"I know. I've blown this out of proportion. He's a client of Walsh's, and I presume you were discussing your issues with keeping Walsh on Pamela's case. But I'm going to ask you to stop meeting him."
I stared at him.
"Let's have dinner tonight," he said. "Are you working?"
I shook my head.
"Great. Dinner it is, then. We'll talk more then. For now, the only thing I want is for you to agree not to see him again."
I cleared my throat. "This isn't working."
"What?"
"This reconciliation. I wanted it to work. I really did. But it's not."
"Don't start that, Liv," he said. "Come to dinner and--"
"I can't. I'm stringing you along, waiting for it all to come rushing back, and it's not. It's just not. I'm sorry."
I walked out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Lydia was waiting for me at Gabriel's office, on her feet as soon as I came in, offering to take the linen blazer I'd worn. She's tall--about an inch above my five-eight--with the kind of wiry body and quick moves that suggest a lifetime of aerobics . . . or at least hard-core yoga.
Lydia has to be in her sixties. Her late sixties--past retirement age. Today she wore a stunning quartz Armani pantsuit that perfectly complemented her dark skin, with a price tag that suggested she worked more for excitement than income these days.
"I'm glad you're here, Olivia," she said. "That's what you go by, I presume?"
I must have flinched, because she shook her head, laughing softly. "I'm sorry. I guess that can be a loaded question for you. I meant do you go by Olivia, Liv . . . ? I've only ever heard Gabriel call you by your full name. I wasn't sure if that was your preference."
"Olivia's fine, but it's usually Liv. It's a name of many diminutives. The only one I hate is Olive."
She smiled. "That makes it easier. I'm always having to discreetly correct clients who call Gabriel Gabe."
"Ah, I heard he doesn't like that. So is he back?"
"Not yet. He's running late. He asked me to give you the grand tour."
I noticed a newspaper on Lydia's desk.
"There was something about me in the Post today," I said.
"The photo of you and Ricky? Yes, I know. Gabriel had me set up a Google alert so I can monitor news mentioning you. With his clientele, he needs to be on top of any whisper of trouble."
"Did he . . . see that?"
"Gabriel reads the Tribune. I buy the Post for him to browse if he has a trial being covered. With Pamela's appeal, I've been doing that, but he doesn't always have time to read it. I saw no reason to buy it for him today."
"Thanks. I know he wouldn't want his employee dating a client. It really was just coffee. Ricky and I aren't . . . involved."
"No?" Her brows lifted. "That's a waste."
I laughed, and she began the grand tour.
--
The office wasn't large, and I'd seen most of it before. There was the reception area, Gabriel's office, and the room where he met clients. He didn't bring them into his office, though there was no reason not to. His office was gorgeous, a Victorian library with gleaming wood and floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The meeting room, on the other hand, was modern and sterile. Completely devoid of personality. So, was Gabriel's personality expressed in his private office, off-limits to common clients? Hell if I knew.