those hips do the talking as she swaggered
toward Martin.
He swung off his barstool looking quite dapper. When had he
stopped buying his suits off the rack? And were those Italian shoes? Martin was
definitely the anal-type—too preoccupied with business to be bothered with
personal appearance. For years, Robert swore Martin’s closet was filled with
identical blue suits, white shirts and striped ties.
As Martin ushered Amanda through the restaurant, his hand
settled on the small of her back. Did she find the contact as revolting as when
Robert touched her? She probably wanted to slap Martin for his insolence, but
fought the urge—at least until she found out what sort of loopholes he’d found
in Robert’s Trust.
Martin held her chair, telling her how lovely she looked.
She tilted her head back and graced him with a smile.
“Don’t fawn over the woman,” Robert muttered. “Can’t you see
how she’s playing you?”
The smile on Martin’s face twitched a bit at the edges, like
the plaster he’d used was about to crumble. He must have made arrangements
earlier, because a cocktail waitress magically appeared with a fresh cocktail
for Martin and a glass of wine for Amanda. Good thinking. Did Martin have some
small talk rehearsed while he waited for Amanda to get some wine in her? It was
going to take more than a little merlot to get her through this.
The color in Martin’s cheeks had faded to a pasty white as
he slumped into the chair opposite Amanda. Slowly, he wrapped the fingers of
both hands around his glass in supplication.
Reaching across the table, Amanda touched a palm to his
white knuckles. “Looks like the meeting with Jackson Burke didn’t go too well.”
Oh, yes. Robert had done the right thing, turning over his
final arrangements to Jackson Burke. If he’d let Martin handle the trust,
Amanda would have somehow cajoled him into getting the terms changed to her
advantage. He’d seen her do it plenty of times when Robbie needed bailing out.
The only question was how: the helpless damsel in distress,
the ball-busting wench routine, or had she thrown caution to the wind and used
the sexy vixen approach? Dear God, had she gone so far as to sleep with Martin?
Amanda pried his fingers off the cocktail glass. “Martin?”
Oh, boy. Was she going to toss Martin’s cocktail in his
face? Very dramatic. That would probably get her a mention in Peach Buzz, the
celebrity column in the Atlanta newspaper.
“The man’s good, Mandy.”
Mandy?
“He’s a genius.” Martin squeezed her hand. “And we’re
screwed.”
He let the finality of his statement hang for a second
before he continued. “Our intention was to contest the validity of the trust.
Claim that there was no proof that Robert would ever return, or that he was of
unsound mind at the time he had the trust drawn up. But Jackson Burke has a
video Robert taped, and he looks pretty damn sound. He also slipped in a
no-contest clause to the original document, and as far as I can research, it’s
good.”
“What does that mean?” Trying to feign calm, Amanda sipped
at her wine.
Martin gazed right into her eyes. Good God, how many drinks
had the man had that he was willing to face her down? Right now, his balls
should be receding in protective mode; he should be scoping out the nearest
exit.
Once Amanda set her glass back down, Martin continued. “If a
judge agreed that there was no ascertainable beneficiary—no Robert anymore—or
that Robert was indeed incapable of making decisions, the judge would find
probable cause and nullify the trust. But if someone contests, and the judge
does not agree, according to the no-contest clause, the beneficiary who
challenges is disinherited.”
Amanda didn’t understand all that legal mumbo-jumbo, but she
sure picked up on the magic word: disinherited.
Her voice cawed, “What?”
Martin fanned her with his hands, trying to keep her from
coming out of her seat. “I’m sure they put that in there
toward Martin.
He swung off his barstool looking quite dapper. When had he
stopped buying his suits off the rack? And were those Italian shoes? Martin was
definitely the anal-type—too preoccupied with business to be bothered with
personal appearance. For years, Robert swore Martin’s closet was filled with
identical blue suits, white shirts and striped ties.
As Martin ushered Amanda through the restaurant, his hand
settled on the small of her back. Did she find the contact as revolting as when
Robert touched her? She probably wanted to slap Martin for his insolence, but
fought the urge—at least until she found out what sort of loopholes he’d found
in Robert’s Trust.
Martin held her chair, telling her how lovely she looked.
She tilted her head back and graced him with a smile.
“Don’t fawn over the woman,” Robert muttered. “Can’t you see
how she’s playing you?”
The smile on Martin’s face twitched a bit at the edges, like
the plaster he’d used was about to crumble. He must have made arrangements
earlier, because a cocktail waitress magically appeared with a fresh cocktail
for Martin and a glass of wine for Amanda. Good thinking. Did Martin have some
small talk rehearsed while he waited for Amanda to get some wine in her? It was
going to take more than a little merlot to get her through this.
The color in Martin’s cheeks had faded to a pasty white as
he slumped into the chair opposite Amanda. Slowly, he wrapped the fingers of
both hands around his glass in supplication.
Reaching across the table, Amanda touched a palm to his
white knuckles. “Looks like the meeting with Jackson Burke didn’t go too well.”
Oh, yes. Robert had done the right thing, turning over his
final arrangements to Jackson Burke. If he’d let Martin handle the trust,
Amanda would have somehow cajoled him into getting the terms changed to her
advantage. He’d seen her do it plenty of times when Robbie needed bailing out.
The only question was how: the helpless damsel in distress,
the ball-busting wench routine, or had she thrown caution to the wind and used
the sexy vixen approach? Dear God, had she gone so far as to sleep with Martin?
Amanda pried his fingers off the cocktail glass. “Martin?”
Oh, boy. Was she going to toss Martin’s cocktail in his
face? Very dramatic. That would probably get her a mention in Peach Buzz, the
celebrity column in the Atlanta newspaper.
“The man’s good, Mandy.”
Mandy?
“He’s a genius.” Martin squeezed her hand. “And we’re
screwed.”
He let the finality of his statement hang for a second
before he continued. “Our intention was to contest the validity of the trust.
Claim that there was no proof that Robert would ever return, or that he was of
unsound mind at the time he had the trust drawn up. But Jackson Burke has a
video Robert taped, and he looks pretty damn sound. He also slipped in a
no-contest clause to the original document, and as far as I can research, it’s
good.”
“What does that mean?” Trying to feign calm, Amanda sipped
at her wine.
Martin gazed right into her eyes. Good God, how many drinks
had the man had that he was willing to face her down? Right now, his balls
should be receding in protective mode; he should be scoping out the nearest
exit.
Once Amanda set her glass back down, Martin continued. “If a
judge agreed that there was no ascertainable beneficiary—no Robert anymore—or
that Robert was indeed incapable of making decisions, the judge would find
probable cause and nullify the trust. But if someone contests, and the judge
does not agree, according to the no-contest clause, the beneficiary who
challenges is disinherited.”
Amanda didn’t understand all that legal mumbo-jumbo, but she
sure picked up on the magic word: disinherited.
Her voice cawed, “What?”
Martin fanned her with his hands, trying to keep her from
coming out of her seat. “I’m sure they put that in there
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