"You can't give it out," Hannah said, because she would grant Trent this request. "Not to HR or the clients, not to n.o.body, not no how."

"Wizard of Oz."

"I beg your pardon?"

"When they get to the Emerald City and ask to see the wizard and are refused because the wizard sees no one. Not n.o.body, not no how. I know my kid flicks. I won't give your number out to your own mother."

Hannah made a production out of jotting down her number on a sticky, giving herself time to recover from the thought that her mother was n.o.body.

"Here." She pa.s.sed him the sticky. "I mean n.o.body."

Trent folded it and put it in his breast pocket. "My English comprehension is pretty good, Stark. I will literally memorize it and destroy the evidence. Now I'll bet you can't wait to see what your first docket looks like, so scoot. Debbie will have the particulars, and she'll show you how we schedule appointments and annotate the files."

"I am flattered, you know."

"I have faith in you, Hannah Stark, now get back to work."

She regarded him propped against the prow of his desk, smiling, arms crossed, every inch the corporate conqueror-almost.

Hannah crossed the room and snugged his tie back up to a tidy knot-a pattern of abstract horse heads in brown and silver. She finger combed his hair into order and kissed his cheek.

He had faith in her. n.o.body save Hannah herself had had faith in her previously-and possibly Grace and Bronco. That Trenton Knightley might have wedged a foot into the very small circle of Hannah's supporters pleased her far more than it ought to, and didn't scare her nearly as much as it should.

"I have faith in you too, Trent Knightley." Trent Knightley, who did not have a wife but who did have a daughter. For whom he kept horses, and whom he took on trail rides.

Having indulged the shamelessly unprofessional urge to get her hands on that very same Trenton Knightly, Hannah a.s.sembled the December child support files and got back to work.

"I need your keen insight and unflinching honesty," Trent informed his older brother.

Mac remained staring at his monitor, his mouse moving in a small ballet on a pad that said: Old lawyers never die, they just lose their appeal.

"You want me to tell you you're an idiot, or should I be nice about it?"

"James is being nice." Unnerving, when James was nice. Trent sank onto Mac's black leather sofa, which was a mistake, because the sofa was a lot cushier than it looked.

"Does this have to do with that p.r.i.c.k Matthews?"

"No. I asked the clerk's office in Wicks County to do a search, and Gerald was taking drug court cases as well."

"The drug cases often pay cash, hence his ability to afford a new Beemer on a first-year salary. You'd better be glad he's gone, Trent, or I will have to pound you."

"You'd be forced to give up your standing date with Merle if you put a mark on me, and she's the only female who breaks bread with you these days."

The mouse moved at the same efficient, controlled speed. "I sometimes share an apple with Kanga."

"A horse? I thought the rumors about James were bad." A lame horse at that, and one old enough to have secured a berth on Noah's ark.

"You're stalling, and I have an appellate brief to write."

"I am losing my balance over Hannah Stark." Trent heaved himself away from the leather cushions and went to stand at Mac's window, just as Mac did on his rare visits to Trent's office.

"You hardly know the woman."

"I have a child, Mac. I cannot afford to be stupid about women, and I admit I hardly know Hannah, but I like what I know in a way I thought I'd left behind when I divorced Sheila. I thought I was done being a.s.s-over-teakettle about a woman."

Though with Hannah, that wasn't quite a fair description. She interested him, yes, but it wasn't strictly a mating interest.

"Sheila divorced you." Mac shoved away from his keyboard, revealing an appellate brief that looked suspiciously like a game of solitaire. "If it's any consolation, Hannah isn't Sheila."

No, Hannah was tenderhearted, honorable, sweet, and very private, while Sheila, once she'd decided to dump Trent, had been as sentimental, kind, and self-contained as a rabid wolverine.

"Have I ever thanked you for advising me to go for sole custody?" Trent asked.

Mac's screen saver came on, an endless progression of kittens, chicks, puppies, and the occasional perky-eared fox kit.

"Merle thanks me when she takes me out for pancakes the first Sat.u.r.day of each month. Are you about to put moves on Hannah Stark?"

"I think I already have." She might have a put a few on Trent too. He kept that delectable detail to himself.

"I was afraid you'd bungle it, but I have to say I'm relieved."

So, in an odd way, was Trent. Also h.o.r.n.y as h.e.l.l. "Why?"

Mac rose and stretched. "Being Merle's dad brought you back from the complete oblivion That Woman left you in, but it isn't Merle's job to be your whole life."

How often had Trent cautioned his clients not to smother their kids as a way to weather a divorce? "Is that why you and James spring me every other Sat.u.r.day?"

"Part of the reason, yes."

Trent had suspected that, had suspected doting uncle behavior wasn't all that motivated those precious, quiet Sat.u.r.days when he could ride by himself, get some reading done, shut the d.a.m.ned TV off for a change, or pick up a hard, fast game or two of racquetball.

"What's the rest of the reason?"

"You can't have her all to yourself," Mac said, fishing a box of mint cookies out of a desk drawer, helping himself to three and extending the box to Trent. "The child will grow up warped, spouting family law of all the G.o.dforsaken wastes of talent. Was there something else you wanted?"

Trent took a cookie, because when was a cookie a bad idea? "You aren't being any help regarding Hannah."

"I explained the facts of life to you when you were seven," Mac said around a mouthful of cookie. "You offend the lady at your peril-but you disappoint her, and James and I will both beat your a.s.s. We'll also beat your a.s.s if you get us sued. If she's interested in you, and you're interested in her, then n.o.body will file any suits. Most of the Fortune 500s have no corporate policy on casual dating, so why should we? That's as much help as I'm going to be."

Two more cookies disappeared as Mac sat and started a fresh game of solitaire.

"She works for me, Mac."

"For now."

Trent still didn't leave, because the conversation wasn't at all what he'd envisioned. Mac was a consummate criminal attorney and dealt in black and white very well: guilty or not guilty, admissible or inadmissible, convicted or acquitted. An attraction to Hannah didn't feel wrong, but it felt like it should be wrong.

Or at least tricky. Very tricky.

"You are still here." On the screen, cards went flying in all directions, suggesting Mac had won his game. "You want Merle to grow up knowing what's what, don't you?"

"You are not winding up for your That Child Needs A Mother speech, are you?"

"All right, I won't, but what about my Trent Knightley Is Eaten Up With Loneliness speech? I know the difference between randy-which malady afflicts James sorely-and lonely, which is your cross to bear. You were so happy to shackle yourself to That Woman, and then so devastated when she dumped you, that you're incapable of seeing a good woman clearly. That const.i.tutes bungling if you let it cost you a chance with Hannah."

"You're saying I'm afraid?" This from the guy who hadn't dated for nearly a decade?

"But not stupid." Mac leaned back in his chair and put his feet up, his posture an exact replica of James's. "Let's agree you're not stupid. You're attracted to a perfectly lovely, available female for the first time in years, and even if she's attracted to you right back, you have to look for ways to deny yourself the pleasure. You work with your brothers every day, Trent. You could work with a fiancee or a wife if you wanted badly enough to make it succeed. This is a family business, and we all chose to make it one."

"I couldn't work with a wife. Company policy."

"The policy is you can't be in a boss-subordinate relationship with a spouse, which means you'd have to marry the woman before the policy even kicks in. There is no policy on dating per se. As much time as you're wasting thinking this to death, Hannah will be running James's department before you get your priorities straight. Now get out. I have an appellate brief to write."

In spades, clubs, diamonds, and hearts. "You're coming by to get Merle this weekend?"

"Eight o'clock sharp, and we're picking out names for the rabbits Uncle James is getting her for Christmas."

"Rabbits, plural?"

"Rabbits are always plural. They have their policies too."

Chapter 7.

Hannah hadn't seen Trent for the rest of the day. He'd been closeted with Lee, Ann, Debbie, then Gail Russo, and finally, he'd wandered off in the direction of the criminal department-Mac Knightley's bailiwick.

James was handsome-gorgeous, more like-and Mac would be the most stunning of the three, except his every gesture, silence, and expression managed to be quietly forbidding.

Trent was attractive. His subtle expressions were the most dangerous Hannah had seen in a long time: You Can Trust Me. Come A Little Closer. Lean On Me.

We're In This Together.

If other men had directed those messages to her, she'd been blind to them and glad of it. Raising Grace was challenge enough without the G.o.d-awful complications of a dating relationship, and Hannah had no intention of letting a man get close enough to start asking the wrong questions.

But close enough to share a little warmth? To kiss her cheek, touch her hair? Pa.s.s along a few sincere compliments? Hold her?

She'd certainly kissed his cheek.

Why not? The question plagued her as she drove home from Eliza's and the very last of the light vanished from the sky. She'd read her employee handbook from front to back. Hartman and Whitney had no policy on dating, though spouses were not permitted to directly report to each other, nor work in the same department.

A casual, discreet, exclusive arrangement would be nice. So nice.

Hannah wasn't in the market for marriage. That would require a great deal more trust and commitment than she was capable of. Marriage would require risking Grace's safety too, and that Hannah could not do.

But maybe with the right man-with Trent Knightley-under the right circ.u.mstances, Hannah could date a little. Flirt a little. Share a little comfort.

She let her imagination go one more step, far enough to admit that with Trent Knightley, that kind of comfort would be lovely.

"Mommy, why do some people have headlights?"

Grace occupied the pa.s.senger seat, her backpack stowed in the backseat. A glistening wet thumb went right back into Grace's maw when she finished asking her question.

"Thumb, Grace. Headlights are so you can see better at night."

"Are they like flashlights, then?"

"In a way," Hannah said, maneuvering her car down the single paved lane leading from Eliza's house.

"I think I might have to go to the eye doctor." Grace was almost whispering now.

Also puzzling her mother. "You went over the summer, and your eyes are fine."

"But I can't see 'em," Grace said, a catch in her voice.

"What can't you see?"

"The headlights. I know what they look like because George has them, but Miss Grayson-our school nurse-she said Larry had headlights and had to go home to get rid of them. But, Mommy, I couldn't see any headlights on Larry. He looked just the same to me."

Grace was crying now, clearly distraught over her terrible inability to see...what? George was Grace's name for the car, and fortunately "he" did have two functional headlights. Hannah had a spare set of bulbs in the glove compartment too, because the last thing she wanted was to be pulled over for a safety citation.

But headlights? On a child?

A foster care memory a.s.sailed her, of a new kid sitting on a stool in the middle of the foster mom's kitchen, an odd, disinfectant smell permeating the air.

"Grace, what Larry had are head lice, little bugs that think it's nice and warm and safe in your hair. They crawl around on your scalp, setting up housekeeping and making baby bugs. The whole business can get pretty itchy, but it's no big deal, really. You just use a special shampoo, and it makes the bugs go away."

Grace turned abruptly to look at her mother, her little girl face screwed up in a combination of distaste, fascination, and relief.

"Eeeeeww! Bugs in his hair-yuck! Poor Larry. So that's what Miss Grayson was looking for. She checked me too, but I guess those bugs don't like me, because I smell a lot better than old Larry."

"I'm sure the bugs think you smell much too nice to make a good bug home," Hannah said. "Did anyone else have to go home?"

If ADHD was the common cold of foster care, head lice were not far behind, and Hannah had a.s.sisted several of her foster moms with nitpicking, shampooing, bagging and disinfecting toys, and sterilizing bedding. The whole process was revolting, except she'd felt awful for the smaller children who'd suffered the infestations.

"n.o.body else had to go home," Grace said. "Just Larry. If I had to go home with those headlights, would you come get me?"

Just making sure, again.

"Yes. No matter what, if you need me I will come and I will keep you safe and I will love you forever. No matter what."