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Authors: Brenda Joyce
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could tell she had eased the situation, but she was thinking that Adamwas the perfect date for a big Hollywood bash. Adam was slick and elegant and a Hollywood lawyer from a top L.A. firm. He really was the perfect choice.
13
A dam Gordon paused at the front receptionist’s desk. “I have an appointment with Mr. Glassman.”
She smiled. “Please go through.”
He knew the way, of course, and was told to sit down in the waiting room near Glassman’s private office. He was tall and slim, impeccably tailored, dark-haired and blue-eyed, elegantly handsome. He was perspiring just a touch.
Glassman made him nervous. And mad.
A kind of mad frustration.
Even though Glassman was the answer to it all.
Adam was the fourth and youngest son of the Gordons of Boston. His family were authentic blue bloods, his great-great-grandfather having come over with his bride before the American Revolution. He had supported the British in that war, a fact that the Gordons had fastidiously buried; the current Mrs. Gordons were both members of Boston’s Daughters of the American Revolution.
His oldest brother was heir to a small industrially based conglomerate. He was married, with two children, the epitome of Boston society. The second son was an investment banker, having tripled his million-dollar trust already. The third son had died in Vietnam, but only after numerous feats of heroism and even more medals.
Adam had always been the black sheep.
Too young to go to ’Nam, he had been old enough to march in Washington, protesting U.S. involvement. He had dropped out of college as a senior, hitchhiked across thecountry with a girlfriend who turned him on to all the drugs he hadn’t tried, and to group sex, which he loved. They wound up in Oregon on a commune led by a religious fanatic. Adam secretly thought that the Maharajah—as he privately referred to him—was a nut and a con artist, but there was a ratio of about three girls to one guy, and his bed was always warmed, usually by two at once. He drifted through the days in a haze of pot, THC (which they were now saying was acid), speed, and hash.
His father had died of a heart attack ten years ago. Adam hadn’t cared then—he had been high on opium at the time—and he didn’t care now. His father had always looked down his long, aristocratic nose at his youngest son, had always shown how much he disapproved of him, how much he resented fathering a failure. His mother, ever the obedient wife, followed her husband’s cue exactly—when she wasn’t doing her charities or going to her dressmaker or the hairdresser. In fact, she had less time for her youngest than her husband did, which said a lot.
It all ended when Adam overdosed and nearly died on his way to Emergency. His older brother flew out and never said a word of recrimination. His face was set with worry and fear—not disgust. Adam had always worshiped his older brother Fred, the ten-year difference in their ages making that easy to do. Fred was everything Adam was not. He was responsible.
Still in withdrawal, Adam had broken down and cried on Fred’s shoulder. Fred actually held and soothed him, and Adam at that moment knew he had been a fool. The one thing he wanted to do more than anything else in the world was to make Fred proud of him. He went to a rehab program in Tucson, then to the university to finish up his B.A. Excelling at his studies, he was accepted into law school, and he graduated number two in his class. Fred and his wife came to the graduation, and Fred was beaming. Adam felt it had all been worth it.
Fred got him his first job in L.A. as a corporate lawyer, and four years later Adam joined one of the most prestigious firms in the city, Benson, Hull, and Krutschak. For six yearshe had risen through the ranks because he was bright—something he had always been told but had never believed. He had never bothered to use his intelligence until he had gone back to school.
Now he had made it, in a sense.
13
A dam Gordon paused at the front receptionist’s desk. “I have an appointment with Mr. Glassman.”
She smiled. “Please go through.”
He knew the way, of course, and was told to sit down in the waiting room near Glassman’s private office. He was tall and slim, impeccably tailored, dark-haired and blue-eyed, elegantly handsome. He was perspiring just a touch.
Glassman made him nervous. And mad.
A kind of mad frustration.
Even though Glassman was the answer to it all.
Adam was the fourth and youngest son of the Gordons of Boston. His family were authentic blue bloods, his great-great-grandfather having come over with his bride before the American Revolution. He had supported the British in that war, a fact that the Gordons had fastidiously buried; the current Mrs. Gordons were both members of Boston’s Daughters of the American Revolution.
His oldest brother was heir to a small industrially based conglomerate. He was married, with two children, the epitome of Boston society. The second son was an investment banker, having tripled his million-dollar trust already. The third son had died in Vietnam, but only after numerous feats of heroism and even more medals.
Adam had always been the black sheep.
Too young to go to ’Nam, he had been old enough to march in Washington, protesting U.S. involvement. He had dropped out of college as a senior, hitchhiked across thecountry with a girlfriend who turned him on to all the drugs he hadn’t tried, and to group sex, which he loved. They wound up in Oregon on a commune led by a religious fanatic. Adam secretly thought that the Maharajah—as he privately referred to him—was a nut and a con artist, but there was a ratio of about three girls to one guy, and his bed was always warmed, usually by two at once. He drifted through the days in a haze of pot, THC (which they were now saying was acid), speed, and hash.
His father had died of a heart attack ten years ago. Adam hadn’t cared then—he had been high on opium at the time—and he didn’t care now. His father had always looked down his long, aristocratic nose at his youngest son, had always shown how much he disapproved of him, how much he resented fathering a failure. His mother, ever the obedient wife, followed her husband’s cue exactly—when she wasn’t doing her charities or going to her dressmaker or the hairdresser. In fact, she had less time for her youngest than her husband did, which said a lot.
It all ended when Adam overdosed and nearly died on his way to Emergency. His older brother flew out and never said a word of recrimination. His face was set with worry and fear—not disgust. Adam had always worshiped his older brother Fred, the ten-year difference in their ages making that easy to do. Fred was everything Adam was not. He was responsible.
Still in withdrawal, Adam had broken down and cried on Fred’s shoulder. Fred actually held and soothed him, and Adam at that moment knew he had been a fool. The one thing he wanted to do more than anything else in the world was to make Fred proud of him. He went to a rehab program in Tucson, then to the university to finish up his B.A. Excelling at his studies, he was accepted into law school, and he graduated number two in his class. Fred and his wife came to the graduation, and Fred was beaming. Adam felt it had all been worth it.
Fred got him his first job in L.A. as a corporate lawyer, and four years later Adam joined one of the most prestigious firms in the city, Benson, Hull, and Krutschak. For six yearshe had risen through the ranks because he was bright—something he had always been told but had never believed. He had never bothered to use his intelligence until he had gone back to school.
Now he had made it, in a sense.
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