Legally Binding (2 page)

M
aisie absorbed very
little of the tour after that. At the end, Mrs. Donahue explained about the other office, half a block away, where the majority of the staff worked. She made threats that Maisie would be transferred to the mailroom there if her performance was unsatisfactory.

Maisie didn’t really hear her.

Was Ethan Brennbach the man who had caught her? The possibility filled her with equal parts mortification and hope.

Little by little, dread won out.

The instant she was alone at her desk—which was unfortunately within sight of Mrs. Donahue’s desk—she accessed the company directory.

She’d tried once previously, the morning before her first interview, but LB&B kept the directory behind password protection.

Now that she was on an office computer, she didn’t need a password.

Hands trembling, she typed in
Brennbach
. During the seconds that it took the computer to return the results, she suffered through several levels of hell.

In the photo that popped up, Ethan Brennbach was staring straight into the camera, his eyes blazing with the knowledge that he held the world in the palm of his hand.

Maisie lifted her hand and covered the right side of his face, but she already knew the truth: Ethan Brennbach was the man who had caught her.

Her boss. The man whose scent practically brought her to orgasm.

The man she had offended.

She dropped her arm and contemplated the screen. He had strong features, a square but refined jaw and chin, and a straight nose. His face was astoundingly symmetrical. He looked indestructible, invincible.

Once upon a time, he’d been gorgeous.

It was one thing to have always been homely, but she wouldn’t have wished his fate on her worst enemy. Actually, maybe her worst enemy. Heather. The woman who’d sabotaged their final project junior year, blamed it on Maisie, and thereby stole the marketing internship that turned into a full-time position after graduation. In contrast, Maisie had ended up paying for courses to be an executive assistant, which at LB&B meant a dry-cleaning fetching, plant-watering, coffee-carrying gofer.

One of Maisie’s guilty pastimes was imagining all the ways she’d get revenge on Heather. Most of them involved public humiliation. Unlikely it would ever happen; she’d only seen Heather twice in the four years since graduation.

The second time, six weeks ago, had motivated Maisie to give notice at the call center and start looking for a better position. Maybe she wouldn’t be the head of a department anytime soon, but at least she was working on the top floor of the most exclusive office building in the city.

She’d just have to steer clear of Ethan Brennbach.

Maisie found a photo of the three founding partners together. “Wow,” she murmured. Mr. Lattimore was elegant and sleek. Far closer to her age than even early retirement. Dark-haired and confident, he had the kind of charmed good looks that other men sneeringly called “pretty,” as if that would diminish their appeal to women.

Mr. Banno was classically handsome, with a chiseled jaw and mocha-brown eyes. He reminded her of the Japanese soccer star she’d dated her freshman year—his senior year—before he ditched her for the woman he was now married to. And he’d done it a few weeks before Maisie was supposed to meet his parents, visiting from Osaka.

Nice memory, that.

She wondered if it was just a good photo or if the partners were insanely attractive in real life.

Her gaze kept returning to Mr. Brennbach. He was smiling, his gray eyes hypnotic.

That much, at least, hadn’t changed.

She closed out of the directory and turned to the mountain of work on her desk. Mrs. Donahue had explained that Maisie would be started off on simple tasks, to see if she could handle them.

The matter of love or hate had been settled; she hated Mrs. Donahue.

First she took a few minutes to shuffle through the pile, to get a sense of what was there. Nothing too difficult, and by regrouping the drudgery so that she’d be focused on one type of project at a time, she figured she could wring a little extra productivity out of herself.

This was supposed to take all day? She’d have it finished before lunch, late start notwithstanding.

And it went fast like that… at first. She turned written forms into typed documents, put together new client packets, and regrouped files. There was lots of photocopying, which she quickly learned meant babysitting a machine that refused to be hurried.

She took another stack of folders to the copier. Unfasten the papers, copy them, put them back. This was tedious. She was tempted to make it last all day just on principle.

On the other hand, she wanted to make a positive impression.

A woman wearing a beehive hairdo and tons of eyeliner walked in with an armful of folders. “How much more do you have?” Her voice was nasally, like she had sinus problems.

Maisie glanced at her own stack of work. “I’ll be collecting retirement benefits before I’m done.”

The woman sighed, then set down the folders. “Guess I’ll come back,” she said, and left.

With nothing else to do, Maisie started snooping through the folders. It felt naughty. This was prohibited according to Mrs. Donahue, though Maisie had signed nondisclosure agreements.

The top file was a senior citizen suing his apartment complex because they hadn’t been diligent enough when de-icing the sidewalk. He’d fallen, breaking a hip. There were photos of the walkway as well as the victim, a map of black and blue over his sallow canvas of skin.

The next case was a contested will, two sisters squabbling over who owned the contents of the house. Boring.

She moved it aside and gasped.

“Luther William McAvoy,” she whispered. They’d gone to school together. A glance at the date of birth was proof enough that it was the same guy. Like there was a herd of Luther William McAvoys running around.

He’d been arrested for destroying a traffic cam.

“What an idiot,” she murmured. Luther had been the class clown. While they weren’t close friends, if she were to run into him, they’d probably end up chatting for ten or fifteen minutes.

According to the file, he was married and had a toddler. He worked at their old high school as a janitor.

Two yellow stickies were attached to the top of the file.
Pro bono
was written on one, and
J.T.
on the other. J.T. must be one of the associates, Maisie thought. From what she’d seen, everyone but the partners—the three founding partners plus five equity partners—was referred to by initials, or initials plus last name.

Well, that wouldn’t do. Luther was a decent guy and deserved the best possible representation, especially if it was going to be pro bono and wouldn’t cost him anything.

Maisie ripped off the sticky and crumpled it up.

She liberated a sticky with Mr. Lattimore’s name from another folder and slapped it onto Luther’s file, pressing hard. She memorized the case number: eight digits plus four letters. Once she was a permanent employee, she’d be able to track the case’s progress through the online system.

She returned the folders to their former order, then tended to the copy machine. Yesterday’s milkmaids were today’s copy machine attendants. Feed it, collect the warm white output.

Maisie snickered, thinking of the photo of the three sexy partners. She could imagine far more interesting warm white output to be had in this office.

Her pulse quickened as she remembered Mr. Brennbach’s arms around her, and his deep voice in her ear.

“Maisie? Mr. Lattimore needs you.”

She jumped at the interruption and turned to find herself facing the definition of a peaches-and-cream complexion. The woman’s full lips, which were just a little pouty in a sexual way, looked natural, as did her high cheekbones.

Maisie stared for a second. She couldn’t help comparing herself.

Comparing and coming up short.

The woman smiled like she knew what Maisie was thinking. Like she knew Maisie was used to being the most attractive woman in the room, and that here, in this little copy room, population two, she’d slipped into the bottom fiftieth percentile.

“He needs you now,” the woman said. “I’ll show you the way.”

Great. She was finally getting to meet Mr. Lattimore, and instead of making a memorable first impression, she was going to be overshadowed by a supermodel in a form-fitting pantsuit. Maisie’s fingers groped for the silver chain around her neck. “What about my files?” she asked as the chain whispered across her skin.

“We’ll stop by your desk so you can drop them off.”

Nodding, Maisie gathered everything up.

The woman had a sexy rolling gait that seemed, to Maisie, a little overdone. It didn’t matter, because it was effective. Hell, Maisie wanted to grow a dick and fuck her.

If the bosses were amenable to office romance, Maisie was obviously going to have to get in line. And that really fucking sucked.

She dropped the folders onto her chair and noticed that a new stack had been added to her desk. So much for getting her work done in a couple of hours to impress the bosses.

“I’m Maisie,” she said, deciding she should introduce herself to the competition, who definitely wasn’t wearing a wedding band.

“Jayne. I saw your résumé last week. I spent almost half a year at Penn.”

“Really?” If Jayne hadn’t been able to hack it, that was a point in Maisie’s favor.

“Yeah. The professor overseeing my independent study took a position at Penn, so I followed her, wrapped up the project, then went back.” She smiled. “To Stanford. It was a logistical nightmare, and I almost didn’t graduate on time.”

Somehow, Maisie smiled back. She hadn’t done an independent study. None of her professors would have asked her to tag along to another university. In fact, she doubted any of her former professors could have picked her out of a lineup two months after semester’s end.

And then there was the fact that Stanford had rejected her.

Maisie hadn’t met many people who made her feel so insecure that she wanted to slink into a closet and hide, but of course there had to be one at her new job, a goddess with a perfect body and a starlet’s face. It figured.

Jayne led her to a conference room, where she went right up to a seated man Maisie recognized as Mr. Lattimore. He was older than in the photo; she’d thought late twenties, but he was likely in his early thirties. Thick, dark lashes framed his sleepy blue eyes. Bedroom eyes.

Irresistible.

Maisie liked guys who were a bit older, and eight years was the sweet spot. They were confident, accomplished, and knew their way around a woman’s body—most of the time, anyway.

Mr. Lattimore didn’t immediately drop everything he was doing to stare at Jayne’s beauty. Maisie was impressed by his restraint. He was, however, speaking to her like she was a colleague. And Maisie realized… Jayne wouldn’t be an assistant. Not if she’d been an overachiever in college. And while she didn’t look older than Maisie, she was the kind of woman who probably aged at a tenth the rate of mortals.

Jayne probably
was
Mr. Lattimore’s colleague.

Oh well. Maybe it was better to be thoroughly outclassed. At least she wouldn’t have to waste time and energy competing.

Mr. Lattimore finally looked over at Maisie. He stared a fraction of a second too long… just a normal reaction to seeing any unknown person, Maisie realized with a fair amount of disappointment.

“You’re my new assistant.”

“Yes.”

He stood to shake her hand, and Maisie noted the breadth of his shoulders and the firmness of the muscles under his starched shirt.

Oh, she definitely appreciated what she saw.

When their fingers touched, she swore she felt a spark of current zapping between them.

“Welcome, Maisie. Maybe we can chat later, but at the moment I need you to drop whatever you’re doing and check a transcript against one of the Ballystock depositions. Mrs. Donahue is setting it up. Whenever you find something that doesn’t match, note the time from the recording as well as the text of the discrepancy.”

He paused. “I know it’s a bit much on your first day, but we’re under deadline. You have to be detail-oriented.”

“I am,” she assured him. “It’s not a problem.”

She gradually became aware that Jayne’s posture had changed. She was standing a little straighter, maybe holding her breath, and her attention was fixed on someone behind Maisie.

When Maisie turned, she discovered that Mr. Brennbach had entered the room.

His scarred face, too, as handsome and horrific as she remembered.

And he was looking right at her.

H
is expression was unreadable
, but Maisie had no difficulty supplying a plausible running commentary.

There’s that fucking bitch who panicked when she saw me.

Then she realized that while she was standing there in shock, she’d broken the cardinal rule: she was staring at him.

And everyone had noticed.

“I’ll get right on that, Mr. Lattimore,” she stammered, dropping her gaze, then hurried to the door.

Mr. Brennbach didn’t move out of the way, and she sensed his disapproving glare as she squeezed up against the conference room table to avoid bumping into him.

She caught a whiff of his aftershave, and the memory of that morning slammed into her like a truck. That scent. His arms around her. His voice in her ear, letting her know she was safe. The silk of his suit and the hardness of his arms and chest underneath.

She fled down the hall, anxious to get somewhere safe. What she needed was a minute in the bathroom, to pull herself together. But then she saw Mrs. Donahue impatiently hovering over her desk.

After giving a demonstration on how to operate the self-explanatory transcription software—which Maisie tolerated because she needed a moment to calm her pounding heart—Mrs. Donahue planted her hands on her hips.

“They’re only entrusting you with this because of a last-minute development. Mr. Lattimore has court on another case at noon and a meeting about this one immediately after. If you’re not capable—”

“A toddler could handle it,” Maisie said with a sigh. “It’s just following along.”

“It’s not
just
following along,” Mrs. Donahue said, shaking her head. “If there’s anything on there, you’d better find it.”

She stalked off.

Maisie evicted the stack of folders from her chair. She pushed more folders to the back of her desk. She’d only been there for a few hours and she was already drowning in paperwork.

Well, at least this would take her mind off a certain lawyer who never lost a case, never forgot a slight, and was probably right now ordering HR to assemble Maisie’s termination paperwork.

T
he woman
on the recording was the former live-in housekeeper of the Ballystocks, a couple in the middle of a messy divorce. The questions centered around observations of physical violence.

Even though the housekeeper always said she didn’t remember the events she was being asked about, the questions were enough to make Maisie’s stomach sour.

Thank goodness LB&B was representing Davina Ballystock and not her husband, though Maisie assumed the firm had plenty of less-than-pleasant clients. She sighed and prepared to listen to the last five minutes again.

She became aware that someone had stopped next to her desk.

Pausing the recording, she looked up.

It was Mr. Lattimore. He smiled kindly—
ooh, sexy smile
. With dimples.

She pulled off her headphones and shook her head. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Lattimore. I combed through it and listened to anything ambiguous several times. I did find a list of discrepancies, but they’re minor.”

“May I?”

She handed over her page of notes.

While he scanned the list, she scanned him. Sophisticated, but she was willing to bet he had a wild side. She wasn’t sure why she thought that—maybe because his hair was a little longer than the standard executive cut. Her fingers twitched from wanting to slide under the lapels of his charcoal gray suit. The man knew good clothing. The fabric would be soft, and his chest underneath hard.

She loved getting dressed up, putting on makeup and doing her hair. Her mom liked to tease that she should have been born a couple of centuries ago, to a noble family. Maisie didn’t disagree.

“Excellent work,” Mr. Lattimore said, handing the paper back to her.

Maisie cleared her throat. “Obviously I haven’t been to law school, but I thought the court reporter’s transcript is… binding.” Was that the right word?

Mr. Lattimore looked impressed. “That’s true; the transcript is the document of record. But last night Mr. Ballystock’s attorney put in a request for an audio copy of the deposition and then scheduled an emergency meeting for today. We suspected the request might be a ploy to distract us, but I couldn’t gamble on it. Not when so much is at stake. I’ve already had one of our first-year associates check, but I wanted to be thorough.”

“Oh.” In other words, she’d expended all that energy looking for something that didn’t even exist.

“Never trust a lawyer,” he said, and was he flirting?

“The housekeeper sounded scared,” Maisie said, tilting her head at the paused audio file. “I think she’s lying.”

“She is, but Mrs. Ballystock no longer wants us to pursue that angle.”

“Why not?”

He smiled instead of answering. “I’m heading to court. Don’t forget about my plants. And check the vines for dead leaves. If you find any, strip them off.”

Ugh.
But if it was part of her job, she might as well do it with a cheerful heart. “Lucky for you, I was voted ‘most likely to become a stripper’ by my sorority,” she said, laughing.

His smile vanished. One of his eyebrows lifted. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

He walked away.

Oh, god. Why the hell had she said that? It wasn’t even true—she’d been joking. What was wrong with her?

Irritated by her own stupidity, she quit the transcription program, pushed to her feet, and started toward Mr. Lattimore’s office. Then she remembered the list that Mrs. Donahue had emailed.

Sure enough, the plants were on the list. Monday, Wednesday, Friday, water the plants except for the three in the southeast corner.

She rolled her eyes and went to do it.

Just as she was finishing with the bonsai—it had to be soaked three times—she became aware that someone had entered the office.

She turned and found herself looking into a pair of intelligent dark eyes set in a handsome face. His skin was lightly tanned, and his dark hair brushed his eyebrows.

Well, well, well.

Mr. Banno was, by far, the hottest of her new bosses, and it looked like he had a muscular body under that designer suit. He was gorgeous. In person, he didn’t look much like her ex, maybe just a vague resemblance. Hell, if her ex had been this sexy, she would have cried when he dumped her.

And judging from Mr. Banno’s sharp inhale of breath when she smiled, he liked what he saw, too.

He recovered quickly.

“It looks like Raphael bought another bonsai,” he said, flashing a cocky grin that showed off perfect white teeth. “He’s been trying to keep one alive ever since some corporate speaker we hired said it was a good way to hone leadership skills, but I think he’s missing the point.”

He was looking at her as if she were beautiful. She wasn’t a blusher—not usually, though when she did, people often thought she was having a minor stroke—but Mr. Banno’s attention almost did the trick.

“Missing the point in what way?” she murmured, running her hand over the top of the diminutive cedar tree. Its tiny branches tickled her palms.

“The whole point is to keep them alive yourself. They always die on him, then he gets angry and blames me because I’m supposed to be genetically predisposed to keeping tiny trees alive or something.” Grinning, he crossed the room. “I’m Trent Banno. Welcome.”

Finally, someone who didn’t make her feel out of place. “Thank you. I’m happy to be here.”

So far, Mr. Banno didn’t seem so bad, but then Mr. Lattimore had been nice at first, too. Her stomach sank again as she remembered his words.
I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that
.

She’d been stupid. That wasn’t in dispute, but Mr. Lattimore could have been a little more gracious.

“Is everything all right?” Mr. Banno asked.

She nodded. “Yeah. First day, is all. Still finding my footing.”

“You’ll do fine. We’re not an easy firm to work for, but those who make it through the probationary period tend to stay a very long time. The secret is to not let anyone get under your skin.”

This was the guy who had dumped coffee on an employee, she suddenly remembered. She couldn’t imagine it. “Thanks for the tip.”

He nodded and started to turn away, but then he thrust his hands into his pockets. “Actually, I didn’t come in here by accident. You’re famous.”

She didn’t respond to that. Either Mr. Lattimore had complained about her clumsy joke, or Mr. Brennbach had complained about her rudeness on the street. She tried on a bland smile.

“Ethan is a little… upset… that you’re working here.”

Maisie closed her eyes. Mr. Brennbach, then. “God. I didn’t know—”

“No one is blaming you, Maisie. We always prepare new employees, but obviously it was too late in your case.”

She wanted to ask about the scar, but instead she said, “How does he handle clients if he’s so sensitive?”

“I wouldn’t describe him as sensitive.”

Maisie folded her arms across her chest.

“Ethan didn’t solicit new clients even before the accident. I’m sure if someone came in, paid a substantial retainer, and requested him specifically, he’d accept. He’s not embarrassed by his appearance, Maisie.”

His tone had grown cool. He walked to the window and stared out.

Had she been dismissed? After a few seconds, she figured the answer was yes, and turned to go.

“We don’t usually talk about this, but I thought you deserved an explanation. Rather, a partial explanation.”

“Oh,” she said, turning back. Mr. Banno was now watching her.

“It’s been a long time since someone screamed in his face.”

She winced and prayed for the floor to open up and swallow her. “I didn’t scream.” It had been more of a surprised gasp, she thought.

“No,” he said, appraising her astutely. “I imagine you didn’t, at least not intentionally. Ethan is a cynical son of a bitch, and he’ll see right through any ass-kissing you might have planned.” He tilted his head back, like he was weighing what to say next. She stared at his Adam’s apple and the thick column of his neck. Fucking gorgeous, gorgeous man. “My suggestion is for you to lie low.”

“Believe me, I intend to.” She paused. Part of her desperately wanted to find Mr. Brennbach.

But why?

To fall into his arms again, she realized with a jolt. She could almost feel his body against hers, and the solidity of his embrace. It had been far too brief.

“Is something wrong?” Mr. Banno asked.

She hesitated.

If she alienated Mr. Banno, then the office was going to be unbearable. But he was waiting patiently. Maybe it was because of that slight resemblance to her ex, but he didn’t feel like a stranger.

On impulse, she decided to tell the truth. “You know, he’s not really that ugly.”

He smiled. “Not that ugly? What every man aspires to.”

She shook her head. She wasn’t, she realized, scared anymore. “I mean… yeah, he’s…” She fluttered her fingers inarticulately. “But he’s still hot otherwise. I’m sure he could find a girlfriend if he tried.”

“Could he?” Mr. Banno sounded extremely amused by what she’d said. “Well, it was nice meeting you. If you need help, don’t hesitate to ask… Mrs. Donahue.”

After he’d left, Maisie double-checked that she’d properly followed the rules for the plants.

She noticed a small framed photo on one of the bookcase’s higher shelves. Lifting up on her toes, she pulled it down, then laughed.

Mr. Lattimore was playing guitar on a stage crisscrossed with electrical cords and overturned mic stands. His shoulder-length hair brushed the collar of a grungy flannel shirt over a ripped Nirvana tee. The photo had been taken from the audience, and it looked like the mid-sized venue was packed.

She took a closer look but couldn’t make out the band’s name on the banner behind the stage. Too bad—she would have loved to find some videos online.

So, the straight-laced attorney used to be in a band. Maybe her earlier impression had been right, that he had a wild side. Intriguing.

Replacing the photo, she looked around one last time.

Mr. Lattimore’s office was nice. Serene. Clean lines, no clutter, and good lighting. Actually, she wouldn’t mind getting one like it, eventually. Of course that wasn’t going to happen here unless she went to law school.

One thing she knew for certain was that her new bosses were eccentric. All of them. She was starting to see why the pay was so high. When you had to tiptoe around, follow all the rules to the letter… Who would put up with that?

Maisie Novau, that was who. Because Mrs. Donahue was right—Maisie had tons of student loans. And credit card debt. And a car payment. And rent. Even a year at LB&B would help her get back on her feet, assuming she managed to avoid Mr. Brennbach until the end of her probationary period.

She needed to prove herself. This place wasn’t like the call center.

Here, she was replaceable.