"Hey, I'm not the one who's aroused. Yet."

"I'm leaving."

"C'mon, all in fun. You're bringing me the Barksdale case, right?"

How could any man be so clueless?

"You are so perceptive," she said.

"I'm sorry about your blouse," he continued, not sounding a bit sorry. "If you want to come in and take it off . . ."

"In your dreams. Just give me my shoe." She'd lost the desire to taunt him. Let him learn about her new client, her new life, from the newspaper.

"Come on in," he said, "and we'll talk about our case."

"Not our case. My case!"

"I get it. You're playing hardball on fees. Fine, everything's negotiable."

"You're unbelievable."

"You'll sit second chair, and I'll give you thirty percent of the fee."

"I have a counteroffer. I'll sit first chair and take all the fee. You sit on the sofa and watch on Court TV."

He looked baffled.

To h.e.l.l with running home. Rub his nose in it first.

"I'm going out on my own. And Katrina Barksdale is my first client."

"C'mon. She didn't hire you."

Look at him. He couldn't believe it. "Wanna bet? Kat and I have already talked."

"What'd you talk about, shopping?"

"It's a done deal. She wants a female lawyer and thinks I'd be perfect. She's signing a retainer tomorrow morning."

"You tell her you've never tried a capital case?"

"I did what you would have done." Victorious now, smile as sharp as a razor.

"You lied? Mother Teresa of the courthouse lied?"

"She never asked and I never said."

"Barksdale's too big. You don't start with this one."

"Watch me," she taunted, luxuriating in his pain.

"Do you even know what the pressure's like in a celebrity murder trial? Everyone's watching. The media, big-time lawyers, Oprah."

He was sputtering now. This might even be worth a torn blouse. "I love seeing you like this, Solomon."

"The case involves kinky s.e.x. You'll blush during opening statement."

"Now you're an expert on my s.e.x life?"

"You and Bruce, white bread and mayonnaise. Maybe a slice of avocado on the side."

"You can't push my b.u.t.tons. Not anymore."

"You probably do it watching Lou Dobbs. Amazon's up three bucks, Bruce is up three inches."

"You don't know the half of it."

"C'mon, I know guys like Bigby. No reverse cowgirl, no doggie-daddy, straight mish all the way."

"If you were capable of a human emotion, I'd think you were jealous."

"You need me, Lord."

"I need my right shoe. Give it to me, and I'm out of here."

"I can make you into a great lawyer."

"My shoe. Now!"

"You've got guts. You've got presence. But you're unmolded clay."

"And you'd like to mold me? Forget it."

G.o.d, this was fun. It reminded her of something. What? Of course . . .

Bickering and bantering in the holding cells.

That had charged her batteries, too. Squabbling with Solomon was like a compet.i.tive tennis match, two hard-hitters going all out.

"All right. I surrender." Solomon threw up his hands, the towel slipping lower on his hips.

"What?"

"Good luck on the Barksdale case."

"That's it? No last-ditch effort?"

"It's all yours, Lord. I'll sit in the front row and cheer."

She was disappointed. Here they were, just getting warmed up, and he defaulted.

"Come on in," he said. "I'll get your shoe."

"I'll wait here."

"It's important. For Bobby. If he thinks you came to take him away, he won't sleep tonight."

"If this is one of your tricks . . ."

"Not about Bobby," he said, subdued. "Never about Bobby."

Eleven.

THE RUDNICK RACK.

Steve had just lied. And told the truth.

The bit about Bobby, one hundred percent true. Bobby came first, and there were no games or tricks where his welfare was concerned. But the other stuff: "Good luck. It's all yours."

Now, that was a big fat fib.

Not that it was his fault, Steve told himself. Like a nervous witness on the stand, Victoria had disclosed too much.

"It's a done deal. . . . She's signing a retainer tomorrow morning."

Leading Victoria into his home, Steve did not bother to correct her.

"No, Vickie, it ain't a done deal till the thin lady signs."

Which meant he had until sometime tomorrow morning to steal the case, just like he once stole home against Florida State. He hadn't pranced up and down the baseline, as if he might make take off. He'd scratched his a.s.s, feigned a limp, lulled the pitcher to sleep . . . then raced for home.

"So where's your new office?" Steve said, as casually as possible.

"Don't have one yet."

Which meant they were meeting at the Barksdale home, he figured. A restaurant would be too public. Okay, he had half a plan now. He'd get to Gables Estates before Victoria. What he'd say when he got there-well, that would have to come later, because he didn't have a clue.

"Where's my Bobby?" Steve called out as they walked inside.

No answer.

"C'mon, kiddo. I want you to meet someone."

Still no answer.

Steve wondered how Victoria would react to the boy. Some women tensed up. Others ignored him. A few were frightened, but who could blame them? A romantic evening does not usually end with an eleven-year-old boy crouched at the foot of your bed, barking like a dog.

Victoria took inventory of Steve's living room, decorated in Early Fraternity House. A coffee table made from a surfboard. A poster of quarterback Dan Marino. A sculpture, if that's what you call it when you crush several hundred beer cans and shape them into the torso of a naked woman. Newspapers and magazines littered a black leather sofa that looked like it had been left out in the rain. All in all, the home of an overgrown adolescent, she decided.

Without warning, a flash of movement, and a small thin figure dashed from behind window drapes and dived onto the sofa. The camouflage gear was gone, and the boy wore only undershorts.

"There you are," Steve said.

Bobby tucked his knees under his chin, scrunched into a corner of the sofa, and rocked back and forth. He was so skinny that his protruding ribs looked like the struts of a sailboat under construction. His long hair needed cutting, and his black gla.s.ses were smudged. His feet were bare, and his head was tilted sideways so that one ear nearly touched a shoulder. A sudden pang struck Victoria. The boy seemed mentally disabled. Maybe physically, too.

"Bobby, this is Victoria Lord," Steve said.

"h.e.l.lo, Bobby," Victoria said cheerfully, trying to put the boy at ease. She walked to the sofa and extended a hand, but the boy shrank farther into the cushions.

"Bobby doesn't like to be touched," Steve said, tightening the towel around his waist. In the light, Victoria noticed he kept in shape. Good pecs and shoulders. She looked away, wishing he'd get dressed.

"Victoria's my friend," Steve said.

For the sake of the child, she decided not to contradict him.

"She's not going to take you away," Steve continued in a gentle voice he never employed in court. "You remember what I told you about her?"

"She's a rich b.i.t.c.h-kitty with a wicked tongue," Bobby said, matter-of-factly.

"Isn't that sweet?" Victoria said, forcing a smile.

"Uncle Steve said something else, too." The boy's voice grew deeper: "She's pretty and smart and the best rookie lawyer I've ever seen."

Surprised, Victoria turned to Steve. "You said that?"

"Bobby only speaks the truth. He couldn't tell a lie if he wanted to."

"What an odd couple you make."

"And he said you don't have Rudnicks," the boy added.

"That's enough, Bobby," Steve said.

"Rudnicks?" She'd never heard the word.

"Sneakers," Steve said. "Like Reeboks."

"No they're not," Bobby said.

Victoria shot Steve a look, but he wouldn't give anything away. "Bobby's a very special kid," he said, pride in his voice.

"I'm just a spaz who's good at stuff n.o.body cares about."