Lawyer Up (17 page)

“I think I understand,” he said. “I wish it too.”

I jumped at the sound of the loudspeaker blaring. “Final call for Flight…”

It was time to part ways again, only this time was so much harder. I wanted to ask if he thought we'd ever see each other again but was too afraid of the answer or of hearing false promises. And then all thoughts fled as Hawk leaned in and gave me a sweet kiss good-bye, surrounding me with his strong arms and holding me tightly.
Mmm, that was
good!

Finally he pulled back to look me tenderly in the eyes one last time before I turned and hurried through the gate, just barely sliding by before the door was shut.

THIRTY THOUSAND FEET IN THE AIR

Much later, settled into the airplane seat of my connecting flight, I marveled at the last three hours. We had fucked until we ran out of time, and I loved Hawk's new use for the suit hook on the wall. Good thing Hawk traveled with a couple different dress ties in his carry-on. I had never experienced a man with that much stamina, nor my own equally insatiable appetite.

We snuggled too, but didn't waste much time actually sleeping. As we lay there in each other's arms, Lucky Hawk said again that he had never done anything like that before, that it wasn't his normal way of operating. I asked why he had a new box of condoms—letting my doubt loose for a moment—and Hawk said he'd bought the protection hoping that he might still find me in Willow Pond.

He also showed me his Hastings hotel reservation. “Best place in town in case you might have been willing to join me,” he'd said. I believed him, but I still couldn't resist teasing a little about his outstanding, over-the-top studliness in thinking he would need such a big box.

“I've been without a girlfriend for a while now,” he responded with a self-deprecating, slightly embarrassed chuckle that only endeared him more to me.

His answer brought unwarranted pleasure, unjustified because I had no real claim on him. He wasn't even my family's lawyer anymore. We had never made any proclamations of love, but he did tell me that the old, beat-up desk now resided in his prestigious Omaha office. It had raised some eyebrows in the high-toned atmosphere. I had tingled all over hearing that he liked remembering the hot sex we'd had on the desk. Those memories energized him, he said. I smiled in my airplane seat, picturing Hawk working there and thinking of the two of us naked, panting and fucking on top of it.

As my plane rose upward and away from the most awe-inspiring sex of my life, I wondered if I would ever see Hawk again. It seemed unlikely since we lived in different places, but he certainly had the means to visit me if he chose. I ordered wine from the flight attendant, deciding to put aside my doubts and toast the wonderful and unexpected rendezvous.

Wineglass in hand, I silently repeated Hawk's toast from the night I met him.
Ask
questions
from
your
heart, and you will be answered from the
heart.

Sipping the wine, I smiled to myself as I listened with half an ear to my seatmate's complaints about airlines and the constant delays these days. I had no complaints about my long layover, but I wasn't about to tell her that.

Yes, he will call
me!

Suddenly I was filled with hope, the old Omaha proverb suddenly making sense. I knew the answer, if I just listened to my heart. After that amazing interlude, the way Hawk had held me so tightly afterward like he didn't want to ever let go, the way he had stared tenderly into my eyes before we parted, I had absolutely no doubt that we would be together again.

He would call or I would, or perhaps Hawk would surprise me and just show up when least expected. With budding enthusiasm, I pictured him surprising me out of the blue the next time I traveled, or maybe showing up at my apartment door one evening. It would be easy to leave an electronic trail of cookie crumbs on Facebook so he would know where to find me.

The idea of Lucky Hawk, my spontaneous lover, appearing whenever or wherever to make love to me before disappearing again was wildly erotic. Just the thought of it stirred me. I could feel my pussy and nipples tighten, marveling that I could actually get aroused again after three hours of nonstop sex.

And now I could see other possibilities. The way Hawk had echoed my unspoken wish for something more told me that he was thinking about it too. And the way he'd gazed at me with such tenderness only reinforced my belief. A long-distance relationship would require extra effort, no question, but we already had a wonderful foundation to build upon.

Somehow, I knew with all my heart that Lucky Hawk and I weren't through with each other, the realization flooding me with pleasure and anticipation. Smiling more openly now—and ignoring the odd stare from the passenger sitting next to me—I raised my glass in a second silent toast.

Till
we
meet
again!

Writ: A written order issued by a judge requiring that something be done or giving authority to do a specified act. In modern law, courts primarily use writs to grant extraordinary relief…

EMOTIONAL WRITHING

Pat Laroque approached the run-down civil district courthouse on edge but hopeful. She was about to embark on one of the most important cases in her long legal career. The dingy, old building really needed to be retired, she observed yet again, but she just hoped that the elevators were operational and the air-conditioning working. It was a hot, humid spring day in the Big Easy.

Flanked by her two young associates, she entered to find that the elevators worked but the AC didn't. As a result, the doors to Judge Babineaux's courtroom were wide open to let in some degree of fresh air. Suddenly panicked, Pat stopped dead at the entrance to the courtroom, staring in disbelief. Court was already in session. She glanced angrily at an associate, wondering if he had gotten the time wrong.

In his Cajun-flavored accent Judge Babineaux decreed, “If counsel eez in agreement, let's move on and resume the voir dire.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” replied both sides.

The judge then ordered, “Bailiff, bring forward the next group of potential jurors.”

Confused, Pat saw there were already lawyers at the defendant's table. One of her associates hurried away to read the docket posted on the wall.

After rushing back, he whispered, “The case was reassigned to Judge Emmit Stockard just this morning.”

“
Merde
!
” Pat swore quietly. “Come on then.” She marched off, followed by her subordinates.

Inside, Pat fumed. Babineaux was a kind, elderly judge who often favored the defendant in these kinds of cases, particularly if the poor were at risk. Stockard, however, was an entirely different sort of animal. Nicknamed the Playboy Judge of Orleans, he was a handsome womanizer who had always made her anxious. Worse, Pat realized that she didn't know his opinion on land-use rights and usufruct. She wondered how and why this last-minute change had transpired.

Together the three of them trudged up the flight of stairs to Judge Stockard's courtroom. After taking their seats, they waited for plaintiff's counsel to enter.

Once she saw who it was, Pat felt another jolt of alarm.

Damn!

Lead counsel Candice Morgan was a bombshell. Fresh, stacked, and blond, she would have an immediate advantage with the Playboy Judge. It wouldn't even matter that he was old enough to be her father. The eager, young attorney was most certainly aware of Stockard's reputation for “lovin' the sexy babes.” And
sexy
was what Morgan was all about. Pat realized she had made a rare but terrible mistake by not paying attention to who had been selected as opposing counsel, and she'd bet this year's bonus that Morgan had somehow manipulated the docket.

Pat could sense the woman sizing her up and glanced over. “Good morning,” she called.

“Good morning to you too,” Morgan singsonged back. “In fact, I think it's going to be a glorious morning…and a quick one as well.”

Morgan obviously believed beating the formidable Pat Laroque would be easy, resulting in a huge boost to her career. With a brief smile—more of a sneer, really—Morgan went back to reviewing her notes.

Discreetly watching Morgan, Pat noted that her opponent looked dressed to kill. Who would think that a business suit could be sexy, but on her, the tight, silk number looked like seduction come alive. If the rumors about Stockard were true, he wouldn't be able to take his eyes off the woman.

Unable to stop herself, Pat glanced down at her own proper, dark suit. She must look like an undertaker in comparison. On top of that, Pat knew she would feel awkward in Judge Stockard's presence. She seemed to mumble or stumble whenever he presided, like it was her first day in court rather than her thousandth. Pat knew why this was but had always pretended that nothing was amiss. Today she could no longer ignore the reason, not when such an important case hung in the balance.

Her problem was Judge Emmit Stockard himself and his effect on her. His judge's robes couldn't hide the fact that he was a hunk, but it was his sexy, chocolate-brown eyes fringed with black lashes that drew second looks from women…from her. He was in his fifties, but the salt and pepper of his hair was the only indication that he was older than her forty-four years.

That Stockard was incredibly good-looking was a given, but still Pat couldn't understand why his commanding aura held such allure for her. He radiated a dominant, bad-boy masculinity that always made her feel weak in the knees, like an ingenue schoolgirl blushing around a hotshot, handsome teacher.

Pat silently berated herself for this weakness. She
should
feel indignation that Stockard behaved like he was God's gift to women. She particularly resented how all the ladies of the court gravitated toward him—and even simpered for him! Even the elderly court reporter doted on him, offering a big, warm smile and a ready cup of coffee.

“Just the way you like it, sweetie,” Betty always said.

It seemed a foregone conclusion that bodacious Miss Candice Morgan would use Stockard's obvious pleasure in the opposite sex to her best advantage.

Sighing, Pat resolved to win this case on its merits alone, but even without the human element, the law wasn't always fair, and in Louisiana this human element was even more important. As the only state in the union operating under civil rather than common law, the interpretation of the law was left almost exclusively to the judge rather than set through precedent. In their previous trials together, she'd always found Stockard honorable and fair, but in addition to not knowing his previous usufruct rulings, this was the first time Pat was going up against a female opponent in his court.

While Pat hadn't seen her in action yet, she'd heard that Morgan often used her sex appeal to gain the favor of male judges. Pat guessed that Morgan would turn it on big-time with the Playboy Judge, putting Pat at a distinct disadvantage. Growing anxiety prickled deep in her belly even as anticipation, however unwanted, pattered in her chest. Pat couldn't tell which had turned her palms sweaty. Surreptitiously, she wiped her hands on her dark skirt.

She sighed as the bailiff called the court to order. This was going to be a tough day. Hearing the familiar refrain, she rose to stand.

“Oyez, oyez, oyez. The Civil District Court for the Parish of Orleans is now in session, the Honorable Judge Emmit Stockard presiding. Order and silence are commanded. God save the State and this Honorable Court.”

IMPLIED CONTRACT

Usufruct: The right to use and enjoy the profits and advantages of something belonging to another…

Judge Stockard walked in, took his seat of power, and observed his court. His gaze took in both plaintiff's and defendant's tables. He knew it would be a dull land-use case, but at least it should move along quickly with proceedings handled entirely by the lawyers representing their absent clients. Maybe, with a little prodding, it could even be settled out of court.

Stockard's eyes paused for a moment on Candice Morgan, who offered him a welcoming smile…
very
welcoming. So the rumors about her were true.

Then Stockard looked at Pat Laroque.
What
is
that
expression
on
her
face?
He couldn't quite make it out, but something inside him stirred in response. He'd always thought Laroque classically beautiful, her regal profile striking even with her ugly clothes and severe hairstyle, but her domineering reputation—he'd seen the behavior firsthand in his court in years past—had made her off-limits to him personally. That and the woman always seemed withdrawn around him, as if she didn't like him. But Stockard definitely admired her intelligence. If anyone could get a settlement agreement pulled together, she could.

He nodded to Pat in greeting.

As the morning progressed, Judge Stockard sat at his bench and watched the show that Morgan was putting on. Or—he smirked ever so slightly—putting
out
was more like it. Morgan gave every indication that she'd happily drop her panties for a judgment in her favor. But, regretfully, that wasn't who he was.

Playboy reputation aside, he was scrupulously by the book and fair-minded in the courtroom. Stockard prided himself on being honest and ethical, so he forced himself to ignore the woman's not-so-subtle overtures and focus on the trial. But it did not help that he'd been without a woman for way too long. Or that this case was a total bore!

Morgan smiled brightly at him. “Your Honor,” she purred, rising. “At this time, respectfully, we would like to make a motion to dismiss.”

“On what grounds?”

Morgan placed her hands on the table and leaned forward, way forward, as if to make an important point, but this allowed Stockard to see straight down her loose, low-cut blouse to her lacy bra. He groaned silently.

Did
she
do
that
on
purpose?
He forced himself to gaze only at her eyes and no lower.

Of
course
she
did!
he concluded, irritated. The judge had half a mind to take her up on her unspoken offers. Call her bluff and then watch her squirm.

“Lack of standing,” responded Morgan. “Defendant has pleaded the ancient right of usufruct in response to our suit to have the St. Francis Society for the Poor ordered to remove the urban farmers from the property. However, Ms. Laroque's client doesn't have standing, as the nonprofit NGO is not the recipient of the fruits of this property—unlike the actual farmers in the cooperative, who are not included as parties to this lawsuit. Further, as the Court is well aware, here in Louisiana the practice of usufruct is used primarily for surviving spousal rights.”

“Your Honor!” Pat jumped to her feet. “The farmers aren't included in the lawsuit by name because they're low-income and transient and therefore change every season. The whole point of this trial is to prove or disprove whether they and their sponsor, St. Francis, have the right to continue farming the land.”

When Emmit threw a brief glance at Pat for her outburst, she quickly added, “I beg the Court's indulgence for my interruption, Your Honor.”

“Motion denied,” the judge decreed. “Although Ms. Laroque felt the inappropriate need to elucidate civil law to me, she is correct. The purpose of this trial is to determine who has what rights to the fruits of this property.”

Morgan nodded and smiled widely at him. It had only been her opening volley, and clearly she hadn't expected to win that easily.

Stockard tried not to watch the clock as the case dragged on through the long morning. As usual, Laroque was well prepared and her presentation on the mark, in stark contrast to the other attorney's attempts to play him. In their previous trials together, Laroque's prickly exterior had been off-putting at times, but he'd always found that her intellect enlivened the trials. However, even Laroque's astute repartee could not enliven the case today.

Toward the end of the morning, Morgan asked, “Your Honor, may it please the Court, at this time we would like to present some new evidence…a title opinion prepared by an outside expert that includes new relevant documentation.”

When he nodded yes, Morgan flounced forward to hand it to the bailiff, her large breasts bouncing enticingly. Once again, Stockard's eyes were pulled almost irresistibly downward before snapping back to the woman's face. He frowned slightly but she returned a saucy wink. Then, flipping her platinum blond hair, Morgan turned and strutted back to her seat. With an internal grimace, Stockard realized he would have to deal at some point with the fact that she obviously believed his reputation to be true. But right now, he was consumed with battling his body's visceral reaction to her display.

It's been too damn long since I've screwed a
woman!

Once seated, Morgan eyed him as if she wanted to lick him like a lollipop, and in that moment, Stockard lost the battle to fight her constant lures. An image of him alone with Morgan flashed into his mind, the courtroom momentarily fading. Her silk blouse was stripped off to leave her breasts available for his viewing and fondling. Then, just as suddenly, the image evolved to include all three of them—himself, the bodacious Ms. Morgan, and opposing counsel Pat Laroque—all naked and touching each other's bodies with him guiding their every move.

Wait!
Startled, Stockard sat up straighter in his chair.
Where
did
that
come
from?

Why had the straitlaced Ms. Laroque popped into his fantasy? While he never actually called her by the nickname everyone else used, “Pat-ocrat,” it did fit her well. Stockard couldn't imagine why his mind had gone
there
. She was about the last person he could think of who would ever consent to a night of wild sex, ménage or otherwise.

His quick glance at the sharply staring Laroque only confirmed his opinion, but a part of him now wondered what she was like outside the courtroom. Did Pat have a soft, feminine side? Did she comply obediently with her lover's direction? Or did she carry on her autocratic ways in the bedroom? Stockard groaned aloud. He really needed to end his extended dry spell…and quickly!

After glancing at the new evidence, Pat rose again. “Your Honor, we object to this evidence on the basis of insufficient foundation.”

He deplored what he was about to do—knowing both parties could misconstrue his motives—but the law here was unambiguous. “Objection overruled. We'll break for lunch and reconvene at one thirty.”

He slammed his gavel down on his desk.

Stockard groaned again upon hearing a brief, outraged gasp from opposing counsel before it was muffled by the bailiff's call to “All rise.”

Shit!
The last thing he needed was Pat-ocrat's hostility on top of his raging libido.