A few minutes later, she owned a ball of mistletoe. Seen from a different perspective, she owned something from Bergdorf’s she’d actually paid for.

As soon as she stepped through the door of the suite, she discovered that she and Carter also owned a Christmas tree. It was a tiny, live tree in a beribboned terra-cotta pot, and someone had placed it on the small round table they could use for dining if they ever dined in. She assumed it was a special holiday courtesy of the St. Regis until she noticed the gift card.

“From a friend,” it said. “May your Christmas wishes come true.”

Probably one of Carter’s women, she thought despondently. It smelled nice, though. Her mother’s trees didn’t smell at all. Nothing in her mother’s house smelled of anything but bleach, ammonia or baking soda, the thrifty housewife’s cleaning supplies. The Christmas tree, dutifully put up one week before Christmas and taken down on January 1, was, of course, fake.

She wondered what Maybelle would make of her mother’s book. She’d know soon, because anything Maybelle thought was bound to come out of her mouth, and sooner rather than later.

With a sigh for what might have been, she lined up her new makeup on the marble counter in her bathroom and opened the mistletoe box. The ball of greenery came with its own little hanger, so she dragged a chair over to reach the archway that led to her bedroom door.

Then she hesitated, thought a minute, playing out the scene in her head. It would look too obvious if she backed him up toward her own bedroom door, so instead, she dragged the chair over to the arch that led to his bedroom door.

Who said she didn’t need to travel with a tool kit? Newly grateful for her mother’s wisdom, she went to work. It wasn’t easy to install the hanger in the woodwork, and it was entirely possible the hotel would charge her for damages, but she reminded herself again that for the moment, money was no object.

It looked beautiful up there, and with the tree, the suite had taken on a wonderfully Christmassy air.

Now she could focus on the case until Carter came home. Assuming she could see through her eyelashes.

“Interest rates are falling, the after-tax spread between munis, corporates and treasuries is narrowing dramatically and I personally feel this trend is going to continue.”

“Uh-huh,” Carter said. He was having sweetbreads tonight at a downtown restaurant-Chanterelle-because Mallory’s sweetbreads had looked good the night before. These were the best he’d ever eaten. Brie’s conversation, on the other hand, was not lighting his fire.

“We’re expecting some very attractive new offerings from municipalities across the country. Highly rated, Carter, and in your tax bracket-” she frowned with apparent concern “-you really should be thinking of investing in them.”

“Uh-huh.” He was starting to wonder, as he had with Athena, what had made him think Brie might be the woman he’d want to settle down with. She was gorgeous as well as dedicated to her job, and serious, which was a fine quality in a long-term woman. He just hadn’t remembered quite how serious. He speared the last bite of sweetbread. They were just great, the high point of the evening.

“I could make a call to your broker in the morning,” Brie said. “In fact, I’d really like to establish a relationship with your brokerage firm. All their clients ought to get on this bandwagon fast.”

“Hardy and White,” Carter said.

“What?”

“Hardy and White, my brokerage firm in Chicago. Take them, they’re yours.” If you’ll let me go home. “If you won’t get mad when I tell you I have to eat and run. The case is starting to heat up. My workday’s not over yet.”

“I thought you were just taking depositions.” Her eyes narrowed a bit. He guessed that was why he’d put her on his list of wife prospects. She’d shown an interest in the law.

“We are,” he said as the waiter cleared plates away and proffered dessert menus. “But the evidence has revealed certain ramifications, potentially ruinous ramifications, that-”

“I’ll have the crème brûlée and an espresso,” Brie said briskly to the waiter.

“Same here,” Carter said in a hurry, because her mouth was already poised for her next attack.

“Who should I ask for when I call Hardy and White?”

“Dan Whitcomb,” Carter said. “Now, these ramifications have to be addressed before we find ourselves in a crisis situation with no way back to-”

“I’m sure you can find a minute in the morning to pave the way for me with Dan Whitcomb,” Brie said, scribbling on her organizer screen.

“I’ll do it first thing,” Carter assured her earnestly. For a single phone call he could buy his soul back and go home to find out what Mallory had been up to tonight.

It seemed a small price to pay.

Carter hadn’t wanted to go to lunch with Phoebe Angell today, but she’d sort of cornered him. He hadn’t enjoyed his date with Brie, either, but at least he’d had an excuse not to “pick up where we left off” with Phoebe, which was what she had suggested they do tonight. At her apartment. With take-out Chinese and a bottle of wine she described as “a big wine.” Wasn’t much doubt what she had in mind.

Both unsatisfactory events should have given him a chance to get Mallory and her secrets off his mind for a while, but they’d had just the opposite effect. She wasn’t the same person he’d known in law school, and the change was upsetting. Chewing his lip, he stepped into the suite, where Mallory’s eyelashes nearly knocked him back out. “Hi,” he said, practically stammering. Sitting innocently at the desk working on her laptop, she batted those lashes once, twice. “Hi,” she said. “Neither one of us seems to be much of a night owl.”

“Not now, anyway. Pressures of work, stress…” He trailed off, fascinated by the smudgy line of blue-green under her eyes that he could see even through her lower lashes, which were just as stunning as the upper ones. Stunning in the sense that he felt stunned.

“Look on the table,” she said next, making a few keystrokes. “Somebody sent you a Christmas tree.”

He edged over to the tree and read the card. “I don’t know who,” he said. “Maybe somebody sent it to you.” She had to know who sent it to her. One of the guys she’d been seeing, or worse, the one guy she’d gone out with all three nights they’d been in New York.

She seemed to be hesitating before she answered him, and when she did it wasn’t a satisfactory, definitive answer at all. “Maybe,” was all she said. “Anyway, we have a tree.”

“Absolutely not,” was what he’d been hoping she’d say.

“Merry Christmas,” he said when he couldn’t think of anything else. “I don’t know about you, but my Christmas wish is to settle this case.” And win your undying admiration and feel man enough to court you and woo you…

Again she wasn’t saying anything, at least not very fast, so he edged back over to get another look at her eyelashes. “What are you working on?”

“I decided to do some research on porcelain caps.”

“You don’t need porcelain caps.” Now he was nearly slobbering. In an effort to stop staring at her lashes-which were incredibly long and dark and curled up, so they cast spiky shadows on her cheeks in the most amazing way-he’d gotten a good look at the rest of her. She’d taken off the jacket she’d worn today, the one that matched her eyes, and now he was seeing her in those tight pants and the top she’d worn under it. You could almost but not quite see through it. He could almost but not quite see the shadow made by the curve of her breasts. Had she gone out with this guy, whoever he was, looking like she did now?

“Not caps for me,” she said patiently. Swoop, swoop went her lashes. “How the plaintiff’s witness could whiten her teeth to the color of her caps.” Swoop, swoop.

“What did you find out?” He didn’t give a damn. He just needed a distraction. “Nothing.”