Probably the same gleam she’d gotten when she read the email from the Executive Committee, J.D. guessed. He tossed his briefcase and his gym bag onto the living room couch that faced the best feature of his apartment: floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the famed Magnificent Mile of Michigan Avenue, and beyond that, the vast blue expanse of Lake Michigan. (“At least there’s a view,” his mother had sniffed reluctantly.)

Yes, indeed, J.D. had no doubt that the email from the Executive Committee had been the absolute highlight of Payton’s day. She was clever—she never directly played the gender card with the firm’s partners, but she also never missed a chance to flaunt her feminine status. Like that “Forty Women to Watch Under 40” article, for example. The only reason he’d asked her about it was to preempt any pleasure she’d get in bringing it up herself and rubbing it in his face.

Not that it was a competition between them.

Payton Kendall, Esquire, could be named in ten magazine articles for all he cared, she could have the entire firm wrapped around one of her little liberal feminist fingers—it concerned him not one bit. J.D. knew he was a good lawyer, very good, and once he made partner (even if she made it, too), and was in complete control of his own workload, he planned to make sure that he and Payton never worked together again.

Now, if he could just get through this business with Gibson’s Drug Stores . . .

J.D. showered quickly. It was late, and he needed to get an early start tomorrow morning. Payton had very nearly beaten him into the office the other morning, and he needed to put a quick kibosh on that.

Not that it was a competition between them.

Not at all.

Four

PAYTON REVIEWED THE schedule of events for the Gibson’s executives a second time.

To say she was displeased would be an understatement.

She had been swamped this week, preparing for both the Gibson’s pitch and a sexual harassment trial that was set to start the following Wednesday. And J.D. had caught her at a particularly bad time when he stopped by her office yesterday to discuss the agenda for wining and dining Jasper Conroy and his in-house litigation team. She’d been arguing all morning with opposing counsel over last-minute additions to the exhibit list. She had hung up the phone, spotted J.D. standing in the doorway, and sensed her morning was only about to get worse. But instead, in a rare moment of apparent helpfulness, J.D. had offered to take the lead in setting up the Gibson’s schedule.

And, in a just-as-rare moment of receptiveness to anything J.D. related, as her phone began ringing off the hook and she saw the familiar number of her opposing counsel on the caller ID and realized she was about to begin Round 137 with him, she accepted J.D.’s offer.

Big mistake.

Clutching the agenda in her hand, Payton looked up at her secretary with a mixture of frustration and trepidation.

“Is this really the agenda?” she asked.

Irma nodded in the affirmative. “J.D.’s secretary just dropped it off.”

“Okay. Thanks, Irma.”

Payton pretended to resume typing at her computer as Irma left her office. She watched as her secretary headed back to her desk, waited a moment or two more, then casually got up and walked across the hall to J.D.’s office.

J.D. peered up from his desk when he heard the knock on his door.

“Got a sec?” Payton asked pleasantly. One never knew who was watching.

“For you, Payton—anytime. How can I be of assistance?” he asked.

Payton stepped into his office and shut the door behind her. They both instantly dropped the charade.

She held out the agenda accusingly. “You told me we were having dinner with the Gibson’s execs tomorrow evening.”

J.D. eased back in his chair, gesturing to the agenda. “And as you see, we are.”

“But you’re also playing golf with them tomorrow afternoon. Why wasn’t I invited?”

“Do you play golf?”

“No, but you didn’t know that.”

J.D. grinned. “Actually, I did. I overheard you mention it to Ben last summer.”

Stunned by the overt snub, Payton opened her mouth to respond. She clenched her fist as she searched for some response, some insult, anything, and a moment passed, and then another . . . and—

Nothing.

J.D. smiled victoriously. “Tell you what—why don’t you think about it for a while? Come back when you’re ready—make it a good one.” Then he ushered Payton out of his office and shut the door behind her.

She stood there in the hallway. Staring face-to-face with that stupid nameplate, J. D. JAMESON, which she was seriously tempted to tear off the wall and chuck straight at his face.

It was true, she didn’t know squat about golf; she had never even swung a club. Her avoidance was purposeful. She had distinct opinions regarding the sport and, more important, those who played it.

Payton considered her options. On the one hand, she hated the idea of J.D. getting the better of her. And she really hated the idea of looking like a clueless novice playing golf in front of Jasper and the Gibson’s team.

On the other hand, the thought of being left out for the entire afternoon was not appealing. With the partnership decision looming, she needed to ensure she was an integral part of the effort to land Gibson’s as a client. And she simply didn’t think she could stomach playing the part of the little woman sitting back at the office while the men talked shop at the twenty-fifth or whatever tee.

So as far as Payton could see, she had no choice.