Free Don't Tempt Me by Barbara Delinsky Page B

simply refused to go. As she had told Sloane, she set her terms and stood by them. Now, however, she found herself rethinking those terms. If she had been drawn inexorably toward Sloane in person, his magnetism in absentia was no less awesome. He was ever on her mind.
    One by one she set up obstacles against the possibility of involvement with him; one by one they crumbled. He was a client and, as such, off limits romantically—yet he wasn’t her client, thereby lifting that professional restriction. He was a man of the world with, perhaps, a woman in every port—yet he was, by all indications, available and interested in Justine. He was a traveler by choice, off and away as he was right now—yet his home was New York, her own for the past eight years.
    In the end one thing was crystal clear. Though the power he wielded over her senses threatened long-standing principles which had shaped her life, she could no more reject his suit, should he choose to pursue it, than she could deny the passion he had awakened within her. She was a woman. Never before had she realized that simple truth so clearly.
    As the days passed and the rain-spattered streets of April dried beneath the warm May sun, she was mercifully busy. Her practice seemed to blossom in harmony with those other buds of spring—the lime-hued maples overhanging
Fifth Avenue, the pale pink dogwoods in Central Park, the red-knobbed geraniums in their streetside window boxes.
    There were clients aplenty and their related court appearances. There were in-office conferences, on-location conferences, and conferences over lunch. There were lectures to plan, research, and deliver. And, there was a victory to celebrate.
    â€œCongratulations, Justine!” exclaimed her friend and fellow law school graduate Sheila, hugging Justine warmly as she arrived, nearly breathless, at the Russian Tea Room for their monthly gastronomical adventure.
    Tall and willowy Andrea joined in buoyantly, “We knew you could do it!”
    â€œAnother small step for womankind!” The last was from Liz, blond-haired, freckle-faced Liz, and was delivered with a clenched fist in the air, as the four young women settled down at their appointed table.
    â€œThat was quite an alimony award—based on back wages , no less!” Sheila bubbled. “The idea that a woman has a right to collect for services rendered over the years of marriage is brilliant—particularly in this case, where the husband was holding out on her all those years! Imagine—keeping his wife in the dark about a million dollars’ worth of investments—and splurging the profits behind her back! I’m green with envy at the ingenuity of your argument!”
    Justine’s modesty brought a look of near guilt to her face. “Come on, Sheila. It was no more ingenious than some of those real estate contracts you’ve negotiated. Perhaps more dramatic—”
    â€œWhat’s really amazing,” Liz interjected with obvious pleasure, “is that you’ve finally gone in for the dramatic at this late stage, Justine. When we were at Sarah Lawrence, you were the most conservative of the three of us!” She and Andrea laughed in easy conspiracy.

    Justine had roomed with Liz and Andrea during her last two years of college; she had met Sheila at Columbia Law, where they had become close friends. The foursome met once a month to treat themselves to dinner at a preselected restaurant. Over the years they had sampled the exotic and the simple, the foreign and the American, the outstanding and the mediocre of New York’s myriad of offerings. Some, such as the Russian Tea Room, they returned to repeatedly.
    â€œYou’re right about that, Liz. I was pretty conservative,” Justine admitted with a smile. “As I recall, I studied all the time. Period . I must have been pret—ty bo—ring … .” She drew the last words out in singsong fashion,