“Really? Can I wait outside here for you, or should I duck and cover behind those snowy holly bushes over there?” I looked around. “There are a couple of good trees past the parking lot. I could climb one and toss snowballs to the ground to reveal my location.”
He shoved the glasses up his head. “I don’t think you were spanked enough as a kid.”
My insides went squishy, and my temper heated. “My parents didn’t believe in corporal punishment,” I grit out.
“There’s the problem,” he said easily. “Go inside, Angel. Now.” Yeah, he’d reached the end of his rather impressive patience.
So had I. “Do you have a cross necklace?” I snapped. Might as well find out.
His eyebrows rose. “Yeah. It’s white gold and was my Grams’ brother’s cross. Why?”
“No reason.” I slammed his truck door. Maybe I’d give the cross necklace to one of the Albertini boys and the wallet to Oliver. Yeah. Good plan. With that thought, I stepped carefully across the walkway to the front glass double door, which opened with a good shove. Florence waited inside a wide entryway with a plastic rain bonnet covering her gray hair and tied beneath her chin. Her galoshes were brown, her dress floral, and her makeup powdery.
She craned her neck to see outside. “That’s one handsome man driving that big truck.”
“He’s being bossy,” I said, shaking snow off my wool coat.
“He could boss me around any time.” She tucked her black pocketbook against her hip. “Is he bossy mean or bossy protective?”
I wiped my boots off on the rough rubber mat. “Bossy protective.”
She patted my arm. “Then I’d let it go, unless he sucks in bed. Then I’d ditch him, even though he looks like that. Is he good in bed?”
I made a strangled cat sound and searched wildly for the elevator bank. Well, elevator duo. I guess two elevators didn’t make a bank. “We should get going.”
She slid her free arm through mine and trod carefully across the tiled floor, her galoshes squeaking and leaving a couple chunks of slush behind. “It’s okay not to talk about it, but I can tell he’s good in bed.” She reached out and poked the button for the third floor.
The whisker burn on my thighs silently agreed with her statement. I ignored both and tried to concentrate.
The stately Timber City Gazette building housed the paper on the east side of the three-story building, while offices took residence on the west side. The offices for O’Malley & Jones, Esq., were located on the third floor. We rode the elevator and exited into a reception area decorated for the holidays in muted red and green, which looked lovely against the white leather furniture in the waiting room.
Considering it was Saturday, the two chairs behind the reception desk were vacant.
A gray head poked out of a room down the elegant hallway. “Mrs. McLintock?” A body in a nice gray suit followed the head, and the man paused at seeing me. “Anna.” Chuck O’Malley ushered his bulk down the way, holding out a hand to first shake Florence’s hand and then mine. “It’s nice to see you,” he said.
I smiled. “Thanks. You too.”
Chuck O’Malley was an old fishing buddy of my dad’s, a nice guy, and a shark as a lawyer. “Excellent. Can I take your coats?”
We both unbuttoned and hung our heavy coats on the metal branch coat rack that actually looked like a real tree in winter. Florence removed her plastic hat to shove in her coat pocket. When we’d finished, he smiled. “Please follow me, and again, I’m sorry we had to do this on a Saturday. I’m leaving town tomorrow to visit family for the holidays, and it was the only time I had since I represent the estate.”
Florence followed him, her shoulders straight and her gaze on his butt. “Will your wife be accompanying you?” she murmured.
“I’m a widower,” he said, stopping at a doorway to an elegant conference room and gesturing us inside.
“My, but that’s a pity,” Florence said, brushing closely by him as she swept inside.
I barely kept from rolling my eyes. “Thank you.” I walked inside to find a thirty-something man already seated at the far end of the gleaming conference table, a half-full cup of coffee steaming the air next to him. He wore a black flannel shirt, dark jeans, and steel-rimmed glasses.
Florence pulled out a chair, and I followed suit, putting myself between her and the guy at the end of the table.
Chuck paused next to a credenza holding a coffee pot and water. “Can I get you ladies anything to drink?”
We both refused, so Chuck took the head of the table, where a dark blue case file was closed on the polished oak. “Florence McLintock and Anna Albertini, this is Hoyt Forrest.”
“We’ve met,” Hoyt said, nodding at Florence, his lips turning down. “But not you, Anna. Who are you?”
“I’m here as a friend,” I said.
