Lawyer Up (21 page)

SHIT! ~ CAJUN STYLE

Merde, Merde, Merde!

Wondering how she could go through with this, Pat paced the ladies' room of the run-down courthouse. She had done everything exactly as Creole directed, but now that it was time to go in to court, she had a debilitating attack of nerves. Once again, she looked at her appearance in the cloudy mirror. The coiffed and painted woman facing her was familiar yet foreign.

I'm a highly successful attorney with ten years of experience in the courtroom. I can do
this!

But now she felt like her femininity, not her legal skills, would be judged. Pat had never felt good about her looks, which was probably why she'd always gone the plain-Jane route, she realized. Snorting in annoyance, she decided it was about time she made the most of
all
of her assets. She squared her shoulders, looked herself in the mirror, and ordered herself to smile confidently.

Thinking she'd managed that fairly well, Pat smiled more broadly. Suddenly she realized that regardless of what happened in the courtroom, the beauty staring back at her was the woman she had always wanted to be. Sexy, confident, enticing. These qualities had been inside her all along, but it had taken this crisis to make her see that and make her want to embrace them. Pat practiced smiling at the new her in the mirror one more time, and it made her think of the name her mom used to call her—Patricia. Had her mom, even drunk, seen the real her all those years ago? In the smallest possible way, the thought was healing, and she smiled again, but this time not to practice. Rather, gladness curved her lips.

Then she heard female voices in the hall and hurriedly entered a stall to hide. Pat snorted at the realization that her actions belied any newfound self-confidence she purported to enjoy, but she wasn't ready yet to face anyone she might know, not willing to risk ridicule.

She took several calming breaths while mentally reviewing her image one last time—was it glamorous or trashy? Her now shoulder-length hair was down and styled as she had been taught. It bounced nicely when she moved, but at that moment, Pat wished for a hair band to tie it back. That felt safe. Her makeup was perfect, not heavy or overly flamboyant except for the scarlet lipstick finished with a shiny gloss. Her new Donna Karan designer suit fit her like a second skin, not just displaying but spotlighting her willowy model's figure and her augmented bosom. Looking down, she questioned if the push-up bra was a bit much.

The pièces de résistance were the ultra-glam Christian Louboutin black pumps, the leather bow topping each four-inch heel a naughty tease. If only she didn't feel so tall. In dismay—
What
the
heck
was
I
thinking?
—she imagined herself towering over everyone else in the courtroom. Pat lifted a foot to look at the bottom of the shoe. While she adored the trademark red sole, the bright scarlet all but screamed sex.
Damn. Why didn't I bring some backup
flats?

She pursed her lips, growing more distraught by the minute. She felt queasy and unsure. Maybe if she just toned it down some. She must have a rubber band for her hair in her purse somewhere, she thought as she reached for some toilet paper to rub off the flaming lipstick.

Then the bathroom door opened and several women walked in, chatting.

“It's in the bag, I tell you. Didn't you see the way old Stockard looks at me? All I have to do is bat my eyelashes and flash a little cleavage, and he'll give me exactly what I want.”

“Yes, he does seem to be swayed by your
delectable
arguments.” The women snickered as they stood at the mirror, touching up their makeup.

Stifling a gasp, Pat's hand froze mid-pull on the paper roll. She could hardly believe what Morgan was saying. Pat realized she should announce her presence. It was unethical to listen in, letting them think they were alone. She opened her mouth to say something…

“Just watch. I'll have the old goat literally eating out of my hand,” Morgan added.

“Do you think Stockard will ask you out after the case is over?” one of the other women asked. Another added, “I'm guessing he thinks you're already a sure bet…in bed.” Pat heard more laughter.

“Good, if it will help me win the case,” Morgan pronounced. “But, ugh! He's old enough to be my father, but he doesn't need to know I think that.”

Pat heard a chorus of “You go, girl” and “Knock him dead” and one softly spoken dissent. “Well…I don't know. I think he's rather handsome. I'd sure—”

Morgan cut her off. “Actually, it might not be a bad thing to be seen on his arm out in public. The perceived association might give a boost to both my social and professional standing.”

As they walked out of the restroom, Morgan added, “Can you believe old Pat-ocrat actually thought she could compete with me in
my
game? Pathetic!”

Shaking all over, Pat felt like she was about to throw up. There was no way that she could go out there now to be a laughingstock. The caustic comments cut too deep. She was only in her forties, after all. Even in her plain attire, Pat didn't think she ever looked that old and worn-out. Had she looked ridiculous last week? Stockard had seemed to be reacting positively to her, at least until Morgan raised the bar. And later they'd had a moment in the elevator—the mutual sexual attraction, no matter how brief, had been unmistakable.

“What a manipulative bitch!” Pat suddenly exclaimed, her mortification shifting in a flash. Vaguely aware that her emotions were fluctuating wildly, she was glad for the fortifying anger, which made her feel stronger. It wasn't like she hadn't known that this was Morgan's game all along, but hearing her say it out loud, what she really thought about Stockard, made it somehow worse—and cruel!

Yes, she was also trying to use sex appeal—it was the only way Pat could think of to fight back and win the case against her foe—but she truly did find Emmit Stockard attractive. Unlike Morgan's, her flirtations were real.

I
really
do
like
him
, she suddenly realized. Well, she wasn't going to stand around and watch that scheming woman attempt to stomp all over him. Taking another deep breath—this time to strengthen her resolve—Pat decided that there was no fuckin' way that she would let the other woman win either the case or the man.

Squaring her shoulders, Pat opened the stall door and marched out, prepared to go into battle.

“No…wait!” she said aloud, pausing. That is not the way to win this sensual war.

Pat shut her eyes, took a deep, concentrating breath, and envisioned the kind of woman that could knock Stockard to his knees—the sexy, passionate being that she herself truly wanted to become. It might be all pretense now, but it was a start.

Opening her eyes slowly, Pat smiled. She started walking again, but this time slower…more assured…more alluring. Inside she still quaked, but on the outside Pat would show the world a confident, desirable, mature woman.

Game
on!

IN CAMERA ~ IN A JUDGE'S CHAMBERS

As he donned his black judge's robe in his chambers, Stockard eagerly looked forward to the start of court. Thursday had been a revelation.
Who
knew
that
Pat-ocrat could turn on the feminine when she wanted to?
he thought. He grinned slightly as he recalled her charmingly innocent femme fatale attempts. Opposing counsel had extended her claws in response, upping the ante, and he looked forward to the impending catfight. What red-blooded American male wouldn't? It didn't matter that their behavior wasn't really about him—they just wanted to win the case—but it would still be a fun show to watch. Let the good times roll!

Stockard snorted. Who was he kidding? What tantalized him the most was not the rivalry, but seeing what Pat-ocrat would do today. Getting to know her a bit on the elevator had been a revelation. There seemed to be much more to her than he'd realized.

As he approached his private entrance to the courtroom, Stockard realized that “Pat-ocrat” didn't suit her new persona at all. In the past, the caustic nickname had fit her abrasive persona so well that he'd never thought of her any other way or, more officially, as Ms. Laroque. Not once had he thought of her as Pat or…

Pausing at the closed door, Stockard breathed out slowly, “
Patricia
.”

Yes, he thought, that formal but lovely name suited the new her perfectly. He wondered if she used that with her friends…or her lover. Did she have a lover?

Finally opening the door, Stockard shook off his contemplation and assumed—like an additional cloak draped upon him—his professional gravitas as circuit court judge.

“All rise,” called the bailiff.

Forcing himself to walk methodically, Stockard made his way up the stairs to his bench. Only after he had settled into his chair and called, “Court is in session,” did he allow himself to look over at Patricia.

Her seat was empty.

His eyes roamed the courtroom before he inquired, “Bailiff, where is lead counsel for the defendant?”

“I don't know, Your Honor.”

Stockard looked pointedly at the young associates seated next to Patricia's open chair. Rising quickly, a young man coughed and reluctantly said, “Your Honor. I am not sure where Ms. Laroque is at the moment. I'm sorry… We've been texting her, but”—he glanced at the other associate who gave a brief shake of his head—“ah, we haven't received a reply.” In a rush, he added, “But I'm sure she will be here any moment. She's exceedingly conscientious and punctual.”

Stockard raised an eyebrow at the young man.

“Umm…she's never been late before.”

Stockard tried to ignore the disappointment he felt at seeing her empty chair. Annoyance at her breach of protocol would come next, but now he had to deal with the situation.

“Do you want to take over for her?”

The young associates looked at each other in alarm. “Ummm,” responded the man still standing. “I, ah…really just…umm…joined the team.” Looking helplessly around him for guidance that wasn't forthcoming, he drawled, “Perhaps a short…adjournment.”

Seeing an advantage, Morgan bounced to her feet.

“Your Honor.” She breathed her words out sexily, like Marilyn Monroe reincarnate. “I see no reason to wait. Ms. Laroque may be AWOL, but I see the defendant is not…without representation.” Morgan flicked her eyes to the young associates. “Also, because I appreciate the very real pressures already weighing on this court's docket, I for one would hesitate to waste judicial resources on unnecessary delay.” She smiled sweetly at the judge.

What
should
I
do?
he wondered…stalling. Regardless of this morning's lapse, Laroque did have a reputation for being “extremely conscientious,” as the associate had said.

Just then, the sound of the doors slowly opening drew his attention. All eyes turned toward the back of the room as two guards pulled the double doors outward and, as if on cue, Patricia glided in, head held high, hips swaying slightly.

Stockard was sucker-punched, blown away by the gorgeous beauty coming toward him. He could hardly believe that this was
Patricia
! No way could this breathtaking siren ever again be called simply Pat. He watched her as if she were in slow motion as she tossed her hair to dislodge a lock that had fallen in front of her eyes. The shoulder-length dark auburn hair swirled in the light, thick, lustrous, and elegant. She seemed to have hardly any makeup on, except for her luscious ruby-red lips that drew his eyes.

Shit. Did she always have that
mouth?

Pat's lips parted, and she gave him the slightest of smiles. He was dumbstruck all over again.

Stockard's gaze drifted lower.
Impossible!
That svelte, sexy body had been there all along, hidden under her ugly suits. She was tall, a lovely goddess, a head above everyone else as she sailed regally by Morgan, who jumped to her feet, mouth hanging open. The cloying blond didn't stand a chance against the new Patricia. Morgan's previous attempts at seduction now seemed crude, her ploys vulgar and obvious.

Opposing counsel chose that exact moment to squawk triumphantly, “You're late! You're going to be fined.”

Stockard's eyes flicked briefly toward the other woman, irritated. “Be quiet and sit down, Ms. Morgan.” Before returning his regard to Patricia, he added, “You're not in charge here in
my
court. I suggest you don't forget that.”

Morgan sucked in an incensed breath but promptly sat.

Patricia paused, waiting until he looked at her again. In a low, sultry voice she inquired, “Your Honor, may I approach the bench?”

Stockard gawked at this new Patricia, his fascination with her soaring. He nodded, and when she drifted closer, he got a whiff of the exotic perfume she wore. She was positively radiant, and that radiance made her sexy as all get out. Blood rushed to his groin, and his penis jerked forcefully, lengthening and thickening. Grateful for the bench in front of him, he resettled slightly to ease the uncomfortable tightness in his pants. Stockard was so aroused that he didn't trust his voice, so he waited.

In the same husky tone, her eyes locked with his, Patricia said, “I apologize, Your Honor, for my tardiness. I
promise
it won't happen again.”

That was it—no excuses, no begging, just a promise. He wished then that she would make other promises to him, private ones. He realized that everyone was watching him. He was known to be a stickler for protocol, and the spectators seemed to be eagerly anticipating what he would say or do next. He cleared his throat carefully.

“Let's get on with it then.”

Morgan gasped, outraged. “Your Honor!”

“It's what you already requested,” he retorted. “Now I want to hear from your first witness. Don't want to keep these important, busy experts waiting any longer, do you?”

“No, ahh, of course,” she responded, nonplussed. Stockard watched as Morgan seemed to realize she had lost this round, the play across her face clearly revealing that she was rethinking her stratagems. Then she slowly rose to stand, a flirtatious smile on her face. “Thank you, Your Honor. I'm
so
eager to get started…with you,” she added breathily.

For the next few hours, Stockard had to fight to pay attention to the mundane trial, his thoughts filled with questions about the new Patricia. Every time she got up to address a witness, his eyes ate up her elegant body. Interspersed were moments when Morgan spoke, but Stockard found it hard to take his eyes off Patricia even when he was forced to respond to inquiries by plaintiff's counsel.

He focused once again on her as she turned to go back to her seat. He watched as her hips swayed enticingly while she walked, his pulse quickening even more. This would be a long, vexing morning—or a spectacular one, Stockard realized as he squelched the delighted grin that threatened to spread across his face. Her complete transformation was mystifying, intriguing, wonderful.

Suddenly, he wanted very much to talk with her—not as a judge to counsel but as a man to a woman. He wanted to order her to his chambers just to have a moment alone with the fascinating woman. He needed to reconcile the various incarnations that seemed to comprise Patricia—angry termagant from past trials, vulnerable but alluring spirit in the elevator, and now confident seductress.
Who
are
you, Patricia?
The need to find out consumed him. It frustrated him that he couldn't talk privately with her as long as this case went on—not unless he could manufacture another elevator breakdown. Snorting, he wondered, how difficult that would be to devise.

The morning session dragged interminably, but finally it was time to break for lunch. Slamming the gavel down, he ordered the court to reconvene at one o'clock.

“Court is adjourned for lunch,” Stockard declared.

“All rise,” called the bailiff.