Shelly Kates was the complete package – smart, articulate, with a wicked sense of humor and a smile that made everyone who saw it smile back.

Right now she was smiling up at Jack McCoy, her cap of fair hair a little ruffled, giving him what he was certain was a deliberate view down the neckline of her dress.

And a very nice view it is, too. "So you think you passed?" he asked.

"Flying colors, and you can take that to the bank," Shelly said. "How about you?"

McCoy shrugged. "I think I probably did alright." In fact, he was as confident as Shelly was, had found every question on the bar exam transparently easy. He'd learned, though, that girls like Shelly liked a little self-deprecation.

She laughed, and patted his chest. "You need to work on that humility a little more, Jack. You —"

"Jack!" A hand grabbed his arm, and he turned to see Danielle Melnick. "Jack, I have to talk to you."

Shit. He was almost certain that another fifteen minutes would see Shelly Kates agreeing to come home with him, and he suspected that she'd be as uninhibited and enthusiastic in bed as she was in moot court —

"Now, Jack," Danielle said fiercely, pulling on his arm. Serious. Something Lanie Stieglitz — but no, not at this hour — unless one of her clients has been arrested.

Shit, he thought again. One of those women from the 181st Community Center, one of the ones who gave in and went back to her husband …

Jesus Christ, a murder trial.

"Shelly, excuse me," he said, and let Danielle tow him toward the door.

The night air was cool and fresh after the heat and smoke of the bar. "What's happened?" McCoy asked as soon as the door closed behind them.

Danielle turned, folding her arms. "I got an advance copy of the most recent edition of the New York University Law Review," she said. She dug in her over-sized handbag and pulled out a booklet. "Really, Jack? Patriarchy and the Penis Code?"

"What — no!" Jesus, what a typo for them to let to go to print. His stomach dropped to his shoes. He seized the journal edition from her and flipped frantically to the table of contents. Patriarchy and the Penal Code, by John J McCoy. He turned to the indicated page and read the correct title again, then lowered the book. "Jesus, Dani."

She grinned. "Your face, Jack. I wish I had a camera."

"You are the devil," he said. "You are the devil incarnate."

"And your ego is still the largest target in New York City," she said. "It's not a bad piece of work. But the fifth paragraph would be stronger with a reference to Arabella Mansfield. You should have told me you were working on it."

"I didn't want you to steal the idea," McCoy said, which was a lie. I wanted to surprise you. He wished she hadn't gotten hold of an advance copy. He'd planned to give it to her, to be able to watch her face when she scanned the table of contents. Was she surprised? Pleased?

Impressed?

"Oh, so that's what it was," Danielle said, and McCoy had the uneasy feeling she could see straight through him.

"So apart from the fifth paragraph, what did you think?" he asked as casually as he could.

She took a step forward, then another, until she was toe-to-toe with him. "Your conclusion was strong."

He swallowed. God, she was close enough for him to feel the heat of her body, close enough for those small, firm breasts to be pressed against him. "But?" he asked hoarsely.

"Why does there have to be a 'but'?"

McCoy closed his eyes. "With you, Dani, there's always a —" Without hesitation, her hand slipped inside the waistband of his jeans and he gasped. "Oh god Jesus," he blurted as she found her target.

"But," she said, stroking him with dizzying expertise, "I'd like to discuss it with you in more detail. At my place. Now. Wha'd'ya say?"

"Yes," he said immediately. "Yes. Please."

.oOo.

A/N: Arabella Mansfield was the first female lawyer in the United States, admitted to the Iowa Bar in 1869 after successfully challenging the Iowa licensing statute which prohibited women and minorities.