I'll Be Watching You

  Not with Teen Talk.

  With the legal situation.

  She'd heard back from Joseph a day after she'd called him. He'd told her, in no uncertain terms, that Horace Randolph was adamant about two things: he didn't divulge his clients' confidences, and Douglas Berkley's ethics were above reproach.

  Great. That told her nothing.

  But the week and a half of ensuing silence did.

  Mr. Randolph had wanted the contract signed and the transaction completed ASAP. Yet more than ten days had passed and he hadn't contacted her attorney to find out where things stood. Why was there suddenly no pressure being exerted by Harter, Randolph & Collins? Were they just giving her space, or were they crafting their strategy?

  Taylor didn't know why she cared. Steph was gone. Her monetary investments, good or bad, were superfluous. And if Gordon had ripped her off, maybe it was best Taylor didn't know.

  Making her way through the lobby, Taylor turned up her collar against the January chill and headed toward the revolving door that led to Seventh Avenue. She stepped outside and shivered. It was

  freezing, tiny snow flurries drifting around, trying to make up their minds whether or not to stick.

  It was cold, gloomy, more desolate, and later than usual—definitely not a subway night.

  She was about to hail a taxi when a black Mercedes SUV pulled up next to the curb beside her. The window on the passenger's side slid down, and the driver leaned over, calling out to her. "Need a lift?"

  With a start, Taylor recognized the penetrating blue eyes and winter-tanned features of Reed Weston. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

  He pushed open the door. "Get in. I'll drive you home."

  This was too bizarre for words. "Just like that."

  "Just like that."

  Her eyes narrowed. "Which direction are you headed?"

  "Whichever one you need me to be headed in." He patted the seat beside him. "Come on. It's twenty degrees outside. And my car's a lot more comfortable than a cab."

  The scenario was transparent. But it was also too intriguing to pass up.

  "Fine." Taylor walked over and slid in, pulling the car door shut. "This is the part where you tell me

  you just happened to be in the neighborhood," she informed him, fastening her seat belt. "And what a coincidence it is that I popped up in the same place at the same time."

  A corner of his mouth lifted, and he pulled out into traffic. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I knew what

  time your radio show ended. I was waiting for you. I've actually been around the block four times."

  He slanted her a sideways look. "Now, why don't you tell me where you live?"

  "You mean, you haven't researched my address? I'm disappointed."

  "Don't be. I'm a lawyer, not a PI. But I am a good guesser." He sized her up thoughtfully. "Let's see.

  I'd say the Upper West Side, maybe somewhere in the seventies. Close to mass transit and the park."

  Taylor found herself smiling. "Not bad. It's West Seventy-second, a block from the subway station.

  But not near the park. Near Lincoln Center." Her smile faded. "Why don't you tell me why you're

  really here."

  "To talk."

  "Really? Did it occur to you that I might not be in the mood for conversation? I've been talking for

  hours. I'm beat."

  "That's why I picked a Friday night. You can sleep in tomorrow."

  For some reason, his rationale irked her. "And if I had a date?"

  Reed didn't look the least bit put off. "Then I'd apologize and reschedule. Why? Do you?"

  "No. That's not the point. If you wanted to set up an appointment, you could have used a telephone.

  Or were you afraid I'd turn you down?"

  "Your home number's unlisted. The only way I had of reaching you was through your radio station or your attorney. I didn't want to use Joseph as a middleman, and I hardly think your listeners would appreciate my setting up a date with you on the air." Reed glanced at her as he stopped at a red light.

  "Am I wrong?"

  Taylor gave him a tight smile. "You're right. But this isn't a date. It's a negotiation session."

  He was quiet for a moment. "Maybe it's both." Before she could respond, the light changed, and Reed resumed driving. "I'm a polite and harmless guest. But if you're uncomfortable, we could grab a cup of coffee and stay in neutral territory."

  The familiar tightness squeezed Taylor's chest. Reed was just being considerate. He had no idea what a raw nerve he'd hit.

  "Taylor?" he pressed.

  She swallowed, hard. It was time to get past this. Reed Weston had an agenda, but it didn't involve physical domination.

  "My apartment is fine. There's a lot half a block down. You can park there. I'll brew some coffee."

  He heard the tension in her tone, and his brows knit pensively. But he didn't question it. "Okay."

  They drove in silence, and twenty minutes later, she unlocked her apartment door, showing Reed in and tossing down her keys and pocket-book—but not before plucking out her cell phone and slipping it into her pocket. Having it close at hand gave her a sense of security. "Hang your coat on the rack near the door. I'll get the coffee going."

  "Sounds good." Reed complied, wandering through the hallway and stepping down into the sunken

  living room. "Nice place," he called out.

  "Thanks. I'm moving."

  "I can see that." He'd obviously spotted the boxes she'd begun packing. "Have you found another apartment already?"

  "Yes." Taylor walked out, gesturing for Reed to have a seat on the sofa. "The coffee will be ready in a minute. You can start interrogating me in the meantime."

  He waited for her to sit, then followed suit, keeping a cushion-wide distance between them. "I didn't

  plan on interrogating you. This isn't a courtroom."

  "Okay, pressuring me, then. Did Jonathan Mallory ask you to come?"

  "Actually, yes." Reed surprised her by stating the truth. "He and Douglas Berkley. But it didn't take

  much convincing. I've been thinking about you since you left my office."

  Taylor blew out her breath. "I didn't intend to make a scene."

  "And it wasn't Jonathan's intention to upset you. He didn't know you'd be there."

  "I don't doubt that."

  Reed draped an arm over the back of the sofa. "In answer to your question, Jonathan and Douglas did ask me to speak with you. Not to pressure you, just to get a handle on where you're coming from. Obviously, your reluctance to sign the contract is somehow linked to Gordon. Do you hold him responsible for your cousin's death? Is that what this is about?"

  The ring of the coffeemaker saved Taylor from an immediate reply.

  "Coffee's ready." She rose, walking toward the galley kitchen. "How do you take it?"

  "Black." Reed followed her into the kitchen and perched on a counter stool, nodding his thanks as she handed him a steaming cup. "Are you going to answer the question?"

  Taylor propped her elbows on the counter, facing him as she sipped at her coffee. "May I ask a few

  of my own?"

  He made a sweep with his arm. "Feel free."

  "What's the hurry to terminate the partnership?"

  "My clients lost a loved one. So did the families of all the other people on that yacht. It's natural for

  those involved to want to put the past behind them. Why is that so strange?"

  "It isn't. Not by itself. And not if everyone involved was as decent and honorable as you're implying."

  Reed's eyes narrowed. "I'm not doing the implying. You are. Whose integrity are you questioning?"

  "Gordon's." Taylor didn't mince words. "As for his friends and family, maybe they're protecting his memory. Which brings me to my next question. Why were you really sitting in on the meeting? You're

  a criminal defense attorney. Did Gordon do something illegal?"

  That dark blue gaze bored into hers, but
Reed's expression remained unreadable. "Why are you so sure Gordon was unscrupulous? What did he do to make you so suspicious—and so afraid?"

  A humorless laugh escaped Taylor, and she shook her head. "You're good. Very good. Not only did

  you evade my question, you turned it back on me."

  Reed set down his cup and leaned forward. "I handle more than just criminal cases. I was at that meeting because Douglas Berkley asked me to be. He's my client. So is Jonathan Mallory. Period. Now, what

  was up between you and Gordon? It felt personal. Were you involved with him?"

  Taylor felt bile rise in her throat. "No."

  "But I'm right. It was personal."

  "He was an operator. He used people. Steph was just another victim. Unfortunately, she paid with her life." To Taylor's dismay, she saw that her hand was shaking. Coffee sloshed onto the counter, and she took the opportunity to grab a sponge and wipe it up.

  Reed reached over, gripping her hand and halting its motion. "There's more. What is it?"

  Her gaze lifted, met his. "Guilt, for starters. Steph wasn't just my cousin. She was my best friend. I feel responsible. I knew Gordon was bad news. All the signs were there. I tried to convince her. I couldn't seem to get through. Now it's too late."

  "You're not responsible for—"

  "Don't bother with the placating speech," Taylor interrupted. "I'm a psychologist. I know all the reasons for and ramifications of my emotions. I also know it's easier to take on someone else's ghosts than to battle your own. So let it go."

  "All right, I will. But the other part of my question still stands. What did Gordon do to you? Not to

  your cousin, to you."

  An icy calm settled over Taylor. She'd discussed the details often enough—with her therapist, with the police. The words were painless. It was the memory that haunted her. So what difference did it make

  if Reed Weston knew?

  "You want an answer? Fine. He tried to rape me."

  This time Reed reacted. His pupils dilated in shock. "When?"

  "The day he died. Right here in this apartment. He was waiting for me when I got home. Supposedly,

  he was picking up some clothes for Steph. At least that's what he claimed. I soon found out otherwise."

  Reed's lips thinned into a grim line. "You said he tried to rape you. What stopped him? You?"

  "Unfortunately not." This was the hard part, the part that made her feel ineffectual and guilty. "Steph stopped him. She unexpectedly buzzed from downstairs. Gordon took off. He left me unconscious and handcuffed to the bed."

  "Christ," Reed muttered under his breath. He stared at the counter.

  "So now you know why I lost it when I ran into Jonathan Mallory— and why I'm a little short on faith when it comes to his dead brother."

  "Yeah. And why you carry your cell phone around in your own apartment like a security device." Reed gave her a measured look. "Were you hurt?"

  "I came through it fine. The police wrote up my assault complaint. A detective was going to follow up with me the next day. But the boat explosion happened. Since there was no point in investigating a dead man, the case was closed. Whatever punishment Gordon would have received was insignificant

  compared to the one he got." Taylor's voice quavered. "But Steph ... and the rest of those people ...

  they didn't deserve to die with him. The injustice makes me sick."

  "I can see why." Reed took a huge gulp of coffee, and Taylor got the feeling he'd prefer it was liquor. "I'm sorry. I had no idea. Neither did my clients. Now I understand why you're so on edge about signing the contract, and why you freaked out when you walked into Jonathan."

  I doubt that, Taylor wanted to say. There's no way you could understand the half of it. But she bit back the words. He was trying to show some compassion. There was no point in throwing it back in his face.

  "You're right," Reed replied, as if reading her mind. "I can't know what you went through, not really.

  But I can empathize. I have three sisters, two sisters-in-law, and four nieces. I taught them all self-defense. It's a scary world out there."

  That personal tidbit caught Taylor by surprise. Not so much that he'd shared it. He seemed like a guy who was very comfortable with himself. And certainly not the self-defense part. That she could picture,

  no problem. But the big, close-knit family? That seemed incongruous somehow.

  For the first time, Reed chuckled. "Don't look so shocked. Even sharks have families."

  "I guess. It's just hard to imagine you as part of a big, squishy clan."

  "Well, I am. There are seven of us. I've got three brothers and three sisters. All but two of us are

  married with kids. I've got nieces, nephews— hey, there are Westons scattered all over the country."

  "Wow." The concept was unique, like something out of a storybook. "Where did you grow up?"

  "In a small town in Vermont. My folks still live up there. The whole bunch of us descend on them for

  the holidays, and whenever else we can manage to get away."

  That explained the winter tan. "That's wonderful, especially for your nieces and nephews. There's no substitute for a loving family."

  "I agree." Another assessing look. "Is that a professional statement or a personal one?"

  "Both."

  Reed nodded. "I read your bio on the WVNY Web site. You specialize in family counseling, not only

  on the radio, but at the Dellinger Academy. You must have a great rapport with teens."

  Taylor gave a half smile. "That depends on which ones you ask, and when. I give it my all. Working

  with them brings me tremendous satisfaction."

  "Dellinger's a top school—and an expensive one."

  "Which breeds a whole other set of pressures for the kids who attend it." Taylor rose to refill their coffee cups. "The drive to succeed is instilled in these kids from the moment they're born. Add to that too much wealth and, too often, a severe lack of emotional support to balance it out. What you end up with is a lot of lonely, spoiled, frightened teenagers with nowhere to turn and no self-esteem." Taylor settled herself back at the counter. "I'm not minimizing the challenges of kids who are financially hurting. But parental neglect can result from struggling to make ends meet and lacking time for your kids, or from jet-setting around the world and forgetting you have kids."

  "I agree." Reed had been listening, sipping at his coffee. "You're very passionate about what you do."

  "I can't imagine doing it otherwise."

  Something flickered in his eyes—then vanished as quickly as it had come. "What about your family?"

  he asked. "Is it big or small?"

  Nonexistent, Taylor was tempted to say. "I'm an only child," she replied instead. "Which made losing Steph that much more unbearable."

  That brought the conversation full circle.

  Reed cleared his throat. "Look, Taylor, I'm not going to try talking you into signing that contract. If you can't, you can't." A pause. "Just tell me which of the details you're okay with my relaying to my clients and which ones you're not."

  She blinked. "You mean, about Gordon?"

  "Yes."

  This coming from a top-notch defense attorney? Reed Weston was certainly full of surprises.

  "Your professional loyalty is to your clients." Taylor stated the obvious. "I realize that."

  "So do I. But professional loyalty doesn't include invading your privacy. If you don't want them to

  know what happened with Gordon, I'll respect that."

  Taylor was quiet for a long, thoughtful minute. "Thanks, but I have a feeling they know what Gordon was about. So tell them whatever you want."

  She raised her head, met Reed's gaze. "As for the contract, I'll sign it. The more I think about it, the

  more I realize how meaningless it is. This whole thing is about money. It won't bring Steph back, or

  erase what Gordon did to me. It's better that I should sever ties. It'
ll help me move on, like the rest of

  the families you referred to." She knew as she spoke that it was true. "I'll call Joseph on Monday, make the arrangements. Tell your clients to relax. I won't stand in the way of their dissolving Gordon's partnership—even though I think their motives are suspect."

  Reed didn't confirm or deny her speculation. "Are you sure?"

  She nodded. "I don't need or want the money. Nor does my family. Write the check. I'll sign it over to the Theatre Development Fund in Steph's memory. She would want that."

  A quizzical look. "She was in the theater?"

  "Uh-huh. An actress. Actually, a budding Broadway star." Taylor's smile was sad, and she gazed into

  her coffee cup, not even sure why she was elaborating on this to Reed. "She was closer to realizing her dream than she knew. That last day of her life, the reason she was late getting home was because she