Free Head Over Heels by Susan Andersen Page B

wore under his plaid shirt, then reached for the handle.
    A soft bell pinged overhead when he pushed the door open, and a young woman looked up from behind the counter. She gave him a practiced smile. “Good morning, sir. May I help you?”
    Coop crossed plush charcoal carpeting to the curved mauve and gray reception counter. “My name is Cooper Blackstock,” he said. “I’d like to see Mr. Peavy.”
    â€œDo you have an appointment?”
    â€œNo. But if he doesn’t have time to see me today, perhaps I could make one.”
    She picked up a telephone receiver and paused with her finger poised over the intercom button. “May I tell him what this is in regards to, Mr. Blackstock?”
    â€œI’d rather take that up with him, if you don’t mind.”
    Her professional smile didn’t falter and, giving him a nod, she depressed the button beneath her finger. “Mr. Peavy,” she said a moment later. “There’s a Mr.Blackstock here to see you. Yes, sir, Cooper Blackstock.” She listened for a moment, then said, “No, sir. He doesn’t have an ap—Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Very good, sir.”
    She reseated the receiver and looked up at Coop. “He has a conference call scheduled with a client in a moment, but if you don’t mind waiting, he said he could give you part of his lunch hour.”
    â€œThank you. I appreciate it.” Coop flopped down on an uncomfortable gray upholstered Eames-style chair and picked up the first magazine that came to hand. He flipped through its pages without absorbing much more than a vague impression that half its content seem to feature rich recipes while the other half was devoted to dieting tips.
    â€œMr. Blackstock?”
    He looked up to see the receptionist extending a clipboard over the counter.
    â€œI need to get some billing information, please.”
    He got up and filled out the form. Taking a seat once again, he picked up another periodical.
    This one turned out to be an older issue of Time magazine, and he found an article that sparked an idea in his mind. It kept him absorbed until a door to the side of the counter opened and the receptionist stuck her head out. “Mr. Peavy will see you now.”
    Coop made a note of the magazine’s date and issue number and rose to follow her into the heart of the office suite.
    She stopped in front of a closed door down the hall a moment later and gave it a quiet tap. They were invited in by a male voice. The receptionist opened the door, then stood back for Coop to enter. She pulled itclosed as soon as he’d passed through, and a man who looked to be in his early forties rose from behind an oak desk to greet him.
    â€œMr. Blackstock, I’m Neil Peavy.” His brown hair was receding, but he looked fit beneath his expensively cut suit and had the subtly pampered sheen of a man who takes care of himself. Leaning across the desk, he extended an immaculately manicured hand. They shook, then Peavy waved a hand at the chair that faced his desk. “Please. Sit down.” He resumed his own seat. “Tell me what I can do for you.”
    Coop took the seat indicated and met the lawyer’s gaze. “You can give me some information about Eddie Chapman’s case.”
    The man’s face closed down. “What are you, a reporter? If so, you should know better than to ask me to divulge privileged communications.” He rose to his feet. “Now, if that’s all…”
    Coop stretched his feet out in front of him, casually crossed one ankle over the other, and settled more firmly in his seat. “I’m not a reporter, Mr. Peavy. I’m—” Nothing I’m about to just blurt out without a few safeguards in place . He fished his checkbook out of the back pocket of his jeans. “Look. Let me write you a retainer.”
    Peavy’s eyebrows drew together. “Why would you want to do that?”
    â€œBecause