Birthright

kneaded Lana’s shoulders. It was instinctive, she realized. She had a problem, he automatically stepped up to lend a hand.
    “I’m sorry about all this, Lana. Really sorry. And you’re fired.”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Send me a bill for services rendered, and I’ll cut you a check. I’m sorry to drag Sven the masseur away, but we’ve got a plane to catch.”
    Under Jake’s hands, Lana’s shoulders turned to rock.
    “If you think you can pay me off and lock me out because you’re speculating the fire was related to the work I’m doing for you, then you hired the wrong lawyer to begin with. Keep your goddamn money. That way you don’t tell me what to do or what not to do.”
    “The rock meets the hard place,” Jake declared, and kept rubbing. Behind her, he decided, was the safest place for a man to be.
    “If I don’t want you poking around in my business, then you don’t poke around in my business.”
    “If I don’t work for you, you have no say in it.”
    “For Christ’s sake, Lana, if this is connected to me, you don’t know what might happen next. You’ve got a kid to think about.”
    “Don’t presume to tell me how to be a mother or how to care for my son. And don’t assume I’ll step away from an agreement because it’s getting sticky. Somebody burned down my goddamn office, and I’m going to make sure they pay for it. One way or the other.”
    Callie sat back, drummed her fingers on the table. “So what the hell am I paying you for if you’re going to do the work anyway?”
    “Fair play.”
    “Graystone will tell you I don’t mind playing dirty.”
    “She loves it,” he agreed. “But she’ll play fair with youbecause she likes you. She’s just pissed off right now because I told her you wouldn’t shake off.”
    “Shut up.” Callie shot him a single hot glance. “Who asked you?”
    “You did.”
    “Children, no bickering at the table. What plane are you catching?”
    “I’m—we’re,” Callie corrected as Jake scowled, “heading down to Atlanta to talk to Carlyle’s son.”
    “Why do you think he’ll talk to you when he wouldn’t talk to the investigator?”
    “Because I’m not going to give him a choice.”
    Jake leaned down, spoke in a stage whisper close to Lana’s ear. “She nags until you either run screaming or give in.”
    “I do not nag. I persist.”
    “I hate to tell the two of you this, but you’re still very married.” She felt Jake’s fingers dig and jerk on her shoulders, and saw Callie grimace. “In any case, I think it’s a very good idea. It’ll be more difficult for him to refuse to give you information. If he wants to speak to me, give him my cell and the number here. I’ll be working at home until I can find other office space.”
    T hey didn’t speak on the drive to the airport. Had nothing but the most cursory conversation through the airport. The minute they were airborne, Jake kicked back his seat.
    He’d be asleep in about ten seconds, Callie knew. It was one of his most enviable skills, in her opinion. He could drop into sleep instantly on a flight, whether they were in a full-sized jet or in a five-seater tuna can with props. If he went by his usual pattern, he wouldn’t stir until they announced the final descent, then he’d sit up, alert, refreshed.
    It just killed her.
    She pushed her seat back, folded her arms and tried to think of something besides the next two hours in the air.
    Beside her, Jake kept his eyes closed. He was as aware of her thoughts as if she’d spoken them. And he knew inabout two minutes she’d be sitting up again, restless with the inactivity. She’d flip through one of the in-flight magazines. She’d curse herself for forgetting a book, then poke around in his bag to see if he had one.
    She’d check her watch every five or six minutes, and think dark thoughts at him because he was asleep and she wasn’t.
    . . . you’re still very married.
    Lana, he thought, and tried to tune out his hyperawareness of the woman who sat beside him, you don’t know the half of it.
    C arlyle’s offices in tony Buckhead had the hue of Southern grace and pricey exclusivity. The reception area was done in dark wood and deep tones, appointed with antiques all polished to a glossy sheen.
    There was a hum of quiet efficiency in the air.
    The woman manning the huge oak desk looked as graceful and pricey as the furnishings. Her smile was warm, her tone molasses-sweet. And her spine steel.
    “I’m