Improper Influence Read online

  “But no associates, right?” She didn’t want him bringing any junior lawyers over from Prescott.

  “Certainly not.” He paused. “Does this mean you’re interested?”

  To her surprise, she was. “I am. On one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “Presumably you’re going to continue to do white collar criminal defense, right?”

  “I’d like to. It seems that your civil clients might have a need for some criminal law representation from time to time. Or at least, you could.”

  Leave it to Will to make the understatement of the ... year? Century?

  “No Prescott clients. I don’t want to poach their clients and, truth be told, I’d rather have an office full of violent felons than have this firm represent the type of business and industry leaders Prescott manages to attract.”

  “Trust me. I want to cut all ties with Prescott & Talbott.”

  She nodded, satisfied. “Well, then, as long as Naya has no objection, I guess we have a deal.”

  Naya would be thrilled, she knew, but it was only fair to let her weigh in. She’d taken a risk leaving Prescott to join Sasha; she deserved a say.

  Will extended his hand. She put down her mug and gave him a firm, warm handshake.

  “Excellent, Partner.”

  “Welcome aboard, Partner.” She smiled.

  There would be partnership papers to draw up. And she was sure Prescott & Talbott would make Will’s departure as painful and unpleasant as possible, but those were just details. She had just moved her fledgling firm into the next phase of its development. It felt exhilarating and frightening all at once.

  He smiled back at her. “Do I get the benefit of your free coffee arrangement with Jake?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  After begging off with a rain check for Will’s offer to celebrate the formation of their new partnership when she was slightly less battered, Sasha decided to make it an early evening.

  She packed up her laptop, her billing files, and her headache and trudged down the stairs to the street. The warm spring breeze lifted her spirits. By the time she’d walked through the neighborhood to her condo, she was feeling almost human—despite the sidelong stares her battered face seemed to be drawing from her fellow pedestrians.

  Even the black and gold streamers and signs littering the street—a reminder that the Penguins had been busy losing to the Bruins while she’d been facing off with Wally Stewart—didn’t dampen her mood too much.

  She climbed the stairs to the condo, ready to collapse into a pile of pillows and blankets, nestled in Connelly’s arms with Java curled into a ball of fur between them.

  But before she’d removed her key from the door, she knew that plan wasn’t about to happen.

  A platter of mango, pineapple, and starfruit rested on the counter under a glass dome to keep the cat out. A pitcher of margaritas and two salt-rimmed glasses sat beside it. Upbeat music—her music, not the classic rock that Connelly favored—played softly.

  Connelly rounded the corner and came into view with a vase full of some fragrant-smelling, vaguely tropical-looking flowers. He placed them on the dining room table and gathered her into a tight hug. He was wearing a white linen shirt and rumpled khaki shorts.

  He smelled like ... coconut?

  “Are you wearing sunscreen?”

  “Not exactly.”

  He brushed her lips with a soft kiss and led her to the table. While she freed her feet from their high-heeled prison, he poured two margaritas.

  Then he returned to the table and handed her one.

  “Cheers,” she said, still not entirely sure what he was up to.

  He rubbed a thumb gently over her bruised and swollen cheek. She smiled up at him and sipped the drink.

  It was the perfect combination of cold, salty, sweet, and citrusy. She could tell he’d made it from scratch. No pre-made mixes for her resident mixologist.

  He traced his hand along her injured arm and gave her a serious, searching look. She imagined he was picturing the scalpel attack.

  “To our wedding,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” she sputtered.

  He smiled, and his gray eyes crinkled.

  He produced a box wrapped in cheerful paper from beneath the table.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Open it and see.”

  Java materialized and draped himself around her ankle, stretching to bat at the lemon yellow silk ribbon as she slipped it from the package.

  She lifted the lid from the box to reveal a wrinkled and creased junk mail pamphlet addressed to her; a bottle of sunscreen; what appeared to be her mother’s ridiculous, oversized beach hat; and a barely-there bikini in baby blue.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Connelly clucked his tongue and reached into the box.

  “Something old.” He smoothed the pamphlet with his hand and laid it on the table.

  “Something new.” The sunscreen was next.

  “Something borrowed.” Out came the hat.

  “And something blue,” he finished, removing the bikini and shooting her a suggestive look.

  Sasha wondered if it was possible to sustain brain damage from a black eye, because she still wasn’t following.

  “Is this my mother’s hat?”

  She turned the floppy white hat with its black-and-white striped ribbon in one hand. She couldn’t fathom why he had her mom’s hat, but it was a distinctive hat. It had to be Valentina’s.

  “Yes.”

  “And she’s lending it to me because ...?”

  He took the hat from her hands and drilled her with a look.

  “Because I haven’t been listening to you. You’ve been trying to tell me for months that you don’t want the wedding your mother and I have been planning.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off.

  “I know, you agreed to it. But it isn’t what you want.”

  “Connelly, it’s important to you—”

  “No. You’re important to me. Standing before God, and your family, and our friends and declaring myself bound to you forever is important to me. The rest of it is just pageantry.”

  Tears flooded her eyes and fireworks of happiness exploded in her chest.

  She smiled up at him and he pulled her close.

  “You want to elope?” she asked, snugging into his chest.

  He leaned back and looked down at her with a bemused, mildly horrified expression. “Do you really think your mom lent me that hat so we could elope?”

  Point taken.

  “Uh, I’m guessing no,” she said, confused again.

  “We’re going to this island and getting married,” he grabbed the pamphlet. “And we’re bringing everyone who matters to witness it.”

  She just smiled and reached over to scratch Java’s chin.

  “Okay?” he said.

  “My mother agreed to this?” She couldn’t imagine how he’d gotten Valentina on board.

  “Your mother agreed that this is our wedding.”

  She’d have to get the details about that conversation. Maybe after a few drinks.

  “Okay, then.”

  “Good.”

  “I love you, Leo Connelly. Thank you.”

  He traced her cheek with a finger and handed her glass back to her.

  “No, thank you.”

  She leaned forward and covered his mouth with hers, breathing the scent of coconut and Connelly. Hers. Forever.

  “To our wedding,” she said, touching her glass to his.

  “To our wedding. Screw the cookie table,” he proclaimed.

  She lowered her glass and gaped at him owl-eyed. “Wait. What? No, no, we have to have a cookie table.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Readers who’ve been lucky enough to attend a wedding held in Pittsburgh (or elsewhere in Western Pennsylvania), or one where the bride, the groom, or both had ties to Pittsburgh, are probably nodding sagely right about now. Fo
r those who have not had the experience, it’s traditional at a Pittsburgh wedding to have a cookie table. For weeks, or months, before the wedding, the family and friends of the bride (and sometimes the groom) make dozens upon dozens of cookies of every imaginable kind—all from scratch. The cookies are frozen, if need be, until the big day, when they are plated and carefully transported to the reception site. There will probably also be a wedding cake, but no one will eat it—because, oh, the cookies. So many delicious cookies.

  This all true. No less venerable an institution than The New York Times has reported on it. http://nyti.ms/11uTHWq.

  So, now that you know all about cookie tables, I want to say thank you! Thank you for reading Improper Influence. Writing the character of Bodhi King turned out to be a challenge, because as I was drafting this book, my Buddhist brother announced that he was leaving for Myanmar (aka Burma) to join a Buddhist monastery. And then he did just that. And it became very important to me to get Bodhi just right.

  In any case, I hope you enjoyed the book. This is an ongoing series, with books six and seven slated for publication in 2014. But first, I need to get Sasha and Leo married, so look for a wedding novella (i.e., a short novel) sometime around the holidays!

  Ideas for things to do now that you’ve finished this book:

  Share it. If you liked this book, please lend your copy to a friend who might enjoy it.

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  Connect with me. I’d love to hear from you by email at [email protected]. Or you can stop by my Facebook page for updates, cover reveals, and general time-wasting at https://www.facebook.com/authormelissafmiller.

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  Finally, you can always find an up-to-date list of the entire series for Kindle at smarturl.it/sashaseries.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Melissa F. Miller is a commercial litigator. She has practiced in the offices of international law firms in Pittsburgh, PA and Washington, D.C. She and her husband now practice law together in their two-person firm in South Central Pennsylvania, where they live with their three young children. When not in court or on the playground, Melissa writes crime fiction. Like Sasha McCandless, she drinks entirely too much coffee; unlike Sasha, she cannot kill you with her bare hands.