his head, and fixed his focus on the exit door. Fresh-faced or not, he didn’t represent hookers, drug addicts and petty southside criminals. Not now, not ever.

“Please,” she implored, even louder.

Dallas stopped, gritted his teeth and pivoted to face her. “I charge three hundred dollars an hour.”

She drew back in surprise, her eyes widening, their color seeming to lighten. Tank top and skirt not withstanding, she suddenly looked out of place in the harsh grunge of stained walls, scarred furnishings and world-weary cops. “Really?”

“Really,” he answered. Not that her looks made one iota of difference. World-weary or not, the Haines Street squad wasn’t in the habit of bringing in innocent people.

They didn’t need to. They had plenty of criminals to choose from.

“How fast do you think you could get me out of here? Ten? Fifteen minutes?”

“I have an eight-hour minimum on new cases,” he lied.

She blinked, and this time her eyes looked turquoise.

“That can’t be legal,” she said.

“I assure you, it’s perfectly legal. They make you study that sort of thing for the bar exam.”

“Well it’s definitely not moral.”

“You want to debate morality? You’re the criminal. I’m a law-abiding businessman.”

“I’m not a criminal.”

Dallas couldn’t even believe he was having this conversation. Couldn’t believe she had the audacity to take him on. Couldn’t believe she was standing here in handcuffs, eyes shooting sapphire sparks at him for absolutely no reason.

“Pirated software and illegal firearms,” said the arresting officer to the desk sergeant.

Dallas cocked his head sideways, raising his eyebrows at her. Part of him couldn’t wait to see what she had to say about that.

“I was in the wrong job at the wrong time.”

The uniformed cop beside her chuckled and shook his head. Like Dallas, he’d heard every excuse in the book. This one wasn’t even particularly creative.

The woman shot the cop an annoyed glare before turning her attention back to Dallas. She squared her shoulders. “I’m innocent. And I’m Allison Kempler’s roommate. If you won’t help me, perhaps you’d be good enough to let Greg know I’m here.”

At the mention of Allison’s name, Dallas groaned inwardly. Leaving the woman here to be booked and locked up suddenly ceased to be an option. Greg was batty about his new fiancée. If Dallas upset Allison, there’d be hell to pay.

“Greg Smith,” she elaborated. “Allison’s fiancé.”

“Name and address,” said the sergeant.

“Son of a bitch,” Dallas muttered under his breath, stuffing the envelope under his arm and taking two steps back to the counter. “What’ve you got on her?” he asked the arresting officer.

“I’m not paying you twenty-four-hundred dollars,” she said.

“We’ll talk about the bill later,” he said.

“Oh, no, we won’t. Do I look stupid?”

“No.” Crazy, maybe. But definitely not stupid.

“You may think you’ve got me right where you want—”

“Shut up.”

“Excuse me?”

Dallas turned and subjected her to a long, steady stare. It was unseemly to argue about fees in front of the police department. And, quite frankly, right where he wanted her wasn’t in the Haines Street lockup.

It was…

He pulled his thoughts up short, clamping his jaw. Where the hell had that come from?

“We’ll come to a mutually agreeable fee once I get you out of those cuffs,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed. She nodded, but he could see it cost her a lot to keep her latest opinion to herself.

The arresting officer flipped open his black notebook. “We have three-hundred pirated copies of Midnight Run, two dozen Uzis, ten AK-47s and a bazooka. And we’ve got another warrant for the garage across the alley.”

Shelby sucked in a quick breath. “I didn’t—”

“As your attorney, I’ve advised you to keep your mouth shut.”

Her eyes emitted some more sapphire sparks.

This time Dallas felt them all the way to his toes.

Perfect. Sexual awareness. Perhaps one of the officers would be good enough to shoot him now.

“Name?” the desk sergeant repeated.

Shelby mutinously kept her mouth shut.

“You can answer that,” said Dallas with a sigh.

“Why, thank you. Shelby Jacobs. I didn’t know about any of the guns. I’ve only been at Game-O-Rama for a week. Ask Allison—”

“Just your name,” said Dallas.

She clamped her jaw shut again and muttered something between her clenched teeth. He was pretty sure it concerned his parentage.

Like he was the problem here.

“Anything connecting Ms. Jacobs directly to the evidence?” he asked.

“We have videotape of her making a pickup.” The cop paused significantly. “She claims she thought it was coffee.”

“I—”

Dallas rapped Shelby’s ankle with the side of his foot. To his shock, she actually did shut up this time.

“Did you see her make a payment?” he asked.

The cop shook his head. “No.”

“Did she handle the merchandise?”

“No.”

“You have her fingerprints on the guns, the warehouse, the crates?”

“Not so far. Forensics is still working.”

The desk sergeant leaned forward and pointed to the sign dangling above his head. “This is booking, not a courtroom. And I’m a sergeant, not a judge. Any chance we can we get her processed before a lineup forms?”

“Is she formally under arrest?” asked Dallas.

“Of course—”

“Think hard.” Dallas stared at the arresting officer. “Did you arrest her? Or just bring her in for questioning? Do you have a warrant? Did you follow due process to the letter?”

The officer’s gaze slid to the sergeant. “Sarge?”

Dallas stared at the sergeant with a you-don’t-want-to-mess-with-a-high-priced-attorney-this-close-to-quitting-time expression on his face.

“Kick her loose,” said the sergeant.

“What about me?” the man beside her sputtered. “If her arrest was bogus, then mine—”

“You wanna share a cell with Buba Junuh?” asked the sergeant, waving his pencil in the direction of the man’s nose. “You just keep talking.”

The man swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing once as he suddenly became fascinated by the scarred, wood countertop.

“Make sure your client doesn’t leave town,” the sergeant warned Dallas.

“No problem,” Dallas quickly replied.

As soon as Shelby’s cuffs were off, he hustled her toward the door. He was getting out while the getting was good. He wasn’t about to give the officers time to reconsider and end up stuck in a dingy interview room for the next four hours.

He had things to do, places to go.

“Thanks.” Shelby gasped, struggling to keep up with his long strides.

They burst through the door into a spring evening and some comparatively fresh air. Dallas breathed a sigh of relief.

Finally. His duty was done. Another couple of hours at the office and he could grab dinner at Sebastian’s on the way home and let life get back to normal.

The damp pavement glowed under the streetlights as the commuter crowd spilled from the El Station onto the street. A couple of middle-aged men in business suits gave Shelby speculative looks.

Dallas tossed them a don’t-even-think-about-it glare. “You got cab fare home?” he asked her.

She rubbed her arms against the growing chill. “Of course I’ve got…oh, no…” She stopped short. “My purse!”

Dallas stared down another passerby. This one looked like a construction worker, with a navy work shirt and a black lunchbox. Didn’t this woman know not to wander the streets of Chicago in a miniskirt?

“I left my purse at the Game-O-Rama,” said Shelby.

“So, have the taxi stop and get it.”

“They locked it up. I don’t have a key. Gerry has the key.”

Dallas tipped his head back, stared at the streetlamp and swallowed a few cusswords. Why him?

His dad might have taken on every stray south of Jackson Park with a decent sob story, but Dallas definitely wasn’t his father. He’d never be that naive.

With no other choice, he shrugged out of his suit jacket and dropped it around Shelby’s shoulders. “Don’t talk to anyone until I get back.”

She nodded, glancing around the damp, darkening street.

The male pedestrians lurked in the shadows like a pack of jackals, and Dallas could almost feel his father’s genetic code springing to life inside him.

He tamped down the silly urge to keep her close. They’d made it out of there by the legal skin of their teeth. There was no way he was taking her back inside.

Shoot.

Damn.

He let out a chopped sigh. Forget the key to the Game-O-Rama. “I’ll get us a cab.”




2


DALLAS SLAMMED THE DOOR behind her and strode around to the driver’s side, while Shelby swore she’d never complain about taxis again. It was so much nicer in here than in the police car—a cushioned seat, handles on the inside of the doors, a window that opened, and no lurking aroma of vomit, sweat or urine.

She glanced at her watch, wishing she’d thought about her purse on the way out of the Game-O-Rama. Who knew when she’d get it back? Not that she could have managed to grab her purse with the cuffs on. And not that the young cop was likely to have helped her.

The opposite door opened and Dallas slid inside—six feet two, gray eyes, short, dark hair and a set to his jawline that said he’d rather be cleaning his oven than escorting her home.

Had she thanked him? Should she thank him? It wasn’t like his help had come cheap. And she was already planning to dip into her meager savings to pay half of Allison’s rent at the end of the month.

She guessed she could kiss that new pair of Bjorn shoes in Holstead’s window goodbye. Along with the matching leather purse. It was a great sale, too.

She sighed inwardly. “How much do I owe you?”

“Forget it,” said Dallas, slamming his own door.

“What do you mean, forget it? That was ten minutes’ work. I figure it’s fifty bucks, easy.”

He turned and stared at her from beneath slanted brows. She got the feeling his clients didn’t usually try to press money on him.

“What’s your address?” he asked.

Shelby glanced at her watch again. Five-fifteen. Allison would have left for Balley’s by now, and Shelby’s apartment key was in her purse with the rest of her worldly goods. Too bad Flower-Fresh closed at five. Or was that five-thirty?

She leaned forward to talk to the driver through the open, Plexiglas barrier between the seats. “Can you take me to Black and Wheeler?”

“Allison lives on Rupert,” said Dallas.

“Flower-Fresh is on the corner,” she explained to the cabbie. “I need to pick something up.”

Dallas sat back in his seat. “You’re picking up your dry cleaning?”

“I sure hope so.”

The cab lurched forward.

“Let me get this straight,” said Dallas. “You just got arrested, narrowly avoided a stay in the lockup, you have no purse, no money. I’m assuming you’ve lost your job, and the first thing you need to do is pick up your dry cleaning?”

Shelby didn’t get the connection. She blinked at him. “Yeah.” She knew her credit card number. Hopefully that would be enough to spring the dress.

His forehead furrowed, he stared at her as if she was a bug under a microscope.

“I’m meeting Allison at Balley’s,” Shelby elaborated, gesturing to her wrinkled skirt and dusty tank top. “It’s not like I can show up like this.”

Dallas was silent for a full minute. “Right.”

“You mind waiting?” she asked. “I could walk to Balley’s from Flower-Fresh, but it’s nearly a mile.”

“Of course I’ll wait.”

Shelby smiled. “Thanks. And thanks for getting me out of jail.”

“You weren’t in jail.”

“Don’t you mean ‘you’re welcome’?”

He didn’t smile at her joke. “Of course.”

“I can pay you for your time,” she felt compelled to offer. She didn’t want him to think she was a charity case. Even if she nearly was.

His lips pursed as though he’d just sucked a lime. “You’re Greg’s fiancée’s roommate—”

She grinned irreverently. “Which means we’re practically cousins?”

She wasn’t sure, but she thought he might have growled at that.

“Flower-Fresh on your right,” said the cabbie.

Shelby peered hopefully out the window, but she was disappointed with what she saw. The sign was turned off and the front window was dark. But wait, somebody was on the sidewalk locking the front door. If she hurried…

She ripped off her seat belt and flung open her door before the cab had a chance to roll to a stop.

“Christ,” Dallas bit out, reaching for her.

But she was quick enough to elude his hand.

She dashed between two parked cars and up onto the curb. “I need my dress,” she called to the short, gray-haired woman with a set of keys in her hand.

“We’re closed,” said the woman, adjusting a plastic rain hat as she turned to walk away.

“You don’t understand,” said Shelby, following. “I need my dress.”

The woman quickened her clicking steps on the wet concrete. “Come back tomorrow.”

“But—”

“We’re closed.”

Shelby grasped the woman’s arm in an effort to force her to listen.

The woman spun. She tilted her chin, eyes turning to black beads, voice going snappish. “Do I have to call the cops?”

Dallas’s deep voice sounded behind Shelby. “I’d consider it a personal favor.”

The woman looked up. Her eyes widened and her lined face instantly softened.

Dallas reached past Shelby and handed the woman a folded bill. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

A tense half smile formed on the woman’s face. She whisked the money from Dallas’s hand. “Why not?”

“You trying to get arrested again?” Dallas muttered to Shelby as they followed the woman to the door.

Shelby didn’t answer, figuring it was a rhetorical question.

The woman’s large key ring jangled as she worked her way through the three dead bolts. She turned to Shelby and held out her hand. “Ticket, please.”

“I uh, lost my purse,” said Shelby.

The woman glared at her in exasperation. “You’re not gettin’ nothing without a ticket.”

“It’s an emerald dress.” Shelby gestured to her neck and shoulders. “Scooped neckline, cap sleeves. I’ll recognize it when I see it.”

“No ticket. No dress.” The woman turned the key back in the top lock.

Dallas sighed hard next to Shelby. He handed the woman another bill. “Emerald,” he said. “Scooped neckline. And she’ll recognize it when she sees it.”

“I’ll pay you back,” Shelby whispered to Dallas as the woman slipped through the door and shut it firmly in their faces.

“Forget it,” said Dallas. “Greg can—”

“No. I’ll take care of—”

“I was going to say Greg can be my errand boy for the next week or so.”

Shelby glanced up at Dallas’s poker face. A sense of humor? It was hard to tell. Just in case, she responded in a lighthearted tone. “Or I could be your errand boy.”

The expression in his eyes suddenly shifted. It went from cold to hot in half a heartbeat, and her nervous system reacted with a flutter. Holy cow. Apparently serious, cynical, arrogant lawyers were good for more than one thing.

The door behind her clattered open, and the dry cleaner shoved a film-covered dress into her hands.

“That’s it!” Shelby cried. Yes. Finally, something was going right today.

The woman harrumphed and turned to relock the door.

Dallas lifted the dress from Shelby’s hands. “Come on. Let’s go before the taxi takes off.”

DALLAS WATCHED Shelby’s back as she dashed across the packed, brightly lit parking lot of Balley’s. There was a lineup at the door and no guarantee that Allison was even inside. If she wasn’t, space cadet Shelby was stuck in a nightclub parking lot with nothing but a change of clothes to her name.

Not that the woman was Dallas’s responsibility. He’d already gone way above and beyond the call of duty. Not even Greg could complain he hadn’t.

Dallas had a pile of work waiting at the office and a dinner reservation at Sebastian’s for eight o’clock. Sebastian’s was wildly popular, and he’d had the reservation for two weeks. He needed to scope out the place before he took his soon-to-be most important clients there next week.

He had things to do, places to go. If Shelby Jacobs wanted to line up outside Balley’s on the off chance that Allison was inside, that was her choice. She was a grown woman, perfectly capable of asking for help, even using the telephone if it all went sideways.

He found himself focusing on her long, sexy legs. Hell, any one of the hundred or so guys inside would probably give his eye teeth for the chance to drive her home.

Dallas paused.

Dammit. There went the Williams do-gooder gene again.

He reached into his pocket to grab some money, then stuffed it into the taxi driver’s hand.

“Thanks,” he muttered as he hauled himself out of the car, shrugging back into the suit jacket Shelby had abandoned on the seat between them.

He adjusted his collar and straightened his tie. Rain began to sprinkle down as he lengthened his strides toward the nightclub lineup. He eased in beside Shelby, feeling the base beat that throbbed right through the wall of the building.

She looked up at him quizzically. “What are you doing here?”

Dallas lifted the dress out of her hand as he met the gaze of the man in front of her. The man hesitated, then looked away. Too bad, buddy. Just not your night.

Dallas leaned over and spoke in a low tone. “I wanted to make sure you found Allison.”

Shelby pulled back and grinned, her changeable eyes sparkling lime-green in the streetlights. “What? You think I need a baby-sitter?”

Dallas could feel the interested stare of the man in front of them. The rain was increasing and the lineup wasn’t moving. What the hell was he doing here anyway?

Shelby was hardly a babe in the woods. For all he knew, she really was a petty criminal. He couldn’t exactly picture her selling a bazooka. But pirated software? Maybe a con artist? Hell, she had him eating out of the palm of her hand.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a bouncer moving the length of the lineup. Once again, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a bill. A big one this time.

He slipped it into the man’s palm. “Can you get us inside?”

The burly man, glanced down into his palm. “Follow me.”

Dallas grabbed Shelby’s hand, towing her along before she could ask any questions, keeping his eyes front as they cut the lineup at the door.

“Is there anyone you can’t bribe?” asked Shelby.

“Not so far,” said Dallas. Though it wasn’t part of his daily routine. This had to be the most expensive non-date he’d ever been on.

Warm air, an eclectic mix of perfumes and a blast of sound from the band met them in the crowded foyer.

“See Allison?” Shelby asked, coming up on her toes and tipping her chin.

Dallas tucked her in behind him, shouldering a path toward the dance floor. “Stay close,” he called back.

“Absolutely,” she shouted, tucking her fingertips into the waistband of his slacks.

His muscles contracted at the unconsciously sexual gesture. She was simply trying to keep from getting crushed by the crowd, he told himself. If she was trying to flirt, he had a feeling he’d know it.

To his immense relief, he quickly spotted Allison at a table near the dance floor. He headed straight toward it.

“Dallas?” Allison’s eyes went round.

Then she peeked around him. “Shelby?”

Shelby groaned and plunked herself down on a chair. She picked up Allison’s martini and took a healthy swallow. “I’ve just had the worst day of my life.”

Allison drew back, gazing at Shelby with interest as she tucked her long dark hair behind one ear. “Given your life, that’s saying something.”

Shelby nodded vigorously. “Oh, yeah. Even for my life, it was bad. But first things first. I need to freshen up. Can I borrow your purse?”

“Sure.” Allison handed her a small black bag that matched her sparkling dress.

Shelby got to her feet, taking the emerald dress from Dallas’s hands. “I’ll tell you all about it after I change.” Then she melted into the crowd.

Allison turned her attention to Dallas. “Do you know where Greg is?”

“Last time I saw him, he was at the office.”

Allison held out her hand. “Can I borrow your cell phone?”

“Of course.” Dallas fished it from his jacket pocket.

“He’s late,” she said, pressing the buttons on his phone.

A cocktail waitress appeared at Dallas’s side. “Get you a drink?”

“No—”

“Another martini,” said Allison, holding the phone to her ear. “Make it two. You want one, Dallas?”

Dallas started to shake his head.

“Make it three,” said Allison.

Dallas gave up and sat down. It had cost him fifty bucks to get in the door. He might as well have a drink before he left.

“Greg?” said Allison, raising her voice and covering her opposite ear. “Where are you?”

There was a pause.

“I’ve been at Balley’s for half an hour. Dallas and Shelby are here.”

She glanced at Dallas, shrugging her shoulders. “Beats me.”

Then she paused again, her expression growing irritated as the seconds ticked by.

“But we talked about…”

She shook her head. “No.”

Another pause. “No. Not if you want to live.”

Her frown deepened. “Greg.” She drew his name out on a groan of exasperation.

Dallas feigned an interest in the couples gyrating on the dance floor, swearing off fiancées then and there. If a guy had to put up with whining in exchange for getting his work done on a Friday night, Dallas wanted no part of it.

“Fine,” said Allison tersely.

Dallas zeroed in on the band. They were pretty good.

“Right,” she added.

He squinted trying to make out the name stylized on the bass drum.

“Later,” she finished.

Elipso…something.

She clicked the phone shut and handed it back to Dallas, catching his gaze with her wounded blue eyes.

Oh, crap. He didn’t want to ask.

He really didn’t want to ask.

Luckily, Shelby appeared through the crowd.

Thank goodness. No, wait. He sucked in a tight breath. Not thank goodness. This was bad, too.

The shimmering emerald dress molded to her curves like a lover, showing off rounded breasts, a flat stomach, cascading over her smooth hips to mid-thigh. There was no way in the world she was wearing underwear beneath it. The realization jacked up his heart rate.

She’d pulled her hair up into a tousled bun and put on just enough makeup to deepen the color of her eyes—jade-green as they reflected the dress. Her cheekbones stood out. Her lashes were thick and lush and dark, and her full lips were something out of a midnight fantasy.

At least a dozen heads swiveled to follow her progress across the polished floor. Dallas swallowed.

The waitress set the drinks down on the table—not a moment too soon. He handed the woman his credit card and took a swig of his martini.

Shelby wriggled her way into the seat between him and Allison. “That’s better,” she sighed, scooting a little closer to the small, glass table. She picked up her own martini and crossed one gorgeous leg over the other, seeming genuinely oblivious to the stares of the men all around her.

“So, tell me what happened,” said Allison, recovering quickly from her conversation with Greg.

Shelby sucked her olive off the toothpick.

Dallas shifted in his chair.

“I lost my purse and didn’t have taxi fare,” she said.

Talk about burying the lead. Dallas crunched down on his own olive.

“Well, it’s not exactly lost,” she continued. “But it’s locked up in the Game-O-Rama. I don’t know when I’m going to get it back.”

“Go tomorrow,” said Allison.

Shelby shook her head. “I also lost my job.”

Allison sat back. “Oh, no. What did you do?”

“Nothing. My boss got arrested.”

Dallas wondered when the heck she was going to get to the part where she got arrested. Then he wondered why Allison automatically assumed Shelby had done something to get fired. Then he started wondering about Shelby’s honesty all over again.

Had she lost jobs before? Maybe pilfered merchandise from her employer?

“So how’d you end up with Dallas?” asked Allison, nodding his way.

Shelby grinned. “He bailed me out of jail.”

“I didn’t bail you out of jail,” Dallas corrected. “You weren’t in jail.”

Shelby leaned forward, giving an almost illegal view of her cleavage. “They arrested me, too. Slapped the cuffs on and everything.” Then she leaned sideways and nudged his shoulder, giving him a secretive smile.

He tried to keep his gaze under control, really he did. But a quick glance downward confirmed his suspicions that she was sans brassiere and in terrific shape.

“Dallas was great,” she said, her words turning rapid-fire as she straightened away from him. “He made them let me go. Then he bribed, like, everyone in the world to get me here so I could drink with you.”

Allison slanted Dallas a suspicious look.

What? A guy couldn’t be a good Samaritan these days?

“I simply pointed out to the officers at the Haines Street lockup that their case against her was shaky,” he said.

“You bribed the cops?” asked Allison.

“I did not bribe the cops.” He took a swallow of his martini. “I bribed the dry cleaner.”

“And the bouncer,” said Shelby.

“I tipped the bouncer,” said Dallas.

“And here we are,” said Shelby, leaning back with a happy sigh, draping her arms across the back of her chair as though all was suddenly right with her world. “Where’s Greg?” she asked Allison.

Something flashed briefly in Allison’s eyes. “Working late.”

Which was where Dallas should be, instead of taking mental liberties with Shelby’s body. Which was where he was going to go, right now before he disgusted himself further. He downed the rest of his martini.

A man tapped Shelby on the shoulder, and Dallas fought an urge to smack the guy’s hand away.

“Like to dance?” the man asked her.

“Sure,” said Shelby, rising to her feet.

“Care for another?” asked the waitress.

“Sure,” said Dallas as his gaze rested on the smooth skin reveled by the plunging V at the back of her dress—his and fifty other gazes with even less noble intentions. He probably owed it to Greg and Allison to make sure Shelby survived the evening.

He’d work all day Saturday to make it up.

COFFEE MUG STEAMING on Allison’s Formica kitchen table on Saturday morning, Shelby drew a red felt pen circle around an ad for a balloon delivery agent. Heck, she was a responsible adult, cheerful, enthusiastic, a self-starter, and she was willing to wear costumes.

Allison appeared in the doorway, leaning sideways against the white-painted jamb while she covered a wide yawn with the palm of her hand. Her dark hair was disheveled, and her flannel nightgown drooped off one shoulder. Faint traces of her mascara were smudged beneath her squinting eyes.

“What the hell are you doing up so early?” she asked. Then she spotted the coffeepot and made a beeline.

“Looking for a new job,” Shelby answered. “You suppose a balloon delivery agent would have to wear fishnet stockings?”

Allison poured a steaming mug of Costa Rican blend. “Ahh,” she sighed, inhaling deeply, closing her eyes and cradling the mug as if it were a magic elixir. “I’d say yes.”

“To the fishnet stockings or the coffee?”

“Both.” She headed for the table. “Fishnets, French maid uniform, sexy nurse outfit, you name it. And you’d probably have to learn to sing Happy Birthday like Marilyn Monroe.”

“I could do a clown outfit. Deliver balloons to kids.” Shelby wasn’t so crazy about the erotic slant. She looked Allison up and down. “You look like hell, you know?”

“I was two martinis ahead of you. And I was pissed at Greg.” She slumped into one of the chairs. “It’s not my fault.”

“Of course it’s not.” Shelby circled another promising ad. This one for a café waitress. It was the breakfast shift. God, she hated the breakfast shift. “Your fiancé stood you up. The evening had to suck.”

“At least I didn’t get thrown in jail.”

“Now that is an excellent point.” Shelby circled an ad for a dental assistant. Not that she had any desire to stick her hands in strangers’s mouths. But they were willing to train the right person.

Allison took a careful sip of her coffee. “You know, I love having you around as a barometer.”

“Who wouldn’t?” asked Shelby, scanning for anything else that was promising. Not much to choose from. She sighed and dropped the felt pen. “Compared to me, even Joyce Vinton is a success story.”

“I heard she’s doing makeup parties in Boise now.”

“See what I mean? What was it we voted her in high school?”

“‘Most likely to be photographed with snakes.”’

Shelby shook her head, fighting a grin. “We were so crude.”

“That we were, Miss Most Likely To Marry Money More Than Once.”

“I’m still waiting for the first time.” Shelby scanned down the column of want ads one more time, just in case. “Think I’d make a good custodian?”

“Bad choice.”

“They get to work nights.”

“If you want to marry money, you need to hang around rich guys.”

“Neil was rich. Look where that got me.”

“Neil was a slimeball, and the Terra Suma lounge was a dive.”

“He pulled in thousands of dollars a night.”

“And blew it all on expensive liquor and horse racing.” Allison had had enough e-mails and phone calls from Shelby over the past year to know about Neil’s shortcomings.

“Well, that’s true enough.” Shelby had to agree.

“You need a job that puts you in contact with classy guys.”

“Balloon deliveries?”

Allison sat up straight and her eyes lit up. “I know.”

“What?”

“I can get you a job.”

Shelby shook her head. “You will not. You’ve done enough already.”

Shelby was determined to take control of her own life. And, she still had her pride. Of course, that was only because they hadn’t strip searched her yesterday.

Allison didn’t give up. “But, it’s a great—”

“No,” said Shelby with another firm shake of her head. “Whatever I do, whatever I decide, it’s going to be me this time, just me.”

Allison stood up and went for the phone. “Let me give Greg a quick call.”

Shelby jumped up from her chair. She scooted across the room and scooped the phone from Allison’s hand. “You’re not baby-sitting me anymore. Bad enough that you’re giving me a roof over my head.”

Allison grinned and cocked her head to one side. “Thought you said you were kicking in for rent.”

Shelby backed away, clutching the phone to her chest. “Of course I am.” She glanced down at the newspaper. “Just as soon as I get the balloon delivery job.”

Allison took a few steps forward. “That’ll be nothing but slimy men ogling your legs and pulling you into their laps. How’re you going to meet anybody decent?”

Shelby gave a little shudder. She’d fended off plenty of hands in her cocktail waitress job. She didn’t particularly look forward to it again. “Okay, I’ll take the job at the diner.”

Allison turned the paper so it was facing her and read the circled ads. Then she looked back up at Shelby, raising her eyebrows. “You? Get up at 5:00 a.m.? I don’t think so,” she scoffed.

“Then I’ll be a custodian. They work nights.”

Allison made a face. “Scrubbing urinals?”

Shelby felt her own expression crumple into one of distaste.

“After last night,” said Allison. “Greg owes me big time.”

“He owes you, not me.”

“Yeah, but he’s got nothing I want for me.” She paused. “Well, except for the obvious.”

Shelby smiled. “His heart. His soul. And everything he owns or ever will own?”

“Exactly. But those came with the ring. I need something more before I’m ready to forgive him. And I happen to know that they need a new receptionist at Turnball, Williams and Smith.”

Shelby shrank back and shook her head. “Uh-uh.” She was not about to let Allison exploit her fiancé to get her a job.

“Day shift,” said Alison. “Office opens at eight-thirty.”

Shelby steeled herself against the temptation. She was making it on her own. If nothing else, for the sake of her ego. She was twenty-five years old, and her life was bordering on pathetic.

“Air-conditioned in the summer, heated in the winter,” sang Allison.

“I’m doing this myself.”

“Classy clients. Rich, classy clients.”

“I have my pride.”

“Regular breaks, medical benefits and a pension plan.”

Shelby gritted her teeth. This was cruel and unusual temptation. With a job like that, she wouldn’t be pathetic. She might even be successful.

“Coffee bar on the main floor,” said Allison.

Shelby felt herself weaken.

Obviously sensing victory, Allison held out her hand for the phone, wiggling her fingers. “Frappino’s. Mochaccinos every day of the week.”

That did it. Shelby groaned and handed over the phone. “Fine. Exploit away.”

Not that she expected Greg to say yes. He’d be crazy to hire her. She didn’t know the first thing about being a classy receptionist. But she’d sleep better at night if he turned her down, instead of her thumbing her nose at the job of a lifetime and then wondering forever what might have been.

Allison took the phone, waving it around for emphasis. “It’s not exploitation. It’s not even nepotism. Any job placement agency will tell you to use your contacts. And I’m your contact in Chicago. Use me.”

“Make sure you tell him I don’t know the first thing about being a receptionist.”

Allison grinned as she punched in a number and lifted the phone to her ear. “I won’t lie. Greg Smith, please.”

Shelby’s stomach tightened into a knot.

“Hey, how hard can it be?” asked Allison. “You answer a few phone calls, greet a few clients, file a few folders. You do know the alphabet, right?”

“I still sing it inside my head.”

Allison grinned, raking her messy dark hair across her scalp and shaking her head. “Greg?” she said into the phone.

“What?” she asked almost immediately.

She paused. “Because Shelby woke me up.”

Allison winked at Shelby. “Yes, she is very punctual.”

Shelby’s palms turned sweaty as, despite herself, she started to hope. A cushy job in a law office sounded so much better than delivering balloons in a French maid’s outfit or slinging hash at 5:00 a.m.

Some women just weren’t cut out for 5:00 a.m. Unless, of course, it had been a really great party.

“Of course I’m not mad,” Allison said into the phone. “Shelby did a fantastic job of entertaining me last night.” She gave a theatrical sigh. “Otherwise I would have been so lonely in the club all by myself.”

Shelby rolled her eyes.

Allison grinned unrepentantly as she listened to Greg’s response. “As a matter of fact, there is a way to thank her. She’s looking for a job as a receptionist.”

Now that was a stretch. Shelby was looking for a job requiring a warm body.

“Experience?” asked Allison. “Absolutely.”

Shelby’s eyes widened and she shook her head, making a slashing motion across her throat. Allison had promised not to lie.

“She’s worked with the public for years,” said Allison. “She’s greeted customers, handled cash, balanced expenses. She’s good with details, extremely organized and very personable.”

Shelby had to admit, it was all basically true. If keeping twelve drink orders straight counted as being organized.

“Debbie’s old job? Now why didn’t I think of that?”

Shelby bit down on her bottom lip, afraid to let herself hope.

“She can start on Monday…Of course…Bye, sweetheart.”

Allison hung up the phone and Shelby let out a sharp gasp, trying not to let terror overwhelm her excitement. She had a job. A real job.

“You’re in,” said Allison with a wide smile.

“I can’t believe you pulled that off.”

“Believe it.”

“You’re incredible.”

“And you’re going to be great. You’ve already met Dallas and Greg. And Allan, the other partner, is a pussycat.”




3


DALLAS NODDED to his partner, Allan Turnball, as he strode across the newly decorated reception area of Turnball, Williams and Smith, briefcase in one hand and a double mochaccino in the other. He loved Monday mornings—loved it when an entire week of untapped possibilities stretched out in front of him.

He had a meeting with Eamon Perth at ten, lunch with Judge Weinberger, and he was hooking up with Greg for racquetball and a beer before he caught the Cubs game on ESPN.

If he could convince Eamon Perth to put them on permanent retainer, he could announce the coup to Greg tonight, giving Greg bragging rights for his meeting with Preston International in New York on Friday. A couple of cornerstone clients like Perth-Abercrombie and Preston International, and the sky would be the limit for their budding law firm.

As Mondays with possibilities went, it didn’t get much better than this.

He headed toward the hallway that led to his office, but caught a bright flash in the corner of his eye, bringing him to a stop. Something was out of place.

He slowly turned toward the receptionist’s desk, and his mouth dropped open a notch as he stared at a pair of black, spike-heeled pumps, impossibly long legs, a shiny gold dress over a perfectly rounded rear end, and a head of riotous, auburn hair barely tamed in a knot.

His mouth went dry as last night’s dream popped, full blown, into his mind. His palm turned slick against his briefcase handle.

Allan appeared at his side. “Did you meet our new receptionist?”

Something settled like a lead weight in Dallas’s stomach.

The woman pivoted to face him and he nearly dropped his coffee onto the three-week-old, hand-knotted, golden-onyx carpet.

“Dallas Williams,” said Allan. “This is Shelby Jacobs.”

Shelby’s bright red lips curved into a friendly smile. The silky-smooth lines of the gold dress hugged her knockout figure. Gathered, capped sleeves barely covered her shoulders, and a heavy zipper was pulled just low enough to stimulate his imagination.

“What the…?” He barely sputtered out the question before his vocal chords shut down in sheer incredulity.

“We’ve met,” said Shelby. “Great to see you again, Dallas.”

Dallas? What were clients going to think when the receptionist called the partners by their first names? What were clients going to think when the receptionist looked like she belonged on a Vegas runway?

He glanced at the newly decorated wall behind her—its arched, Italian bookcase, leather-bound law books, bronze-and-marble statues, the wing chairs, the fresh flowers and the custom oil paintings that nearly screamed class and success. Then he looked back at Shelby—sexy, spectacular, totally inappropriate, Shelby.

Was this a joke? He turned his horror-stricken face to Allan. Blinking, waiting for the man to burst out laughing.

He didn’t.

“Can I get you anything?” asked Shelby, shifting in Dallas’s peripheral vision. “Coffee? Files?” She gestured to the bookcase behind her. “A reference book?”

Dallas spoke to Allan through clenched teeth. “Can I see you in my office for a moment? Bring Greg.”

He turned to take one more look at Shelby. He’d found the woman in handcuffs. In the Haines Street lockup. He wasn’t even sure she was innocent. And even if she didn’t steal the artwork from their walls, they sure as hell couldn’t make her the first thing clients saw when the entered Turnball, Williams and Smith. Clients like Eamon Perth.

Eamon Perth.

Good God, Dallas had less than two hours to get her out of here.

With the barest of nods in her direction, he strode into his office, resisting the urge to slam his leather briefcase down on the polished desktop.

Greg entered behind him, closely followed by Allan.

“What’s going on?” asked Greg affably.

Dallas turned to glare at him. “You hired a receptionist without even talking to me?”

Allan quickly closed the office door.

“Allison said you’d met her, and you seemed to like her,” said Greg.

Dallas moved behind his cherrywood desk, bracing his hands on the high back of his chair. “I met her in the Haines Street lockup.”

“But they didn’t arrest her.”

“Only because I was there.”

“Allison asked me to thank you for that.”

Dallas bit back an unflattering observation about Allison’s influence over Greg.

Allan took a step forward. “She seems very nice.”

“Nice?” Dallas’s voice came out strangled. “Did you check her references? Her police record?” Had they even bothered to step back and take a good, long look at the woman?

Greg straightened. “Her police record?”

“When I met her Friday night, she was under arrest.”

“She doesn’t have a police record. She’s Allison’s roommate. From college.”

Allan stepped in again. “I think we should give her a chance.”

Dallas couldn’t believe they were ganging up on him. He rounded the desk and brushed past them both, opening the office door and gesturing out into the reception area.

He kept his voice low. “Has it occurred to the two of you that she is the first person our clients are going to see when they walk in?”

Greg and Allan both peered out.

“So?” asked Greg.

“I don’t get it,” said Allan.

“Am I the only one who cares about making a professional impression?” asked Dallas.

“She is kind of pretty,” said Allan. “But I don’t see how—”

“Kind of pretty?” asked Dallas.

“She’s making Harold Bouthier smile,” said Greg.

Dallas glanced out the door. For a second his heart stopped beating. “She’s flirting with Harold Bouthier.”

“That’s not flirting,” said Greg. “She’s just being friendly.”

Shelby laughed at something Harold had said, her green eyes lighting up. He leaned a little closer. She didn’t back away, simply listened with interest.

“She’s flirting,” said Dallas.

“You can’t even hear her,” said Greg.

“With those legs, everything is flirting.”

Both of his partners turned to stare at him in amazed silence.

“What?” asked Dallas. “You mean to tell me neither of you noticed her legs?”

Greg’s face slowly broke into a grin. “I don’t think we can legally discriminate against her based on the fact that you’re a leg man.”

Allan joined in, smacking Dallas on the shoulder. “Just keep a lid on it in the office there, Dallas.”

“I’m not discriminating against her based on—”

“She’s attractive, I’ll give you that,” said Greg. “Can’t hold a candle to Allison, of course.”

Dallas shot Greg a quizzical look. Allison was cute enough, but Shelby was in a whole other league. Clients were going to walk into walls while staring at her. Who knew how many personal injury claims they’d have to settle?

He quickly shook himself. “We’re allowed to discriminate against her based on qualifications and experience.”

“Allison says she’s experienced,” said Greg. “Maybe you should spend a little time on your personal life. Get out there on a few dates. You know, halve the testosterone concentration so that you don’t—”

“This has nothing to do with my testosterone concentration.”

Both of the other men looked unconvinced.

Dallas raked a hand through his hair. “Look. All I’m saying is that you had no right to hire an employee behind my back. I don’t think she’s suitable, and I think we need to—”

“Give the woman a chance,” said Allan. “Bouthier likes her. Maybe it’s because she’s kind of pretty. But who cares?”

“I care.”

“Well, you’re just going to have to deal with your own libido,” said Greg. “I promised Allison we’d give her a chance, and I’ve got Allan’s backing.”

Before he could protest again, both men left his office, Greg heading out to meet Bouthier, and Allan crossing the hall to the library.

Dallas glanced at his watch.

Fine. He still had over an hour before Eamon Perth was due. It couldn’t be that hard to dissuade a woman like Shelby Jacobs.

“I DON’T THINK Dallas likes me much,” said Shelby as she took a seat across from Allison in Frappino’s on the first floor of the office building. It was her fourth day on the job, and things seemed to be going pretty well—other than the fact that Dallas had barely said two words to her. Well, except for Monday morning when he suggested she could get a better job.

He’d even offered to help her find one.

Not a good sign.

“Dallas can be tense,” said Allison, stirring the foam into her coffee. Allison worked as a graphic artist across town, but today a meeting with a client had brought her close enough to meet up.

“It’s more than that.” Shelby tore off a piece of the cinnamon bun they’d agreed to share.

“Yeah?” Allison looked her in the eyes.

Shelby faltered, squinting at the red tinge and slight puffiness around Allison’s eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Allison waved a dismissive hand. “Tell me about Dallas.”

“Forget Dallas. You look upset.”

Allison shrugged, still toying with her stir stick. “Greg stood me up again last night.”

Shelby dropped the chunk of cinnamon bun, wiping her sticking fingers on a paper napkin. “But you were out until after eleven. I heard you come in.”

“I walked home. I was thinking…I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Shelby’s heart contracted. “Allison…”

“It’s his work. Always his work. We haven’t had sex in two weeks.” She glanced from side to side to make sure their conversation couldn’t be overheard. Then she leaned across the table, pitching her voice below the general buzz of conversation. “How can I marry a man who doesn’t want me?”

The question shocked Shelby. She had no idea that Greg’s working was causing any more than a minor tiff. “He wants you. Of course he wants you.”

“Then why is he always working?”

Shelby thought for a moment. “I know they’re after a couple of big clients right now. There’s Eamon Perth from Perth-Abercrombie—I haven’t met him because all of Dallas’s meetings have been outside the office. But it feels like he’s really important.

“And there’s the New York firm, Preston International. They’ve been doing a ton of research on them. And I know they just redecorated to impress clients. Maybe this is a temporary thing.”

“I’m beginning to think I’m the temporary thing.”

Shelby’s heart went out to Allison. “I’m sure he misses you just as much as you miss him. Give him a little time.”

“You’re a lot more forgiving than me. I’m about ready to hand him an ultimatum.”

Shelby felt her eyes go wide. “You can’t mean break up with him? He’s a wonderful guy.”

“Either he shows up on our next date, and we have great sex, or he can take his ring and—”

Shelby started to panic. Allison and Greg loved each other. They were great for each other. She didn’t want Allison to say anything that was hard to take back.

“I don’t think you want to go with an ultimatum,” she said.

“Well I can’t think of anything else that will make an impression on his thick skull.”

Shelby picked up her coffee, putting a teasing tone in her voice. “You know, you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”

“What? Your grandmother say that?”

Shelby nodded. “All the time. Though I don’t think she had premarital sex in mind.”

“Ha. They had premarital sex back then. They just lied about it.”

Shelby grinned. “They also played hard to get.”

“You think I’m too available?”

Shelby nodded. “I think you need to make him wait on you. Oh. Even better. Whet his appetite and then make him wait.”

“How the hell am I going to whet his appetite if I never see him? He’s got meetings tonight, then he leaves for New York tomorrow morning.”

“The Preston International thing?”

“Exactly. He’ll be gone all the way through the weekend.”

“So send something with him.”

“What? Slip my panties into his suitcase?”

That was what Shelby had been about to suggest.

“He’s got six pairs,” said Allison. “Doesn’t seem to be working.”

“Sexy pairs?”

“No. White cotton. Of course they’re sexy.”

“Hmm.”

“Yeah. Hmm.” Allison tore off a chunk of the cinnamon bun.

“Could you go to New York?”

“How does that make him wait?”

“Good point.”

Allison groaned around a bite of cinnamon bun. “And can you imagine how horrible it would be if he was at meetings all evening long while I waited in his hotel room?”

“Pathetic,” Shelby agreed.

“Seriously. I’d be worse off than when I started.”

Gaze resting on the mochaccino machine as it churned out another foam-topped coffee, Shelby searched her brain. “Phone sex?”

“He has call waiting on his cell.”

Shelby coughed out an outraged laugh. “He wouldn’t.”

“He has.”

“Tell me again why you’re marrying this man?”

Allison laughed darkly, tipping forward as she shook her head. “He’s charming, intelligent, gorgeous and hardworking.” She straightened, flipped her hair back and groaned again. “He really is. I just have to figure out how to get back on top of his priority list.”

“Pictures,” said Shelby.

“Pictures?”

“Sexy pictures.”

“What? Like a magazine?”

Shelby pointed at Allison with her index finger, warming to the idea. “Yeah. Just like a magazine. Only you.”

Allison’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“You. In sexy pictures. Hide them in his luggage. He stares at them for four days in New York, comes home, and voilà. Instant sex.”

“I don’t have any sexy pictures.”

“Have some taken.”

“By who?”

“Me, Dallas—”

“Dallas!”

“I’m joking. There are studios that do stuff like that. They even supply the clothes, the makeup, the props, the works.”

“Props?” Allison squeaked. “I don’t think I can do props.”

“I meant a feather boa, a fur rug. Sexy, not smutty.”

Allison looked skeptical.

“It’d work,” said Shelby.

“I don’t think I could—”

“We’ll call around, find some place with a female photographer. They give you the negatives. Nobody but you and Greg will ever know about it.”

Allison grimaced. “I really don’t know if I could do it.”




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