A Legal Affair by Maureen Smith Page A

gave him a sharp look. “What makes you so sure she won’t? ”
    With that terse challenge hanging in the air between them, she spun on her heel and strode out of the office.
    Caleb was left to mull over the question, already knowing the answer.
    When it came to Daniela Moreau, the only thing he could be sure of was that he was in trouble.
    Just how much trouble remained to be seen.

Chapter 7
     
    W hen Daniela stepped through the doors of Roarke Investigations that afternoon, the phone was ringing off the hook. The secretary, Carole Hightower, was frantically trying to keep up with the rapid succession of incoming calls while entering information into the computer in front of her.
    Daniela quickly surveyed the reception area, which had undergone a radical transformation with the purchase of rustic pine tables and chairs artfully arranged around the large room. The seat cushions were upholstered in earthy shades of orange, red, salmon and turquoise that added to the Southwestern motif, and wood-framed Native American prints graced walls painted the color of papaya. The new and improved decor—courtesy of Daniela—was a marked departure from the sparse, no-frills private detective offices characterized in hardboiled mystery novels.
    In one chair, a short, balding Hispanic man barked rapid-fire Spanish into his cell phone while puffing away on a cigarette.
    Daniela walked over to him. “Excuse me, sir.”
    When he glanced up at her, she pointed toward the sign prominently displayed above the large oak reception desk. “We don’t allow smoking in the building.”
    “Sorry,” he mumbled sheepishly. He glanced around the room for an ashtray, then, finding none, stubbed out his cigarette against the sole of his leather loafer.
    “Would you like some coffee, Mr.—?”
    “Rodriguez. Luis Rodriguez. Yes, thank you very much.”
    “Coming right up.”
    Daniela made her way toward the reception desk, where the secretary was juggling multiple calls. She sent Daniela a flustered look as she approached. “Kenneth Roarke is not in at the moment,” she spoke into the receiver. “Can I transfer you to his voice mail? All right, please hold.” She pressed a flashing button on the phone, then groaned. “Oh, no. I hung up on him. Again.”
    Daniela inwardly cringed. “Why don’t you take a break and get Mr. Rodriguez a cup of coffee?” she suggested.
    The woman was only too eager to vacate her station in exchange for a less demanding task.
    Daniela spent the next fifteen minutes answering and forwarding calls with a swiftness and efficiency borne from years of practice. Three years, to be exact.
    That was how Noah Roarke found her when he emerged from his office followed by another man. After escorting his client to the door, Noah doubled back to the reception desk, one dark brow raised at his sister.
    “Where’s Carole?” he asked.
    “Making coffee.”
    Noah grimaced. “Have you tasted her coffee?” he muttered under his breath, so as not to be overheard by those waiting in the reception area.
    Leaning forward, Daniela whispered back, “It can’t be much worse than her skills as a receptionist.”
    “Don’t be too sure about that.” Noah turned and gestured for Luis Rodriguez to follow him back to his office.
    Carole returned a few minutes later carrying a disposable cup filled with a dark, sludgy brew masquerading as coffee. “Where’s Mr. Rodriguez?”
    “With Noah. I’ll take him the coffee,” Daniela promised, knowing she’d do no such thing as she accepted the cup from the woman and rose from the chair.
    The phone rang, and while Carole was preoccupied, Daniela dumped the coffee into a giant potted plant and tossed the cup in the trash before heading to her own office in the back.
    Her office was actually a windowless cubbyhole that doubled as the supply room. The space was dominated by a wooden antique desk and bench, and black metal filing cabinets that marched along one wall. The basic functionality