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Leigh looked over her shoulder at him in disbelief. “Are you saying we can’t be together if we aren’t married?”
He looked down at her, grinning. “Do you want to be together?”
She nodded emphatically.
“Do you want to be together very, very much?”
“Yes,” she said unhesitatingly, “I do.”
“Then those last two words are the ones you’ll have to say.”
Leigh dropped her head forward and hung it in laughing defeat.
“A nod isn’t good enough,” he said. “Was that supposed to be a yes?”
Leigh laughed harder and obstinately nodded.
“I can accept two nods,” he said agreeably. “In business, two nods are equal to a handshake, and a handshake is contractually binding. Do you want to pick a date, or shall I?”
“I will,” Leigh promised.
“That’s fine,” he said, smiling against her cheek. “What date have you picked?”
“Somehow,” she said on a sighing laugh, “I knew you were going to say something like that.”
“We’ve always had a psychic connection. Now, this is a test—what do you think I’m going to say next?”
“?‘When?’?” She guessed with complete conviction.
“I was hoping you’d ask. I think—one month from today.”
Leigh was horrified. She didn’t want to begin their marriage while they were both tainted with suspicion regarding Logan’s murder. Even without that, she was so sleepy at the moment that she could barely stand, let alone think about a wedding date. She closed her eyes and turned her face into his chest, and his hand slid upward from her breast, cradling her cheek against his heart. “I guess we could do it in six months,” she whispered, loving the ways he touched her when they weren’t making love.
His palm, which had been cradling her cheek, shifted slightly, leaving only the heel of his hand in contact with her chin. Leigh noticed the movement, but she was more intent on hearing his response. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed that six months was an awfully long time to wait, particularly if they weren’t living together. She was surprised, and a little disappointed, that he was evidently willing to wait so long. She sighed.
“Too long?” he suggested, his voice tinged with knowing amusement.
Leigh giggled helplessly. “Yes.”
“Want to change your mind?”
“Yes.”
“Open your eyes.”
She opened her eyes and saw the counteroffer he’d been making since his hand moved. In front of her eyes he was holding up two fingers. Two months.
With a smile of defeat, Leigh turned her face and kissed his palm.
He tipped her face up as he lowered his head. “A kiss on the hand,” he warned tenderly against her mouth, “is equal to two nods. Very, very binding.”
Chapter 51
* * *
Michael looked up from his desk as his secretary walked into his office at nine-fifteen that morning. He’d showered and shaved at the apartment; then he’d taken Leigh home and gone on to his company’s offices for a nine-thirty meeting. “Mr. Buchanan is here,” Linda told him. “He said he’s a little early.”
“Have him come in.”
A moment later, Gordon Buchanan strode in carrying his briefcase. The senior partner at Buchanan, Powell, and Lynch, one of New York’s most prestigious law firms, Buchanan was immaculately and expensively attired. He had silver-streaked hair, elegant manners, and a pleasant, aristocratic face. Socially, he was a gentleman; professionally, he was as smooth, and as dangerous, as a cobra.
“Good morning,” Buchanan said. Although his firm had successfully represented Michael Valente in every legal action brought against him over the last decade, they were not friends—Valente wasn’t a friendly man. But he had two rare qualities that made him a unique client in Buchanan’s experience: He never lied to his attorneys, and he never wasted their time. In return, he required that they not waste his time.
For that reason, Gordon went straight to the matter at hand without indulging in any of the customary social preliminaries. “I set up a meeting at Interquest this morning,” he said as he sat down in front of Valente’s desk. “They have some information for us. Did you tell Mrs. Manning not to speak to the police again unless she checks with me first?”
“I told her several days ago,” Michael told him. “They haven’t made any attempt to talk to her since they subpoenaed her husband’s personal files from the apartment—” He stopped and reached impatiently for the intercom buzzing on his desk phone.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, but Leigh Kendall is on your private line—”
“Kendall?” Michael repeated, savoring the realization that Leigh had evidently switched to her maiden and stage name after last night.
“It’s Mrs. Manning,” Linda clarified, pretending in her irreproachably businesslike manner that she had no idea he was closely associated with the caller in any way. “But she specifically used ‘Kendall,’ so I thought I should, too.”
“You were right,” Michael said, already reaching for the button on his private line and swiveling his chair around for some privacy. When he answered the call, he used the voice he would use for any ordinary caller. “Miss Kendall, this is Michael Valente.”
She expelled her breath in a startled laugh. “You
sound terrifyingly cold and abrupt.”
He switched to the voice he used with her. “I’m meeting with your new attorney. He thinks cold and abrupt are two of my warmest traits.”
On the other side of the desk, Gordon Buchanan gaped at the back of Valente’s chair. He was surprised Valente indulged in any form of lighthearted banter with anyone, but he was completely astonished that Valente was indirectly including him in it.
“I don’t want to keep you—” Leigh said quickly.
“Oh, yes, you do,” Michael said with a smile in his voice. “Furthermore, you entered into a binding, nonnegotiable contract about that three hours ago. Why aren’t you asleep?”
“Because Jason Solomon just phoned and insisted that Brenna wake me up.”
“What did he want?”
“He wants to meet me for cocktails at the St. Regis tonight. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. He’s going to try to wear me down about coming back to work. I can’t walk out onstage with Jane Sebring, knowing I look like a player in some sort of sordid freak show to the audience. Jason can’t understand that. Anyway, you mentioned having dinner tonight, and I wanted to ask you to pick me up there instead of here.”
“What time?”
“Could we make it seven? That will limit Jason to an hour of wrangling and harassment.”
“Would you like me to join you at six instead, and be your reinforcement?”
He could hear the relief and wonder in her voice. “Is being my reinforcement part of your ‘job,’ too?”
“Absolutely. Check the contract you negotiated with me this morning—under Clause 1, Section C, headed ‘Someone to Watch Over Me,’ you’ll see that you’ve been granted full rights to my diligent services in that regard.”
“Michael,” she said solemnly.
“Yes?”
