Third Time Lucky: Volume 1 (The Coxwells)

  He was interrupted, the roar audible to everyone in the room. McAllister visibly gritted his teeth. “Yes, in fact I am questioning your judgment.” He spoke tersely. “Sir.”

  Again, there was a pause.

  “No, sir, I do not think that a review at nine-thirty Monday morning would be appropriate.” His voice rose. “Your assessment is unreasonable and biased and...”

  A tirade poured from the receiver and McAllister held it slightly away from his ear until it halted. “Are you finished, sir?” His tone was cutting. “Then please be advised that you cannot fire me because I am quitting.”

  And he slammed down the receiver.

  They all stared at him.

  McAllister shoved his hands into his pockets and looked sheepishly at Nick and O’Neill. “So much for that.” He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “My mother always said I should go out on my own and you’ve got to start somewhere.”

  “What’s your specialty, Jeffrey?” Beverly asked.

  “I’ve been leaning toward criminal law.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “You’ll never meet decent people by consorting with villains. Sooner or later you’ll have to defend someone who everyone knows is guilty and then winning is really losing.” She patted him on the shoulder. “What you want to do is family law.”

  McAllister blinked. “Wills?”

  Beverly smiled. “Divorces. I’m thinking of a very high profile one that would make your name in this town.” She tapped her fingertips on his arm. “The billing would be considerable. I’m thinking that you might find a personal satisfaction in the settlement.”

  “You’re going to divorce Judge Coxwell?” McAllister demanded.

  Beverly nodded. “I’ve spent the better part of my life trying to live up to that man’s expectations and fearing his recriminations. I’m finished with it. Philippa has shown me that it doesn’t have to be that way. If you want the case, Jeffrey, it’s yours.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your trust.”

  “But what about Philippa?” O’Neill asked.

  “I’ll finish what I started, and Philippa isn’t spending two nights in jail,” McAllister said. “Can I use your phone again? Maybe my mother will see her way clear to sponsoring my first client.”

  “There’s no need for that.” Nick laid his platinum Am Ex on O’Neill’s desk with a snap. “I got Phil into this, and I’ll get her out.” He met O’Neill’s gaze steadily across the expanse of wood. “Whatever it takes.”

  “I really am starting to develop an affection for this man.” Beverly beamed at them all. “Tell me, Nick, what do you do for a living?”

  * * *

  There was something about the relentless grey of that little cinderblock room that really got on my nerves, especially when I was left alone there.

  Maybe it was the bars. Whatever it was, the reality of my distasteful situation was slowly sinking in.

  And I really didn’t like the view. My mind went wild, speculating on the fallout. Even if the charges were dropped, people like Mrs. H. might have issues with this dark stain on my history. It could ruin the business, just when everything was starting to go right.

  I was going to be bankrupt, a failure, a lifer in Rosemount jail, the subject of family disgust forever. I’d be checking in with my parole officer every Tuesday, I’d be letting down Elaine. My speculation spiraled downward in the gloom of that room, until I just about needed to be scraped off the floor with a spatula.

  The keys jangled in the door and I looked up, probably doing a good imitation of Jez hearing something fall into her dish. My mother was somewhat overdressed for a visit to jail, but I was really glad to see her.

  “You shouldn’t sit on that, dear, you’ll mark your lovely suit.” She smiled for me, acting for all the world like we’d just met for tea at some posh restaurant and she was chiding me for sitting on a stone bench outside. She stood me up and brushed me off as though I was a little girl again, her protectiveness making me want to cry.

  “I’m in jail, Mom.”

  Her brushing paused for just a moment, then she continued straightening my jacket and passing an admiring finger over the beading on the blouse. “You do have such lovely taste, Philippa. I’d like to think that you got that from me.”

  I blinked at this unlikely sentiment. “Are you drunk?”

  She smiled a little. “Not that much. Something about this place tends to sober a person up.”

  “Then, where’s your pod?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Would the real Beverly Coxwell stand up? My mother thinks I have terrible taste, in everything from underwear to men.”

  She framed my face in her hands and looked me in the eye. “Your mother is realizing that she was wrong.”

  I watched her for a minute, then shook my head. “Did all the molecules in the universe just jump a foot to the left and leave me behind? What do you mean, you were wrong?”

  My mother grimaced. “I certainly married the wrong man and I certainly didn’t do a good job of fixing it.” She turned and walked away. “I’ve been wallowing for a long time, Philippa, which is certainly no way to solve one’s problems.”

  She tapped her perfectly manicured fingers on the sill of the window, then recoiled from the residue left on her hands. “What a filthy place,” she muttered, then turned to face me, brushing her hands fastidiously.

  “You’ve shown me that things aren’t always what they seem, Philippa, that people aren’t always what they seem to be.” She smiled. “That appearances aren’t nearly so trustworthy or as valuable as I was taught to believe.”

  I had been dumped into a new play without a copy of the script. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to divorce your father. I’m going to move back to Boston and continue my life as I should have before. I’m going to live again, instead of brood about how I could have lived if everyone hadn’t stopped me. I stopped myself, that’s the simple truth of it, and I’m going to start myself.”

  “What about that man?”

  She laughed under her breath. “He’s long gone, Philippa, and really he never mattered. It was what he represented that intrigued me. He was freedom and passion and spontaneity, things that had no place in my upbringing. I’ll be grateful to him forever for introducing me to them, but truly we were as incompatible as chalk and cheese.”

  “But you kept his letters.”

  “Because they helped me remember what was possible, what I had sacrificed, what I thought I would never feel or have again.” She summoned her social smile, her manner turning brisk. “You needn’t worry about me tonight, dear. I have telephoned a friend from years ago who has offered her guest suite to me. It will only be temporary, of course, as I will have to find my own accommodations, but Jeffrey will drive me there.”

  It was somewhat surreal that she thought I should be so concerned about where she slept, when I was going to sleep on a slab of concrete.

  Without my suit touching it.

  Then the keys sounded again and everything started to make sense. Nick stood there, his tie loosened, his expression watchful and wary.

  “He paid your bail, dear,” my mother whispered to me. “And I must say that he shows considerably more promise than I might have expected.”

  Her voice dropped lower as I stared at Nick. “You know, dear, men usually think that sex is the solution for all ills and the remedy for every situation. I think perhaps we give less credence to that theory than we should.” She smiled for me then, actually touched my cheeks with her lips when she kissed me, then took the elbow of Jeffrey who lingered behind Nick.

  But there was only Nick for me. Nick and his clear gaze, Nick and his crooked smile. He opened his arms to me and I ran, squeezing my eyes tightly shut when he caught me close. He was so warm and made me feel so safe that I cried like an idiot.

  “Tough day for a ray of sunshine,” he murmured into my hair, then eased away my tears with his th
umb.

  “I never cry.”

  “Of course not.”

  I sniffled and left mascara on his shirt but he didn’t seem to care. He didn’t make fun of me or try to get me to smile, he just held me as though he would never let me go.

  I really didn’t want him to. He said something to Chief O’Neill about the next day but I wasn’t listening too well, then led me to the truck. I might have been the queen for the way he helped me in—neither of us considered the possibility of my driving. The world felt big and frightening to me, the future uncertain.

  Nick didn’t let go of my hand the whole way home, which was a bit tough when he shifted gears, but worth it. Definitely worth it. We didn’t exchange a single word the whole way back to my apartment but my heart was pounding as though I’d run a marathon.

  Everything felt so tenuous to me, even as I felt overwhelmed with emotion. I didn’t dare ask a question or say anything, I didn’t want to ruin everything.

  I didn’t want to lose this sense of expectation.

  We stopped in the foyer of my apartment and looked at each other as Nick turned the deadbolt. His eyes were cat-bright, darkest emerald, and he seemed to simmering right before my eyes. But he was waiting, waiting for me.

  Even without my mother’s advice, I would have reached into that volcano one more time. For now or forever, I didn’t care. I wanted everything he had to give tonight.

  And I’d give him everything I had to offer.

  I barely moved before he caught me close, his mouth on mine. His kiss was fierce yet tender, controlled yet just barely so. And I understood then that I hadn’t loved him all those years before, that I couldn’t have loved him before I knew so much about him.

  Before I really knew him.

  We shed clothes all across the living room, I murmured incoherently, he kissed and touched and finally carried me to the bed. We loved the night away as though tomorrow would never come.

  Or couldn’t be trusted if it did.

  And sometime before the sun rose, I told Nick Sullivan that I loved him. He said nothing, but then I hadn’t expected him to. He just rolled over and made love to me again.

  It was enough.

  * * *

  I awoke to a view of tight buttocks, though sadly jeans were being pulled over them very quickly. “Don’t tell me it’s morning yet.”

  Nick glanced warily over his shoulder at me. So, he had heard what I said and the prognosis wasn’t good. “You didn’t seem to be worried about sleep last night.”

  I leaned back against the pillows, choosing my strategy with care. He hadn’t made love like a man who didn’t care—not that I had a considerable store of experience with which to compare his technique.

  Maybe he’d made love like a man doing it for the last time.

  That woke me up. “I was planning to linger abed after my unfortunate incarceration, and enjoy the pleasures of the flesh.”

  He leaned down, wearing only his jeans, and kissed me. It was the kind of kiss you give your mother. He straightened all too soon and picked up his shirt, leaving me in no doubt that I’d peed in the pool. “No rest for the wicked, Phil. We’ve got to go and see Lucia.”

  I sat up then, fearful that I had missed something. “Did they call? How is she?”

  “No word.” Nick looked grim. “But then, they doped her up pretty good.” He paused, his back to me as he buttoned his shirt. His tone was too carefully neutral. “O’Neill wants to ask her some questions when she comes around. I’d like to be there.”

  The very fact that he’d told me about it hinted at his hope that I’d be there, but I was feeling the need for a little reassurance. “Then go. Take the truck with you.”

  He looked back. “Phil, you know that’s not what I mean.”

  We eyed each other for half an eon. I folded the blankets around myself and pushed my hair back, unable to avoid the musky smell of lovemaking. “Does that mean that you want me to come?”

  “You know I do.”

  I flung out a hand in exasperation. “Then what have you got to lose by asking me?”

  He stared at the floor for a minute, then crossed the room very quickly. He sat down on the edge of the bed. “Phil, would you come to the hospital with me and visit Lucia? I hope things are going to be wrapped up this morning—” he actually knocked the wood of the headboard “—and I think you should be there.”

  “Talk about an offer I can’t refuse,” I muttered. I climbed out of bed, not giving a damn what kind of view he had. The party was definitely over.

  He sobered as I rummaged for my slippers, but I refused to look at him. “Phil...”

  “Don’t.” I halted him with one hand. “Don’t say anything. Don’t even go there. It’s bad enough without you saying it.”

  I walked to the bathroom, feeling his gaze follow me, my heart shattering into a little pieces with every step.

  Well, now everyone could tell me that they’d told me so. Now, I could tell myself that at least I knew how Nick Sullivan kissed, let alone how he did a lot of other things. I even knew a bunch of his secrets.

  Which was cold comfort indeed. I hadn’t lied to Jeffrey, I didn’t regret a moment of this week and the ride had definitely been worth the price of admission.

  I just didn’t want it to end. Like a kid at the fair, I didn’t want to get off that carousel and go back home, back to boring predictable real life.

  I told my reflection that I should be grateful that Nick wasn’t going to lie to me. He could have dropped to one knee and confessed undying love before he walked out of my life, which would have made the morning after a lot worse. No, he didn’t promise what he wasn’t going to deliver.

  He’d said he came back to make things right. As soon as Sean was charged for his crime, as soon as the balance was righted, Nick would be gone again. This time forever. He’d never suggested anything different.

  I didn’t feel very grateful to him though, and there’s a shampoo bottle in my shower with a nasty tale of abuse to tell.

  All the same, I’d be damned if I’d miss the grand finale.

  * * *

  She’d gone and changed the rules. She’d pulled the proverbial rug right out from under him, leaving him feeling like an ass.

  So much for putting things right.

  So much for pretending Phil hadn’t said what she’d said.

  The silence between them was far from companionable and certainly didn’t have the sexual charge of the night before. Phil seemed to delight in grinding the gears and she wasn’t wasting any time or energy talking to him.

  Her confession echoed in his head, confusing him, terrifying him, making a familiar part of him want to run for cover.

  But another part of him wanted to hear those three words fall from her lips again. That was the part that replayed the way she had said it, the way the confession had spilled out, as though she’d been trying to hold it back. That was the part that wanted her to say it again and again, just so he could be sure.

  That was the part of him that wanted to stay.

  He wouldn’t make a promise though, not unless he was sure it could be kept. He wouldn’t let Phil down in the worst way imaginable. First things had to be resolved first.

  O’Neill was waiting for him, as planned. His shrewd gaze followed the way Phil walked away from Nick, as though she couldn’t wait to put distance between them. She picked up a magazine in the waiting room and buried her nose in it without troubling to give him another glance.

  O’Neill looked at him and Nick felt heat rise on the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible to screw that up,” the chief murmured, but Nick ignored him.

  It wasn’t any of his damn business.

  Lucia was dozing, just as she had before. She looked pale and elderly in the hospital bed, some measure of her vitality sapped by her surroundings.

  Or the tubes running in and out of her. He took her hand, which was less warm than it should be. Her skin felt thin, as though he
could slough it off her bones just by trying. Her bones seemed small and brittle in his hand.

  The respirator wheezed, the IV dripped. The chief stood slightly back, but his face wasn’t as impassive as he probably would have liked.

  “Helluva trick, Lucia,” Nick muttered, his voice sounding strange and thick to his own ears.

  Her eyelids fluttered. It took her a long time to get them open, or maybe it just felt like an eternity because he wanted to see her incisive gaze so badly.

  Her eyes were clouded though, her gaze slipping over him without any hint of recognition. Then she frowned, and squeezed his fingers slightly.

  “Be a good boy, Nicholas.” Her voice was a reedy whisper. “And get me a cigarette.”

  “They won’t let you have one in here.” He cleared his throat. “Do you want one badly enough to get better and go home?”

  She snorted then, and coughed weakly. “Maybe.” She looked across the room and smiled. “Hello, Bill. You better not have finished that brandy on me.”

  “Not a chance. It’s bad luck to drink alone.”

  She harrumphed, a shadow of her usual self. “Worse luck to eat venison without something to wash it down.” She looked up at Nick, a gleam in her dark eyes. “Has he made you eat it yet?”

  “No. We only just met.”

  “Hmm. You’ll have to get used to it then.”

  There was a question in her voice and her eyes. Nick smiled for her. “I guess I will. Do you know how to cook it?”

  Lucia scoffed weakly. “Not my job.”

  “Then I’ll have to make it mine.”

  She eased back then, her eyes closing as though this small conversation had cost her dearly. “Guess you learned your lesson.”

  “Guess I did.”

  The sound of her breathing filled the room, punctuated by the rhythm of the respirator. O’Neill stepped closer and took her other hand. “Who did it, Lucia?”

  But her breath was slowing and her eyes were closed once more.

  “Lucia,” Nick urged. “Who did this to you?”

  She frowned, as though trying to stay conscious but losing the battle. Her grip loosened on Nick’s hand.