Page 7 of The Cajun Doctor

“Your honor!” Daltry protested.

“You bitch!” Nick seethed at Samantha. “You’re just jealous because you’re such a dog no man would want you.”

“You’re the dog, Nick,” she snapped back, leaning across the table.

Luc tugged on her arm, pulling her back. “Shhh. He’s baiting you. Naked. Carnival beads. Naked. Carnival beads.”

“You didn’t think I was a dog at one time,” Nick went on. “In fact, we’d still be together if I hadn’t had a vasectomy . . .”

“Without telling me,” she pointed out, sitting now, but with her arms folded over her chest in anger.

Nick shrugged. “Just because you drooled over kids didn’t mean I wanted to propagate the likes of you.”

The judge was pounding on the conference table. “Silence! Everyone!”

When they’d all quieted, though everyone was simmering, Judge Pitre addressed Luc. “Subpoenas, Luc? What do you think this is, Law and Order?”

“No, but the women will never come testify unless you order them to.”

“Who are they?”

“Coltrane’s mistresses.”

The judge raised a silencing hand when Nick and Daltry prepared to protest again. “And the one with the funny name . . . Pussy-something?”

“Pussy Gate. A stripper,” Luc said succinctly, not even breaking into a grin, even though he probably wanted to.

Nick flashed her a venomous look. Hey, she hadn’t even known about the stripper. She’d thought his tastes ran higher class than pole dancers.

“This case is postponed until . . .” the judge consulted her calendar, “two months from now. September 15. At which time I expect documentation, supporting case law, and decorum. From both sides. Do I make myself clear?”

“I’ll be ready to leave in a few minutes,” Luc said, motioning toward the clerk who’d stayed behind while the judge left the chamber.

Samantha went into the corridor ladies’ room while she waited for Luc to complete some court paperwork. Although everything seemed to have gone well today, she felt drained . . . and frustrated that the case would be continued for another two months.

Nick was waiting for her when she came out.

She tried to step around him, but he blocked her way, then grabbed her with a pincer-hold on her upper arm, dragging her into a side corridor leading to a maintenance closet. The hatred on his face turned his normally perfect features into something scary.

“Have you lost your mind?” she asking, slapping at him. Her handbag dropped in the process, and her carefully-styled hair came undone.

Shoving her up against the wall, he spat out at her, “You stupid cunt! Do you honestly think I’m going to let you get away with this?”

“Let me go!” She tried to squirm away from him, but his arms now bracketed her against the wall.

“You’re not getting away with this, Sammie.” He used that nickname deliberately because he knew she hated it.

“Wanna bet, Nickie? The cash cow is about to shut down for business.”

“Don’t count on it.” He made an obscene milking gesture with a hand on one of her breasts, then returned the hand to the wall beside her head.

Unable to squirm out of his extended arms, she tried to calm herself down. “Isn’t it time you earned your own way, Nick?”

“You owe me, Sammie,” he said, spittle settling at the edges of his lips.

“For what?” Samantha knew she should scream for help, but she didn’t want to appear frightened. It was just Nick, after all. All flash and no bang, as her grandfather used to say.

“For five years of torture living with you.”