"What did the doc say about Sandra's condition?" Trent asked.

This was a more cheerful topic? "He said privacy laws required that he not even confirm he was treating her, but patients with this diagnosis often have family on alert, blah, blah. He'll call her sister, which is her agreed-upon safety net when she's symptomatic. She has a tendency to skip meds to save money, though I didn't hear the doctor say that."

Trent's eyebrows came down. The kid getting smacked with a belt hadn't provoked a scowl like that.

"What's bothering you?" Hannah asked.

"I'll talk to her about a payment plan, that's what."

Hannah had ordered a steak in a misguided attempt to do battle with creeping, tight-budget anemia, but the cut that arrived was both the shape and nearly the size of Madagascar.

"You can get a doggie bag," Trent said. "Unless you want some help with that?"

Trent was offering to eat food off Hannah's plate. A perfectly functional and even clean fridge waited back at the office, so Hannah could save every leftover morsel if she chose to. She pa.s.sed him her plate and watched as he moved his knife over a very generous cut of sirloin.

"There." She stopped him when he'd sectioned the steak into unequal halves. Geeves would thank her.

"You're about to tell me I've ruined your appet.i.te with my legal strategizing," Trent said as he transferred about a third of the meat onto his plate. "Would you like some of my ravioli?"

Pasta was comfort food, and seeing it on his plate delicately drizzled with a fragrant marinara made Hannah's mouth water. "Just a little."

Hannah wasn't having lunch with her boss. She was sharing lunch with him. To take her mind off that novelty, she fished mentally for a question.

Did you freeze your b.u.t.t off under the full moon? "What else did you find out from the depositions?"

Trent paused with a bite of steak halfway to his mouth, tines down, Continental fashion.

"I learned it was emphatically Mr. Loomis's idea that they have a child, and Missus made no effort to hide her mental health history, or the effect going untreated for months might have."

"You didn't believe her when she told you that?"

"I am ethically obligated to believe my client. I'd be a d.a.m.ned fool not to verify her version of events when I'm procedurally able to do so. Were there any questions you wanted to ask?"

Hannah paused in the consumption of a very good cut of steak.

"After Dad had trashed the daylights out of Mom's ability to discipline the child, I would have asked him if he respected anything about her as a parent or a spouse."

"Good strategy. Would you like some more ravioli?"

To go with Hannah's compromised life plan? "Two bites."

Trent forked them across the table onto her plate.

"I purposely did not ask about the Loomis's intimate relations," he said, and Hannah about choked on her pasta.

"Why on earth would you ask such a thing?"

He sprinkled more cheese over his pasta, something else Grace would do. "To rattle him, to see if the parental carping and carrying on is a proxy for s.e.xual frustration, or worse."

Five months and twenty-nine days to go in family law, no matter how much Hannah liked her lunch companion. "What's worse?"

"He can't satisfy her, that's worse for a guy-or it d.a.m.ned well should be-and yet things go wrong for most couples in the bedroom long before anybody sees a lawyer."

Trenton Knightley was undeniably a guy. "I don't want to hear this."

He munched on his steak. "n.o.body wants to hear it. If we were told in law school what domestic practice is really like, n.o.body would do family law. This isn't even a case involving overt claims of adultery."

"May we change the subject?"

"You're blushing, Stark."

"That doesn't qualify as changing the subject."

He regarded her over a very good meal, and Hannah wanted to slide under the table, though Geeves would never forgive her for abandoning her steak.

"Your blush is endearing, Stark. Because you blush, I will order dessert for you, and we will share it."

He hadn't made that a question either, but Hannah didn't chide him for it. Dessert was a change of subject. She'd take what she could get.

Chapter 3.

Instead of herbal tea, Trent ordered a hot chocolate for Hannah-unspiked-and a chocolate mousse "for the table." The hot chocolate came first, a frothy, creamy concoction with cinnamon sticks for garnish and multicolored sugar swirled over a fat dollop of whipped cream.

"My goodness."

For Hannah that was probably tantamount to swearing with glee.

Very serious, Miss Hannah Stark. Serious and careful, but capable of blushing when teased-an interesting combination.

When the mousse came, Trent slid it across the table to Hannah, sensing she'd want first crack. If this were a date, he'd sit beside her, they'd eat off each other's plates, and they'd attack the mousse at the same time.

This was not a date.

Something was wrong with the male population of the University of Maryland if they thought paintball and farm-team baseball were adequate dates for Hannah Stark. If Trent had been in her poli sci 101 cla.s.s, he'd have taken her to the symphony when the program included Brahms or Rachmaninoff.

Lush, pa.s.sionate music for prim Hannah Stark.

"Works better if you eat it," he said.

She peered at her hot chocolate, though it sported a perfectly obvious long-handled gold spoon in addition to the cinnamon sticks.

"I hate to disturb a work of art."

"The colored sugar is a nice touch." He appropriated a cinnamon stick, licking off the whipped cream. Merle would have scolded him for that.

"Larceny at high noon," she said with a ghost of a smile. She took the other cinnamon stick and licked the whipped cream off as Trent had, but more delicately.

Did James order hot chocolate for his dates? He d.a.m.ned well should.

"Delicious," Hannah murmured. "Real whipped cream, and not too sweet."

"We believe in our dairy out here in the country. You going to try to the mousse?"

"I ought to try it." Her expression was almost comical, so covetous was her regard for her hot chocolate.

"I will not steal your drink, Hannah. I'm having coffee." He lifted his cup to remind her, and she pulled the mousse closer.

"This looks very good."

She looked good. The hot food had put a touch of color in her cheeks, and as the meal had progressed, she'd relaxed. Trent had the completely inappropriate thought that Hannah Stark with a couple of gla.s.ses of wine under her belt would be adorable.

And in bed- He took another sip of strong black coffee.

"There," she said, putting down her spoon a few moments later. "That's all I can eat."

"Liar, liar, pants on fire." He appropriated the mousse and set about doing justice to it. "What do you have planned for the afternoon?"

Stupid question. Trent wanted to kick himself. Back to business, and he was just getting a peek beneath the professional veneer at the real Hannah.

"I want to dig into the child support files. Gerald said the docket moves quickly, and if you don't know the cases well, they can all run together."

"A hazard of the profession. Whatever you do, don't let Gerald intimidate you. Six months ago, he was right where you are. He'd never set foot in a courtroom, never interviewed a client, never negotiated an outcome with opposing counsel. Don't rush that hot chocolate. We're not in a hurry."

He'd lied, of course. Phone messages were probably piling up hip deep on his desk.

"You might not be. You could do child support cases in your sleep."

"You'll be able to too, sooner than you think."

Hannah pushed the hot chocolate away, the drink only half-finished. Why had he turned the discussion back to work?

"Hey there, Trent Knightley!" A pretty brunette hailed him from several feet away.

"Darla, always a pleasure." He got to his feet and kissed her cheek, accepting the hand she held out to him. "How is my favorite five-year-old?"

"Tommy is loving kindergarten, thank G.o.d. He asks about you from time to time."

"Bring him by the office, and we'll make paper airplanes again."

"How 'bout not," she said, smiling a mom's smile, the sight of which did a divorce attorney's heart good. Darla had gone for months without a smile, once upon a time.

"Hannah, let me introduce you to Darla Carstairs. Darla, Hannah is a new a.s.sociate in the family law department."

"Hannah." Darla stuck out a hand, which Hannah shook. "Don't let Trent work you too hard, and don't let Trent work too hard." She gave him a pointed look and, with a kiss to his cheek, went on her way.

"Stark, why are you looking at me like that?"

"Do you kiss everybody?"

She seemed genuinely puzzled, and some devil urged him to befuddle her just a little bit more. He leaned over, close enough to get a hint of lily of the valley and shampoo, and whispered in her ear.

"No, I do not kiss everybody."

Though, if she'd shown the least hint of receptivity, he might very well have kissed her.

"I'm not sure why we're having this conversation. Hannah's your employee." James tapped a golf ball into a practice cup. The door to his office was closed or he'd never have indulged, though in Trent's experience, when the putter came out, James was working through some maze of subrogation or indemnity language.

"We're having this conversation because I very nearly kissed an employee. You're pulling to the left."

James nodded, ever serious about his play. "Because I'm the office Lothario, you're coming to me for what? Pointers? Absolution? Both?"

"How about moral support?"

James missed again, by a whisker. "Is this serious?"

"I don't know." Trent sat back in James's ergonomically ingenious chair and propped his feet on the corner of the desk. "It's something."

"You've known the woman two days, and you're hitting on her? Mac won't approve."

"Mac doesn't approve of anything except Thin Mints in moderation and regularly annihilating the state's attorney's case."

"He's getting worse." James moved back a couple of feet and squinted down the handle of his putter. "Needs to get his wick trimmed."

"Your answer to everything."

"When has a good old-fashioned bout of sweaty s.e.x ever hurt a guy's outlook on life?"

"It ain't world peace, James."

"A little not-quite kiss on the cheek in public is hardly World War III. Did she slap you?"

"She's the quiet type."

"Did she quietly ask you to desist? Threaten legal action?" He wiggled swooping golden brows.

"She did not." Not yet.

"What did she do?"