The Silver Fox

Chapter 2

It was a dilemma of the worst order. Not only had she already accepted the dinner invitation carte blanche and with gusto, but she had spent the better part of two separate conversations with John Doucette declaring her immunity to Sloane Harper. Having burned her bridges behind her, there was nothing to do but accept the situation with a practiced, if superficial, grace.

“That’s fine, Richard. Please give your father the message and thank him for the invitation. I’ll look forward to it.” Her eyes bore an emerald steadiness that was almost convincing.

“I’ll bet you will,” John whispered with a wicked grin as the other left the office. “It should be a very interesting evening. At least you’ll be well protected!”

The last thing Justine needed, fresh on this minor setback, was John’s continued taunting. Willing herself to calmness, she faced him straight on. “I do have an awful lot to do between now and then, John. If you don’t mind, perhaps I could get to it….”

“Not at all.” The dark-haired man gave a semblance of a bow, then turned and strode to the door, stopping there for a final shot. “Have fun, Justine … and be careful….” The drawl in his voice rankled her. Ignoring it, she lifted the telephone receiver as if to make a call, then replaced it as soon as the doorway stood empty once more.

Absent fingers shifted the telephone messages around in her hand. Her mind was elsewhere. Sloane Harper, she had to admit, was a most attractive man. In truth, she had never been as fascinated by a man before. Unbidden, she recalled John’s words, to be haunted, then bewildered by them in turn.

Omnivorous. Sly. A predator. They connoted a man who was hard, shrewd, slightly sinister. Yet the man who had knelt earlier by her side, gently soothing both her stubbed toe and her injured pride, had been anything but hard or sinister. Shrewd, perhaps, if his true motivation was imagined at its worst, but certainly neither hard nor sinister. How ironic, she mused, that she should know nothing more about Sloane Harper than the fact that he talked in his sleep! CORE International was a mystery to her, as was all else about this man whose bold bearing had set her pulse to pounding.

Perhaps it was for the best that she not know much about him. Intuition told her that he might put her vows of independence to a test. But then, she reasoned, arguing against alarm, beyond a well-chaperoned dinner that night, she would probably not see him other than in passing along the corridors of the firm.

A frown marred her gentle features as a new question popped into mind. Why had she been invited to join the dinner party? After all, she would not be involved with Sloane as a client. Was it simply the fact that she was a woman, the firm’s token female? Had she suddenly become a showpiece? Bristling, she recalled Daniel Logan’s faintly patronizing remarks back in the hall. To date she had neatly managed to avoid that kind of extra attention. Why should it begin now? To her further chagrin, the fact of its presence, for the first time in the firm, was not as upsetting as it might have been. Could it be that she prized her femininity in the eyes of Sloane Harper?

There was only one solution to her wayward imaginings. Work. There was nothing like a sticky case to remind her that she was, first and foremost, a lawyer. Determinedly she focused her attention on the messages which awaited her. Girardi, at the district attorney’s office—Fried, at the Social Welfare Bureau—Tompkins of Tompkins, Tompkins and Riley—Tony O’Neill, at the settlement house—and Theodore Marston. Theodore Marston, attorney at law—and as sticky a divorce situation as she had run into. That would be the one to tackle first, a sure diversion which would require her total attention.

She diligently pushed the buttons on the telephone console, then waited while the secretary put her through. “Mr. Marston? This is Justine O’Neill. I received your message and wanted to get right back to you.”

The curt voice on the other end of the line was as firm and sharp-edged as was the man himself. “Ms. O’Neill, thank you for calling. I’m afraid that my client feels the terms you have suggested to be way out of line. I agree.”

“That’s unfortunate,” she stated calmly, having expected just this reaction. It was a basic premise in negotiation to aim far higher than what one actually expected to attain; Justine had done just that. “Exactly what part of the agreement bothers you?”

“Most of it. The money settlement, the division of property, the visitation rights—you name it.”

Justine was prepared, tapping on a pad of paper with the tip of her pencil. “Mr. Marston, as far as the money is concerned, your client is a multimillionaire. Certainly this lump sum figure is not out of line, especially considering that the couple was married for twelve years.”

“It’s too high, nonetheless. With a monthly child support payment to boot! We simply cannot agree to that.”

“And why not? The figure we’re talking about would be very little to a man of your client’s standing.”

“He has … other obligations … business commitments.”

“Yes, other obligations.” Justine had done her homework, having had the husband of her client thoroughly investigated. “I understand that one of those ‘other obligations’ is a mistress. Is that true?”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line as the opposing lawyer recovered from his surprise. He had, obviously, thought this to be a little secret between his client and himself. “How did you ever get that idea?” he called her bluff.

But Justine was crafty enough not to show all her cards at once. “I have my sources. And we have uncovered more about your client that any judge will have to consider, should we finally go to court.” Again, silence reigned. Sensing her opening, Justine grasped it. “It might be a good idea, Mr. Marston, if we sat down across the table from one another and discussed these matters. Then we can negotiate a further settlement.”

She had played her hand to the hilt. Without delay an appointment was set up and the matter temporarily tabled. Justine’s strength lay in analyzing her adversary, then using instinct to attain her goal. An in-person conference would give her that opportunity.

A sigh slipped through her lips as she crumbled the pink slip and tossed it into the leather wastebasket behind her. Leaps, and pinions his victim with his paws. Helplessly her mind reverted to thoughts of Sloane. But his touch had been so soft, so gentle, she mused, recalling the tingling sensation she’d felt. Catching her breath, she forced her attention back to the phone.

Girardi, at the district attorney’s office, was the next order of business. “Mr. Girardi,” she began, following the suitable identification, “how is our case shaping up?”

“A little shaky, Justine.” Though the law firm, within itself, operated strictly on a first-name basis, she always resented the occasional outside male who presumed such a status as quickly as this one seemed to have done. She could only fight fire with fire.

“I’m not sure I understand, Jim. I thought it was an open-and-shut case of wife beating. Isn’t that what the indictment read?”

“Ah, yes, ah, that was what we had originally determined.”

“However—” she anticipated him.

“However, there is new evidence that has just arisen. He, ah, claims now that it was self-defense.”

“ Self-defense? ” Justine’s reaction was instant. “Jim, that woman was black-and-blue for weeks.”

“He claims she tried to attack him with a poker.”

Justine shook her head slowly, ingesting this new information. “Do you believe that?”

The assistant district attorney cleared his throat self-consciously. “I’m not sure. You’re the one who represented the wife in the divorce. What do you think?”

“I think,” she countered strongly, “that it’s highly unlikely!”

After a pause, Jim Girardi agreed. “I tend to be on your side. But he still wants to plea bargain. He’s hoping for probation.”

“That would put him right back on the street, free to do God knows what! I can’t see it. His ex-wife is a gentle person. If—and I do mean if —she held a poker in her hand, she must have had a very certain fear of the man.” Hesitating, she contemplated the next step. “Look, let me speak with Marie and see how she responds to the claim. Then I’ll get back to you. Okay?”

“Fine. But make it fast. We can only hold him so long. If he gets a reduction in bail, he’ll be on the street anyway.”

“I understand.” She grimaced. “Let me give her a call and then we’ll know more. Talk with you later.”

Another pink slip sailed into the basket. Worrying ghost creases into her forehead, Justine jotted a note to herself. She was interrupted when the light on the console flickered. To her relief and pleasure it was the O’Neill who had called earlier, her half brother.

“Tony!” she burst out enthusiastically, responding to the unique place this man held in her heart. “It’s been too long. How are you?”

“Just fine, Justine. How’s the eager beaver doing?”

For the first time that afternoon a truly relaxed smile lit her face. “Not bad, for an establishment lawyer,” she poked fun at herself. “Tell me about you—what’s happening?”

For several minutes she listened, leaning back in her chair with her stockinged feet propped against the edge of an out-drawn lower drawer as Tony outlined his latest endeavors. Chief social worker at the local settlement house, he had never a dull moment. But he thrived on it—as did she on her own work’s excitement. Along with a father, fair skin, and similarly amber hair, this was another of the things they shared.

“Listen, Justine”—Tony grew more sober—“I wanted to thank you for what you did for the Aliandro boy. We’re all delighted, now that he’s been placed with foster parents.”

Gratified, she probed. “It’s working out well, then?”

“So far, so good. It’s a relief for him not to have to face a pair of battling, drunken parents every day and night.”

The case itself had been a rewarding one emotionally for Justine. “Every child should have the right to counsel. I’m glad I could have been of help.”

“You’re terrific, you know! Any flak from the firm about cases like these?”

“No, no. They know that I insist on handling a certain number of pro bono cases. Just because a ten-year-old boy cannot afford to pay a lawyer shouldn’t mean that he is denied his rights. That child has a right to a healthy home environment!”

“Well, thanks to you, he has one now. We’re all in your debt!”

With a blush that her caller could not see, Justine minimized her effort. “It was my pleasure. Call me again soon?”

A mischievous guffaw met her ear. “Are you sure you want that? I always seem to find more work for you.”

“That’s what I’m here for, Tony. Please, do call!”

“Sure thing, Justine. So long!”

For long moments after hanging up the phone she contemplated the success of that particular case. Although ones such as this which Tony had referred her brought in no money, they were, in some ways, the most satisfying—particularly when the outcome was positive.

Once again the console lit. This time it was Dave Brody. “I’ve just managed to get tickets for the theater, Justine. A week from Tuesday. Eight o’clock. Can you make it?”

Momentarily buoyed by her conversation with Tony, Justine accepted the invitation with alacrity. “Sure thing! What will we see?”

“The tickets are for Evita. Have you been?”

“Nope. Sounds good. The reviews have been fantastic—and even though it’s been running for so long, I haven’t been. What time should I be ready?”

“If I pick you up at six thirty, we can grab something to eat beforehand. Something light.” He emphasized the “light,” knowing from experience that this date was not a heavy eater.

Grinning at his perceptivity, she agreed. “Six thirty. I’ll be ready and waiting. See you then!”

Dave Brody was a steady friend, a knightly companion. Justine had met him at a party several years before, had been dating him occasionally ever since. A stockbroker by profession, he was an avid culture nut. In his company she had visited many a museum, enjoyed not only the theater but ballet and opera as well. Though her own appreciation was more geared for pure enjoyment Dave’s knowledgeable commentary always highlighted their evenings together. And, she mused, turning to gaze out her twenty-first-floor window at the steep wall of concrete and glass across the avenue, he made no demands on her—either sexually, or in terms of further commitment. His presence in her life suited her well!

Involvement with the male of the species in other than the professional or platonic realm simply did not fit into her life plan. There would be no misery for her such as she saw day in and day out through her work. She wanted no part of the hassles of marriage, the bickering about the sharing of responsibilities, the arguments about money matters and career. Above all she wanted none of the heartache she’d known as a child when her parents’ marriage had fallen apart. She had suffered enough then to last her a lifetime. Indeed, the avoidance of sexual entanglement seemed a small price to pay for emotional well-being.

As she wiggled her toes over the rim of the open drawer, her thoughts wandered recklessly. A man like Sloane Harper, she decided, would demand things. His air of command would inspire total subservience. She, however, was subservient to no man. Hard work and her own innate intelligence had earned her the respect of the majority of her peers. It was what she wanted and she prized it.

Sloane Harper. The Silver Fox. Was he an opportunist? Silver was the color of that magnificent head of hair—but was he indeed the proverbial fox? Strangely disquieting, the question was with her for the afternoon, set aside only occasionally by the demands of one or another of her more immediate legal concerns. It didn’t help that John stopped by for a final jab late in the day.

“Remember, kid,” he said grinning from the door, “the fox is known for its cunning….”

She said nothing, reluctant to legitimize his warning by dint of response. Her narrowed gaze was sufficient to convey her distaste for his humor. But he slipped away undaunted.

By the time six o’clock rolled around, she felt duly out of sorts. With foresight she had taken a few moments to touch up her makeup and brush through the tangle of her waves. The end result, she decided with a wry grin at the rosy image that faced her in the ladies’ room mirror, would certainly pass muster.

But when the tall figure, fresh despite his own long afternoon of meetings and unfairly handsome in his dark gray linen suit, appeared at the entrance to her office, her composure tottered.

“All set?” His deep voice surged across the room to enliven her every sensitive nerve. She looked evasively down at the spread of materials on her desk.

“Just about,” she answered, shuffling papers in pretense of neatening the desk top as she stood. “Are the others ready to go?”

His dark eyes held hers with nary a blink. “They’ve gone ahead in a cab. I’ve got my car downstairs. We’ll meet them at the restaurant.”

This unexpected twist sent jitters through her stomach. The fingers that placed several folders in her briefcase trembled almost imperceptibly. “Fine. There, I think I have everything.”

“Do you always bring work home to do at night?”

“I always bring something home with me,” she said with a smirk, “but it’s not necessarily night work.” On this particular evening she doubted she would get anything accomplished. “Very often I spend an hour before work looking over my cases for the day. I’m an early riser anyway, and I’m freshest in the morning.”

She sidestepped her desk with care, mindful of her flub that afternoon. Sloane hadn’t moved from the door. “You look totally fresh right now. Are dinners with clients part of the normal schedule?”

With a tug she hoisted the shoulder strap of her purse, then lifted the briefcase, only to have it as quickly removed from her fingers when Sloane stepped forward. She released it graciously. “No. This is a surprise. Particularly”—she eyed him cautiously—“since you really aren’t my client. As a matter of fact, I’m not quite sure why Dan suggested I join you all. I know nothing about your operation.”

Sloane flipped off the lights as they left the office, then moved beside her toward the deserted reception area. “That, my dear, can be easily remedied.” It was a perfect Clark Gable imitation, yet uniquely Sloane Harper. Nothing about the man, she mused, smacked of imitation. He was one of a kind—certainly in the profound effect he had on her senses.

Now, as they left Ivy, Gates and Logan behind and stood waiting for the elevator, she was acutely aware of those senses and the messages they conveyed. There was a strength about him as he stood tall, a rough six feet four to her five feet eight, and a dignity in his stance that fell short of arrogance. He was masterful in silence, exuding an aura of self-confidence which challenged her. The faint hint of his morning’s dose of aftershave was pleasingly light, as was the warmth which radiated from his lean lines.

“Then, tell me,” she began, groping for a diversion from these subtle, sensual messages, “tell me about CORE International.”

“From scratch?” he asked, boyishly pleased.

Justine grinned shyly. “From scratch. I am one of the totally ignorant.” The arrival of the elevator delayed the story as they stepped inside and began the long downward glide. Alone with this silver-haired man in the plush and polished elevator, Justine was infinitely grateful that an impersonal subject had been chosen.

Sloane began softly, his keen eye following the course of the lights on the elevator panel. “The company began as a small operation twenty years ago. My father was its founder, working out of Atlanta, primarily along the southeastern seaboard. When I joined the company twelve years ago, then took over command three years later, we began to expand.”

“Was your training in business?” she asked, unwittingly delving into the man as a person. The elevator stopped at the garage level, and Sloane smoothly guided her toward the spot where his car was parked.

“I have an M.B.A. from the Tuck School at Dartmouth, but most of what I do is intuitive.”

Before Justine could question him further, he paused beside a small blue Mazda, dug into a pocket for the keys, then opened the door for her.

“Hmmm,” she commented, “I can see why you didn’t offer to take the others. Not much room, is there?” The car was a two-seater, well appointed though far from luxurious.

His answering drawl was close by her ear as he leaned in to straighten a seat belt. “Not much.”

A quiver snaked its way through her before she was jolted by the slam of the car door beside her. Moments later Sloane let himself into the driver’s side, then turned to face her. The garage was dimly lit, casting a halo effect around the silver cap of his head. An angel, she mused, but far from a saint, if his effect on her was intentional.

“It is intimate, I suppose,” he said softly, smiling.

Justine sought sanity by making light of the definite seductiveness of his tone. “I’ll say! It’s a good thing you don’t have a large family!” Once again she regretted her spontaneity the instant her shocked ears heard her words.

His dark eyes were even darker in the confines of the car, his expression unfathomable. The only thing that was clear was his thorough, ongoing survey of her features, as he one by one traced her sculpted lines, illuminated by the very same light which threw his own face into shadow.

“So you do know something about me, then.” She could only imagine the eyebrow that arched suspiciously.

“Not really,” she countered quickly. “I simply assumed …” Very available, John had said, though that bit of knowledge and its source would remain her own secret. “I mean, no rings or anything …”

“Most men don’t wear rings, wedding or otherwise. I notice that you wear none yourself.” Moving too quickly for Justine to anticipate him, he took her left hand in his, caressing her slender fingers with a most subtle, nearly imperceptible motion.

Humor was, once more, her chosen out. “The last ring I wore”—she grinned sheepishly—“was a beautiful pearl one that had originally belonged to my grandmother. Unfortunately, a bee stung me on that knuckle. When the whole finger swelled, the ring cut off its circulation.”

“Why didn’t you take the ring off first?” Sloane frowned at the simplicity of the solution.

“That was the operable question at the time. I … just … didn’t think of it. Until it was too late.”

“The finger—?” To her dismay, he held hers more tightly.

“Oh, the finger stayed, obviously.” She forced a chuckle. “It was the ring which had to go. Cut off. In a doctor’s office. By a very efficient little tool. No problem … but I haven’t worn a ring since.”

The smile she had expected from him never came. Rather, he grew more serious. “You are the master of disaster, aren’t you?” At Justine’s guilty shrug he continued pointedly. “But that’s avoiding the central issue. Are you married?”

“No.”

“Divorced?”

“No.”

He paused for a moment, contemplating other possibilities. “Engaged?”

“No.”

His gaze narrowed. “Living with—”

“No!” Justine held her breath, a challenge in light of its sudden irregularity. She was cornered once more, helpless in a prison of Sloane’s supreme command. In the small car in the dim garage the same potent force reached out to her as had stunned her earlier that day. It was bizarre, yet vital; its identity was unknown. As it threatened to engulf her, she struggled to hold her own.

“I feel as though I’m on the witness stand,” she quipped weakly.

“Not the witness stand, Justine,” he spoke gently, melting the last of her resistance. “You’re in my car—my small car—and I simply want to know where I stand. I may appear to be without scruples when it comes to luring top personnel into my organization, but I’ve never stolen another man’s woman.”

An instant’s small spark of rebellion flared in her, charging her spontaneous reaction. “I’m no man’s woman, Sloane. I never have been, and I never will be. I’m my own person—it has to be that way.” Breathless, she stopped. Even in the dark, his faint smirk bemused her.

“Is that so?” he asked, seemingly delighted. But at what? Was it the gist of her vow that amused him—or the challenge it posed?

As Justine pondered the choice, she felt him lean closer, slowly, subtly. His face was inches above hers, his gaze searching hers in the dimness. For a moment of breathtaking anticipation she thought he would kiss her. And, in that same hypnotic moment, she knew she would not resist. Her pulse gathered speed in its race through her veins, preparing her for an experience that was not to be. For, to her odd disappointment, he straightened.

The soft clearing of his throat was the only hint of any possible emotion on his part. His voice was pure velvet. “The others will be waiting. We wouldn’t want them to be worried….”

Throwing a devilish wink her way, he started the car and they were off. It took Justine several long moments to compose herself. Fearful of the silence and, above all, her own burgeoning fantasies, she returned to the original source of her inquiry.

“Exactly what is CORE International?”

Sloane smiled as he deftly negotiated the early evening traffic. “That’s right. I still haven’t enlightened you. CORE International is a think tank operation, much on the idea of the original Rand Corporation.”

“Really?” she interjected enthusiastically, pleased to find that she would not be sitting in on a potentially boring discussion of dull business procedures all evening.

“Uh-huh. Our business is research. Our clients extend into every major country, plus a number of smaller ones.”

“Your personnel—the ones you unscrupulously steal from other companies—” she began with a smirk, only to be softly but firmly interrupted.

“Appear to unscrupulously steal. Please. My reputation tends to get carried away with itself.”

The fox, Justine mused—sly and predatory. So that was the source of the appellation, contrary to John Doucette’s lewd implication. Now, she needed to know more.

“I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt this time. So, who are these … employees of CORE International? By profession.”

The intermittent honk of nearby horns fell to the side as Sloane elaborated. “There are mathematicians, psychologists, engineers, architects, medical technicians, teachers, administrators—you name it. As the need has arisen, I’ve hired from practically every field. We span the gamut now, as does our research itself.”

“Fascinating …” she murmured, turning to gaze out the windshield at the riot of colors on the evening avenues. Dusk fast approached, and with it came the array of neon signs and car lights that blended into artistic chaos in this largest of metropolises. Justine always found the urban nightscape enchanting, one of the things she liked most about New York City. Now, however, it was merely a vivid backdrop for an even more exciting subject. But before she could delve deeper, Sloane’s voice stayed her.

“Here we are,” he announced, pulling up before The Four Seasons. It took a moment for Justine to recall their purpose.

“The Four Seasons! Aha!” she exclaimed. “We’re doing it up big tonight!”

This time the lights of the restaurant clearly revealed that arched brow. “Do I detect a bit of sarcasm?”

“From me?” Innocence, feigned as it was, became her, rounding her eyes and uplifting the corners of her pink-glossed lips appealingly. “I have no complaint. It certainly beats the sandwich I would have had at home.”

Sloane’s dark eyes studied her closely. He seemed about to say something when the valet opened the door on her side and extended his hand to help her out. With a mischievous grin shot back at her driver, she gracefully exited the car and started toward the entrance of the restaurant. Within moments, Sloane was beside her.

Their arrival had been preceded by that of the other three men, who were already seated and nursing drinks when the ma?tre d’ showed the latecomers to the table.

“We were beginning to wonder about you two,” Dan Logan burst out good-naturedly. “I half-suspected that Justine might keep you waiting with any number of last minute emergencies.” The broad smile he sent her way suggested mere teasing.

It was Sloane who answered the charge. “Oh, no. She was right on time. I’m afraid it was my fault.” Only Justine knew the meaning behind the twinkle in his eye. “I … took a circuitous route … inadvertently. But we did make it … and without a … calamity along the way.” Mercifully, he moved behind to hold her chair for her. It hadn’t passed her notice that the two empty seats at the table for five were right next to one another. And there was nothing she could possibly do to alter the situation—not that she wanted to. There was an excitement at the thought of sitting close to Sloane, an excitement which—given the presence of chaperons aplenty—rose, unrestrained, within her.

It was not the first time she had been to The Four Seasons. This time, however, the fine linen tablecloths seemed whiter, the sturdy silver more richly polished, the sparkling china more elaborate. For once, the noise of the other patrons drifted by unnoticed. The realm of her attention did not veer once from her own group.

Amid a variety of well-prepared offerings—lobster, rack of lamb, filet mignon, and prime ribs of beef—the dinner conversation intrigued her, particularly as it concentrated on Sloane, the guest of honor, and his corporate accomplishments.

“I understand you spent time last year in Italy,” Charlie Stockburne spoke up. “Were you centered in any particular area?”

Justine put down her fork to look expectantly at Sloane, who had finished and now sat comfortably back in his seat. She noted the faint crinkles of white-on-tan at the corners of his eyes, and wondered how much of his time was spent working in the sun. As she watched, the grooves at the corners of his lips deepened, accentuated by the more serious discussion.

“I did spend several months there. We were hired by a group of citizens—a privately funded restoration group—to study several problems that have been plaguing the government for years.”

“Such as …” Justine’s appetite, sated in the physical sense but barely whetted in the intellectual, brought heightened life to her features.

“Such as the problem of the Leaning Tower,” he said, smiling at her, “which threatens to one day topple completely. Such as the matter of moisture in Venice—in terms of endangering both the wealth of art work and the city itself.”

She was surprised. “Then you aren’t dealing primarily with military issues?”

Sloane’s gaze reflected his respect for her insight. “Yon must be familiar with the history of the Rand Corporation. It began as a military-directed operation, then branched out some fifteen years ago. We began from the opposite direction. Some of our original projects, particularly once our expansion was underway, dealt with transportation problems, pollution problems, housing problems. They have, perhaps, been our specialty, though we’ve had our share of military-related contracts.”

Once again Sloane monopolized her attention. The how and why were still an enigma. But when he talked, she listened—of her own free will and to the exclusion of everything else. Now, Richard Logan’s voice startled her.

“You aren’t advocating a buildup of arms in the underdeveloped countries, are you?” he asserted, a pacifist bent in his question to Sloane.

Her strawberry-blond tresses swung round as Justine’s eyes flew back to Sloane’s. This was the first such challenge of the evening. With a touch of apprehension she awaited his response, wondering exactly how he would handle the issue.

It was nearly imperceptible, that slight up-tilt of his firm chin, but it was a gesture of acceptance, a rising to face the test, just as Justine sensed this tall, broad-shouldered man would always do. He spoke with command and calm assurance.

“Personally, given my choice, I would never advocate a buildup of arms. But, in the first place, I don’t always have my choice, and, in the second, my personal opinion has no role in the outcome of our research. I hire experts in every pertinent field. It is their job to face a situation, analyze it in the most thorough possible way, then present the alternatives, along with their own recommendations. No one man can ever make a decision in any project.”

“But you are against military buildup?” the youngest lawyer persisted. A glance across the table could reveal the thinning of his father’s lips.

Sloane was undaunted, his eyes now black, rich in conviction. “On principle, I am. If, however, I were a small, newly emergent nation, struggling for survival, and I was surrounded on all sides by significant military might, you can bet I would arm—arm quickly and as powerfully as I could. The name of that game is survival.”

Justine gasped at the eloquence of his expression. She, too, was against armament, yet she had to agree with Sloane’s premise. Lord only knew how hard she had fought for some of her cases, those in which she honestly believed that an injustice was being perpetrated. In some instances it came close to the survival of her client.

“And I think we’re ready for coffee and dessert,” interrupted Dan, striving to ease the intensity which now held the group at sharp attention.

Justine passed up dessert, opting for a cup of strong and steaming black coffee instead. Though the talk lingered on less emotional issues, her thoughts focused on the man beside her. She noted his hand, easily toying with the unused fork by his place setting. Dark hairs emphasized its manliness, corded lines its strength. Paws. The fox pinions his victim with his powerful paws. What might it be like to be pinioned by those hands? Fingers long and straight, nails well trimmed and buffed, palms large enough to encompass her shoulders completely. Justine wondered if they would, then chided herself for her foolishness. After all, despite the intimacy of that small blue Mazda, Sloane had driven her here as a service. She was a lawyer in the firm which now represented his concerns—that was all. Once again she asked herself why she had been invited along tonight. Ironically, she found that she no longer cared. It was enough that she had the opportunity of learning more about this man. It had been a thoroughly enjoyable experience.

When the group stood to leave, she presumed she’d find a cab outside to return her to her apartment. When Sloane took her hand and tucked it smoothly in the crook of his elbow, she looked up questioningly.

“I can drop Justine off at her place,” he announced to the group as a whole, though his downward gaze singled her out.

A warning bell jangled in her brain. “Oh, that won’t be necessary. I can very easily take a cab.” The eyes of the others were on her; her eyes held Sloane’s.

His smiled softly. “It’s no problem. After all, your briefcase is still in my car.”

The rose flush which lit her cheeks betrayed the fact of her forgetfulness. Her notebook … now the briefcase. Would he suspect that she had done it on purpose? Had she … subconsciously, of course? She was given no time to consider the possibility, for with leave-taking underway Sloane led her outside, retaining her hand until she was safely stowed in his car once more. Only then did the thudding of her heart pose second thoughts as to the wisdom of this vehicular convenience. But the car moved out into the traffic and she had no out. Softly, she gave her address to the handsome driver, and they were on their way.