A Man To Count On. Helen Myers R.
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E.D. covered her eyes with her left hand. “It’s humiliating to know you’ve heard what you have. I can’t bring myself to discuss them with you at this point, even if I had all the truth, which I don’t. He won’t talk to me, and he’s cut me off from my own children. Me! I’m the one who can actually help.”
As her voice broke, she compressed her lips and shifted her hand from her eyes to her mouth to help fight back a sob.
For a good while there was only the sound of Dylan breathing on the other end of the connection. Finally, he said with new determination, “There’s a fax machine in my office. Why don’t you go turn it on?”
“Excuse me?”
“You need an attorney willing to do what you’re in no condition to do for yourself. I’m writing down a name and number.”
How did she tell him that her finances were complicated right now, that Trey had locked her out of their checking and savings and had changed the passwords on their money market account? She had funds to secure a divorce attorney, but a top gun to go after the scum that was hurting her child? That was a different matter entirely.
Her silence apparently spoke fathoms to Dylan.
“Let me cover whatever retainers you need.”
She couldn’t believe he would make such an offer, let alone not recognize what a paper trail that would leave. “I’m sorry,” she said abruptly, “but I need a minute.”
Without giving him an opportunity to protest, she disconnected, and with her insides roiling for the second time today, E.D. sought and found the bathroom and became physically ill. The day’s events were taking their toll and the only good news was that her stomach was mostly empty, which made her discomfort thankfully short-lived. Unfortunately, after she washed her face and rinsed her mouth, she was left back where she’d started—gruesomely aware of the long journey ahead, a journey full of traps and pitfalls regardless of the route she chose to take. Like her day job didn’t provide plenty of that.
Worried that Dylan would assume the worst and charge over here, she forced herself to key his number. Once again he answered immediately.
“You do know how to keep a guy’s attention. Better now?”
He spoke with a suspicious calmness and E.D. had the strongest urge to go to the window to make sure he wasn’t parked outside. “Ask me in six months…more likely a year.” God have mercy, she thought, please don’t let it all take that long. But it probably would—or longer yet—and Dylan’s failure to contradict her told her that he believed much the same thing.
“The good news is that often cases like your daughter’s have a tendency to settle out of court,” he said at last. “As to the other, let’s hope his attorney will see what prolonging the divorce would do to the kids.”
“We both know what his divorce attorney is thinking,” E.D. replied. It had nothing to do with their children’s well-being and everything to do with her willingness to pay to keep this out of the press as much as possible. Since both attorney fees would, inevitably, be coming out of her pocket there was no thought of hiring a private judge to assure that. “I’m heading toward the office and the fax machine. That said, as much as I appreciate your input, please know your offer is out of the question.”
Not surprisingly, her tone had him pausing again. Finally, he told her, “I’m only keeping my peace because I want you to continue talking to me.”
She wanted to. Their profession kept her busy and she knew many people, but trust was hard earned and allegiances too easily bought—and sold. Real friendships were priceless. That didn’t mean she didn’t feel the need to keep warning him off. “You should have clued me in on your predilection for gut-stomping punishment.”
“Takes one to know one.”
He had her there, she thought, flipping on the light switch in his office. “All right, moving on then. Give me a second to figure out how this thing works. Wait—we have this model in our office.” She turned on the machine. “Assuming you have a separate line for this, go ahead.”
After only a half minute the motor hummed to life. A single sheet printed in Dylan’s strong handwriting slid into the tray. E.D. narrowed her eyes on the name. “You can’t be serious?” Ivan Priestly. “He’s the Mount Rushmore among attorneys. Good grief, he’s as old as Rushmore!”
“Don’t let that unruly mane of white hair fool you. He’s only seventy-two.”
“Meaning if he hasn’t retired, he’s bound to at any minute.”
“Correction, he’s discriminating about what cases he takes. He’s fit for his age and enjoys fishing too much with the grandkids to accept every request that comes along,” Dylan informed her. “And trust me, he still gets plenty of them.”
“Yet another reason why this isn’t a good idea.” With defeat looking increasingly probable, E.D.’s tone exposed her plunging spirits. “This sleazy dilemma is going to be a turn-off to someone so esteemed. I need a snake masquerading as a fox, and you’re proposing a cross between Moses and Peter Pan.”
Dylan laughed. “He’s exactly who isn’t expected. Though you’re right about his bringing gravitas to the table. Between the two of you, whoever ends up the sitting judge for the trial will damned sure check his law before allowing any nonsense from the other side.”
She could feel herself blush. “That’s undeserved flattery for me. I’ll need to wear slacks to court every day for fear my knocking knees will disrupt the sessions. Please—” she barely caught herself from blurting out his name “—you know this is impossible. He’ll never say yes.”
“You won’t know unless you ask him.”
“Which I won’t do. It would be an indignity, an insult to his reputation.”
“Apply that same conviction to yourself. Someone has dared to compromise your dignity by using your child. Your reputation demands the best.”
E.D. closed her eyes against the wealth of emotions rushing through her. This was why she kept his number in her directory. He was so compassionate and good. He was her ideal on virtually every level.
“Do you trust me?” he asked quietly.
With all of my heart.
But she had no right to think with it. It was her daughter’s future she needed to focus on. “Hold on. I’m shutting off the machine.” The request was a pitiful feint; however, it bought her the precious seconds she needed. Slumping into the plush leather chair behind his desk, she flung the sheet of paper with Ivan Priestly’s phone number onto the spotless blotter.
“I can hear you breathing.”
His words couldn’t remotely be called chiding, but E.D. hid her face in her hand nonetheless. “You should do yourself a favor and say good night.”
“Is that a serious request or more self-derision?”
Was he kidding? She was partly being so hard on herself because she was afraid of when he did hang up and left her alone to deal with her own mind. There were thoughts buried deep behind walls and under thick floors constructed to never allow what he was making her feel or fantasize…those thoughts would want air. Free will.
“If you’re going to make me work this hard at reading your mind,” Dylan said, his voice gruff, “I should at least be allowed to see your eyes.”
His tender complaint sent a new delicious trembling whispering through her, one she didn’t have the energy or desire to repress. Ridiculous, she thought in the next instant. She was a married woman, eyebrow-deep in scandal—besides, surely he had someone, the proverbial significant other in his life by now…?
“You can’t come out here.” She didn’t need a mirror to know she looked like death warmed over, the last of her makeup just