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Excerpt

Chapter One

"Jacob, you crazy old son of a bitch, what are you up to this time?" Samuel Law scanned the letter attached to the front of the legal document. The names at the top of the watermarked stationery were familiar to him: it was the letterhead of the New York law firm of Dutton, Dutton, McQuade & Martin.

Of course Sam had known something strange was coming his way. His old law school buddy, Trace Ballinger, had tipped him off via a telephone call several months ago.

"We’re sending you a client," Trace had informed him without preamble.

Sam had swivelled in his office chair, propped his feet up on the windowsill—telltale scuff marks on the wood’s dark patina indicated this wasn’t the first time he’d used the edge of the floor-to-ceiling window as a footrest—and cradled the receiver between his ear and his shoulder. "Exactly who is we?"

"The firm."

"Why?"

Trace had snorted softly on the other end of the line. "You don’t mince words, do you, Sam?"

"Nope." He never had. He never intended to. Not if he could help it. "Saves time," he’d said.

"But not always trouble," Trace had reminded him.

They both knew trouble was Sam’s middle name. Trouble of the how-not-to-win-friends-and-influence-people kind had been behind his decision to call it quits and hightail it out of New York a few years ago, despite a once-promising career as a public defender.

Sam had always insisted it was a matter of living by the principles he believed in. One of those principles was the absolute conviction that a man was either ethical or he wasn’t. There was no middle ground.

At the time his so-called friends, including a halfhearted fiancee, had labeled him pigheaded and a misguided fool. Colleagues on both sides of the bench had been more circumspect, but the writing was on the wall: his unwillingness to compromise was a ball buster and a career destroyer.

Since Sam refused to go along with the politics of the D.A.’s office, he’d decided to say adios to the Big Apple and head back home to Indiana. He did so with the blessings of one man: Trace Ballinger.

Trace had returned to the reason he’d called. "Like I said, counselor, we’re sending you a client."

Sam had discovered he was more skeptical than curious at that point. "Should I thank you?"

There was a pause. "Hard to say."

Curiosity had gotten the better of him. "Why?"

"It just is."

There had been a hint of indulgence in his voice as he’d gone along with whatever game Trace was playing. "Okay, I’ll bite, Ballinger. Who is it?"

After ten, maybe fifteen seconds of silence the answer had finally been forthcoming. "Gillian Charles."

Sam’s feet had hit the floor. "Any relation to Jacob Charles?"

"She’s his granddaughter."

He remembered thinking: This is getting interesting. "Why would a granddaughter of Jacob’s become my client?"

"She’s got no choice."

Sam had snickered softly into the telephone. "What’s the real reason?"

"I’m not joking," his old friend had said very deliberately. "Jacob Charles made it clear that after his death he wanted you to handle the whole business."

Sam had sat up straighter in his high-backed "gen-u-ine Corinthian leather" office chair. At least that had been the sales pitch when he’d bought the chair for five bucks at a local furniture store. The hand printed signs plastered across the front window of Weaver’s Emporium had declared: MIDNIGHT MADNESS SALE! EVERYTHING MUST GO! NO OFFER REFUSED! NAME YOUR OWN PRICE!

So he had.

Sam wasn’t sure who had made out on the deal in the end: Mr. Weaver or him.

"You’re not kidding about Jacob’s granddaughter becoming my client, are you?"

"No, I’m not."

He’d waited for the other shoe to drop. When it didn’t he’d finally said, "Okay, tell me more."

So Trace had. "Gillian Charles is a native New Yorker. She was born and raised somewhere in the region of Central Park West. Growing up she attended only the best private schools, including the Hewitt School right here in Manhattan and a fancy Swiss finishing school. There were riding lessons. Tennis lessons. Ballet lessons. Piano lessons. Even origami lessons." Paper rustled. A moment later, "Summers were spent in Newport, of course."

"Of course."

"She had what society pages described at the time as the most elegant coming out party of the year, maybe of the decade. It was rumored to cost more than a quarter of a mil."

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," he’d said.

"She graduated from Sarah Lawrence. I think she majored in art history, but I’m not one hundred percent sure of that." There had been a brief pause on the other end. Trace must have been scanning some kind of fact sheet on his soon-to-be client. "She spent time in England."

"Riding to the hounds?"

"Not unless the hunt has been added to the curriculum at Oxford," Trace said. "She also studied at the Sorbonne for a year. Even did a stint at Cordon Bleu."

"She can cook."

"I don’t think so," had come the slowly spoken, evenly spaced words. "She speaks several languages fluently. Besides English."

"That must come in handy along Central Park West." Sam had shifted in his chair. "What else?"

"Well, she’s unique."

Warning bells had sounded. "What’s wrong with her?" he had demanded to know.

"Nothing’s wrong with her," Trace had reassured him. "Ms. Charles is simply upper upper class."

Sam had felt himself growing impatient. He’d picked up a pen and tapped it rhythmically against the base of the telephone. "What does that mean exactly?"

Trace’s voice had taken on a definite edginess as he spelled it out. "It means that she’s a socialite who has spent her life living in the lap of luxury, Sam. It means that when she’s not in residence at the family’s Manhattan brownstone, you’d probably find her in London or Venice or Rome, or traveling the world, staying at five-star hotels. It means that she’s used to the best of everything."

"It means that she’s a royal pain in the . . ."

Trace had intercepted him. "Tush? Caboose? Back bumper? Derriere?"

Sam had laughed heartily. "Yeah, if you say so, Ballinger."

"You’ll have a chance to find out what she’s like for yourself." Trace had gone on to explain. "Gillian Charles is due to arrive in Sweetheart in a couple of months."

"She’s coming here?"

"You’ve got it in one."

"I was hoping—" Sam had been hoping and praying and everything else he could think of "— Jacob would take care of this mess during his lifetime."

"Well, he didn’t. He wouldn’t even discuss it with Thaddeus Martin or with me. Now he’s left it all up to his granddaughter."

"And to me."

"And to you."

He’d taken a wild guess. "Ms. Charles doesn’t exactly sound like the Sweetheart type."

Trace had confirmed his suspicions. "I doubt if she’s ever been in a small mid-western town before, Sam. Certainly not a town like Sweetheart, Indiana."

"Christ all-mighty," he’d muttered under his breath. Just what he didn’t need: a high maintenance client who would demand his undivided attention; a spoiled, pampered, rich young woman who would expect to be entertained and who would think "roughing it" meant staying at the local Holiday Inn.

Well, it would if Sweetheart had a Holiday Inn.

Which it didn’t.

Visitors had their choice between the Sweetheart Bed & Breakfast, a large Victorian monstrosity that had once qualified as the town’s one and only mansion, and a flea bag motel at the edge of the city limits. Most people wisely chose the B & B.

"High society types," Sam had complained.

"High society types," Trace had commiserated.

"Wait a minute." At that juncture in their conversation Sam had tossed the ballpoint pen down on his desk and bounced to his feet. He’d punctuated his words by jabbing his index finger into the air. "Aren’t you marrying one of these high society types yourself?"

"Schuyler’s different," Trace had claimed.

Sam wasn’t convinced. "Different how?"

"Different good. The trappings of wealth and privilege are unimportant to Schuyler."

Sam had groaned. That implied the trappings of wealth and privilege were important to his new client.

"What was Jacob thinking?" he’d griped, not realizing he had spoken out loud until Trace answered him.

"Beats me. He seemed to think he was doing his granddaughter a favor. Even called it his last gift to her."

"Some gift."

"Well, that’s how Jacob put it to Thaddeus Martin." Then his old friend had tacked on as an afterthought, "The rich really are different, you know."

Sam had given a short, humorless laugh. "Thanks for the words of wisdom."

"You’re welcome."

He’d quickly added with genuine appreciation, "And thanks for the warning."

Even if the phone call from Trace hadn’t been enough to raise a red flag, the arrival of a special delivery "package" ten days ago certainly had been.

After all, how many people shipped themselves a Steinway grand piano?

"Well, crap." Sam tossed the letter and the accompanying legal document onto his desk.

He’d read and reread the document a dozen times or more since it had arrived via FedEx a few weeks ago. The result never changed. Ms. Gillian Charles was not only going to be a royal pain in the ass, she was going to ruin what was left of his spring.

In fact, his entire spring, summer and fall.