Royal Cocktail by J. Kenner

Chapter Seven

“Good morning, Skye.”Emily, Skye’s paralegal of the last year, looked up from her computer and smiled. “Sorry to start your morning with a bang, but Mr. Porter wants to see you.”

Skye’s shoulders slumped and she let her leather tote slide to the floor. “Did he say what it was about?” Maybe Emily had managed to glean a clue. Nothing on her caseload was with her dad, and he was diligent about not mixing personal with business. Which meant he was about to pile another case onto her already loaded docket.

The petite redhead shook her head. “Sorry. I tried. But you know how he is.”

“Did he say when?”

“As soon as you get in,” she said. “So I’d say now?”

Skye sighed and nodded. “I’ll just drop my … things off in my chair and head on over to see him.”

“I’ll buzz Mary and let her know you’re on the way,” Emily said, referring to her father’s assistant.

Skye stepped into her office, dropped her tote on her guest chair, and walked to the windows. She had one of the nicer views, and could see all the way down Congress Avenue to the Capitol beyond. It wasn’t even nine yet, and she hadn’t had nearly enough coffee for a meeting with her father. But she also knew that she couldn’t delay. Tarlton Porter was a man who waited for no one, including his daughter. Now that Mary knew she was in the office, she’d be getting pinged if she wasn’t there in the next two minutes.

Getting pinged by Tarlton Porter was every associate’s worst nightmare. And his daughter was no exception.

Resigned, she drew a deep breath, then headed into the carpeted hallway. Her father’s office was two floors above, so she took the back exit by the ladies’ room, and entered the stairwell. She didn’t get nearly enough exercise as it was, so she tried to take the stairs whenever possible. It also lessened the chances that she would run into someone in the elevator and feel compelled to make small talk. If there was one thing Skye hated, it was small talk. She didn’t want to speak, but assumed people would think she was rude if she didn’t. But what should she say? Especially when she knew that half the people she was supposedly chatting with were only nodding politely and couldn’t understand half of what she was saying.

She exited the stairwell on the twentieth floor, used her key card to get back in through the rear entrance, and followed the lushly carpeted perimeter hallway to her father’s massive corner office. Mary looked up as she approached, her smile bright. “That was quick.”

Skye shrugged. “I was aiming for brownie … points. Do you think I earned any?”

Mary laughed. “With your father? Brownies are hard to come by.”

Wasn’t that the case?

“Do you know what he wants? Is it about the symposium?”

“Honestly, I don’t. I dropped my car at the shop this morning and arrived after your father. All he said was that I should buzz you to come see him. Sorry.”

“No problem.” Skye appreciated the poking around that Mary did for all the associates, trying to give the younger attorneys a heads-up. But she couldn’t expect Mary to be able to do that every time. “So I should go on in?”

Mary glanced down at her phone and nodded. “He’s not on a call. I’ll let him know you’re coming.” She pressed the intercom button. “Skye’s here, sir,” she said, as Skye walked forward and pushed the door open. Her father paced behind his desk, dictating what sounded like a letter about a trademark issue with one of the firm’s international clients.

He saw her, lifted a finger, and didn’t even stumble on his sentence. Skye took a seat in one of the guest chairs, grateful for the extra time to gather herself.

At fifty-eight, her father was still an incredibly attractive man, with salt-and-pepper hair and a confident demeanor that seemed reflected in the hard lines of his face. A brilliant attorney, he took no shit from anyone, but also praised good work and encouraged young attorneys to try new arguments and to never simply go with whatever approach to a case that he suggested. It was only when an associate cut corners or sank under the weight of their workload or the firm’s expectations that his temper showed—and it was a hell of a temper.

Tarlton Porter was one of the best attorneys that Skye had ever had the pleasure of working with, and she appreciated the fact that he didn’t give her special treatment. He pushed her to do better, which she liked. But he also wanted to see her career grow to the same heights as his. And in the appellate world, that meant getting a reputation as the kind of attorney who could eventually argue a case before the United States Supreme Court.

That wasn’t something Skye wanted for herself. But she knew that her father did. And she wondered what path he was going to try to push her toward today.

“That’s all, Mary,” he said into the recording, then turned seamlessly toward Skye. “Hello, sweetheart.”

“What’s up, Daddy?” Unprofessional, maybe, but a habit she hadn’t been able to break unless clients were around.

“How are you coming on planning your talk for the symposium?”

Skye frowned, certain he hadn’t called her in there just for that. The symposium was still two weeks away. Still, since he brought it up...

“I’ve made … some notes,” she said, forcing herself to speak slowly. He might be her father, but he was still intimidating, and that tightness in her gut translated to a tightness in her speech as well. It was damn frustrating, especially since she knew that her speech was what her father so desperately wanted to fix about her. And despite visiting as many speech therapists as she had, he continued to hold onto the hope that she could conquer the dysarthria with nothing more than brutal willpower. Which, of course, was why he was insisting she speak to hundreds of key clients and potentials.

It had to stop. She swallowed, then stood, wanting to be at the same level as her father. “But … honestly, I wanted to … talk to you … about it.”

He father sat behind his desk and leaned back, his hands under his chin, forefingers steepled. “Oh?”

Skye cleared her throat and remained standing, keeping her feet planted and her hands by her sides. Her father was very attuned to any signs of nervousness, and he considered them weaknesses. When he caught associates squirming and shifting, there were always consequences. His theory was if they acted nervous in front of him, how would they act in front of opposing counsel? Give something away through nerves, and you might end up screwing a client.

“Having me … speak is a … mistake. You’re trying to … gain new clients for … our international law practice. But … Daddy, I don’t …practice international law. I do appellate work. So … having me present this paper is … ridiculous.”

“I don’t disagree with your assessment, sweetheart,” he said, as waves of relief flooded through her. “But I think you’re looking at this all wrong.”

The relief turned to ice, and she froze. “Am I?”

“You wrote an incredible paper on agnatic primogeniture, and its role in the international community, particularly with regard to countries working to amend their constitutions to change that particular mode of succession.”

“I know what I wrote.” She stiffened as she spoke. It had been an odd topic for her law review article her final year of law school, but under the circumstances she’d been extremely interested in the subject. Now, of course, she regretted it.

First, Leo had broken her heart, and writing the article hadn’t been the balm she’d hoped. Worse, she’d been reminded of him every day that she was researching and writing. And those were a lot of days.

Now, she had a second basis for regret. Because apparently that paper was the lever her father needed to put her front and center so that she could—according to his plan anyway—just get over it.

Considering all that, she should’ve slapped Leo’s face even harder last night.

Her father remained silent, and she squirmed. She knew this was a mind game, forcing her to speak, and though she didn’t want to give in, the words came anyway. “Daddy, I don’t … practice that. It was … just for law … review.”

“And that law review article was extensively published and received numerous awards and accolades.”

“But it’s not what we do.”

“Maybe it should be.”

“Oh.” She sat down, then drew a breath. “Well, it’s not … what I do. Appellate law, remember? You can … share the article, but I … don’t need to speak.” Dial it in,Skye. She was having trouble controlling her breathing. Just the thought of standing on that stage—of speaking to all those people—it was both mortifying and terrifying.

She straightened her shoulders and put all her effort into slowing down and breathing properly. “Even if … the firm expands the international group, I … won’t be involved. So … why speak? It’s not … like that … article will rake in … clients.”

“One day, you will very likely be a partner in this firm, and you will be involved even if it’s not your practice area. On top of that, you’re wrong.”

She shook her head, confused. “Wrong?”

“I know you thought that it was ridiculous to add you to the symposium agenda, but we actually do have a potential new client because of that article and the promise of your participation in the symposium.”

“Oh.” She sat back, thrown off about that revelation.

“Come meet him.” He tapped a few keys on his computer, then turned his attention back to her.

“What? Now?”

“He’s just arrived. Douglas is with him,” he added, referring to one of the other partners.

“Well, then you hardly need me.” How could her father be so dense? She was not an asset where bringing in clients was concerned. Not by a long shot.

“Skye, the man specifically referenced your article. There is no way that Douglas and I are going to conduct this meeting without having you present. I’m not asking you as my daughter, I’m telling you as your boss.”

“Right. Fine. Whatever.”

She watched as his face softened. “Sweetheart, you wrote an excellent article. You are expected at the meeting. And you will do fine.”

She stood, looking down at the floor. “If you say so,” she said, but she didn’t believe it at all.

* * *

Skye followed her father to the elevator, then up the two stories to the twenty-second floor, which the firm had devoted to conference space and the firm’s law library. Eight conference rooms dotted the perimeter, offering multiple views of the Austin area. The library and a small refreshment area took up the middle, and as they passed an open doorway, she waved to a few associates who were highlighting briefs and reading case law at the long, wooden library tables.

Since they were meeting only one client, she expected her father would lead her to one of the smaller rooms. Instead, he headed toward the corner conference room with stunning views of both downtown and the river.

The floor’s conference rooms were set up so that the only windows were on the exterior walls, providing complete privacy for what was happening within, and Skye assumed that the client had come with an entourage. What other reason could justify using the largest venue?

As she followed her father, Skye’s nerves started to flutter as they always did before she talked to a stranger. Honestly, maybe she’d made the wrong career decision, after all. Maybe she needed to get an IT job where she could sit behind a computer and not have to talk to a human at all.

Or maybe she should try her hand at writing a legal thriller. Only if it took off, she’d end up doing book signings and book tours where she’d be expected to speak to fans. That sounded terrifying.

Honestly, the truth was that she already had the perfect job, and one that she loved when it worked the way it was supposed to. What she needed was a different father, who didn’t shove her through doors and expect her to become Eliza Doolittle, suddenly polished and proper and speaking beautifully.

She half smiled at the thought. She knew her father loved her and wanted the best career for her. The trouble was that their ideas of best were so disparate. And though he loved her, he didn’t hesitate to push her into situations where she was required to speak.

He thought she would undergo some magical transformation that would let him shed his guilt. She knew that nothing would change, and the clients and colleagues would struggle to understand her slurred and slow speech until, finally, they became accustomed to the cadence and flow and no longer looked at her with pity in their eyes.

That, of course, was the worst. The pity. Or, even more mortifying, that glint that suggested she wasn’t intelligent. That somehow her stumbling speech reflected a stumbling mind as well. She knew it wasn’t true. Her friends knew it wasn’t true, so why the hell did she care what strangers thought? She shouldn’t. But she did.

It was slightly better now. Her pedigree as a lawyer granted her some modicum of respect and the benefit of the doubt. But when she’d been in school...

She shuddered. Those had been hard times.

Her father paused outside the conference room door. “This is an important client,” he said, his voice low, even though they both knew that sound did not travel through those walls. “I’m not telling you that to make you nervous, but to understand that your paper has drawn interest from unusual and important places.”

“Okay.”

Skye wondered who the client could possibly be. It wasn’t as if there were that many people interested in the line of royal succession in countries across the globe. Then again, the paper covered the process of amending a country’s constitution or legislative process, and those concepts could be applied more broadly. So perhaps it made sense that potential international clients wanted to learn more.

Still, though, it seemed odd that her paper was the catalyst.

Her father pushed open the door, and she fell in step behind him, making sure she had a smile on her face and an interested and engaged gleam in her eye.

She thrust out her hand automatically, her mind so full of questions that she wasn’t really looking at who might be in the room. Then her father stepped aside, and she got a full view of the man rising from the chair at the head of the table.

It was Leo.