Sandra Marton - No Need For Love

‘What is it?’

‘It’s Betty’s gi——’

‘Miss Lewis!’ The voice roared out from behind her and Hannah flinched.

‘Just take it,’ she hissed, and then she shut the door, snatched up her pad and pencil, and hurried into Grant MacLean’s private office.

It was a large room but it was not furnished with the profusion of Oriental carpets and priceless antiques that filled the other partners’ quarters. A pair of black leather couches faced a low glass table to her right; to her left, a matching cabinet hid stereophonic equipment and a built-in bar. Ahead, centred against a backdrop of darkened glass, stood a rectangle of burled walnut that served as MacLean’s desk, flanked by a pair of leather chairs that complemented the one behind the desk.

It was a room almost spartan in its simplicity, yet it had an air of power and authority almost as tangible as the man it housed. He was standing at the window, his back to Hannah, staring out at the Golden Gate Bridge resplendent in the last rays of the afternoon sun, but one glance at his rigid spine and stiffly held shoulders suggested that he was not admiring the scenery.

Hannah ran her tongue over her lips as she moved towards him. ‘Mr MacLean?’ She waited for a few seconds. ‘Sir? You asked me to bring you my notes on Gibbs.’

‘Are you sure you have the time to spare, Miss Lewis?’ He swung around to face her. ‘Perhaps you’d prefer to attend that fashion show down the hall.’

Her chin lifted. ‘That’s not necessary, sir, thank you.’

MacLean looked at her in silence, then jerked his head towards the door.

‘Close that,’ he said sharply. ‘My skull already feels as if there’s somebody inside hammering to get out without having to listen to the noise coming from that—that female victory party!’ Hannah’s brows lifted, but she said nothing, only turned and did as he’d asked. Then she marched to his desk, her sensible heels silent against the tightly knit cream Berber carpet. MacLean motioned her to a chair as he loosened his tie and sank into the one behind the desk. ‘That stupid woman,’ he muttered. ‘She wouldn’t agree to the settlement.’

Hannah was puzzled, but only for a moment. ‘Mrs Gibbs?’

‘Yes.’ He leaned forward and folded his hands loosely on the desk top. ‘We offered one million five, but she won’t take it.’ He shook his head, the harshly handsome face twisted into lines of disbelief. “‘I love him,” she keeps saying, as if that were about to change anything. Can you imagine? Of course,’ he went on in a smug, certain voice, ‘it’s all crap.’

He looked at Hannah. It was clear he was waiting for her to say something.

‘Is it?’

‘Sure. She’s just setting him up for the kill. She figures on getting more money out of him. Hell, they were married, what? Five years? What’s that worth in dollars?’

Hannah frowned. ‘I’m not sure you’re right, sir. After reading through the file, I——’

‘Well, Gibbs will pay. What choice has he got? But he’ll be twice as smart next time. He won’t let himself get led into marriage so easily.’

‘Mrs Gibbs manoeuvred him into marrying her?’

That smug look came over his face again. ‘I keep forgetting that you’re single, Miss Lewis. You’ve no way of knowing that marriage is never a man’s idea.’

Hannah’s brows lifted. ‘Is that right?’ she said politely.

‘Some pretty little thing comes along, the time is right, and wham, the next thing a man knows, he’s being dragged to the altar.’

‘Really,’ she said, even more politely. ‘How remarkable. I saw Mr and Mrs Gibbs the day they came in for that meeting; she seemed rather small to have accomplished such a feat.’

MacLean’s head came up sharply. ‘It’s a figure of speech,’ he said.

‘Ah.’ Hannah bent over her notepad and scratched something on it. ‘I should have realised.’

‘The point is, the bitch wants blood!’

‘Another figure of speech, of course,’ she muttered before she could stop herself. She swallowed hard. What was wrong with her? She felt as if the devil were pulling her tongue.

MacLean’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did you say something, Miss Lewis?’

Hannah took a breath. ‘Yes, sir. I said that you’re wrong about what Mrs Gibbs wants. She’s not after more money. She’s still in love with her husband.’

He stared at her for a moment, then shot from his chair. ‘When did you speak to her? Damn, she must have gone straight to the telephone after the meeting.’ He stalked around the desk, leaned down, and grasped the arms of Hannah’s chair. ‘What did she say, exactly? I want to know every word.’

Hannah wet her lips. ‘She—she didn’t.’

‘Didn’t what?’ MacLean’s dark brows drew together. ‘Surely you can remember.’

‘I mean, she didn’t telephone.’ Did he have to stare down at her like this? He was so close that she could see that his eyes weren’t really grey at all; they were a combination of blue and black and green, little streaking lines radiating out from the dark pupil.

‘She was here, then?’ He shook his head. ‘But she couldn’t have been. I came straight back; if she’d come by——’

‘She didn’t do that, either.’ Hannah took a deep breath. ‘I was—I was just saying what I thought, sir.’

‘What?’

‘I was—I was only offering my opinion.’

A muted scream of feminine laughter beating through the closed door punctuated her hurried words. Silence fell between them, and then MacLean let out his breath.

‘Your opinion,’ he said softly. ‘Your highly trained opinion as a paralegal, that is.’ A muscle knotted in his jaw. ‘I see.’

Oh, God, Hannah thought. She forced herself to look directly at him, as if her heart hadn’t just plummeted to her feet.

‘I thought that’s what you...’ She swallowed. ‘I was reading through the case,’ she said, ‘as you asked me to do, and——’

‘Ah.’ He smiled grimly. ‘As I asked you to do.’

‘Yes, sir. And—’

‘Let me try to understand this, Miss Lewis. Did I ask you to formulate an opinion of the case?’

‘You asked me to—to do something with it...’

‘Yes. Organise the file, perhaps. Write a précis.’ He smiled, almost kindly. ‘You are familiar with that word, aren’t you? You did hear it once or twice when you weren’t sleeping through your paralegal courses?’

Hannah’s cheeks blazed. ‘Mr MacLean, if you’d just let me explain...’

‘Perhaps you’re a confidante of the delightful Mrs Gibbs?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘A psychologist, then?’

Her cheeks pinkened. ‘I only meant——’

‘Or a fortune-teller.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Is that what you are, Miss Lewis?’

‘Mr MacLean, please——’

‘But you know the intricacies of this case.’

‘I didn’t mean to suggest——’

‘Of male-female relationships in general.’ His lips drew back from his teeth and he gave her a smile that would have done a shark proud. ‘It’s wonderful, the things they teach a paralegal nowadays.’

Hannah stiffened. ‘It’s just common sense, sir. I read the file, and I was simply——’

‘Is it your sex that gives you such insight, the fact that you and the lady in question share similar genetic material?’ He leaned closer to her and she caught the scent of piney aftershave mingled with sharp male anger. ‘Or is it your vast experience in matrimonial law that makes you an expert?’

All at once she shoved back her chair, hard enough so his hands fell away from it, and leaped to her feet.

‘You’re no expert, either,’ she said sharply. ‘When I took this job, they said your field was international law. But now—but now...’

The fast, furious words ceased as rapidly as they’d begun. She looked at him in horror. What was she thinking of? She’d been acting crazy ever since she’d stepped into this office. This was Grant MacLean, this was her boss! This was the man whose signature was on her weekly pay cheque, whose orders she was supposed to obey...

‘You’re right.’

Her mouth dropped open. ‘I—I beg your pardon?’

MacLean gave her a tight smile. ‘I said, you’re right. About my expertise, or my lack of it. I only agreed to take this case because Gibbs is an old friend. I told him at the start to get a divorce lawyer, but he wouldn’t hear of it.’ He sighed. ‘Make a note, please, Miss Lewis. Remind me to telephone him first thing in the morning and tell him I’m resigning from the case. I’ll recommend someone else to him.’

An apology, and the word ‘please’, all in the same breath. Hannah bent her head over her notepad. Just wait until Sally heard about——

‘The only thing I really know about marriage is that it’s invariably a mistake that people shouldn’t make more than once.’

Hannah looked up. He was smiling politely. A peace offering, she thought, and smiled back.

‘We’re in complete agreement there.’

A little frown of surprise creased his brow. ‘Is that the voice of experience talking?’

She hesitated, then nodded. ‘I’m afraid it is.’

‘And your comment about Mrs Gibbs still loving her husband—was that the voice of experience talking, too?’

Her eyes widened. ‘You mean, am I... ?’ She blew out her breath. ‘No,’ she said without hesitation, ‘it definitely was not.’

Grant MacLean steepled his hands beneath his chin. ‘I see.’

Hannah shrugged her shoulders. ‘The only thing I’d argue with is how a couple ends up at the altar.’

He nodded. ‘Yes?’

‘I don’t think anyone leads anyone there, I just think they both fool themselves into thinking it’s a good idea.’

MacLean chuckled as he leaned back against the desk and folded his arms over his chest.

‘And our Mrs Gibbs——’

‘—is still fooling herself. Yes, sir. I think so.’

He nodded. ‘You think she wants to try and make a go of things, hmm? Very well, then. Make a note of that. I’ll tell Gibbs when I talk to him tomorrow.’ A moment passed, and then he cleared his throat. ‘Please, Miss Lewis, won’t you sit down?’

Hannah sat down carefully and crossed her legs at the ankle, notepad and pencil at the ready, all too aware that she had survived a near-disaster. She’d come damnably close to getting herself fired. She’d given away more of herself than she usually did, as well, but that was understandable. Grant MacLean had surprised her with his sudden honesty and self-deprecation; it had elicited an exchange of truth on her part.

Perhaps now they could get on better with each other. Perhaps he wouldn’t be quite so sharp-tempered. Hannah looked up, smiling—and the smile froze. MacLean was watching her with an intensity that was almost paralysing, as if—as if she were something pinned to a microscope slide.

‘Mr MacLean? Is something wrong?’

He shook his head. ‘No, Miss Lewis. Quite the contrary. Everything is fine.’

He didn’t look as if everything were fine, Hannah thought. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, then looked down quickly and opened her notebook.

‘I know you said you’re going to give up the case,’ she said. ‘But I did make some notes. Shall I type them up and——?’

‘Are you busy this evening, Miss Lewis?’

Hannah blinked. ‘Busy?’ she said, looking up again. He was still watching her that same way, dammit, as if he were a scientist and she were a new and hitherto unidentified species of bacteria.

‘Yes.’ He smiled pleasantly. ‘Did you have plans, I mean?’