“Mr. Fontaine, for the record, please state your full name and occupation.”
Peter Fontaine, a thin, dark-haired man in his early forties, scowled at Eric from across the conference table. “You already know it.”
“Yes. This is merely a formality,” Eric explained, careful to hide his impatience. Rule number one in the practice of law—never allow the opposition to see you agitated. Anger and hostility only gave them fuel with which to fight.
But scratch the surface of his cool demeanor and you’d find a man who couldn’t wait for this deposition to end. Fontaine v. Fontaine was his last case to wrap up before he married Lily. Tomorrow was his wedding day. Eric glanced at the angry man across the table. This was a hell of a way to welcome in his own attempt at marriage.
Fontaine released a harsh breath. “Peter Fontaine, illusionist.”
Illusionist—a fancy term for a high-priced magician. Eric had caught Fontaine’s show in Las Vegas last year. Aided by the glitz of pyrotechnical stunts, his act wasn’t half bad. With his soon-to-be-ex-wife acting as his manager, Fontaine had built quite a reputation for himself in the nightclub circuit.
“Fontaine is your show name. For our records we need your legal birth name.”
Fontaine removed a gold coin from the inside breast pocket of his baggy suit jacket. One-handed, he transferred the coin to the back of his hand and walked it from one knuckle to another. Eric had a feeling the trick, appearing merely to be a nervous habit, had a specific purpose. That is, to draw attention away from what was really happening in the deposition. Eric’s gaze rested on the man’s long, tapering fingers; he half expected the coin to disappear before his eyes.
“Mr. Fontaine,” Eric said again. “Your birth name.”
“Herbie Coggins,” Fontaine said, his face puckered with distaste. “But I prefer my stage name, Fontaine.”
Thin narrow face, long nose, beady eyes, he reminded Eric of a weasel. Eric carefully suppressed his feelings, not allowing the man to see his dislike. “Mr. Fontaine, I have your sworn statement revealing all your assets, liabilities and income. Do you acknowledge this statement as being a true representation of your net worth?”
The coin disappeared. “Yeah, sure.”
“Mr. Fontaine, do you know a Mrs.—” Eric shuffled through a stack of papers. He knew the name. The search was a tension builder, an effect. He bit back a smile. Fontaine wasn’t the only illusionist in the room. He picked up a sheet of paper. “A Mrs. Alice Thompson?”
Fontaine shrugged. “The name sounds familiar.”
“Mrs. Thompson is very familiar with you, Mr. Fontaine.”
Fontaine shifted in his chair.
In her seat next to Eric, Mrs. Fontaine muttered, “You slimy, son of a—”
Eric continued, “Or more correctly, Mrs. Thompson knows you as Herbie Coggins.”
Fontaine shrugged again. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Mrs. Thompson is a real-estate agent?”
“Yeah.”
Eric picked up the stack of papers. “Mrs. Thompson has provided us with documents representing real estate transactions that she has handled for you during your marriage to my client. Real estate transactions that you’ve failed to mention in your sworn statement.”
Fontaine gave him a cold stare. His lawyer picked up the documents and riffled through them.
Eric sat back in his chair and watched as Fontaine and his lawyer conducted a heated debate in hushed whispers. After months of negotiating with this greedy con man and with the help of the firm’s private detective, they’d struck pay dirt. Fontaine had been caught red-handed in a lie. Eric allowed himself a moment of triumph. His client could finally expect a fair settlement.
Eric’s thoughts drifted to Lily. He swore to himself their marriage would never end like this—facing each other across the divorce table. Lying, cheating, bickering. Eric’s chest tightened. He would never hurt Lily that way. And he couldn’t imagine Lily intentionally hurting him. Their marriage would be different. Theirs would be the one in three that lasted.
Theirs would be the one in three that lasted.
The force of those words struck him, taking his breath away. Their significance filled him with wonder. Two months ago he wouldn’t have considered marriage as a possibility, let alone looked forward to it with such anticipation and optimism. Eric almost smiled. A lot of changes had occurred in two months’ time.
Looking harried, Fontaine’s lawyer said, “In light of this new evidence, I’d like to call a recess in the deposition. Mr. Fontaine and I need time to discuss how to proceed.”
Fontaine stood, pointing a finger at Eric. “I don’t care what new evidence you have—you aren’t squeezing me for more of my money.”
Mrs. Fontaine jumped to her feet. “Your money? If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have any money. I’m the one who hustled to get you those nightclub dates. I’m the one who kept you sober so you wouldn’t blow your reputation. If it wasn’t for me, Herbie, you’d still be doing card tricks at birthday parties.”
Fontaine’s face flushed red with anger. He swung his gaze to Eric. “You really think you’ve got your hooks in me, don’t you? You think I’ll agree to anything you want.”
Eric rose to his feet. “Mr. Fontaine, I suggest you calm down.”
“Always the perfect answer, Mr. Attorney. You’re ripping my life apart. Can’t you show any emotion? Not even a hint of self-satisfaction for a job well done?” His beady eyes bulged in their sockets. “What are you, made of ice?”
Eric took a deep breath. “Mr. Fontaine—”
In a flicker of movement, Fontaine reached into his suit jacket, withdrew a small black pistol and pointed it directly at Eric’s zipper. Eric’s heart lurched, then thudded against his chest.
Fontaine snickered. “Don’t look so cool now, do you, Mr. Attorney?”
“Herbie—you idiot—put that gun away,” Mrs. Fontaine ordered.
“Mrs. Fontaine, let me handle this. I don’t think it’s a good idea to provoke him,” Eric muttered.
“Yeah. Let your attorney handle it, Myra.” He waved the gun. “Let’s see what Mr. Cool has to say for himself. You’ve got to the count of five to give me a good reason not to shoot you, Mr. Attorney. One...”
Eric’s mouth went dry.
“Two...”
His mind’s eye conjured up a picture of Lily. Lily’s beautiful face. Green eyes that sparkled like emeralds. The dimples dancing in her cheeks as she explained the mystery behind her family curse.
Eric tried to squeeze the memory from his mind. Lily’s curse was the last thing he needed to think about. But for the briefest second, he questioned his doubt in magic and curses. For the first time, he wondered if he really was destined to meet with an early demise thanks to his pending marriage to Lily.
“Three...”
No. He refused to believe Lily had anything to do with this crazed man with a gun in his hand. Divorces were filled with passion, involving two people in highly emotional states. As an attorney he handled potentially volatile situations every day. There was no connection between marrying Lily and Fontaine’s threat.
“Four, five. Time’s up, Mr. Attorney.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Eric saw Fontaine’s lawyer, Mrs. Fontaine and the court stenographer hit the floor. Eric followed suit, diving for protection under the table. His reaction time proved a hair too late.
Eric heard a pop, then another, as a burning pain stung his backside.
* * *
“Lily, I think you’d better listen to this,” her assistant said rushing into her office, shoving a portable radio into Lily’s hands.
Lily smiled. “Ann, if this is another one of your rap songs—”
“Lily, I think it’s about Eric.”
“Eric?” Lily’s heart skipped a beat. She popped on the radio’s headphones and listened carefully to the tinny voice of the news announcer:
“Recapping the news bulletin, a shooting at the law offices of Franklin and Hirsch. One man injured, believed to be a divorce attorney representing Franklin and Hirsch. One man arrested. Details at the top of the hour.”
Could it be Eric? A hot spill of panic raced through her veins. Not again, she told herself. This couldn’t be happening again.
She threw down the radio and reached for the telephone to dial Eric’s office. The phone rang before she had a chance to pick up the receiver. A cold chill of foreboding swept her body, quickly replacing the heat of panic, as she recognized Eric’s secretary’s voice.
“Where is he?” Lily asked simply.
“Maricopa General,” Mrs. Hunter said. “But, Lily—”
“I’m on my way.” Lily slammed the phone onto its cradle and grabbed her purse.
“Lily, you’re too upset to drive. Let me take you.” Ann placed a hand on her arm, stopping her headlong rush for the door.
Lily felt numb. “Thanks, but I need you to stay here at the bakery.”
Reluctantly, Ann released her. “Promise me you’ll call as soon as you hear anything...anything at all.”
Lily nodded, then left.
The entrance to the hospital was crowded. Like scavengers searching for a morsel of food, reporters and camera men were scoping the halls, looking for a story. Lily shot them a distasteful glance, remembering the unwanted attention she’d received from reporters following the plane crash that had taken David’s life. The memory felt like an omen. She pushed it from her mind.
“Lily.”
Lily spun around, searching for the woman who’d called her name. Through the crowd, she spotted Mrs. Hunter, Eric’s secretary.
“Look at you. You’re as pale as a ghost,” Mrs. Hunter said with a tsk. “I tried to tell you on the phone, but you wouldn’t let me finish, so I came here. Eric’s fine.”
Lily said nothing. She’d broken every speed limit getting there. But still, the past twenty minutes had seemed to drag by, giving her too much time to think. By the time she’d pulled into the hospital parking lot, she’d convinced herself the worst had happened. That she had lost Eric. Now no amount of reassurance could soothe her. She had to see him for herself.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” Mrs. Hunter sighed. “Come on, then. Let’s go find Eric.”
Mrs. Hunter pushed her way through the crowded lobby with Lily in tow. She marched up to the nurses’ desk outside the emergency room. “We need to see a patient,” she demanded.
The nurse, a tall, thin woman with sparrowlike features, opened the patient registry. “The patient’s name?”
“Eric Mitchell.”
The nurse snapped the registry closed. “Sorry, ma’am. You’ll just have to wait outside along with everyone else.”
Mrs. Hunter straightened her shoulders and shot the nurse a determined look. “I don’t think you understand. I have to see him now.”
The nurse planted her hands on her bony hips. “I don’t think you understand. No one’s getting through to see Mr. Mitchell unless they’re a relative.”
Mrs. Hunter jutted out her chin. “I’m his mother.”
Lily’s eyes widened in surprise.
Before she could object, Mrs. Hunter grabbed Lily’s arm and hauled her up to the desk. “And this is his pregnant wife.”
Lily strangled a moan.
The nurse reopened the registry and ran a finger over the file. “Mr. Mitchell didn’t mention he was married.”
“He didn’t?” Lily asked, deciding to follow Mrs. Hunter’s lead. She blinked hard, trying to appear shocked. “How could he have forgotten?”
Mrs. Hunter leaned confidingly toward the nurse. “Newlyweds,” she whispered. “Look, he’s just been shot. Do you expect him to remember everything?”
The nurse glanced from one to the other. Lily could almost hear her mind working, sizing them up, wondering what the chances were that two reporters would go this far for a story.
“I give up,” she said, releasing a long-suffering sigh. “Follow me.”
Saying a quiet prayer of thanks for Mrs. Hunter, Lily followed the nurse and Eric’s secretary into the examining room. She stopped dead in her tracks. Overwhelming relief flooded her body as she spotted Eric sitting on the examining table. One sleeve of his shirt seemed to have been cut and the seam ripped. The ragged ends revealed a bandage wrapped around his forearm. The impatient scowl on his face softened as their eyes met.
“Your wife and mother are here, Mr. Mitchell,” the nurse informed him.
Eric frowned, looking confused.
Lily stepped up to the table, carefully embracing him. “Thank goodness, you’re okay.”
“Mother?” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear.
“I’ll explain later,” Lily murmured, her lips lingering against his cheek. His face felt rough with the beginnings of a late-day beard. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, breathing in the familiar scent of citrus and spice. She wanted to shout her relief. Eric was alive.
“I told her you were okay,” Mrs. Hunter interrupted. “She wouldn’t believe me.”
Eric grinned. “At least you tried...Mom.”
“Mom, indeed,” Mrs. Hunter harrumphed loudly, struggling to hide a pleased smile. She turned to Lily. “If you need me, I’ll be outside.”
Lily watched as Mrs. Hunter strode away, arm in arm with the skeptical nurse. Once they were alone, Lily turned on Eric. “What happened?”
Eric held out his bandaged arm. “I got a cut. Ten stitches. Can you believe it? This doctor acted as though it were no big deal when he put a needle and thread through my arm.”
Lily persisted. “The radio said there was a shooting.”
Eric muttered an oath. “Lily, it was nothing. Believe me. We were in the middle of a deposition, when my client’s husband got a little upset. He pulled an air pistol out of his suit jacket just to scare me.”
Lily touched the bandage with the tips of her fingers. “Obviously he did more than scare you.”
Color crept across Eric’s face. “The jerk had a BB gun. He shot off a couple of pellets. They hit me on my backside but bounced off without doing any harm.” He grinned sheepishly. “I cut my arm on the table’s metal leg when I ducked under it for protection.”
The trembling chill returned. The thought of a man pointing a gun at Eric stunned her. Her worst fear blossomed, stretching cold petals of horror throughout her body. She wanted to hold Eric in her arms and protect him. But she had the awful feeling it was in her arms that Eric was most vulnerable.
A man in a white coat breezed into the emergency room, drawing her out of her disturbing reverie. He nodded a greeting.
“I’m Dr. Kirby. You must be Mrs. Mitchell.”
Lily’s heart thudded. She wondered why such an innocent statement could suddenly take on such a deadly connotation.
“How are we doing, Mr. Mitchell?” the doctor asked, looking at Eric’s arm.
“We are ready to leave,” Eric muttered.
The doctor smiled. “Not until you have your shot.”
Lily gazed at the doctor, a question in her eyes. “Shot?”
“Mr. Mitchell cut himself on a metal object. He needs a tetanus shot,” the doctor said, his tone brisk. As he spoke, the nurse appeared, carrying a tray with a cotton ball and syringe.
“I’m sure this isn’t necessary,” Eric said, ready to argue. “I had all my shots when I was a kid.”
“Tetanus shots need to be updated,” the doctor said, his tone allowing no arguments.
Eric scowled. “You’d think jabbing me with a needle and thread would be bad enough. But no, now I need a shot. Doc, I sure hope your malpractice insurance is up-to-date.”
The doctor ignored Eric’s threats. He nodded toward Eric but directed his question to Lily. “Is he always this cranky?”
Lily smiled. “Worse.”
The doctor chuckled as he swabbed Eric’s upper arm with the alcohol-laced cotton ball. When he picked up the syringe, Eric blanched.
Lily placed a reassuring hand on Eric’s shoulder and whispered in his ear the reward he’d get for being a good boy. Eric was smiling as the needle broke the skin.