Dare to Love (Maxwell #3)



I waited in the reception area of Mr. Davenport’s office. Kelton wasn’t there yet, but we had another ten minutes before our scheduled appointment. I flipped through a car magazine, landing on a page that displayed a Lamborghini. The headline read A Relentless Force—A Fearless Look. I studied the picture of the expensive automobile, picturing Kelton behind the wheel. Several other words came to mind when I thought of Kelton—sleek, hard, and powerful from the way he’d felt in my hands that morning to the way he’d kissed me. I’d wanted us to keep going. I’d wanted every part of him, but Chloe had blown that moment to pieces. What was she doing there at eight in the morning? I would’ve asked her when I practically tripped over her on the steps, but I was too irritated, too frustrated, too jealous. Okay, too angry, too, at Kelton for spouting off about Erika Ames. It wasn’t so much the name but rather his flippant and amused attitude over my jealousy.

I tapped my foot on the carpeted floor—3:59. No Kelton. I called him. The line went straight to voicemail. “Kel, where are you?”

Bonnie, Mr. Davenport’s squat assistant, walked up. “Where’s Mr. Maxwell?” She searched the reception area.

“I’m sorry. He must be running late.” He’d wanted to be there since he was vying for a summer position at the firm. Not only that, I needed him. He’d done his homework on Florida law. “We can start without him.” I prayed nothing had happened to him.

I clutched my phone as we passed by the conference room, law library, and other offices bustling with lawyers and assistants. Phones rang, doors closed, and a young guy with a ball cap wheeled a mail cart past us. I could never see myself in a stuffy office. Working in some type of marine biology job appealed to me far more than any job that required a suit with heels.

“I explained to Mr. Davenport about your appearance,” Bonnie said.

I’d forgotten that I’d had my wig on when I met with Mr. Davenport. “Thank you.” Bonnie had done a double take when I’d removed my wig in front of her. I’d thrown it in the trash in the ladies’ room.

Bonnie gestured with her painted blue nails to the chair in front of Mr. Davenport’s desk.

I eased down onto the leather seat, squinting at the bright sunshine beaming through the windows with a panoramic view of the Boston skyline.

Bonnie waited for Mr. Davenport to sign a document. After she’d collected the paper, she left, leaving us in complete silence.

Placing his elbows on his desk, Mr. Davenport twined his fingers together, his bushy gray eyebrows lifting. “So, no Mr. Maxwell.” He didn’t sound surprised.

“I know he had class. He probably got hung up there.” I hoped Kelton had a good excuse. I didn’t want to see him ruin his chances for the summer position.

“Very well. I’ve managed to talk with Mr. Pilkington, the lawyer in Florida, and read through the estate documents. First, Mr. Pilkington has tried to call the trustee, Terrance Malden, on several occasions. Unfortunately, he hasn’t been able to connect with him. Second, while we try to locate Mr. Malden, it’s wise to freeze the estate assets.”

“Kelton found that under Florida law that if we can prove Terrance no longer lives in Florida, then we could get him removed as a trustee immediately. Is that true?”

“It is. But we would need a document or evidence to support that assumption.”

“His son, Zach, lives in Boston.”

“Is Mr. Malden living with his son?” He picked up a pen and scribbled on a pad.

“Not to my knowledge.” I held a fingernail between my teeth.

“And does his son know where he is?”

“He’s left a message with his father to call him. Sir, Terrance Malden is a heavy gambler. While I can’t say for certain he’s taken my money, my gut tells me he has. We have to do something quickly.”

“Freezing the assets will stop him from withdrawing any more money. However, it will take time to draw up the paperwork. Then we have to schedule a time with a judge. Mr. Pilkington will issue the temporary injunction with the courts in Miami. I’ve drafted an affidavit for you to sign. It’s not hard evidence, but we’ll see if it will pass muster with the judge.” He handed me the document and a pen.

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