Hayley coughed to cover her reaction.
“Why is it cloudy?” Paul asked.
“If you're upset and angry over a recent situation, then this can show up in your aura as a clouded dark red. If you harbor negative thoughts, that kind of thinking will color your aura, too.” She peered over at him. “Are you having negative thoughts, sir?”
“Nah.” He pulled Hayley close. “Not with her next to me.”
“My turn,” Hayley said popping up and entering the booth. She came out shortly, Natasha went through the same process with the photo and both reseated themselves.
“My dear,” the woman said, her eyes wide. “Most people have one or two colors in their aura, but yours is a rainbow. Very rare, reserved for those who are very special.”
Paul winked at her. “We’ve known that all along.”
“Hush,” she said.
“People with these auras are outgoing and confident, strong willed and intuitive, optimistic and content.” She studied the image further. “They’re also healers.”
Paul said, “That’s all good, right?”
“Yes, you’re a special person, Miss. We give one caveat to those with rainbow auras. Healers are often easily hurt by those they heal.”
Paul sighed heavily. Christ, everything was working against him. All he wanted was to have a lighthearted day, doing something different.
Hayley must have seen his mood as they left. “Don’t worry Paul. I’m tough. I may be a healer, but I can take care of myself.”
“I know.” The problem was he didn’t want to be the one who hurt her.
* * *
On Monday morning, Paul took an uber to the firm because he didn’t feel like bucking the crowds on the subway. And what if people recognized him? His face and the story of the gala had been plastered online and on television, and his voicemail continued to overflow. When he neared his building, he found the press staked out on the sidewalk and spilling into the street.
Damn it. “If you don’t mind,” he said to the driver. “I’d like to bypass the address I gave you and get out at the end of the block.”
“Sure buddy. Quite a crowd there. I wonder why.”
“Mmm.”
Once on the street, he spied a coffee shop and went inside.
I’ll have latte. No skim.
There she was again. He’d been successful in banishing her from his mind since they parted because he knew she was upset about his secrets. The anchors on TV had gotten her antenna up about his background, and she didn’t sleep well during the night.
He ordered black coffee and sat down.
The time of reckoning was coming about his family. He needed to tell her in case the press found out. She’d be hurt more if she learned about him that way.
But now, he needed to get to work. He phoned the firm.
“Cook, Cramer and Coldwell.”
“Beverly, it’s Paul.”
“Hello, Paul.” Her usually no-nonsense voice was very friendly. “Everyone’s waiting for you to get here.”
“I tried. I drove by the press in front of the building and I knew I’d be mobbed. I’m at a coffee shop on the corner. Can I speak to Mr. Cook, please?”
Soon, the senior partner came on. “Good morning, Paul. Congratulations on your…efforts Saturday night. We’re all very impressed by your bravery.”
“It was knee jerk reaction, sir. But thanks anyway. I’m stuck at the Central Café because of the crowds in front of the office.”
“We tried to make the press leave, but to no avail.”
“I doubt I can even get through them.”
“Let me call a company we use on occasion. I’ll have somebody there within thirty minutes.”
Huh? Did he mean security?
Paul disconnected and sipped his coffee. And thought about making love with Hayley. He adored her spontaneity and creativity. She was, simply put, a goddess, as he’d called her on the boat that first night.
Matka would love her.
Again, thoughts of his mother shamed him. He’d texted her—for the first time in eighteen years—that he was fine. Nothing more. But since her contact, he longed to see her.
Two men entered the coffee shop. Both big, both dressed in suits. They surveyed the room then strode to him. “Mr. Covington. We’re here to take you to work.”
“Who are you?”
“Patterson and Drake. Body men.”
“Ah, well, I’m ready.”
The mob hadn’t lessened any when they got to the building and when the reporters saw him, they erupted with questions shouted at him. Patterson went first, Drake in back of him. “Excuse us,” Patterson said, weaving through the crowd.
Drake told him, “Stick close.”
“Whatever you say.”
Amidst noise loud enough to hurt his eardrums and microphones sticking in his face, they ploughed through the mass news anchors and camera crews. Once inside, the heavy glass door blocked out the cacophony the press had created, and the two men continued up the elevator with Paul. When they reached the offices, Drake opened the door for him. “We’ll be here all day, Mr. Covington, if you need us again.”
“Thank you very much. I appreciate your efforts.”
The other lawyers and staff had come out of their offices or cubicles, and waited to see him. They clapped when he appeared. Edward approached him. “Come on into the conference room, Paul.” They walked down the corridor side-by-side.
The twenty senior and associate partners gathered around a large, oval table. Many slapped him on the back, murmured complimentary words to him, and then they all sat.
Edward began. “The reason I called us all together is to offer our thanks to you, Paul, but also to discuss how to handle things from here on out.”
“Here on out? In what way?”
“Mostly, what cases you’ll be assigned.”
“I like what I’m doing now.”
Shelby Cromwell, a fifty-year-old woman, married with kids, who had recruited Paul, leaned forward. “I’m thinking we should give you more high-profile clients.”
Something set off his radar. “High-profile in what respect?” The firm defended mostly people accused of white-collar crime.
Edward slid a stack of folders to him. “Look these over. See what appeals to you.”
Paul opened the first file. Health care fraud. Hmm, now that interested him. Two Tribeca doctors were accused of requiring surgery for patients who came to them in order to receive steroid injections. Which was charged to insurance. Then they were allowed to get the injections. But also, the doctors gave them prescriptions for high doses of opioids, also very costly.
“I’ve been wanting to get into these cases. In California, I won several class actions suits against doctors who acted similarly.”
All three major partners exchanged frowns.
“Paul,” Shelby said softly. “We’re representing the doctors.”
Ah, he got it.
He scowled. “I’m not sure I’m the right person for this.”
“I think you are, Paul.” Now Shelby seemed more insistent. “Check the rest of them.”
He leafed through the other files. Money-laundering, conspiracy to commit wire fraud, a case of a laboratory fraud by a company who did blood-testing for sexually transmitted diseases.