Worth Everything (Worth It 4)

“Not quite.” He drank from his water glass, trying to figure the proper tactic how to handle this. How to handle her. “The soft approach is best, I think.”

Her eyes flashed with the briefest hint of anger. “What are you going to do, then? Call him up like an old friend and ask him out for drinks?”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

If looks could kill, he’d be dead, sprawled across the floor in less than ten seconds, what with the irritated glare Stasia was shooting in his direction. “That is a ridiculous idea. I didn’t hire you to become reacquainted with him, have a few drinks and reminisce over old times.”

“That’s not my intention—”

“Good,” she interrupted. “I’m not funding your happy hour reunions.”

Jesus, she was pissy. “We never did discuss terms or payment, now did we?” He leaned against the back of the booth, the velvety soft fabric cushioning him comfortably. “I’ll have you know my services don’t come cheap.”

She nearly choked on her drink. “You sound rather cheap with that sort of statement.”

Ah, a sense of humor. He didn’t know the woman had it in her. “I’ll have a document drawn up tomorrow with my normal rates and fees. If they meet your approval, we can have it signed and official in a matter of minutes.”

“Fine. I’ll pay you whatever’s necessary if you can convince the Worths to accept me as one of their own.” She nodded once, looking momentarily pleased. “But I must say, I don’t agree with your approach.”

“And how would you handle the situation if you were in my shoes?”

“I would set up a meeting immediately. Tell them that I want to talk to them, learn more about them.”

“They won’t believe that.”

She scoffed. “Why not?”

“They think all you want is a piece of the Worth pie.” When she frowned, he continued. “They think you’re after the money, Stasia. Which of course, you are, right?”

“I don’t want their money.” Her voice was cold, sending a chill straight down his spine.

“You can be honest with me. Attorney/client confidentiality and all that.”

“That’s all you think I care about?” Her voice rose, became almost shrill, and he knew he’d touched a nerve.

Fine, she could pose and bluster all she wanted. But why else would she go to such lengths to get in contact with the Worths? “I thought that’s what this was about.”

“Money.” She sneered, the disgust written all over her face. “That’s what makes the world go ’round, does it not? What everyone wants, what everyone believes they deserve.”

“Easy for you to say, considering you have no idea what it’s like to be poor.” He knew, knew more than any boy should have to witness. With abject poverty came absolute desperation, and he’d endured much at the hands of his mother. Never abuse, she wasn’t cruel.

No, more like she’d been completely naïve and horrendously impulsive, always at the detriment to both of them. For that was all they’d had—each other.

“I’m sure you don’t suffer,” Stasia tossed at him. “Being the greedy, ruthless lawyer that you are.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” he practically snarled.

“And you don’t know anything about me.” She sniffed, her gaze narrowed, elegant in her anger. “You have no business passing judgment.”

The waitress appeared with Stasia’s salad, setting it in front of her quickly, as if she were afraid she might get bitten. The tension at the table was palpable, his anger mixing with Stasia’s a living, breathing thing and in any other situation he would’ve marveled at that. Wondered why she invoked so much damn passion within him.

But tonight he was too furious.

“If you want me to represent you, then we’re going to have to get a few things straight,” he started when the waitress made her escape.

“No, you need to get a few things straight first. I’m not some money-grubbing woman looking for the next pile of money to fall into. I don’t care about that, I never have.” She stabbed her fork into her salad viciously, like she wanted to kill the lettuce with one precise thrust. “There’s more to this than you can imagine.”

“I’d love to hear all about it.” He rested his forearms on the edge of the table, truly interested in her explanation. Would it be another excuse? He’d heard plenty through the years, had grown rather weary of it all. She was so indignant, so offended by his implications he knew this story would be a good one.