Meanwhile, Clay’s eyes were working furiously to check on Rebecca without missing a movement from Ridley. The song ended, a slow number began, and Rebecca stepped between them. “Hello, Clay,” she said, ignoring his date. “How about a dance?”

“Sure,” he said. Ridley shrugged and moved away, alone for only a second before a stampede surrounded her. She picked the tallest one, threw her arms around him, and began pulsating.

“Don’t remember inviting you.” Rebecca said with an arm over his shoulder.

“You want me to leave?” He pulled her slightly closer but the bulky wedding dress prevented the contact he wanted.

“People are watching,” she said, smiling for their benefit. “Why are you here?”

“To celebrate your wedding. And to get a good look at your new boy.”

“Don’t be ugly, Clay. You’re just jealous.”

“I’m more than jealous. I’d like to break his neck.”

“Where’d you get the bimbo?”

“Now who’s jealous?”

“Me.”

“Don’t worry, Rebecca, she can’t touch you in bed.” On second thought, perhaps she’d like to. Anyway.

“Jason’s not bad.”

“I really don’t want to hear about it. Just don’t get pregnant, okay?”

“That’s hardly any of your business.”

“It’s very much my business.”

Ridley and her beau swept by them. For the first time Clay got a good look at her back, the full extent of which was on display because her dress didn’t exist until just a few tiny inches above her round and perfect cheeks. Rebecca saw it too. “Is she on the payroll?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“Is she a minor?”

“Oh no. She’s very much the adult. Tell me you still love me.”

“I don’t.”

“You’re lying.”

“It might be best if you leave now, and take her with you.”

“Sure, it’s your party. Didn’t mean to crash it.”

“That’s the only reason you’re here, Clay.” She pulled away slightly but kept dancing.

“Hang in there for a year, okay?” he said. “By then I’ll have two hundred million. We can hop on my jet, blow this joint, spend the rest of our lives on a yacht. Your parents will never find us.”

She stopped moving and said, “Good-bye, Clay.”

“I’ll wait,” he said, then got knocked aside by a stumbling Bennett who said, “Excuse me.” He grabbed his daughter and rescued her by shuffling to the other side of the floor.

Barbara was next. She took Clay’s hand and flashed an artificial smile. “Let’s not make a scene,” she said without moving her lips. They began a rigid movement that no one would mistake for dancing.

“And how are you, Mrs. Van Horn?” Clay said, in the clutches of a pit viper.

“Fine, until I saw you. I’m positive you were not invited to this little party.”

“I was just leaving.”

“Good. I’d hate to call security.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Don’t ruin this moment for her, please.”

“Like I said. I was just leaving.”

The music stopped and Clay jerked away from Mrs. Van Horn. A small mob materialized around Ridley, but Clay whisked her off. They retreated to the back of the room where a bar was attracting more fans than the band. Clay grabbed a beer and was planning an exit when another group of onlookers encircled them. Lawyers in the bunch wanted to talk about the joys of mass torts while pressing close to Ridley.

After a few minutes of idiotic small talk with people he detested, a thick young man in a rented tuxedo appeared next to Clay and whispered, “I’m security.” He had a friendly face and seemed very professional.

“I’m leaving,” Clay whispered back.

Tossed from the Van Horn wedding reception. Ejected from the great Potomac Country Club. Driving away, with Ridley wrapped around him, he privately declared it to be one of his finest moments.

25

The announcement had said the newlyweds would honeymoon in Mexico. Clay decided to take a trip himself. If anyone deserved a month on an island, it was he.

His once formidable team had lost all direction. Perhaps it was the holidays, perhaps it was the money. Whatever the reason, Jonah, Paulette, and Rodney were spending fewer hours at the office.

As was Clay. The place was filled with tension and strife. So many Dyloft clients were unhappy with their meager settlements. The mail was brutal. Dodging the phone had become a sport. Several clients had actually found the place and presented themselves to Miss Glick with demands to see Mr. Carter, who, it happened, was always in a big trial somewhere. Usually, he was hunkering down in his office with the door locked, riding out yet another storm. After one particularly troubling day, he called Patton French for advice.

“Toughen up, ol’ boy,” French said. “It goes with the territory. You’re making a fortune in mass torts, this is just the downside. It takes a thick skin.”

The thickest skin in the firm belonged to Oscar Mulrooney, who continued to amaze Clay with his organizational skills and his ambition. Mulrooney was working fifteen hours a day and pushing his Yale Branch to collect the Dyloft money as quickly as possible. He readily assumed any unpleasant task. With Jonah making no secret of his plans to sail around the world, Paulette dropping hints about a year in Africa to study art, and Rodney following along with some vague chatter about just plain quitting, it was obvious that there would soon be room at the top.

It was just as obvious that Oscar was hustling for a partnership, or at least a piece of the action. He was studying the massive litigation still raging over Skinny Bens, the diet pills that had gone awry, and was convinced that at least ten thousand cases were still out there, unclaimed, in spite of four years’ worth of nonstop publicity.

The Yale Branch now had eleven lawyers, seven of whom had actually gone to Yale. The Sweatshop had grown to twelve paralegals, all up to their ears in files and paperwork. Clay had no hesitation in leaving both units under the supervision of Mulrooney for a few weeks. He was certain that when he returned, the office would be in better shape than when he left.

Christmas had become a season he tried to ignore, though it was difficult. He had no family to spend time with. Rebecca had always worked hard to include him with whatever the Van Horns happened to be doing, but while he appreciated the effort, he’d found that sitting alone in an empty apartment drinking cheap wine and watching old movies on Christmas Eve was a far better evening than opening gifts with those people. No gift he gave was ever good enough.

Ridley’s family was still in Georgia, and likely to stay there. At first, she was certain that she could not rearrange her modeling assignments and leave town for several weeks. But her determination to do so warmed his heart. She really wanted to jet away to the islands and play with him on the beach. She finally told one client to go ahead and fire her; she didn’t care.

It was her first trip on a private jet. He found himself wanting to impress her in so many ways. Nonstop from Washington to St. Lucia, four hours and a million miles.

D.C. was cold and gray when they left, and when they stepped off the plane the sun and the heat hit them hard. They walked through Customs with hardly a glance, at least none directed at Clay. Every male head turned to admire Ridley. Oddly, Clay was getting accustomed to it. She seemed oblivious. It had been a way of life for so long that she simply ignored everyone, which only made matters worse for those gawking. Such an exquisite creature, perfect from head to foot, yet so aloof, so untouchable.

They boarded a commuter for the fifteen-minute flight to Mustique, the exclusive island owned by the rich and famous, an island with everything but a runway long enough for private jets. Rock stars and actresses and billionaires had mansions there. Their house for the next week had once been owned by a prince who sold it to a dotcommer who leased it when he wasn’t around.