“Have a seat, Reed.”
Cameron Reed’s blood chilled at the man’s tone, and he froze in the office doorway.
Randall Jamison, senior partner of the prestigious Miami law firm, Whitney, Jamison and Collins, didn’t bother looking up from the papers he was reading so he missed Cameron’s hesitation. Not that Jamison needed to look. It wasn’t like anyone would dare defy the old buzzard. So Cameron entered and sat, folding his six-foot-three self into a supple leather chair that swallowed even his tall frame like a Venus flytrap.
The chair, like the legendary attorney, was meant to intimidate. Jamison had actually been known to use the man-eating device as part of the interview process. If you could defeat the chair, you had a chance of being hired.
Staring out at the downtown Miami skyline, Cameron concentrated on the crystal-blue waters of Biscayne Bay peeking out from behind the cavern of tall buildings. Cursing his momentary lapse of control, Cam willed his pulse to return to normal. He mentally cursed those four words, which should no longer have any power over him. Except, in his experience the innocent phrase always preceded a roundhouse kick to the gut.
“Have a seat, Cameron…your parents are dead.” “Have a seat, Cameron…you’re going to a foster home.” “Have a seat, Cameron…we’re moving you to another home…again.”
Great. Jamison had looked up and Cameron hadn’t been ready. Pulling himself together, he sat up straight. “Sir?”
“I have a new case for you,” Jamison said. “You’ll leave in the morning, and you should be prepared for a couple of weeks away from the office.”
“Weeks? But my cases—”
Jamison lifted one brow, effectively silencing Cameron’s objection. “Alan Bates has already agreed to oversee the most pressing matters.”
Not happening. Bates would take over everything. He and Cameron were both gunning for partner. For the last ten years, Cameron had put in ungodly hours, removed the word “vacation” from his vocabulary, and brought in more money than anyone else in the firm. Everything he’d worked for would come to a head in the next couple of months; so being away from the office now was out of the question.
“Sir, I’m sure things can be handled from here,” Cameron said, attempting to steer matters in a direction that kept him within sight of his rival. “I’m trying to put out some fires right now.”
“We have adequate fire extinguishers here.” Jamison’s dry tone might have been humorous on anyone else. “Your skills are needed in the field. This is a special case, and I believe you are the man for the job. Prove me right and that partnership review could be in your future.”
Carrot dangled, hook baited. Cameron’s fate was sealed. “What is the case, Sir?”
“It concerns the probate of an estate in Palm Cove, north of Daytona. Victoria Armington comes from old railway money. I want you to go there and oversee the terms of her will.”
“I’m not a probate lawyer.”
“For this case you are.”
What was going on? Why would the old man want him to take on something that wasn’t his area of interest? Not that it mattered. Cam intended to hit a grand slam right to a corner office.
“Is it really necessary for me to be on-site for weeks once the will is read?” He stared Jamison down, wondering if there was any way to avoid an extended absence. “I assume there’s going to be a lengthy probate period, but I should be able to handle everything from here.”
Jamison blinked and shifted his gaze back to the stack of papers. “There are some extenuating circumstances surrounding the beneficiary. However, it is nothing you can’t handle.” The last sentence came out in a rush, but Cameron was more astounded by the blink. Randall Jamison never blinked. Not once during his over fifty years in court.
Intrigue flooded through him, followed quickly by another rush of adrenaline. Somehow, this case was personal for the old man. Which meant Cameron would stop at nothing to ensure everything went according to plan. Besides, it was a will. How complicated could it be?
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