When Nicole Fleming squirmed, the sound of sweaty thighs
unsticking from her leather chair resonated
like a blaring trumpet. Inside the conference room for the
law offices of Stern, Stern and Weitzman, two
pairs of male eyes mirrored disgust. Oh, God, how
embarrassing. Why hadn't she worn pantyhose
today?
Because encasing legs in nylon during Manhattan's dog days
of July better suited a game show
challenge than a will reading. Between the hellish
temperatures in subway tunnels and the swelter rising
up from city asphalt street-side, an extra layer of clothing
would have wilted her long before she
reached the mausoleum lobby here.
Fresh heat rocketed up her cheeks. Muttering a low, "Sorry,"
to the staring gentlemen, she averted her
gaze to the wall of leather-bound books on her right. Their
red and green spines, embossed with gold
lettering, were at least two inches thick. Had the attorney
really read all those books? Who had that
much free time?
Not her. She barely finished one month's Cosmo before the
next issue landed in her mailbox.
At the head of the long mahogany table, Andrew Stern,
Esquire, cleared his throat and shuffled a sheaf
of papers atop a manila folder. "If I may continue...?"
Nodding, Nicole straightened. The man seated across from her
stared with the intensity of a buzzard on
a dying gazelle. Who was this guy? And why were there just
the two of them in this room with the
attorney? Papa Joe had dozens of friends, and, if memory
served, a daughter with a family of her own.
So how come she was stuck with Mr. Monogrammed Shirtsleeves
and the unblinking vulture of doom?
Where were the truly grieving? Those who'd loved Papa Joe
the way she had?
"There are, of course," Mr. Stern said, lifting a longer
sheet from the pile of standard-sized papers, "a
few charitable donations and family obligations. But the
bulk of Mr. Corbet's estate will fall to the two
of you, depending upon your adherence with his final wishes."
Nicole sniffed. Some estate. As far as she knew, Papa Joe's
only worldly possession was a mangled
mass of chrome, once a primo 1980 Harley Davidson Roadster.
At least, until a tractor trailer made an
illegal U-turn, destroying both ride and rider.
Tears pricked her eyelids. Never again would she hear his
folksy voice, spouting the wisdom of the
ages. His chipped-front-tooth smile would never flash in
welcome. She'd never again smell his unique
scent of motor oil and Old Spice in her kitchen.
"Exactly how much money are we talking about?" the vulture
asked.
His callousness transformed Nicole's grief to smoldering
anger. "Wow." She forced a light air far from
the turmoil churning her gut. "Did you leave your membership
card at the door?"
Dark eyes flashed like the silver wrapper on a semi-sweet
chocolate bar. "What membership card?"
"The one that verifies you're human." When he continued to
stare blankly, she added, "You know. A
guy with a working heart."
With the speed of a snapped cable, his jaw dropped. Good. In
the few minutes she'd spent with him
here, she'd picked up his vibe. Few people dared challenge him.
Correction. Few women dared challenge him. No wonder,
really. Whoever he was, this man had the
sultry look of palm trees in sunset, drinks with teeny
umbrellas, and warm Caribbean water kissing bare
flesh. Under normal circumstances, she might have found the
whole Fantasy Island package a turn-on.
But Papa Joe's sudden death had encased her in dry ice.
Eyes narrowing to cobra slits, the man whirled to the
attorney at the head of the table. "Who is this
woman?"
Mr. Stern blinked several times. Finally, he cocked his
head. "Mr. LaPalma, this is Ms. Fleming. Nicole
Fleming. Your grandfather's stepdaughter."
As if swerving to avoid an oncoming truck, Mr. LaPalma
suddenly rolled back his chair. "She's the
succubus's daughter?"
© 2003-2026