Night Fever. Diana Palmer
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two cheeseburgers and two orders of French fries.
“God, I’m starved,” he murmured. “I never can find enough time to eat these days. The calendar’s overflowing; I’m working most weekends and nights. I even argue cases in my sleep.”
“I thought you had assistants to do that.”
“Our caseload is unbelievable,” he said, “despite plea-bargaining and guilty pleas. I’ve got people in jail who shouldn’t be, waiting for their cases to be put on the court calendar. There aren’t enough courts, or enough judges, or enough jails.”
“Or enough prosecutors?”
He smiled at her across his chocolate milk shake. “Or enough prosecutors,” he said. His dark eyes slid over her face and back up to catch her eyes. The smile faded and the look grew intimate. “I don’t want to get involved with you, Rebecca Cullen.”
His bluntness took a little getting used to. She swallowed. “Don’t you?”
“You’re still a virgin, aren’t you?”
She went scarlet.
His eyebrow jerked. “And I didn’t even have to guess,” he said ruefully. He finished the milk shake. “Well, I don’t seduce virgins. Uncle Sanderson wanted me to be a gentleman instead of a red Indian, so he taught me exquisite manners. I have a conscience, thanks to his blasted interference.”
She shifted in her seat, unsure if he was serious or teasing. “I don’t fall into bed with strange men,” she began.
“You wouldn’t fall, you’d be carried,” he pointed out. “And I’m not strange. I do set fire to my office occasionally, and stand on my dog’s tail, but that isn’t so odd.”
She smiled gently, feeling warm ripples up and down her body as she looked at him, liking the strength of his high-cheekboned face, the power and grace of his body. He was a very sensuous man. He was stealing her heart, and she couldn’t even save herself.
“I’m not the liberated type,” she said quietly. “I’m very conventional. I was raised strictly, despite my father, and in the church. I suppose that sounds archaic to you...”
“Uncle Sanderson was a deacon in the Baptist church,” he interrupted. “I was baptized at the age of ten and went to Sunday school until I graduated high school. You aren’t the only archaic specimen around.”
“Yes, but you’re a man.”
“I hope so,” he sighed. “Otherwise, I’ve spent a fortune on a wardrobe I can’t wear.”
She laughed with pure delight. “Is this really you? I mean, are you the broody man I met in the elevator?”
“I had plenty of reason to be broody. They moved me out of my comfortable office into a high-rise airport and took away my favorite coffee shop, flooded me with appeal cases—of course I brooded. Then, there was this irritating young woman who kept insulting me.”
“You started it,” she pointed out.
“I defended myself,” he argued.
She fingered her foam coffee cup. “So did I. I’ll bet you’re scary in court.”
“Some people think so.” He gathered up the remains of his lunch. “We have to go. I don’t want to rush like this, but I’ve only got half an hour to get back to court.”
“Sorry!” She got up at once. “I didn’t realize we’d been here so long.”
“Neither did I,” he confessed. He stood aside to let her precede him to the trash can and then out of the building. It was warming up, but still a cold day, and she pulled her jacket closer.
His eyes fastened on it. It was worn and probably three or four years old. Her dress wasn’t new, either, and her black high heels were scuffed. It disturbed him to see how little she had. And yet she was so cheerful usually—except when her brother was mentioned. He’d known women with wealth who were critical of everything and everyone, but Becky had practically nothing and she seemed to love life and people.
“You’ve perked up,” he commented as they drove back to the office building.
“Everybody has problems,” she replied easily. “I handle mine fairly well most days. They’re no worse than anyone else’s,” she added with a smile. “Mostly I enjoy life, Mr. Kilpatrick.”
“Rourke,” he corrected. He glanced at her and smiled. “It’s Irish.”
“No!” she said with mock surprise.
“What did you expect I’d be named? George Standing Rock, or Henry Marble Cheek, or some such outlandish thing?”
She covered her face with her hands. “Oh, my gosh,” she groaned.
“Actually, my mother’s name was Irene Tally,” he said. “Her father was Irish and her mother was Cherokee. So I’m only one-quarter, not one-half Cherokee. All the same,” he said, “I’m pretty damned proud of my ancestry.”
“Mack keeps trying to get Granddad to say he’s got Indian blood,” she mused. “His class is studying Cherokee Indians this semester, and he’s gung-ho to learn how to use that blowgun they hunted with. Did you know that the Cherokee were the only southeastern tribe to hunt with a blowgun?”
“Yes, I knew. I am Cherokee,” he pointed out.
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