Roberta Leigh - Too Bad to be True

  Roberta Leigh - Too Bad to be True

  Love is hardly the way to get even

  In Leslie's mind, divorce lawyer Dane Jordan caused the death of her stepfather. The huge settlement Dane extracted ruined the dear man, and Leslie ached for revenge.

  So, discovering that the charismatic counselor's weak spot was her, Leslie planned to charm the Bel Air bachelor right down the matrimonial aisle. Then she'd give him a taste of his own medicine—a divorce!

  All she had to do, Leslie assured herself, was stay out of Dane's persuasive arms until he proposed—and keep her heart out of the whole affair.

  CHAPTER ONE

  As Leslie Watson heard the judge deliver the alimony award in her stepfather's divorce case, she couldn't believe her ears. It was so weighted in his ex-wife's favour she had to force herself not to jump up and say so.

  Glancing across the Los Angeles courtroom, she saw her stepmother Charlene beam happily at her lawyer, who gave her a faint smile in return. Yet Dane Jordan should be beaming too, for like many American lawyers his fee was on a percentage basis, and he had just earned himself a fortune!

  Leslie knew it wasn't the alimony that would worry her stepfather so much as the fact that his ex-wife had been allowed to keep the large block of shares in his company, which he had given her as a wedding gift four years ago. At the time, his friends and family had warned him not to do it; warned him also against marrying a girl thirty years his junior—Charlene was only a few years older than Leslie. But he wouldn't hear a word against the beautiful nurse who had taken care of him after a near-fatal heart attack, and was now paying the price for his obstinacy.

  Watching him, Leslie was afraid he would soon have another attack, though he had shown no outward emotion even when Charlene—devoid of make-up to emphasise her youthful innocence—had flung him a triumphant look as the judge announced his decision.

  Only as Dane Jordan walked across the court towards him did he show any sign of stress, his features hardening as he ignored the lawyer's outstretched hand.

  'No hard feelings, I hope, Mr Webb,' the younger man said, pretending unawareness of the snub. 'But it's my job to do my best for my client.'

  To the exclusion of all else, Leslie thought grimly, Dane Jordan's words fuelling the dislike she had felt for him long before seeing him in action. His ruthless ability had become a legend, making him famous throughout the States, and he was ideal fodder for the news media, for he played as hard as he worked, squiring some of the loveliest girls in a city noted for beautiful women.

  Yet though Leslie found little to admire in him as a person, she could not decry his professional brilliance. Like many famous trial lawyers, he was a consummate actor, using his dark good looks and sharp brain to swing the mood of judge and jury.

  Wending her way through the crush of newsmen clustering around Charlene, Leslie reached the exit at the same time as her stepfather.

  'It was thoughtful of you to come, honey,' he said heavily, putting an affectionate hand on her shoulder. 'I know how busy you are.'

  'Never too busy for you,' she said truthfully. 'I only wish I could have given you more than moral support. That Jordan's a ruthless swine!'

  'A winning swine—which is what counts.'

  'You'll appeal, of course. I'm sure you can make Charlene give you back those shares.'

  'I'm willing to buy them from her,' came the instant rejoinder. 'If she sells them to Imtex, I'm finished.'

  Leslie bit back a sigh. Imtex International had been trying to win control of her stepfather's company for as long as she could remember, and if Charlene sold them her shares, they would be able to do so.

  'If you offer her a high enough price I'm sure she'll sell them to you,' Leslie placated.

  'That's what I'm counting on.'

  They were outside the courthouse, and she headed towards her car. 'How about lunching with me now you're a free man?'

  'I'd rather make it dinner. I want to get back to my office and thrash out a few things.'

  'Fine,' she agreed, though it really wasn't, for she had a date for tonight. 'I'll book a table at the Bistro.'

  It was where Peter Denver was taking her and she hoped he would be understanding enough to give her his reservation. She had been out with him three times and liked him enough not to want to put him off. But her affection for her stepfather outweighed all other considerations.

  'You must have a lot of influence if you can get into the Bistro at such short notice,' Robert teased her.

  'It's my charm!' she fibbed. 'I'll see you there at eight.'

  Reaching her car, Leslie pulled the parking ticket from her windscreen. The third this week, and it was only Tuesday! But with space at a premium, and a good deal of her work centering around Beverly Hills, it was an inconvenience she was able to shrug off, especially as her firm paid the fines—one of the many perks that came from being with a large company.

  Driving back to her office, she reflected how lucky she was to be working for Morrissey Associates since qualifying as an architect four years ago. She had turned down a more lucrative offer in New York in order to live near her stepfather, and found her job in California satisfyingly varied. Her distinctive style was already earning her a growing reputation in the state, and one of the directors in her firm had hinted at a partnership before the year's end.

  She had Robert Webb to thank for everything, of course. Her natural father had died when she was three, leaving her mother with a heavily mortgaged house and no money. Luckily she had met and married Robert—a middle-aged widower with two teenage sons—soon after, but their happiness had been shortlived, for she had died on their fifth anniversary, leaving her young daughter in his care.

  Robert had loved Leslie as if she were his own, and so had his two placid, lanky sons. The only sad thing, she mused, halting at a red light, was that neither of the boys had elected to go into his business; Pete, the older, now a research chemist in Boston, and Dick running a successful art gallery in Santa Fe. Perhaps that was why her stepfather had married Charlene. Friends were no replacement for family, and he must have found life lonely, especially when she herself had been away at college.

  The stop sign turned green, and Leslie swung into her parking bay beneath her office building, then took the elevator to the tenth floor.

  'How did it go?' her secretary asked as she walked in.

  'Couldn't have been worse.' Leslie gave her a summary of the hearing, knowing that tomorrow's papers would be full of the gory details.

  'Any messages?' she asked when she had finished.

  'Several. All wanting you to call back!'

  'OK. But get me Peter Denver first.'

  A few minutes later, Leslie was explaining why she was cancelling her date with him. Happily he was understanding, and postponed it to the following evening, then delighted her by offering her his table for tonight.

  He really was the nicest of her boy-friends, she thought as she hung up, and wished she were less nervous when it came to a commitment. But still, with a blossoming career she had every right to be wary. Marriage might start out with both partners agreeing to share responsibility for financial and domestic chores, but it was invariably the woman who was left with the latter—especially when the children came!

  But that was all in the future—heck, she'd only met Peter two weeks ago!—and pushing aside all thought of him, she settled down to work.

  In the event, she become so absorbed she had no time to go home to change before meeting her stepfather. But her red Valentino suit was suitable for day or evening, and slipping on a pair of thick gold earrings—part of the 'emergency kit' she kept in her desk drawer—she headed for the rest
aurant.

  Robert was already seated when she arrived, and as she crossed the room every male eye followed her progress; not surprising though, for even in a city famed for its lovely women she was outstanding.

  Five feet eight without shoes, she never made any concession to her height, always wearing the heels that fashion decreed, be they pumps or stilettos. Her colouring was typically Californian: streaked honey- blonde hair, and a peaches-and-cream complexion with a sprinkling of freckles brought out by the sun. Her slight irregularity of feature stopped her from being a chocolate-box beauty, but she was all the more arresting because of it. Her nose tip-tilted slightly, her mouth was generously wide with a full, softly curving lower lip, and her chin was square and determined. High cheekbones enhanced her wide-apart eyes, which glowed like sapphires when she was happy, and deepened to cobalt when she was not.

  Yet she had little conceit about her appearance, accepting with gratitude that full breasts, tapering down to a small waist, allied to a swinging walk from nicely rounded hips, were attributes bound to attract attention.

  'I enjoy seeing the men ogling you!' Robert smiled as he stood up to kiss her. 'They probably think you're my dolly bird, which does wonders for an old man's ego!'

  'Old my foot!' snorted Leslie, though she had to admit her stepfather looked every one of his sixty-six years tonight. 'Half my boy-friends don't have your drive and energy.'

  Looking pleased at the compliment, he drained his Martini. 'Have one?' he asked as he set down the glass and signalled the waiter.

  'Mind if I make it a Bloody Mary?' she smiled. 'It kind of goes with my afternoon!'

  'Like that, eh?'

  'Like that.'

  As their meal progressed, she purposely discussed her various problems, intent on taking his mind off his own. She did not refer to the divorce settlement, and by the evening's end the subject had still not been raised.

  'If you aren't doing anything on Sunday,' Robert said outside the restaurant, 'perhaps we'll take the boat out.'

  'Sounds great—if you don't mind me bringing my date along.'

  'I'd be delighted. I'll call you at the weekend.'

  By the time Leslie reached her apartment, south of Beverly Hills, she was more than ready for bed. It had been a long day, and a particularly unpleasant one; the sort it was best to forget.

  Entering her living-room, she switched on the lamps. An interior designer, they said, reflected her style in her home, and this was also true of architects, for Leslie's apartment was a skilful combination of functional contemporary and Art Deco. Charles Eames chairs married well with an Aalvar Aalto tea-trolley that served as a bar, and a splendid lacquered Adnet cabinet housed her best china and cutlery; all set off by a white terrazzo-tiled floor and glossy white walls.

  It was too stark a decor for her stepfather's taste, which veered to the traditional, as did many of her clients', with the result that she waged a constant battle with her conscience when designing homes for them. But until she could afford complete independence—she had refused any further financial help from Robert—she had to accept whatever commissions came her way.

  The remainder of the week flew by, her evenings occupied as fully as her days, so that by the time Saturday dawned, hot and clear, she was ready for a day aboard her stepfather's boat. Despite several attempts to contact him and see what time she and Peter were expected next morning, she could not get a reply, and deciding the line was out of order, she drove to his home.

  There was little traffic on the road and she soon drew up outside his split-level. His Mercedes was in the driveway and she was glad she hadn't made her journey in vain. She pressed the bell, and when there was no response she peered through one of the windows. A wall of glass in the living-room gave her a clear view of the terrace and pool, and she saw it was deserted. Puzzled, she walked to the back of the house. Occasionally the patio doors to the living-room were left unlocked, and she discovered this to be the case now.

  'Robert?' she called, entering the house. 'Robert— it's me, Leslie. Where are you?'

  All was silent, and she went in search of Kai, the houseman. His room and kitchen were empty, and surmising he had gone shopping and that her stepfather might have fallen asleep on his bed watching television, she went down the corridor to the main bedroom.

  The door was shut but the television was on, and grinning, she knocked and entered, expecting to see Robert look up and greet her. But one glance at the twisted figure sprawled on the sheet, skin blanched, eyes staring, told her he had suffered a stroke!

  Shock kept her momentarily rooted to the spot. Then with a sob she rushed to the telephone to call his doctor.

  Only then did she notice the spilled bottle of sleeping pills on the floor near the bedside table, and the note with her name on it, on top of the clock radio. Shakily she read it, realising as she did that her stepfather had intended taking an overdose, but had been struck down before he could do so.

  'My darling Leslie,' he had written, 'I'm addressing this letter to you rather than the boys, not because I love them less, but because you understand me better and appreciate how I feel. I have lost the business. Charlene sold her shares to Imtex this morning, without even giving me the chance to bid for them.

  'I blame no one but myself for what's happened, and you mustn't either. Everyone told me what Charlene was, but I refused to listen, and I've paid the price.

  'God bless and keep you, dear girl, and promise me you won't cry at my funeral. I've had a good life, and only regret the last four years.'

  In the event, there had been no funeral, for Robert survived the stroke, though the prone figure in the flower-filled room in the nursing-home was nothing more than a living corpse.

  It was impossible for Leslie not to blame Dane Jordan, regardless of how often she told herself Robert had contributed to his own misfortune. In court, the lawyer had made him appear a lecherous old man who had used his money to tempt an innocent girl into marriage, and then been so jealous and miserly that he had kept her a virtual prisoner.

  How far from the truth this was! Robert's 'miserliness' had extended only to cancelling Charlene's credit cards after seeing the size of the bills she was running up, and it could hardly be considered 'jealousy' to lock her in her room when a drinking bout had rendered her incapable of driving her car—which she had been intent on doing.

  Yet the lawyer's smooth tongue had depicted Robert as a monster, and there was no doubt in Leslie's mind that he was to blame for her stepfather's stroke as surely as if he had struck him down himself.

  One day she might have the chance of making him pay for his callous behaviour, and if she did, she wouldn't hesitate to grasp it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Seated at her desk, Leslie glanced through her appointments. A Mr Jordan was due at half past two. Even today, six months after her stepfather's stroke, the name made her stomach tighten, though there were probably dozens, even hundreds of Jordans listed in the Los Angeles telephone directory.

  Pushing her diary aside, she swivelled idly in her chair. Apart from the trauma of Robert's illness, these past months had been kind to her. She had won an award for a house she had designed in Coldwater Canyon, while another had featured in Architectural Digest—a prestigious glossy—which had pleased her senior partners sufficiently for them to give her a hefty raise.

  Despite this—and no shortage of boy-friends—she wasn't happy. Bitterness and grief prevented her from living and thinking normally, for her weekly visits to Robert, who lived in a twilight world of his own, were a continual reminder of the man she held responsible for his living death.

  Though she slept well at night through sheer exhaustion, many of her waking hours were disturbed by thinking up ways and means of destroying the lawyer's smug satisfaction with himself. But all her schemes were wild and impractical, and she discarded them as quickly as she thought of them. Would she always harbour a grudge against him, she wondered, or would time prove a healer?

&
nbsp; Determinedly she went into her secretary's office—Anne had called in sick this morning—to fetch the file on the client she was seeing after Mr Jordan.

  'Where is everyone?' a male voice asked impatiently behind her.

  Leslie swung round from the filing-cabinet, stifling a gasp as she recognised the tall, darkly handsome man glowering at her. It was Dane Jordan! She had envisaged such a meeting so often that, now he was actually facing her a she was speechless. Heart pounding, she went on staring at him, wondering if her fevered imagination had conjured him up. His next words showed it hadn't.

  'Well, don't just stand there!' he barked. 'Take me to Mr Watson.'

  Mr Watson indeed! Leslie nearly laughed in his face. What a shock he was in for! And several more if she could come up with them, she added darkly to herself.

  'If you're Mr Jordan,' she said, 'your appointment isn't until two-thirty.'

  'Two,' came the acid correction. 'It's your mistake, not mine. And don't expect me to pretend otherwise just because you're beautiful. Personally, I prefer efficiency in a secretary.'

  'Really?' Leslie batted her eyes at him, giving him the full benefit of dazzling sapphire irises fringed by lashes so long and thick they were often mistaken for false. 'How do you feel about beautiful architects, Mr Jordan?'

  His perfectly arched eyebrows rose in surprise. ' You're the Watson I'm supposed to be seeing?'

  'I am.'

  'I'd just assumed you were a man. Sorry about that.'

  Sorry you'll certainly be, she vowed, wondering how best to use this golden opportunity. She ached to give him a taste of the medicine he meted out to so many of his hapless victims, and now she had him in her sights, she simply had to think of something!

  'I saw a house of yours in Architectural Digest,' he went on, 'and you showed an extremely interesting way of using space. So I'd like you to design a house for me.'

  Resisting the urge to say she would far rather design a coffin for him, she led him into her office and waved him to sit down.