Don´t smart-mouth me

Don´t smart-mouth me
“Not so,” Rafe protested, his gaze drifting to the bed with its tangle of sheets. Hanna had left it far too soon last night, though after her conversation with Rinaldi, Rafe had understood her need to be alone, to bury herself in the kind of work that gave her solace.

“Then where are your billing records?” Lydia asked, snapping his attention back to the harsh reality of dollars and cents that for years now had controlled way too much of how he spent his time.

“I’ll pull them together and fax them later today.”

“They were due yesterday,” she pointed out. “You’re never late. Or at least you never were before you found a distraction like Hanna Petrillo.”

“I thought this was exactly what you wanted when you let her cancel that appointment. You did have an ulterior motive, didn’t you? You wanted me to chase after her. You were hoping that I’d be attracted to her.”

For a moment his comment was greeted with stunned silence. It wasn’t often that Rafe could render Lydia speechless. He savored the moment.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” she asked eventually. “You’re finally paying serious attention to someone?”

“I don’t know how serious it is, but I am definitely paying attention,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Well, hallelujah! Forget the billing report. I can do it myself.” “You cannot fake a billing report,” he scolded.

“Of course not,” she said indignantly. “But I ought to know how you’ve been spending your time—at least some of it. I am the one who sends your work out there and answers your phone and relays your messages. I’ll bet I could come pretty darn close to getting it right.”

Rafe decided to challenge her, though he was pretty sure she was right.

Lydia was an extremely efficient woman who paid great attention to detail. “How many contracts do I have on my desk right now?”

“Thirty,” she said at once. “I overnighted them to you yesterday. And you were on the phone at least three hours yesterday working on the Jackson-Waller electronics merger.”

“Five,” he retorted firmly. “Not three, five.”

“Did you do any other work yesterday that I don’t know about?”

“Not officially,” he conceded. “I’m not billing my mother, remember?” “Ah, so the rest of the time you were concentrating on Hanna?” she said,

managing to lace the suggestion with innuendo. “I guess we can’t bill for that,

can we?”

“You don’t have to make it sound as if we were wrestling around naked in the mud.”

“Is that how it sounded?” Lydia chuckled gleefully. “You sound a little defensive, boss. Why is that? Nobody expects you to put in twelve-hour days. There’s nothing wrong with taking a little time out for dinner. Maybe a little socializing. Have you been doing more than that? Is your conscience bothering you?”

“Don’t smart-mouth me,” he grumbled.

“So, tell me,” she began in a confiding tone that sounded a bit like a reporter for some sleazy tabloid, “have you slept with Hanna yet?”
He wasn’t nearly as shocked by the question as he probably should have been, but he absolutely, positively refused to be drawn into that particular discussion. He ignored the question and remained stubbornly silent.
“Not talking, huh?” Lydia said smugly. “I guess I can draw my own conclusions.”
“Just keep your theories to yourself. And get me the file on the Whitney case. I’ll need it in the morning. Joel Whitney—”
Lydia interrupted. “Mr. Whitney called yesterday with one of his usual inane questions that he could have answered himself if he knew how to read the contracts he signed. I’ve already put it in the mail.”
Rafe laughed. “Okay, okay, you’re the best secretary in the entire universe.” “Yes, I am,” she agreed with no hint of false modesty. “You know, though,
these expenses for moving every piece of paper in your office from New York to Wyoming are adding up. Ever thought of just staying there and transferring all the files? A moving van might be cheaper in the long run. And I hear Wyoming is great for skiing in the winter.”
“I don’t ski. Why would I want to stay in Wyoming?” “Because of a certain chef.”

“Who owns a restaurant in New York,” he reminded her, vaguely disgruntled by the suggestion that he might be stuck in Wyoming forever if he wanted to be with Hanna. “She’ll be back, Lydia. So will I.”
“Whatever you say, boss.”
Rafe seriously doubted that, but he hung up, grateful to have gotten the woman’s docile cooperation just this once, even if it had been feigned.
He leaned back in his chair and stared out the window. Summer was winding down. The observation startled him. He’d been here way too long, if he could tell just from glancing outside that the seasons were changing. The slant of the sun was different, the intensity of the heat had lessened. He opened his appointment book, looked at a calendar and realized he’d been here for over two months, from the end of June to the beginning of September. Moreover, he hadn’t gone completely stir crazy. Far from it.
He looked at that pile of contracts sitting on his desk, weighed those against the chance to catch a glimpse of Hanna and stood up. To soothe his guilty conscience, he stuffed several contracts in his briefcase and headed for Tony’s. If there wasn’t a law against working away from New York, then there certainly wasn’t one preventing him from working at a restaurant table. Half the lawyers he knew conducted their business over lunch. Of course, most of them were with their clients or an opposing counsel.
The only companion he was hoping for was Hanna.