When Dreams Tremble
Radclyffe
Leslie Harris's visit to her upstate New York lakeside family home after a decade of triumphs and disappointment resembles a nightmare more than the quiet vacation she'd herod for. The unexpected appearance of much-changed town ero girl Devon Weber, with whom Leslie shares a secret that haunts them both, rekindles an old heart ache—and reminds Leslie of just why she left. Even though her attraction to Dev comes roaring back, the one thing Leslie doesn't want is to pick up where they left off, especially not when she already has just the life she wants—a rewarding high-power law practice, a condo in Manhattan, and a lover who satisfies her without demanding the intimacy Leslie avoids. Unfortunately, environmental biologist Devon Weber doesn't play by Leslie's rules. Two women whose lives turned out far differently than they'd once imagined discover that sometimes the shape of the future can only be found in the past-and love is strongest When Dreams Tremble.
WHEN DREAMS TREMBLE
CHAPTER ONE
All set to add another notch to your belt, LJ?”
Leslie Harris glanced up from the deposition transcript, hiding her annoyance at
the interruption and the uninvited familiarity.
She’d made the mistake of leaving her ofÞ ce door partly open when she’d
arrived at 4:30 a.m., and now she discovered with a quick glance at her Piaget it
was close to seven, and the troops were arriving. It wasn’t like her to lose track
of the time.
Absently tucking a strand of her shoulder-length, ash blond hair behind her ear,
she smiled automatically at the junior associate who leaned into her ofÞ ce.
Mentally, she ran his stats. Tom Smith. Eager, just like every other ambitious
young attorney, and smart enough to recognize the important players in the Þ
rm. Points for that. Just the slightest bit obvious with his ß irtatious attention.
Minor demerit. She crossed her silk-stocking-clad legs beneath the skirt of her
custom-tailored Armani suit and shrugged. “Just another day at the ofÞ ce,
Tom.”
“Oh yeah. Like it’s every day we take on the Feds with a couple of million at
stake.”
“Uh-huh.” Actually, for her it was a near-daily occurrence, because defending
corporations in big-ticket, high-proÞ le lawsuits was her specialty. And she
liked to win. Every time. Her ferocious drive had shaped her career from the
start, as had her unfailing ability to read a jury and emphasize just the right
aspects of the case to garner their sympathy. She’d fast-tracked to partner
seven years out of law school, and her pace, if anything, had picked up in the
last year since she’d moved into a corner ofÞ ce.
But she had neither the time nor the inclination to point all this out to Tom. She’d
barely squeezed in her daily workout at the gym before coming to the ofÞ ce to
prepare for a big morning in court. She was also juggling six other cases that
were every bit as important as the one she was due to defend in two hours
before the United States District Court for the Eastern District of New York.
She reached for her fourth cup of coffee of the morning and went back to
reading.
“Get you something from the coffee shop, LJ? Bagel?”
“What?” Leslie glanced up again, surprised to see Tom still standing there.
Didn’t he have any work to do? “No. Thanks. I’m Þ ne.”
Breakfast wasn’t on her schedule. She’d be lucky if she remembered to grab a
yogurt at lunch, because the midday recess was a critical time to recap the case
with her client and revamp strategy. Working lunch was just a euphemism for
more work, and rarely included food. Fortunately, as far as tough battles went,
today’s case was middle-of-the-road.
United States v. Harlan Vehicles, LLC, et al. She knew the facts verbatim of
course, but her defense wouldn’t center on the facts. It was true that her client,
Harlan Vehicles, had imported 11,000 pieces of gasoline- and diesel-powered
equipment over the past nine months that didn’t meet the federal Clean Air Act
emission requirements. Arguing that point would be folly, because the measured
levels of smog-forming volatile organic compounds and nitrous oxides in the
exhaust was irrefutable. She never based a case on discrediting the science,
because Americans were programmed to believe facts and Þ gures. No, her
ammunition had to be more personal, something that Joe Juror could relate to.
And when the federal government assessed the company millions of dollars in
penalties and Þ nes after the special agents from the Justice Department and
U.S. Customs seized the equipment, she had just the weapon she needed.
She couldn’t make the charges go away, but she didn’t need to.
After all, what average citizen couldn’t be made to appreciate that levying
crippling costs on Harlan meant a higher price tag for them the next time they
went to buy a snowmobile for their kids for Christmas?
In this kind of case, reducing the monetary damages to tens of thousands rather
than millions of dollars—what amounted to a slap on the wrist for a corporation
the size of Harlan—was a major win.
Still mentally reviewing the order of her witness list, Leslie drained her coffee
cup and rose to get a reÞ ll. As a sudden wave of
dizziness rolled through her, she dropped her coffee cup onto the thick Persian
rug. Reß exively, she braced both arms on the desk, lowered her head, and
took several long, slow breaths. It was frighteningly difÞ cult to catch her breath,
and her heart felt as if it might dance its way up her throat and right out of her
body. She blinked and forced herself to focus on the pens and papers covering
her desk until the room stopped spinning and the black curtain obscuring her
vision lifted. Then, when she was sure she wasn’t going to faint, she carefully
lowered herself into her chair. Worried that someone might have witnessed her
spell or whatever the hell it was, she checked the door to be sure no one was
nearby.
Thankfully, the hall was empty. The last thing she needed was for her colleagues
to get the impression that she wasn’t up to form.
Her adversaries in the courtroom weren’t the only ones who killed the weak.
She got along well with her partners, but she wouldn’t exactly call them her
friends. Nevertheless, the thin veneer covering aggressive competitiveness didn’t
bother her. This was the battleÞ eld she had chosen, or perhaps the one that
had chosen her, and she intended to triumph.
“Ready to head over, LJ?” Stephanie Ackerman called from the doorway.
Leslie’s paralegal, a voluptuous redhead four inches shorter than Leslie’s Þ ve
foot six, pulled a rolling cart with two enormous briefcases strapped to it. In the
other hand, she carried a venti cappuccino.
“Just about.” Leslie smiled brightly and hoped she didn’t look as pale as she felt.
Even though her breathing was more comfortable, she still felt an odd ß uttering
sensation in her chest. Maybe no breakfast after three hours’ sleep wasn’t such
a good idea af
ter all. “Do me a favor and grab a Danish along with another
coffee for me, will you?”
“Sure. I’ll meet you by the elevators.”
Leslie waited until Stephanie disappeared to Þ ll her own briefcase with the
notes and Þ les she’d need. By the time she joined Stephanie, she felt Þ ne.
While the elevator descended, she nibbled on the Danish and scanned the
messages on her BlackBerry. When the doors slid open, she dropped the
remaining half of the pastry into a nearby wastebasket.
She didn’t need food; the upcoming mental combat was all the fuel she needed
to energize her.
By three in the afternoon the next day, Leslie knew she’d have another win in
her column. The trial was still a long way from over, but she’d sensed the subtle
change of mood in the members of the jury, from wary and perplexed—as
they’d listened to the assistant U.S.
attorney recite dry statistics and a litany of rules and regulations—to
sympathetic, when she’d pointed out the massive expense and time required for
her client to comply with those same rules and regulations.
Her subtle point, time and time again, had been that Harlan Vehicles wished to
be in compliance with the law despite the heavy Þ nancial burden placed upon
them by government regulation, and that levying huge penalties would only make
it more difÞ cult for them. Oh yes, any taxpayer would understand that.
As she listened to the testimony of another of the government’s scientiÞ c
experts, she ran numbers in her head, calculating how much she might be able to
rein in the penalties. A very great deal, she wagered.
“Your witness, Counselor,” the judge said.
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Leslie rose quickly and strode briskly from behind
the defense table. She had only a second to register the violent racing of her
heart before she fainted.
LJ!
My God, Leslie! Someone get some water!
“I’m Þ ne. Fine,” Leslie said weakly. Vaguely aware of the fact that she was
lying on the ß oor in the middle of the courtroom, she struggled to sit up.
Someone held her down with the slightest touch to her shoulder, and she didn’t
have the strength to protest. Her vision wavered and she felt as if she were
trying to breathe underwater. “No, please. Really. I…just need…a little air.”
She heard the judge hastily adjourning for the day and ß ushed with
embarrassment. She was used to being the center of attention, but not like this.
Stephanie’s face swam into view, and Leslie Þ xed on the bright blue eyes a
shade lighter than her own. When her head cleared enough that she thought she
could stand without falling, she said, “Help me up, Steph. I’m okay.”
Stephanie and Bill Mallory, Leslie’s second chair, guided her to her feet.
Stephanie kept her arm around Leslie’s waist. “You’re white as a sheet, LJ.”
“I feel like…” Leslie couldn’t get enough air to Þ nish the sentence and the room
went dim. “I think I need…hospital.”
Almost 275 miles due north of the courthouse, Dr. Devon Weber waded into
Lake George up to her waist. Her waterproof boots and waders kept her dry,
but not warm, and the familiar ache in her right hip appeared before she’d gone
ten feet. It might be almost mid-June, but the lake was still frigid, its temperature
lagging far behind that of the air, which was only in the high sixties despite the
bright sunshine. Still, she was used to being wet and cold and sore; it came with
the job.
“Can’t you do that from the boat?” Park Ranger Sergeant Natalie Evans called
from shore.
“I can feel the bottom better when I walk on it!” Dev yelled back, thinking a
little enviously that the petite brunette shufß ing her boots on the packed brown
earth at the water’s edge looked warm and comfortable in her khaki uniform
and spring-weight ß ak jacket.
“Mud’s mud,” Natalie said.
Dev smiled to herself. She was used to people Þ nding her work and her
interests strange, even professionals like Natalie who had a better understanding
than most of what she was doing. Dev kept going until the water was an inch
below the top of her waders and she felt the accumulation of soil, plant detritus,
and decomposing organic matter change consistency beneath her feet.
“I can bring the launch out and at least hand you sample bottles,”
Natalie offered.
“Thanks, but you’ll rile the waters with the boat. I’ll just be a minute.” Dev
opened her canvas shoulder bag and slid out a plastic collection bottle the size
of a maraschino cherry jar. With her other hand, she slowly inserted a long metal
rod with a suction chamber on the far end straight down through the water and
several inches into the lake bottom next to her foot. By depressing a button with
her thumb, she was able to extract a small sample. She secured the specimen in
the collection jar and dropped it into her bag. “That’s number one.”
On the shore, Natalie noted the date, time, ambient temperature, water
temperature, and exact location on a lined sheet of paper afÞ xed to a
clipboard.
“I appreciate you playing secretary,” Dev said as she waded back to shore.
“I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than follow me around.”
“Not a problem.” Actually, Natalie did have other things to do, but none that
she would have found quite as pleasant. She was a park ranger stationed on the
western shore of Lake George in Bolton Landing, New York. She patrolled a
portion of the three hundred square miles of parkland that surrounded the lake,
which was thirty-two miles long and three miles wide at some points. Despite
the fact that the enormous body of water, nestled in the heart of the Adirondack
Mountains, was one of the most popular tourist attractions on the East Coast,
much of the surrounding mountains was still as wild and untamed as it had been
for centuries. It was her job to keep both nature and those who came to enjoy it
safe.
“I’m supposed to have a summer intern starting next week.” Dev’s leg had
progressed from sore to stiff, and she climbed awkwardly up the slippery slope
in her heavy gear. When Natalie extended a hand to steady her, she grabbed it.
Natalie’s Þ ngers closed on hers, warm and strong. “Thanks.”
“Hey, it’s kind of interesting.” Natalie tried to keep her expression from
revealing the precise nature of her interest as she observed the woman who had
arrived the previous afternoon at the regional park headquarters. Everything
about Devon Weber—from her collar-length, almost-but-not-quite-messy light
chestnut hair to her tight athletic build and the casual self-conÞ dence in her
hazel eyes—said she was a lesbian, but Natalie never relied on impressions to
make that call.
Since they were going to be working together in close proximity for the next few
months, she didn’t want to create any kind of awkwardness between them. She
was interested, but she could be patient. “Besides, I’ve got the radio, and if
something comes up, I’ll just leave you to fend for yourself.”
“That’s nice of you.” Dev grinned. “I
think.”
Natalie smiled back. “Just how many samples do you plan on taking?”
“Well,” Dev said, ß icking the hair back off her forehead as they headed up the
narrow path that had been cut through the thick pines on either side by animals
making their way to the water, “between soil, water, vegetation, and Þ sh
specimens? Couple thousand.”
“You’re kidding.”
When Natalie stopped abruptly, Dev bumped into her and Natalie’s shoulder
brushed across Dev’s breasts. Natalie’s long, dark hair was caught back with a
soft tie at the base of her neck and the wind blew
• 18 •
WHEN DREAMS TREMBLE
a silky strand smelling of mountain laurel into Dev’s face. Dev’s lips tingled and
she stepped back.
“Nope. I’m serious. It’s been eight months since the last multitiered biologic
survey was done on the lake. With the increase in commercial and recreational
boat trafÞ c and the prevalence of industry in the adjoining areas, we need to
revamp all our statistics.”
“I always thought people at your level just sat in the lab while grunts slogged
around out here collecting samples,” Natalie teased as they reached the green
and white truck with the emblem of the New York State Department of
Environmental Conservation on the side.
“I’m old-fashioned, I guess,” Dev said as she stripped off her outer gear and
stowed it in the back of Natalie’s SUV. Beneath it she wore jeans, a shortsleeved
denim shirt, and a light zip-up navy vest.
She climbed into the truck and shifted to Þ nd a good position for her sore hip
as Natalie slid behind the wheel. “Sometimes the only way to know there’s a
problem is to see for yourself. If I just send out someone who isn’t an expert on
the water life to randomly collect specimens, we could miss the early signs of
pollutant effects on the Þ sh population.”
“That’s your thing, right? You’re a Þ sh guy?” Natalie backed out of the parking
lot and headed north on Route 9, which wended its way along the shore and
through the small villages that dotted the lakeside.
“Yeah, close enough.” Dev unfolded her regional survey map to check the next