Hayley - Kathryn Shay Page 0,4
door.
Hell. This was all she needed.
The woman standing there had dressed in haute couture on a Saturday morning. “So, the jailbird’s out.”
“Hello, Mother. How did you get up here?”
“Robert knows me.” Bridget Sullivan’s face was pinched. Then again, whenever she laid eyes on her daughter, her features crunched up and got ugly. “Let me inside, please.”
“I was about to take a bath. I’d like to be alone.”
Bridget, as Hayley thought of her, brushed past her daughter, entered the apartment, went down the short hallway and into the living room to the right. “Come in here, Hayley.”
Best to deal with this now. Hayley went inside and sat on one of the leather couches. To say she felt scuzzy was an understatement.
Bridget surveyed the huge apartment in lower Manhattan, consisting of an oversize living space in the front with a view of the city and a kitchen behind it. Off that were two complete suites, on either side, one for her and one for Finn. Then she turned her attention to Hayley, who’d finally learned not to shrink under her icy gaze. “Imagine my surprise when I received a phone call last night from Marian Jackson asking if I knew my daughter was in jail.”
“I didn’t get even one phone call, so I couldn’t call you.” As if that would ever have entered her mind.
“Don’t be impudent.” She adjusted the skirt of her Armani suit, a peach one which complemented her severely cut blond hair. Young looking, she’d had a couple of face lifts. Her mother would fight growing old forever. Hayley vowed to go through the aging process gracefully.
But right now, she had to hold her own with the woman who was her mother, after all. She did soften her tone. “I’m sure that was a shock, that you worried about me, and that I disappointed you. Again. So, I’m sorry for all those things.”
“Did you really spend the night with Paul Covington?” There was an odd tone to her voice.
“I did. The judge isolated us thinking we might be forced to call a truce.”
“Did you?”
“It doesn’t matter. My boss probably won’t assign me his cases anyway.”
“I hope this isn’t a black mark on your name.” Bridget sighed. “I met him, you know?”
Hayley’s jaw dropped. “When?”
“At a gala two months ago. He’s very charming.”
She would have snorted if her mother wouldn’t have had a fit. “To others maybe. Though he did give me his jacket to stretch out on so I could sleep.”
“You look horrendous.”
“Hence the bath I was going to take.”
Again, Bridget raised her chin and watched her with an expression of distain. Hayley vowed never to do that to her kids. “Go clean up now, and I’ll answer some email on my phone. Then we can have lunch together.”
“No, we can’t. I’m drained. I need time to regroup.” She couldn’t face a lunch with her mother, which was always tense. “I’ll take a rain check.”
“That wasn’t a request.”
Hayley stood. “Neither was mine. Now, I insist you leave.”
“You are so much like your father it frightens me sometimes.”
The hell with being nice. “I’m glad to hear that.” Hayley walked to the foyer and opened the door. Her mother made her wait, then finally appeared.
“Goodbye, Hayley. I won’t contact you again. When you want to see me, call.”
Don’t hold your breath, Mommy Dearest.
“Understood. Goodbye.”
Though she’d put up a good front, Hayley closed the door and slid down the wood, unable to bear her mother’s wrath. Ronan used to intervene between them, but he was gone now. She put her head in her hands.
Chapter 2
* * *
On Monday morning, Paul walked into the building where his law firm, Cook, Cramer and Cromwell, was located, not far from the courthouse. Taking an elevator to the fifth floor, he knew the shit was going to hit the fan. Edward Cook, a distinguished, elderly man, senior partner and founder of the firm, would not be pleased by Paul’s antics over the weekend. John Cramer, an associate partner who had taken an immediate dislike of Paul, would be furious and let Paul know it. Shelby Cromwell, his favorite, and the woman who recruited him, would probably shrug it off. He entered the hushed atmosphere of the offices with as much humility as he could muster. After greeting the receptionist and security guard in the entry area, Paul headed right to Cook’s suite.
“Good Morning, Mr. Covington.”
“Hello, Ms. Truman.” Cook’s secretary for a long time. “How are you today?”
“I’m fine. Have a nice weekend?”
He rolled his eyes. “Is