The Christmas Wedding - James Patterson [7]
Eduardo wept, and his wife, in the back row, yelled “Gracias a Dios!” His kids ran up to hug him.
The only one happier than Eduardo was Emily. To her astonishment, she felt her hands shake and her eyes fill with tears. Eduardo embraced her, and then, it seemed, she was hugged and kissed by every aunt, uncle, niece, nephew, son, and daughter in Eduardo’s family. She wanted to jump up and punch the air. And maybe include Judge DeResta in the group hug.
Until she felt a vibration in the pocket of her sweater.
Dammit.
Emily clicked on her BlackBerry. The first text message was from her boss, Daniel Wycliffe Church, “Cliff” to his friends, senior partner at her firm. She read the message, which was short and to the point:
Where the shit are you? We’ve got real work to do here.
Run, Emily. Run.
Chapter 7
RUN, RUN, RUN!
Most senior offices at the law firm of Dale, Hardy had few or no personal mementos on display—no photos of adorable children or attractive spouses, no tennis trophies, golfing plaques, or crazy-crayoned drawings with “I Love You, Daddy” on them. Nothing communicated the fact that these people had private lives, probably because they didn’t.
Cliff Church did things a little differently. On his desk was a large mahogany-framed photo of a stunning blond wife and three equally photogenic blond sons. Cliff also had framed photographs of himself salmon fishing in Vancouver, fly-fishing in Idaho, surf fishing in Bali.
There was no image of him posing with a United States president, but there was a photo of Cliff and his wife at a restaurant table in Los Angeles with Reese Witherspoon and Jake Gyllenhaal. Cliff was smiling with satisfaction. The other three were roaring with laughter. What a hilarious joke Cliff must have told.
“Listen, I don’t mean to knock your pro bono shit,” Cliff was saying. “It’s great PR and terrific chicken soup for the soul. But you and I should be reading every fucking thing about those Jap automakers we’re having dinner with tonight.”
Emily sank farther down into the ridiculously soft cushions on Cliff’s sofa. She was pretty sure that Cliff had selected those cushions because they gave him the chance to study the legs of every woman who sat there, including herself.
Emily responded with unconcealed irritation. “I have already read every fucking thing about those…those gentlemen from Nissan we’re having dinner with tonight. And I’ve read it all three times.”
“Then I guess we’ll be in fine shape,” Cliff said. His smile was seductive. “Oh, and don’t worry. I won’t use words like ‘Japs’ or ‘fucking’ tonight. As you know, I can turn my political-correctness button on in a second.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know you can do that. You went to Andover and Harvard.”
“I’ll swing by your place about seven. It’ll give us plenty of time to get to the restaurant. Did your gal make a rez at Momofuku like I suggested?” Cliff asked.
“No. I thought about it, and I figured we shouldn’t try to out-Japanese the Japanese. We’re going to Smith and Wollensky—oysters, thick steaks, and plenty of scotch.”
“You are one smart lady,” he said. “All wise-guy cynicism aside, I mean that, Em.”
“Yes, I am,” Emily said, anxious to get out of Cliff’s office.
She was angry about two things. First, Cliff’s sexist attitude. And second, the fact that she found him attractive. Gaby would have been so, so disappointed.
Which reminded her—what kind of man had won Gaby’s heart?
Chapter 8
EMILY, AS WAS OFTEN the case, turned out to be right. Smith & Wollensky was an excellent choice for the men from Nissan and their potential lawyers.
“So happy not to eat sushi and sushi and sushi. Excellent beef is delicious alternative,” one of the prospective clients said as she and Cliff helped three of them into a waiting London TownCar.
“Well, we’re happy you enjoyed it. We did too,” Emily said. “I’m also happy that Cliff-san decided to take you to a steakhouse.” She distinctly heard Cliff whisper, “Asshole.”
“We will be in contact tomorrow,” said the same Japanese gentleman, and then, as Emily bowed from the neck