The Naked Truth. Shannon Hollis
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of contract, it’s impossible to hold my clients to what she’s demanding.”
“They were friends,” he reminded her. “Would you make your friends sign something before you gave them tickets, say, for a birthday gift?”
“This wasn’t a gift,” she said. “They all played the same number each week and they all went in on it together—except for Ms. Skinner. She was out of town, out of state—out of my clients’ lives permanently, for all they knew. Any reasonable jury would see that her claim is groundless.”
“It can’t be groundless if there was a verbal agreement,” he pointed out. “She may not have told them she was leaving town, but she never told them she was leaving the group.”
“Regardless of whether she told them or not, I think her departure managed to state it pretty effectively.”
“But metaphors don’t stand up in court.”
He smiled at her, and Jenna lost her focus. That smile had probably gotten what he wanted out of every judge in town. Well, it wasn’t going to work on her.
“The members had a verbal agreement, and Ms. Skinner contributed to the pot.” He pointed to the relevant paragraph in the complaint.
“They won after her monetary contributions ran out,” she reminded him, pointing to the paragraph that countered his in the brief she’d filed that week. “My clients may have played what she’s calling ‘her’number out of a sense of friendship, but in practical terms, she herself was not a party to the win. She can’t own a number.”
“The fact remains that they threw money in the pot in her name, playing the number she played consistently—as you pointed out—over a period of time. She was a virtual member of the group, whether she was there physically or not, and deserves a share of the winnings.” Kevin Wade’s tone was firm. “The case of Barnes v. Hillman sets a precedent. I’m sure you’ve read it.”
Of course she had. She’d read every single piece of case law connected with state lottery winners in the database—texts that had kept her up past midnight for more nights than she could count. “Barnes v. Hillman isn’t relevant to our case,” she retorted. “In that case, the widow filed on behalf of her deceased husband, who was part of a group. Even though Georgia isn’t a community property state, for the judge it was open and shut.”
He leaned back and extended an arm along the top of the couch, for all the world as if he were giving her an invitation to join him.
Which was crazy. Focus, girl.
“Bradley v. Tillman, Morton and Ramirez, on the other hand, sets a precedent for our case.” She riffled papers until she found the one she wanted. “It was proved conclusively that unless all the group members agree in writing that they’re going to play their numbers together, the money can’t be distributed to anyone else.”
“Mr. Bradley, unfortunately, was a resident of another state that doesn’t allow lotteries,” Kevin said. “There wasn’t much the judge could do about that one.”
Okay, so she just hadn’t found a precedent that applied point for point to their case, but she would. Just give her time.
“So where does that leave us?” Jenna resisted the urge to tap her papers together and be the first to concede a standoff.
“I don’t know about you, but it leaves me starving. I didn’t get a chance to have lunch. Do you feel like going somewhere to eat?”
A second too late, she realized she was “catching flies.” She snapped her mouth shut. “I don’t think that’s appropriate, considering we’re on opposing sides of a case, Mr. Wade.”
“You called me Kevin before.”
“I think it’s time to reestablish some distance,” she said steadily, though her heart was bumping erratically in her chest. She dated a few guys on a casual basis, but no one seriously. She was just as likely to go dancing with a bunch of her girlfriends on her rare nights out. Certainly none of the guys she hung out with, most of whom had been her brother’s college buddies, had this sense of masculine power and casual authority that was drawing her into its seductive net, one breath at a time.
Kevin glanced at his watch. “Come on. It’s after seven. What difference does it make if we talk over the case here and go hungry, or talk it over at Cioppino and enjoy great Italian? It’s just a couple of blocks away, and it’s a nice night for a walk.”
Cioppino. She’d heard a couple of the partners talking about it and it sounded heavenly. And when would she have time to spend an entire evening there? Probably never.
“Fine,” she agreed. “But let’s set down some ground rules. Namely, we split the bill.”
“Done.”
As she tapped her stack of briefs together, Jenna added another ground rule to the list: no lusting after him. Because no matter what happened with the case, breaking that rule would get her into the most trouble—guaranteed.
EVE COULDN’T REMEMBER ever having had such a good time at a fund-raiser. A lot of events such as this involved chatting up people she didn’t know, trying artfully to get them to pull out their checkbooks or posing for the media or attempting to jazz up the obligatory speeches after dinner. But this one…it was like being the prom queen. Not that she’d ever been the prom queen, mind you. She’d been too focused on her SATs and getting into university and from there out into the real world.
But tonight, everyone conspired to make her feel desirable and sought-after and at least five pounds lighter than she actually was. Or maybe it just seemed that way because Mitchell Hayes managed to snag her for one dance out of every three. Then two dances…and then she found herself dancing with him exclusively. But it didn’t really matter, because it was close to midnight, the media had gone, and everyone with fat checkbooks had trickled out the door. That left the under-thirty-five crowd to take another run at the buffet tables and convince the band to play something less vintage.
She didn’t care what they played, as long as it had a beat and she could slip in and out of Mitch’s arms as he whirled her out and back. His hands never strayed where they shouldn’t, but each time he touched her, slipped an arm around her waist or took her hand it felt like a caress. Like a man touching his lover with that focused attention that told her he had plans for her later.
Which, of course, Mitch didn’t. At least, she didn’t think he did. And even if it were true, really it was impossible. She wouldn’t sleep with him under any provocation, simply because of who he was and why he was in Atlanta. But he was a fabulous dancer and after a couple of flutes of champagne she felt loose and happy and ready.
For what, she wasn’t sure.
Oh, to dance—that was it.
Without being obvious about it, he’d managed to dance her over to the French doors and out onto the terrace.
“We can’t hear the music as well out here,” she objected.
“The band is going to be packing up soon.” Still holding her hand, he led her over to a shady corner where ivy cascaded down the exterior wall. It smelled like green cinnamon, and the hem of her dress rustled on the flagstones of the terrace, echoing the way the breeze rustled in the trees. “I need some breathing space. You wore me out.”
She leaned on the stone balustrade. “I doubt that. You strike me as a man of endurance. You probably run marathons in your spare time.”
“If I had spare time, I’d do something less masochistic.” His voice warmed with a smile as he leaned beside her. “Back home, if I wasn’t doing something related to music, I’d ride my dirt bike in the pine forest. I never made it up to the top of the sandstone mesa behind our house, but I spent a lot of summers trying.”
As he spoke, he moved behind her. She felt his warmth down her back as his arms slipped around her and held her, loosely, giving her the