Out of Order. Barbara Dunlop

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      3

      DALLAS NODDED to his partner, Allan Turnball, as he strode across the newly decorated reception area of Turnball, Williams and Smith, briefcase in one hand and a double mochaccino in the other. He loved Monday mornings—loved it when an entire week of untapped possibilities stretched out in front of him.

      He had a meeting with Eamon Perth at ten, lunch with Judge Weinberger, and he was hooking up with Greg for racquetball and a beer before he caught the Cubs game on ESPN.

      If he could convince Eamon Perth to put them on permanent retainer, he could announce the coup to Greg tonight, giving Greg bragging rights for his meeting with Preston International in New York on Friday. A couple of cornerstone clients like Perth-Abercrombie and Preston International, and the sky would be the limit for their budding law firm.

      As Mondays with possibilities went, it didn’t get much better than this.

      He headed toward the hallway that led to his office, but caught a bright flash in the corner of his eye, bringing him to a stop. Something was out of place.

      He slowly turned toward the receptionist’s desk, and his mouth dropped open a notch as he stared at a pair of black, spike-heeled pumps, impossibly long legs, a shiny gold dress over a perfectly rounded rear end, and a head of riotous, auburn hair barely tamed in a knot.

      His mouth went dry as last night’s dream popped, full blown, into his mind. His palm turned slick against his briefcase handle.

      Allan appeared at his side. “Did you meet our new receptionist?”

      Something settled like a lead weight in Dallas’s stomach.

      The woman pivoted to face him and he nearly dropped his coffee onto the three-week-old, hand-knotted, golden-onyx carpet.

      “Dallas Williams,” said Allan. “This is Shelby Jacobs.”

      Shelby’s bright red lips curved into a friendly smile. The silky-smooth lines of the gold dress hugged her knockout figure. Gathered, capped sleeves barely covered her shoulders, and a heavy zipper was pulled just low enough to stimulate his imagination.

      “What the…?” He barely sputtered out the question before his vocal chords shut down in sheer incredulity.

      “We’ve met,” said Shelby. “Great to see you again, Dallas.”

      Dallas? What were clients going to think when the receptionist called the partners by their first names? What were clients going to think when the receptionist looked like she belonged on a Vegas runway?

      He glanced at the newly decorated wall behind her—its arched, Italian bookcase, leather-bound law books, bronze-and-marble statues, the wing chairs, the fresh flowers and the custom oil paintings that nearly screamed class and success. Then he looked back at Shelby—sexy, spectacular, totally inappropriate, Shelby.

      Was this a joke? He turned his horror-stricken face to Allan. Blinking, waiting for the man to burst out laughing.

      He didn’t.

      “Can I get you anything?” asked Shelby, shifting in Dallas’s peripheral vision. “Coffee? Files?” She gestured to the bookcase behind her. “A reference book?”

      Dallas spoke to Allan through clenched teeth. “Can I see you in my office for a moment? Bring Greg.”

      He turned to take one more look at Shelby. He’d found the woman in handcuffs. In the Haines Street lockup. He wasn’t even sure she was innocent. And even if she didn’t steal the artwork from their walls, they sure as hell couldn’t make her the first thing clients saw when the entered Turnball, Williams and Smith. Clients like Eamon Perth.

      Eamon Perth.

      Good God, Dallas had less than two hours to get her out of here.

      With the barest of nods in her direction, he strode into his office, resisting the urge to slam his leather briefcase down on the polished desktop.

      Greg entered behind him, closely followed by Allan.

      “What’s going on?” asked Greg affably.

      Dallas turned to glare at him. “You hired a receptionist without even talking to me?”

      Allan quickly closed the office door.

      “Allison said you’d met her, and you seemed to like her,” said Greg.

      Dallas moved behind his cherrywood desk, bracing his hands on the high back of his chair. “I met her in the Haines Street lockup.”

      “But they didn’t arrest her.”

      “Only because I was there.”

      “Allison asked me to thank you for that.”

      Dallas bit back an unflattering observation about Allison’s influence over Greg.

      Allan took a step forward. “She seems very nice.”

      “Nice?” Dallas’s voice came out strangled. “Did you check her references? Her police record?” Had they even bothered to step back and take a good, long look at the woman?

      Greg straightened. “Her police record?”

      “When I met her Friday night, she was under arrest.”

      “She doesn’t have a police record. СКАЧАТЬ