“Count on it.” He got up, grabbed their lunch remains. “Remember what I said—be careful.”
“Don’t worry, Jack and I have got this.”
As he walked away, she couldn’t help wondering if he was thinking the same thing she was thinking.
Famous last words.
9
3:00 p.m.
Collins Residence
Laurel Street
Nashville
Finley was glad Jack had been tied up the rest of the day. With yesterday’s cancelled appointments as well as today’s schedule, the boss was playing catch-up. She hoped Collins would be more open with her. Jack could be intimidating by just being in the same room.
Alexander “Alex” Collins might have been a mere assistant to the boss five years ago, but he’d apparently done well for himself since. His address was a stylish condo in a downtown Nashville high-rise with a city view that loudly proclaimed he had arrived. There was only street parking, but she lucked out and found a spot right away.
A doorman—of course there was a doorman; this was the lap of luxury, after all—had checked that her name was on his list before allowing her into the building. He had then directed her to the bank of elevators.
The elevator car zoomed up to the proper floor and opened into a lushly carpeted corridor. Discreet lighting and tasteful paintings lined the walls. Up ahead, the door to Collins’s residence opened as she approached. The doorman had obviously informed Collins that she was on her way up.
“Ms. O’Sullivan.” He gave her a brisk nod and opened his door wider in invitation.
She stepped inside and surveyed the place. Mostly what she’d expected. Elegant furnishings with just enough leather and wood to lend a masculine appeal. What she hadn’t anticipated were the endless framed portraits of nude people. Women and men, old and young. Then there was the stream that flowed beneath glass and cut right through the floor of the room. Interesting.
“Thank you for making the time to see me.” She didn’t offer her hand since he’d kept his close to his person. Some people still preferred to avoid unnecessary touching, particularly with strangers.
He closed the door and gestured for her to precede him deeper into the massive room that was the pinnacle of open concept. From this room one could see into every part of the condo, including the bathroom. She decided the glass walls of that private space surely had some sort of darkening technology. One could hope.
“Of course. Lance Legard was the person who made my career in the industry. Anything I can do for his memory is not only my pleasure but my duty.”
Good to know.
“Would you like a refreshment?” he asked, indicating the bar a few feet away.
“No thanks.”
“I always have a scotch and soda in the afternoon.” He walked to the glass bar that formed a waterfall at one end and disappeared into the stream beneath the glass. “Something I learned from Lance. Unpleasant things are always more tolerable after a good drink.” He motioned to the sofa behind her. “Sit. Please.”
Finley settled on the sofa and studied the man as he prepared his drink. Medium height, black hair with the slightest sprinkle of gray. Deep suntan. The body-hugging henley and the snug trousers revealed his dedication to a serious workout routine. She’d been a runner once. But that had been before Derrick . . . before she couldn’t possibly waste a moment of her time away from the office doing anything but being with the husband she’d been certain she would never have.
Did that make her like her mother? She’d often wondered why the Judge had bothered with marriage and motherhood. One Christmas during law school Finley had asked. She’d gotten an answer all right. When I was young, it was expected. Women weren’t considered legitimate without a husband and family.
Well, that explained everything. Her mother had graduated from law school at the top of her class. Promptly married and popped out the requisite kid quickly and efficiently so she could get on with her career. Nothing like knowing you were wanted for all the expected reasons. The gospel according to the Judge.
Collins padded barefoot across the gleaming marble floor and sat down directly across from her. “How can I help?”
“Mrs. Legard mentioned you recalled some trouble between her husband and a Seth Henderson.”
He sipped his scotch, then nodded. “Oh yes. Cherry Prescott. The P-trap, we called it. Three guesses what the P stood for,” he said with a knowing look, “and the first two don’t count.”
Men could be such assholes. Then again, she might have dubbed the incident the same way. Men could also be incredibly stupid. She thought of Derrick . . . and Matt, and her dad. Not all men, but a good many.