A Magical Christmas by Heather Graham Page B

that concerns me; it’s the violence. And Julie, I really do hate my job. I mean I really hate it. I do this work for the money. Iknow that you just made a lot of money, but realty can be a more tricky business than the law. Julie—”
    He broke off.
    Julie wasn’t there, and she hadn’t been there since she had told him he could be compromised.
    He stared at the receiver for a long time.
    “The hell with you!” he whispered angrily to the phone. “The hell with you!”
    He hung up.
    And he realized that he wasn’t as angry as he was depressed.
    Christmas. The holiday season. Mistletoe, holly, and good cheer.
    Bah, humbug.
    Where was the spirit?
    Two hours later, Jon found the Christmas spirit. Laria’s was an Italian restaurant/bar in the Grove with an upscale, business clientele. It was inhabited by the locals, a bit off the beaten track for the tourists. There were no shorts, cutoffs, bathing suit tops, T-shirts or the like in the place.
    It did boast a number of old Roman god and goddess statues in handsome marble; they were usually quite dignified looking. Tonight, they were all decked out in red and green Christmas lights. The soft Italian music was replaced by an endless stream of Christmas carols.
    Holly lined the windows.
    Mistletoe hung strategically from various parts of the ceiling, bound to give every male boss the chance to kiss the female employee he’d been lusting after all year.
    Jon chided himself for his cynicism and prayed that at thirty-nine he wasn’t about to catapult into a midlife crisis.
    Is that what would happen if Julie left him?
    He pushed the thought from his mind, because Bentley was there already, along with Trent and a number of the other fellows from the office. Felina Hines, Bentley’s longtime secretary and sometimes companion, was at the bar. He joined her, ordering a beer on tap. “To the holidays!” he told her, clinking his glass to hers.
    “To the holidays!” she replied, then lowered her handsome, coiffured salt-and-pepper head to his. “And to fame, fortune, and tabloid bitches,” she added acidly. He turned around. Bentley was seated with Trish Deva. Trent was now on Bentley’s other side, leaning forward, talking away with their potential new client.
    Trish, however, was turned toward Bentley. Her knee was against his. She was pencil-thin, except for enormous breasts that seemed to spill from her tight, sequined bodice. Her hair was platinum—bleached blond, but bleached damned well, right tothe roots. She possessed a stunning face. She had Bentley enraptured already.
    Jon knew why he was sitting at the bar with Felina. For all his reputation and dignity, Bentley might be just about to make a fool of himself over Trish Deva.
    “He’s a good forty years older than she is,” Jon said.
    Felina arched a weary brow at him. “Remember Anna Nicole Smith? Wasn’t she a good
sixty
years younger than that rich, decaying bastard she married?”
    Jon had to smile. But then he heard Bentley calling his name.
    “Better go,” Felina warned him.
    “He doesn’t scare me.”
    “Honey, you’ve got a future with a fortune in it if you just keep your nose to the grindstone.”
    “To the grindstone, or up somebody’s tail section?” Jon muttered. Felina smiled. “You know, you’re all right, Radcliff.”
    “I wish my wife agreed with that,” he muttered out of earshot, walking toward the table where Bentley, Trent, and Trish Deva sat.
    Bentley introduced him to Trish Deva as one of the brightest and most imaginative attorneys in the firm. Trish Deva assessed him, and seemed to like what she saw.
    “Sit down, hon. Let’s get acquainted.” Her long fingers curled around his hand, dragging him down.
    He sat. She wanted to know about him. Her huge blue eyes were wide on him. He started sweating a little bit under the collar. He talked about Christmas, telling her how he was anxious to get away with his wife and kids. She seemed amused that he had to bring up his