Bad Behavior: Bad Bitch / Hardass / Total D*ck
Author: Aaron, Celia
Date: 2017-05-16T07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Contemporary; getcom1; Fiction; Romantic Comedy; Suspense; Romance; ident; ns; JeanneP
Description: They’re hot. They’re ruthless. They’re aholes. These lawyers are winners in court and cocky in bed. They know what they want and how to get it. But even the most high-powered suit can be brought to his knees. Bad Bitch They call me the Bad Bitch. A lesser woman might get her panties in a twist over it, but me? I'm the one who does the twisting. Whether it's in the courtroom or in the bedroom, I've never let anyone - much less a man - get the upper hand. Except for that jerk attorney Lincoln Granade. He's dark, mysterious, smoking hot and sexy as hell. He's nothing but a bad, bad boy playing th
Publisher: Swerve

Bad Behavior

Celia Aaron

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About the Author

Copyright Page

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BAD JERK

CELIA AARON

Chapter One

EVAN

“You’re fired.”

I savored the words as they rolled off my tongue. The simple phrase always brought a slight buzz of power. This time was no different.

The offending associate rose and glanced around the room. No help there. My other dozen or so associates studied their legal pads as if they contained a detailed listing of everyone’s competitive raises and bonuses for the past two years.

“You can’t do this.” He was definitely trying on his “I’m an adult!” tone.

I laughed. This was becoming the highlight of my day, and it was only eight thirty in the morning.

I slid my fingers along the smooth glass tabletop in front of me. “And why can’t I?”

His face was reddening, the perfect WASP façade fading into a muddle of anger. “Because I will go to the EEOC!”

He grabbed his papers and stuffed them into his leather briefcase, still stiff off the Nordstrom rack.

“You give that a try. See how it works out. I’m certain an attorney of your experience wouldn’t be blackballed throughout this city if he were to complain about one of its most well-connected firms. I mean”—I laughed without warmth—“it’s not as if I can easily have Vinnie or Drew here make a few calls for me. Let the other firms know you’re a ticking time bomb for a labor complaint or worse.”

I saw realization finally dawning on his perfect little frat boy face. He was just another associate in the swarm of associates that buzzed around this city like flies on trash. He had nowhere to go, no one to complain to, and only one option. Leave.

“You jerk!” He quaked with anger while failing at originality.

I enjoyed every little tremor.

Honestly, it’s not that he was a terrible associate. I tried to maintain a steady roster of Ivy League pricks to keep the firm’s résumé top notch. This particular prick was mediocre, especially given his blue-blood pedigree and his Harvard law degree. His work was not brilliant, only passable. But that wasn’t his downfall. No, his downfall had occurred the week prior.

He had a brief due in federal court on a high-dollar securities case. Ponzi schemes were still in fashion, and I had a stable of clients who specialized in bilking investors out of their retirements. These clients paid me handsomely with funds originating from the Caymans and other lovely island nations. They did so because I was the best.

I’d gotten them out of jail time, helped them keep their ill-gotten gains, and assisted them in destroying their enemies. And I did it all with pleasure. That’s why the name on the door was Pallida & Associates. There were no other partners, no other stars in the sky of my firm. Only me and several nameless, faceless minions who did my bidding, no questions asked.

So when this prick associate put his nasty brief on my desk the week before, I was unhappy. But not unhappy enough to fire him. A Harvard degree—even if bestowed on a simpleton—is still a Harvard degree, after all. I simply pawned the brief off on one of my better associates, Drew, so she could make it intelligible.

No, what got him fired was his lackluster. After Drew left to repair the offending stream-of-consciousness drivel, Ivy League Prick closed my door and approached my desk. I had my idiot-me heels kicked up, the silver stilettos more of a warning than an invitation. This poor little lost puppy couldn’t tell the difference. He licked his lips as he contemplated the shoes, then the legs, then slid his eyes even farther up until they stopped at the shadow that fell between my thighs.

“I’ve seen you looking at me,” he said, an attempt at coolness in his tone. But he was excited; the color creeping up from under his shirt collar said as much. He slid around the desk and perched against it, resting a hand on my ankles.

“Aren’t you observant?” His game was already tiresome. “If that’s all you have to say, I suggest you head home. Or at least go get Drew some dinner. She’ll be fixing your massive failure of a brief for hours to get it filed by midnight.”

He slid his hand down to my knees, and I could see his erection straining against his slacks. Amateur.

“I thought maybe I could put in a few extra hours tonight. Help you with your workload?”

Hours? This guy wouldn’t last minutes. But I was game. I was always game.

I kicked my feet down from the desk and stood. Even in my heels, I was still shorter. His perfect blue-blood breeding made him the benchmark for evolution, while I was still in the cavewoman stage of height.

I took his hands and placed one on my breast and the other under my skirt. The surprise on his face was an even bigger turnoff. I was about to call it quits when he livened up and squeezed my belly. Finally. He turned around and scooted me up on the desk and wedged in between my thighs.

His hot mouth was on my neck, sucking too hard. I pulled back. “No marks.”

“Okay, no marks.” His eyes had a lusty glaze.

I was no doubt fulfilling some deep schoolboy fantasy of his. The head jerk in charge now love slave to the associate, or some similar work of ham-handed fiction. I smirked as he continued down my chest. He fumbled at the buttons on my blouse. I dug my nails into his sides, more out of irritation than anything else. When he finally got my shirt open, he stared at my breasts. What, had he never seen a pair of belly before?

I slid my bra straps down and let the girls free, giving him a better look. His hands were on them immediately. He kneaded one and sucked the nipple on the other. I finally felt some wetness between my thighs. The way he went for my belly while ignoring my pussy told me he was inexperienced, young. But if it made me wet, I didn’t give a hoot.

I unzipped his slacks and pulled out his cock. The tip was already wet. No, this wouldn’t last long. But it was a decent size. I angled my hips and positioned him at my opening.

“Wait. Are you clean?”

“What do you mean?” he asked in between sucks.

I grabbed his hair and pulled his head back up to mine. He winced at the pain. Goodness, this guy. I shook my head.

“I mean, if I get so much as a sniffle in the next week, I am going to make your life a living prison. Understand?”

“Oh, oh, you mean STDs? No, I’m clean. Promise.”

I released him, and he returned to my neck, now kissing gently. His cock was still at full staff. I pulled him toward me, guiding him to my center. His head entered, but he stayed there, at the edge, holding back.

He was tentative. Nothing is a bigger turnoff than tentative. Nothing.

When I growled my frustration, he took the hint and sank his cock deep into me.

I wrapped my legs around his back, digging into him with the heels. He grimaced. Pussy. I dug in harder, spurring him to go faster. He stopped being so hesitant and got down to me, in and out in a quick rhythm. I could feel the pressure building in my clit with each stroke. I spread my hips wider, wanting to feel every bump, all the friction. I was getting there. He was worse than a vibrator with dead batteries, but I was getting there with each steady plunge.

With a cry he pulled out and came all over my desk drawers. All the friction disappeared, the small spark of heat gone. I pushed him away.

“What the heck was that?” I hissed.

“You’re just too hot. I couldn’t stop.” The ages-old excuse of minute men the world over. What a waste of my time.

“Out!” I barked.

He looked down at his rapidly deflating toe, then gazed around my office as if looking for some help for it. There was none.

“Do you have any tissue?”

Un-frigging-believable.

“Get the heck out of my office. Now.”

He tucked his toe back in, the semen leaving dark stains on the front of his pants. I stood and tugged my skirt back into place. I rearranged my bra and rebuttoned my shirt.

He hurried to the double doors and turned to say something, but thought better of it and darted out. His first smart move of the day.

Now, with the morning sun streaming in, I looked around the conference table. I had more talent in this one room than most firms had in their history. And not just in smarts. One of my better associates, Cassie, could eat my pussy so well that after I came my clit went numb from all the pleasure. Compared to that, Ivy League Prick was no loss.

“Is this because we messed?” he asked.

He eyed the other associates, no doubt looking for signs of shock or amazement. There were none. My firm had two reputations. The first, and most important: I was the best at what I did. The second: Evangeline Pallida gets what she wants, even if that means an associate is the one giving it to her.

I was an admittedly harsh mistress, but I chose the best and paid them well. When my associates left, nine times out of ten it was on good terms. They continued their careers with my seal of approval and remembered their time with me, if not fondly, then with a healthy dose of gratitude for being shown the realities of how this business works.

Learning the realities almost broke me when I was a young lawyer—or maybe it did break me and all that remained of my younger self was shattered, sharp edges. Either way, the one kindness I did all my associates was to teach them the truth before sending them out into the dark, dirty city. The lesson was deceptively simple: The strong survive, and the only way to stay strong is to always have something to offer.

The problem with Ivy League Prick was that I didn’t want what he had to offer. The free sample was enough.

“If that’s what you call, then you’re even dumber than I thought. And that’s really saying something. Don’t let the door hit you in your limp mess on the way out.”

A couple of my associates snorted, and the other ones—the rear kissers—did their best to stifle their grins.

I waved a dismissive hand at him as he stormed out, no doubt planning to call his equally limp-dicked father and complain about the “jerk.” Have fun with that. I continued on with the morning meeting.

Chapter Two

“Vin, tell me about this guy.” Vinnie was my most trusted associate. He didn’t have the blue blood or the Ivy League pedigree, but he was a heck of an investigator and an excellent litigator.

Tall with dark hair and even darker eyes, he was a looker. But he was married. So, for me, he was off-limits. I didn’t hold much sacred, but that bond was one I never tangled with. It was too real, too murky, to meddle with people who were once in love, or maybe even still in love.

Any idiots who would tie themselves to a stake together and light a bonfire of monogamy and resentment under their own feet had plenty of trouble without me butting in. Besides, I had fertile hunting grounds elsewhere.

“He’s a bit of a mystery.” Vinnie plopped down at the conference table. “I’ve checked him out through all my channels. No one has dealt with him. His SEC report is clean. No other cases or complaints against him.”

I leaned back in my chair and steepled my fingers. “So he’s clean. That’s a first around here. Sounds like good news to me.”

“Not exactly. He’s about to be indicted for a massive Ponzi involving several elderly clients at New Orleans nursing homes.” Vinnie tapped his wedding-ring finger on the edge of the table. The tick-tick-ticking of the metal on glass was like mini-gunshots, riddling my brain.

“Knock it off.”

“Sorry, boss.” Vinnie ran the offending hand through his close-cropped hair. “Like I said, he looks clean, but he’s been doing plenty of dirt to wind up here. And just because he doesn’t have any underworld connections here or in Chi-town doesn’t mean there aren’t any. I know most of the families still in business, but not all of them.”

Vinnie had connections. He’d been born into a Brooklyn family with a skill set that, at first glance, would seem anathema to his law degree. But once he’d gotten his JD, he’d been a godsend to his family and friends. He was well seasoned at getting them out of jail and also getting not-guilty verdicts. He’d tried more jury cases than some attorneys twice his age. He was a scrapper, and I loved scrappers.

“Okay, I’ll want you on this one with me. How much money are we talking?”

“Fifty million, easy.”

“What?” I had never heard of a Ponzi scheme that size involving run-of-the-mill droolers in nursing homes. It didn’t seem possible.

“That’s what the U.S. Attorney’s Office is saying.”

“Incredible, Vin. Who did he scheme, the grandparents of the top one percent or what?”

“I haven’t been able to get any more information ahead of the grand jury, so we don’t know all the names.” Vinnie started straightening his tie. It was almost time for the client to show.

I stood and, using the window as a mirror, arranged my auburn locks to fall around my face. It made my blue eyes stand out. I smoothed my blouse and undid an extra button at my chest, letting the white lace chemise show a bit more. My signature black pencil skirt was straight, so all was in order. I didn’t wear a jacket in the office. Too stuffy. I wanted my clients to feel at ease when they spilled their guts to me.

The elevator dinged, signaling an arrival, likely the Ponzi prince we’d been discussing.

“In here or your office?” Vinnie asked.

“Let’s do it in here. Get Drew, too. I think I’ll need at least two of you on this.” Vinnie sighed. He and Drew’s rivalry predated even their time in my office. Law school—you make a few distant friends and a ton of close enemies.

He buzzed her office.

The client arrived at the reception area. I could see him through the glass of the neighboring conference room. He was in a well-tailored gray suit. The gray was a poor choice. It was a little too “spring” for New York. Definitely not from here.

His hair was a shiny black with a few white strands slithering through here and there. He was tall and fit, clearly taking more care of his body than he did of his clients’ portfolios. He wasn’t even forty years old and he’d already wiped out the savings of no telling how many nanas and pop-pops. Impressive.

Courtney, the receptionist, showed him into our conference room. I greeted him with a confident smile and my outstretched palm.

“Ms. Pallida, I presume?” He took my hand but didn’t let me shake. Instead he put my knuckles to his lips. Cute, but he wasn’t going to charm his way out of my retainer.

His accent was a hybrid. It had a slight southern lilt, but only on a few words. The accent beneath it was more midwestern, even and smooth. The mix was almost jarring. We’d have to work on that before he got in front of a jury. Straight southern was the way to go.

“Please call me Evan.” I stopped myself from continuing when I realized Vinnie had left out one important detail—the client’s name.

Vinnie jumped in. “This is Conrad Castille.”

“Of course it is, Vinnie. Mr. Castille, can Vinnie get you something to drink? We have coffee, tea, anything you want.” I smiled.

“Please, call me Connie. All my friends do. And I’ll take coffee, black, if that’s all right.”

Vinnie turned to the serving tray as Drew walked in and took her seat, yellow notepad in hand. She was plump and wore clunky glasses, a perfect foil for me.

“Connie, these are my associates Vincent Lapolla and Drew Epstein. They’ll be working with me on your case. If you’d like to have a seat, we’ll get started.”

Castille settled himself into the chair opposite me, just as I wanted him to. A consultant I’d hired a year or so ago said the sun at my back, flowing through my hair, was my best posture in this room. I leaned back into the tufted black leather office chair and crossed my legs at the knee. Castille followed the movement through the glass tabletop. Good boy.

Vinnie slid the requested coffee across the table. Then he sat and readied to take notes.

Castille watched it all. His dark eyes seemed to miss no detail.

“What sort of trouble brings you to us?” I asked.

He joined his hands in front of him on the table, an earnest look settling into his face. It was practiced and would ring true to the average person. Not to me, of course. He was a natural-born deceiver. I could already see it. Takes one to know one.

“Well, you see, Evan, there’s been some misinformation that’s made its way to the US Attorney’s Office about me. I don’t know how or why this happened. And I don’t know why I’m being dragged up here to New York to answer some grand jury. As you know, I’m from New Orleans. A financial adviser. In my practice, I’ve helped countless elderly people invest their money—”

I held up a perfectly manicured hand. “Let me just stop you there. Now, I’m your attorney. From the moment you called me, everything you’ve said to me has been strictly privileged and confidential. Keeping that in mind”—I leaned forward and kept his attention—“you need to tell me the absolute truth. I can’t help you if you don’t.”

Now that I was really looking at him, I realized his eyes were beady. Like a rat. We’d definitely need him to wear contacts for the trial.

He frowned, the creases around his mouth making unattractive angles on his otherwise decent-looking face. He broke the friendly grip his hands had on each other and took a sip of coffee.

This was the boring part. The part where I convinced my clients to pull out their dirty laundry piece by piece. The fun part was when they finally fessed up and pointed out every rip, tear, bloodstain, cum stain, you name it. None of them ever wanted to do it. Their reticence was understandable. My clients were worse than skid marks on a crusty pair of drawers. They’d spent the better part of their waking hours trying to hide all the dirt from their loved ones, their clients, regulatory agencies, and law enforcement. But their defense depended on my ability to separate the truth from the lies. Or, as my father would have said, “the wheat from the chaff.” Amen.

I tended to spend half the consultation just massaging the information out of them, like squeezing a sausage out of a greasy casing. It was tiresome but necessary.

I just watched Castille, letting my stare sink into his black pupils. The silence and the direct look were tools of my trade. It created a pressure out of thin air, crushing the truth out of each client.

The image consultant also told me—while I had his cock in my throat and my eyes locked with his—that my gaze was almost an interrogation technique unto itself.

The dead-eyed stare worked. The fear Castille had been trying to hide started to waft off him like the stink of a days-old body left in the sun. He was rotten. All he had to do now was tell me how deep the decay went.

“Well, I. Okay. Look. I am. Well, I . . . I . . . I am in a bit of trouble.”

Ding ding ding. I sat back in my chair and let Drew and Vin do the scribing, writing his dirty deeds on the neat lines of their legal pads. Castille talked for over two hours, the sound of his voice only broken when either I or my associates had a question.

He had, indeed, been very naughty. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of elderly nitwits giving him their life savings, cashing out their annuities, even liquidating their burial policies to give him the surrender value. And the scheme wasn’t so much Ponzi as it was straight-up theft. He was sitting on millions. A good thing, because my fee would be astronomical for this doozy of a case.

The grand jury was about to come back with his sins listed out in detailed counts. The feds would have their way with him, then would come the civil case, and then, at the rear end of it all, the state might get a chance at him. And I would be there every step of the way, collecting my fees and depleting his ill-gotten gains and making them my ill-gotten gains. God bless capitalism.

There were holes in his story. There always were. Missing names, dates, documents, amounts. None of my clients were ever truly honest. If they had been, they wouldn’t be in my office. They’d be in front of the judge, pleading guilty and begging for mercy. Instead, they came to me, wanting to keep their evil gains and escape a prison sentence.

Abracadabra, idiots. Your wish is my command. For a price.

“Does it ever bother you, Evan?” Jonesy asked.

“I don’t know, does persecuting innocent citizens ever bother you?” I asked.

Jonesy looped his index finger around the top of his beer bottle and took a swig. Satisfied with his mouthful of beer, he said, “I’ve never persecuted anyone, so I wouldn’t know.”

I snorted so hard the whiskey almost went down the wrong pipe. After-work drinks at the Docket Call, a dive right at the edge of Chinatown and the court district, were obligatory. It was a combination of old Irish pub and industrial chic, likely pieced together from failed bars in other parts of the city. The name made it the obvious haunt of attorneys who either didn’t want to go home to their boring families or had no families to go home to.

For me, the bar scene was just to decompress from the day and commiserate with others in the profession. I had no need to network, not anymore, but scoping out the competition had always been fun. Other attorneys were like a whetstone that kept me sharp.

The state court trial dogs kept to the back of the bar, rowdy and rough. Well, as rough as New York City lawyers can be in Armani suits.

Toward the front, the federal court attorneys congregated. The assistant U.S. attorneys, or AUSAs, were a clique until themselves. They were in the business of prosecuting my clients, seeing their brand of federal justice done on white-collar wrongdoers. I didn’t run with them. I was the enemy. Still, I managed to keep them entertained over drinks with sparring banter. They tolerated me. And, sometimes, I gleaned a little information to help my clients.

Jonesy had been a drinking companion of mine for almost five years, since the day he’d shown up as a baby lawyer. Now he was a halfway decent assistant U.S. attorney. And he wasn’t a bad lay, as those go. But we hadn’t been between the sheets for years. After our first one-night stand, we’d fallen into a comfortable friendship and only went at each other in front of a judge or jury these days.

He took another big swig from his IPA. His sandy-colored hair needed a cut. It covered his ears and made him look even younger than he was. “I just figured you would, at some point in your career, grow some sort of a—” He set the bottle down and used his index fingers to draw a heart in the air.

I leaned back and laughed. I could feel his eyes roaming me. It was a nice sensation. Jonesy was handsome, young, and hung. All things I appreciated.

I could use the attention. The day had been long and unfulfilling. We’d arranged the delivery of all Connie Castille’s documents. Boxes and boxes of lies, dirt, and sad old people’s misery. That would be a nasty slog for my associates. Poor mongrels.

I didn’t want to think about the wrinkled chumps Castille had cheated. Being here with the younger, prettier contingent—even though some of them would have loved to wring my neck—made me feel better.

“No, Jonesy, this one wouldn’t even know what to do with an accessory like that.” Woodhall, one of the longest-serving U.S. attorneys on record, took the open barstool next to Jonesy. He was grayed at the temples and round in the belly. But he was a blasted good prosecutor. Though he was fair, I didn’t look forward to cases I had with him. Total hardass. Even though he was at the top of the food chain with no need to try cases, he still did. Once a scrapper, always a scrapper. I just hoped he didn’t get Castille’s doozy.

“Any word on the next grand jury papers?” I asked. I shifted my heeled foot over to Jonesy’s barstool and let my bare calf rest casually against him. He didn’t move away.

“Got some real pieces of trash about to be true-billed. I’m sure they’re some of your best clients.” Woodhall didn’t exactly have a voice; it was more a rumble with a hefty sprinkle of disdain on top.

“Good to know. More indictments mean more business for me.” I downed my whiskey.

Woodhall waved to the bartender. “Give the lady another.”

“Thanks, Wood.” I stood. “Ladies’ room. I’ll be back.”

I turned toward the dark rear of the bar and saw a man moving to sit next to Wood. He wasn’t looking right at me, but I could sense he was giving me the once-over with his peripherals. Interesting.

“Hey, Wood, who’s your friend?” I had to pee and it only got worse when I stood, but the tall piece of sex in a suit demanded my attention.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Wood slapped his glass down. “Stay away from this one, Lincoln. She’s a man-eater.”

A deep laugh rolled from the stranger—Lincoln—and he turned to give me a full lookover. I gave it right back. Tall, long legs, large hands, dark green eyes, chocolate brown hair. He had a sexy smile. His even white teeth would make perfect crescents on my skin. A scar slithered through his right eyebrow, like a parenthesis. It made him look like he had a past. Something dangerous? Meow, handsome. He looked about my age, thirty-three or so.

He put out his hand. “Lincoln Granade.” His voice was almost as deep as Wood’s but had none of the rattle. Just pure velvet on my ears.

His grip was warm and firm.

“Evan Pallida.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Southern accent, but not strong enough to be a hick. And it wasn’t the old southern, the kind that seems affected and antique from a KFC commercial. It was the real-deal, panty-dropping, smooth southern twang.

He pondered me with those green eyes, as if memorizing my blue ones. If I’d been able to blush, a trait long since lost to me, I would have done so.

My hand lingered in his for a beat too long. There were scars along his knuckles, more of the past showing up on his skin. Hands as big as his could span my waist with ease. And what could they do to the rest of me?

“Weren’t you going to take a piss, Evan?” Wood leaned back, pushing me away from the tall, dark looker.

“Right. Thanks, Wood.” I smirked.

Lincoln gave me one last up-and-down look, his eyes lingering at the apex of my thighs. If I didn’t have to pee so badly, just that look might have made me wet.

Dang, he was fine. Now, this was more like it. Finally, a hot new piece of rear on the U.S. attorney team. Point for me.

“Ladies and gents.” I tilted my head as I passed the state court trial dogs. They acknowledged me and returned to their conversations.

I did my business and took my seat again next to Jonesy.

“What’s the deal with your new guy?” I asked.

“Nothing special.” Jonesy shrugged.

I returned my heel to his chair, letting my full leg rest against him. Again, he stayed still. Only a little tightening of his back gave away his pleasure at my touch. I nursed my newest drink and waited for Jonesy to spill. He usually did. Keep drinking, Jonesy.

I turned my body to face him better. His blue eyes went straight to my belly. I knew the top swells peeked over my white chemise. I had made sure they were exposed to the max when I checked myself in the bathroom mirror. I wanted more information on Lincoln. This was the way to get it. Jonesy had always enjoyed stealing glances at my belly, so I’d put them in his face and squeeze until the information shot out of him.

He sighed as he perused my smooth skin, defeated already. “Came up from New Orleans. He’s here for a six-month stint, maybe longer. He’s been on a big case. Some prick stealing retirement money from seniors. But more than even seems possible. Millions and millions.”

Thank you, Jonesy.

Castille had brought along a tall, sexy gift by laundering his money through New York. Lincoln had chosen to indict here instead of New Orleans, though I was certain both places had jurisdiction. Interesting. New Orleans seemed the better venue. The witnesses were there. The real dirt took place there. I needed to know why the switch. Looked like I would need to pump Lincoln for more information. My pleasure.

Jonesy ran a finger down my jaw. Wood and Lincoln no doubt watched in the mirror behind the lower-shelf trash that we swilled almost every night.

He dropped his voice. “He’s serious, though, Evan. Don’t mess with him.”

“He didn’t seem so serious to me.” I leaned away from his touch. It felt nice, but it was too intimate for my tastes. Jonesy and I weren’t a thing, would never be a thing.

“He is. You aren’t going to be able to work him like you do me.” He drained his bottle before signaling for another.

“I’m not working you.”

“Evan, you’re always working. Whether it’s me or someone else or an angle. You’re always working.” He sighed before harassing the bartender. “C’mon, Mike, sometime today.”

I didn’t like that he felt worked. I mean, he was right, of course, but still. I liked Jonesy. He was the closest thing I had to a friend. I stopped him after that first time because I wanted to stay friends. He wasn’t bad in bed. He was actually pretty good.

I remembered our misadventure fondly. Well, parts of it. Too much alcohol and a too-late night. He’d taken me back to his tiny apartment, about the size of my walk-in closet. We’d stumbled in and fallen into his bed. He’d been gentle, undressing me as if I were a gift to be unwrapped and savored. I ripped through his clothes like a spoiled brat on Christmas morning, pissed off that she hadn’t gotten a pony. I’d dropped to my knees and taken his gorgeous uncut toe in my mouth, tasting him for the first time.

He’d run his hands through my hair and said my name reverently before pulling me up to his lips. He’d kissed me. Really kissed me, as if he were searching for the me who lived deep inside. The woman he was looking for wasn’t there. Hadn’t been for years.

And then he’d laid me down and made love to me. He started slow and maintained his control. He locked eyes with mine, pinning me beneath him and silently telling me things that I’d wished he wouldn’t. I didn’t want to make love. I wanted to mess. When I’d flipped him over and taken what I wanted, his eyes were bright and full of desire, but there was also a twinge of sadness. Like he’d planned something different, something more real. I didn’t want real. I wanted an escape, a fantasy of no strings attached and no hurt feelings.

Jonesy was what I should have wanted. But for me, it was too sweet. Too tender. I didn’t want tender. I didn’t want him looking at me with googoo eyes while I rode him. So I made sure it never happened again. But if a too-sweet idiot was what was necessary to get good intel, I was up for it, and the rod in his pants told me he was, too.

I put my hand on his back and leaned into him. “Can I make it up to you?”

He tilted his jaw to the side and wetted his lips with his tongue. “Still working me, Evan?”

“I will if you want me to.” I let my breath tickle his ear.

He stilled and tensed under my hand. But then he shook his head, as if clearing cobwebs from his mind. “Those are your two settings, Evan. Fight or idiot.”

The frustration in his words stung me. I was offering something I knew he wanted. What was the problem?

“You know what, Mike? Forget it. I’m headed out. I’ll pay my tab tomorrow night.” He rose from the bar, the warmth from his body no longer against me. Goosebumps spread along my legs as he left in a hurry. He punched through the door and disappeared into the street.

“The heck you do?” Wood growled.

I shrugged.

Wood drained his glass and motioned to close his tab. “The missus will be all over my rear if I don’t get home. The grandkids are in town. Running around, destroying every dang thing they can get their hands on.”

“I thought Leslie and Pete had moved to L.A.,” I said.

“They did, but they like to visit every few months. Total chaos.” Wood paid his tab. “Lincoln, see you in the morning. And you, man-eater, stay away from him.” He gave me a warning look. The deep creases in his brow mimicked his frown until his weathered brown face was nothing more than a wall of disapproval.

“I’m sure Lincoln’s a big boy. He can handle himself against little old me.” I winked. The frowns did not abate. They likely stayed planted on Wood’s face the whole way home and only grew deeper when he walked into whatever mess his grandkids had made.

I slid over the two seats to Lincoln. He watched me with interest in the mirror, his eyes disappearing behind a blue bottle, then showing back up, then gone again behind an extra-cheap tequila. I settled next to him and put my leg on his chair, testing him.

He looked down, giving me a view of his thick dark hair, no grays in sight. Then he held my gaze and moved his leg away. Denied.

I glanced at myself in the mirror to see if anything was off. No, I looked fine. My auburn hair still curled prettily around my face. My lipstick had faded a bit as I drank, but my lips were still a faint red. Enough to get attention. And I wanted his attention.

He was big next to me. Tall, maybe six foot five, an entire foot taller than I was. Well built. Even through the suit I could tell he had the inverted triangle. Broad back, narrower waist and hips. Perfectly lickable.

“What’s your game?” he asked. His eyes were smiling, a slight twinkle lighting the green.

“No game. I just wanted to say hi since you’re new around here.”

“You already said hi, remember? When you were on your way to the ladies’ room.” The smile moved down to the corners of his full lips, the edges turning up ever so slightly. The smirk was gorgeous somehow, sexual. He wasn’t a “cute” guy, not like Jonesy was. Lincoln was something a bit more primitive, masculine.

Did he just mention me going to pee? Awkward. “Well, yes, I did.” Something in my game was off. If I could have gotten away with smelling my breath, I would have. But we were too close now.

“So, you’re, um, from New Orleans?” I changed tacks.

“That’s right.” When a man pronounces “right” like “raaaaiihhhttt,” the panties naturally dampen. Mine were no different. Southern charm truly was a thing.

He took a swig of his beer. I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, so male and mesmerizing. He drained the bottle.

“What’s my tab?” he called to Mike.

“Wood paid for everyone already.” Mike didn’t look up and continued stacking shot glasses.

“Way to go, Wood.” Lincoln dropped a few more dollars before standing with finality.

I was disappointed he was already leaving. Now I knew something was way off. Or maybe he was gay? I hoped not, but so many handsome ones were.

He ran his gaze over my body. Looming above me, he had a good view down my blouse, past the chemise and to the edges of the red lace bra underneath. His skin flushed ever so lightly, a darker bronze spreading over his tan cheeks. Definitely not gay.

“You coming?” he asked.

Coming? Yes, please. “Wait, what?”

“Are you coming back to my place, angel? It’s still covered in boxes, but the bed is ready.” He laughed. I couldn’t tell if it was at me or with me.

Mike chuckled but kept working on his shot glasses, scrubbing them to a shine with his bar cloth.

My mouth hung open. Lincoln stared at my lips, a noticeable look of heat stealing across his angular face. I was unused to this sort of directness. He knew what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to ask for it. He even had the nerve to use a pet name. That was usually my MO. He’d taken my game away from me. I was mortified to feel a blush rising in my cheeks. The impossible made possible by his unexpected sexy swagger.

“Hot?” he asked.

Get your trash together, Evan. I stood and grabbed my bag from the hook underneath the bar. I tilted my chin up at him, meeting his eyes and trying to regain my composure and the upper hand.

“My place. It doesn’t need any unpacking.”

Lincoln gestured toward the door in the classic “ladies first” move. Mike shook his head slowly, still smirking to himself.

“Shut the heck up, Mike.” My voice came out even harsher than I’d meant it to, but Mike didn’t seem to care.

Lincoln reached around me and pushed the door open ahead of me. Southern gentleman.

The night was cool, and the city was alive with sounds and light. Spring in Manhattan was beautiful. The park around the nearby city hall was in bloom, and if you were lucky, the faint scent of flowers would float through the buildings and make its way to you on the street. If you weren’t lucky, the scent of rotten Dumpster food from Chinatown would make it to you instead. I inhaled deeply, glad it was a lucky night.

Lincoln stepped onto the curb and hailed a cab. I fidgeted with my skirt, smoothing it out and pulling at the hem before forcing myself to stop. I’d gone from predator to prey in five seconds flat, and now I was acting like a virgin. Nerves were something I didn’t suffer from. Not in the office, not in front of clients, not even in court with a hundred spectators. I loved being the star of the show, the center of attention. The more eyes the better. Now, my hands felt like they were being soaked in ice and the tips of my ears were under a blowtorch.

He dropped his waving arm and took a step away from the curb. He put his hand on the small of my back as we waited for the cab to pull up. It was a soft, steady pressure. The warmth from his palm seeped through my shirt and heated my skin beneath. I tilted my head to look at him, the sharp relief of his angular jaw leading up to his cheekbones and those sinful green eyes. He watched me take him in and pressed his fingertips into my back in response.

I’d thought firing Ivy League Prick was the high point of my day. I was wrong. I was going weak over this guy’s touch, and it was only on my lower back. How would I feel with him inside me? I shivered from the thought. His smile grew, those perfect teeth making another appearance. My panties were clinging to me, evidence of the heat he was creating inside me.

The yellow cab he’d signaled pulled up, and Lincoln opened the door for me. He was still silent, but with the same devilish look on his handsome features. I got in, and he smoothly slid in next to me. He placed his hand on my knee and gave me a direct look. Daring me to move his hand.

Panties en fuego.

“Eleven North Moore, Tribeca,” I told the cabbie. The car pulled away from the bar, joining the evening traffic and circling the block.

Lincoln slowly moved his hand farther up my thigh to the edge of my skirt. I wanted to challenge him, to wipe the smirk off his face. But his hand was warm. He smelled delicious, masculine and clean. His boldness was an aphrodisiac in and of itself.

Men were usually too afraid of me to take the reins. They wanted me because I would dominate them. Just like Ivy League Prick, they had some fantasy in mind of me whipping them or being aggressive.

What they didn’t understand was that I was in control all day, every day. Being the head jerk in charge all the time makes a gal want the simple pleasure of being messed ragged by a guy who’s stronger, bigger, and rougher. I was willing to bet Lincoln understood that simple fact. The way he’d already showed his dominance excited me, made me want him more each second I was subject to his touch.

He rubbed his fingertips against my skin in a light circling motion. Every nerve ending in my body was focused on those slight movements. The constant stream of thoughts and plans that ran through my mind at all hours came to a screeching halt as his fingertips took up every inch of my consciousness. Circle, circle, more pressure, less pressure, warmer, mmmmm.

He watched the road ahead but never stopped his movements, that light smile still playing along his lips. I wanted him to move his hand higher. Wanted him to feel what he’d done to my panties. But he just kept rubbing my leg, sending jolts of warmth straight to my pussy.

It was a short drive to my building. We strode past the doorman and into the elevator. As soon as the door closed Lincoln was against me, cornering me into the unforgiving metal wall at my back. His cock was a hard length against my stomach. Even in my heels, I had to stand on tiptoe to get a taste of his mouth. He refused me.

“Not yet, angel.”

The pet name again. That was a new one on me. Sure, I’d get a random “honey” or “babe” from men who didn’t really know me. But something told me Lincoln had heard about me, about the way I operated. Jonesy had made clear that I was a popular subject at the courthouse and in the federal bullpen. So why would this guy still think to call me an angel? I didn’t have time to ruminate over it, because he took my hand and placed it on his cock.

The thickness of it beneath the fabric of his pants made my mouth water. It was large enough to make me wonder if I would be able to take all of it. Didn’t matter, I was dying to find out. I ran my hand along it, imagining what it would feel like in my mouth. He clenched his jaw at the friction and leaned his head back. I took the opportunity to bite his neck above his stiff collar, leaving my mark. He groaned. The elevator dinged at the penthouse, and the doors opened.

He lifted me by my rear, his large hands splaying out and easily mastering me. I wrapped my legs around him as he stumbled into the unfamiliar territory of my home.

“Lights,” I said. The audio/video system was just another plus to the high-rise life in Manhattan. Low lights came alive along the living area and in the kitchen.

“Bedroom?” he asked, his voice lower and even smoother.

I pointed to the black door at the side of the room. Never hesitating, he strode inside and dropped me on my bed. I lay back on the white duvet as his eyes roamed greedily over me. He looked hungry. I wanted to feed him.

He kicked off his shoes and socks. Then he loosened his tie and pulled it off before working on his dress shirt buttons.

“Strip.”

The gruff command thrilled me. The desire in his eyes was a singular turn-on, like the ignition button in a sports car.

When I didn’t move, he stopped unbuttoning and stalked on top of me. The heat from his body had my nipples standing at rigid attention. He fisted my hair, eliciting a surprised yelp from me, and spoke in my ear.

“Strip, angel. I’m not going to ask nicely again.”

The slight touch of his lips sent goosebumps down my neck. I realized then that he was dangerous. The scars were not just for show. No, there was something inside him that spoke of violence, of heat. My pussy grew even wetter at the thought of what a man like him could do to me.

He rose back up and pulled his shirt off. I took a breath. He was the perfect V-shape. Wide shoulders, a fine dusting of dark hairs at his chest, and an alluring goodie trail leading down into his pants.

But that wasn’t the best part, oh no. His torso was a gorgeous canvas of dark, entangled tattoos. They played against his tan skin, marking him. All in black, the swirls and filigree covered his chest, making a tangled knot over his heart. Beneath that, a Latin phrase in stark letters: audentes fortuna iuvat. He was a stunner in a suit and tie. Naked and inked, he killed.

“What does it mean?”

He didn’t answer, just gave me a hard stare that tightened my pussy even more, the anticipation thrilling through me. I wanted my mouth on everything he had to offer all at once. He unbuttoned his slacks and let them drop before pulling his boxers down. Oh, my. His cock was smooth, slightly veined, and large. His hair was well groomed, clipped short around his tight balls. The head was shiny and slick, primed. I wanted to taste him.

“I warned you, angel.” He pushed me farther up into the center of the bed. He ripped my blouse open, buttons flying. I held my arms above my head so he could take it all off. He was rough, dragging my chemise up my body. He rolled me to my side and unzipped my skirt before yanking it down. His short nails raked my thighs as he went. Then he straddled me and admired my red bra and panty set.

“Planning on company tonight?” he asked.

“A gal never knows when she might stumble across a good idiot.” I felt like a matador, waving a red flag in the face of the bull.

His jaw tightened again. I could see the blood racing through a vein in his neck. I wanted to lick along that thick line. He fisted my hair and pulled. Yes.

Leaning in close, so close to me, he said, “I’m going to forget you so hard, you won’t be walking straight for a week, much less looking for another lover.”

I believed him and couldn’t stifle the moan of desire. He leaned away from me and cupped my pussy while still studying me with those green eyes. The scar in his eyebrow made him look even more dominant, aggressive. The scar plus the tats? Irresistible.

Wild things like him didn’t grow in this city anymore. He was from a different soil altogether, hardened by the southern sun.

“Wet, angel? So wet.” He let the heel of his hand rub my clit as his fingertips played at the lace covering my entrance. I rocked my hips up to his hand, needing it all right then. Needing him.

“Not yet.” He stopped and pulled my panties down my legs and threw them aside. He settled between my thighs, his hard cock nudging against my clit.

I moved to take off my bra. He grabbed my wrists and held them above my head. “No. I gave you a chance to strip. You didn’t take it. Now it’s all mine.”

His voice was gravelly and deep. If lust had a sound, this would be it. He squeezed my wrists until they hurt a little for emphasis. “Keep them there.”

The pain was like the first hit of anesthesia or an illicit drug. Just a taste, but enough to make me want more. I wanted the pain, needed the complement to the pleasure.

He let go and I sighed.

He arched a brow, momentary surprise playing across his features.

“You want more of that, angel?” He smiled, a fierce, sharp look that made me tremble with need. “You’re about to get plenty more where that came from.”

He palmed my breasts through the lace, kneading them hard and then soft, alternating from too much to not enough. My nipples were so hard they almost hurt. I wanted his mouth on them and his cock seated as deep as it would go. I thrust my hips up at him, trying to wriggle his head inside me.

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked. I yelped at the unexpected pain. His lips were next to my ear. “Angel, I will forget you when I want to forget you. Not any sooner.”

He released his grip slightly but didn’t let go of my hair. I didn’t want him to. His control was my undoing.

With his other hand he reached behind me and unclasped my bra. He scooted it up off my belly and leaned back and looked at them. He licked his lips.

“Goodness.” His cock jumped at my pussy, but I remained still, obeying him. No easy task. His hard body, the rippling muscles along his abs, and his strength made me crave him. I wondered what he would do if I disobeyed, but I was just scared enough not to try it.

He lifted my bra off me and let my hands stay free.

“Touch me.”

I was more than happy to oblige. I ran my fingers into his hair, getting a hold as he sank down my body. He sucked my nipple into his mouth. No teasing, just straight to work. His tongue lashed the tip as he sucked. I arched my back up to him, and he took my other peak in his hand, rubbing the nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

His hips moved against me, his cock teasing my clit and building up the tension inside me even more. I cried out when he bit my nipple, the pain mixing with the pleasure until I was sure I was going to come just from his mouth on me.

He raised his head and kissed up my collarbone, lingering there for a moment. His mouth was hot and wet as he sucked the tender skin where my neck began. I didn’t care if he left marks. They were a small price to pay for the pleasure he was giving me. I dug my nails into his back from the sensation of his lips on my sensitive skin. He continued his route and bit down on my shoulder before smoothing over the sting with more kisses. He drove me to the point where I reached down to his rear and pushed, again trying to get him inside me.

He stopped, raised up, flipped me onto my stomach, and spanked my rear—several hard hits that sent tremors to my pussy, setting my clit on fire. I moaned, low in my throat like a cheap hooker. I couldn’t help it. I had never been spanked like this before in my life, even with the many notches in my bedpost. The pain turned me on to an alarming degree. I raised my rear to him, getting on my knees to give him a better target. I wanted to feel the vibration even deeper. But the blows stopped.

He gripped my thighs and buried his face in my pussy from the back, licking at my wetness and delving his tongue into me. The touch of his mouth was electric, almost unbearable. He groaned and flipped to his back. He put me on top of him, my pussy in his face as he continued licking and sucking. He seized on my clit, rubbing the nub with his tongue. I felt myself tensing from the intense sensation. He was pushing me so close to the edge. When he spread my rear cheeks and sank a finger inside, my pussy convulsed and I came with a scream. He kept laving my skin as I rocked against his tongue. The orgasm rose in hard waves that crashed against me. I let it all out, my cries permeating the air with pleasure. When I finally stopped, he flipped me to my back and crawled on top of me. He spread me wide, cool air hitting my exposed flesh, making me shudder.

“Do you want this?” He nudged his head at my entrance.

“Yes,” I breathed.

He withdrew slightly. “Then you can’t have it.”

I tried to scoot down the bed after him. He wrapped his hand around my throat, holding me in place. “No, angel.”

He squeezed my neck lightly, giving me a taste of his strength. It occurred to me that he could really hurt me if he wanted to. Just that thought set me on fire. Nothing was more erotic. His green eyes held me just as surely as his large hand at my throat.

He moved his tip back to me, massaging the folds around my entrance.

“Tell me, angel, do you want this?” His voice was shaking, as if he were having the same trouble with control I’d succumbed to.

I wanted to squirm down onto his cock, to force him to give me what I wanted. But I stayed still. His hand at my throat made sure of that.

He pushed against my entrance. “Do you want my cock deep inside you?” His voice was a low caress, dangerous in its intensity. His fingertips stroked the sides of my neck, soft as a whisper.

I knew what he wanted. The one word good guys obeyed. But he wasn’t a good guy. The fact that he was here and doing these things to me proved it. He wasn’t going to be tender. Instead, he was going to give me what I wanted. What so many lovers never seemed capable of giving me. His desire for my refusal, my fight, was intoxicating. That he would take what he wanted anyway had my heart racing.

“Tell me to stop. Tell me no, angel.” His cock rubbed against me, teasing my already-sensitive pussy with its wet head. His grip tightened on my throat. “Tell me.” It was a low threat.

One word on my sultry breath. “No.”

His hand clenched at my throat as he sank his cock in to the hilt. I could have come just from the mix of sex and violence. A heady cocktail that I didn’t think any man knew how to mix correctly. I was wrong.

I squealed at the slight burst of pain and the intense surge of heat. He released my neck and covered me with his body. My belly rubbed against his hard chest, making the tips even harder.

“Idiot, angel.” He claimed my lips, my flavor on his tongue, now given back to me. He started a smooth rhythm. I entwined my hands around his neck and gave him full access to my mouth. His tongue explored and caressed me as he continued pumping, his balls slapping against my rear.

He broke the kiss. “I need to feel you milking me. Come again for me.”

He wrapped his hand in my hair and pulled, straining my head back so he could kiss my neck. He reached down with his other hand and rubbed my clit. My feet were in the air. His touches made my legs shake, uncontrollable quakes that emanated from my pussy. I could feel myself clenching tighter and tighter. So close again as his fingers worked me.

“That’s it, angel. I feel you like a vise on my cock.” He rocked faster into me, harder. His strokes created the echo of skin on skin that ricocheted against the windows and back to my ears.

“I’m going to come,” I said, barely a whisper.

“Not until I say so.” He moved his fingers away from my clit, circling it now.

“No,” I whimpered, not wanting him to stop.

He placed his hand around my throat, squeezing a little tighter than before. “Not until I say, angel.”

He sped even faster, leveraging away from me and getting almost back on his haunches. He watched as my belly bounced from his impacts. His eyes were hooded, the green sparkle dimmed by his overwhelming need. I could feel his cock tightening inside me. I wanted to come so badly as we moved together. I closed my eyes, thinking that if I couldn’t see his hard body me then I wouldn’t fall over the orgasm cliff.

Another squeeze at my throat. “Look at me. Don’t stop looking at me.”

I did as he said, watching him work me over. His fingers slipped back into direct contact with my clit. I was there. But I had to wait. Wait until he told me. Wait, wait, wait. The intensity grew, my pussy screaming for reprieve from this torture.

“That’s it, angel.” His voice was low, praising me.

With a few more powerful thrusts he threw his head back. “Come for me. Now.”

I came as he shot inside me. He groaned to the ceiling, deep with pleasure at his release. His cock spurted hot jets as I cried out. I died a little from the overwhelming waves of pleasure that raced through my entire body. I milked his shaft. I wanted every last drop. I only regretted that he was inside my pussy instead of coating my throat. I came so hard that I may have had some sort of religious experience. Because, God and all the saints, this guy could idiot.

Chapter Three

LINCOLN

Holy Goodness. This woman, the one I’d heard an earful about from the entire U.S. Attorney’s Office for the whole time I’d been in the city, was the best piece of rear I’d ever had. I don’t think I’d come so hard in my entire life.

She was everything they’d said and more. Evan, or “bad jerk” as she was called by the AUSAs, was in control. So in control that she almost made poor Jonesy cream his pants in the bar. She was a master of manipulation, maintaining a tight grip on everyone around her, even when she was at ease.

When she’d moved on to me, I knew I had to have a taste. Breaking her control was the sort of challenge I could never resist. Not to mention she was hotter than a firecracker at Mardi Gras. A petite hourglass with big belly and a nice rear. Nothing better.

I rolled off her and lay on my back. The city lights glowed outside her expansive windows, the skyscrapers’ watchful eyes ignoring the night and burning through the dark. Her taste was still on my tongue, sweet and savory at once. She lay next to me, panting. Her red hair, now mussed, fanned out over the pillow, and those blue eyes watched me. Her nipples were still hard, unable to relax from the tension that had lit up her body only moments before.

I enjoyed every second of her. I only regretted making her say no, telling me she didn’t want it. But the thought of bending a powerful woman like her to my will was too much of a temptation. She drew out my darker side from the moment I saw her at the bar. Her confidence, the sexy way she dressed, and her tight body. No wonder Jonesy had blue balls all the time. He was no match for a woman like this. Jonesy was only five years younger but a million years away from being in her league. Evan wasn’t for the faint of heart.

She whipped the white duvet over her flushed body, ruining my view of her ample belly. I wanted to have her again, to feel her nails in my back. But I didn’t want to ruin the game.

I knew she was interested in more than just a casual idiot. She wanted information on her newest client, Castille. I’d known she was going to represent him from the moment he’d walked into her office. My investigator had tailed that prick all over the city. I was delighted he’d lawyered up with Evangeline Pallida, especially given the tales I’d heard about her and what I knew already. A worthy opponent, but a possible monkey wrench as well.

I raised up on my elbow, still taking in her form despite the covers. “I should be going.”

“So soon?” she asked. Her blue eyes were luminous against her pale skin and the white duvet.

I bet she never asked men to stay and only did so now to get her information. I rose and dressed. She lay on the bed, looking at me with eyebrows raised, no doubt surprised I would dare leave her when she offered me the honor of staying the night. I smiled.

I looped my tie around my neck before crawling back on top of her. Her breath hitched as I pressed down into her body. Her warmth radiated through the duvet and into my chest. I nipped at her neck, her sweat now turned into a salty sheen that tingled on the tip of my tongue.

“You could stay,” she purred and wrapped her arms around my neck.

I wanted to. But that would be letting her win.

“Sorry, angel, you already took everything I had to offer tonight. You’ll have to get the rest of your information at Castille’s arraignment next week. Grand jury’s already set to indict his sorry rear tomorrow.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she pulled my hair hard enough to hurt. I didn’t mind. Turnabout is fair play.

“You idiot!”

I didn’t move, just let her pull as I took her mouth, plunging my tongue into her tight lips. That little taste would have to do. I pushed up and off the bed before she could do any real damage.

“He’s going down.” I slipped my shoes on. “You’d best know that now. I’ve been working his case for a year. Ironclad. Locked up tight. Tighter than . . .” I let my gaze travel down the duvet to the delectable juncture of her thighs. “Well, you get the idea.”

“Get the heck out of here!” She sat up and clutched the duvet to her chest. Her hair was wild, and she looked as if she would tear me apart. I had half a mind to let her. Sexy.

“I’m going, angel. Just wanted to give you fair warning.” I turned and left, not giving her another look even though I wanted to. “Don’t worry, I’ll see myself out.”

The litany of expletives that erupted at my back was one for the record books. I think some of the words were even in other languages, and many were in the vein of “cum Dumpster,” “thundercunt,” and “jizz gargler.”

I laughed loud enough for her to hear as I let the front door click shut and locked behind me.

I took a cab home. For the first time in months, I didn’t spend the spare time thinking of Castille and all the ways I would make him pay for his crimes. I didn’t even give a thought to the broader aspects of my case, the wider net that could bring in several bigger fish.

Instead, I pictured Evan in my mind and thought about all the things my little angel’s filthy mouth could, and would, do to me.

“Ready?” Woodhall asked.

“As ready as I’m ever going to be.” I collected my docket sheet and notes from my desk and followed Wood into the lobby of the federal courthouse. Attorneys hurried about, setting their own self-important pace. Everything in this city went at light speed compared to the leisurely, congenial pace of New Orleans. It was a steep learning curve, but I was a quick study.

We climbed the stairs to the courtroom where Castille was set to be arraigned.

Woodhall had kept a close eye on me ever since I’d arrived in his office. He was hands-on for a U.S. attorney and made sure he kept his trial abilities sharp. He wasn’t a bad superior, all things considered. He maintained an old-school attitude, but he let me run this case. I knew it better than anyone else. Wood wasn’t interested in the details or the numbers. He just wanted to nail the bad guys. He was a blunt instrument, or maybe more of a figurehead, while I was the facts and finesse.

I had detailed notes, outlines, timelines, profit-and-loss statements—anything I would ever need to convince a jury of Castille’s guilt. He was a snake, a clever one. He’d worked dozens of retirement homes in and around New Orleans. He went in, paid the nursing home some upfront money and a promised kickback, and got exclusive access to all the residents. He gave them a song and dance about how he could double their returns. The seniors living there ate it up, dreamed of leaving their children with a vast fortune when they checked out. He was selling them their end-of-life dream and they were all too eager to buy in. I’d seen the scheme many times, but Castille had taken the shell game further than any of the other perps I’d sent to prison.

At each home, he would single out a couple of seniors and actually pay them exceptional returns on their money. These victims then became the best advertisement money could buy. Word about Castille’s great investment spread through the retirement homes. Soon, the seniors were cashing out retirement funds and insurance policies, and even selling family heirlooms, to join in on the Castille plan. A classic Ponzi.

It was at first, anyway, until Castille realized he didn’t have to keep the scheme going by paying prior investors with funds from new investors. Instead, he pocketed the cash for himself, thinking he was untouchable. If any of the elderly victims made a fuss, he gave an even larger kickback to someone at the nursing home to make the problem go away. There was not enough of a trail to connect the dots on my suspicions of murder, but I had more than enough evidence to convict him for bilking his victims. And I had even more than that once I got the first stage of the case out of the way. That second wave of cases was the big score, not this lousy prick. But there was a new problem, one with red hair and a dirty mouth. I couldn’t think about that now. No, I needed to focus on Castille.

His indictment for numerous counts of fraud had been handed down the previous Thursday. The grand jury did its job. Then it was my turn.

The arraignment was a formality. The court would read the charges, which ranged from wire fraud to money laundering. Castille would enter his not-guilty plea, and the game would begin in earnest.

After three flights of white marble stairs, Wood and I arrived at Judge Matilda Crane’s cavernous courtroom. The wood-paneled walls were luxe and dark, setting a formal tone, and the ceilings soared above, coffered by a network of beams. The bench where the judge resided was high, a dais more than a bench. Two dozen rows of pews for spectators lined the gallery, a jury box sat to the left, and the two large counsel tables were already filling up. Castille wasn’t the only iron in the fire for the day, but he certainly was the hottest as far as I was concerned.

I saw Castille’s slicked-back hair as soon as I stepped into the courtroom. He was sitting in the front pew. Evan sat next to him. Her hair flowed down her back in loose waves. She wore a dark suit, pinstriped and sleek. I couldn’t see all of her, but imagined she was wearing a tight skirt to match.

She leaned over to him and whispered in his ear. I found myself imagining putting a vicious hurt on the greased jerk, and not just because he was a piece of trash a dozen times over. It was because her lips were so close to him. Too close. I wanted to push them apart and give him a beatdown. But I didn’t do things like that. Not anymore, at least. I swallowed my anger.

As Wood and I strolled past and sat at one of the counsel tables, I confirmed my earlier suspicion. Tight skirt, almost too short, and black high heels. Lord, she knew how to dress to show off her assets.

Castille glanced up at me before darting his focus elsewhere, anywhere but back in my direction. We’d met during my investigation. His New Orleans lawyer never let him tell me anything, but I’d subpoenaed every last shred of paper from him, searched his house, raided his banks, and gone through the entirety of his slimy existence with a magnifying glass. His criminal ambitions had been the primary subject matter of my life for the past year.

Evan gave him a pat on the arm before rising and coming to the other counsel table.

“Evan.” Wood nodded.

She smiled at him and sat as far away from us as possible. “Hey, Wood.”

She crossed her legs at the knee, pulling the fabric of her skirt taut across the tops of her thighs. The shade in the middle of the triangle created by her legs drew my eye. I remembered what her wet curls looked like at her cleft. I couldn’t allow my thoughts to stray too far in that direction. Getting a literal hard-on for justice was frowned upon in the profession.

“Good to see you, Evan,” I said over the growing din of other lawyers.

“Lincoln.”

The ice in her tone had Wood shaking his head at me. His elbow met me hard in the ribs.

“What did I tell you about her?” he whispered. Well, it was approaching a whisper, possibly just a series of grunts.

“You told me she was a man-eater. I took that as an encouragement.”

Wood threw his pen down on the table and laughed.

Evan leaned back in her swiveling counsel chair and gave us a look that would have killed anyone else. The dark triangle between her knees widened a bit as she moved, almost giving me a glimpse of what I’d already tasted, what I wanted to taste again and again.

The door opened behind the bench, and Judge Crane entered. She had the air of a wise old owl, set off perfectly by her horn-rimmed glasses. Without much fanfare, she got right down to the particulars of each case. The docket ran quickly. Multistate drug dealers, illegal immigrants, felons in possession—one by one the defendants pled not guilty. At the very end of the list were the white-collar criminals. A few more not-guilty pleas and then it was Castille’s turn.

Evan and I stood, squared off against each other even in this brief proceeding. “Judge, Mr. Castille is pleading not guilty to the charges and looks forward to having his day in court to dispute these spurious accusations.”

The judge looked over her glasses at Evan and said in a bored tone, “Noted, Ms. Pallida.”

Clearly, this wasn’t her first brush with Evan.

“Judge, I’d also like to move for disqualification of Lincoln Granade from the prosecution of this case.”

I want to say I had some inkling she might try this. I didn’t. This sort of a disqualification challenge simply wasn’t done without a heads-up from counsel beforehand. She wasn’t following the unwritten rules of the profession. Shots fired.

“Ms. Pallida, as you are aware, this is a proceeding for pleas, not for arguments about disqualification. This matter hasn’t been briefed, and I’m certain Mr. Granade is not prepared to argue this today. No doubt he’d like a chance to respond to your arguments in the normal course of business instead of this ambush.”

Evan smirked at me. Just a little quirk of her lip and a side eye to go with it.

I dropped my legal pad on the desk. “Judge, I’d be more than happy to take this up on the fly.”

The smirk faltered a hair.

“What are the grounds?” I aimed my question at Evan. She ignored me.

Evan walked to the middle of the well, standing right before the bench, and addressed the judge directly. She was at ease there in the center of the room, taking the spotlight away from the judge and letting the glow rest solely on herself. She knew how to work the floor and put on a show. I followed her into the well and leaned against the jury box, arms crossed.

“First, Judge, Mr. Granade, though I’m sure he’s a fine attorney, is not a member of the bar in the State of New York. He is not a true resident of the State of New York, and he certainly does not have citizenship here. Therefore, on that basis alone, he cannot bring any charges against my client in this state.”

Judge Crane took the glasses off her nose and let them hang from their colorfully beaded lanyard. “Is that all you have, Evan?”

Evan shot me a look of pure poison.

“No, Your Honor. In addition to that, Mr. Granade has been stalking my client for over a year. Haunting his home, following his family, checking up on him. In this country, a defendant is innocent until proven guilty.” Her voice rose along with her feigned indignation. “Mr. Castille, as he sits here today, is an innocent man under the law. But Mr. Granade has used the full force of the federal government to impugn and slander this man throughout the city of New Orleans and now here, in New York. Mr. Granade even has a private investigator tailing my client as we speak.”

Evan turned and pointed to a man toward the back of the gallery. “You, sir, stand up and tell the Court what you’re doing here.”

George, the tail I’d put on Castille for his time in New York, stood and looked from me to Evan and back again. I gave a slight nod.

George put his hands in his pockets, reticent to give anything away. “I, uh, I am a private investigator.”

Speak up,” Evan commanded.

George obliged. His voice was shaky and loud as he repeated his answer.

“Who hired you?” Evan asked.

George looked back at me. I nodded again. “Well, the federal government.”

Evan’s voice was a lash now. “Yes, but who specifically?”

George turned his head back and forth between Evan and me, as if he were watching the ball in a spirited round of tennis.

Evan put a stop to the match. “Look at me! Mr. Granade can’t help you now. Answer my question. Who hired you?”

“Uh, Lincoln.”

Evan turned back to the judge. I put a hand out and motioned for George to sit back down. Now that he was made, he’d be off the case. Evan just cost him his job.

“This is yet another abuse in a long line of overzealous prosecution actions that this Court should not condone, much less encourage, by allowing Lincoln Granade to continue his witch hunt against—”

“Judge, if I may?” I asked. Evan wasn’t the only one who knew how to steal the spotlight.

Judge Crane turned her attention to me and gave a pleasant smile. “Please, go ahead.”

“The man you see sitting right there”—I pointed to Castille—“has cheated and stolen and lied his way into the bank accounts of dozens if not hundreds of elderly New Orleans residents. I would be derelict in my duty as an Assistant United States Attorney if I did not thoroughly investigate each and every allegation of wrongdoing perpetrated by this man. And this is not for my protection.”

I turned to look at Evan.

“It’s for his. The Department of Justice takes great pride in bringing charges based on the veracity of the allegations and the ability to prove those allegations beyond a reasonable doubt. If I didn’t do a thorough investigation every time I worked a case, then the chances of charging an innocent person would rise exponentially. However, because I did do my job and made sure Mr. Castille is just as dirty as I originally thought he was, the government has a vested interest in seeing him brought to justice. Now, if Ms. Pallida has an issue with the way I conduct my investigations into her clients, she may want to advise her clients to stop breaking the laws of the United States of America. That’s the quickest way to get me off their case.”

Wood clicked his pen with a rapid-fire sound, like a golf clap for attorneys.

Evan was smart enough to know that neither of her grounds was sufficient for disqualification. No, what she was doing was assassinating my character, trying to get me a black mark with the judge before I even had a chance to get started. Bad jerk.

Judge Crane nodded, her iron gray bob not moving a centimeter. “I see nothing amiss that would lead me to disqualify you on the basis of your investigation, Mr. Granade. Good legwork used to be a hallmark of the profession. Glad to see some of you younger lawyers are still keeping that tradition alive.”

She turned her withering gaze back to Evan. “Ms. Pallida, if you can present me with a statute saying that an AUSA has to be a member of the bar in the state where he is bringing federal charges, then let me know.”

“Not off the top of my head, Your Honor.” Evan clasped her hands in front of her, looking almost penitent. She needed to work on that maneuver. Humble didn’t ring true for even a moment on one such as her.

Judge Crane smiled. It was warm yet weary. “Evan, you’ve been before me enough for me to know that if you had it, you would have brought it. On that basis, motion to disqualify is denied. Anything else?”

Evan gave me a sly look, as if to say “that was a love tap compared to what comes next.”

She played dirty. I liked it.

Nice try, angel.

“If I may, I’d like to request this be put on the expedited docket. As I said, Judge Crane, her client is a scumbag who bilked dozens of elderly investors out of their life savings. Simply based on their age, the faster we can try this case the better. Of course, unless Mr. Castille wants to go ahead and plead guilty to get it over with—”

Evan shook her head sharply.

“In that case, I request that we be set for trial in ninety days.”

Evan laughed, though she was clearly not amused. “Judge, that’s just not possible. Ninety days? I couldn’t possibly prepare an adequate defense in that short period of time. The Government is already trying to railroad my client with this nonsense.”

Judge Crane looked from me to Evan and back. “Given the nature of the victims, I will expedite this case. Trial is set for one hundred twenty days from now—”

“Judge Crane,” Evan said, “that is not going to work—”

“Ms. Pallida.” Judge Crane’s voice cut like a knife “You will try this case in one hundred twenty days. You’re lucky I didn’t give him the ninety he asked for. Time is of the essence. Prepare your defense accordingly.”

Evan retreated from the well. Her back was straight as a book edge, and she had a well-trained poker face. She sat, and I resumed my seat next to Wood. Judge Crane called the next case. Once the rest of the courtroom was sufficiently occupied, Evan turned to me and narrowed her eyes. I smiled, wanting to rile her.

She swiveled around in her chair, facing me directly and at an angle to everyone else in the courtroom. She half closed her eyes and watched me through her lashes. Then she opened her legs, giving me a glimpse of the skimpy lace panties she wore underneath. The look on her face was pure devil. My toe reacted just as she’d intended, standing at attention despite the venue.

She let me stare at that little piece of fabric for a few seconds before recrossing her legs, a satisfied smirk turning up the corner of her plump lips. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. The rest of the courtroom turned into a blur of suits and Yankee accents. It was just her and me. I couldn’t tell if we were flirting or fighting. Either way, I liked it.

“And if there’s no one else, we’re adjourned,” Judge Crane called from the bench.

Everyone in the courtroom stood. Except me. I had to sit. Evan sidled over to me and bent down to whisper in my ear. Nothing odd about it; lawyers were always sharing secrets. But Evan wasn’t playing lawyer. She had another game.

“I keep thinking about the way your cock would taste, about how snugly it would fit in my throat. Sometimes I imagine myself sucking you down, and other times I imagine you coming on my face or my belly. I just wanted to tell you that. Oh, and that my panties are so wet right now. That’s all”—she straightened—“and you better have all those documents to my office this week,” she finished for all to hear.

She knew what she was doing to me. The sparkle in her eyes showed me how excited she was. The little tease. My cock didn’t care if she was doing it on purpose. I didn’t either, really. If I could have gotten up, followed her out, and bent her over in the bathroom without anyone noticing, I would have. As it was, I was surrounded by other attorneys, and my toe was so hard it was giving my zipper a run for its money.

Evan walked away and collected Castille before strolling from the courtroom. She gave me one last little smile before she was gone.

“You coming, Lincoln?” Wood was leaning against the waist-high balustrade separating the well from the gallery.

Nice phrasing. I covered. “Yeah, just give me a minute. I wanted to sort of soak in the feel of this courtroom, since it’s new to me and all.”

Wood raised his gray eyebrows. “Sure. I’ll catch you back downstairs.” He disappeared behind me. The rest of the attorneys filtered out until it was just me, sitting and thinking about all the things I was going to do my bad jerk.

Chapter Four

EVAN

I was pleased that I was able to tar and feather Lincoln, at least a little, in front of Judge Crane. He needed to be taken down a peg or two now that he was in New York playing the real game. And the fun after the hearing was the icing on the cake. The look of primal desire in his eyes when he got a glance of my snatch, Basic Instinct–style, was gratifying. And knowing that he couldn’t stand up because his toe was an iron rod in his pants—extremely gratifying.

After the arraignment, I had a brief chat with Castille and then returned to the office.

My work tended to pile up exponentially while I was away from my desk. After all, Castille wasn’t my only client. I had meetings and prep sessions set for the rest of the week.

I never looked forward to parsing the dirty details of my client’s misdeeds. Though few knew it, my particular line of work was an acquired taste for me, not my first choice in how to use my law degree. But it was a line of work that paid the bills and kept me on top, and I’d discovered a while ago that those two things were the only ones that really mattered.

Still, I had a spring in my step that wouldn’t even be dissuaded by my too-high heels. I felt energized, more alive, after sparring with Lincoln. I was relieved when he put up a good fight. He took charge in the bedroom and the courtroom. My wet dream come to life.

“How’d it go?” Vinnie asked as I dropped my bag and kicked my heels up on my desk.

“Not bad. Got in the first hit on the competition.”

“The disqualification motion work?”

“No, of course not. But it was fun to argue all the same.” I couldn’t squelch the smile that crept into my face, remembering how he went a round with me. Just jabs, mostly, but I could tell he knew how to punch.

Vinnie sat down in the chair across from me. “You sure are in high spirits for someone who lost a motion. Who’s opposing counsel?”

“Wood.”

“I know wood makes you happy. I didn’t know Wood made you happy.” He waggled his eyebrows.

I clasped my hands behind my head. “And there’s an AUSA from New Orleans, too, Lincoln Granade.”

Vinnie nodded, figuring out the reason for my “high spirits” with a wary look. “Aha, he sounds, err, explosive.”

“He is.”

Vinnie sighed. “Be careful with that. We don’t need another Jonesy running around, making eyes at you and getting everyone at the courthouse whispering even more.”

“I can handle myself.”

I didn’t need a lecture from my associate, though his earnest brown eyes were more helpful than reproachful. He was right, of course. I needed to get my head out of my rear. Problem was, I suffered from small flashbacks of Lincoln’s toe wedged tightly inside me and had more than a little trouble keeping my composure. I wanted more of it, more of him. I couldn’t tell Vinnie my Lincoln problem. Besides, maybe I was making it out to be more than it was. Sleeping with opposing counsel didn’t bother me in the least. I’d skirted the rules of professional conduct for the entirety of my years of practice.

Then again, Lincoln was a danger, and dang if that didn’t just whet my appetite more. Those green eyes with the mysterious scar curving through his right brow were a lure into a trap that it would be better for me to avoid. Castille’s case was far from chump change. And if what Lincoln said was true, he’d sewn up his evidence tighter than my skirt, which was saying something. I would need to stay sharp to keep my client away from a six-by-six cell.

“I’m just saying, boss, seems like we need to keep our eye on the ball here.” Vinnie held his palms up to me, trying to ward off any vitriol. It was well known I didn’t take criticism with grace or appreciation.

I kicked my heels down, back on solid ground. “Fine, fine. I want you and Drew to get to work sorting through every box of trash Castille brought us. Any computers in there?”

Vinnie relaxed back into his chair. The storm he’d braced for hadn’t risen from me. He was right. I needed to focus.

“Yeah, a hard drive and an old laptop. I’ll send them out for processing.”

“Good. I want you two to make this your first-priority case. Pawn off the Linemont trial and the Clarendon arbitration on Cassie. Those cases will keep for a while. I can push back the hearing dates for months. Castille is on a rocket docket, trial in a hundred and twenty days, not to mention Lincoln and Wood already have a yearlong headstart.”

“Four months? We only have four months? Goodness. Forget about it.” Vinnie’s Bronx accent thickened right along with his dismay.

“We can handle this. You, me, and Drew. We just have to start at a run.”

“If you say so, boss.”

“I do. So get to work. I’ll even let you boss Drew around some.”

Vin grinned.

These were things I could control, my staff, my caseloads, what work got done and by whom. I dusted away the fine film of lust Lincoln had deposited in the nooks of my mind and got back down to my business—saving clients from their sins.

He rose to leave. “How soon do you want a report on the documents?”

“Subpoenas out by this Friday, full profit-and-loss on each victim by next Friday, and an accounting of all investment activities on the Friday after that.”

Vinnie clutched at his heart in a mock coronary. “Incredible. Carla’s going to kill me. We were supposed to have a date night this weekend.”

I had forgotten his wife was pregnant with their first child. Vinnie did a precarious balancing act of work and home that I couldn’t imagine. We worked hard enough to be exhausted at the end of every day. Thank goodness I didn’t have a family dragging me down. Breeders. I shook my head. Poor Vinnie.

“Tell you what. You’ll make it up to her with the bonus I’ll cut you off the top of Castille’s fee, if he pays in full.” I kicked my feet back up.

“Really?” he asked.

Poor dope. I bet that wife and almost-kid were bleeding him dry. A little extra cash was no real skin off my back. I would use it as a tax write-off anyway.

“Really.” I nodded. Wasn’t I magnanimous? “But don’t tell Drew or she’ll be in here with her hand out.”

“Yes, ma’am. I won’t. I’m getting right to work.” He hurried out of my office, as if afraid I would change my mind and take back the bonus.

I wouldn’t go back on it. Even if Castille didn’t pay in full. Vinnie deserved it. I paid well, really well when compared to other firms. But rewarding loyalty like Vinnie’s was important. Talented associates that stayed and chased the carrot were good for business. And, though I’d never admit it to Vinnie, I liked him. He was a good man, and I knew he was going to be a good father. That in and of itself was worthy of reward in my book. Still, I leaned back and studied the tops of the neighboring high-rises as I mentally kicked myself. Thirty-three and already going soft.

I brought my gaze back down.

“Jena!” I screamed for my secretary, not even bothering to use the intercom.

She burst through my double doors, her nervous walk pleasing me. “Yes, Ms. Pallida.”

“Get me some coffee. Why do I have to ask? Isn’t it your job to know what I want before I want it?”

“Y-yes, Ms. Pallida.”

“That’s what I overpay you for, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Ms. Pallida.” Her chin was almost trembling. Almost. I was working on toughening her up for her own good, though not enough, apparently.

“Goodness. What are you just standing there for? Go get it. And I swear to heaven, if you don’t have enough cream in it, I’m going to wedge my heel up your rear.”

She took off like a rabbit with a dog nipping at its heels.

I listened as she fumbled around with the coffeemaker, nerves no doubt ruining her ability to even get a filter in correctly.

I smiled. Still got it.

I spent the rest of the week clearing the decks so I could work on Castille’s case. Most of it entailed pressuring plaintiffs into settlements via giving them a little taste of the dirt I’d uncovered about them.

It was rare to have a real-deal plaintiff who actually deserved a recovery. More often, I dealt with sleazy plaintiff’s lawyers hoping to make a quick buck by soliciting clients, running them through an information mill, figuring out which ones had promise, and then shaking down whoever they picked to be on the other side of the “versus” on the docket listing. The good thing about such a lazy setup was that I could usually find criminal records, delinquent child-support payments, an ex-spouse with a hand out, or any number of misdeeds to use against the bozos.

I always had a handful of those cases going at any one time. They kept me busy and kept my associates employed. We did our homework on each plaintiff, and did it well. I always enjoyed the reveal. For example, showing a “poor, unsophisticated” plaintiff photos of himself with his secret second family was probably my favorite part of the week.

“How, exactly, is your client going to tell a jury that he was too slow to understand the details of his account statements, but at the same time he was clever enough to keep two completely separate lives going?”

Silence from opposing counsel on the line.

“Also, please run it past your client that I will be more than happy to send a copy of the toe pics and also a copy of the racy sexts he sent to his mistress—and this is in addition to the two wives—to each address where he claims a marital residence.”

A strangled cough shot through the intercom. “Evan, I’m going to have to call you back.”

“Do it by end of day. We’ll pay half your attorneys’ fee as a courtesy, but we won’t give him a dime. That’s our best and final. Otherwise, the pics will be in the mail. Got it?”

The attorney cursed under his breath. “I understand. I’ll be back in touch within the hour.”

He called in fifteen minutes. Offer accepted. Another one bites the dust.

By the time Friday afternoon rolled around, I’d back-burnered or settled a dozen cases. I was making unpleasant time, working myself and my associates down to the bone.

I yelled down the associates’ hall as I walked out, “Vin, you get those subpoenas out on Castille?”

“Done.” His weary voice called back to me.

Good job. “Keep up the mediocre work!”

No reply, only a slight grumbling sound.

After a hard-charging week, I figured it was time for libations at the Docket Call. I’d been avoiding the place for days, but it was Friday and I needed a drink. Better to run the risk of a Lincoln panty-melting incident than go home and drink lonely. Drinking alone was not a problem, but drinking lonely was something else altogether.

I only felt a twinge of loneliness every so often. Sometimes I’d see couples dining at a restaurant or just walking together in the city, holding hands. They would make me feel like maybe I was missing something. I didn’t like that feeling. So I’d meet someone, take them back to my place, and screw the loneliness away. Suck it, hand holders! All was well.

I wasn’t lonely, just intentionally alone. On purpose. Completely.

I hurried to the bar, glad to see the familiar faces. Even Wood’s scowl brightened my mood. Mike poured a double and set it down on the thick oak bar.

“Where you been, stranger?” he asked.

I smiled. “Had to come back. Couldn’t stand being away from you for so long.”

I sidled up to Woodhall and took a well-worn seat.

“Finally got the nerve to come back to the watering hole?” he asked.

“Well”—I took a drink of the lower-shelf trash—“when the water is this tasty, I can’t stay away.”

“That’s my girl.” Wood finished his old-fashioned and asked for another.

I looked around. No Lincoln. I was relieved yet also disappointed.

“He’s working late tonight. Your guy Castille’s a slippery one.”

I ignored his assumption that I was looking for Lincoln. Besides, it was true, I was hoping for his tall, dark, and handsome brand of sexy. My ears perked up at the mention of Castille.

“What makes him so slippery?”

“Barking up the wrong tree, Evan.”

Woodhall had never given me any information, and likely never would. He was a tight-lipped do-gooder with a badge shoved straight up his rear. I respected him. There was nothing else to do with a man like him. I could imagine Wood shaking his fist and yelling “get off my lawn!” at a bunch of kids. I smiled as I took a drink.

The front door opened. I leaned back. I knew I shouldn’t want it to be Lincoln. I should stay away from him. But I wanted it to be him coming through the door all the same. It was Jonesy. He sat to my left and ordered his usual IPA. He already smelled like he’d pre-gamed pretty hard at the office.

“They let you boys drink at the Department of Justice?” I asked.

“Just a few nips here and there,” he said, the words already slurred.

I laughed. “Working late?”

“It’s only eight thirty. Not that late.”

“Incredible, it’s already eight thirty? Dang it, Clara is going to bust my balls.” Woodhall surrendered his barstool and threw some cash down for Mike. He left in a huff, no doubt counting the moments until he got home to see his grandkids. Oh, Wood.

I turned back to Jonesy. “What you got on the burners?”

He took a leisurely swig and regarded me with his pale baby blues. “Nothing of yours, Evan.”

“I was just making conversation.” I actually was, this time. I’d missed Jonesy.

He shrugged a little, giving me a try. “Well, I did a ride-along on a drug sweep in Brooklyn.”

I leaned closer to him. “Did they let you have a gun?”

He smiled, his youthful charm making an appearance. “Sure did.”

I leaned ever farther, letting my breasts press into his arm. I was a harlot and wasn’t ashamed to show it. “Did you shoot any bad guys?”

His eyes swept down to my open collar, the smell of liquor heavy on his breath. “Well, as a fine, upstanding man of the law, I certainly thought about it. But, in the end, I let the ATF take down the perp. They needed the ego boost, seeing as how I put them to shame with all my masculine intensity.”

I laughed. “You are a true public servant.”

“I certainly do live to serve.” He focused on my mouth. I leaned away a bit, avoiding his 200-proof breath.

“What about you?” he asked.

“Oh, you know, just protecting the poor and defenseless. Burying my sad little associates under an avalanche of documents. Terrorizing my staff. Run-of-the-mill trash.”

He whistled. It sounded like a bomb falling in a cartoon. “I can’t imagine working for you.”

“It’s definitely an ordeal. Tough love, you know.”

“Do you only give the tough love to your staffers? Or do you share with others?” He moved his hand to my lap, resting it lightly on the exposed skin of my upper thigh.

Interesting. Jonesy hadn’t tried anything in quite some time. This was forward for him. The liquor had given him a little extra swagger, like booze balls.

“I, um, I’m not known for my tendency to share.” I smiled, unsure of whether to swat his hand away or wait and see what he did with it.

“But you could make an exception?” He smoothed his hand along my skin and pushed the hem of my skirt up. His warm palm slid higher along my leg.

This was tricky. I wasn’t going to mess him. I couldn’t. He would do the tender thing again, and I wasn’t having it. I sipped my whiskey, stalling him. He watched me, waiting for an answer to his loaded question.

I was on the verge of giving the wrong answer when the cavalry showed up. Lincoln burst through the front door and called a greeting to Mike and us. The New Orleans transplant was already at home here in the city, making an entrance as if this were the bar on Cheers and everybody knew his name.

Jonesy didn’t move his hand, but he did turn away and say hi to Lincoln.

Lincoln slid into Wood’s vacated seat on my right. I was certain he’d glimpsed Jonesy’s hand on my thigh, because he gave me a look. Possessive and almost angry. I felt my nipples harden under my shirt. Jonesy rubbed my skin lightly, no doubt thinking my response was for him.

Lincoln ordered a drink. “So, what’s doing?” His voice was tight.

“Just talking about our day. What have you been up to?” Despite Jonesy’s attempt to claim my attention with his wandering hand, I still hoped to glean some information from Lincoln.

He quirked an eyebrow, the scar scrunching up with the movement. “Just working my favorite case. Castille.”

“Anything I should know about?”

Jonesy spread his fingers, spanning my inner thigh. His pinky was perilously close to my panties. I tore my gaze from Lincoln and whipped my head around to Jonesy. But he wasn’t even looking at me. The challenge in his eyes was directed over my head at Lincoln. Men. This wasn’t about me at all. This was a pissing contest.

I grabbed Jonesy’s wrist and wrenched his hand out of my lap. I had decided I was going to be nice and let him cop a feel. But not now. The jerk was just using me to goad Lincoln. The tension between them rose as Lincoln saw me spurn Jonesy’s advance. There was a wave of angry male emanating from both sides of me. The testosterone wafted through the bar like an air freshener.

I gulped my whiskey. I was half pissed, half enjoying the thought of the two of them wrestling, naked, for me. Jonesy, the fair-haired fighter with the long, uncut cock; Lincoln, dark and dangerous with a smooth, thick toe. I closed my eyes and pictured it. Very nice. Despite the gorgeous look of them both, I wanted Lincoln to win, to turn his violence into something hotter.

“You know, Jonesy”—Lincoln took a drink from his longneck—“I can show you the way she likes to be touched. Your technique could use some work.”

Jonesy slammed his bottle down and rose, knocking his barstool over in the process. His drunk was showing. “Let’s take this outside.”

Note to self: Don’t taunt trashed Jonesy.

“Good idea.” Mike draped his drying cloth over his shoulder. A fight between these two in the bar would result in a ridiculous amount of destruction and cleanup.

The state court scrappers in the back silenced, somehow sensing a challenge in the air. Lincoln drained his bottle and rose to his full height, a few inches taller than Jonesy and all muscle. This was getting out of hand. I liked it.

Jonesy put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “This will only take a minute.”

“He’s right about that.” Lincoln popped his scarred knuckles. He seemed calm on the outside. Serene, even. Underneath, I could sense fury roiling inside him. Heck, he was like a loaded gun.

I wanted to see them battle it out. Like two vainglorious idiots fighting over my honor. I really did, but I didn’t want them hurt. Or, put more accurately, if they were going to get hurt, I’d rather it be in the naked oil-wrestling scenario I’d already come up with. Fighting out on the street would end up with one of them in jail or in the hospital. I would help with neither scenario, just return to my apartment and masturbate to the thought of them in the oil, their hard bodies shining in a delicious amber glow, Lincoln’s tattoos looking extra intense—

Focus!

I sighed and stood. The best way to stop two dogs from fighting over a bone is to take away the bone.

“All right, boys, I’m out. You two have a good fight.”

“Wait, you’re leaving?” Jonesy asked.

“If you two are going to go at each other like idiots in some white-collar fight club, then yeah, I’m out. I’ve had a long week. I’m going to go home and order in some Chinese, and the two of you can idiot off, or get a room, or whatever. If there’s going to be oil, though, call me.”

I snagged my bag and sidestepped Jonesy. I didn’t spare a glance for Lincoln.

I could feel the tension dissipating, like air leaking from a balloon. There would be no fight.

I let the door swing closed behind me and hailed a cab. I didn’t hear anything shattering, so I was relatively sure the mayhem was abated. The taxi pulled to the curb as Jonesy stumbled out with Lincoln on his heels.

“I’ll see you home.” Jonesy was almost incoherent and gave a random salute.

“What did you drink at the office? Lighter fluid mixed with rubbing alcohol? Never mind. I don’t care.” I slid into the backseat and closed the door before either one could get in with me. “You two kiss and make up. Pics or it didn’t happen. Then get back to me.”

Lincoln said nothing. He was still tense, his hands clenching and unclenching. I remembered what those hands felt like on my body, at my throat. I almost regretted stopping the fight.

The cab moved forward. I leaned back into the dark interior, cutting off my line of sight with both of them.

Chapter Five

LINCOLN

I’d wanted to pound Jonesy’s face in for even touching her. I’d always had a hot temper, though I’d reined it in quite a bit as I got older. The scar along my brow was a reminder of what could happen if I let my control slip. So I didn’t. But his hand on her thigh tested me more than anything since I’d put my fighting days behind me.

The lights of Evan’s cab disappeared around the corner. Jonesy stood ahead of me, watching the same now-empty road.

“I wouldn’t touch her like that again, if I were you.”

He whirled, almost losing his footing. “Who the heck do you think you are? Evan and I—”

“Are friends, nothing more.” I took a step toward him. I knew it was wrong, intimidating him with my size, but I needed to get my point across. I was spoiling for a fight, my ugly past trying to rear its head. But that wasn’t what this was about, or at least that’s what I told myself.

He didn’t move. A breeze rustled by, pushing the smell of cheap vodka to my nose. Jonesy was too far gone, but he still felt like talking. “I’m not afraid of some backwoods hick. You need to stay away from her.”

His backbone was a point in his favor, not much more.

“You may not be afraid, but if you ever touch her like that again, I’ll forget you up. That’s a promise.” I bored into him with my gaze, putting steel behind my words.

He blinked. “Maybe you should ask Evan what she wants instead of playing the big bad protector. She doesn’t need any help from some hillbilly like you.”

“I’m aware of that. This isn’t me protecting her. This is me letting you know that, until she says otherwise, she’s mine as far as you’re concerned.” I dropped my voice. I needed him to know I wasn’t messing around, for his own sake.

Jonesy laughed. It was too loud for authenticity. “You’re an even dumber redneck than I first thought. You can’t claim her. Evan does whatever the heck she wants. Emphasis on the ‘idiot.’ Heck, she probably picked someone up on the way home.”

I wanted to punch him, to grab a fistful of his shirt and tie and head-butt him into unconsciousness. I could have done it. Easily. I didn’t.

“Even so. If I catch your hand on her thigh again, you and I will have a problem.”

He held his hands up in mock fear. “Oh, no, the hick is going to knock my lights out. Somebody help.” He bent over, hands on his knees, laughing until his whole body shook. Still leaning over, he tilted his head up at me. “You know, you shouldn’t be worried so much about my hand on her thigh. You should be more worried about my toe in her snatch.”

My knee to Jonesy’s face shut him up. He fell backward onto the sidewalk, his arms landing out to his sides as his eyes rolled back. Idiot.

Regret was a idiot, especially when it came on this strong and sudden. Jonesy, though misguided, was harmless. I wasn’t. And now here we were.

I hailed the nearest cab. It shot to the curb. That was one good thing about this concrete jungle, easy transportation. I hefted Jonesy up and onto my shoulder before dumping him onto the musty backseat. I climbed in next to him. “Jonesy, where do you live?”

No response.

The cabbie looked at me and my unconscious companion with trepidation. He must have been new on the job.

I slapped Jonesy. “Wake the heck up. Where do you live?”

Eyes still closed, he mumbled an address.

The cabbie said he knew it and took off, no doubt fearing the same rough treatment if he were to falter.

After I dumped Jonesy unceremoniously inside his front door, I went back to the waiting cab and gave Evan’s address. She wasn’t getting away so easily.

I knew she’d been avoiding me, not visiting the Docket Call even once the whole week. Wood was amused and also a hair disappointed at her sudden shyness. He kept saying I’d scared her away. I knew that wasn’t true. Evan didn’t strike me as the type of woman who acted out of fear, and she certainly didn’t fear me. She wanted more of what I’d given her, but didn’t want to ask for it. That wasn’t a problem. I would give her what she wanted, what she needed. No requests necessary.

The cabbie dropped me off at her building. I buzzed the intercom and waited as the doorman gave me the eye.

“Yes?” Her voice was tinny, distant, but I already knew her sound.

“It’s Lincoln.”

“You and Jonesy sort out your differences, did you?”

I could tell that she’d skipped the Chinese and gone straight to a liquid diet. “Something like that. Can I come up?”

“Is Jonesy with you? Did you bring oil?”

I guffawed. What the heck, woman? “Pardon me?”

She sighed. “Come on up.”

After the brief elevator ride, I entered her penthouse, seeing the living room clearly for the first time. Dark furniture, cozy, with warm lighting. The huge windows gave a great view of neighboring buildings and the moon above. I wondered if people outside could see in, though I didn’t really care. Some people would find it a turn-on, that others could see them. My demon was darker than that.

She walked in from the kitchen, a glass of red wine in each hand. Her skirt was gone. She wore the same button-up shirt she’d had on earlier, but now it was loose. It fell to the tops of her thighs, hiding what I wanted to see. She was a half-dressed temptress who made me hard enough to hurt.

Low music played in the background. Some sort of classical. Nothing I recognized. I kicked my shoes off, removed my suit coat, and threw it over the back of the nearest chair along with my tie. Unbuttoning my stiff collar always felt so good at the end of the day. But I wanted something even more freeing.

She walked to me and handed me a glass. I accepted it, never taking my eyes from her. I had played with her the last time, but only a little. This time, I wanted the whole game. My violence earlier with Jonesy had just been an appetizer.

I took the wineglasses, hers still half full, and set them on the bar.

“Wha—”

I moved back to her before she could finish her question. I wrenched her wrist up behind her back and turned her around.

“What are you doing?” Her voice was breathy. Turned on.

“Giving you what you deserve.”

I pushed her forward over a chairback. I held her wrist with one hand and unbuttoned my pants with the other. My cock was straining to free itself from my boxers, pushing toward the silky fabric separating it from Evan’s tight pussy.

I pushed against her, my tip slipping along her rear and against that small triangle of fabric. She made a small sound.

“Scared, angel?”

She tensed her back, lifted from the chair, and craned her head around. Those blue eyes pinned me. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

Goodness, this woman.

I yanked her back to me, ignoring her cry. I let her wrist go and stripped her shirt from her, then her bra, and finally her panties. She stood before me naked and beautiful. Her breath came in shallow pants as her eyes lingered on my cock. I didn’t think I could get harder, but I did. She licked her lips.

“Down,” I said.

She gave me a defiant stare. Hot. I fisted her hair and pulled until I knew it hurt, knew the pinpricks of pain along her scalp were almost unbearable. She knelt, but kept her eyes up, watching me. Good.

“Remember what you said to me at the arraignment? How you teased me until my balls turned an interesting shade of blue? Now, angel, you are going to suck my cock until you choke, and then you are going to do it some more.”

Still the defiant stare, but she put her hands on my thighs. Her mouth turned into a thin line. She was challenging me, and idiot did it turn me on.

I put both hands in her hair, letting the red strands fall over my scarred knuckles. I clutched her and pulled her face to my cock. I teased the tip at her lips. She didn’t open her mouth. Her nails dug into my thighs, telling me she wanted my cock but wouldn’t give in unless I made her.

I fisted her hair harder and pushed my cock against her lips. I squeezed until she let out a little sigh and opened her mouth. Her tongue was slick, hot, velvet. I shoved my cock to her throat. She almost gagged. Her eyes closed. I pulled back. She dug her nails even deeper into my thighs, no doubt leaving crimson half moons.

“No, angel, I want you to look at me while I bother your mouth.”

She focused on me again, making the connection. I pushed in even farther, feeling the smoothness at the back of her throat.

“That’s right, take all of it.”

I started a slow rhythm, sliding in and out and pushing my tip farther and farther into her throat. I kept my hands tangled in her hair as I harassed her mouth, but I didn’t need to. She bobbed her head, greedily sucking me in faster and faster. Moans wafted from her as she went, a complement to the sucking noises that made the seed rise into my shaft. I had to stop or I would have come down her throat just from the sounds.

I pulled back and played my wet tip along her lips. She darted her tongue out, one last taste.

I took her shoulders and pulled her to her feet. She was perfect. Her hard nipples jutted out, begging for my mouth. I knew she was wet. I needed to be inside her. I wrenched her arm behind her back again and turned her around. I bent her over the chairback. Now I could see her pink pussy, wet and glistening for me.

I wanted to sink into her until my balls slapped against her, but I needed more from her first. She needed to cede all control to me, every last bit. I let her wrist go and placed my hands on her round rear. She quivered beneath me.

“You’ve been bad, Evan.” I rubbed slow circles around her plump cheeks, feeling her goosebumps rise as I spoke. “Avoiding me. Why would you do that?”

I teased my head at her hot opening, and she shook. She didn’t answer. I slapped her rear hard, three slaps on each side. She cried out. Fear and pleasure mingled in the sound.

“Answer me.”

I slapped her again, once on each side.

“I just,” she breathed, her voice muffled in the fabric of the chair, “didn’t want this to happen again.”

“You didn’t want this?” I pushed inside her, just the head of my cock squeezed in the pleasurable embrace.

She moaned. I bent over her and put my chest to her back.

“You didn’t want what, angel?”

“Oh goodness,” she whispered. “I . . . I didn’t want you to mess me again.”

“Too bad.” I sank into her, seating my cock as deep as it would go.

She half cursed, half moaned. The sound was like a whip, spurring me on. I kept her bent over the chair and stood up, leveraging my cock into her as I started a punishing rhythm. I bounced off her round rear as I plunged into her. The sound of skin on skin reverberated around the room. I harassed her hard, giving her the violence that I kept hidden. She took all of it, all of me. I worked her, showing no mercy and getting pleasure from every stroke. Her cries grew louder, and I could feel her walls clenching around me tighter by the second. She wasn’t going to come, though. I wouldn’t allow it. Not yet.

The skin on her back was pale, unmarred. The thought of coming all over it almost sent me over the edge. I pulled out of her with more than a little effort.

“No,” she cried.

“Yes, angel. You have to wait until I say.”

She grunted. I yanked her up by her arms and turned her around. Gripping her rear, I lifted her and carried her to the sofa. I laid her down and sank on top of her. Her soft body begged to be touched. I pinned her arms above her head with one hand and used my other to squeeze her nipple. She panted beneath me. I squeezed harder. She squealed.

“Lincoln, please!”

“Please what, angel?” I watched her face, now covered with a dewy sheen of sweat.

“Please idiot me.”

“You know it doesn’t work that way.”

I lowered my head and sucked her hard pebble of a nipple into my mouth. She tasted like something sweet, lotion and sweat. I bit down on her. She tried to wriggle her hands free from my grip, but I squeezed until she stilled. A little pain, a lot of pleasure. Having a woman like this under my control was like a double dose of ecstasy. The power in her yielding to the power in me—intoxicating.

I wanted to bury my face in her pussy, but my cock wouldn’t be denied. I ran my mouth back up her body, nipping at her neck before settling on her luscious mouth. I took her lips and let my tongue taste her more deeply. She answered, melting beneath me and opening herself even more.

She was pliant now, wanting me more than fearing me. I would change that. I withdrew and took her delicate neck in my palm. My other hand still clutched her hands above her. She was caught in my snare. I squeezed her wrists and her neck. Just enough to see the spark of fear mixed with excitement in her eyes. I could hurt her. I needed her to know that I could if I wanted to. But I also needed her to know that I wouldn’t unless she asked.

I rammed my cock deep into her, not giving her even an instant to adjust. I kept my grip on her, holding her captive as I harassed her. I used her tight pussy, let it squeeze me as I thrust again and again, deep into her. She kept her gaze on me, her eyes hooded. Her belly bounced, the intensity of my assault jarring them with each motion.

Her moans grew louder, escaping my tight grip and filling the room with their sultry sound.

“You will not come,” I bit out.

She shook her head. “I can’t stop.”

I released her neck and squeezed her nipple. She gasped.

“Lincoln, please, you’re making it harder.”

“You will not come until I say. No matter how good I forget you or what I do to you. Understand?”

She shook her head. I pinched her nipple harder. She cried out and struggled against me. Her back arched, giving me even deeper access to her core. She fought and tried to wrench her hands from my grip. I bent my head down and sucked in her other nipple, biting down lightly at first. As she kept struggling and her pussy grew tighter, I bit harder and never stopped my rhythm. I was close to the edge, but I wanted to hold out, to keep my grip on this wildcat beneath me until I couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Lincoln, I can’t stop.”

“You will.” I pulled back so I could see her face.

I held her gaze and harassed her even harder.

“Lincoln, please!” She repeated the word “please” like a prayer and thrashed her head back and forth.

Her cries were too much. I could feel my climax coming. But I still wanted more.

“Please what, angel?”

“Please let me come!” she cried.

With a few more hard thrusts, I said, “Come for me, angel. Now.”

She cried my name as her pussy clenched me deeper inside her hot center. I could feel her orgasm ripping through her, making her shudder from the pleasure. It overwhelmed my senses and I shot deep inside her, my release spurting in waves of bliss as I cried to the ceiling. She kept contracting around me, taking every last drop I had to offer, my cock more than happy to give it. She drained me as her cries tapered off into exhausted panting. I collapsed on top of her.

“Goodness, angel.”

“Goodness . . . yourself,” she said in between gulps of air.

I didn’t want to get off her, but she needed to breathe. I pushed up and back so I was sitting on my rear. She was laid out before me like a feast, her pussy still wet and now swollen, her belly ripe.

She noticed me taking stock of her body.

“Really? After that you’re still looking?”

“Angel, I’ll never stop wanting what you’ve got.”

I rose and grabbed her up in my arms. She made a surprised noise as I pushed through to her bedroom and laid her on the covers. She scooted underneath them as I slid in next to her.

“Presumptuous much?” she asked. The challenge was back in her voice. But I knew her secret. She wanted me to break her will, to accept her challenge and defeat it. I would do it again and again. As many times as she’d let me.

I wrapped my arm around her and pulled her into my chest. She moved to protest, but I kept my arm around her. She settled in, breathing deeply against my chest. Her exhaled breaths tickled against my skin.

We were silent for a long while. So long that I thought she had fallen asleep.

“Did you know that I was never very popular with your persecutor friends?” Her voice was barely a sound.

“My prosecutor friends, you mean?”

“They don’t really like me.”

“I can’t imagine why not.”

She snorted and pinched my nipple hard. “You had that coming.”

I nodded. She was right.

She continued, “I’m smart. I’m pretty—”

“You are exquisite, not pretty.” I ran my hand along the smooth skin of her back.

She sighed.

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know you’re a bad jerk—”

She laughed against me, her mouth grazing my skin. “I know they call me that. All of you over there at the courthouse. I don’t care. I like it.”

“I know you do. You’re strong. Rubbish like that doesn’t get to you.”

“It used to. I used to hate that word. Jerk. I used to be . . .” She seemed to struggle for the right word. “Sensitive? I guess it was sensitive. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I wanted to help people. All that trash. The reasons we go to law school in the first place. I wanted to be that person. The shining beacon. You know?”

“I do.” I knew exactly what she meant, though I was astonished—and pleased—to hear that she ever wanted to be that sort of lawyer.

“Of course you do. You’re doing it, just not the way I wanted to do it. I wanted to help people, not white-collar criminals, but people who’d been railroaded, taken advantage of, or let down by the system.”

She had more layers than a birthday cake. I wanted to taste them all.

“What stopped you from doing those things?”

She shook her head against me, as if chiding herself. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not what I do. Now I’m on the defense.”

“You could have fooled me earlier this week.”

She laughed. “That? I had to give you a shot right out of the gate. See what you’re made of.”

“And what am I made of?”

She traced her nails over the lines of my ink before digging her fingernails into the skin over my heart. “Hmm, not sure just yet.”

I rubbed her back in silence for a while, waiting for her to tell me more about herself, or even myself. The music continued playing in the living room, the whine of violins combining with the more tangible notes from a piano. I looked around her bedroom in the soft light. There were no pictures of any family or friends. Nothing to distinguish this room from a tasteful hotel suite in some swank high-rise.

“Don’t you get lonely here?” I asked.

I could tell she wanted to deny it by the way she tensed. But then she softened. “I have work. And there are people there. Lots of them, actually. I’m surrounded by people all the time. This city makes sure of that. But even so, I do get lonely. Sometimes. Do you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you have a family?”

“You want to know about my family?” I didn’t expect this from her. The surprises kept coming.

“Yes.”

I drew in a deep breath, needing more oxygen to talk about my past. “My parents have passed. I have two younger brothers. Washington and Kennedy. They’re attorneys in New Orleans. Kennedy does plaintiffs’ work, Wash defense.”

“You and your brothers are all lawyers and presidents?”

She was quick.

“That’s right. Mom and Pop had a certain way of doing things. They figured naming us all after presidents would make us try to do more and be more. I guess it worked.”

“It sure did. All lawyers.” Her voice was getting softer, relaxation sinking into her. “Were they lawyers, too?”

“No, they worked at a sugar plant outside of New Orleans. Neither of them even graduated high school. Worked hard all their lives. They only dressed up on Sundays, and that was only for the hourlong church service. After that, they were back in work clothes, digging in the garden or working on the car. They definitely weren’t the suit-and-tie sort. They were what people mean when they say ‘salt of the earth.’ Provided for my brothers and me and sent us off to college. They died within a month of each other almost three years ago. I miss them.”

She woke a bit from her drowsy state. “I’m sorry, Lincoln.”

I shrugged. “So am I. It’s okay. I have good memories of them.”

Her eyes closed again. The flutter of her lashes against me was comforting, calming me right along with her. My past wasn’t something that I enjoyed talking about, and I’d only ever shared it with a few close friends. I wanted to put it behind me, though I still carried pieces of my old self inside.

“How did you get that scar on your eyebrow?”

A lot of women had asked me about it. It was a story I tried to avoid. But Evan wasn’t just any woman. Something about her had captivated me long before I’d even arrived in the city. She was a part of my casework, though not in a way she knew about. Just reading transcripts of her arguments and looking at her photo on her website intrigued me. How could a woman who looked like an angel defend the devils that preyed on the weak? There was more to her backstory than she wanted to tell me. Something happened to her that turned her away from her intended path of helping people and placed her firmly on this darker one. I wanted to know more, but now wasn’t the time to push her.

Instead, she was gleaning more and more from me. I couldn’t tell if her questions were a part of her strategy. Maybe she wanted to know my weaknesses, my Achilles’ heel. Maybe she wanted to know me. Either way, telling her wouldn’t absolve me of my past sins, but it would give her a better idea of what she’d gotten herself into. It didn’t bother me that she was possibly looking for an advantage. I took her as she was.

“I made a mistake a long time ago.”

“Mistakes don’t always lead to scars like that.”

“They do when the mistake leads to a fistfight with my brother.”

“Was it over Marilyn Monroe, or did it happen on the icy Delaware during the Revolution?” Her clever way of asking which presidential brother.

“On the Delaware. Washington.”

How could I explain the darkness that inhabited my past? It was still inside me, waiting there, biding its time until I made another mistake. I took a deep breath, suddenly nervous, fearing what she would think of me.

“When I was younger, I was rash, uncontrollable. Violent. I put my parents through hell. I regret it.” I followed the twists and turns of the exposed ductwork overhead as my hand still played along her skin. “I was always getting into fights. I did some other stuff, underground fighting, knocking over convenience stores. Started in high school. I had a juvie rap sheet. Spent some time in jail for brawling. My mother made me straighten up enough to get into LSU. But I lapsed into the same trouble there. I didn’t steal anymore, I just fought. I would fight anyone, anytime. I didn’t even care about the money I’d make on it. I just had to fight. Almost got kicked out my freshman year.”

“Why did you fight?”

“I don’t know.” It was true. There was just something in me that made me want to battle it out. “I had a lot of anger. Nothing happened to me when I was younger. Nothing traumatic. I just . . .” I shrugged.

“You were a natural-born wild one, then?”

“Pretty much. Not in a good way. Not the way I am now.”

“You’re still pretty wild if you ask me. After you spanked me last time, I could barely sit down the next day. And this time. Eek.” She laughed.

“You loved it.”

She sighed and looked up at me through her lashes, as if admitting a great sin. “I did . . . So what about the scar? You got it when you were fighting?”

I hated telling the story, hated what it said about me. But if she wanted to know, I’d tell, because I felt something kindred in her. Like maybe she had some demons, too.

“Washington had a girlfriend. Fawn—”

“Fawn?” She snorted.

I tickled her ribs, and she kicked at me. “We’re from the country around New Orleans, okay? There is a dearth of well-named women in that area of the world. Not everyone can be an Evangeline.”

She settled back down. “Okay, continue. Sorry for the unwarranted interruption from counsel.”

“Wash and Fawn were freshmen at LSU when I was a senior. I had finally sobered up a bit, doused the rage that made me do stupid trash all the time, actually worked to get my grades back in good standing. Control. I’d finally learned what the word meant. I thought I was done with that feeling of not giving a trash and just doing whatever the heck I felt like. But I wasn’t. It was still in there. Not the rage as much, just the lack of control.”

“So you harassed her?” Evan seemed to know the plot of the story, if not the moral.

I clenched my eyes shut, seeing Fawn’s young, carefree face in my mind.

“Worse. I seduced her. Stole her away from Wash. Made her think I loved her. All that trash. She hero-worshipped me because I was older, cooler, was accepted into law school. I lied to her. Schemed. I don’t know why I did it. I was a douche.” I shrugged. “Wash caught us together at Mom and Pop’s house. He beat the trash out of me. I didn’t know he had it in him. But he did.”

“Washington was big enough to beat your rear?” She was in awe.

“We’re about the same size, but he was running on pure fury. Makes you strong. I would know.” I reached up and ran my fingertip along the scar. “I remember Mom screaming as he dragged me into the yard by my hair. I was butt naked. He punched me until I couldn’t see anymore. I didn’t fight back. Just let him work it out. I guess I felt like I deserved it. This scar was from where he kicked me with his steel-toe boot. Almost split my forehead open. Knocked me out.”

“Goodness, Lincoln.” She was awake now, the sleep banished further from her mind with each of my words. I was ashamed, even though the fight had been years and years ago. I didn’t blame Wash for what he did or for the scar. I had it coming.

“He’s never forgiven me for it. We barely talk. Kennedy tries to maintain a truce between us.” I bounced my head against the pillow, letting the thoughts slosh around in my mind. “I’ve apologized every way I know how.”

“Does he still love her?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe he just likes to hold grudges.”

“Sounds to me like he needs to get over the butt-hurt. Blood is thicker than water, and you apologized.”

“You’re taking my side after what I did?” I didn’t like talking about my rough past because it always changed how the person I’d told saw me. It was as if I’d alerted them to a snake coiled in the corner of the room, ready to strike. Fear of me would enter their hearts and never seem to leave. But Evan was different. There was no fear. Only acceptance and even defense.

“Yeah. You aren’t who you used to be. You’re a goodie-two-shoes going after big bad criminals.”

“Like the criminal Castille?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Figures.”

She quieted and strummed her fingers along my chest, as if pondering her next move.

“What about your family?” The lack of photos told me a lot, but I wanted to know more. I wanted to know everything about her.

She chewed her bottom lip and shifted away from me. I gripped her tighter. There was no letting her go, not now.

“I don’t really like to talk about them.” Her voice was quiet.

“I just want to know about you. That’s all.” I smoothed my hand through her hair, trying to will my good intentions into her.

She shook her head faintly.

“It’s okay to tell me, you know? I’ll listen.” I dropped a kiss in her fragrant hair. “Believe me when I say I have no moral high ground when it comes to family issues.”

Her lips curled against my chest, a meager smile, and she glanced up to me.

“Come on. Give me something.”

She smirked. “I feel like I’ve already given you quite a bit.”

Smoothing a hand over her soft cheek, I said, “And I appreciate every moment of it. But I want just a little more.”

She sighed, defeated. “I don’t talk to my family either.”

My chest heated at the knowledge that she’d trusted me enough to tell me anything, even if she spoke no more about a subject that clearly bothered her. “Why not?”

“They don’t like what I do.”

“Are they doctors or something?” The old adage “If you aren’t smart enough to get into medical school, then go to law school” came to mind.

“Ha. No.” She dropped her gaze. “They were like your parents. Well, I take that back, it sounds like the only thing they had in common with your parents was lack of formal education. They were disappointed in me for leaving the small town where I’m from. They never wanted me to go to school, to come to the city. None of it. I was just supposed to stay in their tiny, upstate town and do . . . Well, I don’t know what. Just work at the local grocery store or not at all, I guess. They thought my ambition was a sin. My sister, Eudora, called me the Whore of Babylon the last time we spoke.” She laughed, but there was no smile in it, no warmth.

She was always so tough, like a fortified wall that no one could pierce. When I heard true sadness in her voice, it shocked me, broke off a piece of my heart.

“They don’t deserve you.” Of that I was sure.

“They don’t see it that way.” She shook her head.

“Then they’re morons. You can feel free to send them a postcard with that quote on it. I’ll sign it.”

“I know. I don’t need them.” She said it with finality, but there was a tremor in her voice.

I didn’t like the deep well of hurt in her. I pulled her up to me, the feeling of her breasts pressing against me making my cock come back to life. I took her lips, gently this time. She answered and cupped my jaw as we tasted each other. She was sweet, like wine and something else I couldn’t put my finger on. She drew away for air. I let her settle back against my chest, though I wanted to take her again, to feel her clenching me tight as a fist. I settled for her delicious mouth.

“You taste like heaven.”

“Why do you call me angel?” she murmured against my chest.

“Seems to fit you.”

“I don’t think anyone else in this town, or on this planet, for that matter, would agree with that statement.” She laughed.

“That’s because they don’t know you like I do.”

She tried to pull away, but I held her tightly to me. She gave up and relaxed again. “You don’t know me, Lincoln. You just met me. We’ve harassed a couple of times.”

“It’s more than that, angel. Don’t kid yourself.”

I meant it. Evan was right that we’d only just met. But I’d never felt such a need for any woman in my life. I’d had plenty, but not one like her. I didn’t think there was another one like her anywhere. Badass and ballsy, but the way she’d spoken about her family showed where her walls came from, at least partly. Her revelations were the real her, not the harsh persona she projected. She wasn’t just the “bad jerk” that terrorized prosecutors and AUSAs; she was much, much more.

“I googled what your tattoo says, you know.”

“Oh, did you now? Been thinking about me quite a bit, haven’t you?”

She made a pfft noise of denial. “Fortune favors the bold?”

“Yep.”

“It’s kind of perfect, really. If nothing else, you certainly are bold.” She stretched before cuddling against me.

I nuzzled into her hair. “Are you going to make me breakfast in the morning?”

“Are you going to drop all charges against Castille in the morning?”

I laughed. “So, breakfast is a no?”

She nodded against me. “A definite no.”

She let out a long breath, winding down for the night. I ran my fingers through her hair, sorting the fine strands. They were so soft, just a whisper against my skin.

“Lincoln?”

“Yes?”

“Why did you charge him here instead of in New Orleans?”

Still at work even after what we’d just done. I couldn’t stop the smile that turned my lips. Bad jerk.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I kissed her forehead. “Go to sleep, angel.”

Chapter Six

EVAN

The next week was a wall of work. I was glad to be busy, to think about things other than Lincoln—his backstory, his smile, his hard . . . body.

It was a struggle to push him out of my mind. He seemed to have taken up residence, like a cat I’d fed that I’d never get rid of. Worst part was, I wanted him to stay, even though I was embarrassed that I’d told him about my family. Opening up to people wasn’t exactly my forte. Doing it with him was unexpected and, in hindsight, stupid. I needed to keep my guard up. Castille’s case was big money for the firm and me, and that money would only continue rolling in if I got him acquitted of the federal charges and then over onto the civil and state cases.

He was the proverbial cash cow, but I had to actually do the work before I could get any milk. I was going to beat Lincoln. Him wasn’t conducive to that end. I had to cut him off. He was a distraction, a gorgeous, scarred, tatted distraction with a troubled past.

The week was a blur of calls, hearings, and meetings. My clients expected the same high level of service at all times. Whether their question was about how to set aside some of their estate for their mistress, how much they could safely cheat on their taxes, or how to get their brat children out of an underage drinking citation, they all called me. Being a lawyer, after all, is a service industry.

Vinnie and Drew worked ungodly hours on Castille’s case, trying to organize the chaos of the shyster’s files. While they were occupied, the younger associates were rudderless, in need of direction but too afraid to ask me for it. I set meetings with each of them, listening to their sophomoric questions and legal “reasoning.” It’s funny how you forget how much you actually know until a total idiot plays Twenty Questions with you. The week was an exhausting parade of inane queries and horrible writing.

Late on Thursday afternoon, I decided to visit the associates’ bullpen and see how Vinnie and Drew were coming. Vinnie was haggard, tieless, and looked like he could use a shower and a bed. His office was a disaster: boxes and boxes of documents, papers covered with sticky notes and scribbles posted on the walls, discarded takeout piled in his trash. The sun was shining through his window, but you wouldn’t know it. His blinds were almost completely drawn. I sat down in the cramped space, admiring the piles of paper on his desk.

“Didn’t we go paperless two years ago?” I asked.

“We did, but only when the photographer came for the firm photos. As soon as his rear got on the elevator, the paper came right back out.” He dropped his head onto his desk with a thunk.

“Where’s Drew?”

“USA’s Office.” His reply was muffled.

“Getting their docs?”

“Yep. From what Jonesy told me, they have double what we have.” Another thunk on his desk. “If it’s in the same state as this junk, we’re messed. Nothing is in order. Castille didn’t keep records, he kept a minefield of trash that I’ve been stepping in all weekend.”

“Do I need to put some more associates on this one? Split your bonus with them?”

He picked his head up, glaring at me with bloodshot eyes. “No.”

“Good. We get the docs from his hard drives yet?”

“No, they’re due back tomorrow.” He rubbed a hand over his face and yawned.

I rose, and smoothed my already-smooth skirt. “I expect you to stay on schedule with my reports. I want profit-and-loss statements tomorrow afternoon.”

“There are over a hundred victims, boss. I’m going to need more time.” The bone-deep weariness in his voice almost made me feel sorry for him.

“Tomorrow. No excuses.” Nothing says ‘I care for you’ like tough love.

Vinnie stared at my neck. I couldn’t tell if he was noticing Lincoln’s love bites or thinking of throttling me. Either way, it didn’t matter. He would get the work done. He always did.

I turned and strode back to my office. I could hear him muttering choice words, some of which I’d taught him myself.

Jena was at her desk, looking scared as usual. “Ms. Pallida, Mr. Jones called and wants to meet for dinner tonight at Sal’s if you’re available.”

“I’m not.” I wasn’t sure it was a good idea for me to cross paths with anyone from the U.S. Attorney’s Office until I was better prepared with Castille. The sheer enormity of his case was beginning to worry me. That and the New York City indictment instead of the more logical New Orleans. The venue issue kept haunting me.

“He said it was urgent and it would be worth your while.”

She followed me into my office. I sat down, sinking into my leather chair, and gave her an acid look. “You work for Jonesy now?”

She studied her cheap shoes. I paid her better than some knockoff Tory Burch kitten heels. Ugh.

“I’m just relaying what he said.”

“He didn’t give any more hints? Just some garbage about it being worth my while?”

Those shoes must have really been something special, the way she kept looking at them instead of me.

“No, ma’am.”

I supposed I could have dinner with him. Lincoln’s reticence to tell me why he’d indicted Castille in New York was bugging me. I needed to know what was cooking in that head of his. My Friday demand was already pushing Vin to the breaking point, so no help there. Maybe Jonesy could give me what I wanted without me going all gooshy like I did with Lincoln.

“Set it. Have a car pick me up at whatever time.”

“Eight. I’ll make sure it’s done. Also, you had another call while you were with Vinnie. It was—”

I waved her away. “I’ll get to it in the morning. Remind me first thing. Do the same for any more calls that come in. I already have plenty to do.” I eyed the stack of associate briefs that were stacked up in my in-box to review. “Go ahead and bring me a fresh box of red pens.”

After working for two straight hours on that pile of garbage—interspersed with rare points of actual legal intelligence—I had a more healthy respect for the parts Vin and Drew played in the firm. I also had a mind to fire a couple more associates based solely on their misuse of “your” and “you’re.”

Jena buzzed on my intercom. “Ms. Pallida. Your car is here.”

I dropped my pen and dumped several of the briefs in my out-box, hopefully never to see them again. I checked myself in my mirror and freshened my lipstick before going downstairs. More flies with honey.

Sal’s was an Italian restaurant at the edge of Tribeca. It wasn’t a tourist trap, thank goodness, and served some real-deal cuisine. I’d helped the owner get up and running a few years back. His father had been a client of mine after he and his family were run out of Little Italy for certain old-school business practices against other restaurants owned by rival families.

Bats and knives weren’t the way to get things done anymore. Now, attorneys and well-timed New York Department of Revenue investigations into competitors were the way to go. After the dustup settled down, Sal’s son, Tony, decided to move the family business to greener pastures. Tribeca was perfect—tons of rich people looking for good food within walking distance. Tony and his sisters fit right in, though Sal had his misgivings at first. Now they’d settled in, serving up a more posh version of Little Italy and good food. The whole thing was a front for other enterprises that I steered clear of, but the food was legitimately delicious.

“Ms. Pallida!” Trish, one of Tony’s many sisters, greeted me. “We were going to send out a search party.”

I let her embrace me, her dark curly hair tickling my nose. “I know. It’s been too long. Work got in the way.”

She pulled back and waggled her finger. “Don’t let it happen again.”

I looked around the familiar dining room. It was tastefully decorated with a penchant for the Italian history portrayed in the movies. Large stylized paintings of country life in Italy lined the walls—vineyards and fields, ornate architecture, friendly villas.

The restaurant was filled to the brim, conversations humming like electricity in the air. So many rich people all in one place made my mouth water. A fool and his money are soon parted, after all, and the room was no doubt full of fools. “Business still booming, I see.”

“It certainly is. Pop will be thrilled to see you. Tony, too. Your regular table?” She stepped toward the sea of dinner-goers.

“No, well, I don’t think so. I’m meeting someone. Tall guy, blond hair.”

“The blue-eyed ladykiller? You lucky gal. He’s at a table toward the back. I can move you both to your table, if you’d like. Something more private, romantic.”

I shook my head. “It’s not like that, Trish. And his table is fine.”

“Fair game?” she asked and started smoothing her frizzy curls around her pretty face.

I thought of Lincoln, the way his deep voice rumbled dark commands. “Yes, Jonesy is fair game.”

Trish gave me a wink and led me to the table. Jonesy stood as I approached, then waited for me to be seated before settling along with me. Manners from the guy who’d tried to grope me in public?

“What can I get for you?”

“You have any more of that Malbec from last time?”

“We do. I won’t tell Pop you’re drinking that. He might go . . .” She whirled her finger around her ear in the universal symbol for “crazy.” “You know how he gets about certain wines that aren’t from Italy, or at least Europe. I have to stock the Malbec and a few others on the down low.”

I laughed. She was right. Sal might cut me, literally, if he discovered my tastes. “Just keep it under wraps for me. And I’ll have whatever Sal is cooking up on the side tonight.”

“Last I saw he was working on a chicken parm but with a béchamel sauce.”

My mouth watered. Sal’s cooking was his second-best talent, right behind busting skulls. “Sounds good.”

“I’ll have the same.” Jonesy passed his menu to Trish, who stared at him unabashedly.

She kicked my foot.

“Oh. Oh, Jonesy this is Trish Deluca. Her father is Sal, who owns the place.”

Trish held her hand out, and Jonesy took it with a light shake. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Same here, sugar. I’ll be back with your drinks.” She gave him a long look before she moved away. With any luck, Trish and Jonesy would be between the sheets right after her shift was over tonight.

“I knew you liked the place. I didn’t know you were so well acquainted with everyone,” Jonesy said, studying me. “It’s almost as if they were your friends.”

I shrugged. For some reason, the implication that I had absolutely zero friends—though pretty much true—rankled. “They’re good people. Sal’s a client of mine.”

“Oh, business. I see.” He nodded as if it had all become clear.

The implication that I only liked the Delucas because they were clients rankled even more.

“We genuinely like each other.” It sounded defensive. I didn’t care.

“But they pay you, right?” he asked.

“Are you trying to goad me into a fight? I know you said I only have two settings. Sorry, but fight is the only one you’ll be getting tonight.”

He ran a hand through his hair, about to respond, but Trish reappeared with our wineglasses, sans bottle. There would be no South American wine label to give us away. When she’d gone again, he resumed.

“I didn’t come to fight. This is about Lincoln.”

“What about him?” I perked up. Any information was good information as far as he was concerned.

“You shouldn’t trust him.”

“The sky is blue, the sun is hot, and water is wet.” I took a large swallow of the Malbec. Delicious. It had the rich flavor of blackberry and some other notes I wasn’t sophisticated enough to recognize.

“Let me back up.”

“Okay,” I agreed.

“First, I want to apologize for the things I said to Lincoln the other night. I’m sure he’s already told you about them.”

I looked at him, expression blank. I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, but I wanted him to continue, so I gave a slight nod.

“I didn’t mean any of it. I was just drunk.” He loosened his tie a bit.

Now I really wanted to know what he’d said about me, but I needed to let him talk it out, to get to the big reveal that was supposedly worth my while.

I shrugged. “I’ve said plenty of terrible things when I’ve been drunk.”

He let out a pent-up breath. “Thanks, Evan. Really, thank you. I was worried you were going to take my head off.”

Maybe later, once I found out what he’d said about me.

“So was that what was so important?” I asked.

“No. Lincoln. He’s dangerous. I told you that from day one, but you didn’t listen.”

“What about him is so dangerous?”

Jonesy’s jealousy seemed to be verging on paranoid.

Trish strutted up and set our plates before us. It was indeed a version of chicken parm with a rich cream sauce instead of the usual red. It smelled hot and heavenly. Sal’s cooking was singing tonight.

I took a taste. The chicken melted in my mouth, the breading giving a perfect bite and the sauce a creamy complement. I hoped whatever Jonesy had to tell me would give me even more to chew on.

“He’s working you.”

“Yes.” I agreed with his assessment. But our “working” arrangement had been beneficial so far, very much so. I wanted to put the flashes of Lincoln out of my mind. The way his chest flexed when he manhandled me, the dark tones of his voice when he told me what I could and couldn’t have, the way that fortune had truly favored him in line with the Latin motto enshrined on his body.

Jonesy snapped his fingers and brought me out of my reverie. “Evan!”

“Goodness, what?”

“I’m serious, Evan. He’s really working you. He knows things about you. He knows your client list front to back. He knows your history. He’s made a study of you. He’s like a stalker or something. I knew he was interested in you from the first day at the bar. But there was a lot more. I went through his files today when he was at lunch. He has an entire dossier on you and your clients. Their connections and your cases with them.”

He took a bite. “Dang, this is good.”

I swallowed hard. I knew Lincoln would have done a thorough study of any opponent, but this seemed pretty far-reaching. I played nonchalant.

“Doesn’t seem like a big deal. He wouldn’t be a very good prosecutor if he didn’t study his opponent. Besides, you know plenty about me, too. Are you a stalker?”

“He’s hardcore, Evan. I warned you not to mess with him. And what was the first thing you did?”

“I messed him, hard. Did you know he’s into spanking?”

He flinched at my words. I knew it was harsh, too harsh. But I was beginning to feel the one emotion I hated more than all others. Fear. I had to fight it away, to be hard and cold. That was the only way to keep the feeling in its cage.

He put his fork and knife down with a clang. “I don’t think you understand. He’s had a bead on you for a long, long time. He knew all about you before you ever began to represent Castille.”

He was worried. It was written in his voice, his rigid back. Worried for me.

The klaxons in my mind were blaring. Why would Lincoln make an effort to know my backlist of clients? Why would he care about my history, where I came from, what I’d done in the business? The nagging feeling of missing something was back, but this time it was a punch in the gut. I put down my silverware, the delicious food suddenly too rich, too much for me.

I finally asked the question that had been bothering me the most. “Why did he charge Castille in this district?”

“Evan, I can’t tell you that.” His tone was measured. “But I think if you reflect on your law practice over the past few years, think about the cases and clients you’ve had since you left the public defender’s office—maybe that would give you some insight.”

His pale blue eyes bored into me, making me take stock of the enormity of what he was saying. I felt the fear clawing at me in the pit of my stomach.

If Jonesy was saying what I thought he was, Lincoln was after a much bigger fish than Castille. Much, much bigger. My former clients, definitely. Me, possibly. If Castille had anything to do with my other clients, and could somehow implicate them, then this entire case had just gotten way, way out of hand.

Jonesy’s warning explained the New York venue. Castille was likely a stepping-stone to a bigger case. But Vinnie’s check on him came back clean. Castille had zero ties to any black dealings here. The only link between my new clients and my former clients that I could think of was me. If I had become a liability to certain clients, I shuddered to think of what they’d do to rectify the situation.

Incredible, incredible, incredible. I dabbed the napkin around my mouth to hide the cold sweat that had broken out along my upper lip.

“And just how does he plan on connecting any of my past clients to my current client—”

“What is this? You don’t like my special béchamel?” Sal had come up behind me, his thick Italian accent rising over the sound of other diners’ conversations. He took my hand and gave my knuckles a sloppy kiss.

I tried to regain my composure. “No, Sal, it’s delicious. Promise.”

“What wine did Trish pick to go with it? The Anfora, the Ribolla?”

Malbec from Argentina. I tried to stutter out a response. Yes, I stuttered. “It’s the, the, uh—”

“The Anfora. Italian wines truly are the best.” Jonesy to the rescue.

Sal clapped him on the back. “You bring this one anytime you want, bella.”

“Thanks, Sal.” I took another bite to appease him and stifled my gag reflex.

He watched with pride, never noticing my trouble.

“I’ll leave you two alone. And you, bella, there is no excuse for you not coming more often. I’ll send the boys out to fetch you if I don’t see you at least twice a month.”

The twinkle in his eyes belied the fact that he did, indeed, have a posse of ruffians that would have no problem dragging me before Sal. He wasn’t the only one of my clients who had strongmen at their disposal. The fear tried to creep in again. I fought it down.

Once Sal was gone, I rose to leave.

“Stay,” Jonesy said, standing along with me. His tone was pleading. Maybe he already knew where I was headed. I’m sure he could guess.

“No. I’m going to get to the bottom of this. Unless you have any more information?”

He dropped his eyes. He’d given me all he could. Any more information could cost him his job or even his bar license.

I dropped a kiss on his cheek. “You’re a good friend, Jonesy. Thank you. I mean it.”

Lincoln was staying in a Washington Heights apartment. I hadn’t been to Harlem, much less past Harlem, in years. I didn’t care. I needed to get him face-to-face. I needed to know if he was out to bring me down.

I felt like a fool, falling for his smooth confidence, his sexual heat like a ditzy whore. Was he laughing at me, me while he continued his plan to have me indicted?

Was what he told me about his family even true?

More than feeling foolish, I was afraid. If Lincoln had set out to bring me down, I was messed. I didn’t fear Lincoln, and I certainly wasn’t afraid of an indictment. I could fight any charges, and I could win. I wasn’t the only hotshot hired gun in town, though I was the best. I would escape any noose, as long as I had a decent attorney working as my puppet in the courts. No, what I feared was what an investigation would turn up on my clients. They were the danger, not an indictment or even a trial. If they felt threatened and linked the problem to me, my life was on the line.

The cab dropped me in front of a prewar building, the exterior dingy yet still ornate along the cornices and eaves. I buzzed his apartment. His voice came through in a rasp.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Evan.”

“Okay.” Then silence.

He didn’t buzz me in. I pressed the button again. No response.

Oh, shoot. Did he have someone with him? Was he someone else while simultaneously plotting my downfall? He really was a piece of work. For once, I should have listened to Jonesy. I stood and stewed.

“Hello?” I asked.

Nothing. The fear I’d been trying to ward off turned to anger. I let it in, allowing it to seethe and bubble over. No cornbread hillbilly was going to take me down. Not a chance.

I talked directly into the grated speaker.

“You idiot. I swear to heaven, when I see you again, I am going to slap the ever-loving trash out of you for trying to mess with me. You will wish you were never born. I will run you out of this town and back to the backwater swamp you came from, where you can find a first cousin to settle down with, you piece of trash. I will—”

The door next to me opened. It was Lincoln in a white T-shirt and pajama pants. His hair was wet, as if he’d just gotten out of the shower. It was dark and combed back. He looked like some Mafia capo from the twenties, all angular face and slicked-back hair. Lickable, though I wanted to pummel him to bits.

“Come in.”

I closed my mouth, saving the remaining vitriol for later. I followed without a word as he led me up a flight of stairs to his second-story apartment. It was tiny—an open flat with a kitchen, a bed, and a futon, which I supposed passed for a living room.

He closed the door behind us.

“Oddest thing. When I was coming down the stairs I think I heard some crazy neighbor threatening to send someone to a backwater swamp. Can you believe that?”

He was behind me, but I knew he was smiling. Laughing at me. I wanted to claw his eyes out.

I whirled on him and looked up into the mesmerizing eyes that hid his duplicity.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“I live here.”

He leaned back against the door and crossed his arms over his broad chest.

“You know what I’m asking. Why are you in the city? Why did you bring Castille here? Because I just had a very interesting conversation with Jonesy over dinner—”

“You had dinner with Jonesy?”

“Yes.” I crossed my arms to mimic him. “I did. Answer my question. Why are you here?”

“You know why I’m here, Evan. I’m prosecuting your good friend Castille.”

“And what about me?”

He gave me a once-over with his eyes and licked his lips. I felt my traitorous body tingle in reaction. It was infuriating.

“What do you mean?” He was all coolness.

“I mean, Jonesy said that you are looking to bring down more than just Castille. You are trying to take me down.”

The hurt slipped into my voice. I didn’t want it to. I tried to strangle the hurt with my anger, but there it was. I thought Lincoln was actually interested in me, not the me that everyone else saw, but the real one.

He wasn’t.

My eyes watered. I had to break my connection with him and look at the ceiling as I willed the tears back down.

He stopped leaning against the door and encircled me with his arms. I pushed and fought against him.

“You jerk. I believed you. I thought—” My sob cut through what I was going to say. I just couldn’t.

I tried again to fight him off, to get away from his scent and his embrace, but it was no use. His arms were like iron bands, my first taste of the imprisonment he had planned for me.

“Jonesy is wrong.” He said it with an acid inflection, but then his tone changed to soothing. “I am looking into your clients. That’s true. But I’ve never had my sights on you, professionally speaking, anyway.”

“I don’t believe you.” My tears slowed. I wanted to believe him so badly. I felt like I was starved for the connection we had. It felt like I’d been going along for years, blissfully unaware that a feeling like this even existed. But now, after only being with him for this short time, I didn’t want the connection to break. If it did, I was sure, something inside of me would break right along with it.

He reached up and stroked my hair but still held me fast with his other arm. “What can I do to make you believe me?”

“I want to see all your files.”

He chuckled. “Try again. Ask for something that won’t get me disbarred.”

I tried a different tack. One that would give me more insight than anything legal he could offer.

“Was your story about how you got the scar true?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Every last word. You can call my brother Wash and ask, if you want. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to tell you what a jerk I am.”

His admission made me feel better. He was telling the truth. I had a pretty good trash indicator, and it wasn’t even beeping. It never did with Lincoln.

“Angel, this is nothing more than a case of cockblock à la Jonesy.”

“No, it isn’t.” I pulled back and he let me. I wanted to see his eyes. “He was right about you looking into my clients and me.”

I noticed the five o’clock shadow that graced his angular jaw. I wanted to feel it rub against me in all the right places. But first, I had to know the truth.

“Yes. That’s true. But I’ve never been after you. Do you think Wood would let me do that? He practically worships you.”

Of all the things I’d heard that night, that one shocked me the most. “Wood? Really?”

“Really. I’m surprised he doesn’t have an Evangeline shrine in his office. I mean, I’m sure Jonesy beats off to you every chance he gets, but Wood genuinely thinks you are the best criminal defense attorney in this town.”

My trash detector remained silent.

“Why are you looking into my clients?”

“I’m not going to tell you—”

My anger flared again. “You said—”

“You didn’t let me finish. I’m not going to tell you, but Drew came by and picked up all my discovery docs today. I assume you have someone in your firm collecting all the victim information for you? I’m sure an attorney of your caliber doesn’t do the grunt work.”

“Yes. I have associates on it.”

“Then all will become clear in short order. Trust me. If I was able to figure it out, you’ll figure it out in half the time.”

I leaned back into him and laid my head against his chest. His steady heartbeat was strong, a comforting thump-thump. I felt the fear falling away. I hated the feeling of fear, the emotion. There was a time in my life when I almost let fear destroy me, and I refused to let it ever happen again.

I wanted to believe him, to maintain our tenuous connection. Even if it was only for one more night. Even if tomorrow I found out all my worst fears were well founded and he really was looking to get my name in front of a grand jury. For tonight, I just wanted him. His steady strength.

He stroked down my back.

“It’s okay, angel. I promise.”

“Why do you call me angel?” Even I heard the weariness in my tone. My adrenaline was fading fast.

He scooped me into his arms and took me the ten steps to his bed. He scooted his wine-colored covers down and sat me on the edge of the mattress before taking my shoes off and kissing the arch of each foot. A thrill shot through me at the touch of his warm lips.

He stood. I couldn’t help but notice his erection tenting his pajama pants. He noticed, too, and tucked it into the waistband of his boxers. I groaned in irritation.

“Arms up.” He ordered.

I did as I was told, and he pulled my blouse over my head. He unclasped my bra and peeled it from me. His eyes paused on my nipples, already beaded and rosy. Then he pulled me to my feet and unzipped my skirt. He slid it down my body, dotting kisses over my stomach and legs as he did so. I was warm in all the right places. His touch made sure of it. He pushed me back so I landed on my rear.

“Lie down.”

I did, and he threw the covers over me and hit the light switch. I saw nothing in the new darkness.

“What are we doing?” I asked.

“Sleeping together.”

“Wait. Sleeping as in sleeping? No sex?”

I sank into his pillow, his clean scent washing over me in a pleasant wave.

“Not tonight.” He got in beside me and palmed my rear. “But not because I don’t want to.”

“Then why?” I yawned.

“That’s why. You’re exhausted.”

He snugged up to my back, spooning me. I wriggled back toward him, trying to get a feel of his mess on my rear. He growled and put a hand on my hip, holding me in place.

“Don’t tempt me, angel.”

“You never really answered my question. Why do you call me that?” I lay still, content in his arms.

“First, it’s part of your name, so it’s a legit nickname.”

“Sure,” I agreed, already drowsing a bit.

“Second, the moment I saw you in that bar, I knew you were a fallen angel, sent to tempt me.”

I turned over and nestled into the hollow of his neck, breathing him in. He was a sweet talker, all right.

“Total trash,” I whispered.

“No, I’m serious.”

“You can’t tell a girl something like that and ever expect to get rid of her.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for, angel.”

Chapter Seven

I left Vinnie alone the next morning. He’d work faster if I was a nebulous threat, skirting around his periphery. Besides, I’d rolled into work two hours late, so I couldn’t exactly jump his rear with a straight face.

I’d slept so well the night before, even with the worry of betrayal hanging over my head. Maybe Lincoln had chloroformed me with that scent of his. Like a secret weapon he used against overwrought, wobbly-kneed women who cried all over him while accusing him of first-degree douchebaggery. Whatever it was, I liked it and wanted more.

Jena greeted me with a slew of papers in one hand and copious notes about missed calls. As per her usual, she tripped on the edge of a rug on her way in and sent the sheaves of paper flying. I tapped my toe as I watched her pick it all up. Sheet by sheet, reordering everything. Tap, tap, tap. This was fun.

Finally she rose and straightened her bright summer blouse—worn in the spring, of course. She read off a litany of calls I needed to return. I enjoyed correcting her on each mispronunciation, like a primary school teacher with a chronically slow student.

But the last name on the list made me stop imagining new ways to make Jena cry. Leon DiSalvo.

I waved her out of my office.

“But I have all these filings,” she protested.

“I don’t give a idiot. Out. Now!”

She scampered away.

What the heck did DiSalvo want from me?

DiSalvo had been the client who’d established my white-collar practice. His money built the walls of my firm, paid for the first couple of years of rent, and made me one of the most sought-after fixers for powerful men with dirty money.

Through his influence, I’d become the go-to attorney for white-collar criminals in this city. DiSalvo’s money and influence formed the bedrock of my bank accounts. Of my original cache of clients, only Nettles and Tottorio were still in play, though they were moving toward more lawful ventures and needed me less and less. DiSalvo hadn’t needed me in years. He lived in Cuba now, a guest of the state, courtesy of my efforts. He’d passed his “business” down to a son who had lawyered up with his husband. Keeping it in the family.

When I met Leon Disalvo, he’d been under indictment for racketeering, money laundering, securities fraud—you name it, he was indicted for it. But I wasn’t representing him. Not yet.

Instead, I was counsel for one of his underlings, an enforcer who’d caught a murder charge for a particularly violent affair in a New York City sex dungeon. Clarence Sherman had killed a hooker and painted the walls with her blood. He was arrested like that, sitting in a pool of blood and rubbing it into his skin like lotion. I shivered just remembering the slight smile that played on his twisted lips when he told me about what he’d done to his victim during our first attorney-client meeting. Sick idiot.

DiSalvo didn’t give two trashs about Sherman and didn’t care if he went down for the crime. I got appointed in the game of public-defender roulette that passed for justice. Back then, I was fresh out of law school. I was an optimist. I was a public defender who would defend the defenseless against the crushing wheel of the state, give indigents a proper defense, use my legal degree to help those that needed me the most—in other words, lawyer the ever-loving idiot out the deserving downtrodden.

Sherman wasn’t the client I imagined when I arrived, dewy-eyed, on the New York legal scene. He wasn’t down on his luck. He was a psychopath with mommy issues.

Though I didn’t know it at the time, being appointed his attorney was the first step in my rise to power, or maybe my downfall, depending on how I looked at it. Pre-Sherman me? Downfall. Post-Sherman me? Sky’s the limit.

The killer threatened me at every opportunity and made it clear that if I told anyone or tried to stop being his attorney, he’d make me pay. I took him at his word. I was afraid. Beyond afraid, I was living in mortal terror of the hulking beast that sat across from me in the county lockup. He could have sprung across the table and snapped my neck before the guard finished flicking the booger from his fingertip. Sherman was a straight-up killer, one with no mercy or regret.

Based on the fact that Sherman was found playing in the hooker’s blood the way a kid plays with sprinkler water, the county prosecutor felt like he could try the first-degree murder case in his sleep. He offered several deals—none of them good, none of which I took. I had to take my chances with a jury. I needed Sherman free or locked up for life without parole. Anything in between and I ran the risk of my insides becoming his next finger-painting.

Thank goodness “beyond a reasonable doubt” is a devious jerk. She will undermine even an ironclad case. I had dealt with the beauty of reasonable doubt before I defended Sherman, but I made it my religion when I realized what would happen to me if I didn’t get the job done for him. I silently worshipped at the altar of reasonable doubt for four whole days while the State put on its case.

The prosecutor gave a colorful show, mostly done in swaths of crimson. Photos on the drop-down big screen of the hooker, her eyes dead and staring. Sherman’s booking photo, dried blood on his mouth. Of course, the forensics geeks were able to positively match the blood he’d drunk to the pond on the floor and what was left in her veins. He’d slit her wrists and let her bleed out. The cuts were to the bone, deep enough to get the biggest payload.

DiSalvo sat through the whole thing, one of a few people in the gallery. He was just another interested citizen, or maybe an escapee from an assisted living facility out to get some true-crime inspiration for his great American novel. I didn’t pay him any real attention. He seemed harmless, like a grampa. His white hair fluffed around his head in a friendly manner. He smiled on cue, acted like a normal human being would. I bet he even tried on a horrified look as the coroner went through how the victim died, how much pain she was in, what she would have felt, how cold she would have been from blood loss. You would never guess that DiSalvo, the little old man in the back row, had blood colder than any corpse.

He was only there to ensure nothing was said about him or his many enterprises. He was there for the same reason I was. Self-preservation. But he had nothing to worry about. I wasn’t going to let Sherman say a word about anything, much less his work history as a mob enforcer.

After the four days of gore and accusations and evidence, it was my turn to defend the inhuman idiot with the swastika tattooed on his arm and a pistol on his neck with death to jerks beneath the barrel. He should have been a goner. But I couldn’t let that happen. Self-preservation is the most basic instinct of all. Not sex, not love, not jealousy, not even hate. Keeping your neck out of the noose—or, in my case, out of the hands of a murderer—is a far better motivator than anything else.

It took me one day. One full day of poking holes in the entirety of the State’s case. There were no witnesses. The State couldn’t produce a single person from the scene. The sex club’s other “patrons” scattered the moment they heard the cops were on their way. No one heard her scream—or at least, no one could have differentiated her scream from the myriad others in the adjoining rooms. No one saw him actually take the knife to her. The knife was found next to her body. Only her prints were on it. There was no forensic evidence that he ever touched her. No semen, no skin under her nails, nothing.

I didn’t call any new witnesses, just recalled several of the State’s and made them look like bumbling fools who enjoyed jumping to conclusions.

“Could she have slit her own wrists?”

“Yes.” Reasonable doubt.

“You don’t know what happened because you weren’t actually there, were you?”

“No.” Reasonable doubt.

“You didn’t interview anyone at the scene?”

“No.” Reasonable doubt.

“You have no direct evidence to indicate that my client ever harmed that woman, do you?”

“No.” Reasonable doubt.

All they had was testimony that he was in her room, sitting in a pool of her blood. That sounds like a lot. That sounds like a case that’s a sure winner. It isn’t. Reasonable doubt is a Harsh.. Mistress.

The five-day trial turned into twelve days of jury deliberation. Every moment the jury was out was a win for me. It wouldn’t save my life, of course. Sherman’s hairy knuckles would still choke the life from me if they came back with a guilty verdict. But the wait was a good sign. If there was even one stickler, one moron on the jury who’d bought my impassioned arguments about lack of evidence and shoddy police work, I was golden. A hung jury was a win.

I lived in constant fear. Seventeen days of nightmares, little food, and no peace. Sherman came to embody that fear. I couldn’t look at him without shuddering. So I didn’t. I kept my eyes ahead. If the jury realized I loathed him, it was over. I internalized it all. Kept the fear hidden away where it ate at me slowly, dissolving my insides like a hungry spider. I waited those twelve days, dreading every second more than the last, for my reprieve or my death sentence.

When the jury finally came back, my day of reckoning had arrived. We stood as the foreman rendered the verdict.

Not guilty.

Sherman only nodded at me. I didn’t care. I was going to live for another day, and I sure didn’t want him to touch me. He was free to go on his vicious way, and I was free to keep breathing.

The prosecutor wouldn’t even shake my hand. I didn’t blame him. All the same, though, I didn’t make the rules. I didn’t set up the altar of reasonable doubt. I just worshipped her along with everyone else. But my stakes were even higher. I was the one who would be offered to her as a sacrifice if I couldn’t free the demon sitting next to me.

DiSalvo stopped me on the way out of the courtroom. He congratulated me. He said he saw something in me. In hindsight, I knew that he saw something he thought he could use. That’s what people like him were at their core, users.

“Your card, Ms. Pallida?” he asked.

I gave it to him. I didn’t know who he was or what he did. But a client was a client. I had to keep my lights on. I had to eat.

“I’ll keep Sherman on a leash from now on. You won’t ever see him again.”

This little grampa was telling me that he could control the murdering psycho who’d promised my death on several occasions. In the holding cell, walking to the courtroom, under his breath during jury breaks. This old man had no chance of controlling that mad dog.

I wanted to vomit. The fear was no longer in its cage. It had walked free, just like Sherman.

“Forgive me if that doesn’t really give me the warm fuzzies,” I said.

“I assure you. I can manage him.” He took my card. He looked more closely at my face, no doubt noticing the dark circles under my eyes. “Has he done something to you? Threatened you?”

I threw a glance back to Sherman. He was standing at the counsel table, looking at me with murder in his eyes. I almost pissed myself.

I hurried out, ignoring the reporters and photographers taking my photograph and asking me for comment on the case. Instead of giving them the tale of triumph they wanted, I paid for a cab to my pile of trash of an apartment, ran upstairs, and locked myself inside. I collapsed against the door. The shudders racked me as I cried. I cried for so long that I began dry heaving. I hadn’t eaten in days. The fear wouldn’t let me.

I hid for a week. The terror didn’t abate, even though I knew I’d done what I had to do. Every footstep in the hallway, every yell on the street below—I just knew it was Sherman. He was coming for me. He was going to do to me what he’d done to that poor woman, the same bloodletting, the same desecration. I had no one to turn to. I was utterly alone.

A knock at my door was like a gunshot to my ears. I wanted to hide under my bed or jump from the fire escape.

“Ms. Pallida, it’s Leon DiSalvo, from the courthouse.”

It was the voice of an old man—the white-haired grampa. How did he find me?

“I called your office, but your voice mail is full. I stopped by, but the man who owns the building said he hasn’t seen you in a week. I’m sorry to say he plans to kick you out on Friday.”

“Incredible.” I rose and went to the door. The old man wasn’t a threat. I didn’t open up, though. Even if the pope was on the other side of the door, I wouldn’t have opened. Sherman could have been hiding in His Holiness’s skirt for all I knew, waiting to get me. “I’m here. What do you want?”

“I want you to know that Sherman will no longer be bothering you or anyone.”

I guffawed, though it sounded more like a shriek. “Okay.” Sure.

“No, I mean it, Ms. Pallida. He’s been dealt with. I don’t take kindly to my staff making threats against officers of the court.” His voice was cold, hard, no longer the friendly grampa.

“What do you mean by ‘dealt with’?”

“Let’s just say he’s taking a long vacation in Jersey. That doesn’t sound so bad, does it?”

It sounded like music to my ears. If that idiot was in a shallow grave in the Pine Barrens, then all was right with the world.

“I won’t ask to come in, but I would like to invite you to visit me at my office. Say, next week, Wednesday around one?” An envelope slid under the door, making a whispering sound against the cheap linoleum.

“I don’t know . . .”

“Well, don’t decide now. I look forward to seeing you Wednesday. But if not, then it just wasn’t meant to be, was it?”

Sound logic.

I heard him moving away from the door, his steps creaking on the landing and then tapping down the steps.

I picked up the envelope with shaking hands. Inside was $10,000 and a note. Pay your rent. Get cleaned up. See you Wednesday. ~ D

I knew now what that money meant. I watched the rays of morning light that cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my corner office. The amber warmth hit my mahogany desk, the hardwood floors, the art along the walls, the cushy couches. All paid for in cash. All bankrolled by the work I’d done for DiSalvo, starting with Sherman.

I kicked my heels off and paced along the wide expanse of my sitting area, letting my toes sink into the expensive rug that came from some Middle Eastern oasis.

What did he want?

DiSalvo and I had concluded all business a few years ago. His relocation to Cuba had been final, or so I’d thought.

I pivoted and walked, pivoted and walked. My mind was racing through numerous possibilities. Old business or new business? Maybe he was just calling to check on me? Had I done something? I racked my brain, trying to remember any detail or move I’d made that could have impacted him in any way. There was none. We’d cut all ties.

I continued my march for a while until I threw my hands up in the air and said, “Phoo.”

I was going to have to call him. There was no escaping it. Better to do it sooner rather than later. Even over the space of an hour, the dread had built up inside me until my chest felt constricted. Fear. My familiar friend I’d tried to leave behind in my small apartment with the linoleum floor and the dozen locks on the door. He’d found me again.

I took a few deep, even breaths before picking up the phone and dialing DiSalvo’s number. I hoped he wouldn’t answer. One ring, two rings—yes, yes, yes—three rings—

He answered, his voice steeped in irritation. “Evangeline.”

“The heck, Vin!” I yelled. I didn’t care if the entire lower half of the island heard me.

“I’ve been working nonstop for a full week, Evan!” he yelled back. “I can’t catch everything!”

“You can’t catch the names of our biggest clients on a list of victims?” I hissed.

He rose from his desk and kicked his trash can. It flew out the door, barely missing me.

“It’s not their names, Evan. It’s some of their last names, and some of them don’t have matching names at all! No one would have caught it. Well, maybe you. But you had that idiot Drew and me—”

“Hey!” Drew yelled from next door.

“Shut the heck up, Drew!” Vinnie and I yelled in near-perfect unison.

I lowered my voice. “I expect more from you, Vin. This is a big deal. My rear could have been on the line, may still be on the line. And I had to learn about it all from DiSalvo? Goodness.”

“I know. I would have caught it. It would have taken me a little more time, that’s all. I got nothing else to tell you, boss. I really don’t.”

“This is so bad. So very, very bad.” I leaned against the doorframe, overcome by the situation.

Vinnie scrubbed a hand down his face and exhaled a deep breath before saying in an even tone, “If you’re going to fire me, go ahead and do it. I haven’t seen Carla in two days. She’s made me sleep on the couch. Our baby is due in five months, and my marriage is on the rocks. So just fire me already.” He sank back into his chair and cradled his head in his hands.

His despair gave me pause. I would never fire Vinnie. Even if he set the place on fire and refused to piss on it to put it out. I was surprised he thought me firing him was even an option. It wasn’t. Loyalty like his didn’t come around every day. I dragged the fear juggernaut back to its confines and locked it up, if only for a moment. I sat down in the chair in front of Vinnie’s desk.

“Go home, Vin.”

He sagged even more.

“No, I’m not firing you. You’re right. I’ve been working you too hard. Maybe you would have found it sooner if I’d actually given you a minute to breathe. And I’m not blameless in this. I’ve been . . . preoccupied.”

Every other sound in the office stopped. Our audience was clearly taken aback.

“The rest of you get to work!” I yelled. “I want to see your fingers bleed from all the work you’re doing. You’d be lucky to be half the associate Vinnie is!”

The sounds resumed, though muffled.

“Go home, see your super-fat, uh, I mean pregnant wife.” He raised his head and smiled weakly at that. I was making progress. “I have the profit-and-loss spreadsheet. I’ll have Drew go through and cross-check with our client database for any familiar names—”

“I’ve been working hard, too!” Drew cried through the wall.

“Shut the heck up, Drew!” I called again. “Anyway, she will do the check, and we will go from there. All in all, it’s not as bad is it could be. At least I don’t think it is.”

“Are you sure it’s just a coincidence?”

“Oh, I never said that. I don’t think it is. Castille took advantage of the parents, grandparents, and spouses of some of the most powerful mob bosses and white-collar criminals in New York and New Orleans. This isn’t over just because we know that now. I mean, it explains a lot—how the Ponzi got so big and why it was charged here—but our clients are not a fan of loose ends.”

DiSalvo’s words circled my mind like carrion birds over a corpse. You take on a client who’s messed over the parents and grandparents of half the mob?

“Idiot.” I drew out the word on an exhale. It was the only response to any of it, to the whole situation.

Vinnie rubbed his eyes with a vengeance, as if the action would erase the bad news from his sight. “What if they think we have something to do with it?”

I’d been worrying over that ever since DiSalvo explained the particulars of Castille’s sins. DiSalvo had heard through the grapevine—the retired-criminal grapevine?—that Castille had run a game on the wrong people, namely, the relatives of mob royalty. One of Castille’s “investors” happened to be one of DiSalvo’s elderly sisters, whom he had funded for her entire life. When DiSalvo found out I was repping the guy who bilked her, he, quite naturally, blew a gasket. Not out of loyalty to “senile Clara,” of course, but out of self-preservation. Anything that connected a federal investigation to him was bad news.

I could only hope his call had been more about damage control than anything else. I didn’t think he would hurt me, not after all I’d done for him.

“I’ll handle that if it happens. DiSalvo seemed convinced when I explained that we were in the dark.”

“But what about your other clients? Will they be as understanding?”

I shrugged. “We just have to move ahead with this case. I don’t know of any other way to do it.”

“We could try to drop Castille as a client,” Vinnie said.

“We could, but that’s no easy thing. Dropping Castille now would send him running to another attorney in town, one who might not be as discreet with Castille’s client list. That would blow up in our faces. Letting him out of our grip now would be a mistake. Besides, if we tried to quit, the Court will want an explanation. And we’d have to refund his retainer and eat the bill on all the time you’ve put into it. Not to mention, the fees from the federal case alone will put your little brat through college and then some. You want to lose all that?”

Vinnie groaned. “No.”

“All right. I’m glad we’re in agreement. Drew!” I yelled. “I expect that client cross-check report on my desk by the end of the day. If it isn’t, go ahead and cancel your nonexistent weekend plans!”

I heard something bang against the wall. A stapler, maybe?

Vinnie dropped his voice. “I hope you know what you’re doing, boss.”

I matched his volume. “You and me both, Vin. Incredible. We need to win this case sooner rather than later.”

I picked up a pen from his desk, pallida & associates emblazoned across the side in gold letters, and chewed on the end. We both grew silent. I was thinking. He propped his head on his hand and closed his eyes. He could have dozed off for all I knew. I just kept mulling over the problem, trying to get the win and save our skins.

“Maybe we can try to disqualify this Lincoln guy again?” Eyes still closed, Vinnie threw the nasty idea out on the field. A swing and a miss.

“Nope. Try again.” A parade of motions ran through my mind, all different sorts meant to create a quagmire for my enemies. Problem was, I didn’t need to slow this case down. I needed to speed it up. To end it. But not with a plea deal or a conviction, with a win. The only way I knew to get that was to prostrate myself before the goddess of reasonable doubt.

I bent over, head between my knees. This was Sherman all over again, though the threat of death wasn’t quite as front and center. It lurked around the edges, veiled and in the dark.

“It’s this guy Lincoln, right? He’s the problem. He’s got a justice boner for Castille, right? How do we make him take a cold shower? Demoralize him and then take him to the mat?”

I stopped midchew, an idea coming into my mind, as devious as it was clever. It was wrong. Idiot wrong. It was immoral, as if I had any license to use that word anymore. If I did it, I could never take it back. It would plop down on top of my pile of sins like a sickly-sweet cherry.

I remembered the tenor of DiSalvo’s voice over the phone, wizened from age but still sinister. He’d told me I was a groin for taking Castille’s case, that I should have thought more instead of chasing the dollars like a stripper at a pole. He’d grown more unpleasant as he’d aged, no longer even trying to maintain the friendly grampa demeanor. Now he’d let the image drop entirely, spewing his venom freely and without remorse. He was cold. More than that, he was worried. The link between his sister, himself, and his son, whom DiSalvo had left in charge of his empire, was getting more traceable by the moment. Even the nastiest creature would fight to protect its children. DiSalvo was as nasty as they came.

I turned my idea over in my mind, pretending it was a coin. On one side, the metal was shiny, new—I could do the right thing and let the case play out fairly. The other side was dirty and scratched, the image clear but ruined. Fear told me which side to choose. Ever since Sherman, I had been ruled by that one emotion, doing anything within my power to never feel it again.

I sat up straight, willing conviction into myself. “I have a plan.”

Chapter Eight

LINCOLN

I waited for Jonesy. I sat in his dark interior office. The room was cramped. The desk was too large for the space, so that only Jonesy’s desk chair and one other chair fit inside.

The walls were covered with mementos from cases, commendations from the attorney general, and even a presidential letter. Jonesy had only been prosecuting for a few years and he was already moving up the chain, doing the right things. It was too bad I was going to have to hurt him.

The hall lights flickered on, and legal assistants and paralegals began their day. Other attorneys strolled by and didn’t even peer inside. The light was off, so no one was home.

I let that familiar anger roil under the surface, but I controlled it. It didn’t control me anymore. I still let it escape sometimes, like steam rushing from a valve, hot enough to burn if you’re not careful. Jonesy hadn’t been careful.

I heard him coming down the hall, throwing out greetings like candy at a Christmas parade. He was up, feeling good. No Monday doldrums for him. He must have been feeling pretty great about trying to sink my case and my chances with Evan at the same time. I wanted to crack my knuckles. Instead, I stood and leaned against the wall in the darkness, waiting.

Sure enough, he strolled in and hit the light switch. I grabbed his wrist, wrenched it up, and aimed a vicious jab at his ribs. He didn’t have time to cry out. He only made a whooshing noise as the air left his lungs. I swung the door shut behind him.

“Idiot . . . you . . . doing?”

I put my forearm to his neck and pinned him to the wall. Jonesy was a large man, but anyone can go rag-doll when you cut off their air supply. He struggled and landed a few blows to my ribs, the side of my head. I let him. His flailing slowed as less and less air made it past his windpipe. I wanted to hurt him, to really hurt him. But anything I had in mind was too much. The rage didn’t control me anymore. If it had, Jonesy would have already been a bloodied pulp on the floor.

“I warned you to stay away from her.” I said it calmly, methodically. The only violence was in my movements.

“Forget you.”

“You don’t seem to understand she doesn’t want you.” I flexed my forearm for emphasis, cutting off more of his precious air. “It doesn’t matter what you tell her, she’s going to come back to me every time.”

“You don’t . . . deserve her.” He was struggling to maintain consciousness.

“I know.” Jonesy was right about one thing, at least.

There was a sharp rap at the door, and Wood’s voice boomed through the wood. “What’s going on in there?”

I released Jonesy, who doubled over and gulped in deep breaths of air.

“I’m not after her. I don’t know if you really believed that trash story you gave her or not. But I’m telling you right now. Whatever you think you know about my investigation is wrong. Six months, heck, one month ago? You would have been dead-on. But now, you’re wrong. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her.”

Another knock at the door.

Jonesy righted himself. “It’s all right, Wood.”

“You sure?” Wood was unconvinced.

“I’m sure.”

“I know Lincoln’s in there. I swear to heaven if either of you idiots have destroyed any government property during your little lovers’ quarrel, I’m going to take it out of your hides!”

Wood retreated. Jonesy and I stood and eyed each other. He wasn’t afraid. He should have been, but he wasn’t. I respected it.

“I’m not convinced you aren’t out to get her.” He tried to straighten his now-rumpled tie.

“I don’t give a hoot.”

“I won’t let you take her down. I know she’s done some dirt in the past—hell, she’s probably even doing some now. But it’s never been enough to get her so much as brought before the bar disciplinary committee for a wrist slap. You’ve got nothing on her.”

I sat back down, the chair still warm from where I’d been waiting all morning. I motioned for him to take his seat, a momentary truce.

“Let me paint the picture for you so you won’t jump to any more incorrect conclusions and get me in hot water with Evan.”

He bristled, but he did take his seat. He was giving me a chance, so I would return the favor.

“When I started this investigation, I quickly realized Castille wasn’t your average Ponzi-scheming jerk. He was smart. He cast a wide net, but he also went for quality. He would mess over a grandma living on Social Security with $20,000 in savings to show for her entire life and he would also mess over the grampa with $10 million sitting in various investments and bank accounts. He was a real democratic sort of guy.

“Now, you know I want to nail him for all of the victims—the wrinkled princes and the paupers. But the princes caught my attention. I did some more digging and discovered they were the parents, uncles, aunts, and even ex-wives of some of the biggest players in the underworld of New Orleans, New York, and Chicago. One in particular would be a legendary get.”

“DiSalvo,” Jonesy said.

“Right. The rest are pretty big, too. And they are dirty. Their money is dirty. Even though it was passed through and laundered into the accounts of their nearest and dearest, it is still the same cash that they collected through their illegal enterprises. You have all that right. What you got wrong is that I’m going after Evan for it. She would have been collateral damage.”

“So you’ve been working this bigger investigation, but all of a sudden you’re changing course? Why?”

“I met her.” Simple, but true. Evan had changed the game. And wasn’t this the rub? “Once I met her, I realized I couldn’t allow that damage to happen. So all the leads and paths and schemes that led to her, all the wrongdoing that could be proven by a raid on her files—gone. I’ll have to prove it up some other way, a way that doesn’t involve Pallida & Associates.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You have a chance to blow the lid off one of the hugest RICO and money-laundering schemes in federal history and you are passing it up? I don’t buy it.”

“Not passing it up, no. But I’m not going to drag her into it. This case will give me convictions of the biggest organized crime bosses this side of Eliot Ness. I will make my name and career on this case. Straight to the top. But it won’t be at her expense.” I looked around at his commendations. Jonesy had been beating the path of his own ascension for quite some time.

Jonesy pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned back in his chair. It squeaked under his weight. “You’re telling me that you are going to get a conviction on Castille—if you even can—and then let Evan go?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.” I nodded.

He was finally figuring out what I’d known since I’d first seen Evan sitting in the bar and working her magic on Jonesy. She was once-in-a-lifetime lightning in a bottle. I couldn’t pass her up, no matter how much it would have pleased me to use her as a shortcut to bring down DiSalvo, or maybe a syndicate. Heck, I would have kicked up my heels with even one straightforward conviction. But that was before I met her. I would make do with Castille for now. Lighting up that prick would go a long way to assuage my ego.

I shrugged. “The bigger case wouldn’t have been that much of a cakewalk with her files anyway. I have to trace the money, every last cent, back to its origination point, link it with the original crime, and then hope double jeopardy or the statute of limitations didn’t kick the case out of court before it even got started.”

“Those are just excuses.” Jonesy dropped his gaze back to me.

I felt like this was the first real conversation I’d had with the guy since I’d been here. He really wasn’t so bad. He’d be a lot better if he got a hard-on for someone other than Evan.

“They are,” I agreed, “but I already told you the main reason.”

“Have you considered that Evan’s clients are going to get wind of what you originally had cooking and blame her? Especially since you two have been . . .” He shook his head, as if trying to erase an image from his mind. “They are the sort who shoot first and ask questions later.”

It was a definite worry of mine. Evan could take care of herself, but if some of her more vicious clients thought for a second she was a threat to them, things would get ugly fast.

“That’s why I’ve dropped the deeper part of my investigation entirely for the time being. I can’t undo what I did before. I have no doubt that I got some buzz going in the criminal community in the months I spent tracing them to Evan’s door, but she hasn’t mentioned anything—”

Jonesy snorted. “That woman wouldn’t tell you trash. Even if one of her clients was standing in her office with a bloody knife and threatening to gut her. She wouldn’t call for help. She would talk the client into paying her an even bigger retainer, and he would leave feeling like he’d won something. You’d be none the wiser.”

I laughed. Jonesy was likely right. All the same, I’d tried to keep a close eye on her when I could. She wasn’t hard to trace—ten- to twelve-hour days at her office, takeout from one of the restaurants between the office and her condo, and the rest of her night alone in her home.

She was solitary, but intentionally so. I’d seen her turn down plenty of offers during the short time I’d been tailing her. I enjoyed watching various men trying to chat her up and the way she shut them down. I couldn’t hear her choice words from the distance between us, but I could tell she didn’t hold back by the way the men scurried away like scalded dogs. If Jonesy was to be believed, this was a solid change in her MO on the casual sex front. I hoped I was the reason.

“But you still intend to take Castille down?” Jonesy interrupted my thoughts. “And then the whole shooting match in time?”

“Sure do.” I stood.

“She’s not going to like that.”

“She doesn’t have to.” I knew I had a tiger by the tail when I first learned Castille had lawyered up with her.

I took two steps to his door.

He sighed, the wind completely gone from his sails. “You know, she isn’t what she puts out there. I mean, she is the bad jerk, that’s true. But she’s a lot more than that. I’ve seen her, the real her, every so often. At Docket Call after she’s had a few too many or when she interacts with certain people. She isn’t what she seems. Most people take her at face value, so they don’t realize the trash she says and does isn’t a weapon, it’s a shield to keep people away.”

I’d seen the real her. The one who nursed a deep ache for her lost family. The one who was so steeped in loneliness that she thought it made her somehow stronger, as if connecting with another person would be a sign of weakness. And I’d let her see me. Not the bastion of law and order that I portrayed myself as, but a deeply flawed person who’d tried to change his ways. My forearm against Jonesy’s windpipe only minutes ago reminded me I was still trying.

“By the way, did you tell her what I said about her the other night, when we were outside the bar, and you kneed me in the face?” Jonesy’s voice had risen a little.

I turned back to look at him, and his color was up, or maybe he just looked red from the lack of oxygen.

“No.”

“Shoot!” He slammed his fist down on the desk.

“Why?”

“Oh, just get the heck out of here.” He didn’t say it with menace, rather genuine irritation.

I obliged. Jonesy’s secretary paid close attention to her computer screen as I walked by, careful not to catch my eye. I didn’t blame her.

I went to my cramped cubby of a makeshift workspace. I spent the rest of the day ignoring glares from Wood and drafting some preliminary motions. I hoped to get the Castille case moving with some procedural fireworks. I wanted to keep the heat on that mongrel, and once I had my conviction, I could focus more of my efforts on the larger investigation and, more importantly, on Evan. She wasn’t going to be easily won, but I was more than ready to try.

Maybe I could talk her into a New Orleans trip. Kennedy would love her; I was certain of that. Wash would be a hard sell because of our history, but it was worth a try.

Late in the afternoon, I got a notification e-mail from the court. Evan had filed something in the case. I pulled it up on my laptop, accessing the online filing system to get a look at whatever procedural bugaboo she’d dreamed up. I knew it would be good. Underestimating her wasn’t an option.

I double-clicked the file. It was a pro hac motion—one meant to qualify an out-of-state attorney to serve as co-counsel on a case. She didn’t list who the attorney was but requested a hearing for the next afternoon. My phone buzzed again; it was the clerk of the court, granting the hearing and setting it for 1 p.m. What was she up to? In my review of her case files, I’d never seen her take on co-counsel from outside of her own firm, much less out of state. I marked it on my calendar and put it aside. I wouldn’t know the details until the hearing, so there was no point spinning my wheels over it.

I spent the rest of the day working with one of my expert witnesses on the timing of money transfers in and out of Castille’s accounts, and how those correlated to the accounts of his victims. I needed a precise statement of every transfer, every dime that was taken. Any misstep in the math or the chain of causation could send a jury in the wrong direction. I had to keep reasonable doubt from sneaking in through a carelessly unlocked door or seeping through a crevice in my evidence. I could only win with an airtight case, but I would see to it.

The day grew late. It was almost time for Evan to leave work, if she hadn’t already. I watched over her every night, keeping tabs to keep her safe. I left the courthouse a little after eight. A light mist floated through the city and made halos around the streetlights. I didn’t have an umbrella and made do with my light jacket and my briefcase over my head. I found some shelter in a doorway on the street Evan frequented for her nightly takeout. It was only a few minutes before I saw her jump from a cab and dart into Taj. Indian night for her, it seemed.

After she’d safely nabbed her dinner and retired to her penthouse, I rode the subway up to my shabby apartment.

On the train, even though I was worn out, I spared a few fatigued neurons to wonder who she could possibly be trying to add to the case, but came up empty each time. I was too tired to really dig deep.

I made it back, showered, and crashed into my bed. I thought of Evan as I drifted off to sleep. I imagined her fresh out of law school, doing pro bono work, doing her best to help those in need. One day I’d figure out what changed, what happened to her to cut off that bright future and give her this one instead.

The next day was more of the same work with experts, chasing down facts and figures. My phone pinged, reminding me of the hearing with Evan. I hadn’t forgotten it, just let the time get away from me. I took the courthouse steps two a time, not wanting to bring down Judge Crane’s wrath by rolling up in her courtroom too terribly late.

I smoothed my suit and fastened my top two buttons before pushing through the wooden doors. The courtroom gallery was empty; no one came to see run-of-the-mill hearings like this. Nothing doing, really.

Evan sat at the counsel table to the left, a man next to her.

He was familiar. Too familiar. My mouth went dry.

I reached the balustrade and pushed through.

He turned. “Linc.”

“Wash. What are you—”

“Now that Mr. Granade has decided to make his appearance, are we ready to proceed?” Judge Crane’s sharp voice cut through my surprise.

I glared from Wash to Evan. She kept her eyes forward, wouldn’t look at me.

“Yes, Your Honor, I’d like to move for the admittance of Washington Granade. He is—”

“Granade?” Judge Crane peered over her spectacles. “Any relation?”

Washington gave an easy smile. “Yes, ma’am. Lincoln’s my brother.”

“Well, isn’t this an interesting turn of events?” Judge Crane looked at me and back to Washington. “I can certainly see the resemblance.”

Washington was only an inch or two shorter than me. His eyes were blue, and he had lighter brown hair. He had dimples and had always been a charmer. Given the way Judge Crane looked at him, the charm was already hard at work.

“Go on, Ms. Pallida. You were saying?”

“Yes, Judge. Mr. Granade is admitted to the practice of law in good standing in the State of Louisiana. He meets all the standards and fitness criteria to be admitted pro hac vice in the Southern District of the State of New York. I’ll have my secretary file his bar license and other paperwork.”

“I see. Well, Mr. Granade—hmm. I suppose I’ll have to start referring to you two by your first names to tell you apart. Lincoln, do you have any objection to her motion for pro hac status for Washington?”

I had a multitude of objections, but none of them were grounds to disqualify Wash’s admittance to the case. It was like I’d been hit with a haymaker, blindsided.

“No, Your Honor.”

“In that case, I will conditionally grant the motion pending the receipt of Washington’s paperwork. Counsel is dismissed.” Judge Crane exited through the chambers door.

“What the heck do you two think you are doing?” I kept my voice low. The walls had ears. But I wasn’t going to let Evan waltz out of here without an explanation.

Wash smirked. “I got a call from a lady in distress.” He looked at Evan and then back to me. “I always come running when I get a call like that. You know a few things about butting in where you don’t belong. Remember, Linc? I’m just taking a page out of your book.”

My emotions were changing by the second. Guilt over what I’d done to Wash mixed with the anger of him ambushing me like this.

Evan still didn’t look me in the eye. The bad jerk was having the last laugh.

I’d thought I was making progress, getting her to open up to me. I even believed her vulnerable act. Was anything she told me about her past, her family, even true? She’d asked me that night at my apartment if I’d been telling her the truth. Maybe I should have asked her the same thing.

“Evan?” I put a lot in the question.

“This is just business. Just work.” She snapped her briefcase closed and pushed through the balustrade, never giving me even a sideways glance.

Had she been working me the whole time? Was she really the bad jerk like they all said? I didn’t want to believe it. But anyone who would take advantage of bad blood and turn his own brother against him wasn’t someone to be trusted, to be loved. I thought she was something different, someone who was strong enough to fight her demons. I realized that she didn’t fight them. She gave in to them. She let them run free. She was ruled by them the way I had been.

Wash followed her. He wasn’t gloating, exactly, but I could tell he was pleased with himself. She set a brisk pace, almost running from me though I was standing still, not giving chase.

“Evan,” I said again, not a question this time.

She halted her flight.

“Everything they say about you is true.”

Then she was gone, Wash following in her wake.

Chapter Nine

EVAN

Wash and Jonesy set up a huddle in the largest conference room. Drew flitted in and out, bringing additional bits of information and case prep. I retreated to my office, slamming my door behind me. Do not disturb was implied.

I sank down on my couch and kicked off my heels. I rested my head in my hands. The look on Lincoln’s face when he’d seen Wash haunted me. Confusion first, then shock, then betrayal—a parade of horribles that I had laid before him.

“Shoot!” I kicked the coffee table away and lay back, stretching out and draping my arm across my eyes. I didn’t want to see anything. Just darkness, blackness, what I looked like on the inside.

I was a coward. Now Lincoln knew it. The tears ran down and dripped into my ears. I let them fall. I didn’t deserve to cry. After all, I was the one who’d done wrong. But I wasn’t crying out of self-pity so much as I was crying for what I’d destroyed, what I’d lost.

Lincoln’s green eyes emerged from the soot of my mind. He was looking at me with his mix of mischief and curiosity. He’d wanted to know about me, the real me. Was there even a real me anymore? I’d been the bad jerk for so long that I’d become it. Did this fall into “be careful what you wish for” or “fake it until you make it” territory? No, it was in “you’ve messed it all up” land.

I’d wanted to knock Lincoln off his game, to take the fight out of him so I’d have an easier time courting reasonable doubt. I’d accomplished my goal. I didn’t realize how much it would hurt to see him wounded. How much I would regret it. How hard it would be to walk away from him after he’d called my name.

Everything they say about you is true. His words reverberated through my mind, an indictment. All the counts against me were accurate. I was the worst of the worst, far nastier than any of my clients. He hadn’t wanted to believe it, thought I was better than I seemed. When I was with him, in his arms, I’d started to think maybe I was better, too. He was wrong. We both were.

I continued sinking into my pit of self-loathing, soaking in it until I dozed off.

I woke up the next morning, sun streaming through my windows. The office coffeemaker had clicked on automatically, brewing the first pot of the morning. It was six thirty. I freshened up in my private powder room, trying to make it seem like I hadn’t spent the night crying in my office.

Lincoln zipped through my thoughts. I blocked him out. I imagined building a wall between us, separating us brick by brick. I’d already done it in real life; adding one in my imagination couldn’t idiot things up any worse. I had to erase him from my mind as best I could. Otherwise, I would never be able to function. I’d caused him pain he didn’t deserve. Used his secrets against him, betrayed him to save myself.

I had reasons, I reminded myself. Big reasons. Death. Dismemberment.

Besides, it was done. It could never be undone. I served myself a cup of coffee, black and bitter, and started my day.

Castille’s case took up the lion’s share of our time for the next two weeks. We tracked down witnesses, arranged experts, and drafted preliminary motions. Wash proved invaluable for finding information in New Orleans. After he’d made his dramatic appearance, I’d sent him back south to be boots on the ground. In reality, he’d served his purpose for the time being. I’d bring him back out for trial, parade him around in front of Lincoln like a garish show pony.

Wash had agreed to serving as co-counsel for me, but he didn’t seem to enjoy it the way I’d suspected he would. He never discussed Lincoln at all. I got the feeling that he’d thought the whole thing would be more gratifying than it actually was. Maybe time did heal the wound, after all? If it did, I went in with a jagged knife and did my best to open it right back up again by adding Wash to the case. Pallida & Associates, turning brother against brother in the name of survival—maybe I could get some new pens with that slogan.

Vinnie and I worked long days and nights. The other associates scurried away from me in fear, practically running for cover whenever they saw me coming down the hall. Word was that I’d somehow gotten worse. Whispers in the break room and frightened glances never bothered me. After all, I was the bad jerk. I had no time or inclination to try to be anything different. I’d destroyed any chance my associates had of getting out from under my iron fist when I first dialed Washington’s number. So, as far as I was concerned, they could continue to scurry and plot about how to avoid my ire. Be a-frigging-fraid.

As the case wore on, we had a smattering of hearings over small things, like exhibit lists and witness orders. I didn’t file anything that would hold up progress.

I got sick before every hearing. My lunch was never safe when I knew that afternoon held a run-in with Lincoln. I wasn’t scared, and I certainly didn’t fear him; it was something else. Shame, maybe? Shame that when he saw me now, he really saw me—all the ugliness and pettiness that had been hidden by my manipulation now out on display.

Every time I caught a glimpse of him, it was like someone had punched me in the solar plexus. The wind went out of me, and I couldn’t focus for a moment. Then I would fight the feeling away and pretend like everything was fine.

The tables had turned. Lincoln never met my eye. It was as if I no longer existed to him, as if I were beneath his notice, not good enough. Some of that may have been projecting, but the fact remained that he couldn’t stand to look at me. I couldn’t blame him for it. I deserved his censure or worse.

When the hearings were over, he would walk out, never looking back. I would let him go. I had to. There was nothing I could say, nothing I would say. I made my choice. Wrongly or rightly, my path was laid out ahead of me, leading ever onward, though definitely not upward.

After long nights at the office, I would get takeout and go home, tired, beaten, and solitary. I would drink lonely, not alone. I never set foot in the Docket Call. I missed Jonesy and Wood, but I didn’t have the balls to set foot on their turf. I wondered if Lincoln talked about me to them now, wondered if they shared tales about how the bad jerk burned them every chance she got. How she couldn’t be trusted, no matter what she did or said. How every word out of her mouth was a lie.

The trial date moved ever closer, 120 days gone in a flash. The week before jury selection was to begin, we argued our evidentiary motions. Wash was back in town, though his job was to sit at the counsel table and look pretty more than anything else.

“Ms. Pallida, what motions do you have for the Government?”

I strode up to the podium in the center of the well. Lincoln took his now-customary place against the jury box, arms crossed over his chest. I meant to glance and look away, but something on his face caught my eye—a neat row of small bandages running along his nose. I stared harder, noticing the shadow along his jaw and the dark discoloration under his left eye. He’d been fighting. I had driven him back to the darkest time in his life and left him there. I swallowed my self-loathing. There was no turning back now. Not anymore.

Still, he didn’t look at me.

“Yes, Judge, I would first like to move to disqualify the accounting expert proffered by the Government. Mr. Rains does not have a PhD and has never served as an expert witness in any case. His methods are suspect at best. Because he has no qualifications to actually testify as an expert, case law is clear that he should not be qualified as such.”

“Mr. Granade, well, Lincoln.” Judge Crane glanced to Wash and back to me. “Response?”

“Mr. Rains does not have a formal PhD, no. However, he’s worked as an accountant for the past decade. He has an undergraduate degree in accounting, and his reports were done in accordance with GAAP principles. The fact that he’s never testified as an expert witness before is, I think, a good thing. He’s not a professional witness who will spin his story according to however counsel, like Ms. Pallida, tells him to spin it. His reports are solid.”

“First, Judge Crane, I take issue with Mr. Granade’s implication—”

“It wasn’t implied.” Lincoln finally looked at me. What I saw in his eyes was rage, the anger he’d told me about while he held me in his arms. He kept it controlled, for now. Even his words, though they stung, were delivered in a monotone. He was right about his past, how he’d changed. He controlled the rage. It didn’t control him.

“Judge, I can’t allow him to stand here and impugn my character like this. We have proffered experts with advanced degrees and myriad experience in testifying about the facts of cases. They have the experience and ability to properly perform forensic accounting in accordance with the generally accepted accounting—”

Judge Crane waved her hand. “I get it, Ms. Pallida. I see nothing amiss with either set of your experts. Motions to disqualify on both sides are denied. Move on.”

Though Lincoln kept his anger at bay, he was still clearly suffering from Wash’s presence. His arguments were mechanical, almost stilted, and injected with venom. I looked back at Vinnie, sitting in the front pew. He winked. The strategy was working according to plan.

We continued sparring, having some motions granted, most denied. His anger grew with each back-and-forth between us. I could sense it, though he controlled it well enough to fool Judge Crane. He was a powder keg. I’d lit the fuse. It had been slowly burning ever since Lincoln had first seen Wash, when he’d truly realized what I was capable of. Closer and closer it burned. I wondered what would happen when the flame met the powder. I knew I deserved whatever vengeance Lincoln decided to mete out.

Our arguments rose and fell, each one building on the last. I won disqualification of one of Lincoln’s witnesses. I played dirty, bringing up the witness’s divorce papers, which called his veracity into question. It was a long time ago and had no real bearing on the case. I plunged ahead, destroying any shred of credibility the witness had. I was all in; no need to start playing fair now.

Vinnie and I spent the weekend prepping Castille. I played bad cop, always bad cop, while Vinnie did his best to defend Castille from my blistering questions. Castille held up fairly well for a slimy jerk. The contacts went a long way toward making him more relatable, his gaze not so ratlike. He’d learned not to talk out of turn or say more than was asked. His practiced good-guy routine tightened up the more we worked with him. It would be more than enough to fool the jury.

We hadn’t decided yet whether we would call him to the stand. It depended on the Government’s evidence, and whether I felt like reasonable doubt was smiling on me. If she was, Castille would ride the pine. He was good, but I didn’t want to put him under Lincoln’s spotlight. I knew Castille would cave eventually, even after the intense prep sessions where I’d drilled him mercilessly and he’d held fast. Lincoln would be far worse because he had righteousness on his side. It would give him an edge that I couldn’t even begin to lay claim to. So I had to guard against it at all costs.

Vinnie and I had prepped, plotted, and done everything in our power short of sacrificing a virgin to woo reasonable doubt to our side. The night before trial, I sent everyone home for a good night’s sleep. Vinnie was keyed up, too excited about sitting third chair to rest.

“Vin, if you don’t go home and shut your eyes, at least for a while, you’re going to look really bad tomorrow. I don’t want a jury seeing you like that. So clear the heck out.”

“Fine, fine.” He collected some papers and outlines of witness questions. I’d told him he could question our experts. I’d handle Lincoln’s witnesses. Cross-examination was a specialty of mine. “But I’ll be back here at five a.m.”

“Bring doughnuts or you’re dead to me.”

“Will do, boss.”

I went over my opening statement one more time, practicing my gestures and tone. My cell rang.

I checked the number and stopped dead in my tracks. DiSalvo. I didn’t need this right now. Not even a little bit.

“Leon,” I answered.

“Forget you doing, Evangeline?” His voice crackled, like dead leaves crunching under shoes in winter.

“What?”

“I said, what the heck do you think you’re doing taking Castille to trial?” He tried to enunciate each word for emphasis, but I could tell his teeth weren’t in. His words were sloppy, though no less dangerous.

“I’m doing my job.”

“Are you? I thought we already discussed this. I thought I told you how bad this could go for you. Didn’t I do that, Evangeline?”

I leaned against the wall, needing something stronger than myself to support my quaking body. “Yes, but I—”

“But you what? You thought this was the way to handle it? To get some prosecutor’s brother on your team? That would fix it?”

“Look, Leon, I have this all set up. Castille is getting off. Your name will never be mentioned. Nothing will happen. This is the way to fix it all, to clean it all up, to put it to bed.”

“You sure, Evangeline? Positive?” He was taunting me now. Laughing.

“Yes. Remember what I did for Sherman?”

“I remember Sherman crying for his mother before I put a bullet between his eyes.” The laughter was gone; only the cold crackle remained. “I did it myself, Evangeline. I made sure it was done right.”

“This is being done right.” I tried to keep my voice steady. It didn’t work. Fear was there in the syllables.

“You better hope so. We’ll see, we’ll see.”

The line went dead.

My knees buckled and I slid to the floor. I clenched my eyes shut, warding off the bogeyman with my own self-imposed darkness. I sat there for a long time, my heart racing and sweat pouring from me. So much was riding on every move I made. Everything I touched was on the verge of being destroyed. I had to win this trial. I had to appease reasonable doubt. I’d already sacrificed so much, but I would give even more if I had to. Self-preservation, primal, instinctual, was there, ruling my actions.

After a long while, I collected myself and rose. There was no other option now. Keeping it together was the only way for me to get my neck out of the noose. I needed to eat and go home. I had to look good tomorrow, my best. Professional for the female jurors, a little sexy for the males. I couldn’t do that if I slept in the office. I couldn’t let DiSalvo ruin my chance at saving myself. I had to keep going, to see this through, to show him that this was the right way to handle it all.

The night was rainy, a lingering winter chill in the air. I caught a cab and went to Thai, one of my regular haunts. I wasn’t hungry, would probably wind up vomiting back up every last noodle, but I needed to at least make an effort. I had the cabbie wait for me as I ran in to pick up my order. When I emerged back into the wet gloom, two men approached. I froze. They were large and didn’t seem to care about the soaking rain. One had a silver pistol. They grabbed my elbows and hustled me into a waiting car. My cabdriver watched through his windshield, his mouth agape at the scene.

I didn’t have a chance to scream or fight. The car sped from the curb, out into the traffic and away from the familiar lights of the courthouse. The men on each side of me hemmed me in, their heft keeping me wedged between them. They were clearly the muscle and smelled like stale cologne and alcohol. Two more men were in the front, a driver and a passenger.

The passenger took a drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke into the car. His hair was dark and greasy, and his thin mustache made him somehow more effeminate. He watched me with dark, beady eyes.

I watched the pistol in his left hand. It was a light gray with a shiny barrel. It had mesmerized me from the moment I saw it pointed at me as I was shoved into the car. One of my captors took my purse from my frozen hands and searched it before tossing it onto the floor under his feet.

I was in shock or something close to it. I realized what had happened to me, but it was still only now becoming clear that I was in mortal danger.

“Wondering why you’re here?” the stranger asked, his voice an unpleasant falsetto.

I tore my focus from the gun and looked him in the eye. I didn’t answer, just gave the same stare back to him. I already knew I wasn’t here to talk. I’d been brought to listen, at least until we reached our final destination. Then all bets were off.

Rain coated the car and slid down the windows in heavy drops and runnels. The driver had a preordained path, heading south, toward the Brooklyn Bridge. But then where?

“Well, I’ll tell you. Mr. DiSalvo isn’t too happy with you right now. You’re a problem, see?” He asked it as if I would agree with him.

Even though I knew there was no other explanation, the mention of DiSalvo’s name caused dread to erupt in my heart. It swallowed up the shock and every other emotion I was even capable of producing. It was as if I were still sitting in Clarence Sherman’s cell, his fetid breath filling the air as he made the darkest threats I’d ever heard. But now the promise of harm, of death was even more immediate. DiSalvo had sent these men to kill me. I shuddered.

The stranger kept his eyes on me. “Now, you’ve been very good to Mr. DiSalvo in the past. That’s why we’re going to do it easy. None of the usual stuff. He told us not to cut anything off or touch you”—his gaze slipped down my body and then back up to my face—“or do anything like that. Just a bullet to the back of your head. Real quick, simple. No pain, see?” Again, like I was supposed to agree with him, to thank him for being so generous by not torturing or raping me prior to snuffing out my life.

He turned back around and whistled as the car sped over the bridge. The men on either side didn’t look at me. They just stared straight ahead. Other cars were next to us on the bridge—a couple in a red car arguing, a solitary woman driving a beat up sedan, a church van full of teenagers. I watched them as the rain streamed between us. It was like watching some sort of boring movie, the actors phoning it in even though I was fully invested in every move they made. None of them saw me through the tinted windows. They were living their lives while I was living the last moments of mine.

I wanted to fight, to cry, to scream. But there was nothing I could do. I could barely move, much less try to escape from a speeding car while surrounded by hit men.

I was going to die.

I didn’t have any questions. The stranger had already told me everything I needed to know. My death was ordered by DiSalvo. He had been a father figure for a time, when he needed me. Now I was a liability, expendable, as good as dead.

I should have guessed from his phone call that he had something planned for me, that he was just testing to see what my plan was, what I thought I could accomplish without incriminating him. It was foolish, but I believed, right up until the moment the stranger with the mustache and the gun said different, that DiSalvo actually cared for me, not much, but as much as a man like that was capable of. And maybe he did, in his own sick way, by ordering the hit men to off me quickly.

I continued to stare around for help that would never come. The whir of the tires on the bridge turned into the steady hum of a long smooth roadway. The slick hiss of the rain lapping at the wheels was like a needle in my ear.

The car was silent for a while, only the sound of the stranger inhaling and exhaling as he chain-smoked breaking through.

My mind raced. I thought of how Vinnie would react when I never showed up in the morning. Would he try to defend the case with Wash? Without me? Jena would be relieved I hadn’t shown up to jerk at her for whatever she’d done wrong. And who else would miss me? No one. There was nobody. No family. Not even a dog, cat, or so much as a parakeet. My apartment would sit quiet and untouched. No one would even know I was gone until I’d been dead for days.

Even when an alarm finally went out, they’d never find my body. I’d be stuffed, in pieces in a fifty-gallon drum at the bottom of some muddy inlet on Long Island. I could see it in my mind. I looked down at my hands, imagining them drained of blood, stiff and broken, shoved down on top of other disjointed parts of my body.

It was over, all of it. Silent tears slipped down my cheeks. As despair pooled in my chest, I closed my eyes. I saw a flash of Lincoln’s dark hair play across my eyelids. I hadn’t allowed myself to think of him, the real him, for weeks. I’d created a fiction for him, Prosecutor X, a nondescript adversary. I let that fall away as I focused on him, thinking of how we had started something that was real. I would never know if it could have been more. I’d never been in love. I didn’t think I was capable of it. And now the one chance I had was gone. I’d killed that chance as surely as these men were going to kill me.

Lincoln had seen through to the heart of me, and I would never know if he was the one. He would never know what happened to me, if he even cared. No one would know. And no one would really care. Sure, Vin would mourn me. But he’d move on. He had a family, a child on the way. I had nothing, no one. My own actions had made sure of it.

I choked back a sob. None of the men acknowledged my existence, much less my distress. How many times had they done this? How many hapless victims had taken this same ride?

“Here?” the driver asked as the car came up on an exit.

“Yeah, let’s do it at Gilgo,” the passenger said on a smoky exhale.

“Is the tide coming in now?”

“I don’t know”—taking a big drag—“it doesn’t matter anyway”—smoky exhale—“I never had a problem with anything being found yet. Remember that guy we tried the acid on?”

The driver laughed, a deeply unsettling sound. “Yeah, that was funny.”

“Ruining a seven-hundred-dollar pair of shoes wasn’t funny. The smell wasn’t funny.” The passenger’s voice rose.

“Oh, but seeing the way he turned into goo was. Looked like bubble gum. Pink bubble gum.”

The passenger nodded, his memory no doubt matching the macabre picture the driver had painted.

The car slowed and turned off the highway. We were in a more suburban area now, houses and small businesses flowing by on either side of the car. The images blurred as my tears kept coming.

The passenger turned his head again to look at me through the swirling cigarette smoke. He put his gun in his lap and pulled out a handkerchief.

“Frankie, wipe the pretty lady’s tears.”

The man to my left reached out a meaty hand and grabbed the fabric from the stranger. He went to wipe my face, but I took the linen square from him before he could touch me. I used it, intentionally smearing my mascara into the fibers. A petty act of defiance. I would still be killed. My mascara on his handkerchief would wash away, disappear, just like I was about to do.

The car kept going, oblivious to my tears and my fate. The area had just as quickly turned rural, trees bordering the road on each side, hiding whatever lay beyond. Twilight had passed, the shadows deepening into night.

I blew my nose into the handkerchief out of spite.

As the car hurtled closer and closer to my doom, the fear began to turn into anger. The anger began to take hold inside me like a tree with deep, twisting roots. More than anger, resentment. I resented the jerks in this car. Even more, I resented DiSalvo. I saved him from a prison cell time and time again. I made it possible for him to retire in Cuba and live like a king for the rest of his life. After everything I’d done for him, this is how he repaid me? Four goons taking me out to a backwater and putting a bullet in my brain? Idiot no.

The passenger had long since turned away from me, perhaps embarrassed by my tears. The meatheads ignored me. The smoke continued to swirl. The only movement was the driver—turning, slowing, accelerating. He was the one variable, the one part of the equation that I could change.

Then I did something rash, stupid even. I didn’t think about it. I just acted. I reached out and grabbed a fistful of the driver’s hair and pulled as hard as I could.

The next moments were nothing short of chaos. The car careened off the roadway and flipped down a grassy embankment. I didn’t have my seat belt fastened, but the meaty killers on either side of me provided a pillow of sorts as we somersaulted through the air. They crushed me and cushioned me, depending on how the car was positioned. None of us screamed. It was too fast for us to even muster a cry of surprise. The sound of metal crunching and glass breaking and the loud thunks as the vehicle landed on the dirt before taking to the quiet air again created a jagged cacophony in the enclosing darkness.

Chapter Ten

LINCOLN

“Whoa!” the cabbie yelled as the black car ahead of us jerked off the roadway and went tumbling down a steep embankment. It rolled and rolled down the hill. Only one thought was in my mind—Evan is in there.

“Pull over, now.” I heard the shaking in my voice, felt the chill of terror that slid down my spine.

The car slowed and stopped. I jumped out into the night and tore off down the hill after Evan. A man lay in the grass, twisted and broken. His dark eyes were open and his face covered in blood. His neck was at a wrong angle, giving his thin-mustachioed face a puppetlike appearance. His eyes saw nothing. Dead. I continued down the slope at a breakneck pace. The mangled car had come to rest upside down in a few inches of water. It had carved a path through the cattails that crowded the edge of a swamp.

I should have been careful, should have checked for bad guys or weapons before approaching the car. But I couldn’t. I needed to get to her, no matter the consequences. I saw no movement in the wreckage. My heart pounded in my chest, the rhythm of blood loud in my ears.

I got down on my hands and knees in the muck to peer inside. It was dark, but I made out two, maybe three bodies. I saw Evan’s hand hanging out of the busted rear window. A chunk of dark hair with scalp attached to it was clutched in her grip. Her skin was pale in the moonlight, too pale. I crawled around through the mud and took her hand. Her skin was warm, but she didn’t return my grip.

I pushed my hands in around her arm and shoved at what I surmised were the two large men I’d seen kidnap her. They had crumpled around her, trapping her smaller body between them. I pushed harder, ignoring a groan from one of them. It wouldn’t be his last pained moment. I would see to it. But I had to free Evan before I could deal out any retribution.

I moved my hands up her arm to her shoulder and pulled, yanking too hard. I couldn’t stop. I needed to see her, needed to make sure she was okay. She emerged from the wreckage as I pulled. Her head, torso, hips, and then her legs slid out, no shoes. She was streaked with blood, and her eyes were closed. I freed her from the crush of bodies and pulled her into my arms.

I fell back into the swampy water and felt something hard against my ribs.

I looked down. It was a gun barrel. Evan’s finger was on the trigger. She looked up at me, stark terror marring her face.

“It’s me, Evan. It’s me. I’ve got you.”

“Lincoln?” She blinked quickly, disbelief in her voice.

“Yes. I’ve got you.”

She dropped the gun in my lap and wrapped her arms around my neck. “Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness.”

When the car had left the roadway and careened through the air, I thought I’d lost her. The relief of holding her, feeling her heartbeat, hit me in the chest near the spot where the gun barrel had rested.

“Are you hurt?” I pulled her away and searched her face, the blood still fresh. Garish streaks of crimson painted her fair skin.

“Yes, I mean no. I don’t think the blood’s mine. At least, most of it isn’t.” She touched a cut along her forehead.

The cut was ugly, and I wasn’t sure where else she was injured. I needed to get her away from here, fast, maybe even to a hospital, though I wasn’t looking forward to answering any questions. I pocketed the gun, lifted her into my arms, and trudged back up the hill. She started to fight against me, her weak arms nothing more than a light breeze against my chest.

“No, I have to kill them. You don’t understand. They’ll come back for me. DiSalvo will send them again. I have to kill them.”

The stark fear in her voice tore at my heart. And I knew about DiSalvo. If he was the one who had sent the killers, she was right. They’d be back to finish what they started.

“I don’t know if I can k-kill them.” She sobbed. “But I have to try. I c-c-can’t let them get me again.”

A tremor racked her body as I continued carrying her up and away from the carnage. I pressed her even closer to me, trying to comfort her any way I could.

“Shh, angel. Calm down. I got this.” They would never touch her again.

I laid her in the back of the cab. She curled into a ball, the picture of self-preservation and protection. She was shaking badly. I wanted to comfort her, but I still had some business to take care of. The rage inside wasn’t going to let the idiots down the hill off so easily.

I took my suit coat off and draped the driest part of it over her. She looked so small, vulnerable. The flames of my rage rose higher. The ones who had taken her would pay.

“Hey, man, is she okay?” the cabbie asked. “There’s so much blood.”

“Watch her. I’ll be back.”

“She needs a doc—”

“I know what she needs. What you need right now is to shut up and keep an eye on her until I get back.” I didn’t hide the rage. I was consumed with it. It was meant for the men that had taken Evan, but I would use it wherever needed.

The cabbie blanched. He was innocent in this, I reminded myself, helpful even. He’d told me that he wasn’t supposed to leave Manhattan, but he’d acquiesced after he’d witnessed Evan’s kidnapping.

I softened my tone. “Please, just take care of her until I get back. I’ll take it from there.”

He swallowed hard and nodded. His silence was assent enough for me.

“Where are you going?” Evan asked. Her voice was weak, thin. “Please, don’t leave me. I’m so sorry, so sorry, Lincoln. Please forgive me. I’m so—”

“Shh.” I brushed the hair away from her face. Just hearing her apology was a balm on my spirit, but it did nothing to revoke my rage at the men down the hill.

“I’ll be right back, angel. Just stay here. No matter what you hear, understand?”

Her eyes grew wide, but she nodded. I pushed the door shut.

I opened the front passenger door and leaned in to crank the radio as high as it would go. Evan jumped at the sound but settled back down. Some Middle Eastern station playing a melodic tune with a female singer crooning in a high warble. Perfect cover. The less Evan and the cabbie heard, the better.

I took a few steps down the embankment so I was out of sight.

I took the gun from my pocket and checked the magazine. Full.

I pulled back on the action and checked the chamber. Loaded.

I headed back down to the wrecked car.

Chapter Eleven

EVAN

Lincoln slid into the seat next to me.

“Go back to the city.” He gave the cabbie his home address. I stared at the back of the pleather seat, following the white stitching along the seam. It was frayed, coming apart and allowing stuffing to poke through. Too many rough visitors pushing against it with their shoes or knees or who knows what. Some things weren’t meant to be handled so roughly. Some things couldn’t take the abuse.

“—Evan!” Lincoln said, as if he’d been calling my name for a while.

I felt his arms around me, pulling me into him. I sat on his lap, my legs stretched out in the seat where I’d been lying. There was fire in the distance. It retreated through the back windshield. A small explosion sent a burst of fire into the air before my view was obscured by trees. I looked down at my legs. They were dirty, and my shoes were gone. Odd.

He looked me over, a full inspection as his hands roved here and there. It wasn’t sexual, more clinical than anything else.

“What hurts?” he asked.

I didn’t know. I reached up to touch the cut along the bridge of his nose. I didn’t put it there with my own hands. But something whispered around in my mind that I might as well have.

“Angel, please, tell me what hurts.”

I tried to concentrate. There was a ringing in my ears that prevented me from focusing. The incessant hum was maddening.

“I . . . I . . . my head here.” I touched my forehead.

“You have a cut there. Anywhere else?”

I could barely hear him through the single note playing in my ears.

“Evan, stay with me here. What else?” He was so calm. The worry in his voice was thick and the fear in his eyes consuming, but he was still so calm. A thought flitted by, reminding he should be mad at me, that he hated me.

“Do you hate me?”

He shook his head. “Concentrate, Evan, please. Does anything else hurt?”

“Nothing, I don’t think. Nothing. Just my ears, they hum.”

“I think you have a concussion.”

“Don’t let her go to sleep,” someone said. Must have been the cabbie.

“I know. Evan, I’m going to need you to stay awake and talk to me. Can you do that for me, angel?”

I didn’t know if I could. I was tired, and I was having trouble remembering things. I had been in a car accident, I knew that. My clothes were damp in places, wet in others. Other things were fuzzy now.

I leaned into his chest and rested my head on his shoulder. He felt good. His clean scent enveloped me. It was the best thing I’d ever felt. I was light. I was safe. I closed my eyes.

He pushed me away, jarring me back awake. “Can’t do that, angel.” He winced when he looked at me—was there something ugly on my face? Then he schooled his features, getting his poker face back in place. He even smiled a little, casually, as if he were just chatting me up over drinks. “Tell me more about you. Did you have a pet when you were little?”

Random. “A pet?”

I wanted to lean into him again, just lie on his chest and sleep. He wouldn’t let me. He held me still and away from him, even as the cab jostled over the roads.

“Yeah, are you a dog person or a cat person?”

It was one of those questions that was meant to test who you were; at least that’s what I used to think they were for. When I was a kid, your answer to a question like that could divine your whole future. Chocolate or vanilla? Left-handed or right-handed? NSYNC or Backstreet? The earth’s axis seemed to spin on the answers to those questions.

“I had a cat.”

“Good.” He stroked my hair, pulling the strands out of my face. He was loving, intimate.

I wondered if the cabbie was watching us, but I didn’t care enough to turn around and look. He’d seen much, much worse in the back of his cab, no doubt.

“What was its name?” Lincoln asked.

“Tybalt.”

He smiled. I wanted to kiss him.

“How did you come up with that?” he asked.

“Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet. Tybalt was Juliet’s cousin. He was called the prince of cats in the play.”

“That’s an interesting name.”

“My college professor said “prince of cats” meant Tybalt got a lot of pussy. He didn’t say it quite like that, though. But when I was in junior high, I didn’t realize the name was a pun. I thought it was cute, kitty cat royalty. So that’s what I named my little furry prince.”

He laughed, though the sound was strained. His eyebrow scar was scrunched, and his gaze kept roving over me, assessing. “Tell me more about Tybalt.”

“He was gray and black and stripey. Like a tabby but bigger. And he had a ridiculous fluffy tail. I loved him. He would sleep on my bed at night. He was warm. I would get so cold at night. My room would be freezing.”

“Why would you get cold?” His scarred eyebrow arched subtly.

I shrugged. “My parents didn’t like Tybalt. So if he slept with me, they made me close my door and keep it shut all night. Our house was small, no insulation, I guess, and only had a heater in the living room. So with my door closed, my room would get almost as cold as it was outside.”

He kept stroking my hair.

“They let you sleep in the cold?” His voice had grown a little less tender.

“Yep. I could see my breath.” I closed my eyes and remembered how cold I would be. I crossed my arms over my chest, hugging myself the way I did in the foggy memory. Tybalt would snug up against me and the thin quilt I slept under, but even his fluffy warmth wasn’t enough. I would wake up with my teeth chattering. I would open my door to let the warmth from the rest of the tiny house in. If I fell asleep again and my parents found my door open and Tybalt in my bed, they would make me skip breakfast and lunch the next day. “I would have to stand in a corner. If I sat down, then it’d be dinner, too.”

“Eyes open, angel.”

I did as he said.

“Any other pets?”

“Just Tybalt. But he left. One day, my parents found him in my room with the door open. They didn’t punish me like usual. I thought maybe they’d come around. I was so happy. And then he was gone. I never saw him again. I thought he ran away.”

“Cats do that. They’re wild.”

“That’s what I figured. He was out tomcatting around and would be back in a few days.” I nodded. “A while later, my sister told me she saw Daddy drown him in the tub and throw him in the garbage.”

He ran his hand down along my back and rubbed circles over the wet fabric as if he were trying to will comfort into me. “I’m sorry he did that.”

“So am I. Eudora seemed sort of gleeful when she told me. She never liked Tybalt, either. She was just jealous that he preferred me to her. But once Tybalt was gone, I knew I needed to be gone, too. I couldn’t stay there anymore. I didn’t want to. I was afraid of them. I hate being afraid.” I looked anywhere but at him. I didn’t want any more bad memories pouring out of me. I had so many to choose from, it was hard to keep them all in check.

“Tell me something happy. Something that made you happy.”

We were on a bridge, the sounds different, more open. Then we hit real pavement again in the city. The road was smoother here.

“I left. That made me happy.”

I watched as the light of the moon slid through the glass separating us from the misty outside. It was fleeting, only peeking through clouds here and there. The rays were mesmerizing, though my eyelids drooped, blocking the view. Lincoln took my chin and guided my eyes back to his. I didn’t realize I had been crying until he began wiping my face with his sleeve. My tears came off pink somehow, leaving streaks on his nice shirt. I wondered if it would come off at the laundry.

“You sure we shouldn’t take her to the hospital?” the cabbie asked. His voice was muffled, barely reaching past the ringing in my ears.

“No, she’s got a concussion. I’ve dealt with those plenty. I can take care of her.”

After a while of silence, with only the background noise of the hum in my ears, the car stopped for good. It felt as if my brain sloshed forward, riding smoothly up the inside of my head before settling back down again.

“Here.” Lincoln handed a large wad of cash to the driver. Too large. “You never saw us and you never saw the wreck. Nothing. Got it?”

“Yes, yes. I understand. This fare never happened.”

Lincoln gave him a curt nod and opened the door. He lifted me into his arms and stepped into the night. The open air felt wonderful. It was like I could finally breathe. I wrapped my hands around the back of Lincoln’s neck and settled my head against him, breathing in the mix of cool air and his scent. So much better than being stuffed in a car.

“No sleeping now, angel. Not until I know you’re okay.”

He freed one hand and entered the door code. He carried me up the two flights to his room with ease. I clung to him. I didn’t care if I looked weak. I couldn’t focus because of the ringing and the fog that swirled in my mind. Something out in the fog scared me. I needed to hide. Maybe I could let my walls down a bit and let the fog hide me instead?

After unlocking his door, he took me inside and sat me on the bed. He knelt in front of me. His fingers were at the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head. He reached around me and unclasped my bra before letting it fall to the floor. Then he laid me back and finished stripping me. He pulled me back up so I was sitting.

“Let’s get you into a hot shower. Sound good?”

I nodded. My eyelids dropped closed and my chin hit my chest.

“No, no.” He pulled my chin up almost roughly. “No sleeping. Just watch me. Keep those beautiful blues on me, got it?”

He unbuttoned his shirt and threw it down. It was ruined. I saw now that we were both muddy and bloody. He stripped off his pants and tossed them into the pile, and then his boxers. His skin was streaked with dirt. Where were we that was muddy? Before I could figure it out, he pulled me to my feet and led me to his small bathroom. A walk-in shower, enclosed with glass on two sides, took up half the room.

“We’re going to take a long, hot shower.” He reached in and turned the knobs. The room quickly filled with steam.

I shivered and crossed my arms over my chest. I was freezing, though I hadn’t realized it.

Once the temperature was to his liking, he stopped fiddling with the knobs and backed away so I could enter first. I was happy to oblige. I slid past him, grazing his hard body in the small space. The water stung in a good way, opening my pores and replacing ice with heat. The hiss of the water competed with the ringing in my ears. I wanted the hiss to win.

A stream sluiced away from me, a dirty mix of pink and brown against the white tiles. Lincoln walked in behind me and closed the door. He reached around me for a bar of soap and started lathering it as I stood beneath the spray.

“Put your hands on the wall.” His voice wasn’t gruff, but the command had something else in it, something hotter.

I put my palms against the wall beneath the shower head as he smoothed suds down my back, over my rear, and down my legs.

“Mmm. Smells like you.”

“You like it?” He massaged the soap into my skin, erasing anything else.

“The smell or the service?” I asked and giggled. I giggled even more for having giggled in the first place.

“Either.” He finished at my feet, soaping my Achilles.

“Both.”

“Good, because now I’ll need to do your front.” He rose and took my shoulders to turn me toward him.

I obliged and let the water flow down my posterior. I leaned my head back and soaked my hair as he started soaping my front. His touch was firm on my shoulders, thorough as he continued lower. He lingered for only a second too long on each breast before moving on to my stomach. My nipples hardened under his touch. A warm sensation rushed through me that had nothing to do with the water and everything to do with the contact of his flesh on mine. When he got to my pussy, he ran his soapy hand along my mound, then on to my thighs.

“Incredible.” His voice was a low growl.

I leaned my head forward. “What?”

“Nothing.” He knelt in front of me, never stopping his work. His dark hair was wet and wavy. Water beaded on his broad shoulders. Some droplets skirted down, joined with others, and then took the plunge down the wide expanse of his back.

He looked up at me, studying his handiwork. I studied him right back, the muscles of his chest and abs giving me a tantalizing show. His shaft hung between his legs, long and hard. Was that his problem? It certainly wasn’t a problem for me. I imagined it between my lips and couldn’t stifle an mmm sound.

“Evan, you can’t make noises like that right now, okay?” He sounded strained.

“I can’t help it. Your toe made me do it.”

Another curse from him as he lathered my ankles.

The ringing in my ears had subsided a bit, though I still felt as fogged as the shower glass. I closed my eyes, enjoying the rubdown.

He stood. “You’re all soaped. Let me get your face and then I’ll wash your hair.”

“You can’t put that soap on my face. Do you know how much I pay for face soap? I bet I spend more on face soap and lotions in one year than the entire net worth of my parents.”

“Well, this one time, you’ll survive. I need to clean that cut.”

I opened my eyes. I have a cut? “I have a cut?”

He gave me a slight nod. “Yes, it’s not bad. But any head wound is going to bleed like a jerk. Close your eyes.”

I trusted him and returned to the foggy darkness as he ran his hands along my face with a feather touch. I felt a sting and flinched when he got to my hairline.

“That’s the cut. I just need to get it good and clean. I’ll bandage it once we’re done here.”

“It needs a bandage?” Should I be worried?

“Just a small one. Don’t worry, angel, I’ll take care of you.”

“You’ve been doing well so far, but there are a few other things I’d like.” I reached down and gripped his length.

He groaned before pulling my hand away. “Hands to yourself. You know what happens when you break the rules.”

“You going to spank me, Lincoln?”

“Oh, that’s a definite. Just not right now.” His voice was a rasp.

His promise made me shiver despite the hot water. The fog lifted a bit as I remembered how he’d manhandled me the last time we’d made love. Funny, I’d never thought of it as “making love” until just then. Then I remembered everything in between. The things I’d done. Wash.

“Oh, Lincoln, I’m so sorry.” My voice came out in a wail.

He took my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Shh, everything’s okay. I forgave you a while back, long before you asked. I still want an explanation, but after tonight I think I have a pretty good idea why you did what you did.”

His look, his tone, everything about him was a comfort to me. He felt like coming home.

He released my chin. “Now let’s finish getting you clean.”

“I’ll never be clean.”

“Don’t believe that for a second. It’s not true.” He turned his hand around so I could see the scars that crisscrossed his knuckles. “You can change.”

My tears mixed with the running water as he continued his work. After he’d washed my hair and done a quick soap-and-rinse himself, he turned the water off and scooted me out of the shower. He wrapped me in a fluffy white towel and hustled me back to his bed. He wrapped a towel loosely around his waist and sat next to me before arranging his first aid materials.

“It’s going to sting, but I don’t think it will scar where anyone will see it. It’s sort of up in your hairline.” He spread some antibacterial ointment on my cut, giving me the promised sting. Then he placed gauze and tape over it. He was so focused, intent, his movements small and smooth.

“Okay, good as new.”

He dropped his hands to his lap and studied me. He searched my face, though I didn’t know what he was hoping to find. There was no redemption in me anywhere, just the fog and the darkness.

“How do you feel? Headache?”

“No, just a little fuzzy.” I shook my head, trying to clear it without much luck. At least the ringing in my ears had cleared.

“Look me in the eyes. I need to see your pupils.”

I did as he asked. His eyes were brilliant green, almost sparkling even in the low light. His hair, still wet, looked even darker than usual, setting off his lighter complexion beautifully. I didn’t even deserve to look at him.

He stared into one of my eyes and then the other before going back and forth.

“I’ve had a few concussions in my time. You got knocked a good one, but I think you’re okay to sleep now. You’ve been awake long enough for everything to have settled down.”

“It was that bad?” I still couldn’t remember all of what happened. I knew there was a wreck, but the other parts were missing. I felt like I’d gotten a mail-order piece of furniture without all the screws, and now I was sitting on my living room floor with a half-built side table and no clue about how to finish it.

He leaned in and brushed his lips against mine. “Let’s discuss it over breakfast.”

“I should get home?” I meant it as a statement.

“Absolutely not.” He tensed and gripped my arm.

It was disconcerting. Someone else had grabbed my elbow like that. Earlier that night, maybe? The piece of a memory that filtered through the fog made me feel sick. I looked at the floor to stop the room from spinning. Lincoln loosened his grip.

“It’s okay, angel. Everything’s okay. I promise. Just sleep here with me tonight.” His voice was so soft, gentle, like a lullaby.

I let out a breath, the feeling of panic fading along with the air from my lungs. Whenever he called me angel, I knew things were going to be all right. No one had ever called me something so endearing.

He cupped my jaw and dropped another light kiss on my lips before pulling me into him. I calmed against his steady warmth, breathing him in until I fell asleep.

Holy headache, Batman. I was in a strange bed in a strange room. But that didn’t really matter. No, what was of utmost importance at the moment was the railroad spike that seemed to be embedded in my temple. I tried to open my eyes, but the light filtering into the room only made the spike vibrate, jarring even deeper into my brain. I needed to figure out where I was, so I kept on blinking, ignoring the pain as best I could.

Lincoln’s bedroom. I remembered it, mostly because it was the size of a walk-in closet. I struggled to sit up. Bad idea. The pain swirled around me, putting black dots in my vision. I stilled, one hand at my head, the other clutching the sheet to my chest. Lincoln was nowhere to be seen, and his apartment had an empty feeling, like when you know you’re the only one home.

I moved my head slowly to look around. A note lay on the bedside table. I struggled to focus on the words. Take these. Don’t go outside. Don’t call anyone. Only open the door for me. No one else. I’ll be back soon. “These” were some painkillers next to the note. I followed that instruction to the letter, downing the pills with the glass of water he’d set nearby. Slick.

The alarm clock said 9:14 a.m. I’d been out all night and into the day. Night. Last night. My memories hit me, dwarfing the pain in my head until it was laughable. I had been kidnapped, was going to be murdered, but I’d saved myself. I’d wrecked the mongrels, and Lincoln had pulled me to safety. I was alive because he’d found me.

Even more incredible, he’d said he’d forgiven me. What I’d done was unforgivable, something that I could never live down. But Lincoln, the man with a violent past, had given away his forgiveness like a freebie. It was too good to be true. More accurately, he was too good to be true. I would never deserve a man like that, a soul like his. But I could try to do better. Scratch that. I would try to do better. I didn’t know how, not yet. But I would make it up to him somehow.

Where had he gone? Was he safe? Would the men who’d kidnapped me be back, assuming they’d survived the crash? I shivered. The fear raked its claws across its cage in my breast, a threat. I took a deep breath. If I was going to have any chance at being a better person for Lincoln, and for me, I was going to have to change. To do things differently. I approached the fear and set it free.

“I am afraid.” I said it out loud, as if it would have some effect.

At that moment, I decided that fear wouldn’t rule me any longer. If I was afraid, well, idiot, then I was just afraid. I would live. I would move on. What I would not do was betray the ones I loved. Love. I loved Lincoln, loved him even more than I loved myself. I knew it now. Now that it was probably too late.

The memory of deafening Mediterranean music wafted through the pounding in my head, and I remembered Lincoln walking away into the darkness toward the contract killers. Then there’d been a fire blazing through the dark. What had become of the rough men?

My vision cleared a bit, the pills working quickly on my empty stomach. Any clothes I’d worn the night before were gone. I saw the belongings from my purse piled on top of Lincoln’s chest of drawers, but the purse itself was missing. My cell phone was there, too, though it was dismembered. He’d separated the pieces and ditched the battery, making it unusable and me untraceable. I suspected he’d taken my clothes and my bag and burned them or got rid of them some other way. Any blood that might have been on them was gone, charred or covered up. He’d erased any evidence that I’d been in the wrecked car. Smart. I wouldn’t have to worry about explaining anything to the police. Not that I’d talk to them anyway.

I threw my feet over the side of the bed to stand. The blood defied gravity and somehow rushed to my head, causing an intense ache as I slowly locked my knees. I stumbled to the bathroom and rinsed my face with cool water from the tap. There was a bandage at my temple. I removed it and grimaced at the cut. Then I saw the dark circles under my eyes, the telltale sign of head trauma. Goodness.

After toileting, I dressed in one of Lincoln’s shirts. All of his pants swallowed me, so no hope there. I couldn’t go back to my apartment. DiSalvo had likely already discovered his men had failed. He’d send more and more until I was dead. No place was safe. Not even here, under an AUSA’s lock and key.

I sat back down on the bed and stared out Lincoln’s window, past the fire escape and into the blue sky beyond. The rain of the previous night seemed to have swept the firmament clean, giving it a new start. If only new starts were more readily available for the people on the ground.

I laughed. I was alone, laughing like a crazy lady in someone else’s apartment. I guess that’s all you can do sometimes. When you realize you’re royally messed sideways with a studded dildo, what else is there to do but laugh at the humor of it all?

I calmed myself, putting a lid back on the hysterical stew bubbling up inside.

I knew what I had to do.

I fumbled for Lincoln’s phone. It was the corded type with huge numbers, like for elderly people. Must have come with the apartment. I dialed.

My receptionist picked up, chirping “Pallida and Associates” into my ear with far too much cheer for my tastes.

“Vinnie, please.” My voice was a raspy croak. She didn’t realize it was me.

“Sure, may I ask who’s calling?”

I rolled my eyes. “Amanda.”

“Amanda who?” she trilled.

“Huckinkiss.”

“All right, Ms. Huckinkiss, I’ll connect you.”

A few moments of hold music later and Vinnie picked up. “I’d like to know who is ‘a-man-to-hug-and-kiss.’” He sounded better than the last time we’d spoken, at least.

“It’s me, Evan, and keep it down. Don’t let anyone know it’s me.”

“Hang on, I’ll close my door.” He set the receiver down, and I heard the click of the door latch, then the scrape of the receiver and his voice. “Okay, boss, what’s up? Where are you? Judge Crane put the trial on hold until you’re found. The phone’s been ringing off the hook. Castille is losing his mind. I’m pretty sure Wash messed Jena last night. We need you here now.”

I sighed. “Remember when you said you hoped I knew what I was doing?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I don’t. Rubbish just got real. DiSalvo tried to have me killed.”

His breath whooshed out, causing static over the phone. “Are you kidding me right now?”

“Shh! And no, Vin, I’m not kidding you. I have the concussion to prove it.”

He let out a long string of expletives. Pride bloomed in my chest at his ability, but it was quickly stifled by the reason for my call. “Vinnie, I need you to watch your back. I don’t think DiSalvo will come after you. He would have already done it if he suspected you were a threat. He knows I hold all the power in the firm and keep his secrets. There are still a lot of things you don’t know about him.” I took a deep breath. “Or about me. Things that I never wanted you to find out. I didn’t want you to think, well, to think less of—”

“Evan, not possible. You know the family I come from. I know the way the world works. There’s nothing you could do, not a blasted thing, that would ever tarnish you in my eyes. Ever. Know that.” The conviction in his voice pierced me like a bullet.

“I’m in real trouble, Vin.” I couldn’t help the quaver in my voice, the tears that threatened. “I’m afraid.” There, I said it.

“I’ll make some calls.”

“No. I don’t want you involved. I need you to stay clear of me. I need you and your wife and baby to be safe. Understand? I can’t talk my way out of this. If I pop my head up, DiSalvo will take it off. I can’t let you run the same risk.”

“Evan, you know the connections I have. I can arrange protection. Whatever you need.” He was pleading now. I looked to the ceiling, bidding the tears back down.

“The firm is yours, Vin.” Goodness, it hurt to give it away, but I knew it was the right thing to do. I knew because I hadn’t done the right thing in a long, long time, so the feeling was alien to me. It felt wrong, so I knew it had to be right.

“No, Evan—”

“Yes. It’s yours. You’ll need to rebrand. Cut the dead weight, get rid of some associates. I’d keep Cassie and Drew for sure. Revamp your client list. The rest is up to you. As soon as I get off the phone with you, call Castille and tell him I said that his retainer never went through and that we need him to pay it again. Now, of course, it did go through, but he probably won’t check and will just repay the same amount over again. That should cover your costs for the work so far and give you a little cut on top of it. Once it goes through and you’ve got the money in hand, fire him. He’s a ticking time bomb. Wash your hands of him. Ship all his records back to him. Destroy the files in our computers. Burn that trash if you have to. If he threatens to complain about the double retainer—”

“Give him the Pallida treatment.” Vinnie finished for me.

“Exactly. Tell him you have no problem spreading his filthy laundry out for all to see.”

“Okay.”

“Good. I’m going to need you to dump any clients that are tied up in Castille’s mess. Get the cross-check list Drew made and go through it on a slash-and-burn basis. Cut anyone ever connected with DiSalvo or with any families you don’t know or trust. It’ll keep you safe, though it will definitely hurt your bottom line. But you’ll get new clients, so I’m not too worried. You know the back storage room with the double locks?”

“The forbidden zone?”

“That’s the one. The keys are taped to the underside of my middle desk drawer. I need you to have all DiSalvo’s files taken out of that room—every last box—and put into a storage facility of your choosing. Somewhere in Jersey. Just leave the information about the location with Trish at Sal’s. I’ll pick it up from her later today.”

“Evan, what are you planning? I mean, I’m getting the general idea that you are going to do something reckless. Don’t. You’ll never be able to practice again. You’ll be disbarred. Ratting on DiSalvo? You’ll be hunted.”

“I’m already hunted. This will turn the game right back around on him. And I have ways of disappearing.”

“This is dangerous.” There was a knocking sound, as if he were bouncing his forehead on his desk again.

“I knew that when I started all this.”

From the day I accepted DiSalvo’s dirty money, some small part of me had known a reckoning was coming, one way or another. Maybe it was my upbringing talking, fire and brimstone and all that, but here it was. I was at the edge of the precipice, looking into the inferno below. I’d been dancing on the edge for years. Of course, I never believed it would blow up in my face this completely. But I wasn’t going to jump into the flames. I was going to push DiSalvo in and listen to him scream. The headache receded and left revenge, the kind served cold, in its place.

I sat up straighter, forcing myself to stop slumping even though no one could see me. “Now, I added you onto the firm accounts a couple of years ago. If you go to the bank or anywhere, you’re listed as an authorized user. Get on my laptop; I have a Word document with all my passwords and accounts listed. The password to get into the sheet is Tybalt. That gives you the keys to the queendom. If anyone asks, I had a mental breakdown and I’m on a long vacation.”

He laughed, though it was a sad sound. “No one would ever believe that you had a mental breakdown. I’ll say you ran away with a smoking hot law clerk and are living out dirty fantasies on a beach somewhere in South America.”

I sniffled. The tears dropped onto Lincoln’s light blue shirt, making dots of royal blue appear here and there.

Vinnie sighed again. “There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t.”

“I don’t know if I can do this without you.”

“You can.” I wasn’t worried for a moment. Vinnie had the chops to pull it off, not to mention I was leaving the firm account pretty flush.

“Where are you going to go? What will you do?”

“I have funds and my small semblance of a plan.”

“Care to share it with me, for old time’s sake?”

“No can do, Vin. I want you and your little baby safe. If it’s a girl, Evangeline is a great name.”

“Now you’re pushing it.”

My laugh overtook the sob that was threatening. “We had a good run, you and me.”

“We did, boss. We did.”

“One more thing.”

“Anything, boss.”

“Make sure to give Jena trouble. She needs to toughen up if she wants to get anywhere in this life.”

“Will do.”

“Thank you, Vin, for everything.”

The line was silent for a while. I had just given away everything I worked so hard to build. I suppose it deserved a moment or two of silence. Or maybe I just couldn’t cope what the enormity of the loss.

Vinnie’s voice came through, somewhat choked. “I’ll miss you.”

He made me smile. Just those words gave me the kick I needed to seal the deal. It was done.

“Take your balls out of your purse and man up. You’ll do fine without me. Take care.”

I hung up the phone, blinked back the tears as best I could, and started making more calls.

Sal’s was already starting to fill, the lunch crowd clamoring to be fed.

I approached the hostess counter, hoping to make quick work of getting the storage-building information from Trish. She cried out and put her hands to her face when she saw me. Some patrons turned to look. I hurried past them and pressed up against the counter, face-to-face with Trish. The dark bruises under my eyes and my disheveled appearance had her yelling for Sal before I could even get a word out.

He came barreling through the restaurant, surprising his guests with his bluster.

“Bella! What happened? What are you doing?” He went into a long string of Italian that I couldn’t follow.

Trish answered him with a stream of lovely yet unintelligible verbiage and held up an envelope—my letterhead, with Vinnie’s handwriting scrawled across the front. It was the storage information. I reached for it, but Sal grabbed it from Trish’s hands and tucked it under his arm.

“What’s going on?”—indeterminate Italian—“You tell me who did this. Tell me, bella! So help me!”—more Italian.

All the eyes on us were making me feel uncomfortable, exposed. There was no shushing Sal, so I darted around the counter, took Sal’s arm, and pulled him toward the back office. Thankfully, Sal followed as Trish regained control of the hostess stand.

I sat as Sal poured me a brimming glass of Italian red.

“Tell me, bella, so I can fix it.” His earnest request pulled at my heartstrings, even though there was nothing he could do to fix any of my troubles.

I painted the general picture for him. He flexed his knuckles as I talked about the hit men. The naked woman tattooed on his arm wobbled around on his thin, aged skin, giving me an unnecessary eyeful.

When I was finished, Sal said, “That’s it, then. We have to take Leon out. He comes on my turf and threatens one of my girls? No.” He punched his fist into his palm for emphasis. The nude woman all but folded over on herself.

I wanted to inform him that the entire island of Manhattan didn’t really qualify as his “turf.” Any protestations would have gotten me nowhere. Sal wasn’t as high up in the ranks as DiSalvo, but he had enough connections and sheer backbone to put a hurting on anyone who crossed him.

I shook my head. The fight was already finished. DiSalvo had won. I couldn’t stay in this city. It was a death trap for me now. I wouldn’t have Sal going to bat for me—literally or figuratively—and starting a war among the deadlier denizens of New York.

“Don’t shake your head at me, bella! Look what they did to your pretty face. Look what you’re wearing.”

Lincoln’s baggy shirt, cinched in at the waist with a belt I’d found in his closet. I was trying to pass it off as a shirtdress. Failing, according to the look on Sal’s face.

I put a hand on his shoulder, stooped by time. “Sal, I’ve already made up my mind about what I have to do.”

His eyes, filmed slightly with cataracts, searched my face and lingered on the evidence of my violent night. “Run?”

“Yes, run.” It wouldn’t be the first time I’d run away from a bad situation, and I could only hope it would be the last. “It’s the only option now.”

“He’ll find you. Let me find him first. Please, bella.”

“He retired in Cuba. You know that. He’s untouchable right now.”

“No one is untouchable.”

I took a long swig from my glass. It was tasty, fuller than a Malbec. Sal’s taste was spot-on. Maybe I should have listened to him for all these years.

“You’re right. I do have a few things that could leave him vulnerable.”

Sal smiled, a gap appearing where one of his front teeth should have been. “What’s that?”

“I have some pieces of evidence. Weapons, ledgers, notes, other documents. A pile of information that, if given to the right people, would cause a world of trouble for DiSalvo.”

Sal nodded. “DiSalvo trying to fight a war on two fronts. Impossible.”

Though Sal was a bruiser, he wasn’t too bad at strategy, either. “Right. If I can keep him occupied elsewhere and make myself disappear, he won’t have the wherewithal or the inclination to come hunting me.”

He plopped down into a faded leather chair, stuffing poking out of the rips that weren’t covered over with electrical tape.

“I just need to use your phone. And, since you’ve already busted me, maybe let me stay with Trish for a night while I get my travel plans together?”

“You got it, bella. Anything you need.”

I looked at him, wanting him to leave before I made my phone call. He didn’t budge, just gestured toward the phone. It was a risk, letting him overhear the details of my plan, but there was no way around it at this point. I picked up the receiver and dialed.

Chapter Twelve

LINCOLN

Wood was in a meeting with some higher-ups from the attorney general’s office. I’d waited outside his door, pacing the floor, for almost two hours. I couldn’t stop walking. The energy propelled my feet back and forth on the already-worn carpet in the waiting area.

Wood’s secretary glanced at me every so often. I made her nervous. I didn’t care.

My thoughts never strayed far from Evan. I hated to leave her after the night she’d had, the night we’d both had, but speaking to Wood was imperative if I wanted to keep her safe. He could arrange witness protection, get her out of the city, do any number of things the federal government had at its disposal.

Time moved slowly, and I continued my solitary march along the navy blue carpet. Evan would be awake by now, surely. Was she scared? I knocked the thought out of my mind. I never wanted her scared, never wanted to see the terror in her eyes or hear it in her voice the way I had last night. I should have regretted what I’d done to the men who’d taken her. I didn’t. I’d do it again if it meant she would be safe.

The sound of her apologies played through my memory. The way she spoke about herself, as if she were dirty. The things she’d told me about her family. The things I’d dug up about DiSalvo and Clarence Sherman.

At first, after I realized she’d taken my most closely guarded secrets and thrown them back in my face, I let the rage run free. I started frequenting rougher parts of town. It didn’t take long to find an underground fighting club. I was welcomed with open arms, fresh meat for the regulars to pummel. I took my licks and broke noses in return. Over the course of two weekends, I’d become known as the “Rebel Rager,” a cheesy nickname based on my accent and my fighting style. I didn’t care. I’d been called worse. All I cared about was taking out my anger on anyone who dared challenge me.

I spilled blood every chance I got, letting the rage inside have its fill before returning to my apartment and passing out for the night. The violence deadened my senses, but took my pain and made it tangible, real. I could bandage a cut, be ginger with a bruised rib, spit out the blood that ran in my mouth. The only impossible feat was treating the pain that ricocheted in my chest every time I thought of how Evan had betrayed me.

After one particularly vicious night left me with too many cuts and bruises, Jonesy came to my desk.

“Not looking so good, my friend.”

“We aren’t friends.”

He shrugged. He had a file in his hands. The name Clarence Sherman was imprinted on the outside in stark letters.

“What’s that?”

“Something you might find of interest in your current case. I told you she was more than she seems. I told her you were dangerous. Neither of you listened to me.” His tone was chiding.

I wanted to knock his teeth out. My poker face was gone, washed away in the tide of my anger. He dropped the file on my desk and backed away.

“I’m only trying to help.”

“I remember the last time you helped.” I wished I didn’t. I recalled how Evan had shown up at my apartment, ready to rip me to pieces, how instead she had slept in my arms. But her angelic appearance hid her demon. I knew that now. “Didn’t turn out so well.”

“Well, just give that file a look, and if you feel the same way after you’ve gone through it, then I understand.” He sauntered off.

I picked up the file, wondering what someone named Clarence Sherman had to do with anything.

I flipped open the front flap, humoring Jonesy, or so I told myself. Clarence Sherman’s mug shot was enough to make me want to end him. The creep’s face leered up at me from the glossy sheet, death to jerks tattooed on his neck.

Page after page detailed his depravity. He was one of DiSalvo’s most vicious enforcers. I continued flipping, his rap sheet like the diary of a madman. I stopped when I came to his last arrest record for murder, no surprise there. Then I saw the notation at the bottom of his arraignment sheet. Evangeline Pallida was appointed as his public defender. This had been years ago, when she’d first started out. I smirked—when she’d wanted to “help people.” What a load of trash.

I kept flipping, faster now, looking at the plea deals offered by the prosecutor, each one refused by Evan. Then came the trial transcript. I skimmed past the prosecution’s case and slowed to pore over Evan’s arguments. She did well for her client, far better than that piece of trash deserved. Her words were persuasive, solid. I shook my head. She put her credibility and her bar license on the line for a man who was no better than an animal, worse even. She truly had no remorse, no decency in her anywhere. After seeing her closing arguments about how Sherman’s charges were a “miscarriage of justice,” I’d had enough and slammed the file closed.

A sheet of paper flew out, disturbed by the rush of air. I picked it up, preparing to cram it back into the file before throwing the whole thing in Jonesy’s face.

The paper caught my eye. It was newsprint, a story on the trial’s outcome. There was an inset photo of the courthouse steps, bathed in late-afternoon light. Evan was in motion when the picture was snapped, her foot hovering over the next step in her descent away from the courthouse. But her movement wasn’t what caught my attention.

It was her face, almost unrecognizable. She was haggard, haunted. Hollows resided where her cheeks should have been, and the dark circles under her eyes rivaled some nasty shiners. Her eyes—Goodness, the fear that lived in them in that photo tore at my guts. She was terrified.

I glanced farther up the picture. There, in the shade of the stone overhang, stood DiSalvo. He haunted the top of the steps, Sherman at his elbow, both men watching Evan’s retreat.

It was then I realized how DiSalvo had caught her in his trap. He’d no doubt seen what she could do in Sherman’s trial, how she was a diamond in the rough. If it came through easily on the black-and-white transcript, it had to have been stunning to watch her work in person. With her particular skill set, she was a major asset.

I could see in my mind how it all must have played out. A wealthy benefactor offering to put Evan back on her feet after she’d gone through hell? Of course she’d agreed to it; she would have been a fool not to. And from the looks of her in the photograph, she was not in the right headspace to make such a momentous decision. I’d been there. I knew what could happen when a person ran on pure emotion and little else.

Jonesy had done me a solid that day, made everything clear. No wonder she’d chosen the nuclear option. She had nowhere else to turn.

That day I refocused my energy, no longer directing my rage toward Evan. I knew it had been DiSalvo all along, crushing Evan into a corner, giving her no chance of escape. I wanted my hands around DiSalvo’s throat. Choking the life out of that piece of trash would be a public service.

Wood’s door opened, bringing me back to the present as a deep burst of several voices rising in laughter echoed out into the waiting room. In its wake came Wood, shaking hands with each of the black-suited brass from D.C. in turn. “I’ll meet you for lunch at one, let’s say?” he asked.

The three from the attorney general’s office agreed and left. I gave them a curt nod as they passed.

“I need to speak with you. Now.” I tried to keep my voice even.

Wood lifted his gray eyebrows. “Well, I need to take a piss, so walk with me.”

I fell into step behind him, following him down the long hall toward the restrooms.

“For someone who needs to talk, you sure are silent.”

“This needs to be for your ears only.”

“Step into my office,” Wood said and swung open the door to the men’s room.

I followed and did a quick sweep of the stalls to make sure we were alone. He took position at the urinal and gave an immediate meaning to the term “pissing and moaning.”

“I thought they would never leave. Goodness. People from D.C. talk just to hear themselves. Pompous jerks.”

“Wood, Evan’s in trouble.” My voice bounced off the white tiles.

“You two talking again? After what she pulled with your brother?”

“That’s not important.”

“How is her betraying you by using your own brother against you not important all of a sudden?”

Wood was right. It had been important to me. I’d lost a lot of sleep thinking about Evan, about how I thought she’d played me all along. But now I knew better. She was caught in a trap. Was it of her own making? Yes. Did I give a hoot? No. My mistakes were no worse than hers. Problem was, hers led to a rendezvous with the end of a gun barrel.

“Because I love her.”

Wood shook his head as his stream died. “You love the bad jerk?”

“Yes. Without a doubt.”

“Incredible, Lincoln. A woman like that? I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I do. But like I said, there’s trouble.”

“What’d she do? Are you talking about how she blew off Judge Crane yesterday? She’s going to have to save her own rear on that one. Matilda is going to make her grovel.”

“No, DiSalvo put a hit out on her.”

“You say?” He zipped up and turned toward me.

“My investigation has stirred up DiSalvo and maybe more of her clients. DiSalvo for certain. He sent four men to kill her last night.”

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain car accident on Long Island last night, would it? Word is that four of DiSalvo’s men were killed, some by the wreck and ensuing fire, and some by lead poisoning.”

I remembered the flash of the muzzle in the dark. Lead poisoning was right, and too good for those pieces of trash. I didn’t give any sign, but my silence was enough.

“Idiot, Lincoln.” Wood washed his hands, and we returned to his office in silence.

“Rita, hold my calls.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wood closed his office door with a thud. I took a seat on his leather sofa as he sank down into his desk chair. He pulled open one of his drawers and lifted out a bottle and two glasses.

“Too early for you?” he asked.

“No, sir.” I watched him pour and retrieved my glass before settling back down. I needed a drink. Maybe it would even me out, allow me to see the best way through, the best way to keep Evan safe.

“Incredible, DiSalvo. I thought I was done with that prick. He moved to Cuba a few years back. Evan got him out of some serious charges and then set him loose on our neighbors to the south. I was glad to be rid of him, honestly. But now this?” He took a swig from his glass. “What did you do to get him so riled up?”

We drank as I went over the details of my deeper investigation into Castille. Wood downed the rest of his glass and poured another as I talked, giving him the lowdown on the prosecution wet dream of a case I had come up with against DiSalvo and a few choice others. He took an even bigger gulp when I told him I’d changed tactics once I met Evan.

“This case, Lincoln.” He shook his head. “If you would have pursued it through Evan’s front door and subpoenaed her files, incredible. You have enough right now for Judge Crane to sign off on a warrant for every piece of paper in Pallida & Associates. Slam dunk. You’d be the next U.S. attorney in New Orleans, easy. You know that, right?”

I tossed back the rest of my second glass. “I do.”

“But you’re fine leaving that stone unturned?” Wood ran a hand along his jaw and rubbed his face.

“Fine? No. But I was going to for her sake.”

He leaned back in his chair and watched me steadily. “That didn’t seem to work out, though, did it? DiSalvo still tried to take her out. And if I know anything about that jerk, it’s that he’s thorough. He’s no quitter. He’ll send more until he gets her.”

“That’s why I came to you. We have to find a way to get Evan out of the city. Witness protection?”

Wood’s eyes narrowed. “He’d find her. The federal government isn’t known for its secret-keeping abilities anymore. Hackers and the like make it impossible. DiSalvo has more than enough money to pay some Chinese genius to break into the government system and track her down. And he’d do it. No loose ends.”

“Shoot!” I slammed my glass down.

“But that isn’t to say there’s no way to keep her safe and take him out at the same time.”

I heard something in his voice, like excitement. I didn’t think it was possible for Woodhall to get excited about anything. I was wrong. The glint in his eye was magnetic. It was like I was getting a glimpse into Wood’s past, back when he was a hotshot prosecutor looking to make a name for himself.

“I’ve been wanting to nail that piece of trash for decades. This could be the time.” He corked the bottle and slid it back into his desk. “Goodness on the cross, this may be it.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, my sleepless night weighing on me. “How? The mongrel’s in Cuba, remember?”

“He is. He is,” Wood agreed, “but his son isn’t. Lester took over the family business after Leon left for Cuba. The DiSalvo family parted ways with Evan at that time, too, so she’d be free and clear of any investigation or charges brought against the son. And even more good news, the DiSalvos are just as dirty as they were back when Leon was still in charge. If we turned up the heat on the son, my money says the father would come running.”

“Do we have anything on Lester?”

“No, but I’d be willing to bet Evan has more than enough in her files to get us started.”

“Then we’re back in the same hole.” I threw my hands up. “She can’t turn that over to us. She’d lose her license. She would never agree, and I wouldn’t let her.”

“That so? You think she gives a rat’s rear about her bar card after what happened last night? Good work, by the way. Back in the olden times, U.S. attorneys were more than just prosecutors; we actually got to mete out justice on occasion. DiSalvo’s men got what was coming to them.”

I shook my head. Did Wood just give me a pat on the back for killing DiSalvo’s hit men? He was the real deal, a hardcore lawman. I hadn’t thought I could respect him any more than I already did. I was wrong.

“I may have a work-around to that, anyway. DiSalvo’s been gone for what? Four years?”

I wasn’t sure, but Wood wasn’t talking to me at this point anyway. He was ruminating to himself.

He continued, “Yeah, four years. He left in May of that year. The bar’s document retention policy is five years, right? After five years, Evan can destroy all her records dealing with any cases or clients before that five-year window. I’m certain she has plenty of records that are over five years old that document the DiSalvo family dealings. So all she has to do is ‘dispose’ of her records—the ones that now belong to the son—in an inefficient sort of way.”

“You mean, give them to us? If DiSalvo filed a bar complaint—”

“You think he’d do that?” Wood swatted the thought away with his thick palm. “He’ll have a lot bigger troubles than his ex-attorney by then.”

“What about attorney-client privilege? Wouldn’t Leon be able to keep those documents out of evidence?”

Wood smiled, actually smiled. It was winsome. “That’s the beauty of it. We’ll be prosecuting his son. His son has no attorney-client privilege with Evan, so we can use the documents however we see fit. Leon would be in no jeopardy and would have no basis or standing to object to our use of the information.”

“No,” I said. “It’s probably still a violation of the ethics rule. She’d have to give up her license.”

Wood frowned, the wrinkles in his forehead like waves on an ocean of unhappiness. “Maybe, maybe. But I think that’s a chance she’ll have to take at this point. If she wants to stay in this city and stay alive, she’ll have to risk it.”

I knew Wood was right. His plan was the best shot we’d have at getting Evan out of DiSalvo’s web while still allowing her to continue her practice.

“Where is she, by the way? In Jonesy’s office?”

I stood, worry shooting into my breast like a leaping flame. “No, she’s at my place.”

“You left her to her own devices after a night like last night? A pistol like her, she may have hired her own hit squad and sent it to Cuba by now.” Wood smiled, looking pleased at the thought of Evan exacting her own brand of vengeance. He truly did worship the woman.

“Incredible. I should call her. What time is—”

His secretary buzzed his line. “Mr. Woodhall?”

“I told you no calls, Rita.”

“It’s Evangeline Pallida. She says it’s urgent.”

The fear went from a flame to a blaze in an instant.

“Put her through.”

I stood at the edge of Wood’s desk, as if getting closer to the speaker would get me closer to her.

“Wood?” Her sweet, high voice had a somber note to it.

Wood’s voice boomed in comparison. “Evan. I heard you’ve run into a little trouble.”

“Is Lincoln there?”

“Standing right here.”

“Good.”

“Where are you?” I asked.

“That’s not important. Here’s what is. I have arranged a storage building in Jersey. The details will be left with Trish at Sal’s. Wood, you know where that is, right?”

“Sure. He’s a real treat, especially when wielding a baseball bat. I’ve had a few run-ins with Sal over the years.”

“Of course you have. Anyway, Trish will have what you need to find the storage building. Inside, you will find a treasure trove. Lincoln . . .” Her voice cracked as she said my name. She tried again, stronger this time. “Lincoln, everything you need to do what we talked about, what you originally had planned when you came to the city, is in that storage building. There will be more than enough information, especially when combined with Castille’s data, for you to trace money, accounts, individuals, everything. You can get them all, repair some of the things I’ve done, have the courage that I didn’t.”

I didn’t like her tone, the finality of it. I wanted to rush home and make sure she was there. But the sinking feeling in my chest told me she was already gone.

She took a deep breath and let out a long exhale. “But I do have some terms. Wood, pick up the receiver.”

“Are you sure there isn’t more you’d like to say to Lin—”

“Wood, don’t make this any harder than it already is.” A muffled sob shot through the speaker.

I reached for the phone, but Wood snagged it first. He lifted it to his ear.

I strained to hear her, to get some sense of what she was telling him. I couldn’t hear anything except the hum of her voice.

He held my gaze, giving a “yes” or an “uh-huh” here and there.

“Great minds think alike. Right, five years.” After a while he frowned, something she said not sitting well with him. “That’s not going to be easy, Evan.”

Her voice grew louder, but I still couldn’t make out the words.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Wood gave in. “You got it, just give me the details.”

She quieted down. Wood once again repeated his assent here and there.

I couldn’t focus on anything else. Just her, the tenuous grip I’d had on her disappearing right out of my hands.

“I think we have a deal. Take care of yourself, Evan.” Wood hung up the phone. His friendly brown eyes held solace for me. I didn’t want it.

I felt the rage rising to the surface, ready to do some damage. If I had been as foolhardy as I was a decade before, I’d have committed a felony right then and there.

As it was, I slammed my fists down on his desk. “Where is she?”

“She’s gone, Lincoln.”

“Where?”

“I can’t say.”

“If you don’t tell me where she went right this moment, I am going to tear this office apart.” I meant every word.

Wood held up his hands. “This is the only way that she can be safe, Lincoln. The only way. Think. Think. You know she’s right. The less we know, the better. She has to start over.”

I sank down, my knees giving way as I collapsed back into one of Wood’s chairs. “I can’t just let her go.”

“You have to.”

“I won’t.”

“She told me to tell you something.”

I looked up, hoping it was some sort of a breadcrumb trail that would lead me to her. “What?”

“She said she’ll always be your angel.”

Chapter Thirteen

I let the blow land, felt the sting of pain that shot along my jaw. I struck out hard with my right, answering with power launched from my back.

He wobbled, stunned. Through my one good eye, I saw the opening I needed. One swift uppercut with my left, and my bloodied opponent lay sprawled on the ground. Glass jaw. He curled over onto his side in the fetal position as the crowd around us roared, some with glee, some with the unhappiness of money bet and lost.

I wasn’t in this for the money. I was in it for the pain, giving and receiving.

Evan was gone. I hadn’t been able to trace her. Wood had talked me down again and again from trying to find her. He told me I had more important things—like breaking the crime racket—and that I had to let it lie. To let her go. I couldn’t. But she was too smart. Gone. Her apartment held no clues. The documents we’d recovered from the storage unit gave no insight into her, other than the notepads and notepads of detailed information.

I spent my days wading through information, speaking with private detectives and informants. I set my sights on DiSalvo, but I had plenty of other fish to fry along the way.

Wood had assigned Jonesy to work with me, the cases becoming too myriad for me to handle on my own. He didn’t pry, didn’t bring up Evan. Wood had told him the score. We worked together far better than I would have predicted. He was even more detail-conscious than I was, teasing out bits of information to get the whole picture. Our cases were rolling right along, building to indictments and then ending with guilty pleas or trials. Only a few months in, we had taken down a handful of lower-level criminals, given them plea deals to get information on the higher-ups.

Evan’s notes led the way. I became so familiar with her writing style, wispy print, that I felt like I could serve as an expert witness on her handwriting should the need ever arise. I hadn’t realized she’d been a doodler. She didn’t seem the artistic sort.

I would pore over her information, the copious details of her clients’ misdeeds covering line after line. Dark, dirty, treacherous renderings. But off to the side, maybe when she’d had a brief reprieve from the tales of wrongdoing, would be a dove, a clock tower, or a tree.

The tree was her favorite. On one page, it would be done in black ink, stark and barren. On another, in red, as if made of blood. Then in blue, then the black again. It was never green. The branches never sprouted leaves, never grew into the sun. I copied several of her drawings, cutting them out and lining them up along the wall of my tiny office. I glanced at them from time to time as I continued digging deeper and deeper into the gloom of her past dealings.

The same darkness drove me to this fighting pit, made me spend my blood on the unforgiving floor. It linked me back to her, somehow. Or maybe it was my long-hidden violence that ruled me. I looked to my knuckles, bloodied and bruised. The double life was taking a toll. Three months of it, the fights, the bruises, the blood.

Some men came up behind me, knocking me from my thoughts. They wanted to congratulate me on making them richer, wanting to know when my next fight was.

“Back the heck up.”

“Whoa, Rebel Rager, don’t get mad. We just wanted to say we’ve got your back.” The guy was dressed in typical Wall Street clothes. Not an ounce of dirt on the outside. But I was certain if I had a look at his books, he’d be filthy. I spat a wad of blood on the floor at his feet.

He backed up. I stalked off past him, past the fight that had just begun, past the cheering crowd.

I was done. I showered in the grungy locker room. I picked up my winnings on the way out.

“See you here tomorrow night?” The fight boss opened his cash box.

“No.”

“Couple days?” He licked his thumb before counting through the money bill by bill.

“No.”

He handed me the cash. “Worked it all out, did you? Had enough pain?”

Not yet.

I left. It was only a few blocks to an even sketchier part of the city. This town was like no other. One street would be brimming with young families and hipster restaurants. Two streets over, prostitutes and secret fighting rings.

I was looking for a row of ink slingers. I found them. I walked into the first one I came to. The woman behind the counter gave me an appraising look, lingering on my swollen-shut eye. She was older, covered in tattoos, and smoking a blunt. The buzz of two, maybe three, tattoo machines carried from the rear of the shop.

“What’s doin’, sugar?”

I pulled out my wallet and tried to grasp a slip of paper I’d slid between some bills. My hands, swollen from the fight, were not cooperating.

“Let me get that for you, hon.” She removed the scrap of paper I’d been pawing at and slid my wallet back across to me. “You want this?”

“Yes.”

“How big?” She snubbed out her blunt and dropped into a drawer under the counter.

She drew out a sheet of drafting paper and grabbed a pencil from a drawer. A purple lotus blossom, still bright, covered the back of her weathered hand.

I pulled my shirt over my head and turned. “Center of my back, between my shoulder blades. Big.”

Her fingers, surprisingly nimble, were already drawing the tree out to fit the space I’d shown her. She copied Evan’s strokes so precisely that I doubted a printer could have done it better. “You want color?”

“No. Black. Just like the drawing.”

“How much time you got?” She managed to create the wizened branches perfectly, giving them the same twists and turns as Evan had.

“However much time it takes.”

“How much money you got?”

I pulled the roll of bills from my pocket. “However much it takes.”

She smiled, the first change in demeanor she’d had the whole time I’d been in her shop. “Welcome. Let’s get started.”

Chapter Fourteen

EVAN

“You’re fired.” The words still felt good. Some things never changed.

“You can’t fire me. Only Mrs. Sawyer can fire me!” The angry financial adviser on the other end of the line, Richard Blackmon, wasn’t impressed. He would be as soon as the process server dropped Mrs. Sawyer’s complaint in his lap.

“Funny you should mention that. Mrs. Sawyer and her lovely son Greg are sitting in my office right now. You’re on speakerphone, by the way. Say hi, Mrs. Sawyer.”

“Hi,” the white-haired octogenarian crooned.

“Anyway, Mr. Blackmon, as I was saying, we have been in here all morning going over her account statements from your investment, 4680 Greenmont. You know, the real estate investment you set up to rebuild housing along Lake Pontchartrain after Katrina?”

Sputtering on his end of the line.

I continued. “It looks like you’ve been falsifying all of these. I called the fund manager you have listed here at the top of her paperwork. And, wouldn’t you know, there is no such fund at all. So, by my count—and don’t hold me to this—I’ve found about $132,000 or so that you’ve stolen from Mrs. Sawyer. Sound right to you?”

“You can’t—I don’t—I didn’t—”

“That’s all well and good, Mr. Blackmon, or do you go by Dick? Either way, Dick, the money is gone, and I know you have it. Now, either I will file the complaint that’s sitting on my desk, ready to go, and drag your practices out into the light of day or you will repay every cent owed, plus six percent statutory interest, to Mrs. Sawyer by this Friday. On top of that, you will pay my fee, which totals $52,800, directly to my firm, Angel & Associates. Got it?”

Silence.

“If Mrs. Sawyer and I don’t receive the funds, I will file the complaint Friday at five p.m. sharp. I will then contact the media. After that, there will not be a day when I or the media or one of the other people you screwed over won’t be calling you on the phone, knocking on your door, or waiting for you around the corner. I hope you got all that. And, just to assure you that I’m not messing around”—I covered the receiver with my palm and mouthed “sorry” to Mrs. Sawyer for the profanity before resuming my tirade—“I’ve already drafted an e-mail to the SEC’s southeastern region head of compliance. It’s very thorough. I have it right here in front of me. All I have to do is hit send and the feds will come down on you and level your entire life.”

I smiled at Mrs. Sawyer and her son and enjoyed the look of shock on their faces. When she first rolled in on her walker with the neon yellow tennis balls on the bottoms, Mrs. Sawyer wondered if “the pretty blond lady” had any chance of recovering her money. Over the course of a few hours, I showed her and her son what this “pretty blond lady” was capable of.

I waited a few moments, maintaining the silence, letting Dick languish in the bath of his wrongdoing.

Then I asked, “You need me to do the math for you again, hit the high points?”

“I, uh, yes. I mean, no. Let me get a pen. Give me your address.”

“This Friday, Dick. No going back. Understand?”

“Yes, I understand.” He was deflated now, terse and quiet.

“I’m transferring you to my secretary. She’ll arrange your payment information.” I clicked him over to Carol and settled back into my chair.

“Angel is the right word for you.” Mrs. Sawyer dabbed at her eyes with a hand-embroidered handkerchief. “I didn’t know. He just, he just took it all. But you got it back!” She blew her nose. “I mean, look at you. Tiny little lady with that blond hair looking like a short Barbie doll, but you nailed him!” She pumped her fist in the air, to the chagrin of her middle-aged son.

I smiled and stood. “We’ll have to wait and see. He may still make the wrong choice.”

“He won’t. He’s a coward. You showed me that. And you got him by the balls!”

“Mom!” Greg pinched the bridge of his nose.

I laughed. Mrs. Sawyer had turned out to be a spitfire. We had something in common after all.

“I’ll have Carol call you as soon as the money hits.” I had a feeling Dick would pay. They usually did when I let them know upfront I had enough evidence to take down a Gotti.

I walked over to Mrs. Sawyer. She clutched her son’s arm and pulled herself up. I knew the hug was coming, so I just stood and took it. She smelled like flowery soap and some intense hairspray. Aqua Net?

“Bless you, Ms. Angel.”

“The pleasure was all mine.” It really was. My day had started off with a bang, thanks to her.

Mrs. Sawyer scooted her way out of my office behind her walker. Greg followed close behind, though she didn’t need any help. She almost had a spring in her step.

Once they were out of the office, I closed my door and plopped down on my pleather couch. My office was small, and nowhere near as swank as I’d been accustomed to, but it was home. I finally felt like I was on the right path, doing the right things. I was helping people, crushing the shysters that preyed on the vulnerable. I was in a much better place mentally and emotionally, calm even.

I’d been in New Orleans for six months, slowly building my small practice. This city. I shook my head. It was beautiful, hot, steamy, and more of a home than anything was back in New York. I’d even made a few friends here and there. They didn’t ask too many questions about my past, and I returned the favor. Maybe something about New Orleans made people a little more hesitant to ask about your past and a little bit more ready to accept you as they found you. At least that’s what I’d surmised.

I even adopted a cat from the local shelter. Romeo was an orange tabby who was missing an eye and all of his tail. He walked right up to me at the shelter and nuzzled me, as if introducing himself. Though he’d been the tough kitty on the block when he was younger, he was definitely a lover now, not a fighter. He would sleep next to me, making biscuits, kneading the blankets until he fell asleep. He lived like a little king, the finest toys, the best food, and all the attention from me his furry butt could stand.

Even so, something was missing. I moved here to set up my new identity and my new shop. But I wasn’t kidding myself, Lincoln was the reason I chose New Orleans. I wanted to feel close to him, even though he was still in New York City prosecuting Lester DiSalvo. I followed the case closely, enjoying every tidbit of dirt that came out on the younger mafioso.

I kept up with the whole fiasco, the tabloids headlining the “return of the king” as the elder DiSalvo was set to land in New York and support his “unfairly maligned” son at trial. Lincoln had even managed to make some charges stick against Leon without the help of my files. Or maybe my files helped, but DiSalvo would never be able to prove that’s where Lincoln got his information. The look on Leon’s face when he was arrested at LaGuardia was enough to warm even my sad heart.

He made bail in short order but disappeared on his way back to the Four Seasons. A good deal of his blood was found in the car, leaving no doubt as to his fate. The media had a ball with the “what happened to the mob kingpin” stories.

Not long after, I received an express package from New York with a “for Ms. Angel’s eyes only” notation on the outside. Inside were three of the most delicious cannoli this side of heaven and a note in Sal’s stark scribble: Come back and see me anytime, bella. It’s safe now.

I imagined Sal, and maybe some of Vinnie’s cousins, putting a vicious hurt on DiSalvo. It didn’t feel like justice, exactly, but for the first time since I’d fled New York, I felt some semblance of safety. Not home free enough to let anyone in on my secret; I still kept my head down, my nose to the grindstone. But I didn’t look over my shoulder quite as much. And I didn’t let fear rule me. I enjoyed New Orleans, the French Quarter, the river. I was a solitary wanderer. I imagined that Lincoln had walked along the same paths, had eaten in the same restaurants at some point in the past.

Lincoln was making a name for himself. He was already moving up into the big time. Talk was buzzing around the city that he was a shoe-in to be the next U.S. attorney for the New Orleans region. Wood was the figurehead in charge of the Castille cases, but the news stories always quoted Lincoln and Jonesy. They were on the front lines, scrapping it out in court on a daily basis, fighting to keep the pressure on many of my former clients.

Castille had fallen quickly. Once Vinnie jettisoned him, the prick caved and accepted a plea deal. He turned state’s evidence and was Lincoln’s star witness. I might have been a wanted woman, but Castille couldn’t walk outside without fearing a sniper bullet.

Even though I kept up, I was far removed. New Orleans was my home now. I felt like there was a piece of Lincoln here that I could keep close. And the city was big enough so that we’d never cross paths. I referred out any federal cases and stuck to the state courts. That all but guaranteed we’d never meet. Making sure I never saw him again hurt like a jerk. Even so, this was the way it had to be. I had to let him go, for his own good, more than anything else. That’s what I told myself, anyway, on the warm afternoons that turned into twilight as I sat in my creaky porch swing and watched the streetcars roll by.

Lincoln wasn’t here with me, but I still felt him. He was in my heart for good and always, even though I’d resigned myself to living without him. Somehow, I was less lonely knowing he was out there somewhere.

I actually ran into Kennedy at the state courthouse once. I thought it was Lincoln at first, standing with his back to me. My heart leaped, and I fought the urge to run to him, to just throw my papers down and jump into his arms in front of the clerk’s office. Then Kennedy turned toward me and I saw the deep brown of his eyes and his high cheekbones that were a perfect match to Wash’s. I knew instinctively that he and Lincoln were brothers, both men tall, handsome, and built solid. Kennedy was gorgeous, but not the one my heart sought. He gave me a rakish wink before stepping into the clerk’s office and out of sight. It took me a few weeks to recover from that day. Even now, I still wished it had been Lincoln standing there.

Would Lincoln even know me now that I’d dyed my hair blond and changed my ways? Now that I wasn’t the bad jerk? Well, maybe I was still a little bad, but nothing like my former glory. I had flipped the coin, choosing the shiny side for once and for all. I would never slide back down into the pit of fear that had ruled my life for far too long. I sometimes imagined Lincoln would have been proud of my choices.

Honestly, I would have spent all my time imagining the life I could have had with him. But it hurt too much. So I buried myself in my work, and for the first time, I actually felt rewarded after a long day at the office. That odd feeling let me know I was doing the right thing. I often wondered if the right thing would ever come naturally to me again, the way it did to Lincoln.

I forced myself to stop thinking about him—something I had to do multiple times a day, like popping my wrist with a rubber band.

I relaxed my legs, letting them slide and catch down the surface of the pleather with a rubbery squeak. No luxurious top-grain leather here, no sir. My stomach rumbled. It was already lunchtime.

Carol buzzed my phone. “Your noon appointment is here.”

I maneuvered from the couch and arranged my blouse and skirt before realizing I never set noon appointments. “Wait, Carol, I have an appointment right now?”

“Yes, ma’am. I set it yesterday when you were in that deposition.”

Ugh. “Try not to set anything at lunch again. I’m starving.”

“Sorry, Ms. Angel. I’ll run out and grab us some lunch while you’re in the meeting. It’ll be waiting for you when you get back to your desk.”

Now, that was a good save. “Thanks, Carol.”

I checked myself in the mirror next to my door. I was almost used to the blond locks, though I missed the red a bit. Even so, I couldn’t be too obvious. I didn’t feel threatened now that I had a new identity and DiSalvo was room temperature, but I still needed to be careful.

I paused at Carol’s desk. “What sort of case?”

“Some elder law issues, sounds like.” She handed me a thin paper file of intake information before grabbing her bag and hurrying out the back way. “I’ll get Sandwich Sam’s. Back in fifteen minutes.”

“Perfect.”

The conference room was at the front of the office. My heels click-clacked on the tile floor of the hallway, announcing my arrival.

I swung the door open and dropped the file. The edge hit the floor, sending the sheets scattering at my feet.

“Ms. Angel.” Lincoln stood.

My legs were suddenly tired. I leaned on the nearest chairback just to stay standing.

Lincoln ate up the distance between us in two strides and took me in his arms.

“It’s you” was all I could say.

“You think I wouldn’t find you?”

The deep rumble of his voice was like a shot of morphine. I was euphoric. Lincoln Granade was my drug of choice.

“I . . . I . . . didn’t know. I hoped. But we can’t—”

He lifted me off my feet so we were at eye level. He was smiling, green eyes sparkling even under the fluorescents. A fresh dose of his scent washed over me, far stronger than what was left on his dress shirt that I slept with every night. I wrapped my arms around his neck, a reflex, as natural as tucking my hair behind my ears.

“You know what happens when you tell me no, angel. And you’re already in for some rough treatment for running away, among other bad behavior.” There was mischief in his voice.

He grew fuzzy in front of me, tears overcoming my vision. He took my mouth. Gently, despite his words. After a long, sensuous kiss, he pulled away. The morphine pump was working overtime. I’d dreamed of kissing him again, tasting him. I was far too jaded to ever believe dreams came true, especially for people like me.

“Don’t cry, angel. I never want to see you cry.”

“It’s not you. I mean, it is. I just, I just wanted you so bad. And now you’re here—”

He claimed my lips again, more insistently this time. Deepening our kiss, he let his tongue explore. I answered, opening my mouth and pulling him in even closer. He turned me around and sat me down on the conference table. I opened my legs, and he snugged himself between them. I wanted to give him anything, everything. Whatever it took to make him stay.

He pulled away despite my groan. He smiled and took a lock of my hair in his hand.

“I prefer the red.” He kissed my forehead.

“I have to hide. Blond allows me to do that.”

“You don’t have to hide anymore.” He let the strands drop and tried to take my mouth again.

“B-but how did you find me?”

“Wouldn’t you know it? I had some delicious Italian the other day. Prepared fresh by a real virtuoso of the art of cooking, and also the art of baseball.”

He stared at my mouth as my jaw went slack. Shock radiated through me. “Sal gave me up?”

“Sure did. I tracked you there. Do you have any idea how hard it is to retrieve records of phone calls going to or from a federal courthouse?”

“I can imagine.” My curiosity was fading and being replaced with the need for his mouth. I was no longer interested in the how or the why. I only wanted him to kiss me again with his fire, his heat. Hi, my name is Evangeline Pallida, and I’m a Lincoln addict.

“That’s what took me so long. Sal said he knew I’d come looking for you eventually. He wanted to know if I was the one who called you angel. Told me to say ‘hi, bella’ once I’d found you.”

I smiled, fond memories of Sal playing in my mind.

“I told him to lay off my woman.”

I leaned closer to him, needing his lips on mine. “How did he take that?”

“Not so well at first. But a few bottles of Italian wine later and we were the best of friends.”

I couldn’t wait any longer. I pressed into him, savoring his taste. He pushed me back, covering me on the table. He was the fantasy come to life, the alpha taking me in a boardroom. I wrapped my legs around his back and squeezed, feeling his hard shaft against my stomach.

“You’re going to make me do bad things.” He kissed down to my neck, sucking and biting along my shoulder and collarbone.

“I’m not scared.” I was thrilled.

He straightened, picking me up and crushing me to him. He stared into my eyes, the scar giving him a dangerous look that wore well on him. His nose had long since healed; only a sliver of a scar remained. The flaws were what made him, made us. I wanted to kiss every scar.

“Let’s see if we can’t do something about that, angel.”

“M-my secretary will be back in fifteen minutes.”

He smiled, beautiful and intense. “I guess we’d better hurry. Where’s your office?”

“Not here?” I asked.

He grinned. “All in good time, Ms. Angel. I’m going to forget you in every location I can find.”

I swallowed hard. “Last door at the end of the hall.”

He carried me, dotting kisses along my face and neck as he went.

“I hope you have a couch. Otherwise, you’re going to be suffering from some rug burn for a little while.” That grin never left his face, the devil.

He dropped me on the couch and kicked the door closed behind us. He pulled his polo shirt over his head. The tattoos I’d dreamed about, imagined, still imbedded in his gorgeous skin.

“Strip.”

I followed suit, pulling my top over my head and unclasping my bra.

“Wait.”

I looked up at him, tears welling in my eyes again. I knew why he told me to wait, what he’d seen.

He knelt down and raised my left arm. There, next to my breast, in black ink was audentes fortuna iuvat.

He kissed the letters, tracing them with his mouth. I let the mmm sound escape my lips.

“Inked for me, angel?”

“Yes.” My voice was throaty, not even mine.

“A spot like that, it must have hurt.”

“It did.”

He smoothed his hand over my ribs and cupped my breast, kneading it as he continued his kisses around to my other nipple. He took it in his mouth, lashing the tight bud with his tongue. I lowered my arm and ran my hand through his hair, pushing through the thick strands I remembered so well. Every touch from him, every kiss, stoked the fire in me.

“Lie back.”

I did as he said, no hesitation.

“Take your panties off. Leave the skirt.”

Oh goodness, the anticipation was too much. I licked my lips. He followed the motion and rubbed the heel of his hand over the rise in his pants. It was so masculine, so desirous, that my mouth watered. He kept his steady gaze on me as I followed his instructions and slid my thong down my legs.

“Good. Now hands over your head.”

He stood and stripped his pants off. When he was naked, gorgeous and hard, he prowled on top of me. He pushed my skirt up, leaving my pussy bare to him. I wanted him to plunge in deep, to give me what I’d dreamed about for the months since we’d been together.

The front door of the office opened. I craned my head around and brought my hands down, momentarily knocked out of his spell. What a delicious mistake. He gripped my wrists and wrenched them above my head before sinking his teeth into my shoulder.

The sheer pleasure made me cry out, a little too loudly.

“Ms. Angel?” Carol called down the hall. “I got you chicken salad, hope that’s okay.”

“Incredible, she’s back, you can’t—” Too late, I realized I’d said the magic words.

Lincoln pushed into me, his head seeking straight to my most intimate parts.

“Ohhh,” I moaned as he started a smooth rhythm, pushing deeper and deeper inside as I became reacquainted with him. I didn’t think it was possible, but it was even better than I remembered.

Carol’s keys made a skittering sound as she threw them down on her desk right outside my door.

“Wow, boss, I didn’t realize you liked chicken salad so much.”

Lincoln smirked and kept pumping into me, as if wanting Carol to hear and walk in. He was Satan incarnate. I loved every second of it.

I needed to come up with a plan to get rid of Carol somehow. I closed my eyes. Mistake.

His warm breath tickling my ear, he said, “Look at me, angel. Keep looking at me while I forget you.”

My eyelids flew open.

“That’s my girl.” His whisper was gravelly, sex in a sound.

“Carol!” I gasped. “Don’t, mmm, don’t come in. I’ll, oohh, I’ll be out in a little bit. Could you—”

Lincoln nipped at my lips and slid a hand down to my rear, pulling himself even deeper inside me.

“Ohhh. Carol, just go down and eat in the conference room. Pleeeaaasseee.”

“Um, sure, Ms. Angel.” She was hesitant. Now was not the time to be hesitant. “You sure I shouldn’t—”

“Go!” I yelled.

“Yes, ma’am.” I finally heard her steps retreating down toward the front of the office.

I smirked up at Lincoln and brought my hands down to his chest, pinching his nipples hard. “Oops, looks like I broke the rules again.”

He smiled, the look in his eyes pure heat as he thrust harder, punishing me so sweetly. “That’s my bad jerk.”

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

BAD JERK. Copyright © 2016 by Christina Saunders. All rights reserved. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Cover photographs: woman and Man © Dmitrii Kotin/iStock; velvet texture © Zick Svift/Shutterstock
eISBN 978-1-250-10975-0

First Edition: July 2016

Our eBooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, ext. 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

HARDASS

CELIA AARON

Chapter One

CAROLINE

I snort-laughed. The sort of laugh that catches in the back of your throat and then ricochets out in an awkward sound. The conference room quieted. Every pair of eyes turned toward me. I kicked Terrell in the shin with my pump for telling me a dirty joke before the morning meeting.

He shrugged and began doodling on his yellow legal pad.

The other associates were still looking at me, some with puzzlement, others with open dislike.

I settled back into my leather conference chair and rolled my eyes. “What? You idiots wouldn’t know a joke if it bit you on your smarmy backsides.”

“I thought all lawyers had to take a professionalism class before being admitted to the bar, even lawyers from backwoods no-name law schools like yours, Caroline.” Yvonne smiled, her perfect face begging for the back of my hand.

I leaned over the table toward her. “Talk trash, get hit, Yvonne. I guess they didn’t teach that at your charm school.”

“Ladies, take it down a notch.” Terrell knocked his knee into mine.

“If Caroline takes it down any further, she’ll be back in the trailer park she came from.”

“You groin.” I tried to stand, but Terrell gripped my elbow and shoved me back down.

“Caroline!” His sharp tone cut through my pissed-off haze. “Get it together. Don’t listen to her.”

“I’m not listening to her. I’m imagining pummeling her face. There’s a difference.”

“Even so. Calm down.” He gave my elbow a hard squeeze and went back to doodling. He seemed confident the situation was defused. One look at Yvonne’s smirk left me unconvinced. I flipped her off and gave a trash-eating grin.

“Stop,” Terrell hissed.

“Fine.” I sat back in my chair and eyed the rest of the associates, who shifted and refused to meet my gaze, discomfort in every awkward move. “Goodness, it’s not like Mr. Hardass Granade is even here yet. Get your panties out of a wad.”

Then the worst thing that could have happened occurred. Every associate lifted their gaze to a point above and behind me. If they’d looked uncomfortable before, they looked like they were getting a sriracha enema now. It could only mean one thing.

“Is he standing behind me? He’s standing behind me, isn’t he?” I whispered to Terrell, who continued doodling unawares.

“If you’re done with your assessment of my demeanor, Ms. Montreat, I’d like to get the meeting started. Unless, of course, you have any more fascinating commentary?” His voice, the deep baritone that rumbled through the office on an angry roar at times, settled over me like a funeral shroud. Idiot.

I straightened my back, trying not to telegraph the panic that was engulfing me. I needed this job. Pink warmed my cheeks as Mr. Granade stalked past me to the head of the table. He was tall, well over six feet, with a broad chest, trim waist, and piercing blue eyes that happened to be turned on me. At this point, piercing was an understatement. I wanted to crawl under the conference table and hide.

Instead, I sat taller and tried to salvage it. “Mr. Granade, I . . . I would like to apologize—”

“Save it, Ms. Montreat. I’ve already had enough of your mouth today.” He gave me a look that could melt lead, his angular face stony and his dark brows drawn down.

I swallowed. Hard. It wasn’t just that he was my boss or that he was scary or that he was known to fire associates for far less than what I’d just done. No. It was more that I had been lusting after him for the six months that I’d been working at Palmer & Granade. He was, simply put, the god of my idolatry.

Washington Granade was one of the most sought-after criminal defense attorneys in New Orleans. He could get a jury of twelve in the palm of his hand and work them any which way he pleased. I’d seen him do it when I was a law student, watching him defend a white-collar criminal from charges of cooking his company’s books. Wash Granade was charismatic and, I had no problem admitting, handsome as the devil.

I was so happy I’d landed the job working at his firm right out of law school. I would meet my idol and learn from him, not to mention I would get to be around one of the greatest trial lawyers in the state—and did I mention he was smoking hot? But it didn’t take long for me to realize the charm was something he turned on and off like a spigot. Sadly for me, the spigot seemed to be permanently in the “off” position.

“Now that Ms. Montreat is done with her morning antics, I need to know which of you has time to take on a particularly complex murder case. You’ll get second-chair trial experience if I think you can handle yourself. But I warn you”—he undid the top button on his charcoal gray suit and sat, placing his large hands on the table—“this is not going to be a cakewalk. I’m going to need someone who can work nights, weekends, and who isn’t afraid to get their hands dirty. Who wants it?”

Of the eight associates at the table, eight raised their hands. I tried to hold my hand the highest, like an idiot, as if that would mean that I won. I was a climber, so naturally, competition was in my nature.

Mr. Granade looked around and sat back in his chair. “So all of you are up to the task?”

A round of yes-sirs went up.

He smirked and flicked his gaze across the eager faces at the table. “Are you certain?”

Another round of affirmative, yet also fly a kite, responses.

The smirk changed to a smile, his even white teeth making him look like more of a stunner. He had dimples. I’d seen them only once before, when his brother visited him at the office and made an off-color joke. That smile was locked in my memory, dimples and all. I’d never seen it again.

If Mr. Granade ever smiled with delight at me, the dimples would appear and my panties would melt. I knew it. I hoped one day I would say something so amazingly clever and brilliant that it would bring out the smile, dimples and all, and he would sweep me off my feet and do unbelievably inappropriate things to me in his corner office. My panties stayed put this morning, because his smile was more wolfish than anything else. No dimples. Not even a trace.

I surreptitiously pushed out my boobs, hoping to get some sort of edge. Terrell straightened his tie. He was handsome, intelligent, and knew how to please even the most discerning of cocks, but this particular cock was mine. Not a chance, bestie.

Mr. Granade looked up in thought, his Adam’s apple tantalizing me above the edge of his sharp white dress shirt and navy tie. “Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll have a little competition.” He lowered his head and leveled his gaze at us. “Whichever one of you can answer this question to my satisfaction will get to assist me in this case.”

I glanced around at the eager faces. I had to beat them. I didn’t care if they went to a better law school or had better grades or maybe were a little thinner—especially Yvonne, that skinny jerk—I had to win.

The room simmered as Mr. Granade paused. Every associate was gunning for the spot. Yvonne twirled a lock of midnight hair around her finger and sneered at me. Like I said, skinny jerk.

Terrell sat at my elbow, pen poised and at the ready, as if this were a math competition. If that were the case, I was already good and screwed.

Mr. Granade rapped his knuckles on the table. “Here we go. The question is as follows: You’re defending one of two accused bank robbers. The State decides to prosecute the defendants separately. Your guy is going first. The State lists only one witness against your client on its disclosures—the co-defendant bank robber. The co-defendant is set to give particularly condemning testimony about how your client masterminded the entire robbery, including plans to kill a guard upon escape. Trial is set to start in an hour. Your guy is looking at twenty years in prison, minimum, upon conviction. What do you do?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, his toned but not overly muscled pecs straining against his shirt. I wondered if he was hairy under there. If the strands were the same chocolate color as the smooth locks on his head. Maybe there was a dusting and then a goodie trail leading down below.

Focus, Caroline!

Incredible. What was the answer? Plea deal? I chewed on my bottom lip, trying to decipher the trick. There had to be a trick. Mr. Granade was too smart for a straightforward answer. Tricksy hot Hobbitses.

Mr. Granade’s voice sliced through the worried silence. “Mr. Lynch. What’s the correct answer?”

Terrell jerked to attention, though his pen was still poised over his notepad, empty save for his doodles.

“I, um, I would . . .” He drummed his pen on the pad, his dark eyes focusing on the movement as if the answer were there in the tap, tap, tap. I could almost hear the machinery spinning in his head. “I would try the case and bring the bank tellers as witnesses to refute the co-defendant’s testimony?”

Terrell winced when his voice went up at the end of the last word. Answering a question with a question was never a good idea. Answering Mr. Granade that way? Epic fail.

Mr. Granade gave no sign whether the answer was correct or not. He simply barked out another name and went around the table. There were a variety of answers—some creative plea deals, some intense defense strategies with security footage and testimony. Yvonne had a pretty good idea about discrediting the co-defendant on the stand. Too bad she was wrong. And, also, still a skinny jerk.

He kept going, calling names and getting answers. I was glad he saved me for last, though I wondered whether it was on purpose.

“Ms. Montreat, our class clown.” He said it with such derision. “What would you do?” His deep blue gaze settled on me, and my heart did that weird stutter-step thing. The same thing it did whenever I spotted a tub of my favorite—yet elusive—gelato.

“Nothing.” My voice came out louder than I’d intended. Nerves.

The corners of his mouth quirked the slightest bit before he returned to his usual stony self. “Nothing?”

“Nothing,” I continued, somehow breathless, as if I’d forgotten the overwhelming importance of respiration in the space of two seconds. “I would let the State try their case and I wouldn’t do a thing.”

Yvonne giggled. I wanted to groin-punt her. Instead, I just kept my eyes on the prize. The prize was canting his head at me, seemingly intrigued.

“You wouldn’t cross the State’s star witness even though he’s implicated your client in a Class A felony that will most certainly result in a hefty sentence?”

“I sure wouldn’t.” I leaned forward and put my elbows on the table, returning Mr. Granade’s stare.

His dark brows rose, as if he were surprised by my boldness. You ain’t seen nothing yet.

“And why is that, Ms. Montreat?”

Was that color rising over the impeccable collar of his dress shirt? A delightful pink hue on his tan skin? A thrill went through me at the thought of him reacting to me. It was highly inappropriate to have such a thought about my boss, so it fit me perfectly. “Because I wouldn’t have to. There would be no need.”

Yvonne laughed louder and stage-whispered to the associate at her elbow, “Now I see why she couldn’t get into a first-tier law school.”

The Yvonne groin-punt went from being a “want” to gaining a spot on my mental to-do list. But Mr. Granade didn’t seem to hear her. His gaze was still focused on me. “So, as I understand it, you would let the co-defendant destroy your client on the stand and you wouldn’t do a thing about it. Then what?”

Exhilaration rushed through me and mixed with the fear that maybe I was wrong. Incredible, what if I’m wrong? I shook the doubt away and continued, still holding Mr. Granade’s eyes with my own. “I would do nothing until the State rested its case. Then I would move for a dismissal via judgment as a matter of law.”

Yes, there it was. I definitely saw it this time—the hint of a smile. “And would that work, Ms. Montreat?”

“Yes.” I was leaning so far forward that I knew the girls were on display. All the better to lure you with, my dear.

“Why?” He was leaning forward, too.

There was no one else in the room, no Terrell, and certainly no skinny jerk Yvonne. It was just me and Mr. Granade. The way I wanted it.

“Because the testimony of a co-conspirator can never be used as the sole basis for a conviction. The State failed to prove its case. I win by default.” I couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across my face. I just had that feeling, the one where you know you nailed it—like that kid in that meme doing the fist pump. I was that kid right then in all his ecstatic glory.

Mr. Granade blinked, as if remembering himself, and sat back. He scrubbed a hand along his perfectly smooth jaw and broke our eye contact. “Looks like the class clown wins it.”

I strutted out of the conference room, no shame in my game, after the meeting adjourned. I’d beaten the other associates and was riding a victory high.

“I expect you in my office in five minutes.” Mr. Granade strode past, his long legs making easy work of the hallway leading to his office. His confident steps were quicker than usual, and his head was cocked slightly to the side, in my direction.

Terrell was at my elbow. “You sure pulled that out of your rear.”

“Don’t be jealous. Or do. I like when people are jealous. It means I’m doing something right.”

Terrell snorted and took my arm in his. “You are in it now, Caroline. Mr. Granade doesn’t suffer fools—”

“Mama didn’t raise no fool.” I elbowed him in the ribs.

“I know. I’m just saying maybe you should tone it down a bit if you’re going to be in close quarters with him. I kind of like having you around.” He peered down at me, the dark brown skin around his eyes crinkling with worry.

He led me to my office and waited in the doorway as I grabbed a legal pad and pen. I hated to admit it, but he was right. Mr. Granade was a tough nut to crack, and I needed to keep my head in the game. The game wouldn’t be as much fun without a slew of dirty jokes, but I needed to make an effort at professionalism if I was going to have any chance at actually sitting second chair in a murder trial.

“Be you. You know there’s nothing I love more than you being you. Just be smart about how much you let him see.”

I bent over and dug around for my Rules of Evidence book. Snagging it, I turned back to Terrell. He had put his manicured hand to his face, as if shielding his eyes from the sun—but it was just my rear.

“And I mean that literally and figuratively. Are you wearing underwear?”

“This skirt’s too tight. I didn’t want any panty lines.” I shrugged.

“Don’t bend over like that in Mr. Granade’s office. That’s all I can tell you.”

I winked and walked past him. “He’s into what I have downstairs, so it may be a good idea to do just that.”

“See.” He was at my heels. “This is what I meant by ‘toning it down.’”

“I got this. I am toned down. Stop your fretting. Besides, if I get fired you might get a chance for some alone time with him.”

He stopped. “Good point. You do you, Caroline.”

I threw him a small wave before turning down the hallway to Mr. Granade’s office. The door was closed. It was usually open. I hesitated outside, wondering if I should knock or just wait. I looked to Shirley, his secretary, in the cubicle at my back. She was on the phone and paid me no mind.

I smoothed my skirt down, given Terrell’s warning. It was still tight, but it didn’t display the goods more than I wanted. My top was low cut—as were almost all my tops (what’s a turtleneck?)—and I made sure my jacket sat on my chest so as to show just enough to keep it interesting.

I took a breath and knocked, heat rushing into my ears from sheer nerves. Get it together, Caroline.

“Come in.” His deep rumble skittered over my skin like electricity.

Tone it down. Tone it down. Tone it down. I pushed the door open and strode in. Then I almost dropped everything. He’d taken his jacket off. I’d never seen him without a suit jacket. His sleeves were rolled up. And was his hair rumpled? Had he run his perfect fingers through his almost-too-long hair? It was sex hair. I peeked behind me. Nope, there wasn’t some law clerk hiding out post-BJ.

“What are you doing?” He was typing, his eyes on the screen at the edge of his desk.

“I was just looking for—nothing. I wasn’t doing anything.”

“That’s not what we pay you for, Ms. Montreat. Close the door.” He kept typing as he spoke.

“Right.” I swung the door shut, catching Shirley giving me a pensive look as I did so.

I turned and took a step toward Mr. Granade, wondering if we were going to sit at his small conference table or if I should take one of the leather seats in front of his desk.

Several large windows graced his corner office, the sunlight streaming in and bathing everything in a golden morning glow. His décor was understated, as if to let the view of the New Orleans skyline rule the room. It did, buildings rising high and gleaming in the cloudless sky.

“Have a seat. I’m almost done.”

“Sure.” I threw a glance to the conference table but decided to choose the chair closest to his desk instead. I sank down and crossed my legs at the ankles before arranging my legal pad and rule book.

He finally finished his rapid-fire typing and clicked something on his screen. Then he focused his eyes on me, and the heat that had already been in my ears turned into an inferno. He was just so good-looking. It should have gotten him a censure from the bar for unfairly competitive behavior. He was thirty-one but had made partner at an unheard-of twenty-seven. And he was so much more than an unbearably pretty face.

I sighed. Wait, did I just sigh?

He cocked an eyebrow. “What was that?”

“What? Nothing. A yawn?” Ears at five-alarm-fire heat levels.

He shook his head and, wait for it, ran his hand through his hair. There it was, the cause of the rumpling. It was so masculine yet also so unusual. He was always perfect to a fault whenever I saw him, not a hair out of place.

“Never mind. Let’s just talk about the case.”

I poised my pen over my legal pad.

“Rowan Ellis.”

I popped my head up. “The Bayou Butcher?”

He nodded and leaned back in his chair, resting one hand on his desk. “But I never want to hear you refer to him as that again.”

“Of course not.” I began writing “Bayou Butcher” on my notepad in big, dramatic letters.

“We are heading to Angola tomorrow for our first face-to-face. I need you to be on point, be a second set of eyes and ears for me. Got it?”

“Yes.” Seen and not heard, got it.

“I expect you to take excellent notes. I want to be able to go over every fact, every scrap of information, once we’re out of there. This is the foundation of our case. We build our entire defense off this first interview, and I want it to be solid.”

I glanced up from my notepad, and he looked away. But it was too late. I’d seen it. He’d been checking me out, the girls in particular. I couldn’t have stopped my smile even if a gallon of Botox had been injected into my lips.

He cleared his throat. “I expect you to be ready to travel at eight sharp tomorrow. Meet me in the parking deck at my car.”

He turned back to his e-mails and started typing again. I’d been dismissed. I stood and dropped my Rules of Evidence. It was accidental. Accidental on purpose. I bent over from my waist to pick up the book. By the time I’d straightened back up, he was staring intently at his computer screen, but his fingers were still.

I swayed my hips for the few steps to the doorway, my heels click-clacking along his wood floor. I opened the door and was about to step out when he spoke.

“Angola isn’t a picnic, Ms. Montreat. It’s full of murderers and rapists of the worst sort. I would suggest you dress a bit more conservatively. Please consult the employee handbook if you need any more instruction.”

I looked over my shoulder and clocked another look. This time his gaze had been glued to my rear.

“Yes, Mr. Granade.” I practically floated down the hall away from his office.

When I turned the corner he closed his door roughly, not quite a slam but just shy. I smiled. This assignment was getting better by the second.

Chapter Two

CAROLINE

I leaned against Mr. Granade’s car, the chilly morning air running up my bare legs and under my skirt. His engine was still ticking, as if he’d only just arrived. But he must have gone into the office, because he was nowhere to be seen.

I had a notepad and my bag. It was five minutes before eight. I was surprised I’d managed to make it early, especially given that I tried on six different outfits before deciding on my short, light gray skirt suit and cobalt blue top. The top was especially calculated, because it hugged my ample breasts just right. Being curvy meant I knew how to emphasize my assets.

I’d also spent an extra half hour getting my hair in perfect blond waves. I might not have been dressed for Angola, but I was certainly dressed for Mr. Granade. He just didn’t know it yet.

At eight on the dot, he strolled out of the elevator. He wore a perfectly tailored dark gray suit, white dress shirt, and lighter blue tie. I stared. Hard.

He stopped for a moment when he saw me, his blue eyes narrowing as he looked me up and down. He gave his head a slight shake. Did he even know he’d done it? Then he resumed his confident stride, though he looked everywhere but at me.

“Morning, Ms. Montreat.”

“Morning, boss.” I smiled up at him as he approached.

His gaze snapped to me as the word “boss” rolled off my tongue. He went toward the passenger door of his sedan, as if he were going to open it for me. Then, at the last second, he walked around to the driver’s side.

“Get in.” It was a gruff command.

I obeyed and slid into his black leather seat. My skirt rode up a bit, showing even more of my legs. Total accident.

He sank into his seat and started the engine. Voices took over the radio. Smart ones, at that.

“NPR, huh?”

“I like to learn something when I can.” He put the car in reverse, his gaze on the backup camera.

“Me, too. Did you hear last week’s segment about the alleged embezzlement that went down on levee reconstruction post-Katrina?”

He cut a glance to me before throwing the car into drive and maneuvering down the rows to the exit.

“I did. I hear the AG is looking into it.”

I slid on my sunglasses as we exited the deck. He pulled a pair from the center console and put them on. I didn’t think he could look any hotter. I was wrong. Washington Granade in sunglasses was a ladykiller. What was it about tinted glasses that gave such an air of mystery? I loved it.

It wasn’t long before we were on the interstate, still listening to the news of the day and maintaining a relatively comfortable silence. He was an interesting driver. Aggressive, but somehow cautious at the same time. Several times I would have been dropping F-bombs like the blitzkrieg, but all he did was breathe out his nose sort of hard and then go back to his usual stoic self.

When we got too far from the city to keep the NPR going, he switched it to a music station, nothing fancy, mostly Top Forty. It was just background. I saw my chance and took it.

“So, you’re from New Orleans?”

He took one hand from the wheel and laid it on the gearshift. The backs of his hands had a light dusting of dark hair. The fingers were long and the nails clipped to a reasonable man-length. Were his palms soft or callused?

“Yes. From here.”

I shifted in my seat, facing him at more of an angle. He moved his head toward me and then swiveled his attention back to the road. I couldn’t see his eyes behind the glasses.

“Family still live here?”

“Some of them.”

His terse answers were no doubt meant to shut me up. They had the opposite effect.

“Which ones?”

“My brother Kennedy.” His smooth jaw tightened and released, tightened and released. “And my other brother, Lincoln, just moved back from New York.”

“Parents?”

“They’ve passed.”

Incredible. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s been years, and I have a lot of great memories.” He smiled a little, as if a particularly happy memory had popped up right then.

“So what does Kennedy do?”

“Lawyer.”

“Lincoln?”

“Lawyer.”

“Seems like the three of you should have started a firm. The name would be easy enough. The Granade Firm. Or maybe you’d do that ridiculous thing where you all three have to be listed because, you know, pissing contest.”

His eyebrows raised above the frame of the sunglasses. But I was invested, so there was no stopping.

“So it would be Granade, Granade, and Granade. But the question would be, which one of you is which Granade? Am I right? You’d probably tell everyone you were first, and then your brothers would do the same, and then it would be total anarchy.” I snickered.

The corners of his lips twitched, not enough to give me a smile, not even the wolfish one, but the impulse was there. I would take it. He sped up and passed several cars. Speed limits must have been for lesser attorneys. Or maybe ones who couldn’t talk themselves out of a ticket. I was certain he could talk his way out of a murder rap, even if he’d been caught with blood on his hands. He was just that good. I’d seen it. I believed it.

“So what about your family?”

“They live in Baton Rouge. I have a brother in New Orleans. He does some sort of financial stuff. I’m not really sure. He tells me about it, but I wind up, you know”—I made the jackoff motion with my hand—“just telling him to tell Mom so she can be proud, because I don’t give two trashs.”

Terrell’s voice echoed through my memory: Tone it down. I dropped my hand.

He smirked as he glanced over at me. I was glad my sunglasses hid my eyes so he couldn’t see my attempt at being embarrassed.

“I mean, I’m sure it’s a good job and everything.” I folded my hands in my lap to keep them under tighter guard. That meant my mouth was on its own. Not good.

“How do you like the firm so far?”

“I love it.” Kiss-rear. “I’ve wanted to do criminal defense since my second year of law school. And Palmer & Granade is where I wanted to be. So it all worked out according to my evil plans.”

“Evil plans, huh? What made you decide on criminal defense?”

You did. “I, well, I saw a trial that I got really interested in. It was like a Lifetime movie. You go into it thinking, Meh, this is going to be boring or stupid or dumb or trite, and then you watch and you’re crying and snotting and so invested and then you root for the heroine when she kills the bad guy even though she’s preggers with his love baby. You know?”

The smirk graced me with its presence. “I am very pleased to say that no, I do not know. But do go on.”

“The trial was just like that. It was an assignment for a litigation skills class. I’d already decided I wanted to be a transactional attorney and make the big bucks with minimal effort. No court time or anything. But then I saw this trial and I was hooked.”

“What case?”

“Oh, I, uh, it was State versus someone or other.” I shrugged and finally turned my gaze out the front windshield, the miles melting away in a blur of speed. I was lying. I would sound like a total stalker if I recited every detail of the trial—which I knew by heart.

“I’m pretty sure all criminal trials are State versus someone or other.” He shifted in his seat the slightest bit, turning his attention on me. “Let’s see. You graduated last year, so your second summer—hmm. I remember trying a case that summer. Sutter—charged with murder. Ring a bell?”

“That might have been it. I don’t really remember details.” My fingers fidgeted with each other, as if dying to escape and make another lewd hand gesture.

“Let’s see, yeah, he was involved in a drug deal gone bad. His supplier was shot through the forehead with a .22. He was the likeliest suspect, so he got popped.” He smiled, even sexier with the sunglasses, but the dimples weren’t making an appearance. Not yet.

Heat rushed along my skin, racing to the juncture of my thighs. “That may have been it.”

“May have or was?” His voice was incisive.

He was cross-examining me. Is it wrong that it turned me on to an alarming degree? “It was.”

“That’s what I thought. Now, if I remember correctly, I tried that case alone, didn’t I? No co-counsel?”

“I don’t remember.” I squirmed at the lie.

“Come now, Ms. Montreat. Surely you can remember the case that you say is the very reason you took a job at my firm.” He had me. His tone, silky and oh-so-reasonable, told me he knew he had me. I knew that tone, remembered it from the very trial we were discussing. It had hypnotized me, put me under Washington Granade’s spell.

Now I wanted him under mine. I tried a new tactic. Offense. I shifted back toward him and pretended to have noticed some lint on my top. I slid my lapel back and brushed my hand over the swell of my breast while letting my legs open the slightest bit because I was distracted.

“Lint everywhere. I swear my dry cleaners are out to get me.” I looked up, and he faced forward, eyes on the road, both hands gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly.

I took the chance to finish my interrogation the way I wanted. “But yes, I enjoyed the trial. I thought the State’s attorney, Matt Turnbull, wasn’t that his name? Anyway, I thought he really did a great job with the State’s case. Even though he lost, I think he was just so eloquent and prepared. Really a great attorney. I was so impressed that I wanted to do criminal work.”

“Yeah, Matt.” A muscle ticked in his jaw.

I wanted him to call me out on the lie, maybe pull over and spank me—if I was going to dream, I was going to dream big. Instead, he turned the radio up a few clicks and schooled his features. He was the Hardass again. At least I’d rattled him a bit and gotten him to stop cross-examining me. He was tenacious, but I didn’t want to show all my cards, and did I mention I was competitive?

We rode the rest of the way in silence. I had a million more questions, but I tried to channel Terrell and keep them to myself.

When we finally arrived at the front gate of the prison, the sun was high. Guard towers flanked the entrance, though I didn’t see anyone inside them. We pulled to a stop under an awning, and Mr. Granade rolled down his window to speak to the guard at what looked like a tollbooth.

Once assured we were legit attorneys, not ex-cons with their hearts set on a prison break, the guard waved us through to the main building.

“Stay close to me. Don’t wander off. Don’t speak to any of the inmates. Can you do that?” Mr. Granade stowed his glasses in the console.

“Yes.”

He turned to me, sternness and something else—worry?—written on his face. “Just keep your eyes open. These guys are contained, but it’s still a complex filled with violent people, okay? So stay close. Promise me you will.”

“Okay. I promise.” I was at one and the same time thrilled that he cared but worried that I would get jumped Shawshank style.

I got out, and he joined me as we walked up to the building. He kept his hand at my lower back as we went inside. It wasn’t exactly professional, but I wasn’t about to complain. His warning had gotten my radar pinging like crazy. I kept looking for shivs made from toothbrushes—and that was just on the guards. I had no idea what I’d do when I saw the actual inmates.

We checked in at the desk and then prepared to go through the metal detector. Mr. Granade went ahead of me and dropped his keys, wallet, and a few other items in the bin. Then I heard the jingle of a belt buckle. Is he taking off his b—? Yes, he whipped his belt off and dropped it into the bin along with everything else and stepped through. No beeping; he was clear.

I dropped my bag into a bin and walked through. Beeping. The guard came around and waved the wand all over me. The beeping happened whenever it went over my chest. The girls needed more than a regular underwire, as the metal detector could attest.

“Put your arms out.” The guard kept waving his wand like he was directing airport traffic.

I did as instructed. He kept beeping it over my chest. Heat rushed into my cheeks. Mr. Granade put his belt back on and stared as the guard kept up the TSA routine. At least he wasn’t laughing at me.

“You got anything in your bra?”

“Just my belly.” My face grew redder, and I wished, for just once in my life, I could think before I spoke.

“I’m going to have to pat you down.” The guard grinned and dropped the wand onto the conveyor belt. He stepped toward me.

Hell no.

“No. You aren’t touching her.” Mr. Granade’s voice held a warning.

“I have to search her. Can’t be letting people bring contraband into the prison.” The guard kept his eyes on me, or rather on my belly, until Mr. Granade walked between us.

“I said you aren’t touching her. She’s an officer of the court, and she’s with me. If you lay a finger on her, I’ll file a civil suit for section 1983 violations so fast it’ll make your hillbilly head spin.”

I could only see his broad back, but tension was in his voice, his stance, his everything. I would have protested the search anyway, but having him step in for me was definitely more entertaining.

“I have to search—”

He took a step toward the guard so they were almost nose to nose. “Get Ted on the phone.”

“Th-the warden?”

I stood on my tiptoes and peeked over Mr. Granade’s shoulder. He smelled delicious, like some sort of woodsy soap. The guard glanced at me and back to Mr. Granade.

“Yes, the warden. We pledged together in college. I spent a week at his beach house two months ago. So either let her through or get him on the phone. I don’t care which. But I can promise you, you aren’t touching her.”

The guard opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, and grumbled before waving us through. I grabbed my items and gave the guard my best stink eye before following Mr. Granade down the hall. My heels were like gunshots on the linoleum, echoing off the whitewashed cinder-block walls.

Mr. Granade rolled his shoulders, as if trying to unknot his earlier tension, and strode ahead to a set of iron bars. Another guard waited there, a comically enormous set of keys attached to a loop at his hip.

“Washington Granade and Caroline Montreat here to see Rowan Ellis.”

The guard radioed back to the front desk and got the okay before swinging the bars inward. We passed through another set of bars before entering the visiting area. I expected a row of chairs and reinforced glass separating us from the client, with old-school telephones to talk into. Instead, we were led to a small room with a desk and four chairs.

“We’ll bring him out.” The guard closed and locked the door behind him, leaving Mr. Granade and me alone in the sparse room.

“Have a seat facing the door. Get set up. Did you bring a recorder?”

I dug in my bag. “Yes.”

“Don’t use it.”

I dropped it as soon as my fingers touched the device. “Why?”

“You’ll be more present if you have to go off memory, and I’m wary of digital files with possible confessions on them. You’re a lefty, so sit to my left.” He motioned to one of the metal chairs.

He’d noticed what hand I used? “Um, okay.”

I sank down where he’d instructed and got my legal pad ready for use. We didn’t have much other paperwork to go on. Just the press coverage from the killings and the grand jury indictment. We hadn’t met with the State to get their file yet. That would no doubt be a cornucopia of information—likely all condemning.

The Bayou Butcher had been killing for three years. His victims numbered at least seven, though there may have been more. The bodies were always dumped in remote bayou inlets. Hookers, mostly, who’d been tortured and disfigured before they were killed. Each was missing the pinky finger on her left hand. Trophies taken by the killer, no doubt.

A chill went through me at the thought of meeting the person capable of such evil.

Mr. Granade took the seat next to me, his leg touching mine beneath the steel table. “Don’t worry. This isn’t my first rodeo. You’re safe. Trust me.”

I let out a deep breath. Despite the bars, and the criminals, and the metal everything all around, I actually did feel safe with him at my side. His words with the guard certainly helped. If Mr. Granade wouldn’t let the guard touch me, then there was no chance an inmate would get anywhere close.

“So, um, I guess I should have asked earlier, but why is he in Angola instead of the county jail?” I began doodling and forced myself to stop.

“Good question, Ms. Montreat. I asked the same when I found out he’d already been shipped here. He’d been receiving more than a few threats at county, so the State wanted him somewhere safer. That was the story Matt gave me, anyway. I’m certain they just wanted to make it harder for us to get to him.”

“The State plays dirty.”

“You have no clue.” He wrote the date and time in a slanting, stark hand, at the top of his notepad. My bubble writing could not compare to his elegant lines.

“So that Matt guy is on this case, too?”

“Yep. The second he sees I’ve been chosen as defense counsel, he signs right up to prosecute.” He wrote our names on the right side of the page under the heading “Attending,” mine on top of his and Rowan’s at the bottom.

“Y’all got some sort of beef?”

He grimaced and stopped writing. “Something like that.”

“What hap—”

The door creaked open and a man in orange (it’s the new black) was led inside. I recognized him from his mug shot and multiple press photos. Tall and slender with a shaved head, his eyes were beady and shifted from Mr. Granade to me and back again. His hands were cuffed, with a length of chain extending from them down to the shackles on his ankles. He wasn’t winning any footraces anytime soon.

Mr. Granade and I stood.

“Mr. Ellis.” Confidence radiated from Mr. Granade. His charm switch was officially flipped.

“Hey.” He shuffled to his chair, the chains jingling far too jauntily for the situation.

“I’m Washington Granade, but you can call me Wash, and this is my associate, Caroline Montreat. Please, have a seat.”

I nodded at Rowan during my introduction. He focused on me as he dropped into his seat. The guard fastened Rowan’s chains to something under the table and yanked to make sure it was solid. Once satisfied, the guard left and shut the door behind him. We were alone with a suspected serial killer, one who kept looking at me with too-wide pupils. I began to regret wearing my cobalt blue sexy top for Mr. Granade. I shifted in my seat, surreptitiously moving my lapels closed and blocking the view.

Rowan still watched me, his gaze catching mine and holding it.

“Mr. Ellis, let’s get started.” Mr. Granade clicked his pen.

“I ain’t done nothing.” The accent had a slight Cajun tinge. Rowan finally switched his gaze over to Mr. Granade.

I took a breath and tried to calm my rapid-fire heartbeat. He definitely gave me the creeps, but that didn’t mean he was a killer.

“I understand. I do. But I’m going to need you to shoot straight with me. I need you to tell me everything. Every detail about how you wound up here. So start at the beginning.”

“My mama send you two here?”

“Your mother is paying for your defense, yes. But we work for you. You’re our client. We’ll do everything we can to get you out of this.”

“I shouldn’t be here. I don’t need your help. Well, maybe I need some of hers.” He leered at me, his two bottom teeth absent from roll call.

Mr. Granade slammed his fist down, the metallic clang jolting me. “Cut the trash, Rowan. You are a trial away from lethal injection. Seven women, seven bodies, seven death sentences. Either you cooperate and let us help you or we’ll refund the retainer and let you hang. No skin off my back either way.”

The guard peeked through the reinforced rectangle of glass in the door. Mr. Granade’s other hand rested on my knee and gave me a reassuring squeeze. His skin was warm, his palm slightly calloused. I shook my head at the guard. We got this.

“Dang, boy. You ain’t have to yell.” Rowan flinched back in his seat.

“I do when you threaten my associate. Treat her with respect or we walk.” Mr. Granade’s tone was harder than the steel beneath his fist.

Rowan shrugged, seemingly conceding defeat. “Whatever, man. Just get me out of this trash. I didn’t do nothing.”

Mr. Granade took his hand away from my knee, but I wanted it back. I forced my slightly shaking hands to stay on the table, ready to write, instead of grabbing his and squeezing. This was the big leagues. I needed to adjust my game accordingly.

“Let’s start with preschool. Give me your educational background, your life background. I want a full picture—parents, schools, friends, girlfriends, where you lived, who you lived with, your relationship with your parents, everything. I need to know you better than you know yourself by the time we’re done. You follow?”

Rowan nodded, his attention now fully on Mr. Granade.

We questioned him for hours. By “we” I mean Mr. Granade questioned him while I took copious notes. Rowan told a life story that wasn’t altogether unbelievable but had plenty of holes, especially during the prior three years when the murders occurred. His meth habit didn’t help on the memory front.

Rowan had a normal childhood, good family—wealthy, even—and a decent education. All the ingredients necessary to make a contributing member of society were present, but at some point, he went wrong. Hard drugs and hard living made him look a lot older than his thirty-five years.

More than that, he did a lot of reprehensible trash. His lengthy rap sheet was one of the reasons the cops got on his trail in the first place. A murder charge he’d ducked five years ago definitely didn’t help—another hooker, her body washing up along the banks of the Mississippi with Rowan as her last known john.

When we were finally finished and my notepad was almost completely full front to back, Mr. Granade called for the guard.

“You got any commissary money set up yet?” Mr. Granade asked.

“Nah, I don’t think so.”

“All right. I’ll get with your mom to get that taken care of. Here’s my card. They’ll let you keep it. I expect a call from you anytime you have any problems, issues, anything. Got it?”

“Yeah, man.”

“Don’t say anything important over the phones. They’re tapped. And I hope I don’t have to remind you not to talk to anyone about your case. Just Ms. Montreat or myself. Not even your mother. Got me?”

Rowan nodded and darted his gaze over to me. I tried to fight the feeling of bugs crawling around on the back of my neck.

“Sorry about that earlier, Ms. Montreat. I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

“Apology accepted.” I tried to smile at him. It may have turned out as a pained smirk.

He didn’t seem to notice and gave me a gap-toothed grin. The guard swept in, unchained Rowan, and escorted him out.

The second the door clicked shut, I asked the question I’d been dying to ask ever since Rowan started talking. “You think he did it?”

Mr. Granade turned his blue stunners on me. “What does that matter?”

“Doesn’t it matter? I . . . I just thought you’d know if, well, I don’t know . . .”

He watched patiently as I stumbled over my words and finally gave up.

“It’s our job to give him the best defense we possibly can, Ms. Montreat. His guilt or innocence isn’t for us to decide.”

“Okay.” I gathered up my things and stood before following him to the door. He rapped his knuckles on the metal, signaling the guard to let us out.

I stood on my tiptoes and whispered into his ear. “So you’re saying you think he’s guilty, right?”

He shook his head and shot a smoldering look over his shoulder. “What am I going to do with you, Ms. Montreat?”

Chapter Three

WASH

The ride back to New Orleans almost killed me. What was I thinking when I allowed her to work this case with me? The rod in my pants could answer that question easily. Wouldn’t even need two guesses.

Idiot. She shifted in her seat, her floral scent circulating around the cabin and making me desperate to get close to her. Too close. Instead of pulling over, yanking her out of the car, and shoving her into the backseat, I rattled off a list of legwork I needed her to do. Of course, the thought of legwork drew my eyes down to her supple thighs, displayed nicely in her short skirt. Thank goodness for my sunglasses or she’d know I’d been checking her out the entire time we’d been in the car.

I tamped down my thoughts as best I could. They were almost foreign to me. Had I found women attractive before? Sure. I’d even messed my fair share. But never an associate. I didn’t fish off the office dock.

We had a strict policy in our firm—do not date the associates, do not lust after the associates, and certainly do not harass the associates. I had been the leader in implementing the strict anti-fraternization rule after a few firms in town had their reputations irreparably tarnished by scandals involving too-young associates and too-gray partners. I reasoned any office relationships were a distraction and, as I did with all distractions, I forbade them. Any such fraternization would result in immediate dismissal—it was the rule, and I stuck by it.

But Caroline Montreat had somehow managed to make me break the rules I lived by from the very moment she walked into the office. It was completely out of character for my partner, Trent, to hire her. Trent Palmer had an even worse reputation than I did for being a hardass, and Caroline definitely didn’t fit our firm’s culture, to say the least.

I glanced over to her. She chewed her bottom lip and wrote down all my instructions in an unintelligible scrawl. I tried to stop looking at her body, but she didn’t make it easy. Then again, her curves would have been evident even if she’d been wearing a nun’s habit.

I put my eyes back on the road. I had to settle down and treat her just like I did all my other associates. I was an exacting boss, and I prided myself on encouraging excellence in all my younger counterparts. I couldn’t let her be an exception to that, especially since she already showed so much promise.

“Tomorrow morning we’re going to hit the ground running. Call over to the district attorney’s office and set a time in the afternoon for us to get their discovery. Document Rowan’s entire timeline and pin him down as best you can around the dates the bodies were found. And I want every scrap of information on this Tyler Graves character he mentioned. Phone numbers, addresses, relatives, everything. I have a feeling he’s going to be useful.”

Rowan had given us a storied past of all manner of depravity, but one thing stuck out more than all the rest. One of his acquaintances—Graves. Violent and with a penchant for hurting hookers. He could be a perfect scapegoat, the shadow of reasonable doubt I needed to get Rowan out of the death penalty.

Rowan. What a degenerate. I’d defended several just as bad, but not many who were worse. Caroline’s question flitted around my mind—was he guilty? I honestly didn’t know. His story was plausible, full of drugs and other crimes he’d committed along the road to an eventual early grave. But there were still plenty of nagging questions, ones I needed to clear up before we got anywhere near trial in three months.

Several things about him worried me, not the least of which was that he gave a statement to the police when he first got popped. Idiot. Of course, he couldn’t recall a word of what he said. Being high on meth while talking to the cops was a sure way to land in Angola for good.

“So the State will just give us their file? The whole thing?” Caroline chewed on her pen, her dark pink lipstick coloring the translucent top.

“That’s the law. Only things they can play keep-away with are their own notes and mental impressions. I don’t want those anyway.” I smirked. “You should know this. I realize you didn’t graduate with flying colors, but I thought you did well in criminal procedure.”

“I was just asking.” She turned toward me, her anger quick before she got it under control. “You said you had an issue with the prosecutor, so I didn’t know if it would be a problem.”

“Matt can pull some dirty tricks, but he tends to follow the rules on constitutional issues.”

“What sort of dirty tricks?” She twisted the pen around in her mouth, more lipstick on the top.

A mental flash of those lips wrapped around my cock had me shifting in my seat. I was out of control. I was able to hide it—barely. When the guard at Angola tried to feel her up, I almost boiled over. It wouldn’t have ended well for him.

“He’s just an unpleasant person. Let’s leave it at that.” Telling her about my history with Matt Turnbull was not an option. Some things were best left buried, even though Matt showed up with a shovel and proceeded to dig every chance he got. Chances like this case, like every high-profile case I worked.

“An unpleasant person? You mean he’s a toe?” She smiled. I got the feeling that, behind her sunglasses, her brown eyes were twinkling.

“Yes. Just so. Thanks for clearing that up, Ms. Montreat.”

She ignored my sarcasm. “Well, we’re going to eat his lunch in this case, so maybe he’ll be nicer next time.”

“Pretty cocky for your first time out, aren’t you?”

“Cocky?” She quirked an eyebrow, her mouth an enticing pink pout.

We were close enough to New Orleans to get NPR again, so I turned the radio up and let her question die in a story about the lost art of muslin embroidery. She settled back into her seat, but not without a little smile.

She was playing a game with me. It was ballsy and, I admit, unexpected. I enjoyed watching her move her pieces all around the board.

She didn’t realize I was the most competitive person in the car.

Chapter Four

CAROLINE

“He clocked the handsy guard?” Terrell sipped his white wine.

“No.” I leaned back in my ratty comfy chair and tucked my feet up under me. “Where did you even get that?”

“Oh, I was just making your story more entertaining, is all.” He took another sip and started flipping through the channels.

This was our nightly ritual: debriefing and jerk session. We’d been roommates in law school and didn’t see any reason to change it, especially since we’d lucked out and were working at the same firm—even though Terrell went to Tulane, whereas I went to a city school with a less than stellar reputation. I was pleased, even if Terrell’s parents weren’t.

The New Orleans Lynches were a formidable clan, full of some of the city’s foremost doctors and lawyers. They were dissatisfied that their firstborn had thrown his lot in with an “opportunistic climber” like myself. I smirked at the memory of Terrell relaying that little bit of intel. Of course, that was back before Terrell had come out, so they just assumed I was after his trust fund.

Sometimes, I was glad I hadn’t come from money. Then again, I looked around our apartment—far nicer than what we should have been able to afford as fresh-out-of-school lawyers—and was happy Terrell and his trust fund assisted me in living far beyond my means. Cheers.

I took a gulp of wine. “Mr. Granade was plenty entertaining. Trust me. He was just so, so—”

“Alpha?”

“Yes!” I laid my head back and stared at the swirling ceiling fan. “Like, he was the usual him but turned up even more, you know?”

“Sounds fascinating.” He kept flipping channels until he landed on a show about some woman addicted to eating soap. “Disgusting. We have to watch it. What about the serial killer? Did he tell you to rub the lotion on your skin or else you’d get the hose again?”

I snickered into my glass. “No, but I have no doubt he would, given the chance. He’s a burnout meth-head who likes hitting hookers more than drawing breath.”

“Guilty, huh?”

“I don’t know. Mr. Granade didn’t say, and I couldn’t tell. He’s definitely a bad man, but I don’t know if he’s the Bayou Butcher.” I remembered the way Mr. Granade had touched my knee under the table to reassure me. I sighed.

Terrell rolled his eyes and turned up the volume on the TV. “Well, did Mr. Granade say if he likes cock? Mine in particular?”

I spit my wine all over my pajama pants.

“Hey, don’t waste it! This is some of the good stuff from Lynch Lane.” Terrell jumped up and grabbed a paper towel from our kitchen. “Here, clean yourself up. Raised in a barn, I swear.”

I snorted as he laughed and plopped back down on the couch.

I dabbed up the spilled wine and thought for a moment about wringing the paper towel into my mouth. “I’m pretty sure he’s all about P in the V.”

Terrell snorted. “Yeah, yeah, they all say that until they’re screaming my name, and then I don’t return their calls the next day.”

“You really think you could bed any man, don’t you?”

“I don’t think it. I know it.” He waved the remote at the TV. “Now, look here at this jerk. She just ate a whole bar of Ivory and now she’s going for some Irish Spring. What kind of redneck soap is this? You’d think the producers would at least spring for some Burt’s Bees or Rodan and Fields.”

“I guess she’s a woman who appreciates the simpler things in life, Terrell. Hey, speaking of jerks, did Yvonne talk trash about me while I was on my field trip today?”

“Does a pig have a curly tail?”

“The one in Charlotte’s Web did, so yes?”

“Yes. She went all over talking about how you cheated on Mr. Granade’s criminal procedure question.”

“How could I cheat on an off-the-cuff question like that?”

Terrell shrugged. “I don’t know. She just said that a dumb hick like you could never have gotten it right unless you cheated.”

I set my glass down and moved over to plop next to Terrell. “Did you defend my honor?”

He smiled into his wineglass. “No, I agreed that peasants like you are all cheaters.”

That was it. I dug into his ribs, his white T-shirt no match for my little sausage fingers, as he called them. He yelled and almost dropped his wine before scooting away to the end of the couch and fending me off easily with his free hand. Terrell was six-four and two hundred pounds of muscle. Sneak attacks were my only chance.

“Dang it, Caroline, I almost spilled my wine.” He laughed but kept his hand up. I thought about jumping at him and grabbing onto his curls, but he really would have been pissed about that. No one touched the hair—ever. “And yes, of course I told her to shut her twat-face.”

I sat back, slightly appeased. “Good.”

“Now shut up and let’s watch this chick get her insides Zestfully clean.”

I kicked at Terrell’s pajama-clad legs and settled down. We spent the rest of the night unwinding with trash TV. Even as Terrell gave running soap commentary, my thoughts strayed back to Mr. Granade—his fingertips along my lower back, his hand on my leg, his eyes on me.

I had to excuse myself and head to bed a little early.

“Sure, you’re tired, right?” Terrell smirked.

“Yep. See you in the morning.” I put my glass in the sink and headed down the hall to my bedroom.

“I can hear your vibrator, you know,” he called to my retreating back.

“I know. Rub one out to it if you just have to. I won’t judge.”

“I certainly will not, but I do suspect we’ll be fantasizing about the same person. Oh, Mr. Granade, you want me to stay late? I like your tie. Is it Valentino? I have the same one in navy. You want me to bend over your desk and pi—”

I shut my door and drowned out whatever fantasy Terrell was having. I had one of my own to play out that involved the same desk and a much more creative use of Mr. Granade’s tie.

“Class clown, you ready to head over to the district attorney’s office?” Mr. Granade leaned into my cramped, windowless office. His navy suit was cut perfectly to accentuate his broad shoulders. Terrell would be impressed. So was I.

“Um, yes. I didn’t realize it was so late.” I checked the time on my laptop. We had fifteen minutes to get to our appointment.

He leaned against my doorframe as I gathered my legal pad and a pen. “Usually the associate reminds the partner about appointments, not the other way around, Ms. Montreat.”

His gaze was stern and his tone cold. So, in response, I bent over from the waist to grab my purse off the floor behind my desk.

When I stood straight again, he was looking down the hall and running a hand through his hair. I smiled. He’d looked at my rear, all right.

“Sorry, Mr. Granade. It won’t happen again.”

“It better not.” He stalked away, and I hurried to keep up. My stride was far shorter and my heels far higher.

We passed Terrell’s even smaller office, but I only had time to give him a quick wave before I followed Mr. Granade onto the elevator. The doors closed, and he moved away so we were standing in opposite corners. He was careful not to catch my eye in our reflection, so I took the opportunity to study his features yet again—the hair tickling the tips of his ears, the smooth jaw, the strong chin. What would his hands feel like on my waist? Or higher? Or lower?

My thoughts warmed my skin, and a flush crept into my cheeks. The elevator stopped, and he waited for me to exit ahead of him. I did, swaying my hips as I walked to his car. Once again, he walked toward the passenger door as if he were going to open it for me before he thought better of it and went to the driver’s side. Clearly, he’d been raised right, but he was squashing his gentlemanly instincts where I was concerned.

He drove out of the deck and took us down Perdido Street to the government buildings.

“Remember how I told you to be at the client interview? Seen and not heard?”

I glanced to him, but his sunglasses hid his eyes again. “Yes.”

“Do that again times two when we’re in their office. Got it?”

I gripped my legal pad. “Sure. But if I’m not supposed to, you know, do any lawyering, why did you even bring me?”

“Would you prefer if I left you at the office and chose another associate to work on this case?”

“No, I was just—”

“You were just complaining about the immeasurable experience you are about to gain, experience that none of the other associates have. But by all means, keep complaining, Ms. Montreat. See where it gets you.”

The threat of being taken off the case was enough to shut me up. Still, I grumbled a whole heck of a lot on the inside.

The silence held as he snagged a parallel spot on the street in front of the justice center and deftly parked the car.

“See, Ms. Montreat? I knew you could do it.” He smirked, the dimple almost breaking through. “All you needed was a little guidance.”

I got out and slammed the ever-loving garbage out of his car door. He winced but didn’t comment as I moved around the front of his car toward the justice center entrance. He walked at my elbow and opened the door for me. We skipped the metal detector line and went straight to the prosecutor’s office.

“Hi, Carla.” Mr. Granade smiled at the receptionist.

The pretty brunette batted her lashes at him. “I was wondering when you were going to show up, handsome. Glad to see you again. And who’s this?”

“Just my associate.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little tin of candies that he handed to her. “Where’s Matt?”

Just my associate? I didn’t even have a name? And he gave gifts?

“Oh, you know I love these.” She took a taffy from the tin and popped it into her too-wide-open mouth, her eyes on Mr. Granade the whole time. I felt like I was trapped in a Willy Wonka porn, but I was just an Oompa Loompa cameraman.

Mr. Granade smiled down at her, though there were no dimples.

She swallowed (of course she did) and said, “Go ahead into Conference One over there. I’ll call Matt to come on up here for your meeting. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Maybe some tea?”

I saw my chance and took it. “I’d love some sweet tea—”

Mr. Granade gripped my wrist behind the reception desk. “No. We’re good. Thanks, Carla. You’re one in a million.”

She picked up her receiver and began to dial.

Mr. Granade squeezed my wrist and let it go before turning and gesturing to the nearest conference room. “After you, Ms. Montreat.” His mouth was a thin line of disapproval.

As soon as the door closed behind us he said, “Didn’t I mention that you were not to speak the entire time we’re here?”

“I was just being polite.” I stared at his nose—brave enough to look him in the face, just not in the eye.

“No, you weren’t.” He lowered his voice. “Carla is an extremely helpful ally. Get your head in the game or I’ll find an associate who will. Now take a seat and don’t say another word.”

Jerk. I met his eyes then, and shot mental daggers into them, before walking around the table and sitting. He smoothed his tie, though it was still as pressed and perfect as it had been when I’d first seen him this morning. He didn’t sit, just leaned against the wall and looked at his watch.

The silence stretched out between us as we waited, and waited, and then waited some more. I wanted to play on my phone or start a conversation, but I’d be darned if I was going to crack and say another word to him. And I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of getting on me for playing Candy Crush instead of remaining stone-faced like him.

It took a full forty-five minutes before the door opened and Matt walked in. He had a disc and a manila folder under one arm.

“Sorry to run late, Wash. Just had trouble getting this CD made, is all.” He dropped the items on the table and winked at me. His sandy blond hair was cropped short, and he had brown eyes a couple of shades lighter than my own. A handsome man, though nothing even close to Mr. Granade in the looks department.

“Funny how every time I come here like this, you’re late.” Mr. Granade still leaned against the wall, but he was no longer relaxed.

“You mad?” Matt grinned.

“No. Worse.” Mr. Granade stood straight and squared his shoulders. He had more than a few inches on Matt. “I’m inconvenienced. Some of us have to actually work for our clients, not twiddle our thumbs at our desks on the State’s dime.”

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time one of your dirtbag clients makes a mess I have to clean up on the State’s dime.”

I’m sure my gaze went back and forth as if they were playing a tennis match. I wanted Mr. Granade to win, but it would be more than a little interesting if the two of them got into a tussle, on the floor . . . over me.

“You lose your manners on the trip over here, Wash?” Matt turned to me and offered his hand. “Who’s this?”

I shook his hand and returned his stare.

“That’s my associate.”

“I gathered that.” Matt pulled out the chair across from me and sat. “What’s your name?”

“Caroline Montreat.” I could feel Mr. Granade’s gaze lasering into the side of my head.

“I’m Matt Turnbull. Nice to meet you. When did you graduate law school? You look mighty young.”

“Last year.”

He slid his gaze down my body, lingering at the neckline of my red blouse beneath my suit jacket. “Young. I like it.”

“Matt, that’s enough.” Mr. Granade loomed over him.

“I was just making her acquaintance, is all. Same way you made Fawn’s.” Matt leaned back and smiled like the cat who got the canary.

“How is your wife, by the way, Matt?”

“She’s fine.” He drummed his fingers on the table, his eyes still on me. “Still mine. Thanks for asking.”

What had I just walked into? Matt’s gaze slid south again, and I fidgeted in my chair.

Mr. Granade picked up the manila file folder and the CD. “This everything?”

“Everything I’m required to give you, yes it is.”

“I have your word?”

“That’s all I got except for the stuff locked away at the sheriff’s office. You can go fetch that yourself, can’t you? How about you just walk the block over there and I’ll keep Caroline company while you’re gone. Show her how a real lawyer does business.” He smiled. I wanted to wipe the look right off his face with the bottom of my shoe.

Mr. Granade came around the table and offered me his hand. “Come on, Ms. Montreat. Time to go.”

I took it and rose, feeling more awkward than anything else.

“Sure you don’t want to stay here, Caroline?”

I knew I wasn’t supposed to talk. I knew it. I did it anyway. “And learn how to creep on younger associates? No thanks. I can get that lesson better elsewhere.”

Matt whistled. “You got a hot one there, Wash. Better watch out.”

“Keep running your mouth like you always do. Doesn’t make any difference to me. I’m still going to wipe the floor with you like I always do.” Mr. Granade opened the door for me, and I gave an acid look to Matt as I walked out.

“Not this time, Wash. Your guy is as dirty as they come, and I’m going to make sure he gets the death penalty.”

“Sure, Matt. Sure. Say hi to Fawn for me, would you?”

“Don’t even say her name, Wash.” Matt followed us into the hall.

Carla looked at us over the ledge of the reception desk, her eyebrows raised almost to her hairline.

“I don’t even have to say hers. I’m sure she says mine every night.” Mr. Granade pushed the door open for me, Matt hot on our heels.

“Don’t you talk about my wife!” His yell reverberated around the reception area.

“Have a nice day, Matt. Thanks for the docs.” Mr. Granade kept his hand at my back as I tried to walk as quickly as possible to the car.

My heart was galloping out ahead of me, both worried and excited that I was going to see a throwdown, all the while pretending they were fighting over me instead of “Fawn.”

“This ain’t over, Wash.” Matt didn’t give chase any further, but his voice carried on the crisp fall air.

Mr. Granade’s hand left my back for a moment and then returned. Something told me he’d just flipped Matt off.

“What the heck was all that about?” I slid into the leather seat and wiped my sweaty palms on my skirt.

Mr. Granade tossed the evidence into the backseat and pulled away from the curb. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

“Is that so? Seems like I do need to worry about it. I thought he was going to clock you there for a second.”

Mr. Granade’s lip twitched and then stretched into a smile. “Even on that jerk’s best day, he could never clock me.”

“Cocky much?”

He shrugged. “Just stating a fact.”

“Who’s Fawn?”

“Matt’s wife.”

I groaned. “You do realize I graduated from law school, right? That I did well enough on the LSAT to get into law school? That I, oh, I don’t know, graduated high school, and even middle school? So, while I appreciate you stating the obvious for me like that, what I was asking was who is Fawn to you.”

“And therein lies the lesson. Ask what you mean to ask. Tailor your questions precisely and you may just get the information you’re after.” He pulled up to the sheriff’s office and jumped out of the car before I even had a chance to continue my short-lived interrogation.

I followed him, but he managed to stay a few steps ahead of me this time, his hair gleaming in the afternoon sun. I wanted to reach up and yank on it to get him to talk to me, or at least let me talk. He wisely stayed out of range. Besides, even I knew that pulling your boss’s hair in broad daylight in front of the sheriff’s office might not be the best career choice.

We signed in and were led to another stark conference room—everything metal and dingy. The evidence clerk brought in two storage containers marked with bright yellow tape and indecipherable codes in Sharpie.

“This it?”

“Aside from the bodies at the morgue, yeah.” The deputy seemed none too pleased about helping us.

Mr. Granade dug some gloves from his suit. It should have creeped me out that he’d been wandering around all day with rubber gloves in his pocket, but I was just impressed that he came prepared.

He handed me a set. “All of it’s been processed and dusted for prints, but there’s no telling what’s in here, and it’s probably stuff you don’t want to get on your hands.”

“Noted.” I snapped the gloves into place as the deputy shut the door and took up his post down the hall.

A camera in the corner kept an eye on us as we got to work. He cut the tape sealing the first bin and flipped the lid off. A manifest lay on top of the items, each piece of evidence neatly logged in a precise hand.

“We’ll get a copy of their log, but go ahead and catalog everything I pull out. We never rely on anyone else’s work but our own.” He reached for the item on the top of the pile. It was a pale blue scarf that reeked of cheap perfume. A deep brown stain colored one end.

I scribbled down the description.

“We should have the tox and blood results on the docs Matt gave us. Once we get back to the office, give it all a once-over and match up the items with the test results. Then we’ll know which victim goes with what. Got it?”

“Yes.”

He placed the scarf on the table and dug out the next item. A white T-shirt covered with even more brown stains.

“What’s that?”

He checked the manifest. “Looks like a shirt that was found stuffed behind a chest of drawers at Rowan’s apartment.”

I shuddered. There was too much blood on the shirt for it to have come from a shaving mishap.

“Let’s keep going.”

We spent the better part of two hours looking at the items that told a story of a life lived poorly and violently. Knives, needles, a variety of drugs, snuff porn—if it was disgusting or creepy, Rowan had it. Two pieces of evidence were particularly troubling: a gun and a notebook full of twisted writings.

Rowan was something of an author, but as I flipped through the composition notebook, it became clear that his darkest fantasies were written on the pages. Rape, murder, dismemberment—all written in slashing blue ink. It read like the Bayou Butcher Manifesto. No wonder he’d been popped as soon as the cops got a line on him.

Other pieces of evidence weren’t quite as obvious. A scribbled note with the name and number of a boardinghouse. A photo of Rowan with another man, Rowan’s arm slung casually over the much shorter man’s shoulders. It was old, taken back when Rowan’s teeth weren’t rotted out from the meth pipe.

Once we’d cataloged all of it and gotten a copy of the police manifest, it was nearing five o’clock. We headed back to the office as the sun played a game of hide-and-seek behind the downtown skyscrapers.

“Start a database with all the evidence we’ve seen so far. I want a memo tomorrow detailing what’s in Matt’s file. List each item as a bullet point, with a note below concerning its significance.” He turned into the parking deck of our building.

“Tomorrow?”

“Hearing problems, Ms. Montreat?”

“No, that’s just”—I stole a glance at the sheaf of papers and the CD that could contain thousands more documents—“soon, is all.”

“If you can’t keep up, I’m sure Ms. Evans would be more than happy to help me.”

“Really? Yvonne couldn’t lawyer her way out of a paper bag.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

“And you can?” He gave me a sidelong glance as we pulled into his parking spot.

“Yes.”

“We’ll see. Have it on my desk by noon.” He didn’t move, just waited for me to get out.

“Calling it an early night, Mr. Granade?” I twisted and reached between our seats to gather the documents.

Mr. Granade shifted in his seat at my intentional invasion of his personal space. Good.

“I have a prior appointment, which is why I’m trusting you to get this done for me.”

I turned back around in my seat and opened the door. “I will. By noon.”

“Good. After we get our feet under us with the documents, we’ll start doing some real investigation.”

I got out and was about to close the door when Mr. Granade spoke.

“And don’t forget to schedule a visit to the morgue within the next few days. I want to see the bodies. Photos are good, but we need to take our expert, Dr. Snider, over for a look. Coordinate the trip.”

My blood chilled at the thought of dead bodies. I bent over and met his eye. “Do we have to go?”

“Do you want to be a defense attorney?” His tone was mocking, though he did genuinely quirk an eyebrow.

I had never seen a body before, especially not one that had been carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey, if the news reports were true. I fought my fear and tried to nod. Nothing happened. I swallowed hard.

His gaze flickered down to my throat but no lower before he caught my eyes again. “Well?”

I clutched the documents to my chest and let out a resigned sigh. “Yes.”

“Then, yes, we have to go. Good night, Ms. Montreat.”

“’Night.” I straightened up and closed the car door. I expected him to back out and leave, but he waited until I’d made it to the elevator bank, and even until the doors were closing and blocking me from view, before he put his car in reverse.

Terrell was waiting for the elevator when I arrived on the third floor.

“You’re going the wrong way. Turn around for home and wine.”

“Can’t.” I held up the folder of documents. “Have to go through some evidence and make a log for Mr. Granade.”

“We already back to Mr. Granade’s log again?” He grinned.

I rolled my eyes and walked past him. “Don’t wait up. I’m going to be here for a while.”

Yvonne came around the corner, her hooker heels clacking. “Finally decided to do some work today, Caroline?”

I was not in the mood for her trash. “The only thing you know about working is how to shimmy your skinny rear up under a desk and work a toe like you’re a bobblehead doll.”

Terrell snorted and covered his mouth with his hand.

Yvonne narrowed her eyes. “You—”

“Ladies.” Mr. Palmer walked past the reception desk, the expression on his face akin to sucking on a lemon . . . a rotten one. “Let’s at least try to live up to the decorum required in our profession, shall we?”

Harass. Whereas Mr. Granade was the fabled hardass, Mr. Palmer was a stone-cold operator. Nothing got by him. He was in his fifties, single, rich from his own hard work, and conscientious to a fault. I was still surprised he’d hired me to work for him, though I suspected Terrell had something to do with it.

The Lynches and the Palmers were once slave families to one of the most powerful families in New Orleans. It was some sort of poetic justice that the slaves’ descendants were at the top of the food chain whereas the former masters’ families were scattered and no more high class than I was.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Palmer.” Yvonne jumped ahead of me in the brown-noser line.

“I don’t want apologies, Ms. Evans, just better behavior.”

His gaze rested on the documents in my arms. “Long night, Ms. Montreat? I heard Wash chose you to work on the Ellis case.”

“Yes. Just got the evidence from the State.” I wanted to apologize, but it didn’t seem to have worked out too well for Yvonne, so I held off.

Mr. Palmer dismissed me by turning his gaze to Terrell. “Care to go for an early dinner? Your father’s meeting me at the club.”

I grinned at Terrell over Mr. Palmer’s shoulder. Terrell hated the “stuffy rich folks torture chamber,” as he called it. But he wasn’t getting out of it this time, not when Mr. Palmer was asking point blank.

“Sure, sounds great.” He forced a smile as I tiptoed backward like a cartoon character.

It was gratifying that Yvonne was left standing to the side, not invited and with nothing to do other than give me a scathing look as I turned and walked down the hall to my office.

My smile faded as I realized the long night of work I had ahead of me. I kicked my shoes into my office and went to the copy room to scan everything into the firm’s document-management software. It was relatively painless, taking only a few minutes before I could sit down at my desk and begin sifting. I called in an order to the Indian place a few blocks over and settled in for the evening.

The police reports seemed like the best place to start. Seven bodies over three years. I began working up an outline, filling in details of the murders. The similar injuries, the checkered pasts of the victims, the even more checkered past of Rowan Ellis. I saved the pictures for last. I figured if I could get through everything else, I would have steeled myself for the gore.

It was almost midnight by the time I’d read through the last document and gotten to the photo evidence. The office was eerily quiet. The hum of the air-conditioning and the whir of my computer’s fan were the only things to break the silence.

I skimmed down to the JPEG files and clicked on the first one. I flinched, expecting some horribly gory scene. Instead, it was just a peaceful waterway, cypress trees and vines in the background. It wasn’t so bad. You can do this.

I clicked to the next one. More water, more trees. No big deal. The next was a closer shot of a white tree trunk rising out of the water a bit. I clicked through a few more, each one focusing more on the tree trunk. Then I put my hand to my mouth. It wasn’t a tree trunk. It was a body. Its skin was ghastly white, as if it’d been bleached by the sun. She was nude, her flesh wrinkled and ruined from the water. Her mouth was open, as if frozen in a perpetual scream. I had thought it was a dark knot on the tree.

My gorge rose, and I stood, trying to escape the image that was already seared into the backs of my eyelids. I leaned against my desk, my back to the monitor as I tried to shake the horror away. I had to pull myself together. This was probably nothing compared to what the morgue would be like. But her face, the terror that was visible even through the decay . . . Breathe, I told myself, my hand at my throat. Just breathe.

“Ms. Montr—?”

I jumped and screamed.

“Whoa, whoa.” Mr. Granade had been standing in my doorway and hurried over to me. “You okay?”

I nodded and examined the floor, still horrified yet simultaneously embarrassed that I’d screamed like a banshee. He stood in front of me and looked to my right, at the screen. I was shaking, and my knees felt like they might go if not for the desk behind me.

“Oh, hell. This is not something you should be looking at all alone up here this late at night.” He sighed and put his hands on my upper arms. “Ms. Montreat, look at me. It’s okay.”

I lifted my eyes to his. He reached over and hit a key that made my screen go back to my desktop. A photo of Terrell and me at a particularly booze-filled pub crawl filled the screen, both of us smiling goofily and raising our glasses. Why did I think that was a good desktop background? I shook my head.

The corners of his mouth quirked a bit as he put his hand back on my arm. “You’re shaking.” He ran a hand through his hair, his dark blue eyes searching mine.

Her face flashed across my mind, and I fought the tears away. His eyes on me, his scent, his five o’clock shadow—all of it was comforting, which made the tears an even greater possibility. Funny how when you have someone to cry on, the tears are more willing to a show up and make a scene.

“Incredible. Come here.” His words were gruff, but he pulled me into his arms with a gentleness that shocked me more than if he’d hit me.

I rested my cheek against his chest, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath his dress shirt. His tie was gone, and his top buttons were open. I stood there in his arms, letting him hold me as tears rolled down my face. I didn’t sob, no dramatics. I just cried silent tears for the woman in the photo.

Mr. Granade rubbed a hand down my back as my breath hitched.

“It’s okay. I know, Caroline. It’s okay.” He spoke into my hair since, without my shoes, I was a foot shorter than him.

“It’s just so horrible, is all.” As if that explained me turning into a blubbering mess.

“I know. I shouldn’t have let you look through those without me here. It’s late. You’re tired. I just didn’t think. That was my mistake.” The low rumble of his voice against my ear was soothing, just like his hand at my back.

I would definitely give myself a stern talking-to later about my crybaby antics. But for now, I just wanted to stay in his arms. After a few more moments, I got myself under control and wiped my eyes. He stepped back, though he kept his hands on my arms.

“Better?”

“Yes, better.” Thank goodness for waterproof mascara or I would have ruined his shirt. “Thank you.”

I looked at him and resolved to suck it up. I put my shoulders back just a little and lifted my chin. My simple movements caused something to change as he watched me, his lids lowering the slightest bit. The air was different, charged somehow. The concern in his face shifted until his wolfish gaze was back. My breath caught in my throat, but not because of fear. It was pure desire that roared to life inside me, heating my skin. I bit my bottom lip. His gaze followed the movement and then his mouth was on mine.

I closed my eyes, unable to process what was happening. His hands were at my back clutching me to him as his lips owned mine. I moaned into his mouth and raised on my tiptoes to get even closer. He tasted like whisky and mint. He tilted his head to the side and slanted over me, his tongue licking me and seeking entrance. I gave it to him, opening and letting him plunder my mouth, my tongue stroking his.

My breath left my body and everything in me was focused on the connection between us. My nerve endings were exploding, chill bumps radiating down my arms. He pulled me closer and lifted me so I was sitting on the desk. I wrapped my arms around him as he fisted my hair and pulled my head back. He wedged his hips between my legs, my skirt stretching to its limit as I spread for him. He was possessing me, his body mastering mine. I’d wanted this, wanted him, but it was only then I realized it was more than just a want. I was starved for him.

He ran his hand down my back to my rear and pulled me toward him. My skirt rode up my thighs as my legs opened wider. I was perched on the edge of the desk, his hard length pushing up against my sweet spot as he groaned. I was already so hot, so wet for him that I was certain he could feel it through his slacks.

He gripped my hair tighter and moved down to my neck, his five o’clock shadow sending chills through me as he fastened his lips to my throat. I couldn’t stop the hooker moan that rose from me. All I could think of was him, his lips, his cock between my legs. There was nothing else. . . until he palmed my breast through my blouse.

My hips bucked against him as he squeezed me hard, almost to the point of pain, before easing off and brushing his thumb over my stiff nipple.

“Idiot,” he said against my neck and ground his cock into me.

The pressure on my clit sent little explosions of pleasure detonating through me. He moved down to my breasts and yanked my hair harder, forcing me to arch into him. He fastened on my nipple through my shirt, sucking the hard bud into his mouth as he squeezed my rear with his other hand.

When he clenched my nipple between his teeth, I gripped the edge of my desk so hard I thought I might crack a nail. I wouldn’t have cared. I was at his mercy, and there was nowhere else I wanted to be.

“I have to stop.” His voice was a rasp, sex in every note. Instead of following through with his words, he ran a hand up my thigh, pushing my skirt up onto my hips.

“Goodness. You aren’t wearing panties.”

When his thumb grazed over my bare flesh, I squirmed and let out a desperate sound on a pant. He released my hair and sank to his knees.

“You aren’t wearing panties.” Disbelief and lust mixed as he repeated himself. I could feel his breath on me, warming my already-hot flesh.

“Please.” It was the only word I could muster. I was desperate for his mouth on me.

“Please, Caroline?” He hesitated, his warm exhale making me desperate for his touch. “I should stop. I should.”

“Please.” I curled my fingers, my nails digging into the papers on top of the desk.

“I couldn’t stop even if I tried.” He ran his tongue up my slit, and my hips nearly jolted off the desk. He smiled up at me, his devilish dimples on full display. “You taste just as good as I imagined.”

“Oh my goodness.” I dropped my head back and braced myself with my hands behind me on the desk.

“Look at me, Caroline. I want you to look at me the entire time I’m eating your sweet pussy. Understand?”

I could have come just from his words, the tenor of his voice, the deep blue of his eyes as I returned his gaze. He ducked his head down, though he kept his eyes on me, and open-mouth-kissed my clit. I moaned as he put his palms against my thighs and pushed them wider. His tongue was wicked, licking and swirling around my clit to the point my hips were rocking against him, his face.

He groaned into my skin, and I thought I was going to come from the vibration. But he backed away. I wanted to drag his head back to me. He smoothed one hand up my inner thigh, and then I felt the pressure of his fingers.

“Mr. Granade,” I gasped as he finger-messed me.

Then he went back to work with his tongue, and I was awash in a sea of pleasure. He sucked my clit and moved his fingers in and out at a unpleasant pace. My hips acted of their own accord, pushing his fingers deeper with each stroke as he fastened his mouth to my sensitive spot.

My hips began to seize and my pussy clenched. I moaned to the ceiling as I came, my walls compressing around his fingers as a hard, thumping orgasm claimed all my senses. I was nothing but nerve endings, centered around what his mouth and fingers were doing.

I came back down, and he gave me a few more licks before pulling his fingers from me and standing.

“Open.” His eyes were alight as he brought his fingers to my mouth.

I did as he said and opened my mouth for him, licking and sucking my own taste from his fingers until they were clean.

He closed his eyes for a second, as if overcome, and then yanked my skirt back down my thighs.

“I trust you realize this never happened, Ms. Montreat.” He stepped back, giving me an excellent view of his substantial, rock-hard cock. My mouth watered.

“Never happened. That’s right.” I nodded in agreement, but inside I was panicking. Would he try to fire me for this? Would he want me off the case?

“When I say it never happened, I mean it, Ms. Montreat. Everything will be back to normal tomorrow, and this will never happen again.”

“Yes.” But what if I want it to happen again?

His mussed hair made it seem as if he’d just ridden me like a rented mule when, in fact, he’d been generous and given me the best orgasm of my life. “I’ll walk you out. It’s late.”

I would have protested that I could take care of myself, but the memory of the woman in the water crept back into my mind, and I grabbed my bag.

We rode the elevator in silence, each in our own corner despite what we’d just shared. He walked me to my car and reached to open the door for me, but stopped. Again. “Good night, Ms. Montreat. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Okay. ’Night.” I got into my car and cranked it up. He followed me out of the deck, but we turned opposite ways once on the street.

My thoughts were a tornado of shock and post-orgasm endorphins. What was he thinking? I knew what I was thinking. I’d finally gotten a taste of what I wanted. But Mr. Granade? I smirked. He was probably panicking his hardass off. Fine by me.

I couldn’t wait to test his theory of “this will never happen again.” Game on.

Chapter Five

WASHINGTON

The water rushed over me, and I leaned my forehead against the cool shower tile. What had I been thinking? I hadn’t, and that was the problem. I’d just mouth-messed an associate, and in the office, no less.

I’d returned home in a blur the night before, Caroline’s taste still on my lips as I stroked myself off. I’d closed my eyes and felt her blond locks in my hands, her pussy squeezing me tight, and I came in moments. A hard orgasm that had me panting and bracing myself against my sink.

My cock had hardened again at just the thought of her, the memory of her bare pussy, her shuddering breaths, her strangled cries as she came. Idiot. I bounced my head against the tile and tried to will my erection away. It didn’t work. I couldn’t go to work like this. I had to be with her all day, going over evidence and planning our next steps.

I gripped myself and gave a few hard pumps, my eyes closed, her big brown eyes staring up at me as her pink lips took every inch. I was already at the edge, but then her soft whimpers played in my mind and I was lost, my seed spurting out in hot jets and flowing down the drain right along with my self-control.

I soaped up and finished my shower, trying to refocus my energies on the case instead of thinking about how much more fulfilled my cock would be if it really had been buried deep in Caroline’s mouth. I batted those thoughts away and shaved, cutting myself far more than usual as my thoughts wandered.

She would be well within her rights to complain to human resources about me, though I knew she wouldn’t.

I had messed up royally. I just needed to make sure it didn’t happen again.

The entire way to work I reiterated to myself that she was an associate—off-limits. I parked in the deck and gave myself a hard stare in the rearview mirror. Get it together, Wash. At least it was Friday, so I could take a breather over the weekend and get my head on straight.

I rode the elevator alone and got the first cup of coffee as the office slowly woke up for the day. Caroline’s office was thankfully dark, but just looking at her desk made my cock twitch back to life. I hurried down the hall, coffee sloshing over the side of my Palmer & Granade cup.

Shirley wasn’t in yet, so I closed the door to my office and began going through the e-mails that piled up to be an insurmountable task. Trial settings, arraignments, conflict checks, new clients—it was a never-ending cascade of information. At least it took my mind off Caroline, off the previous night.

I worked until what was left of my coffee was long since cold. It was already eleven, and I hadn’t accomplished much more than dictating a few letters, drafting a quick evidentiary pleading, and cleaning out my in-box. I was about to get a coffee refill when there was a knock on my door.

“Come in.”

Caroline eased inside, her brown eyes meeting mine with easy confidence. She wore an emerald green dress with a belt below her breasts, accentuating them perfectly. She had to be doing this to me on purpose, had to be. But my toe didn’t care one way or another; it was just happy to see her.

I kept my seat and waved her inside. She went to close the door.

“No. Leave it open.” I didn’t trust myself to be alone with her in a closed room, especially not when her dress was so short and she wore the most amazing high-heeled boots. Definitely not going to be able to get up for a while.

“I have the evidence memo you wanted.” She handed me a stapled packet of about twenty pages, each item neatly identified and tagged just as I’d asked. She was acting like she usually did, nothing in her demeanor changed despite what we’d done the night before.

“You looked at the pictures?” I asked as she sat, her skirt riding higher up her smooth thighs.

She looked down to her hands and then back up at me. “Yes. I had some help. Terrell and I went through them together.”

“Terrell?” I put my elbows on my desk. “You two are friends, right?”

Did I just sound like a jealous teenager? Yes, yes I did.

She smiled, her dark pink lips opening to show me her even, white teeth. “Yes, we live together.”

Incredible, she was living with someone? “Oh, I had no idea.” I sat back, my chest suddenly constricted, as if my shirt were too tight.

Her smile widened. She was gorgeous, the sun lighting her blond waves and kissing her skin. Of course she was with someone.

“Not like that, Mr. Granade. We’re just friends. Terrell is allergic to vaginas.”

I almost choked on my own spit. “Allergic to—”

“We’ve been roommates since law school.” She crossed her legs at the knee.

Gay, her roommate was gay. I was far too happy about that simple fact. I looked down at the paperwork she’d handed me so as to avoid getting myself in any deeper. She was like some sort of gravitational force that I needed to fight, even if it killed me.

I skimmed the first few pages, flipping through the rundown of the various police reports. A few things caught my eye.

“Did you read the interview of Tyler Graves?”

She leaned forward. “Yes, flip to the next page. That’s where it gets good. He claimed that he’d hung out with a couple of the victims, but said that Rowan was their primary customer, not him. He also claimed he’d seen Rowan beat one of the victims mercilessly only a few weeks before she was killed.”

“Which one?”

“Sotero, the one found on the upper branch of the Old Pearl tangled in some trees. They found her when the water fell after the drought a couple of summers ago. Autopsy report says she’d been there at least a month.”

I dropped the page and looked up at her again, her gaze intense. “And why is that important, Ms. Montreat?”

“Because Rowan told us he’d never even met Sotero.”

“Exactly. Someone’s lying.”

“So which one do you think it is?” She clasped her hands around her knee.

“What did I tell you about the importance of guilt or innocence, Ms. Montreat?”

She leaned back. “That it doesn’t matter.”

“That is correct. And it doesn’t, not for our purposes. Go ahead and pull last known whereabouts for Mr. Graves. We need to pay him a visit unannounced, and sooner rather than later.”

“Already on it. I found his last three addresses, all of them halfway houses for ex-cons and drifters. The most recent was over in Algiers.”

“Any jobs?”

“No. Not that I saw. He hasn’t worked in over five years. Not sure how he survives, but he’s still kicking.”

“Family?” Sometimes parents were the best way to get to witnesses. Even the most hardened deviant would accept calls from his mom.

“Parents are dead. He has a brother, polar opposite. Lives in the Garden District, big house, wife, kids, job in the financial sector. Might be worth talking to. Maybe he could tell us where his brother went wrong?”

“Seems like a good start. Got the morgue lined up?”

She crossed her arms over her chest and looked out my window, perusing the patches of Mississippi River in the distance. “Yes.” She bit her lip.

“You’ll do fine, Ms. Montreat. We won’t be doing any inspections ourselves. It’s just better for us to hear it from Dr. Snider while he looks them over in person. We need to know every detail, every bit of minutiae that can help our case.”

“And you’ll be there with me?”

Something in my chest warmed as her gaze returned to mine. I ran a hand through my hair, as if that would make the sensation stop. “Yes, I’ll be there.”

“Okay.” She let out a pent-up breath. “Okay, I think I can do it.”

“You can. I wouldn’t have chosen you for this assignment if I didn’t think you could handle it.”

Her face brightened.

“But don’t let it go to your head.”

She rose and swayed her hips to my door. “I’ll get to work on our game plan for Monday’s visit to Algiers. Anything else I should attend to?” She shot a look over her shoulder and busted me looking at her perfect, plump rear.

I played it off by yelling for Shirley to bring me the jail docket for the afternoon. Before I could give any more directives, Trent strolled in.

“Ms. Montreat, are you attending the get-together for Judge Lane tomorrow evening?”

Rubbish. I’d forgotten all about the fund-raiser we were throwing for Tim Lane.

“I wouldn’t miss it.” Her easy charm even got a smile out of Trent; she was that good.

She continued down the hall back to her office as Trent came inside and closed my door. “Did you forget about this weekend?”

“No, not at all.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Sure you didn’t. Doesn’t matter. You’re coming. Now, do you want to talk about Ms. Montreat?”

My stomach churned as I tried to gauge the correct response.

Trent sat in one of my chairs and continued on, seemingly oblivious to the guilt that covered me from head to toe. “Well, how’s she doing? You think she’s going to be able to handle the big leagues?”

I relaxed, my paranoia at bay. “Her performance has been good so far. She’s spotted some key issues and seems to be proactive about moving the case along.”

“That’s what I like to hear. As you know, she certainly wasn’t my first choice for the position, but if she turns out to be a good hire, then that’s just all the better.”

“I think she is.”

“Good to know.” He rose, the interrogation finished. When he got to the door, he paused. “Just watch yourself with her, Wash. That’s all I’m going to say.”

“I—”

He held up his hand. “I know you wouldn’t. But just be careful. I’ve seen the way she looks at you. Hero worship and all that. Keep her at arm’s length. We don’t need any scandals. Got it?”

“Of course.”

“Good talk.” He left, greeting the secretaries and paralegals as he made his way to his side of the office.

I leaned back in my chair and looked to the ceiling, just breathing for a minute. Trent didn’t know or he would have said something then and there.

This was my wake-up call. I needed to get back on the straight and narrow and keep my relationship with Caroline—Ms. Montreat—strictly business. The slip with her the previous night was a moment of temporary insanity. I would see to it that we were never alone like that again.

Chapter Six

CAROLINE

I couldn’t wait to be alone with Mr. Granade again. Parts south tingled at the memory of his mouth, and I couldn’t forget his gravelly voice—the sheer desire that coated each and every note.

“You’re doing that thing again.” Terrell sized me up in the mirror as I finished my makeup. He wore a black velvet jacket, a button-down shirt open at the top, and some dressy jeans. Handsome as always.

“What thing?” I dropped my mascara and stood, as ready as I was going to be.

“The thing you’ve been doing for the past two days. Where you space out and your cheeks pink up like a hooker wearing too much rouge.” He smoothed a hand over his close-cropped curls and turned back to me. “At least you look hot tonight. Just try to stay present. If you zone out and Trent catches you drooling, we’ll have a problem.”

“I don’t drool.” I ran my hands down my black dress. I didn’t have far to go—the hemline was almost scandalous, and the neckline wasn’t much better. I was already having second thoughts about wearing it.

“Well, let’s not test the theory. Make a good impression.” He twirled his finger at me in the mirror. “Let me see the whole thing.”

I did as requested and turned around, giving him the entire three-sixty. When I stopped and looked up at him, waiting for him to say no, he smiled. “Perfect. Now, what shoes were you thinking?”

“Maybe black pumps?”

He snorted. “No. Unless you have some Louboutins you haven’t told me about?”

“That’s the funniest thing you’ve said in weeks.”

“We both know that’s a lie. I’m the cleverest person you know.” He was right. His dry wit had gotten many a laugh out of me over the years.

I peeked over my shoulder at my rear in the mirror. It was acceptable, the dress’s slinky fabric draping nicely. My hair hung down my back in a blond curtain. It had taken me half an hour with the flat iron to get it all straight.

Terrell went to my barely walk-in closet and flipped on the light. He took two steps inside and perused my shoe collection. It was respectable, but not fabulous by any means.

“No, no, no.” He ticked off a list of negativity as he studied the shoe rack.

“That’s all I got, Terrell. I don’t have any Lynch money to buy new ones, so choose wisely.”

He pushed some of my suits to the side and let out an “ooohh.”

I rolled my eyes. I knew which ones he’d found. “I’m not wearing those.”

He pulled out the red stilettos with the strap around the ankle. “Yes you are.”

“I’ll look like a prostitute!” I reached past him and grabbed a more dignified pair of black patent pumps.

He slapped my hand, and I dropped the black shoes at his feet.

“These are perfect, Caroline. Trust me.”

“I can’t go to a firm party wearing red hooker heels.” I put my hand on my hip and shook my head.

“You still have that red necklace I got you last Christmas? With the matching earrings?”

“Yes. I just don’t wear them much because they’re too fancy for work.”

“You’re finally right about fashion. Correct answer. They’re perfect with this outfit, though. So get them.” He pulled my black wool coat from its hanger and shooed me out of the closet.

I retrieved the jewelry, and he fastened the necklace—silver accented by red gemstones, with a longer strand down the front that ended between my breasts. The earrings were matching teardrops.

I strapped the shoes on my feet, grumbling the entire time as Terrell tapped his oxford on the wood floor. “Come on. Fashionably late is turning into toe late.”

I stood and managed to walk without a wobble. The straps at the ankle gave a surprising amount of stability. Though I was curvy, the dress hit me in all the right spots. Terrell was right. The shoes really made the whole ensemble.

“My ugly duckling is finally a beautiful swan.” He helped me into my coat.

“I’ve never been an ugly duckling.” The coat at least gave me some semblance of modesty. Terrell might have to force me at gunpoint to take it off.

He kissed my forehead. “I know. It’s called hyperbole. Read a book sometime, Caroline. Now let’s go.”

I spent the ride over fidgeting with my coat and trying to figure out what Mr. Granade might think about my dress. It was hard to concentrate with Terrell talking to his latest boytoy on the Bluetooth. TMI didn’t even begin to cover the sexual-tension-laden conversation between the two. I kept shooting daggers at Terrell with my eyes, but he just put his finger to his lips to silence me and smiled. Idiot.

By the time we reached Mr. Palmer’s house, Terrell already had a date right after the party was over. I envied his ability to snare lovers. I had never been so lucky. I’d had boyfriends here and there but nothing serious, especially not once I got to law school and only had time to study, work, and sleep.

Cars were lined up along the street, several with European insignias and outrageously smooth lines. Money was everywhere in the legal community, just not in my pocket yet. I intended to change that. Staying at Palmer & Granade, and hopefully one day making partner, would be the key to rising in the ranks. Would I be able to afford a Ferrari? Probably not, but I’d be a player all the same.

Terrell dropped me off in front of the Palmer home—a three-story Victorian in one of the poshest neighborhoods in New Orleans. It was done in the painted ladies style, colorful and overly embellished with ornate woodwork. The windows glowed warmly, and the sounds of the party drifted on the air as I stood at the end of the driveway and waited.

“Ms. Montreat?”

I whirled at the sound. Mr. Granade had walked up behind me as I watched Terrell’s taillights disappear down the block.

“Hi.” My cheeks warmed. He always got that reaction out of me. It was as if I were a teenager again and had seen my crush in the hallway. I shoved my hands in my pocket and looked up into his eyes, dark in the night. He wore a deep emerald dress shirt with an open collar, a dark brown blazer, and jeans. Casual yet somehow also refined. His clean scent washed over me, vying with the night-blooming jasmine in Mr. Palmer’s yard.

My heart relocated to my ears, the beat a steady thump as I let my gaze wander down to his lips, his open collar, the broadness of his chest.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

“Oh, um, yes. Terrell is parking the car.” I hitched my thumb over my shoulder for emphasis and then dropped it when I realized I looked like an idiot.

A cool wind whipped by and up my skirt. I shifted on my heels, trying to close my legs against the chill. My thong didn’t grant me much of a reprieve.

His eyes narrowed before he looked away toward the house. Then he sighed and took my elbow as if it were his duty. “Come on. Let’s go in. You’ll freeze out here.”

“Well, don’t do me any favors. Terrell will be here in a minute.” I pulled my elbow from his grip right as another breeze blew by, even stronger than the first. My lady bits protested, but I wasn’t going in with him when he was acting so . . . so much like his hardass self.

“Fine.” He took two steps away from me, then stopped. His shoulders rose and fell, and I’d swear I heard him sigh. He turned back around. “No, not fine.”

“Excuse me?” I tilted my chin up and met his eyes. There was no looking away this time.

He ran a hand through his hair, the perfectly smooth locks now mussed just like I liked them. “I’m sorry. It’s not a favor. I’d like to escort you in if you’ll let me.”

I considered his outstretched hand and peeked over my shoulder for Terrell. No dice.

“I guess so.” I walked past him, not taking his hand, and he fell into step beside me.

“Your hair looks different.”

Was this small talk? “You don’t like it?”

“No. I mean, yes.” He put his hand to my lower back as we climbed the steps to the front porch. “I mean, yes, I do like it.”

The voices grew louder as we approached the wide front door.

“Thanks.” I glanced up at him, the light from the transom window painting him golden.

He spread his fingers along the small of my back, pressing through the thick wool coat and the thin fabric of my dress.

“It’s beautiful, is what I meant to say.” His voice seemed an octave lower.

My skin tingled under his hand despite the layers between us. I leaned toward him, my heels giving me more height than usual. His hand moved around to my side and pulled me close enough that his scent became a heady delight.

His gaze darted to my lips and stayed there. We were close and moved closer still, his warm breath tickling my cheek, my lips. My heart hammered as if I were running a footrace.

The door opened and the moment was broken. We stepped away from each other. Mr. Palmer was speaking to someone in the house and turned his head only after Mr. Granade and I had separated. He smiled warmly and ushered us inside.

“Ms. Montreat, welcome to my home. Wash, come on in.”

The house was even more beautiful inside than out. The floors were a dark, polished wood, and the walls were covered with a variety of art. Chandeliers and sconces bathed everything in warm light, and several people milled around in the foyer, the adjacent living room, and deeper in the house.

“Let me take your coat.” Mr. Palmer held out his hands.

I hesitated, but another glance around the crowd showed several women wearing cocktail dresses, some of which were far more risqué than mine.

“Thank you.” I undid the oversized buttons up the front and shed the coat, handing it to Mr. Palmer.

“Wash, you want me to get yours?”

“No. I’m good.” His voice was anything but “good.” It was tight, strained. I glanced at him, but he was looking through the crowd. “Beer in the kitchen?”

“Anything you want. Got a bar set up in there.”

“Great.” Without so much as a “see ya,” Mr. Granade prowled through the crowd and disappeared.

Wait, did he just run away from me?

The door opened at my back, the cold air sending chills over my exposed skin.

“Terrell, welcome.” Mr. Palmer handed my coat to an attendant and shook Terrell’s hand.

“Thanks for having me.” Terrell smiled warmly.

“Glad you’re here. Now you two get to mingling, and don’t forget to say hello to Judge Lane.” Mr. Palmer winked at us. Was he drunk?

“Yes, sir.” Terrell guided me through the crowd in the same direction Mr. Granade had gone.

I smiled at everyone we passed, trying to give the appearance of confidence while fearing I looked more like the Joker than anything else.

“You’re doing fine. Relax,” Terrell whispered in my ear. He knew several of the people milling around, so we stopped periodically to shake hands and say hello until we finally made it to the kitchen. It was modern to a fault—everything stone and stainless steel. Toward the back, in what looked to be a sunroom, an attendant poured drinks and handed out beers.

“Jackpot.” Terrell beelined for the booze.

I wasn’t opposed. After the awkward moment with Mr. Granade, and how he fled from me afterward, I was in the mood for a little white, a little red, and a lot of alcohol amnesia. I didn’t see him, which only made my alcohol mission more pressing. Had he left the house entirely just to escape me?

I craned my head back to Terrell and whispered, “You sure I look okay?”

“Have I ever steered you wrong?”

Good point. “No.”

“Okay, then. Shut up and go with it.” Terrell moved forward and got two glasses of white. We clinked glasses and downed them just like always. Then he got us more. We had a system. It worked. Who was I to question it?

I wanted to tell him what had happened with Mr. Granade on the front porch, but that was impossible. I hadn’t even told him about the office romp, so it was already a given that he would be pissed I withheld that tidbit. I had to stay the course and keep it secret. I wasn’t entirely sure what was going on between Mr. Granade and me, anyway.

“Come on. I need to show you off in that dress. Make your money, ho.”

Terrell pulled me into his side, and we walked to the nearest group of people chatting. Terrell’s easy charisma had us at the center of attention in short order. We had perfected our comedy act over the years—he would play it straight and I would provide the witty, sarcastic commentary for the punch line. We worked the room, getting names and rubbing elbows with some of the biggest players in New Orleans legal circles.

Still, I kept glancing into the crowd, looking for Mr. Granade. I would know him anywhere, his height and—who was I kidding—his voice, his hair, his scent, his everything. I finished my third glass, and Terrell wasted no time in getting refills for both of us. Whatever the server was pouring was far better than the swill I could afford on my budget. After the next glass, I stopped keeping count.

We continued making our way through judges and lawyers, telling jokes and charming as we went. The booze made our jokes a bit more off color, but they were still well received. We finally arrived in the front parlor, where Judge Lane was holding court. His cheeks were even pinker than mine, alcohol slurring his words as he smiled and laughed a little too loudly.

“Ready for the money shot?” Terrell led me through the crowded room.

“Always.” I gripped his hand and followed, the bodies closer in this room than the others. Bits of conversation drifted in and out of my hearing, and things were more than a little fuzzy.

We arrived in the circle surrounding Judge Lane, and Terrell pushed me forward before situating himself behind me, one hand on my hip.

Judge Lane was early sixties, silver-haired, and from an old-money family in New Orleans. He’d been on the bench for twenty years and would, no doubt, be there until he decided to retire. He was regaling the room with tales of his hunting exploits, mainly trips to Africa or other locales to shoot protected animals.

I nodded along and smiled at all the right times. He took another swig from his monogrammed flask and swung his gaze to me.

“What have we here?”

Mr. Palmer detached himself from his conversation at Judge Lane’s back. “This is Caroline Montreat and Terrell Lynch, associates of mine.”

Judge Lane made no attempt to hide his appraisal of my body, giving me the full once-over before taking another swig. I didn’t let my discomfort show. This wasn’t my first rodeo. Terrell’s fingers pressed into my hip, steadying me.

“Very nice to meet you, Ms. Montreat.”

“You, too, Judge.” I plastered a smile on my face and sipped my wine.

“Since when did you hire such skilled associates, Trent?”

Mr. Palmer forced a laugh. “Tim, have you met another one of our associates, Yvonne Evans?”

I hadn’t noticed Yvonne standing at Judge Lane’s back. She stepped around him and sidled up next to Terrell and me. I hated to admit it, but she looked stunning in a crimson wrap dress. It fit her willowy form perfectly, and her hair was half back and done in loose waves.

“Hi, Judge Lane.”

“Another one? Well done, Trent. Your office has turned into quite the honey hole. I try not to hire women clerks. They just distract, but I wouldn’t mind having a little more distraction in my life.” Judge Lane elbowed Mr. Palmer, who cleared his throat.

Some of the men in the circle laughed.

I cleared my throat. “Well, I, for one, am glad Ruth Bader Ginsburg never had a chance to work for a jurist of your abilities and discriminating tastes.”

Judge Lane turned back to me and raised his flask in a toast. “Couldn’t agree more. Women really aren’t cut out for the legal profession. Too emotional.”

“Funny. I seem to remember just last year a certain judge getting red in the face and giving a livid interview on TV news about the state bar’s ruling that the use of campaign money by some judges—this one included—to fund private vacations was a violation of the Code of Ethics.”

The circle quieted around us. Judge Lane was a well-known blowhard who was frequently in the news for berating attorneys, as well as for his creative use of campaign funds.

“What did you just say? What?” His flask hand dropped a bit as he gaped at me. “Why, you—”

“Judge! So good to see you again. I have a little something for the reelection from all of us at Palmer & Granade.” Mr. Granade stepped through the crowd and handed the judge an envelope, but only after giving me a stern look.

“That’s mighty generous of you, Wash.”

“Of course. We only want the best on the bench.” The men shook hands, and the conversations began to pick up again.

I opened my mouth to give Judge Lane a refresher course on discrimination in the workplace, but Terrell squeezed my hip and spoke up first.

“How’s Tom Weldon doing these days, Judge? I heard he was done clerking for you.”

Judge Lane launched into a diatribe about how awful Tom was as a clerk and how the firm who’d hired him should be shuttered for malpractice.

I began to breathe again, not even realizing that I had gone into fight-or-flight mode at Judge Lane’s comments. The mood changed back to jovial as the judge continued. Terrell relaxed his grip, and Yvonne looked to the judge and back to me before rolling her eyes. Maybe she wasn’t a huge thundercunt after all.

Then my thoughts, or whatever tenuous strands held them together, were shot to pieces when Mr. Granade moved around to stand next to Yvonne.

She leaned over to him and whispered something in his ear. He nodded and said something back to her, but I couldn’t hear it over the conversations and the continued bloviating of Judge Lane. I had been mistaken. Yvonne was definitely a thundercunt.

Mr. Granade cut his gaze over to me even as she put her hand on his shoulder and pulled him closer. When she pressed her body into his under the guise of conversation and he did nothing to stop her, I’d had it.

I craned my neck back to Terrell. “I need to go to the ladies’. I’ll be back.”

“Want me to come with?”

“No. I’m fine. I just need to breathe a little. That’s all.”

“All right. I’ll keep our song and dance going as best I can. Come back soon.” He patted my hip and let me go.

I turned and scooted past him and some other guests. I wanted to look back at Yvonne and Mr. Granade, but I didn’t. Tears burned behind my eyes, but I wasn’t certain if they were from the humiliation of Judge Lane or the way Mr. Granade had acted. It didn’t matter. I had a “no crying in public” policy that I strictly enforced.

“Caroline?” Someone grabbed my elbow, and I stopped.

Sandy blond hair and a smile. Matt Turnbull.

“Hi. I was just going to the ladies’—”

“Fancy meeting you at a place like this.” His gaze was glued to my neckline as he slurred his words.

“If you’ll excuse me.” I pulled my elbow from his grip and tried to maneuver past him, but he blocked my way.

I was almost at eye level with him in my heels, so I gave the best death glare I could manage.

“How’s Wash doing with his newest piece-of-rubbish defendant?” He scanned the crowd at my back. “He here?”

“He’s talking to the judge.” I sidestepped again, but he only moved closer and put his hand on my waist.

“Don’t be so hasty. I think there are some empty bedrooms upstairs—”

“Matt, honey. Have you met Quincy?” A smiling brunette in a silver dress walked up with her arm threaded through Quincy Walker’s, a classmate of mine. “He’s one of the newest associates at Daddy’s firm.”

Matt stepped away and dropped his hand—a good thing, because I was about to knee him in the goods.

“Fawn.” He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. “This is Caroline Montreat, one of Wash’s new associates.”

So this was the woman they were fighting over? She was pretty. Short with understated curves. Though she was smiling, it seemed somewhat fake, as if she weren’t enjoying herself.

“Wash?” Her gaze flickered to me, and her smile gained a hint of warmth. “How’s he doing?”

“Fine.” I managed to actually get past Matt this time, especially now that he was looking everywhere but at me. “Excuse me, but I need to use the ladies’ room.”

Fawn put a hand on my arm. “Down the back hallway. Let’s chat later.”

“Sure. Very nice to meet you.” I hurried away, making a mental note to avoid Fawn if at all possible.

I pushed through, the crowd seeming far tighter than it had only moments ago, and finally entered the hall. There were several doors along the way, and I was certain at least one of them was a powder room. I peeked in a couple of dark bedrooms and finally found one with an en suite bathroom.

I closed the bedroom door behind me and leaned against it. The darkness comforted me somewhat, as if it shielded me from prying eyes. The light from the bathroom illuminated just enough for me to see the space was done in a rich damask, the four-poster bed covered with a dark duvet that picked up the contrasting pattern in the drapes. Mr. Palmer definitely had style.

The dimness and relative quiet soothed my nerves, and I pushed any useless tears back down. Judge Lane was a sexist rear hat, and Mr. Granade was clearly some sort of dual-personality jerk. The sooner I was done with this party, the better.

I took a deep breath and stepped away from the door. I toileted, then smiled at myself in the mirror, testing to make sure my game face still worked. It did. I washed up. The bedroom door clicked.

“Out in a minute.” I dried my hands and opened the bathroom door.

Arms were around me and I was pressed into the roughest, hottest kiss of my life. Mr. Granade’s mouth was demanding, his breath a mix of alcohol and something sweet. My surprised yelp died in my throat as he clutched me to him and bent me backward, his mouth taking mine and his tongue exploring me. All my nerve endings seemed to explode at the same time, detonated by the sudden onslaught.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, and he bent me back farther, to the point where the only thing holding me up was him. I had never been kissed so completely, possessed so entirely. He ran a hand down my rear and gripped me through my dress. He groaned into my mouth and pulled me even closer, his hard length pressing into my stomach.

He straightened and lifted me before backing out of the doorway and carrying me to the bed. He laid me down and stood, scrubbing a hand over his jaw.

“Spread your legs.”

I shot a glance toward the door.

“It’s locked. Now spread your legs, Caroline.” He shed his blazer and tossed it to the floor.

His kiss had left me desperate for more, for all of him. I did as he said, easing my legs apart and bending them at the knees so my heels were on the duvet.

“Further, Caroline.”

I let them fall open, my skirt riding up to my hips, and his gaze fastened on my panties.

He put a hand on the poster as if he needed the support. “Goodness. Take them off for me. Slowly, Caroline.”

I hesitated. He gripped the post harder, his knuckles turning white. “Off.” It was a low growl.

I hooked my fingers in the thin fabric at my hips and lifted my rear a little to shimmy them off. They got caught on the heel of my right foot. I raised it to try to dislodge them, but Mr. Granade gripped that ankle and pulled them the rest of the way off with his teeth. I had never seen anything more erotic in my life. He stuffed them into his pocket and kissed the top of my foot, his shaking hands running down my calf.

His gaze captured mine, and it was just the two of us. The voices in the hallway sank into a background hum.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” He kissed up my ankle, past the strap and farther. His mouth was warm and wet, teasing my skin and making me squirm.

I gripped the duvet as he worked higher, his lips past my knee, on my inner thigh, and then so close to my pussy that I was dying for his mouth. He dropped to his knees and gripped my hips, yanking me to the edge of the bed. My skirt rode up to my stomach, and he wrapped his hands around my thighs, guiding them around his head.

When he licked me from entrance to clit, I had to bite my hand to keep quiet.

“Pull your dress down. I want to see your belly while I forget you with my mouth.”

I slid the straps past my shoulders and pulled down on the dress and my strapless bra. My breasts were exposed, the tips hard enough to cut glass. He groaned and fastened his mouth to my clit. I dug my heels into his back as he licked and sucked at my folds, his tongue darting in wickedly to stroke my nub. It wasn’t long until I was grinding my hips on his face as he pressed my thighs against his ears. I was so close to the edge, but then he stopped.

He stood, and I wanted to scream from the frustration. But then his hands went to his belt, deftly unbuckling it and unzipping his pants. “I want you to come all over my cock, Caroline. I want you to say my name as I forget you until you can’t take any more.” His voice was guttural sex.

I couldn’t pay attention to his words, because I couldn’t focus on anything except the stiff shaft he pulled from his pants. It was large, but not absurdly so. I wouldn’t have cared. All I knew was that I wanted it, would have done anything for it.

“Tell me you want me to forget you. Tell me you want it hard.” He stroked himself once as he stared at my pussy.

“I . . . I want you to mess me hard.”

He put a knee on the bed and wrapped his arms around me to position me farther up. His shirt rubbed against my nipples, making them ache for his mouth. They didn’t have to wait long. He palmed one breast and sucked the nipple on the other as his tip rubbed against my clit. I ran my hands through his hair. It was even softer than I’d imagined.

He groaned against my stiff bud, his tongue flicking across it and his teeth grazing it. The sensations bloomed from my breasts and spread straight to my pussy, the desire intensifying with each touch of his cock, his mouth, his hands.

“Wash,” I gasped when he bit down even harder.

He came back to my mouth. “Idiot, yes. Say my name.” He licked my lips and bit the bottom one, his cock sliding lower against me to my core.

Reason came back to me for a split second. “Wait, are you—”

“Clean, totally clean.” He’d read my mind.

“Me, too, and I’m on birth control so you can . . .” I couldn’t say what I really wanted, how much of him I needed.

He smirked, the slight lift of his lips as roguish as it was hot. “You want me to come inside you, Caroline?” He ran his teeth along my neck, and I moaned as he bit down. “That makes two of us.”

I clawed at his back as he licked and sucked the sensitive skin of my throat and collarbone.

“I’m going to forget you. Hard. I need you to tell me it’s okay. Tell me you want it.” His gaze bored into me as he rested his forehead against mine. The muscles in his back trembled, and I pulled his hair. His scent washed over me, and I wanted to remember it forever. Remember this—the way he looked at me, talked to me, commanded me.

“Tell me.” He gripped my hair and pulled before fastening his teeth to my neck again.

Yes, anything, yes. “Yes. I want it.”

He covered my mouth with his hand and sank inside me. I squealed against his palm at the flash of pain and the intense glow of pleasure. His cock was thick, stretching me as it slid against my wetness. He groaned into my throat. The pleasure quickly overtook anything else as he moved inside me, his hips starting a steady rhythm as he licked and sucked my neck. He slid his hand from my mouth and gripped my breast.

The bed shook from his impacts, but he kept our bodies close together. The sound of skin on skin didn’t carry. His strokes were hard and sure, hitting my clit on each jarring burst of aggression. I dug my nails into his back through his shirt and spread my legs as far as I could to get every bit of contact.

“Idiot,” he exhaled into my ear, then bit down on my earlobe.

“Wash.” I didn’t recognize the breathy, throaty voice even though it was mine.

“Tell me you want it harder.” He was a devil in my ear, promising me so much pleasure.

“Harder, Wash.”

He released my hair and shoved his arm between my back and the bed, wrapping his fingers around my shoulder. He leveraged my body so he could go even harder, pulling me down onto his cock with each intense thrust. I wrapped my legs around him as my body began to seize.

“No.” He slowed down.

I tried to move my hips up to him to keep the delicious contact.

“No, Caroline. You come only when I say you can.”

I dug my nails into his back and glared up at him.

“Goodness, I need to rough-forget you just to keep you in line, don’t I?” He slanted his mouth over mine, sinking his tongue inside at the same time he started pounding into me again.

I wouldn’t last. I couldn’t. I cried out into his mouth, but he swallowed the sound and kept pistoning into me.

“Come. Come for me,” he said against my lips.

I had never heard anything sweeter. My pussy responded, and my body seized as I came so hard my back arched off the bed. His name was on my lips before he silenced me with another deep kiss. I was nothing but heat and bliss, all exploding from my core into every cell of my body. His cock hardened even more inside me as I rose to the top of my high and started sliding down the other side.

His fingers tightened on my shoulder. “Goodness.” He groaned and slammed back into me. Deep as he could be, he bit down on my shoulder and grunted his release.

His cock kicked inside me and I squeezed him with my legs, wanting every last bit he had. My clit ached in pleasant waves as he let out a breath and sank onto me, spent.

I moved my hands up to his hair and we just lay there, tangled up in each other while we came back down to earth.

He dropped a kiss on my neck and pulled out. “Are you okay?” He sounded almost sheepish.

I just had the two best orgasms of my life in the space of three days. I’m perfect. “I’m, um, great.”

“Let me get you some tissue.” He rose and yanked his boxers and pants up before going to the bathroom and returning with some tissues. He went to the bedroom door as I cleaned up. My mind was still in shock from the intense orgasm, not to mention how unexpected his actions were. Hadn’t he just run away from me? And now this?

He turned toward me and leaned back against the door. He was slightly flushed, though I couldn’t tell if it was from the booze or our activities. I strode to him, ignoring the ache between my legs. I would be walking funny the next day, for certain. But it was worth it.

“Wash—”

“Caroline, I didn’t mean for this to happen.” He shook his head. “In fact, I tried very hard to keep it from happening. I’ve failed, yet again. I’m sorry.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “So you’re just going to mess me and then apologize? Is that what we’re doing?”

“No, not like that. I’m not apologizing for the sex. It was the best—” He bounced his head against the door as if it would help him get his thoughts in order. “What I’m trying to say is that this thing, this thing we’re doing, it can’t happen again. I just saw you tonight in that dress and those heels. And the way you held your own with Judge Lane. Even though you shouldn’t have said what you said. And I lost control. Again.”

I walked the rest of the way to him and smoothed down his shirt, running my hands over his chest and abs. “Maybe you shouldn’t be so afraid of losing control.”

He gripped my hands and pulled them away from his body, his face stern. “Maybe you shouldn’t keep tempting me.”

I ripped my hands away from his. “Tempting you? Are you kidding me? You follow me in here, throw me down and idiot me, and somehow all of this is my fault? Have you and Judge Lane been comparing notes or something?”

“No, of course not. That’s not what I mea—”

“No. I think it’s exactly what you meant. You know what? You’ve been right this whole time. We should keep this purely professional. I’ve been an idiot for running after you. For thinking there was an actual man beneath all this.” I waved my hand at him. “But I was mistaken. So, from now on, let’s just work together. That’s it.”

His jaw tightened. I didn’t care. I was tired of his wishy-washy trash. I wanted him. Short of coming out and saying “you had me at hello,” I wasn’t sure what else I could do.

He blocked the door, his eyes boring into me in the gloom. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, as if rethinking whatever he planned to say.

The tears were back, making my nose tingle and my eyes burn. “Move.” I forced the tremble from my voice. “I’m leaving.”

He didn’t budge.

“I’m not kidding, Wash. Get the heck out of my way.” I wasn’t going to cry in front of him. Not again, anyway.

After a few more moments of tense silence, he moved aside. I yanked the door open and hurried down the hall. I told Terrell that I wasn’t feeling well, wished him luck on his date, and assured him my taking a cab back to the apartment was the best course of action.

I stayed strong until I plopped down on the vinyl seat and pulled the taxi door closed. The cabbie had the decency to let me sniffle in peace the rest of the way home. I saved the sobs until I was safely in my bedroom, and fell asleep determined to keep the hardass at bay from then on out.

Chapter Seven

WASH

I’d been in my office for two hours. Two hours when I should have been reading e-mails, writing letters, doing any number of things I needed to do for my clients. Instead, I did the same thing I’d done all weekend. I thought about her, wondered what I could do to fix the situation.

I stared out my windows—something I rarely did. I’d worked my way into the corner office but never seemed to enjoy its perks. My coffee had long since gone cold. Caroline hadn’t shown up yet, but I didn’t expect her to. Not after Saturday night.

I’d stood in that bedroom, still awash in her scent and her taste, and tried to plot the safest course of action. After a few long moments at a total loss, I figured the best thing to do would be to explain that whatever I just said was idiotic and that I was sorry. I didn’t seem to be able to get a handle on my feelings. I was irrational, possessive. I’d kept an eye on her all night, the way she worked the room with Terrell.

I found myself more than once pondering what it would take to get Terrell fired. The way they were so easy together, the way he touched her, and made her laugh—all these things got under my skin. Even though I knew they were just friends and nothing more, I was jealous he got to spend so much time with her. So I did the only logical thing; I drank more. And then I drank some more.

And then I went too far, her under Trent’s roof in the middle of a judicial fund-raiser. Harass. I couldn’t regret it even if I tried. Her body, her sounds, all of her was embedded in my memory. It was the hottest thing I’d ever done, and even as I sat and stared at the cloudy sky and muddy river, I wanted her again any way I could have her.

“Mr. Granade.” Caroline’s heels clicked on my wood floor.

I turned to her, at a loss for words for once in my life.

She wore a dark turtleneck and gray slacks—demure for her. But it didn’t work. I could still make out every curve on her body and wanted to run my hands over them, kiss them, explore her inch by inch. She sank into one of my chairs and flipped the page over on her legal pad. All business.

“I’ve set up a meeting with Luke Graves for right after lunch. One o’clock at his office downtown. I didn’t give any details of why we wanted to speak to him, just said it concerned his brother. Also, we are set to visit the morgue on Friday morning.” She kept her eyes on her notepad. “Is there anything else I should be doing on the preparation front?”

I stared at her, willing her to look at me. My powers of persuasion were weak all of a sudden, because she continued scrutinizing her notes.

“Look, Caroline, what happened the other ni—”

She looked up, her gaze piercing. “Mr. Granade, please tell me if there’s any other legwork I need to be doing before our meeting this afternoon.”

Mr. Granade. She’d called me Wash Saturday night. I wanted her to call me that again, to call me that all the time. But I’d messed it up.

She rose. “If that’s all, I’ll finish pulling all the information on Luke Graves. I’ll have a detailed list of high points for you in the next hour.”

“Okay. Yes.”

She strode out as I sputtered for something intelligent to say. Then she was gone and I was back where I started. Alone and consumed with thoughts of her.

After a while, I shook it off and forced myself to work. If she wanted to keep things professional—which she’d made crystal clear—then I would, too. After all, I was the partner. I should have been the one staying professional from the start.

I cleared my e-mails and was about to start looking at the various brief drafts on my desk when she reappeared, her face still in a careful mask and her eyes everywhere but on me. She handed me a bulleted list of information as promised. It was getting close to noon.

“Let’s go get lunch and discuss the interview.” I used the tone I’d come to wield like a baton. It got things done. It kept the associates in line.

“I don’t think so. I’ll just meet you over at his office.” She turned on her heel and left.

Chapter Eight

CAROLINE

I spent the entire elevator ride up to Luke Graves’s office primping myself in the reflective doors. I’d stuck to my guns earlier when I’d told Wash I wouldn’t go to lunch with him. I’d wanted to, but I couldn’t let myself slide right back into his mindidiot, or even his oh-so-good normalidiot.

The doors slid open, and I hoisted my messenger-bag-style briefcase higher on my side. Graves and Berns was a high-end investment brokerage, very high-end from the looks of things. Everything was marble, glass, and shiny chrome. The office was at the top of one of the tallest buildings in the city, so the views were spectacular.

How does a guy who works here end up with a reprobate for a brother?

“Hi. I have an appointment with Mr. Graves at one.” Wash had beaten me to the meeting. He stood at the reception desk, and the receptionist gave him the same goo-goo eyes that I probably did when I first saw him. I couldn’t exactly blame her. In his dark suit and tie, he looked like a corporate office wet dream.

He turned as I approached. “And this is my associate, Ms. Montreat.”

“I’ll buzz Mr. Graves. Please have a seat, and he’ll be out shortly.” The blonde gave a beauty queen smile to Wash and completely ignored me.

I chose a plush leather chair and sat. He took the seat opposite me. It was hard for me to avoid his gaze, and I suspected that was his intent. I opened my briefcase and pulled out my legal pad. Doodling would keep me occupied for at least a little while.

When I began to draw squiggles and stars, he pulled my information sheet from his briefcase and seemed to study it. It must not have been very enthralling, because every time I glanced up, he was looking at me. I couldn’t stop the heat rising in my cheeks, the warmth radiating from my core. I wanted it to stop. Or did I?

When he looked at me that way, like a hungry wolf, my thoughts stopped flowing and just stuck together. Useless.

“Mr. Granade?” the receptionist chirped. “He’s ready to see you now.”

We rose and followed her down the hall. Wash put his hand on my lower back. His touch was at first tentative and then steady. I should have swatted him away, but I didn’t want to make a scene. Yes, that’s the reason.

She led us to an office twice the size of Wash’s with a spectacular view of the river. The steamboat was in the middle of the channel, white with red trim and looking straight out of a movie. Well, except for the tourists packed on its decks taking pictures. Still, this was one of the best vistas in town. The rent alone on this place must have been outrageous.

“Mr. Graves, this is Mr. Granade and Ms. Montreat from Palmer & Granade.” The receptionist motioned us inside and left, closing the wide glass door behind her.

A man in his late forties, trim for his age, rose from behind a massive mahogany desk and met us. He was dressed in an impeccable suit, clearly tailored just to him. His hair was salt and pepper, and he smiled widely as he welcomed us. His blue eyes were far lighter than Wash’s, giving an almost transparent effect.

He had a tasteful number of family photos along the interior wall, a trim, smiling wife and children in each one. It gave the otherwise high-style office a somewhat homey feel.

We all shook hands. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Graves.”

“Please, call me Luke.” His grip was firm, and he looked me in the eye. He was respectful, confident. I liked him.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. Had some last-minute things come up. Can I offer you something to drink? We have just about anything you might care for.”

“No, I think we’re all right.” Mr. Granade smiled.

Luke motioned us to some white leather chairs around a small table. Everything in his office was ultramodern, smooth lines, nothing fancy, except for his desk. It was made of some dark wood, clearly antique, with ornate carvings of what looked like gryphons along each leg.

“That’s a family heirloom.” He followed my gaze. “Been handed down for three generations. I come from a long line of woodworkers. That piece is heavy as a car but far less easy to move.”

“It’s very nice.” I sat and tried to get comfortable to take notes, but the chair was all stiff and angled oddly. I did my best.

Mr. Granade sat far more gracefully than I did. “Do you mind if we record this interview?”

“Not a bit. Go ahead.” Luke draped an ankle over his knee, his fleur-de-lis socks peeking through above his loafer.

I dug my recorder out and clicked it on, then settled back to take notes. I hastily flipped my doodled sheet over to a fresh one. When I looked up, Luke was smiling at me as if he’d seen my “art.” So professional, Caroline.

“I assume this is about my brother. Your associate was a bit evasive on the phone.” He shot me a smile. “Well done.”

“She’s sharp.” Wash nodded. “Couldn’t agree more. And, yes, this is about Tyler. I just have some questions. And I hope they don’t bother you, as I’m sure you love your brother—”

Wash had turned on that easy charm. His mannerisms, his tone of voice—all of it designed to put Luke at ease. It worked, and not just on Luke. But I wouldn’t fall under his spell. Not again.

Luke waved his hand. “No, it’s fine. This isn’t the first time someone’s come around asking questions about Tyler. But they usually have badges and guns, and”—he shot a glance to me—“aren’t as pleasant.”

Wash’s jaw tightened, and he leaned forward. “Well, then I’ll get straight to the point. Tyler has been hanging around with my client, Rowan Ellis. I’m looking for any information that can help me track Tyler down, mainly to see if he can help Rowan.”

Luke sighed and shook his head. “I’m just glad Mom and Dad aren’t around to see this, any of this. Tyler has made such a mess, and now he’s involved in another one. Look, Mr. Granade—”

“Please, call me Wash.” He thinned the line of his lips, concern writ large on his features. He was such an expert at the game.

It was all an act for him. The bait to get the information he needed. I’d seen him do it in court over and over again with different witnesses, playing them all like instruments. I was more impressed than I should have been. All the same, I loved watching him work.

Luke leaned forward and put his head in his hands for a moment before raising his gaze and meeting Wash’s eye. “I confess I did read in the papers that you’d taken on the defense of the Bayou Butcher. So I was curious what Tyler could have to do with it. I’d like to say I’m surprised. Heck, I’d like to say a lot of things—that his last stint at rehab worked, that he had a job, that he’d stopped stealing. But none of that’s true. I know he’s been in with a bad crowd for quite some time. He calls for cash off and on, tries to get his hands on what little trust fund money he has left. You don’t think he’s dangerous or anything, right? I have a wife, kids. I can’t risk them for him.”

Wash clasped his hands together. “We don’t know. We just want to see if he has any information that might help exonerate Rowan. That’s all we’re after.”

“Well, I don’t want to lie to you, Wash. But this whole interview worries me. I don’t want to get Tyler in any trouble, but if he’s dangerous, then he needs to be off the streets. I’m just not sure if I should call my lawyer or what.”

We definitely did not need him calling a lawyer.

“Of course, if you’d feel more comfortable with counsel present, that’s fine. I know none of this is easy for you.” Wash leaned back and draped an arm over the back of his chair, the picture of nonchalance.

Luke looked from Wash to me, as if waffling on whether to call his lawyer. I saw a chance. I took it.

I reached across the table and covered Luke’s hand with mine. “Luke, it’s fine. Really. I can’t imagine how hard it is for you to have us show up here and talk about a murder investigation that might involve your only brother. You don’t have to tell us anything that makes you uncomfortable. I already have a few leads on where Tyler might be. I’m heading to Algiers after work to visit some of his last known residences. Boardinghouses. Places like that.”

“Thank you, Caroline.” He put his other hand on top of mine and squeezed. “That really means a lot. It’s been so hard.” Then the light bulb clicked. “But, wait. You can’t be going to Algiers at night. Especially not to the places Tyler would hang out.”

I pulled my hands away and folded them in my lap. “Just part of the job, Luke.”

He turned back to Wash. “Surely you aren’t letting her go, are you?”

“We’re short on resources and time. Trial for Rowan is just a few months away, and we have to divide up duties as best we can. I’m heading over to Treme, and she’s going to Algiers.” He shrugged. “The sort of characters we’re looking for—the ones who might know where Tyler is—only come out at night. I’m sure you know this.” Wash began to rise. “I’m sorry to have taken so much of your time, Luke.”

I followed his lead and stuffed my legal pad into my briefcase.

“Now, wait a minute. Wait just a blasted minute.” Luke held out his hands, waving us back down into our seats. “I’m not going to put anyone else in danger on account of my brother.” He pointed at me. “And you have no business in Algiers at night, young lady.”

I nodded and dropped my eyes. I’d played the part, done what I could. Wash wasn’t the only one in the room who knew how to play to the crowd.

Luke stood and retrieved a notepad from his desk. He wrote out two names in neat block letters before sliding it across the table to me.

“That’s the last couple of places he contacted me from. All I ask is that you don’t mention me if you find him. Like I said, my family is more important to me than anything. I won’t let Tyler hurt them. Understand?”

“Completely.” Wash stood, our business at an end. “We won’t say a word about you to anyone. Caroline, go ahead and delete the audio from this meeting when we get back to the office.”

“Will do.”

Luke and Wash shook hands once more.

“Thanks for your help. It really will save us time and, hopefully, bring us closer to the truth about what happened to the victims.”

Wash gripped his briefcase and pulled back my chair as I stood.

“Right. I mean, if it is your guy, then I hope he pays for his crimes. All the same, if someone else did it”—Luke wrung his hands as he walked us to his door—“even if it’s Tyler, then I don’t want an innocent man behind bars. I just hope it isn’t him. He’s sunk so low, but I can’t believe he’d kill anyone.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Thanks again for taking time to speak with us. We’ll get out of your hair.” Wash pushed through the door and ushered me ahead of him.

“No bother at all. Good luck,” Luke called.

The receptionist waved and said “bye” in her sultriest southern drawl as Wash stalked past. He didn’t respond, just maimed the down button on the elevator bank with his index finger.

The doors opened, and he waited for me to get on first. I walked past and backed up to the wall, the rail pressing into the small of my back. Surely he isn’t mad? Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything?

The moment the door closed, he whirled and loomed over me, his hands on the elevator wall on either side of my head.

“Wash—”

“You were brilliant in there.” I stared up into his eyes as the descent pushed my heart into my throat. But I knew it wasn’t the elevator making me feel suddenly light-headed, not even close.

He leaned down, his lips only a breath away from mine.

“Thank you.” I wanted to close my eyes and bridge the distance between us. To just taste him one more time.

But then I would be a fool again, chasing after a man who changed faster than a weather vane. I turned my head away, though it took every bit of willpower I had. His lips had a power over me. The rest of him did, too. I was screwed.

He leaned back. “Idiot. I’m sorry, Car—Ms. Montreat.”

He turned away from me and shook his head. I leaned on the rail for support. I needed to snap out of it.

“Let’s just keep this professional, Mr. Granade.” My voice was a sex rasp. I cleared my throat.

His shoulders stiffened as the elevator pinged and the doors opened. He stepped aside so I could exit first. I hurried past him, afraid of my ill-advised desire to remain still, let the doors close again, and jump him.

He walked at my elbow through the parking deck. My heels clicked on the concrete, interspersed with the rumble of cars on the floor above us.

I pressed my key fob and my car woke up, the brake lights shining and reminding me that I actually had parked on this level.

“This is me.” I opened the trunk and put my briefcase inside.

“Listen, about the elevator.” He wrinkled his brow, as if wrestling with a particularly stout thought. It made him look younger, as if he were having a hard time on his contracts exam in law school. “I’m sorry about that.”

I slammed my trunk and sidestepped to the driver’s door, not trusting myself to face him directly. “It’s okay. I just don’t want things to be confused again. That’s all.”

“They won’t be. I won’t kiss you unless you ask. I won’t. I promise.” He followed me between the cars, turned me to him with a hand on my shoulder, and tilted my face up toward his. My breath hitched. “When I promise something, Caroline, I stick to it. And I’m promising you that I won’t kiss your lips again until you ask me.”

“I . . . Okay.” I was already trapped in his gaze, in the intensity he somehow stored up inside each iris.

He licked his lips. The movement sent my skin into a tingling panic, and my nipples were uncomfortably hard against my bra.

“But I need you to know, Caroline. When you do ask me to kiss these perfect lips”—he ran his thumb over my mouth—“I’m going to do a lot more than that. I’m going to take all of you. I’m going to have you screaming my name and begging me to go easy. I won’t, Caroline. I’m going to make you come harder than you ever have in your life. I just need us to be clear on our rules of engagement.”

The throaty growl of his voice started a vicious ache between my legs. And his words . . . his words were enough to poof my panties far enough away that they’d send me a postcard in a couple of weeks.

He leaned down, close enough that anyone watching us would have thought we were kissing. “Do you understand the rules, Ms. Montreat?”

“Yes.” I couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but focus on him. I already wanted to ask him, to lose the game.

“Good.” He dropped his hand and retreated, stepping between the cars and striding away in the dimly lit parking garage.

I let my jelly knees go a bit and leaned against my car. What the heck was that? I couldn’t figure him out, couldn’t even begin to follow what was going on in his head. One second he seemed ready to rip my clothes off, the next he was the hardass, and then he was a mix of both. My head spun almost in time with my heartbeat. Dizzying.

My phone chirped, bringing me out of my horny yet confused stupor. I checked the text as I sank into the car. It was from him. Case meeting. 3 p.m. My office.

I dropped my head against the headrest. He was relentless. Absolutely relentless. And now he’d thrown down the gauntlet on what it would take to get his touch again, his mouth, his everything. I shuddered at the memory of his words before groaning at the massive failure of a situation I’d gotten myself into.

What could I do? I already wanted to break, to give him the okay. No. I shoved my key into the ignition a little too hard. He wouldn’t win. I wouldn’t let him.

I drove the whole way back to the office while scream-singing along with the local rock radio station. I couldn’t sing on the best of days, but my rock act was even worse than usual. I didn’t care. I needed to pump myself up for the meeting. He’d barely given me time to make it back, much less to his office, before 3 p.m. hit. I hurried down the hall, gaining a small slice of satisfaction from elbowing past a scowling Yvonne. I was very busy and important, after all.

I stopped before I rounded the corner to Wash’s office and composed myself. Terrell lifted an eyebrow at me through his door, but I shook my head. Later. He gave me a two-finger salute and went back to typing.

Once my heartbeat calmed, I walked through his open door. He had taken his jacket off and loosened his tie, and the top button of his shirt was undone. Gorgeous. He was playing hardball. I could take it, despite the flush creeping up my skin trying to convince me otherwise.

“You’re late.” He smiled, the dimples so close to the surface that I was certain if I’d cracked an off-color joke, they’d make an appearance.

“Traffic.” I kept my sex jokes to myself and took a seat.

“Tell me what you thought about Luke.” He began rolling up one of his sleeves, the dark hair along his arms drawing my gaze like a magnet.

I crossed my legs and stared out the window, though I could see his reflection just fine. He kept rolling.

“I thought he was a nice guy. I felt bad for him. Having a brother like that must be hard on him. Why, what did you think?”

He put his bare arms on his desk and clasped his hands. “I saw the same things you did. Older brother disappointed in the younger one. I’m just not sure how accurate his information is going to be. He’s a smart man. He didn’t get to the top of that building with just the easy demeanor he showed us. And therein lies the lesson.”

I turned back to him and barely kept myself from rolling my eyes. “What’s the lesson?”

“In this line of work, everyone you meet is going to lie to you.”

“I don’t think so. He fell right into my trap. If he was hiding something, why did he give me the information I wanted?”

“He wanted to make you like him. It worked.”

I shrugged. “I guess you got me, Sherlock. Yes, I thought he was a nice guy.”

“Well, then, Watson, try not to be so elementary. What would a guy like him have to hide? What would he want to protect? Family? Money? Figure out why they’re lying and you have a much better chance of figuring out what they’re lying about.” He pointed to my briefcase. “Go through your notes and listen to the audio again—send me a copy, too.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

“I want to hit Tyler’s last known haunts first thing. Meet me in the deck tomorrow morning at seven. When regular folks are getting up and moving about is when people like Tyler go to ground. We might be able to catch him napping.”

He leaned back, his chest expanding with the movement and making him appear larger than life. “That’s all for now, Ms. Montreat. Unless, of course, you have anything else?” He smirked, cocky beyond belief. He knew exactly what he was doing.

I glanced down to my turtleneck and slacks. I’d been demure for one day. But not anymore. Right then and there I decided I’d make him regret even setting up the game board, much less putting the pieces into motion. It was time he learned who the real hardass was.

Chapter Nine

CAROLINE

I slid into Wash’s car, ignoring the rising hemline of my skirt. He’d watched me walk from my car, taking in every one of my movements with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. I wore a short gray pencil skirt and a black top with a V-neck. I would have worn some ridiculous heels, but since we were going to be doing field work, I chose a more modest pair of pumps. I’d thrown some ballet flats into my bag, just in case. But those were only for emergencies.

I slid my briefcase into his backseat and settled down, waiting for him to get in and start the car. He stood outside the driver’s door in the same position he’d been in when I’d sauntered over, swaying my hips and working my heels with each step. Had he gone into a fugue state?

I thought about leaning over and honking the horn, but then he said something—the word muffled by the car—and opened the door.

“Problems?” I gave him my best wide-eyed innocent look.

He scowled at me and started the car. “None, Ms. Montreat.” His jaw was tight, teeth clenched.

“Okay.” I put my hand on his arm and smiled as he met my gaze. “I was just checking.”

I moved my hand to the console and began typing the address into his navigation system as he reversed out of his parking spot. I leaned forward, knowing full well my breasts were demanding to overflow the edges of my V-neck in that position. Wash stopped and shifted, but the engine only revved and the car didn’t move. I glanced at him, coy smile still on my face.

“Sure you’re all right?”

He finally got the car out of neutral and into drive before shooting through the deck more recklessly than usual.

I finished entering the address, and a smooth male voice with an English accent directed us toward Algiers. We darted into traffic, early enough to beat the commuter crush.

I slid one knee on top of the other, my skirt riding up even higher. “We in a hurry?”

He pulled his sunglasses out and clamped them down over his eyes. “No. Why do you ask?” I gripped the door handle as he took a turn so hard I swore the tires squealed a bit.

I gave him a glare, but he returned it with a smile, the not-quite-visible dimples mocking me. He must have thought driving like a maniac would put him back in control. I reached into my bag and put on my own sunglasses before arching my back into the seat and laying my head on the headrest as I stared out the window. My body was fully available for his view, my breasts poised above my V-neck, my cardigan open, my legs crossed.

A strange rubbing sound hit my ears, and I slowly realized it was his hand tightening on the leather steering wheel. I smirked into the window and moved my hand under my cardigan, pretending to scratch an itch on my shoulder, and giving him an excellent view of the strap of my lacy red bra.

Another sudden burst of speed and we were on the interstate, passing other vehicles as if we had a number painted on the side of our car.

“What do we know about this first location?” His voice was strained and raspy.

Good.

“Halfway house. The owner is a Mrs. Lily Barnett. She’s a widow. Has a degree in social work. I don’t know much more. I would’ve called and interviewed her if we weren’t working with the element of surprise, of course.”

“Of course. Anything else important?” He tore across the murky river, past a tugboat splitting the water and several barges lined up in the channel.

“Yes. Rowan was holed up at the same halfway house when he was arrested. I’m hoping she hasn’t trashed all his belongings the police didn’t take. There might be something there, though I assume the cops took all the real evidence.”

“You assume?” His question was cutting.

“I, well, yes. I assume the police know what they’re doing.”

He sighed. “Oh, Ms. Montreat, your naïveté may have worked for you in law school, but it isn’t going to work out here in the real world. Never, and I mean never, assume things. More importantly, never assume the police have done their job. We make our living off showing just how shoddy police work truly is. Reasonable doubt is a complicated recipe that’s different in each case. But the one ingredient that is the same case after case is bad police work. Don’t forget that.”

Was I being chastised or taught? Why did they feel like one and the same with him?

“I got it.”

“Good.” We took the first Algiers exit and traveled past various industrial parks before coming to a neighborhood of beat-down houses. Wash assiduously avoided the larger potholes as we drove down the rough road into the heart of Algiers. The smooth Brit on the navigation system indicated the house was ahead on the right, and we slowed to pick out the address. The faded street number was written in large black letters on the curb as well as on the side of the rusted mailbox.

The halfway house had once been a beauty, with stately columns and a wide front porch. But it was obviously in disrepair. The paint was streaky, faded white and peeling away to gray. The roof was bowed in two places, leaves and debris collecting there and a couple of saplings taking root. The morning sun didn’t do the rotting façade any favors. Curtains twitched in a couple of windows, and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

I reached for the door handle, but Wash spoke before I could pull it. “Stick close to me. Got it?”

I couldn’t decide if I was tired of his babying or comforted by it. I split the difference. “Yes. I got it.”

“Record everything. Take good notes.”

I opened the door and slid out, careful to keep my knees together lest I give the window gazers more than I intended. “I got that, too.”

Wash strode past me onto the broken front walk.

Dang. My heels were sensible, but still not up to the challenge of the high grass and uneven concrete. I shouldered my briefcase and stepped gingerly onto the biggest chunks of sidewalk. Wash glanced back, his sunglasses and suit making him look almost like James Bond, and smiled a bit as he put out his elbow. I wobbled to him and took it, pissed I needed him yet relieved that I wouldn’t face-plant on my way to the house.

He was warm, heat radiating through his jacket and into my palm. His scent lured me closer as we managed the steps to the porch. I would forever associate his scent with my office, Mr. Palmer’s guest bedroom, and Wash between my legs one way or another.

Snap out of it. I pushed those memories away and focused on the job. This might be the best place to get a lead on Tyler Graves and, hopefully, come up with a way to defend Rowan.

Once at the front door—the edges were splintered, and the white paint a grimy dark gray around the door handle—I released Wash’s arm, and he rang the doorbell. We waited for a moment, but no one came, so he rapped his knuckles on the only uncracked windowpane.

He raised his hand again when a creaking sound and then steps came from within.

“What you want?” An elderly woman’s voice.

“We’re here to see Ms. Barnett.” Wash and I peered through the high panes, but they were so dirty that all I could make out was the shape of a person.

“What for?” She shuffled closer.

“Just want to talk to her about a tenant.” Wash gave a winning smile (no dimples), though I doubt she could see it.

“You the law?”

“No, ma’am. We’re attorneys. Rowan Ellis is our client.”

“Oh, him. So you sure you ain’t the law?” Her voice had a tremor in it, either from age or some other ailment.

“I’m sure. I’ll give you my card. I’m Wash, and this is my associate Caroline.” He dug his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a business card. “We sure would like to speak with you.”

He waved his hand in front of the glass. It wasn’t just a business card he’d pulled out. Pressed against it was a crisp hundred-dollar bill.

The lock clicked, and the door swung inward to a gloomy hall. “I’m Lily Barnett. Come on in.” Her watery eyes were glued to the money.

“Thank you. And I promise you’ll get this”—Wash waved the cash before tucking it into his inner suit coat pocket—“before we leave.”

“Well, come on in.” She turned and moved slowly back down the hall, her floral muumuu swinging as she went. There was no sitting room or living room off the hallway, just a line of doors. The whole house appeared to have been converted to bedrooms. It smelled like old grease and something fouler, to the point where I wanted to cover my nose.

She led us past several doors until we came to a kitchen. Dishes were piled high in the sink, and the screen door leading into the backyard clanged as we entered. Someone had just left.

“Who was that?” Wash asked.

“Our cook, George, most likely. Got a warrant out on him. Probably thinks you’re here to pop him. But I ain’t never seen no cops dressed like you two.” She swept her hazy gaze down my body. “Especially not like this one here. Cops don’t wear heels.”

“Very astute, Ms. Barnett.” Wash gave another winning smile.

Ms. Barnett didn’t return it but motioned for us to sit at her kitchen table, the wooden surface marred with divots, burns, and other signs of heavy wear. It and Ms. Barnett both gave the impression of being worn out but still carrying on somehow. She sank down into a metal chair with a vinyl seat, sighing when she was finally off her feet.

Wash sat across from her, and I sat at his elbow before reaching into my bag and clicking on the recorder. She didn’t seem to notice. I drew out my legal pad and placed it on the table, knowing full well it would have sticky spots and grease on it when I left.

“Well, what you want to know?” She pulled a pack of cigarettes from a hidden pocket on her voluminous dress, took one out, and lit it up.

“What can you tell us about Rowan?”

She took a long drag and blew the smoke up, as if her mouth were a chimney or a steam whistle. “He was like all the rest of them here. Messed up. Violent. Surly. Angry at everything and everyone. Paid his rent late.” She shrugged.

“Did you ever see him with women?”

Her eyes darted to me and back to Wash. “A couple. They try to sneak them by me because they know I don’t allow them to get carnal in my house. Besides, if those truck stop trixies from down on Snow Street are going to stay here, they need to pay rent like everyone else. But I don’t rent to women.”

I itched to inform her of the flat-out illegality of her statement. I remained silent. More flies with honey.

“Snow Street?” Wash had slipped into his friendly interrogation mode, leaning back in his chair, one hand on the table, one in his lap—completely at ease.

“Yeah, two blocks over. Truck stop over there is where all the hookers hang around, trying to put their sin on any man who drives up or walks by.” She shook her head and took another drag. Her sallow skin seemed even yellower as she smoked, as if the smoke added an extra layer of age to her wrinkled face.

“You think Rowan picked up some girls there?”

“I think so, yeah.”

“He ever get violent with them that you know of?”

She shifted in her seat with a grunt. “There was one. Ambulance came.”

“When was this?”

“I don’t remember.” She grinned, several teeth missing or crooked. Her gaze moved down to Wash’s front pocket where he’d stowed the money. “I might need some help to get the details right.”

Wash drummed his fingers on the table. “One-fifty. That’s it. Now tell me.”

She took another drag and spoke through the smoke. “Been about six months ago. One of the girls from the truck stop. She’d come with Rowan and that other one, the one with all them tattoos.”

“Who?”

“Graves. Lived in 2B. Rowan lived in 1B. Anyway, Rowan had brought her home with him one night. It was about three in the morning, and the very best racket woke me up. Screaming and banging. I didn’t investigate. I never do whenever it gets like that. Someone called the cops. I tried to keep them out, but they came on in anyway. Ran up there, found the woman. She’d been hurt pretty bad. Took her out on a stretcher. They arrested Rowan, dragged him down the stairs while he kept yelling he didn’t do nothing, that it was Tyler in 2B.”

“You know the woman’s name?”

“No, and I don’t care to. Women like that don’t belong in my house.”

I stifled my eye roll at the intensity of her hypocrisy—housing murderers and rapists yet looking down her nose at prostitutes.

“I know what you’re thinking, young lady.” She stared at me, and I got the distinct feeling she saw more than she let on. “But there’s a reason I don’t let women room here and don’t want the boys bringing them home. What happened to that poor girl that night is what I’m trying to prevent. These aren’t good men. I know that. But they have to live somewhere when they get out, don’t they? You want them in your neighborhood?” She cackled and snubbed her cigarette out in a cracked ashtray.

Good point.

“Did you tell the cops about that incident?” Wash snagged her attention again, to my relief.

She snorted. “I wouldn’t tell the cops if I was lying on the floor dying and one of them could save me.”

“What hospital did they take her to?”

“I think they said St. Paul’s, but I don’t remember.”

“Any other women for Rowan or Tyler, either one?”

“None that I knew about, but I suspect they brought some, yeah.”

“I take it Tyler doesn’t live here anymore?”

“No. I booted him after that incident. I don’t like cops in my house for no reason. I have enough trouble with them as it is.”

“Any idea where he went when he left?”

“No. Probably living under a bridge somewhere.”

“Was he friends with anyone else here, besides Rowan?”

“Yeah, I seen him talking to Gene. Lives in 3C.” She lit another cigarette.

“Got a last name? He still a tenant?”

“Rourke. He still lives here. If he keeps paying his rent late, not for long.” She took a puff and closed her eyes, as if pulling on the fresh cigarette were the height of her day.

“Is he home now?”

“Maybe.”

“What’s his story?”

“Rapist, thief, drug addict—same as all the rest of them.” She waved her hand, indicating the entirety of her house.

“Anyone else?”

She shrugged and pushed herself up with a labored breath. “I don’t know anything more than what I just told you. Now, I’m going to need you to pay up and get out.”

“I’d like to look at Rowan’s and Tyler’s rooms while we’re here.”

“Cops already looked through Rowan’s. Got a new tenant in there now. Tyler’s ain’t been leased yet. You can look, but it ain’t free.” She turned on the water as if she were about to do the pile of filthy dishes.

“Two hundred.”

The water turned off just as swiftly as it turned on. “Done.” She fished around in yet another hidden pocket and dug out a key ring. She plucked two keys off the ring and palmed them. “Money first.”

Wash and I rose, and he got his wallet back out and added another hundred to the one he’d already earmarked for her. “What about the tenant in Rowan’s room?”

“He’s day-working someplace. Won’t be back till you’re long gone.” She held out her empty hand.

Wash placed the cash in it and took the keys from her other one. “You have a phone number I can call if I have any more questions for you?”

She turned the water back on. “I have a phone. Look it up in the phone book. Can’t promise I’ll answer if you call.” She looked over her shoulder and grinned. “Probably won’t.”

“Fair enough. Thanks for your help, Ms. Barnett.”

“Just leave them keys next to the front door when you’re done.”

“Will do.” Wash motioned for me to walk ahead of him in the hall. I tucked my notepad under my arm and led the way as Ms. Barnett began singing in an oddly pleasant voice as the clatter of dishes arose at our backs. Her voice must have been beautiful when she was younger, though now it was rough from too many cigarettes.

I took the stairs carefully, some of the steps more creaky than others. They were almost soft, the wood so old or so ill used that it was breaking down.

At the landing of the second floor, a stained, threadbare runner covered the length of the hallway. There were six doors on this floor, each marked with a room number in Sharpie.

“Let’s take Rowan’s first.” Wash approached the door marked 1B and inserted the key. The lock turned with a squeak, and the door swung inward. A musty smell floated into the hall, mixing with the already unpleasant odors that seemed to permeate the house.

Wash felt around on the wall inside until he found a light switch. Mental note: hand sanitizer as soon as we leave. The light was a bare bulb hanging overhead. The windows were covered with some frayed black fabric, almost completely blocking the sun.

Wash moved inside, and I followed. There was an unmade twin bed, a dresser I recognized from the police photos, and a few other pieces of furniture. Whoever was renting the room had meager belongings, just two pairs of shoes and only a few items hanging in the small closet.

“Look around. We probably won’t find anything, but it’s worth a try.” Wash bent down and peered under the bed. He pulled a mini-flashlight from his pocket and clicked it on.

I went to the closet and flipped on the light. There were two simple T-shirts and a couple of pairs of pants. I pushed them aside, not really sure what I was looking for. Then I got to my knees and examined the floor, thinking there could be a Nancy Drew–esque loose board hiding a psycho treasure trove of prostitutes’ fingers. Nope. Nothing. The wooden boards were tight.

“Ow!”

I looked behind me. Wash had a hand in his hair, rubbing his scalp. He was looking right at my rear. He must have hit his head on the bed.

I sat back on my haunches and gave him a “that’s what you get” look before I got to my feet. He stood, too, and went to the bookshelf next to the window, searching it as I took on the dresser, going through it drawer by drawer. I opened and immediately closed the underwear drawer. I wasn’t about to touch some guy’s grubby underwear. I finished my examination. Still nothing.

I peeked behind the mirror and saw a blood smear at the same spot where Rowan’s T-shirt had been stuffed in the police photo.

“Anything?” Wash asked.

“Nope.”

The room was a bust.

Wash checked behind the door for any last-minute clue finds—nothing there—and we left. “Let’s try Tyler’s room.”

We reentered the hallway and stopped so Wash could relock the door. As he turned the key, a shuffling noise caught my attention. I turned. It was coming from the door to 3B, Gene Rourke’s room.

“I think he’s home,” I whispered.

Wash dropped the keys into his pocket and took the few steps to Rourke’s door before knocking. “Mr. Rourke, would you mind speaking with us?”

Only silence. Wash knocked again, louder. “We just want to know about some former neighbors. You aren’t in trouble.”

“If you don’t get the heck away from my door, you’ll be the one in trouble, idiot.” The voice was menacing, and a chill ran down my spine.

Wash tried again. “Mr. Rourke—”

“I said back the heck up!” Rourke pounded the door as he yelled, rattling it on its hinges.

Suddenly, I had no desire to interview him whatsoever, and took a step back. Wash, unfazed, took a card from his pocket and slipped it under the door. “Call me if you change your mind.”

I stared, not sure whether he was brave or foolish.

He rose and smirked. “I’m used to it. Come on, let’s check Tyler’s room.”

He strode to 2B and unlocked it. I eyed 3B, but thankfully, the door didn’t open. Though I didn’t want to meet Gene Rourke, he’d done more than enough to add himself to my list of possible Bayou Butcher suspects. I’d find out all about him—but from a safe distance.

“Ready?” Wash asked and gripped the door handle.

“Lets see what’s behind door number two,” I said with my best game-show-host intonation.

The corner of Wash’s lips quirked a bit. Gotcha.

Tyler’s room was a little larger than Rowan’s but emptier. The bed was stripped down to just a mattress, and the dresser drawers hung half open. The windows were framed with dingy floral curtains that let in a decent amount of light. I’d stared at the few pictures I had of Tyler, mostly mug shots, trying to figure out if his close-set eyes were those of a killer. I tried to imagine him here in this room, shuffling around or playing with knives, or reading the newest issue of the Sociopath Gazette.

Wash hit the floor and inspected under the bed as I went to the closet again. Bare wire hangers and some dust bunnies were all I saw. I stomped around a bit in my heels, looking for the secret compartment again. No dice. Again. I stood on tiptoe to see if anything was on the closet shelf. I saw something brown in the far back corner.

I stretched up and reached for it, my fingers barely touching whatever it was.

“Let me.” Wash was at my back, his body pressed into mine as he brushed my hand with his and grabbed what turned out to be a small brown paper bag.

I relaxed back down into my heels and ignored the fire along my skin his nearness caused. My rear was against his upper thighs, and all I could think of was how close his cock was to me, how easy it would be for him to lock the door and throw me down and—Focus.

His breath tickled through my hair. “What do we have here?”

The bag crinkled in his hand as he brought it down.

“Somebody forgot his lunch?” Why did my voice have to quaver and give me away?

“Could be.” He took our prize to the dresser. “But I’m hoping it’s something a little more sinister.”

I followed him, trying to calm myself. “Like hooker fingers?”

“Yes, something like that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of gloves. I still wasn’t creeped out, just impressed.

He pulled them on and opened the bag. Gripping the bottom, he dumped out the contents instead of reaching inside. Smart. Could be needles or something worse in there. I held my breath as the contents spilled out.

“What the heck?” I cocked my head to the side.

“Definitely not hooker fingers.” Wash picked up one of the small, carved wooden pieces, seven of them total in the bag and nothing more.

“That one looks like a mongoose or something? Maybe like a ferret?”

“It’s a fox, Ms. Montreat.” He put the piece down and picked up another.

“What’s that one? Looks kind of like a bird.”

“This”—he twirled it in his fingers—“is an egret, I believe.”

“Yeah, an egret’s a bird.”

“Well done, Ms. Montreat. I’ll call the bar the moment we leave and tell them about your spectacular lawyering abilities.” His lips quirked, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to kiss him or hit him. This was a problem.

He went through the rest of the pieces—a snake, a rabbit (could have been a cat), a deer, a wolf (could have been a hyena), and a bear.

“So, call me crazy, but I don’t think these are made of human bones or anything, so what are they?”

“Luke said he came from a long line of woodworkers.”

“Right, the desk. So, maybe Tyler is a whittler in his spare time or something? Family tradition and all that?”

Wash picked up the wolf (hyena), clicked on his flashlight, and aimed it at the wood. “Maybe, but, unless I’m mistaken, each of these tokens has been stained with blood. See?” He flipped it over and shone the light on a divot in the bottom. The natural wood was clearly a light maple or something similar. But the rest was stained a dark rust.

“What makes you think it’s blood?”

He held it up to my nose. “Take a sniff.”

I tentatively inhaled. Copper and something sickly. I stepped back. “Okay. I’m convinced. And, for the record, that’s messed up.”

He clicked off his flashlight and stuffed the tokens back into the bag. “Excellent analysis.” He handed me the bag. “Hide that, would you?”

I stuffed it into my purse, cringing at the thought of human blood stored inside my Kate Spade. Wash gave the room one more sweep before we left, locking the door behind us, and left the keys next to the front door on our way out. Ms. Barnett was nowhere to be seen, but the scent of cigarette smoke lingered. She couldn’t have been far.

Stepping outside was like being reborn. I took a few deep breaths of air, finally free from the closeness and stench of the halfway house. I felt like I needed a shower. Wash helped me across the broken walk and even opened my car door for me. I sank inside and gave the house one more look before we pulled away from the curb.

I dug through my purse, carefully avoiding the paper bag, and pulled out some hand sanitizer. “Hand.”

Wash obeyed and proffered his palm. A flash of what it felt like to have his hands on me made me over-squirt on him.

“Am I that dirty?” He smirked.

I flipped the lid closed and rubbed my palm along his to use the excess. “There, crybaby. Better?”

He laughed and scrubbed his hands together. “Crybaby?”

I shrugged. “If the shoe fits, lace that jerk up and wear it.”

“Words of wisdom if I’ve ever heard them.” He smiled, the dimples so close that I pretended they were actually present. Panty melting in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1. “So what do you make of the wooden pieces?”

Dang.

“Seven pieces. Seven victims. The blood on them. I mean, it seems like a shoe-in for Tyler to be the killer. I would ask you if we should go to the police, but I think you and Ms. Barnett are on the same page when it comes to talking to our friends in blue.”

He eased the car onto the interstate. “You could say that.”

“So what are we going to do with them?”

“Give them to Dr. Snider for testing. The blood’s degraded, but I’m hoping he’ll be able to tell us if they at least match the blood types of the victims. We likely can’t get thorough DNA testing without alerting the State something’s up. That’s the last thing we want to do.”

“Are we going to do a Perry Mason?”

He arched a brow over his glasses as we soared above the river, free of barges and only a few scattered ships here and there. “A Perry Mason?”

“You know, the defense attorney from that old black-and-white show.” I’d watched every episode when I was a kid. Law & Order had nothing on Mr. Mason.

“Of course I know who he is. But what did you mean in particular?”

“Oh, I was thinking that we could get Tyler on the stand and whip out those bad boys and say, ‘What sort of guy keeps blood-soaked whittled toys lying around—two of which are arguably a cat and a hyena?’ And then Tyler breaks down and confesses that he’s the real killer. You know, Perry Mason–style.”

Wash laughed. Actually laughed with dimples and everything. Was I talking? Had I been talking? All I could see was him. More dazzling than the sun off the Mississippi on a summer day. Why would he ever hide this part of himself behind the hardass exterior? He was beautiful, real.

He glanced over at me and no doubt noticed the star-struck look on my face. Or maybe I was drooling. I didn’t know. All I could think was dimples.

“You okay?”

“Me?” I tore my gaze away and stared at the looming buildings of downtown. “Yes. Fine.” My heart went wild, unsure whether it should beat or just implode.

“You looked sort of . . . sort of, I don’t know, entranced or something.”

“I was just thinking about the case.” I said it too quickly, and all the words ran together into an unintelligible mess.

“Sure. Sure, Ms. Montreat. Keep up the good work.” His smirk had returned.

Though I hadn’t been sure earlier whether I wanted to kiss him or hit him, his smirk drove me to come down pretty hard on the side of violence. His wall was back up, but I’d seen him. The real him. The one who could laugh and melt me down to my basic elements. The one who’d tasted me. My nipples hardened at those memories, and I pulled the cardigan tighter around me to ward off the goose bumps that claimed my skin.

“Once we get back to the office, call Dr. Snider’s office to see about dropping off our evidence. Don’t use a runner. I want a clear chain of custody. From your hands to Dr. Snider’s, no intermediaries. Tell him I want a custody log kept for it as well and that we need results as soon as possible. He likely won’t have comparators on the blood samples until Friday when we visit the morgue.”

I nodded. Thoughts of the morgue effectively cooled the warmth he’d stoked in me. I nibbled my lower lip.

“I’ll be with you, remember?” His voice had softened.

“I know. I just hope I don’t faint and make a jerk out of myself.”

He pulled into the deck and took his usual spot. He turned his sapphire blues on me and reached up to touch my cheek, the softest graze of his fingers.

I was on fire again. My lips parted and my chest was suddenly tight. He was like a syringe of adrenaline plugged right into my vein.

He held my gaze. “I would never let you fall. I’ll catch you every time.”

I believed him, believed every word. We leaned into each other, the air suddenly heavy with everything that had been simmering under the surface. He hesitated, just a moment away from my lips.

“Say you want me to kiss you.” He slid his fingers down my cheek to my neck. They were like brands, burning me with the most enjoyable possession.

His touch wasn’t enough. His lips wouldn’t be enough. I wanted more than kissing. I wanted all of him. He stroked his fingers along my collarbone, moving my cardigan out of the way as he went.

“Just say it, Caroline.” It was a growl, the fire in his eyes mirroring my own.

“I want . . . ,” I sighed as his fingers traveled lower, stroking the swells of my breasts.

He smiled, a wolf about to enjoy his prey.

No. I leaned away. My body screamed for me to stop, to bring his fingers back. I wouldn’t. He was gaming me. I was falling for it. I refused. The lust cleared enough for me to see I’d almost lost to him.

“Caroline.” His gaze strayed to my lips and lower, taking in the places on my skin he’d lit on fire with his touch.

“No, Mr. Granade. Purely professional, remember?” I couldn’t keep the breathiness from my voice, but I could open the car door and step out. He shadowed me on his side. I caught the slightest movement, as if he were adjusting himself in his pants, before I took off toward the elevators.

He followed, both of our briefcases slung over his shoulder. I held my hand out, silently asking for my bag. He didn’t give it to me, just stared down at me with an intensity that threatened to make my blood bubble over again.

The elevator doors opened. I stepped on and turned, putting my hand up. “I think you should take the next one.”

His eyes opened wide. “What?”

“You heard me.” I stepped back, so the doors could close, but kept my palm up, warding him off.

He took another step forward, like a bull ready to charge.

I knew if he got on the elevator with me, I’d cave. The thought of his hands on me, his body pinning me to the wall, made my panties stick to me. I gave him my best stern look even as his eyes burned into mine.

I breathed a sigh of relief when the doors closed. I’d cockblocked myself, pretty much. I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“Game face, Caroline. Game face.” I pep-talked myself in the reflective doors. My mind was on board; my damp panties, not so much.

If things kept going like this, I would be begging him to kiss me by the end of the day.

Chapter Ten

CAROLINE

The next day, Wash and Mr. Palmer were booked for a partner meeting in the morning, so I decided to check out Ms. Barnett’s lead on the prostitute who was taken to St. Paul’s Hospital after the violent episode at the halfway house. I called NOPD and talked to their records clerk. He didn’t have anything other than a police report on the incident.

He faxed me a copy, but the report was bare except for the date and time of the call and the officers responding. The victim was listed as a Jane Doe. I phoned the hospital, hoping for answers. After a long phone call, mostly spent on hold, got me nowhere thanks to HIPAA, I decided to go do some in-person sleuthing.

I gathered my things and walked passed the glass-encased conference room where Wash and Mr. Palmer sat with their accountant. Wash raised an eyebrow, but I kept moving. He didn’t have to hold my hand every step of the way. I stopped by the courthouse, getting a stamped subpoena to serve on the hospital to avoid any more privacy red tape. With official documents in hand, I was ready to pounce on St. Paul’s records department.

The facility was in a dingy part of town, and its four-story façade appeared moldy and gray in the morning light. I entered and followed the signs leading toward the business offices. The entire place smelled like bleach with an undercurrent of something foul. I focused on the bleach as I turned a corner and passed through the administrative section.

At the end of a long, echoing corridor, I came to a window with a sign above it marked records.

The older woman behind the pane of glass glanced over her glasses at me. “Help you?”

“Yes, I have a subpoena for records.” I’d never done this before, but I did my best to project an air of confidence.

She stared. I stared back. Was I supposed to say more?

“For what records?” She tapped her impossibly long nails on her desk.

“Oh, um, for records about a woman who was brought here a couple of months ago.” I stuffed the subpoena under the glass partition.

She unfolded the papers and read the entire sheet. It took an inordinate amount of time, and when she was done, she looked up at me and blinked slowly.

“So, can I get the records?” I put a hand on my hip.

Turning to her computer, she began to type much, much faster than she read. Before long she reached up to her screen and tapped on it with a blood red nail. “She gave her name as Ginger Smith when she was admitted.” She rolled her eyes. “A fake, I’m sure. She’d been beaten pretty badly and was released the next day. No contact information.” She hit a button, and a printer whirred to life behind her.

Ginger Smith. A name—even if it was a fake—was something I could work with. The printer kicked out a few more pages, and she collected them, banging them on her desk to get them straight before stapling the thin sheaf together with an efficient click.

“Twenty-five pages, twenty-five dollars. Cash or credit only. No checks.”

“Oh.” I pulled out my wallet and paid. She handed me the records.

I felt like I’d hit gold. I hurried back to my car and scanned through the papers, trying to find any particular detail that could help the case. Ginger reported pain in her face, neck, and stomach—all places where she’d been hit—and further requested a bevy of narcotics. I flipped to the next page, which consisted of nurses’ notes. Vital signs, medicines given, food ordered, and a mass of other unimportant details filled the pages. The last two sheets were covered with handwritten notes.

I skimmed until I found the needle in the haystack. A nurse with a curlicue style of writing seemed to have gotten more information from the reluctant Ginger Smith. “Lives on Alix St. off and on, worked part-time at the spool plant before laid off, no living family, refer to social services upon release.”

I checked my phone for directions to Alix Street. Only a few minutes from the hospital, the neighborhood was ramshackle and spotty. Burned-out houses and vacant lots overpowered the few dilapidated homes that remained standing.

Edging down the street, I ignored the curious looks from people sitting on curbs and standing in the shadow of front porches. The sun was high and bright, but it didn’t seem to warm the landscape, only made the flaws and cracks bigger, more insurmountable.

The street was thankfully short, and only a few homes were in livable condition. I steeled myself and grabbed my purse and a legal pad. Knocking on doors in broad daylight with plenty of witnesses around seemed safe enough, though my hand shook a little as I gripped the door handle and pulled. I stepped out and looped my bag over my shoulder.

My legal pad slipped from my hand, and I bent down to retrieve it, eliciting whistles from a couple of men standing on the corner about a block away. Great. I smoothed down my black skirt and picked my way across the high grass in front of the first house. It was a faded pink, the paint cracking and peeling in the humid New Orleans weather. I cleared my throat and knocked. Silence. I knocked again, louder this time. The stagnant air remained still, and no movement sounded from inside.

I turned and cut through the yard to the next house. Climbing the steps, I noticed two men from the street corner break off and head slowly in my direction. My heart sped up, but I swallowed the lump in my throat and knocked on the door. A dog barked from the other side, so loud and close that I yelped and backed up. Still barking violently, it clawed at the wooden door, shaking it on its hinges.

I retreated down the steps and back toward my car. The two men from the corner stood there waiting for me. One leaned against the passenger door; the other one was circling the car and peeking in the windows.

“Hey!” I stomped up, trying to hide my fear under a tough-gal mask. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Just looking, baby. That’s all.” He finished his inspection and came to stand next to his friend. “What are you looking for out here, anyway?” He dropped his gaze to my heels, then ran it up my bare legs to my skirt and then finally back to my eyes.

My thighs clenched together all on their own. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Me?”

I shook my head and clutched my legal pad tightly to my chest. “A woman. Ginger Smith.”

He smiled, a golden tooth glinting in the sunlight. “I don’t know no Ginger living on this street. What she look like?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then why are you looking for her?” the other one asked, then spit on the sidewalk.

“I just want to talk to her, is all.” I shifted from one foot to the other, trying to figure out how to get them off my car. This had obviously been a bad idea.

“She in trouble?” The inspector crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back.

“Not at all. She got beaten up pretty bad a few months ago. I work for St. Paul’s.” The lie flew into my head and out of my mouth. “Her insurance came through and paid for treatment. They also sent a check for her to cover expenses while she recovered. I’m just trying to get it to her.”

“I’ll give it to her.” The inspector held his hand out.

I raised an eyebrow. “How can you give a check to someone you just said you don’t know?”

He smiled again. “Tell you what. If you just out here handing out checks, give me one and I’ll show you where she is.”

I shook my head. “I’m not falling for it.” I took a deep breath and faked a confidence I didn’t feel as I walked around the car and opened the driver’s door. “I’ll look elsewhere.”

The men came around to my side, and I fought to tamp down the wave of fear that roiled in my stomach.

“Hey now, wait just a good cursed minute. I said I’d take you to her, okay?” The inspector wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“How far?” My ruse was working, or at least it seemed to be.

“Close.” He pointed down the road behind him.

“We’ll see.” I sank into the car, the closeness of an escape comforting me a bit. “You walk. I’ll follow in the car. If she’s there and really is the woman I’m looking for, I’ll give you twenty dollars.”

The inspector ripped his beanie off his head, revealing a tangled mass of gray hair. “Twenty dollars. Incredible, jerk! You think this is 1980? That there ain’t no inflation or some trash? Two hundred and you got a deal.”

I sighed. “One hundred. Not a penny more. Now, walk.”

“That’s more like it.” He grinned. “You sure we can’t ride with you?”

I closed my door so quickly he had to jump back. “Walk,” I mouthed and pointed in the direction he’d indicated.

His face soured, and he spewed some of the vilest profanity I’d ever heard, to the point where I wanted to write some of the words down for future use, but he started walking. I rolled along behind him and his counterpart for a block and a half before they stopped in front of a burned-out wreck of a house.

I rolled my window down. “This?”

“Yeah. She in there.” He pointed.

Harass. “Nobody’s in there. It’s destroyed.” It had been a shotgun house at one point, long and narrow with a quaint front porch. No more.

“Incredible, jerk.” He threw his hands up and placed them on the roof of my car as he leaned in the window. His breath was a mix of whiskey and rot. “You think just because this house ain’t nice and fancy like where you probably live that people can’t live here. Now, give me my money.”

“Yeah, give him the money.” The sidekick banged on the roof behind me.

I jumped at the noise and then schooled my features. “Once I see her.”

“Well, get the heck out of the car, Ms. High and Mighty.” The inspector backed away.

I scrutinized the house. There was no way anyone could live inside. Half the roof was gone, and there was no front door. It was a wide-open sore. Or maybe a rape and murder pit just waiting for its next victim. The inspector and his sidekick weren’t giving me any reassurances on that front.

I dug around in my bag and pulled out my emergency hundred along with a slim canister of pepper spray. I palmed the spray and opened my door, slamming it and locking it behind me with the remote entry.

“Go on.” The inspector gestured toward the house.

“You first.” I narrowed my eyes.

“Idiot. This ain’t even worth a hundred dollars.” He turned around and strode down the grassy walk before hopping onto the porch and disappearing into the front door.

The sidekick went back to leaning against my car as I followed the inspector. The stairs creaked under me, and voices erupted from inside.

“Get the heck up. You got company.” His voice.

“What? Who? Customer?” A woman’s voice, hoarse and filled with sleep.

“No, you used-up whore. Get up.”

“Ow!” she yelled. “Get the heck out my house.”

“Hey! Hey, rich jerk! She in here.”

I made a useless attempt to settle my nerves and walked through the charred opening, pepper spray at the ready. The fire had blackened the walls and left gaps from room to room. Movement toward the back caught my eye, and I maneuvered around fallen beams and hanging wires until I came to the one room that still had a piece of roof over it. A dirty mattress lay on the floor, and a woman in a T-shirt and nothing else was sitting on it as she and the inspector engaged in a shouting match.

“She from the hospital, woman!”

“What hospital?”

“Ms. Smith?” She quieted and glanced over at me.

“Get the heck outta here, Terrence.” She slapped at the inspector’s leg.

“I’m going, but I’m getting paid first.” He walked to me, smiling as if he’d just won the lottery.

I pulled the hundred-dollar bill from my pocket but didn’t hand it over yet. “Don’t let anything happen to my car.”

“That wasn’t part of the deal.” He frowned.

“I’m making it part of the deal. Got it?”

“Incredible.” He held his hand out, the palm crisscrossed with deep wrinkles. “I won’t touch it.”

“You better not, Terrence.” I held out the bill. “I’m tight with NOPD, and now I have a name to track you down by.”

He snatched the bill from my hand and walked away. “Nice doing business, rich jerk.”

I hit the lock button on my car again, just to make sure, and focused on Ginger Smith. “Ms. Smith?”

“Yeah?” She leaned back and pulled a dirty white sheet over her lower half. “You from the hospital? What you want?”

I squatted down to her level. “I’m not really from the hospital. Sorry about that. I’m an attorney.”

She crossed her thin arms over her chest. She was like a frail bird, far too thin. Tracks marked her arms, and her cheeks were hollowed out. “What you want?”

“You aren’t in trouble. I just wanted to ask you about something that happened a few months ago at a halfway house near here. You got hurt?”

She laughed, the sound harsh and grating. “I get hurt a lot. You gonna need to be more specific.”

“A man was arrested for hurting you. Rowan Ellis? And there maybe was another man. Tyler Graves? Or maybe a Gene Rourke?” I pulled Rowan’s mug shot and then Tyler’s up on my phone and showed them to her. She flinched when she saw Tyler’s face.

“You know him?”

She shuddered and drew her knees up. “You need to leave.” Her dark eyes watered.

“What did he do?”

“Go.” She turned her face away from me.

I dug in my bag, pulling out the last cash I had—two twenties. “I can pay for information.” I held my hand out.

She slapped my wrist away. “Money don’t help dead people. Get the heck out of my house.”

I recoiled at her sudden anger. “Please, I’m just trying to—”

“You just trying to get me killed. You just trying to get you killed.” She turned back to me, a tear rolling down her gaunt cheek.

I dropped all the way to my knees, the rotten wood sagging under my weight. “Please, just tell me what you know.”

“I’ll say this, and then you need to get the heck out, rich jerk.” She wiped her tear away with the back of her hand. “They will cut you and they will kill you and no one will ever find you. Leave.”

“Who?” I held the twenties out again.

She seemed to wrestle with hitting my hand away again, but then let out a long, defeated sigh. “Tyler and Chip.” Lifting her shirt to her protruding ribs, she showed me a mark. I leaned closer. It was the outline of some sort of animal, made entirely of scars. Someone had carved it into her flesh. She dropped her shirt and snatched the money.

“Now get out!” Her scream was like a bomb blast, sudden and intense.

I fell back and scrambled up.

“Out! Out! Out!”

I backed away, my heart slamming into my ribs, and turned to run. My heel caught in the floor, and I fell against the wall. Ripping my shoe free, I careened out the front door, down the steps, and into my car. The men were nowhere to be seen as I cranked it up and squealed tires out of the neighborhood.

“You what!” Mr. Granade slammed his palm on his desk and stood, leaning over and boring into me with his eyes.

I cringed back in my chair. “I, well, I thought I would follow up on that lead, so I—”

“So you went to a dangerous neighborhood all alone and spoke to a hooker and heaven knows what other sort of shady characters?”

I shrugged. “I was just trying to follow up, do a good investigation. Also, I’ll need the firm to reimburse me for the one hundred and forty dollars I paid for the information.”

“Dang it, Caroline, this isn’t a joke!” he roared.

Shirley came to the door, glanced at me with a dark look, and pulled it closed.

“You can’t just go out on your own like that.” He seemed to wrestle with getting his voice to a normal level, though his eyes still burned. “Do you have any idea what could have happened to you?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “I did fine. I got a name, didn’t I? Chip. And now I know where Ginger Smith is.”

“Yeah, you know where she was. If your description of her is accurate, I can guarantee you she’s already long gone. And a first name doesn’t get us anywhere. Do you know how many Chips live in New Orleans?”

“Seventy-four.” I smirked. I didn’t come into his office without some ammo.

He shook his head and sat back down. “Did you check them already?”

“I did. Only a couple seemed like possibles. But I’m going to do some more investigating on their backgrounds. Otherwise, I suspect it may be a nickname.”

“Likely.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m serious, Caroline. You can’t do that ever again. Got me? From now on, we investigate together. Only together. I don’t know what I would have done if . . .” He trailed off as the tension along his jaw and around his eyes softened.

I nibbled my bottom lip. Maybe he was right and I’d been a bit rash. His genuine concern was more than a little convincing.

I took a deep breath and uncrossed my arms. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“Good.” He turned to his computer, dismissing me in that stark way of his.

I rose and opened the door.

“Turn in your expense report to Shirley. She’ll get you reimbursed.”

“Okay. I will.” I had pulled the door almost all the way closed behind me when he spoke.

“Poor execution, Ms. Montreat, but excellent instincts.”

“Thank you.” I stared at his broad back and dark hair, trying to figure out what was going on in his head.

“It wasn’t exactly a compliment.”

“I’ll take it as one, all the same.”

His shoulders shook with a short laugh. “Get out, Ms. Montreat.”

“Yes, sir.” I pulled the door closed and smiled, not even bothering to hide it from Shirley. Excellent instincts.

Chapter Eleven

WASH

After our initial interview with Ms. Barnett and Caroline’s lead on Ginger Smith, our trail on Tyler Graves went cold. It was like he’d disappeared from the city. He’d lived here his entire life. There was no way he’d finally decided to ditch this late in the game, especially not when his fall guy was under lock and key and set for a speedy trial. Something didn’t smell right about it, but even after talking to a number of his former associates and dealers, we were no closer to finding him.

I sat at my desk and watched the sun go down, the final rays coloring the sky an exotic pink with streaks of orange. Our morgue visit was set for the next morning. I could only hope Dr. Snider would find some evidence on the bodies or in the autopsies to back up our defense that Rowan couldn’t have been the real killer.

Our only other lead, Gene Rourke, had a sizable rap sheet, but nothing else to link him to the murders. Even so, his violent past kept him at the top of our suspect list. He and Tyler had the same tastes in beating and raping hookers. Maybe they were working together to commit the murders.

Even with two other possible suspects out there, the evidence against my client was condemning: the bloody T-shirt, the multiple violent run-ins with hookers, the drugs. He was a shoe-in for lethal injection of the year. I’d been in spots as tough, but not many tougher. Either Rowan did it or someone framed him. Didn’t matter. The jury would hear nothing but the latter from my lips, even if I had only a few odd wood carvings to go on.

My thoughts dropped like leaves from a tree, and I was left with the solid trunk—the images and memories that always came to the forefront whenever I was overtired or incapable of concentrating. Caroline. She’d been with me all week, going to some rough neighborhoods and trying to shake information loose.

She was quick on her feet, wily even. Her seemingly guileless brown eyes and sexy wardrobe choices definitely helped our investigation, but did nothing to keep my cock from getting hard at inappropriate moments.

Even though I’d pressed her, telegraphed how much I’d wanted her, she would never ask me to kiss her. I was burning to touch her again, to run my hands along her smooth skin and tell her how beautiful she was, how smart, how deeply she got to me. She wouldn’t give in, and idiot if that didn’t make me want her more.

“Hey, man.” Kennedy, my younger brother, strode into my office without knocking.

I whirled. “What are you doing up this way?”

Kennedy was a plaintiff’s attorney with an office on the edge of the French Quarter. He plopped down into one of my chairs and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “We’re drinking tonight, remember?”

“We are? On a Thursday?”

“Yeah, Lincoln’s in town.” Kennedy whistled and looked out my window.

Lincoln was my older brother. I hadn’t seen him since a recent trip to New York where I sat in on a case as opposing counsel. He wasn’t pleased. I didn’t give a hoot.

“I don’t want to see him.” I knew it was a losing battle, but I would fight it anyway.

“I know. But you’re gonna. If for no other reason than to make me happy.” Kennedy flashed his movie star smile, the one that got all the female associates falling all over themselves and offering up their panties.

“You could stop the peacemaker routine anytime, you know?” I packed up my briefcase. Once Kennedy was set on drinks and reconciliation, there was no stopping him.

“I know. But you need to get over that trash. Fawn was like, what, over ten years ago? And now she’s married to that douchenozzle Matt Turnbull. I think you’ve held the grudge for long enough, Wash. Besides, Linc’s got a new lady. I think it’s love. You’d dig her. She’s a hot little number with a dirtier mouth than even me.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think it’s possible for anyone to have a dirtier mouth than you.”

“Unbelievable, right? But she really does. Come on. You’ll see.” He stood and went to the window, using the reflection to smooth down his light brown hair. He was my height, but with deep brown eyes and a bigger build.

“Mr. Granade.” Caroline walked in, looking down at some papers. She wore her glasses today and looked like a naughty librarian. Hot. “I think I may have a few more addresses we could che—” She looked up and saw Kennedy. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company. I’ll come back later.”

She smiled at Kennedy, and something crept up my spine. A feeling that was as out of place as it was strong. I wanted her to smile at me. Just me.

Kennedy returned her smile, the predator clicking into place. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Kennedy, Wash’s brother.” He walked to her and held out his hand.

“I’m Caroline.” She took it, and they shook. “I’ve seen you a couple of times, and, of course, Mr. Granade speaks highly of you.”

I did? I was pretty sure I’d never mentioned Kennedy to her. She was good.

“Mr. Granade?” Kennedy didn’t drop her hand. “He makes you call him that?”

She giggled. My hands fisted.

“It’s all very professional around here, Mr. Granade.”

His smile grew wider. “Oh, no. Now that just won’t do. You call me Kennedy. Actually, you can call me whatever you want.” He winked.

I had never wanted to hit Kennedy. Not even when we were teenagers and got into an extremely heated argument over whose turn it was to be first player in Super Mario. But at that moment in my office, I could have knocked him out cold without remorse. He was touching what was mine. Smiling at what was mine. Winking at what was mine.

“Well, Caroline, Wash—I mean Mr. Granade—and I are about to go get some drinks. Come with us and give us something prettier to look at than each other.”

“Oh, I don’t think—”

“Good, don’t think about it. Just do it.” He released her hand. “We’re leaving in five. Be ready and we’ll swing by your office and pick you up.”

I glared at Kennedy. He was oblivious as always.

“I, um.” She glanced over to me.

I ran a hand through my hair, barely resisting the urge to pull it.

“Sure, I guess.”

“Good. Glad we came to an agreement. Now, run along. We’ll be there in four and a half minutes.”

She smiled again, demure in her glasses. I knew better. I knew how she tasted. Once she’d gone, her hips swinging in her heeled boots, I turned on Kennedy.

“The heck are you doing?” I kept my voice down, but at that point, a yell would have been more than warranted. Kennedy had the amazing ability to walk into the middle of any situation and phoo up. Case in point.

He shrugged. “She’s hot. Thought it might be nice to have some company instead of watching you and Linc try to choke each other with angry stares.”

“Don’t talk about her like that.” I tried to stay calm, to keep the jagged edge of anger out of my voice.

I failed.

Kennedy stopped primping in the window and turned to me. “Since when did you care what I said about . . .” He trailed off, and I could almost see him making the connection. “You got a thing for your associate.” He smiled, big and dumb, just like he did when we were kids.

“No. We try to maintain a professional workpl—”

“You harassed her, didn’t you?” He laughed and slapped his thigh.

I went to the door and slammed it. I was pretty sure no one was still around my end of the office, but still, I didn’t want to risk Caroline’s reputation. “Kennedy! Cut it the heck out.”

“No, no.” He was still laughing. “I’m sorry. It’s just—it’s just you’re such a robot sometimes. It’s perfect. Of course she got to you. I should have known the minute she smiled. Sexy, warm, clearly smart if she works for you. You didn’t stand a chance.” He was almost howling.

I didn’t find any of his words so funny, especially not when he was talking about how sexy Caroline was. “Kennedy, I’m warning you.” I stepped toward him.

He fell back against the window and clutched his chest over his heart. “Oh, man, thanks for that. I needed a laugh today, no kidding. Goodness, this is going to be all kinds of fun. You, Lincoln, and that little hottie.”

“Her name is Caroline, Kennedy. Caroline Montreat. Call her that. Not hottie, not sexy. Got it?” I stepped closer, my hands fisted. I was being an irrational jerk. Kennedy was just being a regular jerk—par for the course for him.

“Okay, I got it, scrapper. Don’t do a repeat of the Fawn incident on me. I didn’t harass her out from under you. Relax.”

The thought of Kennedy Caroline made my brain short-circuit for a second, and I took two more menacing steps toward him.

“Whoa. You are serious about her. Sorry, man. I didn’t realize.”

I uncoiled, though the need to pummel him still flickered in the back of my mind. “No.” I shook my head. “I’m just being a toe. To you and her. I made some mistakes. Anyway, long story. But I’m trying to keep it strictly business with her now.”

Kennedy laughed and walked to me. “Good luck with that. I can already”—he put a hand to my forehead—“yep. Looks like you’re coming down with a case of the pussy-whipped. Might be terminal.”

I slapped his hand away and laughed. Idiot.

“That’s better.” He patted me on the shoulder and walked to my door. “Come on. Maybe I can find another hot associate to poach on our way out.”

Chapter Twelve

CAROLINE

Yvonne jammed her elbow into my ribs and I bumped my drink, the tasty contents splashing onto the bar.

“Sorry about that.” She smiled, her perfect teeth bright white even in the low light.

“No problem.” I rubbed the spot and considered just knocking her the heck off the barstool. I refrained, barely.

She turned back to Kennedy, chatting him up about his firm. She rested her hand on his forearm as she spoke, staking her claim. When she took a sip of her drink, Kennedy winked at me over the top of her head, as if we were in the wooing game together.

More power to you.

I liked Kennedy. He was funny and handsome, but I would be fooling myself if I thought there was anyone I wanted more than I wanted Wash. He sat on the other side of Kennedy, as far away from me as possible while still maintaining some semblance of being associated with us. So I gulped down my drink and ordered another.

The French Quarter bar was filled with locals and tourists, the mix making for interesting people-watching. A drunk guy stood by the door, greeting everyone who entered, though the bartender made clear the guy didn’t actually work there. A live band was warming up in the back on a stage the size of my closet. Random guitar riffs and snares colored the hum of people talking and drinks being made.

“Hi, welcome to this here bar!” the drunk called.

I looked to my left at the door. A gorgeous woman with auburn hair walked in with a tall, dark-haired stunner behind her. He had a scar running through his eyebrow, giving him a rough feel, but he was well dressed in a business suit.

“Linc!” Kennedy jumped up from his barstool and went to greet them. The men hugged it out as the redhead watched with interest.

“And who is this beauty?”

“This”—Lincoln put his arm around her—“is Evan, my fiancée.”

“Engaged? Shut the heck up!” Kennedy clapped his hands and yelled, “Barkeep, buy everyone a round on me.”

Lincoln beamed, looking almost boyish as the redhead stared at him with open adoration. They were a striking pair.

All three dodged the greeter drunk and came to where I was at the bar.

Evan shook Wash’s hand. “Good to see you again.”

So they knew each other?

“Same here. I didn’t realize you and Linc . . . well, it doesn’t matter. Congratulations.” Wash’s voice was strained, but his gaze rested on his older brother, not Evan.

“Good to see you, Wash.” Lincoln smiled, and there was something almost vulnerable in it, as if he expected Wash to hurt him.

“Yeah.” Wash turned and resumed his seat at the bar. Burn.

Kennedy shrugged. “And this here is Yvonne. And the blonde on the end is Caroline Montreat.” He leaned up and whispered something in Lincoln’s ear.

Lincoln tried to play off whatever information changed hands, but he smiled and shot me a couple of furtive glances.

“Idiot, I need a drink.” The redhead climbed onto the barstool next to me and signaled the bartender with an authoritative wave. I could already tell I liked her.

“Evan, is it?”

“That’s me.” To the bartender she said, “Hey, whose toe do I have to suck to get a drink around here?” Her accent was almost harsh to my ears, definitely not southern. But the way she talked just made me smile like an idiot.

“That would be mine.” Lincoln moved up behind her and handed his credit card to the harried bartender. “Start a tab. Anything she wants.” He kissed her on the top of her head and went back to talking to Kennedy.

She smiled, and not a minute passed before she was sucking down a hurricane through a twizzle straw.

“So, what do you do, Evan?”

“Lawyer. Mostly plaintiff’s work. You?”

“Lawyer. Criminal defense.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Tried any cases? Give me some details. You got lots of bad guys? Some real dirt? Nasty trash?”

Something about the way she asked made me think of an addict looking for a hit. I shrugged and went with it. “Wash and I have a murder case right now. Heard of the Bayou Butcher?”

She nodded, her smile growing.

“He’s our guy. We’re working the case right now. Wash and me . . .” For some reason, likely named “alcohol,” I let the end trail off as I pondered the implications of “Wash and me.”

She gripped her temples. “Brain freeze, but that trash was worth it.” She’d drained her oversized glass. She glanced over my head and then refocused on me. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since I got here. You know that, right?”

“I, um, I guess?” In fact, I did not know that. I took another drink.

She smiled. “Okay, let me help you out. You’re a bad jerk. I can see this already. Us bad jerks have to stick together.”

She kept rubbing her temples, and I leaned closer.

“These Granade boys.” She waved her hand in an arc and almost smacked me. “They are a different breed, okay? They are complicated, smart, sweet, and monsters in the sack. At least that’s been my experience with Lincoln.”

I nodded. “Yes, same.”

“Good. Now, the trick with Lincoln.” She crinkled her nose, as if she were deep in thought. “Actually, the trick with Lincoln was that he never gave up on me.”

She motioned for the bartender. “Another one of those, and get one for my friend here.”

“Thanks.” I’d already had three drinks, but a hurricane didn’t sound half bad. I would go home early and have a snack. Yes. I would have a snack and soak up the alcohol and not have a hangover. Right.

“Where was I? Yes. Perseverance. That’s the key. I’ve worked with Wash. I know what he’s doing with that whole ‘I’m a toe’ persona. I am intimately familiar with how to use said persona. But that’s what it is. A persona. Get to the man underneath and sink your nails in.” She dug her nails into the bar for emphasis. “And don’t let go. Got me?”

“I got you.” I clawed at the air.

We both devolved into laughter and accepted our fresh drinks from the bartender.

“Bottoms up, jerk.” She toasted me.

We drank. And laughed.

And drank.

And then I was in my bed.

And then there was an earsplitting noise. I cracked my eyes open and saw the blur of my ceiling fan. What the? The earsplitting noise was my clock radio playing a soft tune at the lowest volume. I wailed on the poor snooze button.

I closed my eyes and dozed off until the noise began again. Three more times I destroyed the snooze button.

“Hey. Rise and shine, my favorite drunk.” Terrell’s voice cut through my haze. “You have a date with disgusting destiny this morning at the morgue.”

I almost retched right then and there.

“That’s what I thought. Goodness, you still smell like a vodka distillery.”

“What? What happened?”

“You don’t remember Wash and some redhead dropping you off at midnight?” Terrell came into focus, already dressed for work in an impeccable suit and tie.

“No.”

He peeled back my covers. I was wearing a T-shirt and panties.

“How did I—”

“I changed your clothes. Saw you naked and everything. I promise nothing happened.” He smiled and shook his head. “But you may be pregnant. Just saying.”

I snorted, which was a bad idea. My headache had been a distant echo; now it was a jackhammer in my ear.

“Come on.” He handed me a fizzy glass of water. “Drink up. I’m going to turn the shower on. I want you up and in it before I walk out the door. I’ll just tell everyone you’re running late because, oh, I don’t know, I’ll say you’re having that period thing or something.”

I groaned. “Don’t you dare.”

“Kidding, kidding. I think everyone probably knows by now that you and the hardass got trashed last night. He was doing only marginally better than you. That redhead, though, she could hold her liquor.”

“She was . . . she was . . .” Who was she?

“Doesn’t matter. Drink and then shower.” He went to my bathroom and got the shower going as I chugged the medicated water that tasted the way dirty gym socks smell.

“Yick.” I scooted to the edge of my bed, the room spinning, and shucked off my T-shirt. I sat still until the spin calmed down to just a slight wobble.

Terrell came out and averted his eyes. “Ugh. I mean, uh, yeah, boobs and stuff. Yay. Please tell me you don’t need help getting in the shower.”

I dug the heel of my palm into my face. “I think I don’t.”

“Idiot.” He came over. “You owe me for this, breeder.” He helped me up and walked me to the steaming bathroom.

I dutifully slid my panties down and kicked them away. He helped me into the shower, the hot water like a slap in my face.

“Better?” He closed the curtain.

“I think. Yes. I think better. I can make it.”

“Okay. I can stay, or maybe run out and get you a Life Alert?”

“Go. I’ve got it now.” I let the water jar my dulled senses back to life.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there in like an hour.”

“Okay. I’ll make you some toast on my way out.”

“Thanks, Terrell.”

His steps retreated from the bathroom. “You’re welcome.”

I leaned my head on my forearm as the water cascaded down. What had I done last night? At least it sounded like Wash had been just as blotto as I was. If nobody remembers what happened, then nothing happened. Surely that was the way it worked. Surely.

I took a longer-than-usual shower and was slow to get ready. I didn’t even bother playing my sex vixen game with my wardrobe, just threw on some dressy slacks and a black V-neck sweater. I eyed what I considered sensible heels, but I didn’t even trust those not to land me on my face. I went with a pair of kitten heels instead.

My toast was popped up, cold but ready. My stomach turned just looking at it, but I knew if I didn’t at least nibble something, vomit was all but assured. I grabbed a piece and made my way to work.

I kept my sunglasses on even as I sank down at my desk. I hadn’t been this hungover in years, probably not since the first year of law school after a particularly raucous Halloween party.

Terrell must have heard me, because he dropped in. “You going to make it, legal eagle?”

“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” I put my head on my desk.

“Mr. Granade was here when I got in. His door’s closed, though.”

“So he was messed up last night, too?” Maybe I could rely on that to save me. He wouldn’t throw stones from his glass house.

“Yes. When he dropped you off, he kept asking if he could put you to bed.”

“He what?”

“Yep.” Terrell bounced his palm off my doorframe. “Sure did. I had to politely decline his offer.”

“Thank you.” I think.

“Sure thing. Anyway, just rest. I figure you won’t have to leave for your trip to the—”

I groaned.

“To that, you know, that place you’re going, for about fifteen minutes.”

“Go.”

“Jerk.” His voice had a smile in it.

I lifted my head. “Thanks. For everything.”

He shrugged. “By the way, I got one more thing for you.”

“Yeah?”

He grinned like a devil. “Yvonne called in sick today.”

I smiled. Jerk couldn’t handle a hangover. “Pussy.”

“Ding ding ding.” He laughed and trudged away to his office.

I dropped my head back down and willed the fizzy solution and toast to get me back to some sort of equilibrium.

“You ready?” Wash’s voice. Had it been fifteen minutes?

“Yeah.” I fumbled with my bag and my legal pad but eventually got everything straight. I stood and followed him to the elevator.

He seemed collected, his smooth stride giving nothing away. But he didn’t fool me. He was wearing the suit from the day before.

I couldn’t contain my snicker. He glanced over his shoulder, his locks falling across his forehead and begging my fingers to brush them back into place.

“Something funny, Ms. Montreat?”

“No. Nothing. Not a thing, Mr. Granade.”

We made the trip to the morgue without incident, though my dread grew with each block. What if I passed out? What if I vomited, which actually had better odds than ever before?

“It’ll be fine.” He pulled into a parking spot marked law enforcement outside the hospital’s back entrance. I liked his style.

Another car pulled up next to us, and a middle-aged man with a nearly bald pate stepped out. Dr. Snider. I’d taken him the wooden pieces earlier in the week. He was brilliant, but he was a talker. It took me an hour just to extricate myself from his presence. I feared today would be worse, since we were in his wheelhouse, so to speak.

“Try to give me some advance warning if you’re going to eat it, okay?” Wash smiled at me.

I didn’t find his joke amusing, mainly because of the real risk of just such an occurrence. We got out and shook hands with Dr. Snider before walking through the automatic doors and heading down to the basement.

“Any news on the blood testing?” Wash asked.

“The presumptive test was positive for blood, but we haven’t gotten the types or any other indicators yet. It’s not as easy when the blood has been dry like that for so long. As long as there are still some white blood cells intact, we should be able to extract DNA for comparators. Just going to take some effort, is all. We’ll do everything we can.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

The doors opened, and we entered a secured area where we had to check in. At least we weren’t searched.

Dr. Snider led us down the hallway, clearly knowing his way around. He took a left and pushed through a set of swinging doors. We followed.

The smell was almost instant. It wasn’t strong, but it was everywhere. Something dead, something rotten. It’s the sort of smell that makes some part of your primitive brain wake up and tell you to run. Death. There was no other word for it.

Dr. Snider kept marching forward, as if oblivious to it.

“You can do this.” Wash took my elbow and led me forward through another set of doors, metal this time.

The smell grew stronger. We were in a room with a few rows of metal litters, all thankfully empty. Along the back wall was a counter with neat rows of tools and instruments that I knew for a fact I never wanted to see in action.

A hospital worker was washing up in the sink. She turned when we entered. “Hi. What’s up, Dr. Snider?”

“Morning, Cindy. We’re here to see the Bayou Butcher victims.”

She finished washing and adjusted her high ponytail, making it painfully tight. “They’re in the deep freeze. You know where it is?”

“Sure, you know the bays?”

“No, I’ll get them for you. Hang on.” We followed her, my heels sliding across the slick tile floor. I tried not to look at the drain in the center or wonder what was in there.

We followed her to a wide metal freezer door. Cindy pulled a clipboard from the wall next to it and flipped a page. “They’re in seven through thirteen. Looks like sequential from estimated time of death. Here. I’ll make you a copy.” She left and came back in a moment with a copy of the manifest.

“Holler if you need me. I’ve got to do some check-ins from last night.”

“Will do. Thanks, Cindy.” Dr. Snider gripped the long door handle and looked back at Wash and me. “We ready?”

I tried to calm my racing heart.

“It’s going to smell worse. Just brace yourself. Be strong. You can do this.” Wash’s voice in my ear gave me strength to nod.

“Here we go.” Dr. Snider pulled the door open.

A blast of cold air and the smell hit me in the face. I was certain my face was green, because my stomach churned and threatened to upend itself all over my shoes.

“Just stand here for a minute.” Wash’s hand tightened at my elbow.

I peered through the swirl of frosty air and saw racks of black body bags. They were stacked like catering trays, but instead of food they were full of lost lives. Dr. Snider disappeared to the back of the space, and I heard a rolling metal-on-metal sound.

“Got the first one. Taking some pics. Come on in when you’re ready. Some interesting stuff,” he called.

“We’ll wait here as long as we need to.” Wash dropped my elbow and wrapped an arm around my waist. “It’s just a part of the job, Caroline. I’m sorry. I wish I could save you from it. But this is what we do.”

I looked up at him. There was concern in his eyes. Kindness lived there, too. I could do this.

I steeled myself and refused to puss out. “Let’s go.”

“All right. If you want to leave, just tell me.” Wash and I eased into the deep freeze, the cold setting up shop in my skin, my mind.

Dr. Snider was hunched over a body, turning it this way and that to get a view of everything. The body was almost bloodless, like all the other victims. White, so white. The cuts along her torso were clean somehow, the blood washed away. Just open gashes showing the bone and sinew underneath.

“What we got, Doc?”

“The pictures sent over from Dr. Russell were very good, really. He didn’t miss much in his initial examination. Clearly, cause of death was this acute injury across the neck. Perhaps a serrated blade, given the fine tears in the skin. She bled out in a matter of moments.”

I focused on the black bag as Dr. Snider continued. I glanced up when he found something of particular interest and found myself looking more and more often as he explained the injuries and marks on the victim’s body. The main point of note was the carving in her upper back.

“Looks like it was done with some artistry, but whatever it was supposed to be was distorted by the process of bloating and soaking in the water. No way to know. But the multiple lines and incisions, as well as the indicators of blood around the wound, suggest it was done while she was alive and done with several cuts. Would have been painful and bloody.”

I cringed and exchanged a knowing look with Wash. Carved. Just like the wooden totems we’d found in Tyler’s room.

“You sure you can’t tell if it looks like anything?” Wash asked.

“Look for yourself.” Dr. Snider continued examining the rest of her body, remarking on the missing pinky finger and on the ligature marks.

Wash and I approached her back and peered at the carved marks there. Dr. Snider was right. Whatever had been there was erased by decay. It was just a mess of cuts and pain.

“This is so messed up.” I said it on a hard exhale.

“Here.” Wash backed us up as Dr. Snider concluded his exam.

“I’m fine. Really.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I’m not going to faint. But I may have to take a shower immediately after we leave.”

“Me, too.”

We spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon at the morgue. Dr. Snider went over each victim, taking pictures and dictating notes as we inspected right along with him. Each woman had the strange carving in her back and was killed with a bloodletting. It was ritualistic, sick.

Wash and I thanked Dr. Snider on the way out, and Wash instructed him to have a report ready within the next few weeks. We would call Dr. Snider at trial for our side, mainly to deflate any testimony from Dr. Russell that might implicate our client. The cause of death wasn’t in question. The only real question was who did it. Rowan’s face flashed through my mind, the way he’d leered at me. Was he capable of this?

The fresh air outside the hospital was like a second chance at life, though I feared the particles from the deep freeze were ingrained in my skin.

Wash started up the car, and I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

“You didn’t swoon.” Wash smiled at me.

“Neither did you.” I smiled back. It was like we’d gone through a five-hour hell together. Bonded.

“I almost did a couple of times, but I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of you.”

“You’ve been doing that for weeks with or without a morgue.”

He laughed, the dimples dancing and making me forget all about death and murderers and work.

I shrugged. “Sorry. It was a softball.”

“No, no. It’s fine. I’ll get you back.” He drove through the city streets at a leisurely pace.

“Don’t threaten me, Mr. Granade.”

“Not a threat, Ms. Montreat. A promise. And I always keep my promises.”

His words sent a thrill of pleasure down my spine. “We’ll see.”

“We will.” He was a devil, a smoking hot devil who had kept his arm around me or his hand on me, steadying me, the entire time we’d been in the nightmare.

“Come on. Let’s get something to eat. We skipped lunch, and I can think of nothing better to top off this day than a big meal. Am I right?”

“I thought we were going to shower.” What did I just say?

He raised an eyebrow. “My place, then? Okay.”

Oh, shoot.

“No, I meant—I mean—”

“I know what you meant.” His smile was infectious. “I’ll drop you at your car. You go home and get cleaned up. I’ll go home and do the same. I’ll pick you up at your place in two hours. Then we’ll get a big, fancy dinner to congratulate ourselves on getting through the hard part. Sound good?”

Was he asking me on a date? Was this a date? What did he expect? Sex—

“Hey, stop thinking. Just say yes.” He pulled up next to my car.

“I, um, yes.” I scrambled out, my brain not directing my body to move in sync.

He leaned over. “Good. See you in two hours.”

“Right.” I closed the door, and he backed away as I got into my car and cranked it. Did I just say yes to a date with my boss? The one I’d sworn to best in our little game of Tease? Cue the hyperventilation.

Chapter Thirteen

WASH

My non-fraternization rule lay shattered and broken, the pieces crunching under my tires as I rushed home to my apartment. Something about holding Caroline during the roughest part of our case, and more than that, that she trusted me to take care of her, made my self-imposed rules seem arbitrary at best. Why shouldn’t two consenting adults be allowed to do what they want?

I squashed the quiet voice of dissent in the back of my mind that warned of trouble. Caroline and I had been working this case and fraternizing for a while, and nothing bad had come of it. As long as we were careful, it could stay that way.

I pulled into my parking spot and took the stairs two at a time up to my apartment, stripping as soon as I got the door open. The arrangements I’d made for the night via phone on the way home would prove interesting. It was a devious plan, but one I thought Caroline would appreciate. I smirked just thinking of how surprised she would be. Would it be enough for her to ask me to kiss her?

I stepped into the shower, but the water was cold enough to have me hopping back out again. She’d clouded any semblance of rational thought still left in my head. Get yourself together. Adjusting the knobs, I changed the water to a temperature that wouldn’t make my balls retreat inside my body and stepped back in.

I still couldn’t believe I’d asked her on a date. I shook my head under the warm spray. I hadn’t asked someone on a date in years. And an associate? Never. I didn’t think it through, didn’t weigh all the options; I’d just done what I wanted to do. It wasn’t normal for me, not even close, but somehow, it was a relief. Finally giving in to her, giving in to my need for her, felt right. Maybe, just this one time, rules were made to be broken.

Remembering her reaction had me smiling as I scrubbed the shampoo into my hair. My cock was already hard just thinking about her, but I wasn’t going to give in. Not this time. I wouldn’t get any release until she was writhing beneath me.

I dried and dressed, forcing myself to slow down even though every nerve in my body itched for me to hurry back to her. My phone buzzed, and I caught it before it vibrated off the dresser. The screen lit up and a familiar face gave me a stern look.

Idiot. I swiped across the screen. “Hi, Trent.”

“Wash. Glad I caught you. Judge Lane just called me up for drinks with a few other gentlemen. We’re meeting at the Green Room in half an hour. I’ll call ahead and get a table in the back. Want me to pick you up?”

I sat on the edge of my bed, the fire inside me tempered by the sound of my partner’s voice. “I kind of have plans.”

“Plans? Since when do you have plans?”

“I have a date.”

Trent laughed. “Then by all means, do not let me interrupt that. It’s been too long for you. I can entertain the erstwhile judge. Do I know her?”

I scrubbed my free hand along my duvet, my palms suddenly sweaty. “I don’t want to jinx it.”

“Okay, then.” He chuckled. “Though I warn you, for touting itself as a big city, New Orleans is still just a small town, so I’ll hear about your mystery date sooner or later.”

My mouth went dry, and I lay back on the bed. “Yeah.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure it’ll take at least a day or two before I get the scoop. Make hay while the sun shines, and I’ll see you in the office next week.”

“All right. See you then. Bye.” I tossed the phone as if it had stung me.

The weight was back, settling on my chest like lead. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. A light scent fluttered around in my lungs. I looked to the side and saw I’d thrown my dress shirt in a heap on the bed. I grabbed it and pulled it to my nose. Caroline. Her perfume had rubbed off on me, sinking into the fabric.

What would I risk to get close to her like that again? I already knew the answer to my question. Everything. She filled my waking thoughts, and I couldn’t think of a moment when I didn’t want to be with her, talk with her, touch her soft skin. I’m so messed. I crumpled the shirt and tossed it next to the phone.

I would just have to get out ahead of it with Trent somehow. When the time was right, I’d sit him down and tell him. As it was, I stood and returned to my closet. I had a date, and nothing was going to keep me from Caroline.

Chapter Fourteen

CAROLINE

Rubbish just got real. Wash had asked me on a real, actual, legitimate date. I squealed and beat on my steering wheel.

A horn blared behind me, the light ahead of me green as I sat still and lost my mind. I flipped him off, as is custom, and floored it toward my apartment.

Calm down, jerk. Get it together. A little pep talk never hurt, but I needed more. It was time to bring in the cavalry. I fished my phone out of my bag and dialed Terrell.

He picked up. “You done with the cadaver spelunking yet?”

“That’s gross. Can you come home early?”

“It’s like four o’clock on a Friday. I am at home.”

“I’m on my way. Don’t move.”

“Not moving. Already broken into a particularly delicious bottle from Lynch Lane. Where’s the fire, anyway?”

I tore through the deck, the tick-tock of the clock an annoying mental side effect of first-date freakout. “I have a date.”

“Shut the front door.”

“Why do you sound so surprised? I’ve had dates before.”

“I can count on one hand the guys you’ve dated in the past three years, Caroline. And you didn’t accept the D from any of them. So cut the trash. Who’s the lucky fellow?” He slurped his wine, likely just to get under my skin.

“Wash.”

He sputtered, and I imagined wine spewing all over his pj’s. It was gratifying.

“You mean Washington Granade? You mean our boss?”

“Yes. That’s the one. Glad you’re firing on all cylinders, Terrell. I mean, he didn’t say it was a date, but—”

“Stop. Back up. Tell me word for word exactly what he said. How he asked. Everything.”

I spent the rest of the short trip home describing in detail Wash’s facial ticks and, though it pained me, coming clean on my past indiscretions. Terrell blew up. Even I was impressed with the number of obscenities hurled at me in the space of thirty seconds. I dreaded going back to the apartment, but I had to get ready. It was a catch-22 situation.

I didn’t even have a chance to slip my key into the lock before Terrell threw the door open with a “You slippery jerk! Get the heck in here and shower.”

When I hurried past he slapped my rear hard. “Ow! So you aren’t mad anymore?”

He was hot on my heels down the hall, drinking Lynch Lane wine as if it were going out of style.

“Impressed at your pussy control and subterfuge. But the next time you hide something like that from me, I may commit domestic violence. No secrets. Got me, lady?”

“Yes. I promise. I’m sorry. It was just so . . .”

“Hot and wrong. Yeah, I get it. I’m just sad I didn’t get it, if you know what I mean.”

“Straight. Promise.”

“Whatevs.” He went right to my closet as I stripped down and jumped in the shower yet again.

I got carried away and shaved it all, the whole kit and caboodle, and soaped up enough to make even the most exacting etiquette mistress happy. I was shiny as a new penny when I got out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel. Terrell had laid out a red sweater dress with a scoop neck and a pair of dark brown high-heeled boots. A black bra and thong were sitting out as well, next to a set of silver accessories on my dresser.

There was no point arguing with him. He had perfect taste. I shimmied into the thong and snapped the bra in place before drying my hair and doing my makeup. Terrell came in halfway through.

“More eyeliner.”

“I’ll look like a raccoon.” I stashed the pencil in my makeup tray.

He picked it up and handed it back to me. “No, you’ll look like a vamp. More eyeliner. Brown eyes like ours need to pop.”

I snatched the pencil back from him and did as instructed. He bossed the rest of the process, including more mascara than seemed feasible. But when we were done, I saw the error of my ways. I looked fabulous, the brown of my eyes taking on a rich golden hue and my lips luscious in a deep crimson.

“You are magic.” I smiled at his reflection.

He rolled his eyes to try to cover his matching smile. “I know. Get dressed. I’m tired of looking at your girly rear.”

I pulled the dress up, and Terrell zipped it for me. The boots and accessories completed the look.

“Prettiest breeder I ever saw.” Terrell ran his hands down my arms and gripped my hands. “Now go harass the boss and give me all the details. Measurements are preferable.”

My heart did a backflip and didn’t stick the landing. “It isn’t a guaranteed-sex sort of thing. Besides, he’s been sort of hot and cold. He could go back to cold at any minute. I should probably have told him I had plans or something.” Not a chance.

“The man you’ve been lusting after for months, possibly years, finally decided to sack up and asks you to dinner. The chances of you turning him down are right up there with the chances of me turning him down.” He tsked at me. “This is going to end with toe, one way or another. You aren’t fooling me, Caroline.”

I kissed him on the cheek, leaving a crimson imprint. “Well, I’ll have to ask him to kiss me first, and I don’t plan on doing that.”

“Incredible.” He grabbed my elbow gently. “But don’t give him your heart. You’re always so open and bold, but just this once, try to stay guarded. I don’t want you moping about, snotting on my shoulder, demanding I watch chick flicks with you, and being a miserable tyrant.” Though his words were delivered in a stern tone, his brown eyes were warm and carried more than a little concern.

I leaned my head on his chest. “You’re the only man who has my heart. Don’t worry.” Even as I said the words, I doubted them. Wash had a hold on me. It was one I hadn’t been able to shake from the first moment I saw him at that trial when I was in law school. I got a glimpse of him, heard his voice, and something sort of clicked inside me. And ever since then, I’d been making my way to him one way or another.

“Keep it that way. Love is for idiots. Now get your rear to the living room. Two hours is almost up.”

I did as told, my rear barely hitting the sofa cushion before there was a knock at the door. I stood to get it, but Terrell hissed and went for it instead. He’d changed while I was in the shower, now wearing skinny jeans and a tight black T-shirt. He must have had a date tonight, too.

I sat and crossed my legs at my ankles, just like my mother taught me. Inside, I was a tumult. I tried to shake it off, to swat the butterflies out of my stomach like a crazed entomologist with a net. It did no good. This was somehow worse than waiting for my prom date.

“Terrell.” Wash’s deep, rich voice washed over me.

“Come on in.” Terrell stepped back.

My breath stopped. I was legally dead for a few seconds. Wash was clean-shaven, his hair slightly tousled despite his obvious efforts at smoothing it. He wore a simple white button-down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of blue jeans that highlighted his trim waist and muscled legs. My body warmed and caught fire. I looked him up and down as if he were a centerfold. I couldn’t stop. Stop, Caroline. Stop!

I knew it was over for me. But the nail in the coffin was his smile. It was full-on pleasure as he watched me stand and walk to him. Full dimples, no smirk, only joy. His lips were a sinful bow, and his dimples begged to be kissed. The way he looked at me—I had never felt so beautiful. No one had ever looked at me with such unfettered admiration. I basked in it.

The silence stretched as we stared at each other and Terrell looked at anything but us. It was cute, really, after all the debauchery I’d witnessed Terrell commit in bars and restaurants and once at church, for him to be uncomfortable at a little eye-frigging.

“Well, have her home by midnight.” Terrell forced a laugh.

Wash’s eyebrows rose, and Terrell dropped his gaze to his shoes.

“Oh, he’s just kidding. I can stay out all night.”

The smirk was back, but I was close enough to get his scent. It must have been his soap. My synapses started firing in an off rhythm, and it showed. “I . . . I mean. I mean, I didn’t mean that I will be with you all night or anything. I just meant . . .” What had I meant?

“Come on. I got reservations.” He held out his arm, his eyes twinkling.

Grateful for the reprieve from making sounds with my mouth that were dumb, I took his arm.

“Later, Terrell.”

“Later.” He gave me a quick pat on the rear and closed the door behind us.

“I feel like I just met your father.” Wash laughed.

I looked up into his eyes, the sparkle not dimmed by the low lights of the hallway. I’d finally gotten him where I wanted him from the first moment I’d seen him.

“Terrell is far stricter than my father. So you did well.”

“Good to know I pass muster.”

“Oh, I didn’t say you passed, Mr. Granade. I said you did well.” I returned his smirk.

“Wash. Call me Wash. I should have told you that a while ago.”

“Okay, Wash.” I thrilled at being given permission to call him by his given name.

We took the elevator, the air between us bubbling with possibility as we descended to street level. He opened the car door for me, and I slipped in.

“You look beautiful, by the way.” He drove toward the French Quarter.

“Thank you.” I tried to tamp down my stupid smile, but my lips were having none of it. “Where’s the reservation?”

“It’s a surprise.”

I glanced at him, the streetlamps giving his angled face an even dreamier quality. I had the impulse to reach out and run my hand along his jaw. I didn’t. The butterflies were warring with each other in my stomach. It was a brutal contest, given the way I was unsure whether I wanted to hurl from nerves or float away on the joy of being so near a man that took up so much of my mental landscape.

“You look great, too.”

“Thanks. Kennedy always says I clean up nice. If that’s not a backhanded compliment, I don’t know what is.”

“He’s clever. And I can tell he doesn’t have any trouble with the ladies. I wonder if he and Yvonne . . .” I thought better of continuing the gossip train all the way to Inappropriate Station.

“Kennedy doesn’t have a bedpost left to notch. It’s just his nature. I look forward to the day when some woman turns his head all the way around and makes him change his ways. I don’t see it happening anytime soon, though.”

We passed a mini-parade of drunks on a side street in the Quarter. Someone had a French horn and was playing it for all he was worth. Given the disastrous notes, it wasn’t much.

Wash pulled up to the valet in front of an ornate hotel, warm light from the wide windows spilling into the street. The attendant helped me out, and I stared up at the plasterwork hand-painted in greens and blues. There were so many gems like this one in New Orleans, all with their own bit of magic.

There wasn’t a sign denoting a restaurant, but the smells wafting through the open windows had my mouth watering.

“It’s a new venture by a big-name chef in town. Top secret.” Wash offered his arm again, and I took it. He led me up the stairs and into a sweeping lobby, marble underfoot and crystal overhead. The beauty continued along the walls, murals of New Orleans history done in expert strokes.

We met a maître d’ off to the side where the restaurant was situated. He checked our reservation and took us to a candlelit table in a back corner near one of the open windows. The heat in the building mixed with the cool air outside for a pleasant atmosphere. It was early, but the restaurant was already more than half full, with more people coming in by the minute.

“This is so fancy.” I smiled as Wash helped me to my seat, pushing the chair up for me.

He sat to my left instead of across from me. He was close, our elbows lightly touching.

“Glad I could impress.” His gaze met mine, and he was beautiful in the flickering candlelight. Dark hair and impossibly bright eyes.

Whatever air was in the room seemed to have moved away from me, impossibly out of reach. His mouth was a sumptuous lure, and I caught a view of the dark hair along his chest disappearing into his shirt. Even though he’d tasted me and more, I felt shy, as if we were strangers who’d happened across each other and found an unlikely connection.

The server walked up and eased the tension. He didn’t give us any menus, simply asked if we had any food allergies and handed Wash a wine list.

“Do you have a preference in wine?” Wash asked.

“Lynch Lane.” I snorted.

The server nodded. “We have two wines on our lists handpicked by Jasmine Lynch.”

I laughed. “I was joking. But really, Jasmine picked wines for this restaurant?”

Wash crinkled his forehead and gave me a quizzical gaze. I realized he likely had no idea who I was talking about.

“Oh, Terrell’s mom. You know, the Lynches? He usually snags some bottles from Lynch Lane for us. The good stuff. It’s how I manage to get snookered every other night of the week, twice on Sundays.”

His smile grew the more I rambled on about apparently needing to go through a twelve-step program.

“We’ll take the Pinot Noir Jasmine chose.” Wash handed the wine list back to our server.

Once the server turned to leave, I whispered, “Aren’t we going to order?”

“No. They just serve up whatever the chef decided to cook for the evening. The anticipation of the unknown is part of the pleasure, I suppose.”

“Yes, I could see that.” Did he want me to think about the anticipation of what would happen after dinner? If so, it was working. Despite the fancy restaurant, my pussy was not on its best behavior, already wetting my thong. Wash had that effect on me, especially when he looked like he did tonight. Relaxed, happy, handsome.

The server returned and poured our wine. I took a sip and, yes, Jasmine’s taste was impeccable, just like her son’s. If I’d been at home with Terrell, we’d already be at war over who got to drain the bottle. Here, I tried to take it slow. One ladylike sip, and I set my glass down.

“You can drink all you want, Caroline.” Wash took a gulp, as if to goad me. “I saw you home from the bar last night, remember?”

I squinted at him. “Yeah, I heard how you offered several times to put me to bed.”

He laughed and put his arm along the back of my chair. “I was just trying to look after you. Nothing wrong with that, right?”

Emboldened, I grabbed my glass and matched his gulp, the wine tart and perfect on my tongue. “Trying to put an associate to bed? You’ve been courting an EEOC complaint for weeks, Mr. Granade.”

“Have I, Ms. Montreat?” He gave me his wolfish smile, the one that set my core on fire, and slid a hand under the table and onto my leg.

His palm was warm, smooth on my bare thigh. I raised my eyebrows and took another swallow of wine. “This is what I was talking about, Mr. Granade.”

“What?” He poured more wine for both of us with his free hand. “Just spending time with you and buying you a nice dinner? That’s going to land me in hot water with the EEOC?”

“Yes and what you did in my offi—”

He moved his fingers farther up my thigh, and my thoughts went whirling like leaves in the wind for a moment.

“Please go on.” He leaned closer, his fingertips massaging my skin with light pressure. Sensations vibrated up my leg and throughout my body. “Tell me about my workplace violations in detail.”

I gawked at him. “You want me t-to remind you of your handbook and federal law violations?”

His lashes lowered as he moved closer, his gaze on my lips. “Yes. Tell me exactly what I did that you find inappropriate. It’s the only way I’ll learn, you see, Ms. Montreat.”

His fingers played their own rhythm against my skin, lulling me and igniting me at the same time. I glanced around, certain the other diners knew what we were doing.

“Don’t look at them. Look at me.” His voice was commanding.

My gaze went right where he wanted, back to his sparkling eyes.

“Now, tell me, Ms. Montreat. Refresh me on my bad behavior.” His voice was insistent, his fingers more so.

“You were inappropriate in my office. And then at Mr. Palmer’s house. Mmm.”

His fingers moved higher, the back of his hand pushing my dress out of the way as he went. “No, Ms. Montreat. As you know, these sorts of allegations have to be very specific to be taken seriously. I’ll need details to properly write up a formal complaint. What did I do to you in your office that warrants disciplinary action?”

I bit my lip and closed my eyes as he edged closer to my panties. The restaurant faded around me and I was there on my desk again, his head between my thighs, my nails digging into the papers on my desk.

“Y-you ate my pussy.” It was a breathy whisper.

He moved closer, his mouth at my ear. “What else did I do?”

My clit was tingling, my panties getting even wetter. “You made me come.”

“Did I? Did I make you come all over my face while I tongued your clit?” He moved higher, his fingertips brushing the wet fabric against my core. “Idiot, Ms. Montreat. Do you have any idea how wet you are?”

I tried to close my thighs.

“No,” he growled in my ear. “I won’t kiss you again until you ask. I didn’t make any promises about the rest of you, Ms. Montreat. These legs stay open. Understand?”

I nodded, and he grazed my thong again with his fingers. His gentle stroke was like a sizzle of electricity against me. I wanted more. I wanted him to light me up from the inside.

“Now, that was just the first infraction. Is that correct, Ms. Montreat?”

“Yes. It was. There was another.”

“Tell me about that one.” He pushed harder against my panties, and my head fell back, his voice still in my ear.

“You messed me at Mr. Palmer’s house.”

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, and he groaned as he stroked my slick folds. “I’ll need more details, Ms. Montreat. Many more.”

“You pushed me down on the bed and you were so rough with me.”

“How rough?”

“You pinned me beneath you and held me down and, and . . .”

His fingers at my clit stole my voice.

“And what?”

“And you messed me until I came.”

“Did you ask me to come inside you?” His lip teased my ear.

“Yes.”

He swirled his fingers around my clit. “Did you like it?”

“I loved it. I loved every second of it.”

“Idiot, Ms. Montreat, I think you may have a claim after all.” He moved his fingers down and pressed one inside me.

A strangled whimper caught in my throat. His breath was in my ear and he nibbled my earlobe. “You may need to add this incident to your report.” His voice was raspy, devious as he moved his finger in and out slowly.

“I, mmm, I will.”

Our food appeared, and Wash leaned away, though he left his fingers right where they were. The server explained the dish, but I heard none of it. I couldn’t think about anything except Wash’s finger inside me.

Once the server had retreated, Wash pulled his fingers away and licked the one he’d put inside me clean, his eyes never leaving mine as he did it. The butterflies in my stomach decided boots-on-the-ground warfare wasn’t enough and entered the nuclear codes.

“Perfect appetizer.” Wolf.

I turned to my plate. It was some sort of white fish on top of a grits cake with a garnish of greens and and other vegetables. Suddenly Wash wasn’t the only thing at the table that made my mouth water.

We dug in and ate and talked like normal people through the meal . . . well, if normal people discussed murder cases and blood-soaked wooden carvings. My mind eventually settled down, but my heart skipped at odd intervals when he looked at me a certain way. As if he knew me, the real me.

I was too stuffed for dessert, but he ordered it anyway. I was glad. It was the most delicious chocolate bread pudding I’d ever had in my life. Light and fluffy with a cream sauce that was beyond decadent.

I placed my napkin on the table and almost knocked over my empty wineglass.

“You in your cups, Ms. Montreat?” He smiled.

“Please.” I gave him a limp-wristed wave. “I can hold my liquor.” Truth be told, I was tipsy.

Wash insisted on paying the tab, and we met the chef on the way out. Wash pulled me into his side as we shook hands and thanked the chef for the excellent food. My curves melded into his hard body, and we were suddenly a cute couple, smiling and talking to the chef at a fancy restaurant. No longer the hardass and the class clown, we’d become something else for the night. Would we change back at midnight?

He led me into the lobby and, instead of turning toward the front door, headed for the elevator.

“What are we doing?” Excitement coursed through my veins like jet fuel.

“I got a room for the evening. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. But I would like to show you the view before you go, if that’s all right?” He never stopped his confident stride as he smiled down at me.

I affected a scandalized tone. “Well, of all the presumptuous, self-centered, overconfident things you could do, Mr. Granade.” I toned down to a stage whisper. “Is there more wine up there?”

He laughed and ran his hand down to my hip, pulling me into him. “Yes, but I don’t want you drunk. I want you more than capable of consenting.” He kissed my hair. “And remembering everything I’m going to do to you.”

Fuuuuck. It wasn’t a good idea to get on the elevator with him. I did it anyway. It was a worse idea to let him push me against the wall and run his hands along my body until I moaned. I did it gladly. The worst idea of all—walking into the penthouse suite with him and being utterly entranced by the view of the French Quarter. Done and done.

He opened one of the glass doors to a patio, and we stepped out. Jazz wafted through the streets, and the smell of beignets or some other sugary food was heavy on the air. The river was down the street, the water glinting in the moonlight. He came up behind me and wrapped me in his arms as I soaked in the city.

“You like it?” He nuzzled into my hair.

“This is beautiful. The last time I was this close to Bourbon Street I was flashing my—” I cut myself off, barely. “I mean, I was just sightseeing, you know. Usual stuff.”

He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest and into my shoulder blades. He let go of my waist with one hand and drew my hair from my neck. When his breath played over my skin, I sighed, the sound carrying everything I wanted from him and worried about in one note.

“You don’t have to stay.” His fingers tightened into my hip, and he nipped at my shoulder with his teeth.

“I want to.”

“You sure?” He tugged at my hair, pulling my head to the side and sending his warm breath down my neck, chill bumps erupting along my skin. He still hadn’t kissed me. He’d kept his word.

I leaned into him, his hard length pressing into my lower back.

His hand traveled from my hip to my breast. He palmed me, squeezing the mound. My heart raced, and I put my hand over his as he kneaded me.

“Goodness, Wash.” It was an exhale of pure desire. I wanted him so badly I was certain I’d do anything he asked right then and there.

He turned me so quickly I would have fallen if it weren’t for his arms around me. He leaned in, his lips so close to mine I could almost taste the heady wine lingering on his tongue.

“I want you, Caroline. I want you so badly I can’t even think sometimes.”

My heart tripped over itself so hard I thought it might be down for the count.

“Can I have you? Can I have you tonight?” His voice was a deep rasp, and his gaze darted to my lips.

I couldn’t look away from him. Nothing could have ripped me from his grasp. I was lost. He’d won. “Kiss me.”

He crushed me in a burning kiss, his lips firm and his tongue exploring. If he’d held me any closer, I would have been on the other side of him.

I twined my arms around his neck and opened wider for him, giving him every bit of access he demanded.

He groaned into my mouth and gripped my rear, lifting me so that I wrapped my legs around him. My heels clattered to the deck as he walked me through the suite and into what I assumed was the bedroom. I was too busy enjoying his mouth. The way he kissed was something that should be taught as a freshman requirement. I didn’t want to breathe if it meant I wouldn’t get to feel his lips anymore.

He laid me down and settled on top of me, his hands moving to my face and into my hair. When he broke our kiss and moved down my throat, I clutched his hair and tried to bring him back. “Patience, Caroline.” He ignored my tugs and licked the line of my collarbone until he came to the fabric of my dress. He got to his knees and sat back. “Off. Take it off.”

He unbuttoned his shirt, his eyes attuned to every movement I made as his fingers worked fast and sure. I wriggled the hem up my hips. When he saw my panties, his fingers slipped past a button.

“Goodness. Faster. I want to see all of you.” He attacked the buttons with renewed vigor as I sat up and pulled the dress over my head.

He put his palm on my chest and pushed me back down before whipping his shirt into the floor. His chest was broad with dark hair running down the center and into his jeans. I reached up to touch him, but he gripped my hand and pinned it over my head. He kissed me roughly and sat back.

“Don’t move. I just want to look at you.” He unbuttoned his pants, and I licked my lips. “You are so beautiful.”

His words were like a shot of heroin, euphoric.

“Did you wear these for me?” He ran a finger under the lace along my hip.

I smiled and looked away, suddenly shy. “Maybe.”

He gripped my chin and turned it back to him. “Maybe?”

I squirmed under his demanding gaze. “Definitely.”

“That’s better. I love them.” He smoothed his fingertips down my thigh. “Now let’s take them off.” He gripped my panties and yanked them down so fast I yelped, then pulled them off my legs and tossed them aside. “Bra off, Caroline.”

I arched my back up and unclasped the closure before sliding the bra off and tossing it to join my panties. I was totally naked beneath him. He shucked his jeans and boxers and spread my legs, his gaze devouring every inch of me as he did so. He leaned over me and wrapped his hand around my throat, squeezing a little before releasing me and running his fingertips down my chest, down my quivering stomach, and to my pussy.

His cock was reddened with blood, hard and ready. I closed my eyes at the thought of it inside me.

He ghosted his thumb over my clit and my hips bucked. He did it again and I was already on the verge of begging him to mess me.

“I’m going to forget you so hard you won’t walk straight all weekend, Caroline. Is that okay with you? I won’t be able to stop myself. So I want you to know now, before I begin. I know I can’t control myself with you. Just look at you.” His voice shook at the end, whether with pent-up need or something else, I didn’t know. His whole body was tight—his chest, his jaw, his abs tense to the point of trembling.

All I knew was that I wanted him in every way one person could want another. I met his gaze. “I want it. All of it. Just like you said.”

He fell on top of me and grabbed a fistful of my hair, pouring kerosene on the fire that already raged inside me. His words in my ear made me gasp. So simple, but so much more. Possession.

“You’re mine.”

Chapter Fifteen

WASH

She’d been spread out before me like the most delicious feast. Her belly large and round, the nipples hard and begging for attention. Her soft curves leading down to her glistening pussy, her creamy skin and succulent thighs. I was in heaven. Or I was about to be balls deep in it.

Her blond hair was spread across the pillow, and her eyes, Goodness, her eyes, drew me in like nothing ever had before. I wanted to be all over her, to harass her so good that she never wanted another man. It wasn’t rational, it wasn’t even practical, but she affected me to the point I turned into the lowest common denominator of man. I wanted her all to myself.

When she’d said she wanted all of me, everything, I couldn’t hold back. She was mine. I gripped her silky hair and kissed her throat, leaving my mark and daring her to say something about it. All I heard was soft moans, the sounds echoing in my mind and making my toe impossibly harder. I moved my hips against her, and when my tip brushed against her slick heat, I groaned.

Her pussy was soft and bare, and I wanted nothing more than to be inside her. She ran her nails along my scalp, pulling on my hair. I bit into her shoulder and she squealed. My cock jerked to attention, raring for the starting gun. Not yet.

I kissed down to a pert nipple and licked around it, teasing the tip even harder as I circled. She dug her nails harder into my scalp, but I liked the pain, liked that I made her wild. I finally took the tip in my mouth and sucked hard. She gasped and arched her back. Her skin tasted faintly sweet, maybe her lotion. I wanted to lick her all over, not just her belly. But my cock was already leaking precum. I couldn’t hold out long enough to worship her gorgeous body. Later. She arched again when I drew her other nipple into my mouth and bit down on it.

I bit harder, and she gasped, “Wash.”

I loved it when she said my name with that breathy sex voice. She had no idea what she did to me. Her confidence, her smarts, her sense of humor, her amazing body. She was too much. Even so, I had to have her.

I kissed back up to her plump lips and pressed my mouth into hers. I could have kissed her for hours, just running my hands along her body and making her moan into me. My cock was not on board with that plan. I rocked my hips against her and moved my head against her, our wetness mixing as she cried into my mouth.

Pulling her hands from my hair, I pinned her to the bed. I wanted her vulnerable, open to me. She didn’t struggle, not yet. I pushed inside her the slightest bit, her body constricting around me.

“Idiot, Caroline.” I broke our kiss and rested my forehead against hers so the brown of her eyes was my whole world.

I slid farther inside and waited for her to adjust. She was so tight, so hot against my skin, that I had to ease in—not just for her. If I plunged in, I wouldn’t last long enough to please her like she deserved. I would have her writhing on my cock before I even thought about coming.

My hips edged forward until I was as deep in her as I could go.

“Okay?” I asked.

“Yes, more.”

“More?” She had no idea what she was asking.

“Yes,” she breathed.

I drew back and pushed into her again, harder and faster than before. And then I was gone, given up to her eyes, her body. I pounded into her, keeping her hands pinned above her head. Her pussy was almost unbearable, so amazing on my cock as I harassed her harder than I should have. Her cries grew louder, and I sank my teeth into her shoulder before pushing up so I could see her perfect belly bounce with each rough thrust.

I let my gaze stray even lower and sat back, releasing her hands. Watching each inch of me disappearing into her sweet pink made my balls draw up close. I gripped her hips and pulled her up to me, slamming into her, my balls slapping into her rear as she gripped the duvet.

I licked my thumb and placed it directly on her clit. She whimpered. When I began swirling around the nub, she arched her back and met my gaze again. I needed her closer. I reached under her with my arm and pulled her up to me, bouncing her on my cock as I leaned her away from me and kept stroking her clit.

She gripped my shoulders, her nails digging into my skin as I hammered her tender flesh. When her cries grew louder, I knew she was close. I kept moving my thumb against her until she started to hold her breath, her hips becoming jerky.

“I’m going to come, Wash.” Her voice was desperate. Not as much as it would be.

I pulled my thumb away, and her eyes snapped to me. “Wash!”

“Not yet.” It was a sin not letting her come, but I wanted more. I needed more.

I pushed her back and flipped her over before yanking her back onto my cock. She let out a strangled scream as I shoved inside her from behind. I slapped her rear, and she tried to move away. Not a chance. I reached up and gripped her hair, pulling her back onto me as I started another vicious rhythm.

She arched her back in response and started to rock against me, increasing our friction. Her body was perfect beneath me, right where it belonged.

“That’s it, Caroline.” It was more of a growl than words, but it got the point across. She pushed back with more force, meeting me thrust for thrust.

The view of her smooth back, her hair in my fist, my cock disappearing inside her—this was what wet dreams were made of. When I reached around and reclaimed her wet clit, she moaned low in her throat. My cock jerked, ready to release at the sound.

I rubbed her steadily with my index finger, working her nub as I harassed her. Her pussy began to clamp around me even tighter and her hips seized.

“Wash, please.” Her begging would send me over the edge.

I couldn’t deny her, not any longer. “Come, Caroline. Come for me.”

“Oh goodness.” She slammed back into me once more and froze.

She came on a high-pitched cry and began repeating my name. Hell. No man could withstand that. I pushed inside her as far as I could go as my load crept to my head. When her voice broke on my name and her pussy squeezed me even tighter, I exploded, my come whipping out of me as I groaned and gripped her hip hard. I loosened my hold on her hair, and she buried her face in the pillow as the last of my release left me.

She collapsed beneath me, and I followed her down, no doubt crushing her as I kissed all over her shoulders. I pulled out and rolled off so she could catch her breath.

We took in gulps of air, and she turned her head to the side, her brown eyes peeking between the tangled hay-colored strands. I ran my fingers from her temple to her jaw and pushed the hair from her face. She was stunning—pink cheeks, half-lidded eyes, and bruised lips. My cock twitched, wanting more.

“I’m going to add that to my EEOC filing,” she said on an exhale.

I grinned and pulled her into my side. “That would be a complaint worth reading.”

She snugged up against me, her thigh resting tentatively against mine. I reached down with my free hand and pulled her smooth leg across me, her wet pussy pressing into my leg. My cock did more than twitch, trying to get a second wind. I couldn’t blame it. Caroline was incomparable.

She sighed against my chest, her breath tickling the skin over my heart. Could she feel how fast it beat, and not just from our exertions?

I was so messed. Renting this room, taking her to dinner, thinking about her every spare second—I hadn’t wanted to admit it. But now, after the haze of desire cleared the slightest bit, I knew I’d gotten in too deep. I was the proverbial frog in the frying pan. If Trent ever found out I was messing around with an associate, I would be cooked.

“What are you thinking?” Her voice was like the caress of silk—soft, lovely, and fragile.

That this is a mistake that I will make over and over again as many times as you’ll let me. “Just coming down, is all.”

“Don’t lie.” She tilted her face up to mine, piercing me with her intelligent gaze. “I know this isn’t really normal behavior for you.”

I ran my hand through her hair. “How do you know that? I could be putting it to every hot associate that walks in the door.”

What the heck did I just say?

She snorted. “You’re a good liar, Wash. The best, really, especially when you’re in front of a jury and telling them a story. But I see right through you.” She tweaked my nipple. “Your reputation as a hardass no-nonsense attorney is written in ink. I’m more like a scribble in pencil messing up the neat lines of text.”

She had me. Was I so transparent?

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you have a soft spot for the class clown.” She bit my chest lightly—which struck me as oddly sweet—and rested her head over my heart again.

I should have offered to clean her up or take her home, or any number of things, but I wanted nothing more than to fall asleep with her in my arms. It was purely selfish, but I swelled with pride when I realized she meant to stay the night.

I wanted to hold my breath, lest I shake her out of her restfulness. But I didn’t have to. Before long, her breaths became even and deep. I closed my eyes, hating to lose sight of Caroline but drawn down into sleep right along with her.

Chapter Sixteen

CAROLINE

I woke slowly, as if emerging from the most perfect cocoon of warmth. My eyes fluttered open and met a broad expanse of hard chest. Wash. I’d messed Wash and spent the night. Incredible.

His arms were wrapped around me, one of his legs pressed between mine. His toe was half mast against my hip. My pussy woke up with that little realization. Wash had ridden me hard last night, but the thought of another round had my body heating like a pot on a stove. The slight ache between my legs turned into a need.

Get it together, Caroline.

I pulled back from him, his arms loosening as I eased away. I disentangled my legs from his and was almost out of the bed when he grabbed me around the waist and yanked me back into his arms. My back slammed against his chest with a thunk.

“Where are you going?” His voice was shot through with sleep, raspy and sexy.

“I was just—”

“You were just?” He squeezed me tighter to him, his cock thick against my lower back.

I tried to calm my heart’s rapid beat, but he nuzzled into my hair and nipped at my ear. My thoughts went poof like part of some magic trick.

“I . . . I was saying that I should go.”

“Go?” He pushed his hips against me, his cock sliding against me in a way that sent tingles straight to my clit. “Do I need to cross you, Ms. Montreat?”

“Cross me?”

“Yes.” He pulled my hair away from my neck and licked and sucked, making me sink my nails into his arm. “Let’s begin. You enjoyed last night?”

“Yes.” Incredible. Don’t make it easy for him. “I mean, it was okay.”

“Okay?” He moved his hand down my stomach. “Tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury what you mean by the word ‘okay.’” He gripped my thigh and pulled it back so my calf was lying over his. Then he eased his fingers to my clit. Blooms of pleasure spread and centered on every movement he made.

“I mean, mm, I mean that it was nice.”

“Nice is the same as okay?” He stroked harder.

“No. I mean, yes. I mean it was—Goodness, Wash—it was better than okay.” I tried to pull my thigh back down, the sensation overloading my body.

“Don’t even think about it.” He pushed my leg even farther back, opening me more to him. “So, let’s go back to my original question. See if you can answer it this time. You enjoyed last night?”

“Yes,” I breathed, his fingers robbing me of any dissent.

“You enjoyed staying the night?” He delved lower and put two fingers inside me.

“I . . .”

“You do remember you are under oath, Ms. Montreat?”

“Yes.”

“So, you enjoyed staying the night? Yes or no?”

“Yes.” I couldn’t fight him, not when his palm was pressed against my clit as his fingers worked deeper inside.

“You want this, don’t you, Ms. Montreat?”

“That depends on what the meaning of ‘this’ is.” My answer ended on a squeal as he pulled my hair back and ran his teeth down my throat.

“Apologies, Ms. Montreat.” He laughed, a deep, low sound that might have come from a predator playing with its food. “Let me ask it better. You want my fingers inside your hot, wet groin?” He emphasized the words with pulses of his fingers.

“I . . . I . . . yes.”

“You want my cock inside you?” He rolled his hips against my backside, his hard length promising pleasure.

“Yes.”

“You want me to make you come?”

He yanked my head back to claim my mouth before I could even give him the answer. Yes.

He pulled his fingers from me and rolled to his back before pushing me up and turning me over.

“I want to watch you idiot me.” His eyes were the deepest blue in the morning light—somehow clear but dark.

I straddled him and gripped his cock with one hand, positioning him at my opening. His hands were on my hips, pushing me down. I slid onto him, my pussy already wet and wanting. A slight pinch and then nothing but pleasure.

“Wash.” I couldn’t think of anything else. Just him, what he was doing to me, the way he made me feel.

“Goodness, look at you.” He let his gaze travel my face, my belly, and finally where our bodies joined so perfectly. “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life.”

If I hadn’t been impaled on his cock, I might have swooned off the bed.

He ran his hands down my thighs and back to my hips. “I want to pound up into you, Caroline, but I won’t. Set the pace. I want you to come all over my cock. I want to feel it, to watch, to see you. Can you do that?”

I bit my lip and nodded, my body expanding around him until he was a perfect fit. I edged up, sliding him out halfway before dropping back down. He groaned and tensed, his fingertips retreading the bruises he’d left on me last night.

I moaned as I rose again, this time pulling him out to the tip before settling back down, every tiny bit of friction firing along my skin. My rhythm was slow at first, rocking back and forth on him. He kept his eyes on me, and he groaned when I sat straight up and put his hands in my hair as I ground against him. I leaned over him, putting my palms on his chest as I rolled and swirled. His heart beat like a drum beneath my palm, and he squeezed my rear.

Everything took on a haze as my approaching orgasm began shutting off all the lights except for the one between my thighs.

“Keep your eyes on me, baby. I want to see it.” His jaw was tight, dark strands of hair sticking to the fine sheen of sweat on his forehead.

I looked down at him, keeping his blues locked in my gaze as my movements grew more desperate. My body tightened, my core squeezing him in even closer. Wash moved his hands to my breasts, cupping and kneading them as I sped up my pace. His pecs flexed under my hands, and I dug my nails into him as the heat rose to a roar inside me.

His hips lifted to meet me just a bit, matching my strokes. The extra friction pushed me over the edge, and I came with a strangled moan, his name on my lips as I exploded, wave after wave of heat echoing through my body. I fell onto him, my mouth at his neck as I struggled to catch my breath. He eased in and out of me, slow and controlled as I lay on him.

In one smooth motion, he flipped us over so that he was on top, my legs falling open as he began to surge into me. Even though I’d just come hard enough to leave me light-headed, his rough thrusts sent a buzz through me. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and he kissed me hard on the mouth. His pace grew frantic, the flames shooting higher as I burned beneath him.

His hands were in my hair, tangling and pulling as he bore down on me with intense strokes. I held on to him, my clit screaming at the continued contact. I couldn’t have stopped him if I’d tried. He was muscle and tension and desire. He released my mouth and I took in a huge breath of air as he bent his head next to mine, his lips on my shoulder. His groans grew louder, his balls slapping into my rear, his body caging me.

He thrust deep and I arched up into him, giving him all I had. Another hard plunge and he bit into my shoulder as he came. He moaned as his cocked pulsed inside me. The thought of my pussy soaked with him had me clawing at his back as he finished. His breath came out in a whoosh of air and satisfaction.

His teeth left my shoulder as he rested his head on the pillow. I wanted to wrap up in him and the sheets and never leave the room. His heart hammered into my breast as I stroked his hair. We lay there, coming back down to earth, for a while. I winced when he pulled out and knew I’d be walking funny for the rest of the weekend.

He moved to my side and propped his head on his hand. “Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

I leaned up and kissed his nose. “No.”

He gripped my waist and pulled me closer to him, his eyes studying me as if I were a painting. “What am I going to do with you?”

“You seem to be doing just fine so far.” Hot sex and amazing orgasms? Yeah, he was doing great.

“I can’t seem to stop complicating things.” He sighed. “But you make it impossible.” He rested his hand on my cheek. “You overwhelm me. You know that?”

I couldn’t stop my smile and the pink that rose in my cheeks. “I do?”

“Yes. I’ve never felt . . .” He blinked hard.

I held my breath. Go on.

“I’ve never done this before. Let’s just leave it at that.” He kissed my forehead and settled on his back next to me, hiding his eyes.

A pin stabbed into my heart as if Wash were treating it like a voodoo doll. I wanted to be satisfied with our night together and the morning after. I did. But I’d wanted him, all of him, for so long that his reticence to open up burned. My eyes stung, but I forced the tears away. Not here. Not now.

As the sun rose on us, the sweetness of the sex faded, and I was left with nothing but a bitter aftertaste.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” Terrell must have been sitting and waiting in the living room, because he opened the door before I could gingerly place the key into the lock. My down-low walk-of-shame plans were blown to bits.

“Good morning to you, too.” I brushed past him and retreated to my bedroom.

He wasn’t going to let me get away so easily and followed close at my heels. “I want details.”

“We had a good dinner, and then I stayed in his hotel room.” I tossed my shoes into my closet and stripped my dress off before turning the shower on.

“That’s fascinating.” He leaned on the bathroom doorframe as I finished disrobing and stepped under the hot stream. “But you know what details I want. Tell me about the P in the dreaded V, Caroline.” He sighed extra loudly.

I spent the rest of my shower giving him play by play, with random interruptions of “Are you sure he doesn’t want this D?” I ignored the warmth that coursed through me as I remembered Wash’s touch, his kiss, his words. It was all more than just sex for me. I wanted more. But he’d made clear he wasn’t comfortable with more.

I toweled off and wrapped my hair before sliding into my sheets.

Terrell crawled up next to me and turned me around so I faced him. “I liked the sex parts of the story. I truly did. But I’m not a dummy. What’s wrong?”

I shoved my face into the pillow to hide my tears, and Terrell pulled me closer and rubbed my back.

“Did he hurt you?” Terrell’s hand froze on my back, and he tensed.

“No. Nothing like that. I just . . . I’m an idiot.”

He started rubbing me again. “That goes without saying, but what are you specifically referring to?”

I stopped suffocating myself in the pillow and lay face-to-face with him. The concern in his eyes reminded me why he’d been my best friend for years.

“I just thought he would, I don’t know, say it wasn’t just the sex or say he, I don’t know, wanted more. You know?” My tears flowed silently.

His eyes sobered. “Wash isn’t the sort of man who would just jump into feels like that, Caroline.”

“I know.” I sighed. “But after last night, I thought he’d . . . I thought we had a connection. I felt it, you know?”

Terrell wiped my tears away with his thumbs. “I do. Breeders aren’t the only ones who fall in love.”

He’d given voice to what I’d feared for a while. I wasn’t in like with Wash anymore. I’d graduated to the big leagues quite some time ago. I was in love, but he didn’t love me back. The realization cut deep.

“Why doesn’t he love me back?” I asked the question, though no one could answer it but Wash.

“Just because he isn’t forthcoming with the words doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it, Caroline. Don’t give up on him yet. This is all brand-new. I’ve done my homework on him. He hasn’t had a serious relationship in like, ever. You’ve gotten to him in a way no one else ever has.”

“You’ve been spying on him?” My sob hitched in my throat.

“You think I’m going to let my best fag hag get emotionally invested in a jerk hat? No, ma’am. Wash is a good one. He just needs some time to figure it out, is all.”

“I hope you’re right.” His vote of confidence planted a seed of hope in my breast.

“I’m always right. We’ve been over this. Shh.” Terrell wrapped me in his arms.

My tears eventually subsided, and we napped the rest of the morning away.

I spent the first half of the week running more searches on Tyler and Rourke and making phone calls to Angola to speak with Rowan. He couldn’t offer me much more information, but at least he was pleasant enough on the phone. No more rapey vibes from the client was definitely a good thing.

Wash and I prepped for an evidentiary hearing Wednesday afternoon.

I wasn’t sure how I’d feel seeing Wash again. We’d parted well after the morning at the hotel, him dropping me off at my apartment and giving me a gentle, yet still panty-melting, kiss. But then I’d had the meltdown with Terrell, so my compass was turned every which way. We continued on with our work, business as usual, though I caught him giving me long glances more than a few times.

The hearing concerned evidence suppression. Matt Turnbull had given us all the State’s documents but was trying to keep certain expert records away from us. Wash and Matt argued for over an hour before the judge ruled in our favor and scolded the State for withholding materials.

On the way out, Matt hustled up behind us, his face still red from the heated argument. “Hey, Wash, buddy. Did I mention that Fawn’s pregnant?”

Wash paused for only a moment and then continued walking, not saying a word.

“Yeah, just found out last week. Going to be a new Turnbull. Fawn’s over the moon about having my kid.” Matt’s goading voice echoed around the courthouse rotunda.

Wash stopped at the top of the steps and took my elbow, helping me down in my heels. It was unnecessary. I could walk in heels better than in flats, but I appreciated the gesture, all the same. His grip seemed tighter than usual, though.

Matt jostled down the wide marble steps at my other elbow. “Just thought you’d want to hear it from the horse’s mouth, seeing as how you’re in love with my wife.”

The three of us hit the bottom step with a thud. My heart made a similar sound, and an even deeper ache set up shop inside me. He’s in love with someone else? My head was spinning. I looked up to Wash, my eyes wide.

He shook his head as if there were an annoying gnat buzzing in his ear, looked to me, and shot Matt a look that edged on a snarl.

“You know that was over ten years ago, right? You realize Fawn and I haven’t even really talked since the day we broke up?”

Matt stepped in front of me, standing almost chest to chest with Wash. Wash looked down at him, murder in his eyes.

“She still talks about you. I know you’re still in love with her.” Matt’s voice rose, anger simmering up to a boil.

“Just because your wife talks about how much better of a idiot I was than you are doesn’t mean we’re in love, Matt. I don’t give two trashs what you do with your limp toe. So give Fawn my best and get the heck out of my way.”

“Wash?” Kennedy had come down the stairs behind us. He was a ladykiller in a dark suit with a gray tie.

Both Wash and Matt turned to him.

“What’s, uh, what’s going on, guys?” Kennedy dropped down the last step. He gazed around the busy rotunda before turning back to the spectacle his brother was so close to making.

Matt glanced from one Granade brother to the next and dropped his gaze to the floor. Beaten.

I’d only gotten half the Fawn story. I wanted it all. I turned to Kennedy. “I’ll be happy to fill you in. I think Matt was bragging about impregnating Fawn and then accusing Wash of being in love with said Fawn. That about got it, boys?”

Kennedy dropped his head back in an overblown show of exasperation. “Goodness, Turnbull, are you still on about that? Yeah, Wash dicked her back in the day. So did Lincoln, as we all know. Right, buddy?” He slapped an unamused Wash on the back. “But that was forever ago, and now Wash has moved on to greener pastures.” Kennedy waggled his eyebrows at me.

So Wash had been in love with Fawn but his brother Lincoln harassed her? The plot thickened right before my eyes.

“Your associates, Wash?” Matt leered at me. “I should’ve figured you’d do some bush league trash like that.”

“What the—” Before I could finish the dressing down I had on the tip of my tongue for Matt, a blur of movement shot through the corner of my eye. Then Matt was on the floor, wailing and grabbing his nose.

Wash stood over him, as if unsure whether he wanted to kick the trash out of him while he was down or yank him up and hit him in the face again. “Don’t you ever talk about Caroline like that again.” His voice was quiet, far too quiet. It was scarier than a full-on yell.

Kennedy darted between the men and pushed Wash away with one hand while giving him a thumbs-up where Matt couldn’t see. “Wash, go.”

A security guard from the metal detector station stared at us, as if unsure how to react to two attorneys fighting in the courthouse.

“Go, man. I’ll take care of it.” Kennedy shoved Wash back a few more steps and turned to smirk at Matt.

“I’m going to have you arrested, Wash. You assaulted me.” Matt’s voice was distorted through his hand, and a thin trail of blood ran down his cheek.

“Oh, can it, you blowhard. I’ll take you to TGI Friday’s or something. Maybe a tittie bar on Bourbon? My treat. Get up. Quit crying.” Kennedy waved Wash and me away as he knelt down to Matt.

Wash held out his hand toward me in a very non-colleague way. We’d attracted more than a little attention with our dustup, but Wash didn’t seem to care who saw us. His eyes, the ones that had been livid only seconds before, were kind again. When he looked at me like that, with a warmth that I knew could turn to a flame of desire in an instant, I couldn’t say no. I took his hand, and we left together while Kennedy promised Matt a hundred one-dollar bills and a lap dance.

Thursday morning’s attorney meeting was brief and led by Mr. Palmer instead of Wash. Mr. Palmer chose Terrell to assist him in another high-profile murder case over in Lafayette. The case seemed interesting—a high school kid accused of bullying another teenager into suicide. But I was covered up with the Bayou Butcher and didn’t even try to volunteer for it.

Terrell was over the moon and started packing up his desk for his temporary relocation to the satellite office in Lafayette. I hovered around, pretending to help, but really just getting antsy about him leaving me for such a long while. We’d been more or less inseparable for the past four years.

He tossed a couple of evidence books into a banker’s box and grinned at me. “Worried about who’s going to hold your hair when you puke after too many drinks on Bourbon Street?”

I crossed my arms over my chest and frowned. “That happened one time, Terrell. One. And you are still on about it, like, three years after the fact.”

He threw some legal pads into the box and stood. His grin turned into the warm smile that charmed the pants off many a man. “It’s going to be fine. I’ll definitely be back on the weekends. And it isn’t forever. Just a few months. You’ll be okay. Promise.”

“I know. I just worry about you, is all.” I picked at the hem of my red cardigan.

“Right. Sure you do. I don’t blame you for being sad. I am, after all, the most handsome man in the office. Eye candy gone. It’s a pretty big blow to morale.”

I smirked and looked him up and down. “I’ve seen it all, baby. It ain’t that great.”

He hefted the box and walked past me before backing up and dropping a kiss on my forehead. “Keep telling yourself that.”

I laughed even though I felt like my security blanket was being ripped away.

“I’m going home to pack. But I’ll call later, okay?”

I nodded. “Yes. Fine. Have a good trip out to the boonies.”

“I will. See you Friday night. Don’t drink all the Lynch Lane in my absence.”

“Never.” I planned on doing just that.

He disappeared down the hall, and I retreated to my office. I made a list of the things I needed to get done for the week, but my phone rang before I could finish.

Wash’s secretary’s nasal voice came over the line. “Dr. Snider called in, and Mr. Granade wants you to sit in on the phone call.”

“On my way.” I grabbed my legal pad and hurried to Wash’s office.

I entered Wash’s office and closed the door behind me. He already had Dr. Snider on speaker and was asking questions. “Is that conclusive for anything?”

“No, not yet. I’ve sent off the samples taken from the wooden pieces and the victims for DNA comparison. It’ll be at least a week.”

“No offense, Doc, but we already knew that. What do you have for me that’s new?”

“I was getting to that if you hadn’t jumped me on DNA results. There’s a new body. Looks to be Bayou Butcher.”

I dropped my pen.

“What?” Wash and I said in unison.

“Yeah, I got a call from the coroner just fifteen minutes ago asking me to consult. Dr. Russell is on vacation. I’m gearing up right now to head to the site. Bayou inlet on the other side of Pontchartrain.”

“You didn’t tell him we’ve retained you for this case, right?”

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Wash.” Dr. Snider chuckled. “No, I didn’t say a word.”

Wash met my eyes. We were on the same wavelength. A man on the inside of the police investigation was invaluable.

“I gotta go. Marked car just pulled up out front. I’ll text you the location as soon as I find out.”

“Yes. Thanks, Doc. You’re really earning your fee on this one.”

“No kidding.” The line went dead, and I bounced up and down in my chair like an idiot.

Wash grinned. “You ready for some more field work?”

“Yes!”

He looked me up and down. “Not in that. You’re liable to get snakebit or taken off by the locals. Go home and get changed into something suitable for swamping. I’ll pick you up.”

He stood and grabbed a few things from his desk as I rushed out. I went straight home and bragged to Terrell as I changed into jeans, high boots, a tank top, and a sweater.

“I thought today was my lucky day, but you’re on your way to an active crime scene. Idiot me.” He shook his head.

“Okay. I’m out. Call me later.” I kissed him on the cheek and dashed out the front door as my phone buzzed. A message from Wash—he was waiting downstairs for me and had the general location from Dr. Snider.

I slid into the passenger seat and noted Wash had changed into jeans, boots, and a long-sleeved dark gray T-shirt. How could a man make a plain T-shirt sexy? I didn’t know, but I went with it.

We were on the interstate in minutes, heading over Lake Pontchartrain and following the breadcrumb trail Dr. Snider was feeding us with frequent texts.

“When we get there, the cops will hassle us and not want to let us through. Don’t worry. I know most of them, so we should be able to chat our way inside the crime scene tape. But”—he reached over and squeezed my knee—“if you see anything you can’t handle, just say so.”

“I can handle it.” After the morgue, I’d resolved to do my best to toughen up. Would it work? I didn’t know, but I was going to try to remain calm, professional, and detached. “If all else fails, I’ll vom off to the side as inconspicuously as possible.”

He laughed. “That’s my girl.”

I warmed. That was the closest thing to a declaration of more-than-just-like I’d heard from him. Of course, he could have said the same to a pet dog. I frowned.

He misread my expression and squeezed my knee again. “You can do it.”

I nodded and watched as the water receded and we were back on land. Wash zipped past the first two exits and took the third, winding around into a small town before the scenery turned wilder.

Another text pinged through. Dr. Snider was at the site. We were fifteen minutes away.

“Tell him to stall,” Wash instructed.

I texted the directive and settled in, watching the trees grow thicker, vines and moss weaving into the greenery. We passed over several creeks, the dark waters hiding more than just wildlife. He took a turn onto a gravel road that eventually became rutted dirt. The dark lane took us deeper and deeper into the brush until we saw the glint of sun on cars up ahead.

We rolled up to a cavalcade of law enforcement vehicles, at least ten blocking the lane. A police officer walked toward us and put his hand out.

Wash rolled down his window. “Ernie. Hey, man, how you doing?”

“Wash. What you doing out here?” The cop leaned down to the window and glanced over at me. “Hi.” He smiled, his face young and soft. He had to have been even younger than me. A total cutie, too.

“Hi.” I returned his smile.

“A little birdie told me there was another Bayou Butcher victim found,” Wash said.

Ernie rubbed his hand along his smooth chin. “Now, how’d you hear that? They told us to keep it out of chatter so the scanners wouldn’t pick it up.”

Wash shrugged. “We rep the defendant in this case. Just wanted to see what the fuss is about.”

Ernie shook his head. “I can’t let you through, man.”

“Sure you can. I’m an officer of the court. So is Caroline over here.”

“Nice to meet you, Caroline.” Ernie smiled bigger.

“Likewise, Ernie.” I gave what I thought was my most charming smile. I leaned over, knowing full well my sweater would pull away and Ernie would have an excellent view to my low-cut tank top. “I’m pretty much fresh out of law school. Never been to a crime scene before. I wish I could at least see what goes on.”

Ernie’s eyes went right where I wanted them to. Wash didn’t look back at me, though he tensed slightly.

“You certainly need to learn. I hear you on that. I volunteered to come out today, too.” He pulled his gaze back up to mine, so I turned my head and looked out the front windshield, giving him a guilt-free eyeful of my girls.

“It’s part of my job, Ernie. I have to defend my guy. You know this.” Wash’s voice was grittier than only a few moments before.

I slowly turned my face back to Ernie, giving him a chance to stop looking down my top before getting caught.

“I don’t know, man.” Ernie’s cheeks pinked a bit, making him even more all-American boy.

I leaned a smidge farther. “Please let us through. If anyone asks we won’t say a word about you. You have my word.” I stuck my hand out, and he took it.

He shook it gently and then simply held it in his. Wash shifted and clenched a fist on his thigh.

Ernie shook his head, his blond locks falling across his forehead. “Well, hell. Fine. But don’t mention me, got it?”

I squeezed his hand before pulling mine away. “Got it.”

Ernie smiled sheepishly. “Do you, like, have a card or someth—”

“Thanks, Ernie.” Wash hit the gas, and Ernie had to back away quickly.

“Hey!” I sat up. “You could have squished his foot or something.”

“Nah.” Wash pulled up on the far edge of the cruisers, either to keep a low profile or to set us up for a fast getaway. “He’s fine. I got him out of a jam when he was still a pipsqueak in high school. He owes me. You didn’t have to do that . . . that thing you did.”

“Do what? Convince him to let us through?”

We got out. Wash, brows drawn down tight, slammed his door and looked at me over the roof of the car. “No, flirt with him. You didn’t have to . . . to . . .”

He threw his hands up.

Was this happening? Were we doing this at a crime scene? I finally knew what people meant when they said they wanted to strangle someone. At that moment, wrapping my fingers around his throat seemed like an excellent idea.

“You’re being ridiculous.” I walked around the car and stared up into his eyes, daring him to say something else.

He glowered at me, the hardass in full force. But then his gaze slipped to my lips, and something other than ire lit his eyes. He gripped my shoulders and backed me into the car. I made a high-pitched sound when he pressed his body into mine.

“You make me crazy, Caroline.”

I met his gaze, defiant even as my body warmed to his touch, his aggression. “I can see that.”

He stroked down my cheek and rested his fingers around my neck. “Do you know what I wanted to do when he touched you? Any idea?”

“I was just—”

He kept talking right over me. “I wanted to break every finger of his that touched you. So he’d know you’re mine. So he’d know that touching you was a blasted crime.”

“That—yes, that’s a little crazy.” I nodded even as he moved closer, his lips a tantalizing lure.

“I know it is. It’s not the sort of man I am. At least it wasn’t. Not until you.” He slid his fingertips down to my collarbone. “Now I’m losing my mind if another man so much as smiles at you.”

Breathing eluded me as his deep gaze swallowed me whole. His touch was light, yet erotic. He moved even closer. All I had to do was push up on my toes and I would taste him again.

A static-filled walkie-talkie blared from the tangle of police cruisers. Wash dropped his hand and backed away, the moment gone. I felt exposed without his body covering mine, without his heat reflecting my own. I stepped away from the car and squared my shoulders. Get it together.

He ran his hand through his hair, and I suspected he might have had the same thought. If we could both get our trash together, maybe we could actually investigate the crime scene instead of pawing at each other.

“Come on.” He turned and stalked through the row of cars.

I followed, avoiding the muddy potholes and taking his hand as he helped me down a leaf-strewn embankment on the far side of the road. We picked our way through the trees, following the sound of voices.

Up ahead the tributary sparkled in the sunlight and would have reflected the sky had it been clear instead of a muddy brown. The officers had their backs to us as we approached, though a couple gave us questioning glances. Wash seemed to pick out a particular state trooper and beelined for him.

“Toby.” Wash pulled me alongside him, my boots already covered in muck.

The trooper turned around and took both of us in. He looked to be in his forties. His smooth brown skin was marred with a jagged scar along his jaw and down his neck. I wondered what sort of story was behind such a mark. He tipped his wide-brimmed hat at me and smiled warmly at Wash. “Long time no see.”

“Yeah, I’ve been busy beating up on the local cops. I try not to tangle with the professional trooper types like yourself.”

The trooper laughed. “Buttering me up already? You must be in need of a big favor, my man.”

Wash put his hand on the small of my back. “Toby, this is Caroline, my associate.”

“Hi.” I smiled, though I kept trying to peer around Toby’s impossibly broad chest to see what was going on. All I could catch was the edges of yellow tarps and other officers milling in and out of my line of sight.

“Nice to meet you. Sorry it’s under such awful circumstances.” Toby’s smile faded a bit.

“You know why I’m here. I just want to keep up with my case.” Wash’s easy charm rolled off him like pleasant cologne.

“Last time I let you into a crime scene, Cap chewed my rear for a week straight.”

“Cap was going to chew your rear anyway. Didn’t get your ticket quota. Didn’t press your shirt just right. Didn’t give a good enough reach-around. You know, same old trash.”

Toby shook his head and grinned. “Good to know you’re still a jerk.” He glanced to me. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“No.” I returned his grin. “He is definitely a jerk. Please go on.”

Toby raised his eyebrows and looked to Wash. “This one’s a keeper.”

“I’m aware.” Wash moved his hand lower toward my rear. “Now, back to business. How about you let us just look? I won’t touch anything.”

“How about you, Miss Caroline? You going to touch anything?” Toby winked at me.

“Depends on if I see something I like.” I pretended I was Scarlett O’Hara, total coquette. “You never know with me.”

Wash’s hand moved lower and gripped my rear hard through my jeans.

“I think that answer deserves at least a peek. Come on.” Toby put his arm out, and I took it. He led me through the dozen or so uniformed officers.

Wash followed close behind. I could almost feel his irritation at Toby’s harmless flirting, and I couldn’t stop my smirk.

We were nearly to the front of the crowd when someone called my name. I turned toward the voice and saw Matt Turnbull barreling down the nearest embankment.

Toby glanced to me. “Matt a friend of yours?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”

He squeezed my hand in the crook of his elbow. “This should be fun to watch.”

Matt came blustering up, waving his hand around at Wash and me. “You two can’t be here. This is a blasted crime scene.”

Wash stepped in front of me. “We have every right to be here to defend the interests of our client.”

I moved closer to Toby to get a better view. Some of the other officers turned to watch, though they looked more amused than anything else.

“This is a state investigation. This is my turf. And I want both of you gone.” Matt jabbed a finger at Wash.

Bad idea. Wash stepped toward him, but Toby put a quick hand on his shoulder before saying, “You’re right, this is a state investigation. I’m the ranking officer at this crime scene, and unless anyone else would like to say different”—Toby surveyed the silent crowd in blue—“this is under my jurisdiction. So I say they stay, Matt.”

Matt’s eyes bugged a bit, and he put a petulant hand on his hip. “You can’t be serious.”

Toby laughed, but I got the distinct sensation he didn’t find a thing funny. “They’re surrounded by cops. What are they going to do? Take the body and run?”

Matt scowled. “You are compromising this investigation. I’ll take this to your captain, Trooper.”

A few of the officers chuckled. Toby moved to stand next to Wash and took me with him, so I was sandwiched between two large men who wanted to kick Matt’s rear.

“You do that. I’m sure he’ll love to hear some too-big-for-his-britches Law & Order wannabe ordering him and his troopers around. Go on and give him a call. See where that gets you.” Toby tipped his hat at Matt and led me back toward the yellow tarp I’d spied earlier.

“This isn’t over, Wash.” Matt dogged our steps.

“No, it isn’t.” Wash’s voice was keyed up, as if he were still looking for a fight. I didn’t blame him. He was always at his best when the tension was at its peak.

Toby pushed through the remaining onlookers. When the last officer cleared out from ahead of me, I stopped in my tracks. Dr. Snider was on his knees, leaning over the victim’s shriveled body. It was half clothed and white like all the others, drained of any blood.

But this one was different. I knew this one. The face was twisted in death, yet still recognizable.

Tyler Graves.

Chapter Seventeen

WASH

Caroline and I had spent an hour or so at the crime scene when I decided we’d seen all we could. I’d been itching to get Dr. Snider’s take, especially since my prime suspect just ended up dead—a Bayou Butcher victim right down to the carving in his back and the finger missing past the knuckle.

The only difference was it was a male this time. A break in the series. Serial killers were methodical, choosing victims based on very specific traits. Why would the killer change the pattern?

Once out of the bayou, we stopped at a greasy spoon in the small town near the crime scene and texted Dr. Snider to meet us there.

Caroline slid into the booth and scooted so I could settle in next to her. I put my arm along the seat behind her. I wanted to pull her into my side. Her cheeks were red and her lips almost blue-tinged from the cold. She’d done well at the crime scene. She’d done great, actually. Asking all the right questions and paying close attention to Dr. Snider’s process and the chatter from the officers around her. I was proud of her, though I couldn’t tell her that, of course.

“Rourke. It’s got to be him. I wonder if he’s still at the boardinghouse.” Her mind was whirring.

“Maybe.” I shrugged and inched my hand closer to her shoulder. “We don’t have enough information to go on just yet.”

“But he’s super violent, clearly psychotic, and knew the victim.” She ticked the points off on her fingers.

“Maybe. But we can’t get ahead of ourselves. We need to get the autopsy results, make sure it’s not a copycat killer, speak with Rowan, and then try to speak with Rourke.”

She nodded, then gave me a wide-eyed look. “Let’s take guns when we go back to see that guy.”

I laughed. “We’ll go together. I’m not worried. You can protect me.”

She smiled and stared up at me. I glanced to her mouth, desperate to taste her. Her cheeks grew even pinker, and she darted her tongue out to wet her lips. Idiot. I wanted to kiss her, the restaurant be darned.

I leaned closer, but movement outside caught my eye. A black-and-white turned off the highway, pulling up out front and dropping Dr. Snider off. Caroline dropped her gaze, the moment gone, and waved to him as he entered.

I took a deep breath. Focus on the case.

Dr. Snider hurried over and plopped down across from us.

We ordered from a harried waitress. The moment she was gone, I lowered my voice. “Spill, Doc.”

He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Definitely a Butcher victim. Everything is too dead-on—pardon the pun—to be a copycat killer. Bloodletting, carving, finger missing. All of it matches. It’s him. But he messed up this time. He’d weighted the body down with cement blocks, but the rope didn’t hold. That’s the only reason the body was found so quickly this time.”

“Does that mean you might be able to gather more evidence?”

Dr. Snider shrugged. “Maybe. The wounds are definitely fresher. This guy wasn’t killed months ago.”

“But when? Rowan’s been locked up for a month. If we can prove he was in jail when Tyler was killed, then this could be his ticket to freedom.” Caroline placed both pale hands around her hot cup of coffee, no doubt to steal some of its warmth. I resolved to buy her a nice pair of gloves.

“Maybe, but time of death is difficult on bodies that have been submerged.” He shrugged. “I could guess, but that’s all it would be. A guess.”

“Guess for me, Doc,” I said. Tyler’s death could either blow the State’s case against Rowan to pieces or add another number to Rowan’s body count.

“Given the colder weather, the possible time submerged, the decay?” Dr. Snider drummed his fingers on the weathered tabletop. “No more than a month. Could be even less.”

Caroline leaned forward. “Will you testify to that? To less than a month?”

Her instincts were perfect. A natural.

“I will. Yes. I’m not one hundred percent, mind you. But it could definitely have happened while Rowan’s been under arrest. But, then again, could have been slightly before.”

The waitress returned, her arms laden with plates. Once she’d retreated behind the high bar again, we resumed our conversation.

“Anything else? What did the cops say?”

“Not much. A fisherman and his kid found the body and called the troopers. Troopers weren’t sure if it was another Bayou Butcher case, given that the victim was a male this time.” He stuffed a huge chunk of waffle into his mouth.

“Who’s doing the autopsy?” Caroline asked. She was eating well, seemingly not as creeped out by the crime scene as I worried she’d be. Her head was in the game.

Dr. Snider raised his fork and waved it around.

I smiled and bit into a slice of crisp bacon. “Perfect. When?”

“Turnbull decreed tomorrow morning, nine o’clock sharp.”

“Think you can pinpoint time of death any better once you get Tyler on the table?” I asked.

“Only one way to find out.”

“Oh, shoot.” Caroline swallowed hard.

“What?”

“Do you think the troopers told Luke yet?” She put her fork down and clasped her hands in her lap before turning her big brown eyes up to me. “He’s such a nice guy. I’d hate for him to hear about it from Turnbull or someone even worse.”

“No, Toby probably won’t notify next of kin until he gets a more conclusive ID on the body. We only recognized him from a picture, and his body’s been through a lot.” I was certain it was Tyler, too, but I wasn’t sure how quickly I wanted that information to get out. Timing it for Rowan’s benefit, one way or another, was my only goal.

Dr. Snider scooped up some buttery grits and spilled a bit down his shirt. “Not notified yet. Toby asked me for a better ID. That’s right.”

“Well, I’m ninety-nine percent positive it’s him.” She picked her fork back up and toyed with her half-eaten scrambled eggs. Then she stopped and peered at Dr. Snider, who was cramming a piece of jelly toast in his mouth. “Won’t you need Luke to come and try to ID the body?”

Dr. Snider nodded, but his mouth was too full to properly respond.

She kept getting one step ahead of Dr. Snider—and, I had to admit, even me. Controlling information was key at this point.

I squeezed her shoulder. “Yeah, you’re right. He’ll know soon enough anyway. Doc, text Toby, would you, and tell him your office is handling the notification pending identification. That’ll keep the ball in our court. E-mail me one of the pics you took of his face, and Caroline and I will drop by and see Luke this afternoon. Get the ID that way so he doesn’t have to see the body.”

“Can do.”

“Good.” She began eating again. “That way we can be kind in telling him and possibly solidify him as an ally for Rowan.”

I canted my head at her. Her instincts were a mix of kindness and strategy.

She shrugged and gave me an innocent smile. “What?”

I grinned. I couldn’t help it. Her deviousness rivaled my own, and I wanted to see more of her, more of what went on in that clever mind of hers.

She stared at me, her gaze traveling my face as color rose in her cheeks, painting them even redder than before. My chest expanded, as if there were suddenly more warmth, more space inside. I wished we were somewhere in private, somewhere I could show her how I felt.

Dr. Snider’s less-than-stellar table manners were a reminder that we were, in fact, not in private. He slurped his coffee.

Caroline’s sparkling gaze darkened for a split second, and then she broke our eye contact and sipped her coffee. What just happened?

“So, what’s our next step?” she asked.

The urge to get her to myself, to ask her what she was thinking, verged on overwhelming. I forced myself to settle down. Dr. Snider was an important piece of our defense, and the next forty-eight hours could prove pivotal for the entire case.

“We need to visit Rowan. Can’t talk about this over the phone. Too many ears listening in on the conversations at Angola.”

“Can we go now?”

I checked my watch. “No, too late. They wouldn’t let us in with such short notice. Tomorrow morning at the soonest.”

Caroline fidgeted a bit and stared at the highway outside the window. “We should divide and conquer, then. I’ll take the autopsy, and you go to Angola.”

Harass. She was right. We needed information as soon as possible, and I couldn’t be in two places at once. “Are you sure you can handle an autopsy?”

Dr. Snider finished his breakfast with gusto, downing the last of his orange juice and eyeing the half-eaten food on Caroline’s plate. He grabbed a piece of her toast. “It won’t be too bad. All the blood’s already gone.”

Caroline grimaced but straightened her back. “I’ll be fine. I’m sort of getting the hang of this whole dead body thing.”

“I don’t like it.” I tossed my napkin on the table. “You shouldn’t be going alone.”

Though we’d only been working the case together for a couple of weeks, I’d spent the entire time with her. I didn’t want to separate. Talking to Rowan about Tyler as soon as possible was imperative, but attending the autopsy to gather facts and keep an eye on Turnbull was just as important. Still, there had to be a way for me to attend the autopsy with her.

“I can handle myself, Wash. You don’t have to babysit me for the whole case.” She crossed her arms.

“It’s not that. It’s just—”

“What?” She glared at me.

I narrowed my eyes. “If you’d let me fini—”

“We need to talk to Rowan, right?” She arched an eyebrow.

“Yes, but—”

“We need to keep an eye on Turnbull, right?”

I sighed. She was crossing me. I was letting an associate cross me. I shook my head but couldn’t stifle my smile. “Yes.”

“You can’t do both at the same time, can you?”

“No.”

“You didn’t get magical powers of omnipresence last night, did you?”

“No.”

“Then it’s settled. We’re going to divide and conquer tomorrow morning.”

I gave up. She was right, so there was no point arguing. “Fine. Doc, stick to the plan. Keep it under wraps that we’ve retained you. We’ll play that card in pretrial briefing, not a second before. Got it?”

“Sure.” He speared a piece of Caroline’s bacon. “Got it.”

After Dr. Snider finished off my waffle, we paid our tab. On the way out, I pulled Caroline aside as our hungry friend excused himself to the restroom.

“Look. I know you can handle yourself.”

She opened her mouth to protest but seemed to finally hear me and changed her mind. I studied her eyes, the line of her nose, the perfect bow of her lips. The early afternoon sun played along her blond locks, giving them a golden glow.

I tipped her chin up. “But there is one thing.”

“What’s that?” Her tone was surly, but I could tell she was trying to fight off a smile.

“Most juries are educated at an eighth-grade level, on average. You would have lost them at ‘omnipresence,’”

She made a “grr” noise like a bear and dug her fingers into my ribs. I laughed and backed into the parking lot. She followed, giggling. I rushed her and wrapped her in my arms. Before I could kiss her the way I’d been dying to, Dr. Snider opened the creaking door.

I released Caroline, who gave me a sly smile. I wanted to kiss it off her face and make her breathless. But duty called.

If Dr. Snider had seen our little display, he didn’t let on. “Ready to head back to town?” He held up a to-go box. “I got a slice of pie for the road.”

I opened the door for Caroline and watched as her luscious rear slid down into the seat. I bent over and whispered in her ear, “This isn’t over, Ms. Montreat.”

She smirked up at me, challenge written in her every move. “You’re right about that, Mr. Granade.”

Chapter Eighteen

CAROLINE

I clasped and unclasped my hands as we rode up to the lofty heights of Luke’s office.

“It’s okay to be nervous. I can’t imagine having to give bad news like this every day.” Wash leaned against the wall next to me. His closeness and warmth assuaged some of my nerves.

“Yeah. It just sucks. Like, doing nothing wrong and then having to get hit with ‘Hey, your brother’s been sadistically murdered, and can you ID him?’ out of nowhere. Not cool.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes other people make bad decisions, and then we have to live with the aftermath.”

The elevator pinged to a stop, and we stepped out. This time, the receptionist showed us straight to Luke’s office.

He rose from behind the massive desk and came over to greet us. “So good to see you both again.” His smile was friendly, though a bit strained.

We hadn’t told him the reason for our visit, just that it was urgent. After dropping Dr. Snider off, we’d come straight to Luke’s office.

Luke scanned both of us—no doubt noticing our casual clothes and the mud on our boots.

“Is it more bad news? Have you found Tyler?”

The question punctured my heart. The answer to both questions was yes.

“Let’s sit for a moment, if that’s okay?” Wash waved toward the uncomfortable modern chairs.

We took our seats as before, Luke sitting opposite us.

“There’s really no easy way to tell you this, Luke.” Wash pulled a photo from his briefcase.

Luke’s eyes widened. “What? Tell me what?”

I reached across the table and took his clammy hands in mine.

“State troopers found a body this morning up off Pontchartrain in a small bayou. We went to check out the crime scene. I’m just going to shoot straight with you.” Wash leaned forward. “I think your brother is the Bayou Butcher’s latest victim. But we’ll need you to ID the body. I didn’t want you to have to go down to the morgue, so I brought a photo, if that’s okay.”

Luke squeezed my hands almost to the point of pain and let out a breath. He turned his head to the window. We were silent for quite a while, waiting for Luke to compose himself.

Eventually he let go of my hands and nodded, and Wash handed him the photo. He pulled a set of reading glasses from his inner suit coat pocket and inspected it. “It’s—” His voice broke. “It’s him. It is.” He tossed down his glasses and covered his face with his hand.

Wash and I exchanged a look. Our prime suspect was verified dead. If we could somehow prove that Tyler was killed after Rowan’s arrest, we could use that to exonerate Rowan of all the murders. But we didn’t have a chance without a more positive date of death. Problem was, I’d checked every nook and cranny for Tyler over the past month and hadn’t heard a word about him. It was as if he’d dropped off the face of the earth right after Rowan’s arrest. None of it looked good for Rowan.

We sat with Luke for about an hour, trying to figure out Tyler’s last whereabouts and any more known associates we could question. Luke didn’t tell us anything we hadn’t already tracked down, and I didn’t want to keep questioning him when he was so clearly grieving.

After offering more condolences, Wash and I left him and returned to the office. The talk with Luke had gone well, all things considered, but we had more to worry about. The trip to the morgue and the visit to Rowan would each be pivotal. Wash and I spent the rest of the day going over possibilities, discussing what could happen to the case either way. There were several loose threads, problems, and difficulties. But the one thing that bothered me the most was the obvious question Tyler’s death left. If Tyler wasn’t the killer, then who was?

It was getting late when Kennedy strolled through Wash’s door, unannounced as usual. He had a fading shiner under his left eye and his usual infectious grin.

“What happened there?” I asked and began straightening up my papers.

“Turnbull. He kept complaining about his nose, so I gave him one free hit to shut the heck up. Popped me good. You owe me.” He pointed to Wash and plopped down in front of his desk.

“You know how many times I’ve had to take up for your sorry rear? You got off easy. You still owe me, little brother.”

Kennedy loosened his tie and peered out the door. “Speaking of getting off easy, is that Corinne chick working late?”

Wash slammed an accordion file on his desk. “It’s Yvonne, and no. I’m sure she’s gone home for the evening. Stop preying on my associates.”

I held in my snicker, barely. Kennedy didn’t. He tapped my upper arm with the back of his hand. “Hey, Caroline, hear that? What is it they called this in law school? Some kind of doctrine of handsy something?”

I laughed. “Doctrine of unclean hands. One cannot come into court and ask for relief when his own hands are dirty. But I think you’re going more for a pot and kettle analogy.” I stood. “You two figure it out. I have an early morning.”

Kennedy rose and whipped his tie off, draping it over his shoulder. “I’ll walk you out.”

“Sit down, little brother.” Wash flipped Kennedy off and hustled me out the door. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Kennedy’s laugh followed us down the hall and to the elevator.

Wash carried my file for me. It was cute. With his hair all ruffled, jacket off, and shirt unbuttoned, he looked like a harried law professor late to a class. Totally kissable.

He stood close to me in the elevator, our thighs touching as we eyed each other’s reflections. The parking deck was deserted this late at night, so I was happy to have some company.

“If you have any trouble tomorrow, call me. Okay?” He walked me to my car.

“I will. But I won’t have any trouble.” I took my file from him and put it in the backseat.

When I shut the door and turned, he was close and moved closer still, pushing me against the car door. I looked up at him, wanting him but unsure if I could withstand the damage he could do to my heart. He put a hand on my cheek, and I closed my eyes at his touch.

He kissed me lightly at first and then put his hand at the small of my back, pressing me into his hard body. His lips became insistent, demanding, and my knees went weak. I gripped his shirt at the waist, fisting the material as warmth built between my legs.

He broke the kiss but kept eyeing my lips as if he wanted to do it again. “I’ve needed to do that all day. My apologies.”

I smiled. “I’ve needed you to do that all day. Apologies accepted.”

He smiled. Hello, dimples.

“All right. I’ve got to get back to Kennedy before he finds some unwary female associate who’s working late.”

He backed away and crossed his arms as I got in my car. Before I closed the door, I batted my lashes at him. “Oh, and Wash, if you have any trouble tomorrow, call me. Okay?”

He smirked and nodded.

I watched him disappear in my rearview and ignored the pain in my heart. Why was it so hard to leave him? I’d been with him all day. Heck, married people didn’t see each other as much as we did. But I still wanted more. I realized I probably always would. And wasn’t that just a jerk?

The next morning, I rolled out of bed at an ungodly hour and got ready for work. I’d left my voice recorder at my desk, so I’d need to stop by the office on the way to the morgue. Great.

The apartment was so quiet without Terrell. I missed him terribly, especially when I realized I would have to do my own dishes while he was out. Bummer. The Lynch Lane wine didn’t taste as good without him to share it with, either. But I still drank it, of course.

After over-spraying perfume in the hope it might cover the morgue smell, I drove to work. Only Mr. Palmer’s and Wash’s cars were in the deck. It was too early for anyone other than straight-up fly a kite associates to be at work. I guess I was the only one of those.

I snagged my recorder off my desk and maneuvered down the hall to Wash’s office. The door was closed, and some sort of argument was going on inside. What the heck?

I kicked off my heels and crept closer, my bare feet silent on the marble.

“It’s not something we do at this firm, Wash. You know that!”

“I know. I know. Look, I’ve been meaning to tell you about it. I wanted to have a sitdown, the three of us, and discuss it.”

“Dang it, Wash. This isn’t something you can just discuss. I have to fix it. She’s been a great associate up until now. And now, I can’t let her stay here if you two are going to continue what you’re doing.”

My heart seemed to stop and I froze. Me. They were talking about me.

“Trent, there’s no reason for this to have to force her out.”

“Yes, there is. This firm has a strict policy on that, and you know it. Heck, you helped write it. We don’t want to be known as one of the predatory firms that goes through a lot of associates, especially not female associates. And especially not because of fraternization.” Mr. Palmer’s voice had reached a fever pitch. “This is our very reputation you’re messing with.”

“I can fix this.” Wash’s voice grew in intensity, anger roiling in its tone. “We’ve managed to keep it professional at work. We can keep doing that.”

“You know that won’t work.” A slapping sound, as if Mr. Palmer had slammed his hand down on Wash’s desk. “I don’t want to have to terminate her, but I will to save this firm’s good name.”

“It’s not her fault.” Wash’s voice was a sharp bark.

“Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think I hate that she’s the one that has to be punished for your idiot? She has to go. I can’t very well fire you. We’re partners here. This is the only way.”

“I can fix it.”

“No, you can’t. I’ve already decided. She has to go. I’ll give her two more weeks to transfer her workload on the Bayou Butcher case, but after that she’s out.”

“Trent—”

“That’s it, Wash. She’s gone.”

“Fine, she’s gone,” Wash yelled.

If my heart had stopped, it began to beat again, but only like a bird in a cage, flapping its wings too hard against the bars and destroying itself in the process. I backed down the hall and grabbed my shoes, my tears hitting the floor in small, silent splashes.

I sat in my car, for once glad I didn’t get the choice parking enjoyed by the partners. I could stay here for a while and just let the tears fall. No one would see me. Not Mr. Palmer, not Wash. Their conversation was on repeat in my mind. Wash putting his career, his firm’s reputation, ahead of what we might have had together.

I wanted to go home, crawl under my covers, and stay there until I heard Terrell’s key in the lock, but he wouldn’t be home for days. I was alone. My tears came faster at the thought, and I couldn’t cover my sobs anymore. I was the stupid associate who fell for the boss and would pay the price. Goodness, had I not seen enough movies or read enough books about this very thing? I was a living cliché.

Wash’s bright eyes flashed across my mind, his dimples, his messy hair. All of it was a dagger embedded beneath my ribs. I let myself cry, let the hurt out in the small space of my car, surprised the windows didn’t burst from the pressure.

I toyed with blowing the case and driving to Lafayette to see Terrell. No. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t let the boys’ club win. I forced myself to dry it up, to sit up straight, to stop being the girl Mr. Palmer had painted me as.

The gaping hurt in my chest wasn’t visible to the naked eye. Only I knew it was there. I flipped down my visor mirror and examined the wreck that was my face. With shaking hands, I reached into my purse and grabbed my makeup bag. Fifteen minutes of work and I looked human again. No more tear streaks, no more smeared mascara. I looked almost like the same person who walked out of my apartment this morning. Only I knew the difference.

I started the car, resolved to see this day through and then start job hunting. I couldn’t think about Wash. I wouldn’t. I drove to the hospital in a mourning haze. The conversation was still stuck on repeat, but this time playing like a dirge. The bright sun rising over the river didn’t seem to notice the darkness that had sucked me down.

I followed the familiar path to the morgue, greeting the man at the front desk and telling him I was there for the autopsy. He waved me through. I took a deep breath and pushed past the first set of doors, the now-familiar smell of death wafting to my nose.

Everything seemed so sterile, so impersonal, but it did nothing to erase the smell of decay. It brought me back to the here and now, to doing my best for my client no matter what was going on in my personal life.

I entered the room with the drain in the floor and found Matt, Toby, and a couple of other troopers standing around. Dr. Snider was scribbling notes on a clipboard, and his assistant was laying out an array of shiny metal instruments. The hum of the fluorescents created an undercurrent of discomfort, though I supposed nothing in the room was designed for anything other than utilitarian purposes.

Dr. Snider stopped writing and straightened up. “I assume you’re with the defense attorney’s office?”

I nodded and played along with the charade. “Yes. Caroline Montreat.”

“Nice to meet you.” Dr. Snider grinned a bit, clearly enjoying our cloak and dagger routine. “Well, looks like everyone is here. We can begin.”

Toby waved me over. “Good to see you again. Maybe one day we can meet under circumstances that don’t involve a dead body.”

I did my best imitation of a smile despite the pit in my stomach. “That would be nice, actually.”

“Where’s Wash?” Matt asked.

“Had another appointment.” I gave him a look over my shoulder. His nose was a mottled blue toward the top, and his eyes had dark half-moon slivers beneath them. Wash had clocked him good. Wash. I pushed the thought of him down, as far down as I could.

“Pussing out on the autopsy and sending the baby lawyer instead?” He sneered. “Figures.”

“The last person I recall pussing out was you on the floor of the courthouse grabbing your nose and crying like a five-year-old,” I snapped.

Toby whistled before holding his fist out. “Dang. Nice one, Caroline.”

I bumped it and turned back toward Dr. Snider.

“Who do you think—”

“If I could get quiet, please, then we’ll begin.” Dr. Snider’s sharp tone cut off Matt’s impending rant.

“Settle down, Matt,” Toby said. “Doc, do your thing.”

“Cindy.” Dr. Snider motioned to his assistant to help him yank down the zipper on the body bag. “Let’s get to work.”

Chapter Nineteen

CAROLINE

The autopsy was, without a doubt, disgusting, but I found myself leaning closer for Dr. Snider’s explanation of the wounds on Tyler’s body—the carvings, the bloodletting. The mechanics of the murder were just like all the others, save one difference. Tyler had been hit on the back of the head with enough force to knock him out before he’d been killed.

Why would the killer have changed the pattern in those two ways—a man and knocking him out? Dr. Snider had no answers, and neither did the rest of us. But Dr. Snider was certain of one thing, it wasn’t a copycat. This was done by the same killer. Rowan’s case grew stronger by the second.

Matt left the autopsy early, saying he had an appointment he couldn’t miss. Toby and I exchanged a look. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who noticed Matt was green around the gills.

It only took an hour to complete the examination. It didn’t seem like enough time to calculate the loss of a human life, even one as deplorable as Tyler’s. But I was glad it was over. Cindy wheeled the body to the adjoining room as Dr. Snider dictated his last few notes. He still wasn’t sure about time of death, but he suspected the body was fresher than the month he initially thought.

I would have been burning up my phone texting Wash the good news, but it could wait. I didn’t want to communicate with him. Not yet. I thought I’d just write a report and leave it on his desk on my way out. I’d resolved to go ahead and turn in my notice that afternoon anyway.

“I’ll walk you out,” Toby said.

“Sure.” I suspected morgue duty wasn’t Toby’s favorite, either.

“Wash hasn’t called?” he asked as we finally escaped the smell of rot and walked into the hospital proper. The presence of other, living people going about their day was a strange comfort.

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

He stopped and touched my arm. “Trouble? I could tell something was bothering you, but I didn’t want to talk about it in there.”

I nodded. Toby was intuitive and there was no point lying to him. “Yeah. Let’s just say I’ll be looking for a job at five o’clock. Let me know if you hear of anyone hiring, would you?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, his perfectly ironed and starched shirt not creasing even a little. “Does Wash know about this?”

I dropped my eyes and told my tears to go harass themselves.

“Well, incredible. Has he gone and messed something up? Do I need to get someone to write him a speeding ticket or go to his house and toss the place?”

I couldn’t smile. I knew if I’d tried, I’d definitely cry.

He put an arm around me. He reminded me of Terrell a little bit—the way he knew what to do even if I didn’t say a word. “It’ll work out. And if it doesn’t, give me a call and I’ll have you a job starting Monday morning. I know plenty of attorneys who could use a smart associate like you. Trust me.”

“Thanks.” I sniffed and wiped the two tears that had escaped.

“Chin up. We’ll talk soon, okay?”

I nodded and met his kind eyes again. “Thanks.”

“All right. Next week. I’m buying you lunch. Mark it on your calendar. Tuesday, I’ll pick you up wherever you are—at home in pj’s or kicking rear in court. This badge right here”—he tapped his chest—“gives me the authority to cuff you and take you to the lunch joint of your choosing.”

He got a smile out of me with that.

“Should have known you’d go for the cuffs. Chicks always do. Okay, I have to go, but next week.”

“Okay. I’m in.”

“Good. See you then.”

“Yes.” I nodded, the sadness fading in the light of his friendly overture.

He strolled away, and I pulled my phone from my bag. I’d missed a couple of texts from Wash asking me how it went. I ignored them. I tried to put my phone back in the side pocket of my bag, but I juggled it, and it hit the floor.

A man leaned down and scooped it up before taking my hand. I looked up into his face.

“Luke? What are you doing here?”

His eyes were red. I hoped he didn’t notice mine were, too. “I just had to see him.” He looked far more disheveled than usual, wearing a baseball cap, a plain white T-shirt, and jeans. His clothes were rumpled, as if he’d slept in them.

“I don’t think you want to do that. You need to go home and rest.” I tried to take his elbow and lead him away.

“No, please. It’s the only way I can get closure.”

I considered his request. It would be a shock to him, no doubt, but maybe if he saw his brother, he could move on like he’d said. He was no good to his family like this, and I hated to see him in so much pain.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded. “Yes. Please, Caroline.”

I ignored my misgivings and led him back down the hallway. He kept close to my elbow.

“He’s in here. But it’s not pretty. I don’t want you to regret this.”

“He’s my flesh and blood. I have to see him one last time.” He pushed through the swinging doors and walked to the sheet-covered body in the center of the room.

“I’ll give you some privacy.” I started to back away.

“No, please don’t.” His plea cut my already-shredded heart.

“Okay.” I eased closer to him.

He reached for the edge of the sheet with a trembling hand and pulled it down. Tyler’s face became visible inch by inch as the fabric fell back. Luke gasped and wrapped his arm around my waist.

“Are you okay?” I looked up at his light blue eyes.

He replaced the sheet quickly. “Do they . . . do they know anything yet? About what happened?” He was so quiet I barely heard him.

“Not yet, but they’ll catch him. The time of death proves it’s not Rowan, at least. So there’s someone else out there. I have my eye on a suspect that lived at the same boardinghouse as Tyler and Rowan. It could be him, but even if it’s not, it’s only a matter of time before the killer is caught. Wash and I won’t stop until Rowan is exonerated.” The lie of the statement hit me only after the words left my mouth. I wouldn’t be on this case anymore once I put in my notice. I wouldn’t be working for Rowan or helping find Luke’s brother’s killer. I’d be giving up. But it was either that or wait for the boot.

“Want to go somewhere for some coffee?” Luke offered. “Not to pry, but it looks like you might need it, and I definitely do.”

“That would be great, actually.”

“I know a nice spot where we can talk.” He took his cap off and scratched his head, his salt-and-pepper hair sticking up every which way. He’d always been so collected at his office. Now, Tyler’s death had destroyed Luke’s quiet confidence, and I hoped he would be able to recover.

We left the hospital and headed for our separate cars, after agreeing to meet up at a coffee shop in the Garden District. Maybe some coffee and a chat would help him recover from the shock and help me clear my head enough to decide what to do after Palmer & Granade.

I made a halfhearted attempt to grab my phone and check for messages, but it must have sunk to the bottom of my bag. I didn’t see it and didn’t want to be confronted with any texts or calls from Wash anyway.

Chapter Twenty

WASH

The car ate up the interstate between New Orleans and Angola mile by mile. The radio was on. I didn’t hear it. Trent’s threat to fire Caroline was still foremost in my mind. I was the one who’d made the mess, but she’d be stuck suffering for it. I couldn’t let that happen.

I’d told Trent Caroline was fired. Then I told him I was leaving right along with her. I didn’t care what it looked like or if it hurt the firm. She was it for me. I had never wanted anyone the way I wanted her. Her wit, her smarts, her kindness.

I couldn’t let her go, so I would have to go with her. I’d be darned if I was going to sacrifice her for my career. I’d already given up plenty to have my name on the door. Even so, Palmer & Granade could go back to being Palmer & Associates. I could go out on my own. We could. Granade & Montreat. Heck, even Montreat & Granade. I didn’t care which, as long as we were together.

I smiled and thought about how we would run our office. Maybe I could enforce topless Tuesdays when we didn’t have any client meetings?

The memory of the first time I saw her floated through my mind. She was clearly a law school student, her clothes too casual, her hair in a rough ponytail as she sat and watched me try a case. She had been impossible to miss, her wide eyes and eager expression. It had been years, but I recalled how her eyes had followed me as I walked the well in front of the jury, examining witnesses and evidence. I’d wanted to ask her to coffee then, but didn’t want to get the reputation as the sort of attorney who chased after hot law students. Still, she had stuck with me so strongly that I’d tracked her down, found out where she attended school, and put in a good word with Trent about her hiring. I’d brought her to me. And, I realized, I intended to keep her.

The rest of the drive to Angola was filled with considerations of how to separate my book of business from Trent’s, which other associates, if any, to take with us, and where we could get office space. But what if she said no? A sinking sensation rushed through me.

I shook my head. I’d convinced dozens of juries to see things my way. I could do the same with her, especially if I did it with more than just words. My smile was back at the thought of seducing her into being my partner at law.

I went through the security check outside and rolled into the prison. The wait to see Rowan was longer than usual. So much so that I wondered if the security guard from my last visit was trying to get even. I texted Caroline a few times, asking how she was doing at the autopsy. She didn’t respond. I just hoped she was okay. She was tough, but even I got queasy at my first autopsy. Not that I would ever tell her that.

By the time I was allowed back to see Rowan, I’d waited a total of two hours despite raising trouble and threatening to call the warden.

Rowan shuffled in and was chained to the steel table per usual. He looked much the same, though his head was freshly shaved.

“Where’s Ms. Montreat?”

“She’s busy. Just you and me today. First things first. You know a Gene Rourke?”

“Yeah. He lived at the house.” He picked at a scab on his cheek.

“You or Tyler friends with him?”

“Tyler talked to him a couple times, but that guy was crazy. Never came out of his room for nothing except to eat.”

“So Tyler and he didn’t go out together or anything?”

Rowan pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Naw, that guy never left the house. I think he had some sort of, I don’t know, brain thing. Didn’t want to leave his room, couldn’t leave the house.” He twiddled his fingers at his temple.

I sighed. “Idiot.” If Rourke never left the house, then the chances were slim to none that he was the Bayou Butcher, and we were back to square one on suspects.

“Okay, there’s another thing. I’ve got some news for you. I don’t know if it’s good or bad yet, but we need to discuss it.”

He leaned back and squinted at me. “What news?”

“Tyler Graves was found dead yesterday. Murdered just like all the other Bayou Butcher victims.”

His mouth dropped open, and just the threat of his foul breath had me leaning back.

“Are you kidding me?” he asked.

“No.”

He rolled his eyes. “Man, I don’t even know what . . . I just talked to him like, I don’t know, two weeks ago.”

I leaned forward, my elbows on the table. “You spoke to him?”

“Yeah.” He nodded.

Anger scorched down my spine. “Why didn’t you call me and tell me about it before now?”

He shrugged, his chains rattling at the movement. “I didn’t think it was important.”

If I could have gotten up and shaken him without the guard seeing or hearing, I would have. “It is important, Rowan. Tell me everything he told you. Don’t leave anything out, got me?”

“Well, my memory ain’t so great. Doc here says it’s because of the drugs, but—”

I rapped my knuckles on the table. “Yes, Rowan. It’s the drugs. Every ounce of lye and turpentine you’ve stabbed into your veins or inhaled into your lungs is eating away at your brain. But focus, and tell me about the phone call. Every word.”

He thinned his lips and then put his elbows on the table. “Well, he called me up, said he needed to talk about Chip.”

“Chip?” The name Caroline had gotten from the hooker. Was this our guy?

“Yeah. He’s a guy we knew. Used to come visit sometimes. Real nice.” Rowan shifted in his seat again and looked down. “Or at least I thought he was.”

“What did Tyler tell you about Chip?”

“Said he was pissed about me getting nabbed. Said he didn’t want me to talk.”

“Talk about what?”

He put his hands on the table and picked at his grubby thumbnail. “Well, I ain’t supposed to say. That’s what Tyler said.”

I lowered my voice, so low it could barely be heard. It was the best way to ensure that Rowan would listen. “Tyler was killed, and his death is going to be blamed on you. Tell me who Chip is, and tell me right now.”

He flinched at my stare. “He’s this guy. He had parties. We would get invited.”

“What parties? Where?”

“I don’t remember. I was always messed up when we went. We were just supposed to round up some girls and take them over. It was like, maybe once a month, sometimes less. This guy owned a nice big house, and he’d just go, I don’t know, kind of crazy every so often.”

“Where in the city? What house?”

“It was really rich. I don’t know. Garden maybe?”

“What happened at the parties?”

He dropped his eyes again, and it was as if I could see the lie forming in his mind.

“Nothing much. Just girls dancing, coke and stuff.”

“What else, Rowan?”

He looked back to me, but this time there was fear in his eyes. “Worse stuff. Bad stuff.”

“Like what?”

“I didn’t do any of this, man. I need you to know I just watched. I didn’t do it. Okay?” He took a deep breath. “Chip would pick one girl who was high as idiot and string her up. Truss her up like she was caught in a spiderweb, you know?” He scrubbed a hand over his bald pate. “And then he would hurt her.”

“How?”

“Idiot, man, I don’t know.” He bit his filthy nails. “He would hit her. Him and Tyler both. They would punch and bite and hit her with stuff. Sometimes they would cut the girls. They both had some crazy skill with knives. They could draw with them, you know? Like art like a painter would do, but with knives and blood instead.”

I tamped down my revulsion at the man sitting across from me who would willingly sit by and let such horrors happen right in front of him. “What else do you know about Chip?”

“I only met him a few times. Him and Tyler were friends. I just liked going to the parties.”

“Describe him.”

“Tall as me. Sort of dark hair with gray in it. Older. And he had really creepy eyes. Like they were light, real light blue I think. That’s all I know.”

The truth hit like a bat to the face. “Luke.”

“Who?”

“Did Tyler ever talk about his brother?”

“Brother? I didn’t know he had one.”

“Idiot. Guard!”

Rowan’s eyes opened wide. “What, what did I say?”

“What you should have said when we first met.” I went to the door and banged on it. “Let me the heck out!”

I needed to get back to town, back to Caroline, and discuss our next move. The Bayou Butcher wasn’t sitting here with me in this cell. He was in a high-rise in downtown New Orleans.

Chapter Twenty-one

CAROLINE

Luke beat me to the coffee shop and was already situated at a corner table with two steaming cups of coffee laid out. I sank down, fatigue rushing through me even though it was still morning. He sipped his drink as I added cream and sugar to mine. The shop smelled wonderful, and I eyed the pastry case a little too hard.

“Coffee always seems to perk me up. Though I’m not sure how much good it’s going to do given these circumstances.” He shook his head and stared into his cup.

“I’m sorry, Luke. I know I keep saying that, but it’s true.” I wrapped my hands around my mug, relishing the warmth on my palms.

“Like I said before, I knew Tyler would end badly. I just didn’t know how badly. Not until today. Seeing his face like that.” Luke’s calm exterior had crumbled under the grief of his brother’s death.

My thoughts went to Wash and how he put on a gruff front. But I’d seen the man inside—funny and gentle and sexy as all perdition. I already missed him. It was stupid and made my chest hurt to think about, but I refused to lie to myself any longer. I loved him. I loved him from the moment I’d seen him in that courtroom years ago. But he didn’t love me. The thought was final, as if I’d closed a book and put it up onto a high shelf.

Luke reached across the table and gripped my hand. “I can tell something’s bothering you. I won’t ask what. But maybe we can lean on each other a bit, if that’s all right?”

I nodded.

He smiled and looked at my cup. “Drink your coffee. You’ll feel better.”

I took a large swallow, the warmth spiraling down into my empty stomach. I’d skipped breakfast, so the coffee was a welcome addition.

Luke released my hand and leaned back. “Now tell me what’s wrong.”

“I can’t. You have plenty of trouble without my complaining.” I took another drink.

“It’ll take my mind off things. Please. Maybe I can help?”

I snorted. “I doubt it. Unless you have experience dealing with hardasses?”

“All the time. Try me.” He rubbed at his eyes with the thumb and index finger of one hand. The movement made his T-shirt ride up his bicep a bit. The bottom letters of a tattoo appeared, but then they went wavy as my vision blurred. I rubbed my eyes.

“Does that say ‘Chip’?”

He dropped his hand, and the tattoo was obscured by the fabric again. “My dad used to call me that. Woodworkers, you know? So, chip off the old block?”

I smiled, but a shadow flitted across my mind that I couldn’t quite catch. The edges were fuzzy. “That’s actually kind of nice. And I’m impressed an unassuming financier has ink.” I stared at my coffee but couldn’t focus.

“What do they say? You can’t judge a book by the cover?” He smiled, though I couldn’t see his eyes beneath the brim of the hat. “Now, I’ll ask one more time, what’s upsetting you?”

I’m upset? Oh yes. “It’s just Wash. He’s so . . .”

“Caroline?”

I lost my thought. What was I talking about? I set my coffee cup down. “Wash. You know, he’s so complicated.”

But I hadn’t said complicated. I’d slurred straight through the word. Luke was smiling, his even white teeth the only thing I could see until he stood and caught me as I slid from my seat. Then I saw his light blue eyes. He slung my arm over his shoulder and hustled me out the coffee shop’s side door. My limbs were limp, and my eyes kept trying to close.

“Stop.” Had I said it or just thought it?

Luke dropped me into the passenger’s side of a black car at the curb. He jumped in the driver’s side and yanked me upright by my hair before fastening my seat belt. I couldn’t even cry out. I was paralyzed, though the pain registered as tiny eruptions along my scalp.

“Wouldn’t want to get busted for a moving violation.” He smirked and pulled away from the coffee shop.

Everything faded until all I could see was his profile and the occasional glance from those blue eyes. Then nothing.

Cold and aching, I woke. The sun was low in the windows ahead of me. I lifted my head but didn’t get far when a pounding crush of pain swamped my sense. My head felt like it had gone fifteen rounds with a heavyweight. I was gagged—a round, rubbery ball pressed on my tongue. Where am I?

I tried to look again and managed to get my head up. I was nude, every part of my body assaulted by cold air. I tried to move my hands, but my wrists were stretched away from me. My ankles, too, bound and pulled wide apart. I was inches above the floor, suspended in rigging in what was otherwise a normal sitting room. Victorian furniture dotted the room, an elegant brocade covered the walls, and a chandelier gleamed brightly above my head. The only things out of place were me and the layer of plastic beneath me.

I shook, my muscles trembling as I remembered what had happened. Luke had drugged me. And now I was here. I yanked harder at the bonds on my wrists and ankles, but they held fast.

“This is a tried and true system, Caroline. Trust me. You aren’t going anywhere.” Luke’s voice came from behind me, but I couldn’t see him.

I tried to scream, but the ball gag effectively kept my sounds within the walls of the room.

Fingers touched my side, and I jerked as Luke came into view. He was shirtless and moved to stand in front of me, placing his hands on my waist as he stared into my eyes. My heart raced, and I was having trouble breathing, my nose incapable of keeping air flowing to my lungs.

“I admit this is my favorite part.” He put his hand in between my breasts and pressed. His eyes closed as if he were hearing the sweetest music. “Your heart pounding so hard before it stops forever.”

I froze. “Chip!” The word was distorted by the gag.

“That’s me.” He nodded, a smirk spreading across his face.

Everything crashed down on me. I closed my eyes and shook my head, as if it would snap me out of this nightmare. But when I opened them, the Bayou Butcher still stood in front of me.

I was about to be his next victim. My body convulsed, doing everything possible to try to get free of the ropes. I screamed with fear and anger, the two mixing as I pulled and tugged, ignoring the pain as the ropes sliced deeper. Luke watched, the corners of his mouth turning up as I struggled until I couldn’t catch my breath. The entire time, his hand rested in the same place, feeling my heartbeat.

“As I’m sure you’ve figured out, Caroline, this isn’t my first rodeo.” He hitched a thumb toward a tray of knives laid out neatly a few feet away.

Tears streamed from my eyes as I silently pled with him to let me go.

“Oh, it’s too early for tears. I haven’t even begun yet.” He stepped back and roved my entire body with his gaze. He cocked his head to the side. “See, I’m used to a certain type of woman. Hookers. Rough sorts. You, though. Look at you. Smooth skin. No nasty sores or pockmarks. Not a mark on you. You take care of yourself. A perfect blank canvas.”

I shook my head.

He nodded in response. “Accept it, Caroline. I’ve been watching you. I know your roommate is gone. He won’t be back until next weekend. I checked. No one will even know you’re gone.”

He pulled my phone out of his pocket. “I already texted Terrell to let him know you’ll be staying at your mom’s place this weekend. So even if he does come home, he won’t expect to see you. I’ll keep on texting him now and then, until Monday when I dump your body and the phone, too.”

It was true. Everything he said. I would be missing for the whole weekend before anyone really got suspicious. Terrell wouldn’t send out an alarm until I didn’t show up to work on Monday. My tears burned. I’d be long dead by then.

Luke reached back and grabbed a knife, twirling it in his palm. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the movement.

“I admit.” He chuckled. “I shouldn’t have chosen you. But the moment I saw you, I knew I had to own your soul. I will, when I’m done, you know? I’ll own you. First, I’ll make you scream. I’ll decorate your skin with my art.” He tossed the knife in the air, the light glinting off the smooth surface before he caught it by the hilt. “Then I’m going to get a taste.” His eyes went to my pussy, and I did everything I could to close my legs. I couldn’t. I was bare and open to him. “And then I’m going to slit your throat and collect your blood for some later indulgences of mine. The rest you don’t need to worry yourself with. Suffice it to say, no one will ever suspect poor, sweet Luke of having anything to do with your disappearance. No one saw me. Just some nondescript man in a baseball cap, if that.”

Terror seeped into every cell in my body. My breaths were sharp and shallow. He was going to kill me. I had no escape. I struggled again, my body refusing to give in even though I knew all was lost. When my muscles ached and my hands and ankles went numb, I crumbled, hanging in the dead air.

“I saw it.” He smiled and walked to me before putting the tip of his blade at my nipple. “Right then. You just accepted it. I can smell it when they do. When they realize everything I’ve said is true.” He ran the knife lightly down my breast, the stinging pain putting everything else into sharp relief. “Look at me, Caroline. Keep looking at me.” He drew the blade to his mouth and licked my blood from the silver metal. “Let’s begin.”

Chapter Twenty-two

WASH

I had tried Caroline’s phone a dozen times on my way back to town. No answer. I finally gave up and called Toby to see if he knew what happened to her after the autopsy.

“I don’t know where she is, but I can assure you that you’ve royally messed up with her.” Toby’s voice was stern.

“What?”

“She was upset. Said she’s going to put in her notice today, and I know you’re the reason. What did you do?”

“Incredible.” I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. For a split second that morning, I’d thought I’d heard someone in the hallway when Trent was giving me his fraternization lecture. It must have been Caroline, and she’d likely heard the part about how I agreed to fire her. But if she was upset, she must not have heard the rest. Harass.

“She didn’t give me details, but you need to fix it, jerk.”

I stomped the accelerator even harder. I had to get to her, to explain. “Do you know where she is?”

“No. It’s been hours since we left the hospital.”

“Did she say where she was going?” I would get on my knees at her front door and beg if I had to.

“No. I figured back to the office to pack her stuff.”

“She’s not at the office.”

“I really don’t know where she is, man. I did see her talking to someone as I was leaving the hospital, though.”

“Who?”

I don’t know. Some guy wearing a baseball hat. She took him back down into the morgue. I didn’t see them after that.”

Ice raced down my spine. “What did he look like? Do you remember?”

“Not really. Forties, maybe. Medium build. Seemed like he knew her based on the way they were talking. But there was nothing special about him.”

“Luke. It was Luke.” Fear erupted in parts of me that I didn’t even know existed.

“Who’s Luke?”

“Toby, listen to me. Luke Graves is the Bayou Butcher. I need you to find him right now. I don’t care what it takes. I haven’t been able to get in touch with Caroline, and if you saw her with—”

“Whoa, slow down.” His voiced turned serious. “What? Who are you talking about?”

“Tyler Graves’s brother, Luke, aka Chip. He’s been playing us this whole time, and now I’m afraid he has Caroline. I’m ten minutes out. Trace her cell. Send someone by her apartment. I’ve already called the office. She’s not there. Please, Toby. Please find her. Go to his house, his office. Tear that town apart until she’s safe.”

Toby paused for a moment and said with a sober tone, “Give me her cell. It’ll take a little while to get it pulled, though.”

I complied and waited as Toby started barking orders on the other end of the line. At whom, I didn’t care. But he was sending his troopers out to every location she could be.

I had to find her. Goodness, if Luke had taken her . . . My jaw tightened to the point I thought I’d break a tooth. I would kill him with my bare hands.

“Wash?”

“Yeah?”

“We’re gearing up and heading on over to Luke’s residence. It’ll take us a while because we aren’t in the city. I’ll go ahead and call over to NOPD to get them heading out there, too. They might be able to beat us.”

“Toby, please.” My voice cracked, but I continued. “Please find her.”

“If she’s in this town, we’ll find her. You have my word. Let me go. I’ll keep you informed.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t do anything stupid, Wash. This guy is dangerous. We’ll handle it. You hear me?”

I ended the call without responding and immediately pulled up Luke’s home address on my phone. If he’d had the parties at his house as I suspected, it was the best place to start.

Every second that ticked by was an acute torture. I called Terrell and asked if he had any other way to contact her. No, they just talked by text and phone. I didn’t give him any details. He was alarmed anyway and said he was on his way back and I’d better have answers when he arrived.

I flew off the interstate and into the Garden District, running red lights and weaving through traffic. I ignored the hail of honking horns and frightened bystanders. I didn’t care. I had to get to her. Popping open my glove box, I pulled out my .45 as I sped down Luke’s street. I came to a stop just down from his three-story Italianate manse. A magnolia tree shaded the wide front yard, and the afternoon sun reflected from the windows.

After chambering a round and clicking off the safety, I eased out of my car and left the door open so as not to make a sound. I edged around the grass until I reached the first set of windows. I peered inside but couldn’t see anything because of the glare.

I crept around until the shade of the tree gave me a better view through one of the windows. A kitchen, nothing of interest. I kept walking until I came to a side door. I tried the handle. Locked. Pulling off my coat, I wrapped the butt of the gun with the fabric. Then I knocked a pane of glass out, flinching at the tinkle of shards on the tile floor. Reaching in, I unlocked the door and eased inside, careful not to step on the broken glass and make even more noise.

The house was quiet, but not empty. I could sense someone was here. The layout was unfamiliar, but I resolved to check every room until I found her. Since the kitchen was clear, I moved clockwise, heading to the front of the house. I passed through a library. A muffled sound drifted to me from one of the other rooms. I couldn’t make it out, but it was high pitched.

My legs moved faster, pushing me toward the sound, toward her. I raised the gun and passed through a foyer, the afternoon light shooting through the transom blinding me for a second.

A stinging pain erupted in my back, and I stumbled forward into another room. I dropped the .45, and it went skittering ahead of me. I scrambled after it and found Caroline, bloody and terrified, suspended in a web of ropes. Her wide eyes fixed on me and then on something behind me.

I turned and threw up my arm as Luke lunged at me. The blade in his hand plunged into my forearm, sending a lightning blast of pain up my arm. I fell back, and he followed, landing on top of me. He straddled my hips and cracked his right fist across my jaw. I saw stars and took another punch before throwing out my own right hook, landing it on the side of his head. He listed to my left, and I bucked my hips up, shoving him off so I could turn over and find the gun. I saw it a few feet away. Getting to my knees, I crawled to it.

My fingers brushed it—and searing pain exploded through my calf, where Luke had embedded another blade. I yelled and kicked with my other leg, but made no contact. Crimson stained my pants leg, spreading rapidly. He grabbed the blade’s hilt and twisted, his eyes sinister as he grinned at me. My yell was deafening.

I kicked out again, and this time my heel connected with his chin. He fell back. I wrapped my fingers around the .45 and turned so I was on my back. Luke was quick, skittering away and standing behind Caroline. I got to my feet and limped toward him.

He put a blade to her throat, sawing a little as she screamed into her gag.

“Shoot me and I’ll do it,” Luke sneered.

I tried to find a shot, any shot. There was none, not with Caroline between us.

“Drop it and kick it over to me.” Luke sawed some more, and blood dripped down her throat. I knew the moment I’d seen pain and fear in her eyes that I would kill Luke. Now it was carved in stone.

Even so, I dropped my aim and put the gun on the floor. Then I straightened and held my hands out.

“Now kick it over.”

I toed the pistol’s grip with the tip of my shoe and kicked, sending it skittering across the wood floor and onto the bloody plastic sheeting.

Luke grinned and took the knife from Caroline’s neck. I could breathe again.

When he knelt to grab the gun, I sprang at him. Some piece of furniture splintered and shattered as I tacked him into it. We fell in a rolling mess of arms and legs, kicking and punching. A deep searing ache tore through my stomach, but I kept fighting until I was on top of Luke, my hands around his throat.

He clawed at my wrists, his fingernails digging and ripping at my skin. I increased my pressure on his windpipe.

“Don’t you ever touch her.” My vision hazed a bit, but I only squeezed harder.

He struggled more, trying to buck me off and peel my hands away. I wouldn’t let go, staring every ounce of hate I had for him into his eyes.

After a few more moments, the pale blue eyes bugged and he stopped fighting. When his chest no longer moved and his eyes looked through me, I let up. The room was spinning. I struggled to my feet and yanked at the pulley system that held Caroline suspended. It lowered her to the plastic, where she crumpled in a pile. I went around to her front and yanked at the ropes around her wrists. The first one came easy. The second took longer, and then I sat, the strength ebbing out of me. She scrabbled at the ropes, releasing her own ankles before pulling the gag from her mouth.

“Wash!” she cried and wrapped her arms around my neck.

I thought it would warm me to feel her safe in my embrace. But I was cold. A chill seeped into my bones.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She was crying, her chest heaving against me. I raised a hand and stroked her hair, though it was all I could do. My limbs were heavy.

She pulled away from me and gasped. “Wash, the blood.”

“Don’t worry about me. Just you. Are you hurt. Where’d he hurt you?”

“He’d only just s-started.” She pushed me down onto my back and pressed her palms into my stomach. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Is anyone else here? Anyone coming?”

“Toby.” My eyelids were so heavy.

“When?” Her voice was desperate. The fear in it destroyed me. I didn’t want her to ever be afraid.

“Soon.”

“Don’t close your eyes. Don’t, Wash. Look at me.” She kept one hand on my stomach and cradled my head with the other.

Her warm brown eyes were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

“I love you.” The words just came out, the most natural thing in the world.

“I love you, too.”

“Wash, wake up!” Her voice echoed around me and was joined by others.

Were there other people? I wanted to get up, to fight, to protect her.

A dark shape appeared over her shoulder. Toby’s voice made it to my ears, but I heard nothing but noise. No words. I looked back at Caroline, her gaze fixed on mine.

My eyes closed even though I wanted nothing more than to keep looking at her.

Epilogue

CAROLINE

Six Months Later

“Move it a little more to the left.” I sighed. Sign placement was the hardest thing I’d done all week, and I’d just picked up two capital murder cases.

“Here?” the building super asked.

I tried to gauge the perfect height for it. I even held my hands up and formed a square with my thumbs and index fingers. My firm’s office had to look perfect when the clients walked in the door. The sign was the first thing they’d see.

The golden letters glittered in the morning light.

“Move it down a little. Just a hair.”

The super sighed but did as I said. I stared a little while longer, shifting from heel to heel.

Arms went around my waist, and Wash’s deep rumble vibrated against my back. “It’s perfect. Put it right there.”

The super nodded his head in thanks and drilled one end of the Granade, Montreat, & Lynch sign into the wall.

Wash squeezed me closer to him. “The sign isn’t the only thing that’s perfect.” His breath in my ear sent chill bumps shooting down my back and arms.

“I have court.” I leaned my head back on his shoulder.

“Not for half an hour.” He spoke louder to the super. “Keep up the good work.” Then he dragged me backward and pulled me into his office, slamming the door and pushing me up against it.

“I have to prepare.” I smiled.

Not fooled, he gripped my hands and pinned them above my head. “Since when are you not prepared?”

“Since never.” I sighed as his lips found my neck, sucking lightly before his teeth edged across my skin.

He pushed a knee between my legs.

“Batson challenge hearing? That right?”

I moaned as he ran his hands to my breasts and squeezed through my top. “Yes,” I breathed.

“Challenging jury selection?” He switched my wrists to one hand and used the other to lift my skirt to my hips. “What was wrong with the jury, Ms. Montreat?”

“It was . . . it was all white women.” I squirmed as the heat built between my thighs.

He shucked my panties down to my heels and knelt to pull them off. Then he placed a wet kiss right on my pussy. I put my hands in his hair and gripped him. He shook me off and stood, yanking my upper arm and turning me to face the door.

He ground his hard cock into my rear. His belt clicked and then I felt his slick head at my entrance, then pushing forward and rubbing against my clit, the shaft trapped between my thighs.

“What strikes are you going to challenge?” He stroked back and forth slowly, teasing my clit with each move.

“Two black men and a black woman. They had nothing in voir dire that would be a valid reason to strike them off the jury panel. Had to be an improper motive, especially—” I gasped as he positioned his tip at my entrance and pushed inside.

“Especially what, Ms. Montreat?” His voice was tight as he sank even deeper, his cock filling me.

“Especially because the defendant was a young black male.” I scratched my nails down the door.

He gripped my hair in one hand and yanked my hip back with the other.

“Perfect legal analysis, Ms. Montreat.” He kissed down my neck and fastened his teeth to my shoulder. His cock pumped in and out of me. I arched my back to get him even deeper, and he groaned into me.

He pulled my hair harder and nibbled at my earlobe. “Your pussy is so wet, Ms. Montreat. One would think you wanted to be rough-messed in your partner’s office.”

His dirty talk turned my heat up another notch, and I pushed back against him harder and harder. Our skin slapped, the sound reverberating around his office. He released my hip and slid his fingers to my clit. Swirling around the nub, he sped up his pace, hammering into me as I moaned into the door.

“So hot.” His toe grew even harder as he pistoned deep inside me.

“I’m close, Wash.” I gasped.

“Then come for me, Caroline. I want to feel you convulse all over my cock. Think you can do that for me?”

I nodded and lifted higher on my toes as he flicked my clit. His body crushed into mine, and my breath fogged the dark finish on his door. When he bit down on my neck hard enough to leave a mark, I squealed. He released my hair and slapped his hand over my mouth, pulling my neck back and making my back arch even farther.

I came in a rush, my orgasm like falling off a cliff. I was falling and falling until I hit bottom, my screams caught in Wash’s palm. He grunted in my ear and gave two more deep shoves before shooting inside me, his hips grinding his release into my pussy as far as it would go.

When he was spent, he released my mouth and stepped back. He zipped up and retrieved some tissues for me. I cleaned up a bit.

“Good luck with your Batson challenge.”

“Thank you.” I reached for my panties, but he snagged them off the floor before I had a chance.

He tucked them into his pocket, then opened the door for me with a smirk. “Mine.”

I smiled up into his beautiful blues. “True.”

His grin widened, the dimples appearing, and he slammed the door before dragging me to his office sofa.

I was fifteen minutes late to my hearing, but won the challenge all the same.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

HARDASS. Copyright © 2016 by Christina Saunders. All rights reserved. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Cover photographs: Istockphoto 2131816 couple; Shutterstock 381122680 blonde hair
eISBN 978-1-250-10976-7

First Edition: June 2016

Our eBooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension. 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

TOTAL D*CK

CELIA AARON

Chapter One

KENNEDY

My phone beeped. I ignored it and pressed a throw pillow into my face. Maybe it would dull the raging hangover that stomped through my head. Or maybe I just needed to get some hair of the dog from my desk. But that would require standing upright, something that wasn’t happening until there was a blasted good reason. My beeping phone wasn’t even close.

The darkness from the pillow was welcome, blotting out even the small slivers of sunlight streaming in through my office windows. I’d spent many a night on my couch, either totally blotto or just shy. My law firm’s close proximity to the French Quarter was no accident. Work hard, play hard.

The phone wouldn’t stop. Faye, my long-suffering secretary, appeared to be firing on all cylinders this morning. Finally, the incessant beeping came to an end and I could relax into the cracked leather. What had I even done last night? I remembered leaving work and heading to O’Toole’s, a great bar only two blocks from the office. Then there was a blonde or maybe a brunette who caught my attention, couldn’t remember which. Drinks, drinks, and more drinks. Kissing, tonguing, groping. I brought my fingers to my nose and sniffed. No sex, apparently. Strike out for once. And now I was here.

A knock at my door was like a spike through my temple.

“What?” I groaned.

“It’s urgent, Mr. Granade.” Faye’s voice was, thankfully, muffled.

“Linc or Wash?” The only people I received calls from that ever qualified as “urgent” were my brothers. Everyone else could go harass themselves.

She cracked the door slightly. “Mr. Granade, you need to get up. It’s Stone and Porter.”

My fog cleared just enough for an image of the posh downtown high-rise that housed the old-money law firm of Stone & Porter to pop into my head. The imaginary sun sparkling on the building made the headache turn up a notch, so I went back to focusing on the gloom created by the pillow.

“It’s urgent,” Faye repeated.

I threw the pillow at the door and immediately regretted it. Daylight. I blocked it with my forearm over my eyes, but then I got a whiff of my pit. Rank. The hangover, the sun, and my need for a shower only served to magnify my irritation.

So, I blew. “Faye, I don’t give two trashs that some stuffy, uptight, arrogant idiotwad from Stone and Porter is on my dang phone. Do me a favor and tell them I’ll call them back whenever I’m good and dang ready. And, if that bothers them, tell them they can suck on my nuts as a comfort until I get around to it. Okay? Can you do that for me? Oh, and tell them if that still isn’t enough, I’ll even let them get a few licks on my taint.” I flailed around until I found another pillow and smothered myself with it. “Goodness, bring me some Pepto-Bismol.”

I would have felt bad about unloading that much invective on Faye, but she’d worked for me ever since I opened my doors and had heard far, far worse. She was definitely grayer than when we’d started out, but she was the best secretary in the city, as far as I was concerned.

Faye coughed. Idiot. A dry Faye cough wasn’t simply a cough, it was a scolding of epic magnitude. Nothing good could come of it.

“What?” I groaned into the pillow.

“The ‘idiotwad’ from Stone and Porter you mentioned isn’t on the phone. She’s standing right here.”

Chapter Two

SCARLETT

When I’d pulled up outside the faded house on the edge of the French Quarter, I knew I had to have the wrong address. This was a law office? Somehow, the morning sun made the building appear grungier, the peeling paint casting shadows along the façade so it seemed a mix of dingy white and gray.

My navigation panel told me in a smooth British accent that I’d arrived at my location, and upon closer inspection of the narrow front porch, I saw KENNEDY GRANADE, ATTORNEY AT LAW on a tarnished silver plate. This was it. I hoped I had enough hand sanitizer to wash off whatever funk I picked up from visiting this part of the city.

I let the car parallel-park itself and pulled my leather briefcase from the seat next to me. No point checking myself in the mirror—I was already certain I was more put-together than anyone who’d ever set foot in the Granade law firm.

The wind blew cold and sharp down the city streets. It rarely grew cold in New Orleans, but January was an exception. The streets bustled despite the chill, tourists and natives going about their lives in my hometown. The familiar smell of the Quarter—garbage mixed with sugar mixed with wet dog—assaulted my nose as a particularly biting blast of air blew by.

I snugged my scarf closer to my exposed ears. My hair was arranged in a tight bun at the crown of my head. As the only female associate at Stone & Porter, I found it important to dress impeccably and present myself modestly, not a hair out of place. Today was no exception.

I climbed the stairs to the porch, my heels wobbling on the uneven steps. Getting to the front door without a broken neck was the least of my worries. Dealing with Kennedy Granade—especially given his less-than-stellar reputation—would likely be the true stumbling block.

Gathering my resolve, I rapped my knuckles on the narrow front door, the transom windows along the sides giving me no clues as to what lay inside. No one came. I knocked again. Still nothing. I checked my watch. It was ten in the morning. I’d just come from the most important meeting of my life, and it seemed the Granade firm wasn’t even awake yet. It did not bode well.

I turned the handle and winced as it creaked and the door swung inward. The dim foyer was adorned with shabby chairs and art that was so bad, I feared it came from a low-end hotel. At least it smelled pleasant, like some sort of air freshener.

“Mr. Granade?” I closed the door behind me and stepped onto the threadbare rug in the center of the room. A hallway continued toward the back of the house, a staircase rose in front of me, and what looked like a secretary’s office was to my left.

Leaving wasn’t an option, so I took a few steps toward the open office.

“Good morning.” A woman came down the hall, appearing from the gloom at the back of the house. “Can I help you?” She carried a steaming cup of coffee and wore practical flats, a navy long-sleeve blouse, and black slacks. Her gray hair brushed her shoulders and she gave me a welcoming smile.

“Yes, I’m Scarlett Carmichael, an associate with Stone and Porter. I left a few messages for Mr. Granade a little earlier, but he hasn’t returned my calls.”

“I’m Faye, Kennedy’s assistant. I haven’t had a moment to even listen to his messages yet.” She sat down at her neat desk and placed her coffee on a coaster.

I followed her into her office. “Is he in? I’d like to speak with him as soon as possible.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “He’s here, yes.”

“If he’s in a meeting, I’m happy to wait.” I threw a look at one of the tatty chairs in the parlor. “It’s an urgent matter, and I prefer to speak with him about it in person.” I was, in fact, not happy to wait, but I needed to speak with Mr. Granade as soon as possible.

She smiled, warmth in every wrinkle around her mouth. “A meeting. Right.” Picking up her phone, she hit a button next to the name KENNEDY, and held the receiver to her ear. She repeated the process three times with no results.

She set the phone back into its cradle and tapped her fingers along her coffee cup as she gave me a once-over—toes to bun—and nodded to herself. “I have an idea.”

She rose and strolled down the darkened hallway. I followed along, relieved when she flipped a switch and bathed the space in warm light. Framed settlement checks lined the walls, some for pittances, others for respectable amounts. Mr. Granade was no pauper, though his office gave the impression otherwise.

Stopping at a door, Faye knocked. And as I heard his voice and the ensuing vitriol, I learned everything I needed to know about Kennedy Granade.

He sat behind his desk, his deep brown eyes bloodshot, his dress shirt a rumpled wreck. Even though he looked hungover, he was still a handsome man. Chestnut brown hair, dark eyebrows, angular jaw, and almost too-full lips. He would clean up well, and that’s all I really needed.

I perched on the edge of his still-warm couch. The room smelled of stale alcohol and I glanced to the windows, wishing for some bit of fresh air, even if “fresh” was relative since we were on the edge of the Quarter.

“So, what can I do you for?” He made a show of grabbing a legal pad and a pen.

No apologies for his earlier words, nothing. Just straight to business. It was a relief, actually. I didn’t need to scold him; I needed to convince him to work for me.

“I’m here about a case. Stone and Porter would like you to serve as co-counsel.” I opened my briefcase and pulled out an engagement letter.

“Why would they send a secretary to tell me this?” He dropped his pen and started digging in his desk drawers for something. “My phone works fine and Guy Porter knows where I’m at. I beat him like a drum a year ago in a wrongful death case. I have his settlement check framed out in the hallway. You may have seen it.”

I’d stiffened at his statement that I was a secretary. He wasn’t the first to make the assumption. Sadly, he wouldn’t be the last.

“I tried to call several times this morning. There was no answer. This matter is time sensitive. I have a fee-splitting agreement already drafted up. It’s attached to the engagement letter.” I rose and would have placed the documents on his desk, but it was such a mess of papers that I preferred to hand them to him instead.

He studied my face, then narrowed his eyes before taking the proffered documents. After throwing them on top of the stack of pleadings and briefs cluttering his work space, he leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. A stain, likely from beer, spread beneath his right pec and over his abs. I stared for a moment, but not at the stain—his chest was broad and lean, and I could make out the imprint of a six-pack beneath his shirt.

“I’ll read that trash later. For now, tell me what your boss wants.” He smirked as I glanced back up to his eyes. Had he noticed I’d been checking out his body?

“Well.” I cleared my throat, my voice suddenly raspy. “We have a long-term client, Rhone Industries, that has run into an issue with a competitor. Mr. Rhone visited us yesterday and laid out several pieces of information concerning the theft of high-dollar trade secrets and what seems to be a concerted campaign of corporate espionage involving Greenwood Technologies. I can’t really tell you more until we’re on the same team. Suffice it to say, Stone and Porter is not in the business of doing plaintiff’s work. We never sue. We only defend. We need someone who is a seasoned plaintiff’s lawyer that knows how to get results.” I arched my eyebrow as a cocky smile began to form on his face. “Somehow, and I’m not entirely sure how”—I glanced around the messy office—“your name was thrown into the mix. Mr. Porter would like you to spearhead the case. However, Mr. Rhone is our biggest client, so we want to be intimately involved every step of the way. Co-counsel.”

He grinned. “So, Mr. Stick-Up-His-Rear Guy Porter needs help but he sends you begging? Why couldn’t he come himself? I would have rolled out the red carpet for him. Heck, I may even have showered if I were feeling extra frisky.”

“I’m sure Mr. Porter would have very much enjoyed visiting your quaint little office here.” I wrinkled my nose in distaste as I studied the faded wallpaper and tasteless paintings. “But he’s in Saint-Tropez at the moment.”

I leaned back and crossed my legs at the knee. He followed the movement, his grin faltering for a moment as he took in the shape of my legs. So the rumors were true—in addition to him being a total toe, he was also a womanizer. The urge to stalk out of this pile of trash and never look back waged war with the need to live up to Mr. Porter’s expectations. He’d given me a position of trust with this assignment, and I wasn’t going to let him down.

“So, are you interested or should I move to the next candidate on my list? We are working against an evidence trail that is disappearing by the second, so I’ll need your answer today. Now, in fact.” I stood.

He didn’t move, still affecting an air of nonchalance. “Who’s your next candidate?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential.” The next candidate’s track record wasn’t half as good as Granade’s, but if I had to go with him, I would.

“Pendleton? It’s Pendleton, isn’t it? He’s good, sure.” He rose and came around his desk. Even in my heels, I was at eye level with his shoulders.

I gripped my briefcase by the handle and took a step toward the door. “As I said, Mr. Granade, that’s confidential.”

“You might want to do a little more research, though. Last I heard, his second mistress was pregnant and his wife was about to file for divorce.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against his desk. “Scandal doesn’t exactly jibe with the Stone and Porter image, does it? I think that’s why they don’t hire any female associates. Afraid their dicks will get the better of them.”

I gritted my teeth and took another step toward the door, but I maintained eye contact. I didn’t want him to think he’d gotten the better of me—ever. But he was right about Pendleton. He was the next choice, and now with this new information, I would have to mark him off the list. I had a couple more hopefuls, but none with the experience or skill of Granade.

He cocked his head. “What’s my cut?”

“If you’d looked at the documents I gave you, you would see that the fee is done in the usual thirty-three and a third contingency for counsel, with those monies split equally between your firm and Stone and Porter.”

“Equal split, huh? Will I be doing equal work? Doesn’t sound like it. Sounds like Porter will be doing hookers and blow in Saint-Tropez while I’m working up the case. You need a closer, Ms. …” He trailed off and raised his brows in question.

“Carmichael.” Color rose in my cheeks, and I hated it. It wasn’t often I was made to feel like an afterthought.

“Right, Carmichael. Like I said, your boss needs a closer. I don’t need this case.” He waved his hand around his office. “I built my empire from following my own leads, not taking handouts from lawyers who didn’t even have the decency to show up here and ask me themselves.”

“You’ve made your point, Mr. Granade.” I stepped into the hallway, my need to cut him down to size almost overcoming my decorum. Almost, but not quite. Charm school and debutante balls had made their mark, and above all, I’d learned to maintain a polite, if cold, demeanor. He followed behind me, dogging my steps through his ramshackle office. I refused to speed my pace and strode toward the front door with my head held high, my shoulders balanced even as I walked in heels.

I turned the creaking front door handle, and was about to step out when Granade asked, “So what’s the damages? What does Porter think he can recover? Has he even done any investigation or even basic math yet? I doubt it.”

He stood behind me, too close for my comfort. I straightened my back and glanced over at Faye. She watched, her reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, with a slight smile creasing the corner of her lips.

I released the door handle and turned before giving Mr. Granade the withering stare that had wilted quite a few would-be suitors and rivals during the past few years. “I have run the numbers. I have begun the preliminary investigation. I am taking the lead on this case in Mr. Porter’s absence. I graduated summa cum laude from Vanderbilt Law School with a J.D. and an L.L.M. And I was handpicked by Mr. Rhone himself to serve as first-chair counsel in this case. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more candidates to interview.”

His eyes grew bigger with each of my words until he looked like he was choking. Good. Glancing to my side, I noticed Faye grinning big, approval written all over her face. I turned and opened the door.

As I stepped out onto the porch, I added without turning around, “And based on my preliminary estimate concerning the trade secrets that were misappropriated, I expect the damages figure to easily clear a quarter of a billion dollars.” I yanked the door shut behind me with a satisfying thunk.

Kennedy

“About forty-one million dollars, give or take. Then you’d have to pay taxes on it, of course. But just the income rate.” Faye propped her chin on her hand.

“What?” I was still staring at the door, wondering what just happened.

“That’s what your cut would be if you won a two-hundred-fifty-million-dollar verdict. Just thought you might want to know that before you insult her any more.”

My hangover turned into a clogging party on the inside of my skull, and I could feel the blood draining from my face. “Idiot. Idiot. Idiot, Faye!” I ran my fingers through my hair, attempting to calm the locks down as my brain lurched and leapt, trying to figure out the correct course of action.

“You look really bad. She’s already seen you anyway. So, go after her and tell her you want the job.” Faye leaned back in her chair and peered out the window. “She’s getting into her Mercedes. Better hurry.”

I couldn’t let her get to Pendleton or anyone else on that list. I ripped the door open and hurried down the steps. She watched me approach through her car window, her head cocked in amusement, as if already certain this was exactly how it would play out.

When she’d walked into my office with her superior attitude, I couldn’t wait to send her running back to her firm complaining about me. Stone & Porter never condescended to contact me unless I had one of their clients over a barrel.

She seemed different from the usual big firm dipshits, though. Her light blue eyes shone with intelligence even though she’d worn a polished poker face. Despite her modest clothes and makeup, her youth and femininity were evident in her face, her bearing. She would have been a target for me if it wasn’t immediately clear that she thought I was a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe. Her haughty tone had sealed it, and I’d resolved to continue on my roll of dickish behavior for her benefit. In fact, I’d doubled down, pretending I thought she was a secretary. Now I realized I’d messed myself out of the biggest case of my career.

I strode up to her window. She didn’t roll it down. I didn’t realize how stupid that simple act—or failure to act—could make someone feel. The corners of her plump lips hinted at a smile, and I wondered what she’d look like when she followed through.

“Ms. Carmichael?” I stuffed my hands in my pockets and tilted my head down, looking up at her through my lashes. It was the contrite look I used often with women who wanted to scratch my eyes out. I had at least a fifty-fifty chance. Surely.

She rolled her window down and glared at me, her lips pressed into a thin line, any chance of a smile gone. “Yes, Mr. Granade?”

“Please, call me Kennedy.” I raised my face, though she didn’t smile. My odds weren’t holding up. “About earlier—”

“Which part? The part where you said I could suck on certain parts of your anatomy? The part where you assumed I was a secretary? Perhaps the part where the older men at my firm are, naturally, having sexual relations with me since I’m a female associate? Please be specific.”

“When you put it that way, I sound like a total toe.” I gave her the self-effacing smile that even worked on Faye on a couple of occasions. It was just that good.

Nothing—no smile, definitely no laugh, and perhaps even more of a scowl than before. Tough crowd. “We’re finally in agreement on something.” She pushed the ignition button and her car purred to life.

I dropped all pretense and met her gaze. “I’m sorry. Really, Ms. Carmichael. I was raised better than that. Please accept my sincere apology.”

She narrowed her eyes, her pupils somehow boring into mine. “I assume you’re still interested in the cocounsel appointment?”

“Yes. Please.” The sound of cash registers ca-chinging played through my mind like a cartoon.

She sighed, but her look of disdain didn’t soften. “Fine, Mr. Granade. I’ll expect you at my office at one p.m., unless you have plans.”

“No plans.” I wasn’t sure if I had appointments or not. Either way, it didn’t matter—none of them had the potential payout this case offered. Faye could reschedule.

“Good.” She turned her head toward the street, preparing to pull into traffic. “And, Mr. Granade?”

“Yes?”

She cut her light blue eyes back to mine before letting them drift down my wrinkled shirt. “Please shower and shave before coming to Stone and Porter. As you stated earlier, we have a reputation. One we’d like to keep intact.”

She glanced over her shoulder again and pulled into the street.

I wanted to collapse onto the sidewalk, my heart beating fast enough to make a dent in my ribs. Had I really almost pissed away millions?

“Did you get her?” Faye called from the porch.

I gave her a thumbs-up as I stared at Ms. Carmichael’s taillights. Ms. Carmichael. Just from our few moments together, she was easily one of the stiffest, primmest, most uptight people I’d ever met. I closed my eyes and, as I often did with attractive women, tried to imagine her. She was on her back, her eyes clenched shut, fake moaning, and she kept asking me if it was over yet. I opened my eyes and laughed. Definitely not worth it.

I strolled back up the walk toward Faye. “What did she say her first name was?”

“Scarlett.”

I took Faye in my arms and danced her around on the porch to her surprised guffaw. The boards creaked beneath our feet, but all I could feel between my toes was the sand on my own private beach.

“Millions, Faye. Millions.” I twirled her, but she wouldn’t return to me for the final flourish.

She smirked and crossed her age-spotted arms over her chest. “You need a bath. You smell like a bar.”

“I know. I know.” I bowed. “Only the best for Scarlett Carmichael. I have to be at Stone and Porter at one p.m. for more of her sparkling wit and Victorian fashion choices. Clear my appointments this afternoon.”

“You have no appointments.” She walked back inside.

“She wants me. You know?” I closed the door behind us and almost tap-danced down the hallway to my office.

Faye followed at my heels. “She might want you maimed. Possibly dead. Even dismembered. But I can assure you she does not want you, Kennedy. She’s way out of your league.”

“We’ll see about that. She won’t be my first debutante, and I hope and pray to all that is holy she won’t be my last.” I grabbed my keys and the contracts from my desk and headed toward the back door.

“Careful, Kennedy. Keep it in your pants or you may as well forget the millions.”

If Faye starred in her own comic book, it would be called The Chider. She excelled at it, and despite the fact her scoldings fell on deaf ears, she kept on trying.

“Don’t worry.” I pecked her on the cheek. “I’ll invite you to my beach house in the Bahamas at least once a year. Maybe for a day or two. But don’t get greedy.”

Chapter Three

SCARLETT

“How was he?” Graham, my paralegal, asked.

“The worst. A nightmare. A venereal disease. A green scab that oozes and you can’t figure out why it’s still attached to your body.” I tossed my bag on my desk.

He wrinkled his nose at my scab reference and watched as I sat down in a huff. “That bad, huh?”

“And worse.” I spun so I could see the river shining two blocks away. Stone & Porter wasn’t much for firm culture, but you couldn’t beat the view.

“But you hired him?” He took a swig of his coffee and sank into one of my visitors’ chairs.

“Yes.” I took a deep breath and spun back to my desk. “He’ll be here at one. Or, more likely, he’ll be late and throw everything off.”

I put my head down on my desk. Why did he have to be such a prick? I’d gotten a taste of his reputation—skirt chaser and showboat—when Mr. Porter told me we needed a real jerk plaintiff’s attorney on this case. Even with the advance warning, I wasn’t prepared for the man I’d met this morning.

“Everything’s going to be okay.” Graham shifted in his seat. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this … upset.”

Goodness, was I coming apart in front of the staff? I raised my head and Graham gave me a kind smile. He was a good twenty years older than me, thin wrinkles lining the brown skin around his eyes. He’d probably seen more than his fair share of frazzled associates.

I straightened, determined to prevent Kennedy Granade from ruining my day. “Call Mr. Rhone. Tell him Mr. Granade and I will arrive at his corporate headquarters no later than two o’clock and that we’ll need to speak with Eric.”

“Sure thing, boss. Anything else?” Graham stood and walked toward my door. One thing about him, he was never in a hurry. Even though his work was quick, smart, and impeccably done, he was still type B to the core. I envied him sometimes.

“No, that’s all for now. I may have more later, but I’ll buzz you.”

“All right. Just let me know.” He walked into the hall at a soothing pace and turned right toward his cubicle. I opened my desk drawer. Pulling out my mirror, I smoothed my hair, making sure my bun was tight. Then I powdered my nose. Little things like that always made me feel that I had some semblance of control, that the world wasn’t a series of small disasters like Kennedy Granade.

I spent the rest of the morning organizing the evidence we’d collected so far and working with IT to get two laptops with special access to Rhone’s mainframe set up. The misappropriation of trade secrets by Greenwood seemed to have gone deeper than simple theft. They’d hacked into the securest parts of Rhone’s system, downloading numerous proprietary items of a very sensitive nature—algorithms that took years and the work of the foremost mathematicians in the world.

The morning passed as I worked, the tasks helping me feel in control again. Kennedy had thrown me off for a moment, but nothing more. That moment was over, and I would bring him to heel in short order.

Right after lunch, the receptionist rang in on my phone. “Ms. Carmichael?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Carey Fellowes is here for you.”

“All right. I’ll be right up.” I stowed what remained of my half-eaten sandwich and brushed the crumbs from my ruby sweater and black skirt as I stood. My kitten heels completed my outfit. Modest and impeccable.

I strode through the office, passing secretaries and other attorneys going about their busy days. Entering the foyer, I found a man who looked to be about twenty-one, if that, with visible tattoos and multiple piercings. His jeans were neat, and he wore a plaid button-down shirt with a skinny black tie.

When I’d called other firms requesting information on the best computer analyst and corporate security expert, Carey Fellowes’s name came up again and again. He wasn’t what I’d expected, but by all accounts, he was brilliant and just what I needed to track down whoever broke into Rhone’s systems.

The receptionist stole glances at him every few moments, the dragon scales snaking up the right side of his neck a particular draw. I hid my own surprise and walked to him, holding out my hand. He smiled and rose, shaking my hand with a firm grip.

“Ms. Carmichael?” He grabbed his laptop bag.

“Yes, but call me Scarlett. Thanks for coming on such short notice.” I dropped his hand and led him through the bright lobby, my heels clicking on the marble floors.

“Sure. From what little you told me on the phone, it seems like an interesting case.”

“It’s the first of this sort I’ve had. We’re in here.” I showed him to the glass conference room, one wall just a wide, clear window to downtown with a good river view. The inner walls were also made of glass, with plush curtains that could be drawn for privacy. “I’ve set up everything on this SSD server.” I pointed to what looked like the usual desktop tower, but was actually a high-powered server linked to our network and hooked into Rhone’s. The laptops I’d had prepared sat at the end of the table. “If you need a laptop, let me know.”

He smiled, his light blue eyes sparkling, and slid his laptop from his bag. I’d never seen anything like it. Covered in stickers for bands I’d never heard of, I couldn’t even tell the brand.

“This is Barbarella. I made her myself. Don’t worry. I’ll just get her hooked up to the server, check out what your in-house tech did for the laptops, do the same and likely a little more for her. Then we’ll be good to go.” As he spoke, his fingers flew across the keys, and he had the whole thing set up within moments.

“They said you were good.” I waved my hand at “Barbarella.” “That’s impressive, to say the least.”

“That’s why you pay me the big bucks.” He leaned back in the leather chair. “So when do we start?”

“We’re waiting on one more to join.” I glanced to my watch—1:15 p.m. “Kennedy Granade. He’ll be working for me on this matter.”

“With you, you mean.” Kennedy walked in, confidence in every step. At least he’d showered this time around. He would have been handsome, in a dark gray suit, light blue dress shirt, and navy tie, if I hadn’t already been subjected to his particular brand of charm.

“Glad you could make it. Carey, this is Kennedy Granade.” The men shook hands. “Carey Fellowes is a corporate security expert.”

“Nice to meet you.” Kennedy surveyed the river view, the marble-top conference table, and the cushy leather chairs. “Been a while since I’ve been at this office. Still over-the-top as usual.”

“Were you late that time, too? Or do I get special treatment?” I crossed my arms and glared at him.

He smiled, his dark brown eyes taunting me. “You want me to give you some special treatment, Ms. Carmichael?”

Heat crept up my neck, coloring my cheeks. Jerk. I cleared my throat. “Did you bring the engagement letter and fee agreement?”

He slapped his worn messenger-style briefcase down on the table and flipped it open. “I made a couple of changes to the fee agreement.”

“What?” I should have known he would try something. He was a two-bit ambulance chaser. Unfortunately, it just so happened he knew how to work a jury from the plaintiff’s perspective.

“Seeing as how you need me more than I need you, I went ahead and changed the split to sixty–forty. Also, you’ll be covering my expenses.” He slid the papers over to me and pulled a pen from his inner suit pocket before walking around the table and holding it out to me. I caught the scent of his aftershave, clean and masculine. He was much more pleasant on all fronts this time around, except for his personality. It remained the same.

“Changing the fee arrangement isn’t part of the deal.” I made no move to take his proffered pen.

He stared down at me, his deep brown irises flecked with gold in the warm sunlight pouring through the wide windows. “Then I guess I’ll walk.” Despite his words, he remained still, his eyes boring into mine.

I chewed my bottom lip, a bad habit, and his eyes darted to the movement. I forced myself to stop, but he drew his eyes back to mine slowly, taking in every aspect of my face as he did so.

Mr. Porter had made it abundantly clear that Kennedy was far and away his top choice for this assignment. It was all Monopoly money to me anyway; it wasn’t as if I’d see even a dime of the contingency fee were we to recover. I’d make the same salary either way.

Kennedy studied me as I weighed my options. His gaze verged on insistent, or perhaps I was imagining it. Something about the hungry way he looked at me made the air around me weigh more, pressing down on me until it became hard to breathe.

I wanted to tell him not to let the door hit him in the rear on the way out, but that wasn’t an option. Allowing him to win this battle stung, but I’d pay him back with interest.

I snatched the pen from his hand and bent over the paper on the table. I had to escape his gaze. It was like my body wouldn’t behave, my color rising right along with my temperature. I flipped through the pages, making sure the rate was the only change.

“What? You don’t trust me?”

“Not a chance.” Once satisfied, I signed my name for the firm and hit a button on the phone in the center of the table.

“Yeah, boss?” Graham only answered his phone one way.

“Please come to the conference room and bring my jacket, bag, and a legal pad if you don’t mind.” I pressed the end call button and straightened.

When I turned around, both Kennedy and Carey stared at opposite corners of the room, even though there was absolutely nothing to look at—verifying they’d been staring at my rear while I was bent over.

“We going somewhere?” Kennedy ran his hand along the back of one of the conference chairs.

“Rhone Industries. They’re expecting us. Carey will take point on trying to discern how the breach occurred. We’re there to gather information and get a foothold on how to continue our investigation.”

“Investigation?” He shook his head, his wavy hair tickling the ridge of his ear. “When are we filing suit?”

“When we get the facts. Unlike certain attorneys, we don’t go off half-cocked, sling baseless allegations, and try to shake down defendants to line our own pockets with ill-gotten gains from frivolous lawsuits.”

Carey whistled and stood, gathering his bag. “Shots fired. Mayday.”

Kennedy opened his mouth, no doubt with a biting retort, when Graham walked in. “Hey, boss, got your stuff.”

I stepped around Kennedy and grabbed my coat and bag. “Thanks. Please scan in the contracts and have one mailed to Mr. Granade’s office.”

“Sure thing. Give me a call if you need anything.” He offered his hand to Kennedy. “I’m Graham, by the way.”

They shook.

“Graham is my paralegal. He’s the best there is, so treat him like you would any other professional.” I didn’t tolerate anyone being disrespectful to my staff.

“I always do. My pleasure, Graham.” Kennedy demonstrated some manners for once.

“Cool. I’m Carey.”

“Our hacker extraordinaire?” Graham smiled, his calmness smoothing out the earlier tension in the room. “I can’t wait to see what you find.”

“Best way to catch a hacker? Hire one yourself.” Carey grinned and packed his laptop. “We rolling?”

“Yes. We can take my car unless you prefer to drive separate?”

“I can drive us.” Kennedy walked around the table and opened the door Graham had just walked through.

“No, that’s okay. I’m perfectly capable of driving all of us.” I didn’t want to ride in whatever beat-down jalopy he called his.

“Sure, but I know these streets better than anyone.”

I stiffened, biting back the impulse to take him down a peg or fifty.

Carey and Graham exchanged a look.

“Not better than I do.” I pulled my key from my bag and walked past him. “I’m driving. Let’s go.”

He may have won on the fee agreement, but I’d be darned if I’d let him take control of anything else.

We rode the elevator in silence, Carey glancing up at me every so often in the reflective doors. Kennedy, though, made a point to look over every inch of me slowly as we descended. I stared at his reflection, but he didn’t seem concerned that I knew he was checking me out. He was trying to get under my skin. I was just another little game to him, a skirt to chase. He obviously didn’t know me at all.

I took the opportunity to get another look at him. His suit was cut perfectly to accentuate his broad chest and trim waist. He’d shaved, his jawline smooth. Would it be silky to the touch? A better question was, would the smoothness make a slap sting even more?

He kept examining my body, scouring me as my traitorous heart raced. Heat bloomed in my chest and mixed with the sensation of falling created by the elevator.

Stop gawking at him. You are acting like an idiot. I shook my head the slightest bit, drawing his eyes to mine in the reflection. We stared until it was obvious one of us should have looked away. Neither of us did.

When the elevator stopped, I rushed out first, then schooled my steps to appear nonchalant.

Get it together, Scarlett. Carey walked at my elbow, Kennedy lagging behind a few paces.

“So, is it going to be like this all the time?” Carey asked, running a hand over his close-cropped dirty blond hair.

“What do you mean?” I focused on calming my breathing.

“Just, the tension. This is worse than when my parents got divorced.”

“No tension.” I clicked the key fob and my car lit up. “Don’t worry. We’ll get into a groove. This is a new assignment, that’s all.”

“You sure?” He raised a pierced eyebrow, the silver barbell adding to his apprehension.

“Yes,” I said with a confidence I didn’t feel. Kennedy’s antics had only just begun, and I wasn’t sure how long it would be before I’d have to pull him aside and explain how this was going to work: I was in charge.

Kennedy smirked and walked to the passenger door, not even offering to let Carey ride up front. Carey didn’t seem to mind, climbing into the backseat and closing his door.

I slid behind the wheel and started the engine as Kennedy sat next to me. My skirt had ridden up as I’d sat down. I tugged it back in place and glanced over to him. Giving me a sweltering look that sent a lick of heat between my thighs, he quirked his lips at my attempt to cover my legs.

I hated him, but all the same, I wondered what he’d be like in the sack. I slid my sunglasses on and closed my eyes for a moment. He’d be on top, pounding me as hard and fast as possible, giving my clit zero attention, and thinking he was God’s gift for the entire thirty seconds. I opened my eyes and smiled at him. Definitely not worth it.

Chapter Four

KENNEDY

Security at Rhone Industries proved to be tight, metal detectors and security guards jealously guarding the entrance. Scarlett walked ahead of me, her hips swaying in her heels. She probably didn’t even know she was doing it, but both Carey and I enjoyed the show.

Women like her always thought—mistakenly, thank goodness—that wearing long skirts and tops that weren’t formfitting somehow hid their curves. It had the opposite effect. Her skirt, though long, still cut across her nice rear, highlighting the roundness. Her top, though not close to her skin, still gave me plenty to look at, especially when the light hit it just right and I could make out the full curve of her breasts. Even with her hair pinned back in a severe bun and little to no makeup on, she was a looker. Perhaps I’d judged her too quickly when she visited my office?

Glancing at me over her shoulder, she had to look up to meet my eyes. Even so, I could feel the weight of her disapproval, as if she were looking down at me from the top of Stone & Porter. She thought she was too good for me. Maybe she was right. I wanted to taste her all the same.

We stopped at the elevator bank and she pressed the button for the top floor.

“Straight to the top, Scarlett?” I stood behind her, taking in her scent. It was understated but classy—floral and sweet.

“Yes. We’re meeting in the executive boardroom. Eric Stiles, the in-house head of cybersecurity, will give us the rundown of the breach.” She spoke to Carey, an easy smile playing along her lips. “I’ve already been given the rundown once, but I suspect you’ll actually understand what he’s saying.”

Carey nodded. “I’ll certainly do my best.”

She put a hand to his elbow and squeezed. “I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully.”

Wait, she actually touches men of her own free will? Why not me?

“Thanks. I won’t let you down.”

My jaw tightened as I glared at the back of Carey’s head.

Scarlett let go of his elbow as the elevator door opened. He turned around and winked at me, smiling huge. I had the sudden urge to yank him away from the elevator and make him ride separately from Scarlett and me. Maybe even take the stairs.

Instead, we all stepped in. The ride was quick, no stops, and soon we were in a large, open room that took up almost the entire top floor. It was partitioned with a few glass panels—much like the conference rooms at Stone & Porter—but the spaces were immense. Some people were at a bank of computers in one room, while several others were attending a meeting on the far side of the space.

Sure of her route, Scarlett led us around the glass maze until we came to a room with a dark-haired man inside. He looked to be in his midthirties, wore Clark Kent glasses, and had a smile ready for Scarlett.

“Good to see you again.” He rose and shook her hand before taking mine and then Carey’s.

“Eric, this is Mr. Granade, my cocounsel on this case, and this is Carey Fellowes.”

“Oh, I’ve certainly heard of you, Mr. Fellowes.” Eric’s smile faded.

Carey gave a nervous cough and studied his feet.

“What?” I asked Eric. “Is there a problem?”

“No. Eric, Carey isn’t a hacker anymore. He works for me now.” Scarlett patted Eric on the shoulder. More touching? “He’s likely going to be the one who figures out how Greenwood got our data, so treat him well.”

Eric loosened up a bit, but glanced from Scarlett to Carey and back again. “Well, I can’t do much about it. Mr. Rhone’s already told me to give you whatever you need. Not that I wouldn’t do it anyway.” His smile returned, seemingly bestowed only on Scarlett.

Asshat.

“Well, if that’s the case, I’d like a bottle of water, Eric.” I eased into the seat at the head of the glass conference table.

“Get it yourself, Mr. Granade.” Scarlett’s ire would have been adorable if I didn’t want to spank her for touching everyone but me. “Take the elevator one floor down, and I’m sure the receptionist there would be more than happy to attend to all your needs. While you’re getting your throat wet, the rest of us will get to work.”

I balled my hands into fists before I forced myself to relax. She was getting under my skin while all I could focus on was getting under her skirt.

She turned to Eric as he sat down in front of his laptop. Carey pulled his own from his bag and set up in the next seat over.

“Please give Carey the same information you gave me yesterday. I’ll try to keep up, but it’s perfectly fine for you two to put your heads together and speak your language. I just want to know your end results on what you think may have happened.” Scarlett sat on Eric’s other side and watched as he began typing and showing Carey basic log-on information. She began making notes on her legal pad, paying close attention to Eric’s explanations.

I ignored the digital brain trust and kept my eyes on Scarlett. She didn’t bother looking at me, still on her campaign of “Kennedy is beneath me.” I wouldn’t have minded being beneath her, for a little while at least. Then I would flip her over—

“Are you even listening?” Her voice broke through the pleasant daydream.

“Yes,” I lied as she shook her head and went back to taking notes.

“—so when does the backup occur?” Carey appeared to be deep in investigation mode.

“Every night at midnight. Like clockwork. I started it that way years ago and sort of stuck with it. Now, of course, everything is much more secure. But the principle is the same. There isn’t a single piece of information on the Rhone network that doesn’t have at least one level of redundancy.”

“Does that include the data that was taken?” Carey asked.

“Hang on a second.” I stood and walked to stand over Eric’s shoulder. His screen ran some sort of code. “Is anyone going to talk about what was taken? What was it, anyway?”

“I was wondering when you’d get around to asking the most important question of the case.” Scarlett leaned back in her chair. “Better late than never, I suppose. Eric, go ahead.”

He took his glasses off and cleaned the lenses with his shirt. “A complex series of algorithms that are highly proprietary to Rhone’s weapons-testing program.”

“Okay, Eric. That’s great and all. But try to put that in terms a non-geek can understand.”

“Well, it’s not as simple as saying ‘they snuck in and stole the piece of paper with the secret formula on it.’” Eric glared at me as I edged over so I could stand behind Scarlett. The tight prison of hair on the top of her head begged for my fingers. Messing it all up moved steadily up the list of my priorities until it ranked right below “win this case and make millions of dollars.”

“It’s a series of mathematical formulas that help Rhone figure out the best way for the U.S. military to kill people.” Carey’s fingers flew across the keys as he spoke, the multitasking almost unnerving.

I slapped the back of Scarlett’s chair. “That’s more like it. Now we’re cooking with gas. That sounds like some damages. Maybe we can treble them, get some punitives. Really hit the jackpot.”

“Thanks for that crackerjack legal analysis.” Instead of chilling me, her icy tone had the opposite effect. She continued, “Now that Mr. Granade is on the same page, instead of wandering through a grade-school picture book all on his own, please continue with your analysis.”

She was icy, but I sensed that was only on the surface. I wanted to get closer to her, to see how deeply I had to go before I got to her hotter climes. I slid into the chair next to her and watched her write notes in an elegant script as the geek squad got back to chattering.

Leaning over, I whispered in her ear, “So, when are we going to do some actual legal work?”

She stopped writing and turned toward me, her face close enough that I could kiss her by closing the short distance. Would she hit me? Or would it be like a Gone with the Wind sort of smack that was just foreplay? Surely the latter. I didn’t care either way.

“I realize you’ve been out of law school all of four years longer than I have, so maybe I’m sort of New Age on this point, but getting up to speed on your actual case seems like legitimate legal work.” Her eyes flickered down to my lips and back to my eyes. I knew that look. She may as well have written “idiot me” in block letters on her legal pad. This would be easier than I thought.

She opened her mouth, no doubt to scorch the earth under my feet with her fiery tongue, but her mouth turned into a smile and she stood.

“Mr. Rhone.” Stepping around my chair, she greeted the man who walked through the door.

His blond hair shone under the natural light filtering through the glass rooms. Dressed in dark slacks and a crisp button-down with the sleeves rolled up, he looked like the more approachable version of corporate America. I guessed he was in his early forties, trim and polished.

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Frank?” He took her hand and shook it, a genuine smile lighting his eyes.

I rose and walked to greet him. After all, he was the client who would be covering my expense account.

“A few more times, it would seem, Mr. Rhone. Let me introduce our team. This is Kennedy Granade, my cocounsel I spoke to you about.”

We shook, his grip firm. Mine was firmer. I made sure of it.

“Nice to meet you. I’ve heard great things. Guy and Scarlett handpicked you.”

I glanced over at Scarlett. She crossed her arms over her chest, her mouth pressing into a thin line.

“Oh really?” I turned back to Mr. Rhone. “I’d like to hear more about that.”

He laughed. “I’m sure. I’ll just say I asked for the most ferocious plaintiff’s attorney they could find, and now here you are.” His eyes turned serious. “And I mean it. Greenwood has gone too far this time. We need a bulldog. Is that you?”

“I’m your man, and I understand. Don’t worry, I’m ready to pull the trigger on a filing as soon as you’re comfortable, Mr. Rhone.”

“Call me Frank. I want more than a lawsuit, though a victory in the courtroom would give me some vindication.” His light brown eyes flashed. “But I’m more interested in bringing their shady practices to light and then letting the chips fall where they may. I think many of their business partners would be very interested to know how Greenwood operates.”

“This is the way to shed some light. Get our feet under us with the preliminary investigation, file the complaint, and then do the in-depth discovery. Give them enough rope to hang themselves with and put it all in front of a jury.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” He smiled and shook my hand again.

“And this is Carey, our corporate security expert,” Scarlett continued in a smooth tone as we returned to the conference table.

Frank walked over and shook Carey’s hand. “I’m glad you never set your sights on Rhone in your younger days.”

Carey nodded. “I get that a lot from my clients.”

“I’m just glad you’re on my team. Any progress?” Frank pulled a pair of glasses from his shirt pocket and slipped them on before leaning over and looking at Carey’s screen.

“I have a few ideas of how the breach occurred. Could have been an inside job, someone here giving access. But, it would seem the only person who could have given that access is Eric.” Carey reddened and leaned back, his fingers stopping their progress on his keyboard. “Sorry, man.”

Eric glanced up at Frank. “No, it’s fine. That’s the most logical conclusion. Frank and I have already discussed it, in fact, when I realized the breach had occurred.”

“Right.” Frank patted Eric on the shoulder. “I can guarantee Eric took no part in this.”

Carey folded his hands in his lap. “Then the next conclusion is, based on the firewalls and Eric’s top-notch security measures, that a highly sophisticated hacker—with a lot of backing and cash—is responsible.” He pointed at his screen, which was still a conglomeration of code I couldn’t read. “Whoever did it bypassed security, accessed the network, then went into the even more highly protected backup files for the data. Since those algorithms were kept on a separate server that couldn’t be accessed from the outside, the hackers went to the backup, broke the encryption, and made a copy. They knew what they were looking for.”

“That’s what we suspected.” Eric took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

“Had to be Greenwood. They’re the only competitor with the money necessary to pull off this sort of data theft. And, from what Eric says, the way the hackers covered their tracks means it’s a lost cause.” He shook his head. “We’ll never be able to find them.”

“Hang on a minute.” Carey moved back to his laptop, his fingers whizzing at light-speed. “Though they cleaned up after themselves, I did spot a little something special.” He pulled up a screen with even more code I couldn’t follow. “Here.” He highlighted a series of numbers.

“What’s that?” Scarlett leaned over to peer at the screen. Her plump rear strained against her skirt and I found myself having to adjust myself in my pants. My cock had been as bored as I was this whole time until Scarlett decided to pay closer attention.

“It looks like nothing, like part of the Rhone security code for this particular area of the server. But I recognize it. The hacker left a calling card, one that I doubt anyone would recognize except for possibly three people on the planet. I happen to be one of them.”

“How do you know?” I asked, trying to focus on the screen instead of imagining pushing Scarlett’s skirt up to get a look at what was underneath.

“We used to hack together, back in the good old days.” Carey glanced up to Frank. “I mean the bad old days.”

“Who is he?”

“I didn’t know his real name. Went by Fluffy.”

I snorted. “Fluffy?”

“Yeah. We did some jobs together before he got involved in a much bigger hacker group. They were into some bad trash, uh, I mean stuff. So I bowed out. I got nabbed shortly thereafter.” He shrugged. “And now I use my powers for good.”

“What was your hacker name?” I asked. “Though I doubt anything could be better than Fluffy.”

Carey scrubbed a hand through his hair. “That’s not important.”

Scarlet straightened, to my dismay, and poked an elbow into my ribs.

I grunted but the sound was covered as Carey continued, “This had to be the work of his group. It’s too good not to be.”

“So how do we link them to Greenwood?” I needed some sort of foothold to scale the money mountain.

“Not a chance.” Carey spun in his chair and looked up at the three of us. “You’d have to track down Discord. Not happening.”

“Discord?” Scarlett grabbed her legal pad and started making more notes. “That’s the hacker group, I take it?”

“Right. A global group of highly intelligent psychopaths with computers.”

“There has to be a way.” Scarlett chewed on the tip of her pen and closed her eyes.

“This in and of itself is progress. I have total faith.” Frank clapped Carey on the shoulder. “I have to be on my way. Everyone over there—” He pointed through the layers of glass toward the crowded conference room. “—is waiting for me. But there is one more thing.”

“Yes, sir?” Scarlett’s voice plus that phrase sent a thrill straight to my cock. Goodness, I needed her saying that to me.

“My krewe’s Mardi Gras ball is Saturday. I’ve invited several of the higher-ups from Greenwood. They’ve always attended every year. Guy will be there. I think it might be a good plan for you two to come as well, just in case anything gets said or any discussions take place.”

“Not a problem. Mr. Granade and I will be there.” Scarlett and I shook Frank’s hand once more as he took his leave.

Once he was gone, Scarlett leaned on the back of her chair and spoke to Carey. “You have to track down Fluffy.”

“No can do.” He closed his laptop.

Eric did the same, signaling our meeting was at a close. “I’ve shown him everything we have. You have our server access if you want to poke around in there remotely. Just let me know if you find anything.” He spun and faced us. “There has to be a Greenwood link somewhere. I know it was them.”

“We’ll find it.” Scarlett stowed her legal pad. “Come on, we’ll let you get back to work.” We packed up and walked to the elevator.

“It was good to see you again, Scarlett.” Eric hit the down button. “And very nice meeting you, Carey and Kennedy.” He kept his eyes on Scarlett as he talked, the light glinting off the black plastic rims of his glasses.

“Thanks for your help. We’ll be in touch.” Scarlett’s tone was all business.

“And I’ll see you at the ball next week. Save me a dance.”

She dropped her gaze to her feet. “I think I’m there for work more than anything else.”

I smiled. She wasn’t interested in Eric. Maybe the total geek vibe was a turnoff. It was for me, anyway.

“I’m sure you’ll have some time to enjoy yourself.” He glanced to Carey and me. “Gentleman, nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” I gave him a trash-eating grin to make things as awkward as possible. It worked, because he turned on his heel and walked back to the conference room.

We loaded into the elevator. As soon as the doors closed, Scarlett said, “Carey, we need Fluffy. Sooner rather than later. Make it happen.” Her iron tone had Carey looking to me for backup.

He’d come to the wrong place. “Scarlett’s right. That’s our in,” I said.

“Do you have any idea what you’re asking me to do? Discord is a dangerous group. They’ve hacked the highest levels of government. Remember that scandal involving the congressman who committed suicide after Discord hacked him and found his child porn collection and links to human trafficking?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Word in the community is it may not have been a suicide.” Carey shifted from one foot to the other and stared at the elevator doors as we descended.

“Come on, Carey, a bunch of dorks with computers don’t go around killing politicians.” I leaned back into the wall of the elevator. “If they did, they’d get, I don’t know, medals or something.”

Scarlett snorted and then schooled her features back into the perma-frown she seemed to have reserved just for me.

“Say what you want, but I know these are people with whom one does not idiot.” Carey seemed genuinely spooked.

Scarlett softened her approach and put her hand on his arm. “I don’t want you to do anything dangerous. I just want you to check and see if you can find any traces of him. That’s all.”

He shot a glance down at her and she smiled. His lips twitched, a return smile trying to break free. Idiot, she was good.

“Let’s exhaust all our other options first. If that doesn’t work, then I’ll see what I can do.” He sighed, defeated. “But I won’t make any promises.”

“That’s all I can ask of you. Thanks, Carey.” She squeezed his arm.

I wanted to karate-chop my hand in between them, severing the connection. The elevator did my dirty work for me as the door pinged open and we shuffled out into the parking deck.

Scarlett slid into the driver’s seat. She nibbled her lip, clearly deep in thought, and didn’t notice her skirt riding up. I got a good look at her creamy thighs and stared at the shadow between them. She punched the ignition button and I turned to look straight ahead before she busted me.

Since I’d first met her, I’d learned two things: One, I underestimated her. Two, I underestimated my own attraction to her.

Both those things could have been overcome with most other women. But with Scarlett—I stole another glance at her as we got onto the road, and she gave me a withering look in response—things may have already reached FUBAR status.

I pulled my sunglasses from my pocket and eased them on, a smile playing across my lips. I was up to the challenge. She may have looked at me like I was beneath her, but once I got her beneath me, her face would be nothing but pink cheeks, swollen lips, and a mouth that said only my name.

Chapter Five

SCARLETT

The next afternoon, Carey sat across from me at the conference table, his eyebrows pinched together. We’d been working together all day, going through each step of access into Rhone’s system. Carey had tried it so many different ways, looking for any other trace of the hacker that would point in a direction other than Discord. Night fell over the city as we ran through different scenarios and researched every last scrap of information on Greenwood.

Kennedy had taken up residence at one end of the table, pretending to work on his laptop while I could only assume he was looking at porn. It didn’t matter. Until we could trace the breach back to Greenwood, we had no case.

A strange pinging noise sounded from Kennedy’s laptop and Carey whipped his head around toward him.

“Is that BloodSands?”

Kennedy nodded his head and tapped his arrow keys in rapid-fire succession. Carey rose and went to stand behind him, watching the monitor with the same intensity he’d been using on his own screen. More pinging erupted and something that sounded like a roar.

“What? What is it?” I followed Carey and peered at the monitor.

A little cartoon man ran sideways across the screen, a huge gun in his muscled arms. He fired shots at bats and zombies and whatever ran toward him. It was some video game from the 1980s. Kennedy was goofing around when we were trying to get a multimillion-dollar case off the ground. I should have been surprised. I wasn’t.

I sank into my chair and rubbed my eyes. What would Guy say if he knew he’d partnered me with an utter buffoon as cocounsel?

A horn sounded in the game.

Carey snorted. “You suck.”

“I know. That’s why I have to start out with the cheat code every time.”

“You do extra lives or infinite?”

“Aw, idiot.” Another horn blast. “I died again. I have to do infinite.”

“I remember this game from back in the day.” Carey shrugged. “Though it was before my time, we used to boot up an old Nintendo system and play the heck out of it when I was a kid.”

“You ever have to use the cheat code?” Kennedy leaned forward and started tapping the keys again, and the pinging sounds picked back up.

“Yeah, up, right, right, down, right, up, left, up, left, up.” They both repeated the code in unison. Dorks.

“I never needed it, though.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Kennedy grumbled under his breath.

Kennedy played. Carey watched. I drummed my fingernails on the table and sighed audibly. After about ten minutes of it—interspersed with too many horns of death to count—I cleared my throat. “I think we should focus on the case.”

Carey leaned over and pointed to the screen. “You have to double jump there. That’s why you keep dying.” He walked back to his chair and sat, but instead of doing anything on his laptop, he scrubbed a hand through his short hair.

“You couldn’t have said that five minutes ago?” Kennedy stretched and laced his fingers behind his head.

“I was trying to let you beat it without my help. Make you a better gamer. You could use the experience.” Carey grinned.

While I enjoyed any comeuppance that came Kennedy’s way, we needed to focus. I cleared my throat again. “Do you think we could look in any other spots for information on the breach?”

“Yeah, I’ll try.” Carey’s tone did not inspire confidence.

“Look, Carey, I know we’ve been over this, what, I don’t know”—Kennedy waved his hand in the air in a dismissive motion—“fifty times so far today, but could you reconsider your stance on Fluffy? The only way I get paid is to file suit and shake down Greenwood. The only way the stuffy jerks at this firm will let me file suit is if they have some sort of proof Greenwood did it. Help me out here.”

I didn’t want to gang up against Carey, especially since I’d grown fond of him over our short time together, but Kennedy was right. “We need this, Carey. Preferably before the Mardi Gras ball in two days.” Two days. Incredible, I’ll have to raid my old debutante closet.

Carey ran a finger along the spider bite piercing in his lower lip and stared at his computer. The corners of his mouth began to turn down in a frown, doubt falling over his eyes like a mask. I was losing him. Then his stomach rumbled.

I stood and plastered a smile on my face. “Let’s go get some dinner.” After a few drinks and some good food, and then maybe a few more drinks, I was certain Carey would be more inclined to pull the trigger on our “find Fluffy” mission.

“I thought you’d never ask.” Kennedy slapped his laptop closed.

I whipped my jacket onto my shoulders. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t ask you. Just Carey.”

“Come on, three’s company, after all.” He grinned and glanced to my breasts as I stretched my arms out into my jacket.

I barely stopped myself from rolling my eyes like a teenager. “What do you like, Carey? You can pick.”

He shrugged. “Anything in the Quarter.”

“Whoa, Carey. That’s a mistake.” Kennedy shook his head and walked to the conference room door as Carey and I followed. “We need something good, not some tourist trap. I know just the place.”

“Where?” I knew plenty of great spots, too. Growing up in New Orleans, and being from a prominent family, gave me a distinct feel for the city, one that I doubted Kennedy shared. He’d probably lead us to some Cajun knockoff joint run by Yankee transplants.

Kennedy caught my eye and winked as I walked past him toward the elevator. Ugh, does that work on women? Given his reputation, yes.

“Don’t worry. I think it’ll even be up to your standards, Ms. Carmichael. And I’ll drive.”

“I’ll drive my own car.” There was no need to travel separately, but I didn’t like going along with him just for the sake of getting along.

Carey hit the button for the elevator. “Are we doing this again?” He sighed. “Maybe I should just call it a night.”

No! I couldn’t lose him now. “No, it’s fine. We can all go with Mr. Granade. Not a problem.”

“Right, no problem at all.” Kennedy put his hand at the small of my back and led me onto the elevator. A tingle shot through me at his touch, but I gave him a searing look in the reflective doors. He didn’t remove his hand for the entire ride down to the parking deck, the pressure from his fingertips increasing by the moment, as if he were trying to push through the fabric to my skin.

He smirked at my reflection, daring me to start a row and scare Carey away for the night. Such a toe.

I stayed silent and hurried out of the elevator as soon as the doors opened.

“This way.” Kennedy pulled a key fob from his pocket and pressed a button. A Maserati a few spots down the row lit up.

I turned and glanced at him, unable to hide my surprise. He’d whipped his tie loose and unbuttoned the top of his dress shirt as we walked. I stared at the patch of skin visible between the lapels of his shirt. A light dusting of dark hair disappeared beneath the fabric. Glancing away, I licked my lips and silently cursed myself for doing it.

“Maserati?” Carey ran his fingertips along the insignia stamped on the trunk. “This is nice, Kennedy. I thought Scarlett was the big-time attorney.”

Kennedy shrugged in what I would bet was false modesty. “I do all right.” He smiled and held the door open for me, staring at my legs as I swung them into the passenger side.

Definitely false modesty.

The car was nice with leather seats and top-notch gadgets. Perhaps I’d underestimated how much he cleared in his plaintiff’s practice. Then again, he had to be good at his work for Guy Porter to ask for him by name.

“You like it?” he asked as he slid behind the wheel.

“It’s fine.” I fastened my seat belt.

“I think it’s badass.” Carey piled into the backseat and we took off toward the Garden District.

I was glad we headed away from the Quarter. Mardi Gras was the following week and the streets were already packed with revelers. Enjoyable, but perhaps not the best spot for me to work some magic on Carey. Our office would shut down for the week, though I would be working on the Rhone case if I could convince Carey to throw me a bone on the Fluffy issue.

“Do you have a manual for this thing?” Carey asked from the backseat.

We stopped at a red light next to a restaurant with a party spilling out into the night. Loud music from a mosh of brass instruments punctured the warm air along with laughs from the crowd. Thunder rumbled in the distance, promising rain for the night’s revelries.

“Manual? Yeah, I guess so. I’ve never read it.” Kennedy leaned over, his hand swiping my bare knee as he opened the glove box. His hair, darker brown in the low light, was tousled and I caught the scent of his aftershave. I wanted to run my fingers through the strands, feel how soft they were, and then yank to show him I meant business. Instead, I sat still as he pulled a small manual from the compartment.

He closed it and leaned away but he dropped the booklet in my lap.

“Sorry.” He smiled and grazed his hand along my thigh before grabbing the manual.

I balled my hands into fists to keep from slapping him. It was as if he knew exactly what buttons to press to get a rise out of me. I would have to bide my time and repay him in the future. First Carey, and then I’d deal with Kennedy.

We pulled up alongside the Commander’s Palace, an old-school restaurant in the Garden District. Lightning flashed nearby and a deafening peal of thunder boomed and rolled through the air. The valet helped me from the car, and I glanced across the street at the wall surrounding Lafayette Cemetery. I could smell the coming rain, and wind whistled through the moss hanging in the oaks around the restaurant.

We made it under the friendly blue-and-white striped awning right as fat drops of rain began to fall, slapping onto the street and the roofs of the sepulchers beyond the low walls of the cemetery. Kennedy put his hand at my lower back again, guiding me forward and causing my cheeks to heat.

“Paolo.” Kennedy greeted the maître d’ like an old friend.

“Mr. Kennedy! Wonderful to have you with us again.” Paolo, a middle-aged man with dark hair and a pencil mustache, gave us a small bow and led us to a table in the back. Busts of nude women adorned the wall above our table. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, and a live band played jazz somewhere nearby. Smells of seafood, cream sauces, and sugar wafted in the air, making my mouth water.

We took our seats at a table for four, Carey and Kennedy on either side of me.

“I had no idea you were a celebrity around here.” I peered at Kennedy, an easy smile on his face as he settled into his chair.

“I helped them with some charity work on getting the cemetery cleaned up last year. Nothing big.”

“I can assure you it was big.” Paolo handed me a black napkin to go with my skirt and took my white one away. “Mr. Kennedy’s efforts at getting funding for community policing have cut crime to almost nothing, and the cemetery has never been safer.”

“Cool.” Carey nodded and perused his menu.

“Surprised?” Kennedy asked, holding my gaze.

I studied him, letting my eyes rove his dark brows, five o’clock shadow, and redolent lips. Was there actually a man underneath the playboy exterior?

“A little.” I returned to his dark brown eyes and the eyelashes that were sinfully long.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet, Ms. Carmichael.” He plucked the menu from Carey’s hand. “I got this. Paolo, we’ll all have the special. And bring three hot shots and a bottle of Malbec.” He clapped Carey on the shoulder. “You like wine, right?”

Carey nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Very good.” Paolo hurried off.

I didn’t want to do shots, especially not something called a “hot shot.” But—I glanced at Carey as he looked around at the swanky restaurant—if it got me where I wanted with Carey, I would drink up. It seemed I wasn’t the only one who’d thought of the booze angle.

“What’s the special?”

“It’s always good. Does it matter?”

“What if I had a food allergy?” I picked at my napkin.

“Do you?”

“Do I what?” I gave him a blank look and smiled on the inside when his jaw tensed.

“Do you have a food allergy?” He spoke slowly, as if to a child.

“No.” I smiled outwardly this time.

“Do you always have to—?”

“Look at that.” Carey pointed.

I shifted in my seat to see Paolo moving through the tables with three shots with blue flames playing on their surfaces. It was a spring break throwback but in the classiest restaurant in town. Only in New Orleans.

“Oh.” My eyes widened.

Kennedy slid his hand to my leg under the table and squeezed. His warm palm sent heat snaking up my leg to my pussy. He smirked. “Don’t worry, Scarlett, it only burns for a second.”

I gripped his fingers and pried his hand away while giving him what I hoped was a stern look. My pulse raced at his touch. Two seconds before, we were jousting. Now, the way he looked at me, and nowhere else, had me clenching my thighs together to ward off the tingling sensation in my clit. It was as if Kennedy knew how to glance at me and, with nothing more than that look, tell me a litany of dirty thoughts. The worst part was, if I closed my eyes, I shared them.

Paolo set the tray down and doled out the flaming drinks. I eyed mine, not sure what to do with fully involved liquor.

“You have to blow it, Scarlett.” Kennedy smiled at me with laughter in his eyes.

My blood grew hotter than the flame and I silently counted backwards from ten to avoid stomping my heel onto his foot beneath the table. That or digging my nails into his thigh.

“This is awesome.” Carey picked up his glass.

“Blow it out first.” Paolo wagged his finger and then set about pouring the Malbec. Kennedy waved away the chance to sample it.

“Come on.” Kennedy raised his glass and I took mine. “May we never get what we deserve.”

“I’ll toast to that.” Carey laughed and clinked glasses before blowing out the flame and downing his drink.

I stared at Kennedy, who put his drink on the table as he waited for me to drink. A dare was in his eye, his posture, the tilt of his neck.

“Dick,” I said under my breath. I blew it out and tossed it back, the liquor bitter and delicious on my tongue.

Kennedy followed suit, downing his and slamming the glass on the table. “Idiot yes. Another round?”

“No,” I said at the same time as Carey said, “Yes.”

Kennedy gave me a look and jerked his chin at Carey.

Against my better judgment, I acquiesced. I didn’t factor in that I might be drunken collateral damage to my plan of getting Carey tipsy, but I wasn’t going to let the momentum go to waste. “Okay, fine, yes, another round.”

Paolo grinned and took off to the bar before returning with three more shots that we made quick work of. I’d had a small lunch, and the alcohol hit me fast. After a few minutes of Kennedy and Paolo chitchatting, my cheeks warmed and a light sweat broke out across my forehead.

“Is it hot?” I asked, and slipped my jacket off. I wore a dark blue, button-up top, the material silky against my overheated skin. Gripping my lapel, I pulled the fabric away from my neck and fanned it so air wafted down my chest.

“It is now.” Carey grinned at me.

I should have scolded him, but any words I tried to make turned into giggles.

“I love Malbec, don’t you?” Kennedy picked up his glass as Paolo set down a basket of baguette and butter.

“I’ve never had it.” Carey lifted his glass and took a sip. “Dang, it’s good.” He took an even bigger swallow.

“Scarlett. Aren’t you going to taste it?”

At that moment, I was certain that Kennedy Granade was stupid like a fox. He may have been working with me toward the goal of getting Carey drunk enough to agree to find Fluffy, but Carey wasn’t Kennedy’s only target. There may as well have been a bull’s-eye painted on my panties.

I smiled and kept my hands in my lap. “I wouldn’t want to overdo it.” Did I just slur my words a little?

“Oh, come now, Carey and I are drinking. Then again, I guess if you can’t handle it …”

I straightened my back and met Kennedy’s stare. “I can handle it.”

“Yeah?” He downed his glass in three big swallows. “Prove it.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. Come on, Scarlett. Show Kennedy how you’re the chick off Indiana Jones who can drink anyone under the table.” Carey grabbed a piece of bread and narrowly missed the butter before trying again. At least he was getting drunk.

“I don’t cave to peer pressure.” I lifted my chin, trying to keep the air of superiority I’d learned at my mother’s knee and wielded like a weapon ever since. Problem was, I could feel the giggles rising in my chest again.

“You drink, I drink. Come on.” Carey lifted his glass, his boyish grin resurfacing.

“Goodness, you two are the worst.” I sighed, already defeated. But I had no problem losing this battle if it meant I’d win the war. One more glass, and Carey would be eating out of my hand—unless I was passed out on the floor. “This is the last one. Come on, bottoms up.” I grabbed my glass and drank it down as Carey matched me.

We plopped our glasses back on the table and I wiped my mouth with my napkin.

“Now it’s a party.” Kennedy poured another round with a steady hand.

I ripped a piece of bread from the baguette and slowly ate it, hoping it would soak up some of the liquor in my stomach.

“Let’s get to know each other better.” Kennedy grinned. “Scarlett, tell us about your first time.”

I spat the bread out on a particularly unladylike guffaw. Putting my hand to my mouth, I closed my eyes. Somehow, my vision still swam even in the dark. Kennedy and Carey laughed. When I opened my eyes, Carey was leaning over toward me.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to share.” He shook his head in a conciliatory way, his eyes half closed.

A bright flash of lightning hit nearby and the ensuing rumble of thunder shook the silverware and had the chandeliers tinkling. The rain pelted down outside, the street dark and gloomy while we were warm and safe inside the posh restaurant.

“In that case, let’s start with something easier then. Carey, tell me your hacker name.” Kennedy didn’t seem the least bit fazed by the alcohol or the storm, his eyes bright.

“Oh, come on. I know you know.” Carey glanced from me to Kennedy.

Kennedy widened his eyes, giving a look of innocence. “No, I don’t.”

“You didn’t tell him?” Carey asked me.

“No. It’s your secret to tell, not mine.” I sipped my Malbec, the thought of not drinking any more alcohol suddenly a preposterous one.

Kennedy rubbed his hands together and leaned forward. “This is going to be good. I can feel it.”

“Drumroll, please,” Carey directed, sloshing his wine over the edge of his glass as he gestured at Kennedy, who dutifully began drumming on the table with his long index fingers.

“My name was … Gorepheus.” Carey tipped backed his glass as Kennedy stopped the drumroll.

“Are you kidding me? You’re the Gorepheus? The hacker who shut down the U.S. government for three entire days with a never-ending Rickroll?”

Carey grinned, his cheeks red from wine or embarrassment, and pulled up his shirt sleeve. There, in wavy ink, was Gorepheus’s online signature—a red pill with blood leaking from it. “That was me. That’s why the U.S. government keeps a close tab on my activities and calls me in to work for them all the time. And, sometimes, I get to freelance for beautiful attorneys with the nicest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.” He patted my knee under the table and rested his hand there.

I snorted and tried to frown at him as I pushed his hand away.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying.” Carey grinned and drank some more.

“Trying wha—?”

“Nothing.” I kicked Kennedy’s foot to shut him up. He must have seen my tiny act of violence as an invitation, because he reached under the table and gripped my knee, squeezing lightly. I knew I wouldn’t be able to dislodge him as easily as I had Carey, so I just let him play his game while I played mine.

“I’ve enjoyed getting to know you.” I placed my hand on Carey’s forearm, and he leaned toward me a little. “I’d never be able to get through all the computer mumbo jumbo if it weren’t for you.” I rubbed his arm back and forth.

Carey shifted in his seat and Kennedy moved his fingertips under the hem of my skirt. I ignored the tingles rocketing up my leg and focused on Carey.

“It’s not that complicated. Not for me, anyway. Here, hand me your phone.” He smiled and scooted his chair closer to mine as I grabbed my phone from my purse and slid it to him.

Kennedy’s fingers crept higher, his index finger teasing along my inner thigh to the point where I had to clench my eyes shut and open them again to focus. He only smirked at me as Carey cozied up at my side.

Carey took my phone and tapped through menus and screens so fast that I was lost. I was lost anyway, because Kennedy’s fingers were making me stupid. I clamped my knees shut, trapping his hand between my legs and not letting him go any farther.

“Look.” Carey handed my phone back to me. The screen showed a series of locations, my personal information, and credit cards. I scrolled down to see even more identifiers, including my social security number and bank accounts.

“This is in my phone?” I kept scrolling, deleted photos and messages popping up.

“Everything you’ve ever done is right there.” Carey put his arm around me. “You just have to know where to look. That’s what hackers do. We look for things, find things that are hidden or that people think are destroyed. Nothing’s ever destroyed. Even if you smash a hard drive with a hammer, it can be put back together. Data can be found.”

“Is that the hacker code or something?” I leaned into Carey, snugging under his arm. Kennedy inched his fingers higher and dug into my thigh, trying to pull my legs apart. Jerk. I kept them glued together, though there would be fingertip bruises on me the next day.

“No, just facts. Now I know where you live.” He snorted and took another sip. “I already knew that, though.”

“That’s kind of stalkerish.” I giggled, but couldn’t tell if it was a real giggle from the alcohol or just the part I was playing.

“A little.” He shrugged.

“Do you think it will be as easy to find Fluffy?” I held my breath.

“No, he’s a tougher quarry.” Carey spoke easily, unaware I was leading him down the path he’d shied away from before.

“But you’re Gorepheus, the biggest hacker in the world.” I batted my lashes at him and gripped Kennedy’s wandering fingers before they reached my panties.

“Could I find him? Of course. I could find him in a heartbeat. It’s just Discord. I don’t want to find them.”

“I understand. I do.” I leaned my head on his shoulder and arched my back a little, jutting my breasts out. “I want to keep you safe. I just need to get some info on the hack at Rhone so we can get this case going. Can you help me?”

Carey’s eyes darted down to my breasts, my nipples pearling from the attention. “I—I guess … Yeah. Yeah, I’ll talk to him, okay? Tomorrow, when I’m thinking clearly.” He grinned and leaned closer, like he wanted to kiss me.

“Granade, is that you?” A woman walked up behind Kennedy and draped her arms around his neck, her breasts pressing into the back of his head.

I gawked at her. She was tall and thin with an impossibly large chest and long blond hair.

“Oh, hi there.” Kennedy patted her on the arm and she stood straight and walked around to the empty side of our table.

“Aren’t you a sight. Still one big, fine man.” She smiled, her red lipstick giving her more of a joker flair, in my opinion.

“Thanks.” Kennedy smiled and gave me an uneasy glance.

Another alcohol giggle escaped me. “Oh, by all means.” I lay my head on Carey’s shoulder and stared at Kennedy. A flame of jealousy licked around the edges of my mind, but I stomped it out. This was Kennedy Granade, a womanizer through and through.

I bet he didn’t even remember her name. “Introduce us to your friend.”

“Okay.” He forced the words through the fake smile. “Scarlett Carmichael and Carey Fellowes, this is …”

“Gina Rae. You remember me. From last year’s Rex Mardi Gras ball? You wore black, I wore, well—” She looked down with a demure smile. “—eventually I wasn’t wearing much.”

“Oh, classic Kennedy. Am I right, Carey?” I snuggled even closer to him. He trailed his fingers up and down my arm.

“I wouldn’t really know since we only just met, but maybe?”

“I can assure you this is his MO. He has a reputation.” I waved my hand for emphasis, though I almost knocked my glass over. “Did you know that, Gina Rae?”

“Not really, but it’s well deserved either way.” She put a hand to her waist and glanced at me and back to Kennedy. “Can I speak to you for a second? Alone?”

“Don’t let me make it awkward. I have to go to the ladies’ room anyway. Not an issue. You two chat it up.” I dislodged Carey’s arm and stood with a wobble. “You all behave while I’m gone.”

I took a step and stopped to steady myself, then another and another until I felt like I had the wavy floor almost under control. I may have had my feet into a lockstep, but my head was in a jumble. Though my desire to snipe at Kennedy wasn’t new, the feeling Gina Rae evoked in me was. I wasn’t the sort to lie to myself. I was jealous. Like a total moron. Kennedy wasn’t going to change his ways, and did I even want him to? No. We were going to work this case and go our separate ways.

I straightened my back and followed a waiter’s instructions to the ladies’ room. It was divided into two sections, with a sitting room and an area with several stalls. White tiles covered the flower in an art deco pattern and the walls were done in a magnolia paper.

I stumbled forward and caught the edge of a deep blue fainting couch before righting myself and walking to the nearest, largest stall.

The bathroom door opened behind me as I fiddled with trying to slide the lock closed. The lock flew out of my fingers as the door swung open and Kennedy blocked the way. His dark eyes pierced me, glaring down as his body took up every inch of free space around me.

My knees went weak and I backed into the wall, the coolness of the tile so different from the heat of my skin.

“Get out.” I couldn’t stop the quaver in my voice.

“I don’t think you want me to.” He advanced.

I brought my hand up to slap him, but he caught it and pinned it to the wall next to my head.

“What was that in there with Carey?” He pulled the door shut behind him before turning to me and putting his other hand on the wall next to my head.

“Are you kidding? What was that in there with Little Miss Gina Rae?” I simpered her name and hated myself for sounding like a high school mean girl.

“That was a year ago. Carey was tonight.” He glowered, crowding my space. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I needed him to contact Fluffy. I got it done. Besides, it’s none of your business what I do. And you also had no right to touch me like you did. We’re colleagues. Anything more would be improper. Now, let me go.” I returned his glare, but when his eyes flicked to my lips, my breath hitched.

“You didn’t like it when I touched you?” He leaned closer, his skin radiating the same heat as mine. The air between us was overcome with anticipation as he increased the pressure on my wrist.

“I didn’t give you permission—”

“That’s not what I asked, Ms. Carmichael.” Closer still, his eyes bored into me and I pressed as far back into the wall as I could go. “I asked if you liked it. Did you?”

“No,” I breathed.

He moved his right hand to my neck, his fingertips ghosting along my skin. Could he hear my heart thumping against my ribs?

“You sure?” He ran his fingers down to my chest and to my collarbone, pushing my shirt away from my shoulder as he went. His eyes were so intense, his pupils wide as he looked nowhere but at me.

“Y-yes.”

He moved closer, his lips at my ear. “I think you liked it.”

“No.”

He slid his fingers down my chest, over my breast, past my stomach, and to the hem of my skirt. “Tell me to stop.”

“Stop.”

He pushed my skirt up and shoved his knee between my legs.

“Kennedy, please.” I closed my eyes and gripped his shirt with my free hand. I wanted everything his raspy voice suggested, but I shouldn’t.

When his fingers made contact with my panties, I jolted.

“So wet.” His lips tickled my ear as he rubbed his fingers back and forth across the soaked fabric.

“Don’t. We can’t.” I pushed against him, but he fastened his lips to my neck right below my ear.

Slipping his fingers around my panties, he stroked my clit, and I moaned.

“Idiot, Scarlett.” His voice was a gravelly growl against my skin.

“We can’t.” I panted. “We can’t do this.”

“You want this. Your eyes, your hot pussy, everything about you tells me how much you want this. Tell me no and I’ll stop. Go ahead. I’m listening.”

He pinned me with his gaze and cocked his head to the side, listening for my protest. I should have said no, told him to stop, and walked out of there. Instead, I silently begged him to keep going.

He laughed, low and sultry. “That’s what I thought.” Sliding two fingers between my folds, he sank them inside me and bit down on my neck at the same time.

“Kennedy!” I dug my nails into his chest as he worked his fingers in and out.

“Your pussy is so hot and wet right now that I could slide in and forget you up against this wall, have you screaming in no time.” He licked down to my collarbone and nibbled.

I held on to him, given up to the feeling of his fingers inside me, the tension coiling in my pussy as he stroked me. He released my wrist and used his other hand to grip my knee and lift my leg, opening me more to him as he messed me with his fingers.

“You make me crazy.” He moved back to my neck and kissed up my jaw before looking me in the eye.

He slid his fingers out and went back to my clit, swooping and circling until I arched into him, my hard nipples rubbing against his chest. His strokes drove me to the edge, and I couldn’t look away.

“Please, please …” I didn’t know what I was asking for. I just needed a release from the hold he had on me. I closed my eyes, so ready to come from his touch.

“Eyes on me. I want to see you.” He stroked me faster as I obeyed, opening my eyes. His brows were drawn as he rested his forehead against mine. “I want you to come, Scarlett. I want you to admit you want this. And I want you to know I was the one who did it to you in a bathroom in a restaurant full of people.”

His words turned me on even more, making the buildup unbearable as I rocked my hips against him. He sped his pace, squeezing my clit between his two fingers.

“Tell me you want it. Tell me perfectly proper Scarlett Carmichael wants to be finger-messed like a hot hussy.” His words should have made me angry, but they only made my orgasm approach at a faster clip.

“Kennedy, Goodness, I can’t.” There was no purpose to my words, delivered on a pant. I was nothing but an arrow drawn tight, ready to be shot skyward. “I want it.”

He squeezed my clit between his index and ring fingers, stroking across it with his middle finger as he did so. He sped his finger, playing me as I held my breath. “Come for me.”

His rough voice lit the powder keg and my orgasm burst through me. My hips seized, my pussy clenching as I came. He kissed me, hard, stealing his name from my lips as I cried out at the waves of pleasure. I scratched down his chest, my nails scoring his dress shirt. He sank his tongue inside me, my mouth just as surely as his fingers had done to my pussy. Moving his fingers lower, he shoved them inside me again and groaned as my pussy spasmed with the last throes.

He gripped up on my spot, drawing out the final drops of bliss. Slanting over me, he drew his fingers out and ground his hips into me, his cock hard and ready in his pants. Then he broke our kiss and brought his hand to his mouth, licking and sucking every last bit of me from his fingers while staring into my eyes. I had never seen anything hotter in my life.

He dropped my thigh and backed up a step before yanking my skirt back into place. The outline of his cock was stark against his pants, and I wanted to feel it inside me. It was foolish, and wrong, and stupid. But I still wanted it. Snap out of it.

“This was a mistake.” I shook my head, trying to clear it.

“No, it wasn’t.” He peered down at the nail marks along his shirtfront.

“This won’t happen again.” I stood a little straighter, though my clit was still off in outer space somewhere, buzzing with aftershocks.

“It will.” He grinned and adjusted his mess with a slight grimace. “Well, maybe not quite like this. Next time, I’m going to give you everything I’ve got. And you’re going to take every last inch.”

I bristled at his cocky attitude. “Taking two inches isn’t really a feat, Mr. Granade.”

He stepped toward me again, and I backed into the wall, a thrill rushing through me at his aggression.

Taking my hand, he ran it down his cock. “Does this feel like two inches, Scarlett?”

I closed my eyes and stroked him through his pants. Definitely more than two inches. He jerked against my palm and put his hands on the wall on either side of my head.

“If you keep doing that, I’m going to forget you right now.” He nipped at my jaw. “And we have Carey waiting for you to flirt with him some more to seal the deal on finding Fluffy.”

The case. Right. I dropped my hand. “You need to go. Now.”

He eyed my lips. “Give me one more kiss and I will.”

“No.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

“I knew you’d say that.” He leaned closer and sucked on my bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth before kissing me fully and then backing away.

“See you at the table.” He pushed through the door and strutted out of the restroom. As soon as he was gone, I walked out and sank onto the fainting couch.

What just happened? It didn’t matter. I would see to it that it never happened again. I was a professional. Kennedy was just a hired gun. And a cocky jerk. And a great kisser. And, idiot, his fingers.

I stood and went to the vanity, making sure my appearance gave nothing away. Other than the extra rosy tint on my cheeks—which I could blame on alcohol—nothing seemed amiss.

Well, nothing other than the mind-blowing orgasm Kennedy Granade just gave me during a business dinner. Nothing other than that.

Chapter Six

KENNEDY

I sauntered into Stone & Porter at one in the afternoon on Friday, my hangover still pulsing through my head to the beat of my heart. When I awoke in the usual world of post-alcohol hurt that morning, I had a smile on my face. Scarlett Carmichael, reserved and well mannered, had come as I finger-harassed her against a bathroom wall. And I was determined to get another shot at her sooner rather than later. Like a heat-seeking missile, my toe said “target acquired.”

She’d surprised me. Or, more accurately, I’d surprised myself. When she’d been flirting with Carey, I barely managed to keep myself under control. Even though I knew she was only playing a part to ensure Carey’s cooperation on the Fluffy front, I still wanted to yank her into my lap.

She’d gotten to me, more than any other woman I’d known. And then my bathroom stunt. Just the memory of her pants and moans had my toe trying to embarrass me by pitching an unwanted tent. Even so, I couldn’t stop the smile that overtook my face as I walked into the conference room. She was fire under my touch, and I’d always enjoyed playing with matches.

Scarlett was standing behind Carey’s chair, both of them staring at something on his screen.

“What’d I miss?” I held my hand up against the glare from the sun pouring through the wide window.

She didn’t even give me a glance.

“I found Fluffy.” Carey clicked a few things and spun the laptop around to face me.

A news story in an Italian newspaper about a suicide named Giuseppe Florentine sat front and center. Carey had translated it to English.

“Fluffy? How do you know it’s him?” I squinted at the too-bright screen.

“I had enough information from the old days to track him. But I didn’t want to approach him in the real world unless absolutely necessary.”

Scarlett peered at the stark black and white words. “When did this happen?”

Carey pointed at the laptop. “Two days ago. He was found hanged in his apartment.” He ran his fingers along the two spider bite piercings in his bottom lip. “This is so messed up.”

Scarlett squeezed his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. He was a nice guy.” He rested his hand on hers and shook his head. “And that’s not all.”

“What else?” I sank down into a chair, my back to the garishly sunny window. From this angle, I could see down Scarlett’s top as she bent over. She wore a black bra. For me? I licked my lips.

“I got this via express international delivery this morning.” Carey held up a USB drive.

“What’s on it?” I asked, watching as a single tendril came loose from Scarlett’s bun and floated to her forehead.

“To the casual observer, nothing. To me, lots. I’ve already copied its contents, and I’m trying to crack the encryption.” He pointed to a piece of computer equipment. “I’m using the server to run a complex algorithm that will eventually figure it out. Once the encryption is broken, I’ll be able to see what’s on the drive.”

“How long will that take?”

He shrugged. “No way to know. The algorithm is playing a guessing game at an exponential rate that we couldn’t possibly comprehend. Could take two more seconds, could take two weeks, could take the year. Fluffy hid whatever is on there under layers and layers of security. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence he mailed it to me only days before he died. I know it wasn’t a suicide.”

I leaned forward and read the brief article on Carey’s laptop. Scrolling down, I saw a photo of Florentine. He was young, Carey’s age, and smiling in a photo with his arms around a couple of friends. “How can you be so sure?”

“I just know. This is Discord or something to do with them. It has to be.”

“But why? I thought he was one of them.”

“I don’t know. Discord is usually protective of their own. It doesn’t make sense.” He pointed at the USB lying next to his laptop. “But something tells me if there are any answers, they’ll be here.”

“So now we just wait?”

“No.” Scarlett finally looked at me. “We party. Greenwood execs will be at the ball tomorrow night. We need to hope they slip or, possibly, we can help them to open up.”

Carey whipped his computer back around and ran his hands across the keys. I stood and walked around to their side of the table, watching him work.

When he was done, he’d pulled up a list of names and faces, the top brass of Greenwood. Only one caught my eye, a woman in her thirties with long dark hair and piercing eyes. Greenwood’s public relations officer.

“That one.” I pointed at her photo. “I’ll get the info from her. If she knows anything about the Rhone break-in, I’ll know it, too, by the end of the night.”

Scarlett breathed hard out her nose. “Scroll down more.”

Carey did as asked, showing us the smiling faces of various executives.

“Stop.” Scarlett held out a long, slender finger. “The CFO. Brandon Leatherwood. He’s mine.” She threw a devious look over her shoulder. “I should be able to pump him for information. I met him at one of my debutante balls when we were younger.”

I examined the man she’d indicated—blond hair, blue eyes, model smile, early thirties. I dug my fingers into the back of the leather chair. The unfamiliar burn of jealousy rushed through my blood. I stared at her profile, but she ignored me, so I let my eyes wander down her straight back, ample breasts, and round rear.

We’d just see who was pumping whom before the ball was over.

Chapter Seven

SCARLETT

Music swelled and rushed out into the cool night air as I walked into the hotel. The masked attendants took my jacket, and I adjusted my own mask before striding through the ballroom entryway. People milled around—talking, laughing, and drinking. I smiled, the black mask embellished with silver scrollwork hiding the top portion of my face.

I wore a crimson gown that draped on each shoulder, the back open almost down to my rear and the front dipping between my breasts. I’d worn it two years earlier to my parents’ ball. A faux pas to wear it again, but I assumed no one in Mr. Porter’s krewe would recognize it.

Scents of spicy seafood colored the air, and a buffet beckoned in the hallway. I took the few steps down to the ballroom, a live band playing in a back corner and a bar set up to my left.

Alcohol was in order. As I waited for the bartender to mix my lemon drop, I eyed the partiers, wondering if Kennedy was already here. We’d agreed to arrive separately and work our respective targets. With any luck, by the end of the night, we’d have enough information to file suit.

Grabbing my martini glass, I turned and spotted Mr. Rhone standing and speaking to my boss, Guy Porter. Guy had returned from his sailing trip lean and tan. I cut through some of the dancers and walked up to the men.

“Mr. Porter. Mr. Rhone.” I dipped my head in greeting, the feathers alongside the edge of my mask flowing in the slight breeze.

“Scarlett.” Mr. Rhone eyed me up and down, his face painted in stripes of gold and black. “You look amazing.”

I smiled. “You two are also quite handsome. Nice tuxes.”

“Good to see you again.” Guy clinked his glass to mine and took a swig. He wore a gold-and-purple half mask that covered his forehead and half of a cheek.

“How was your trip?” I asked, and gazed at the crowd, wondering where my mark was.

“One of my best. The winds were perfect. Caught some amazing fish. I would go on for hours about it, but I hear we’re out to catch more than fish this evening.” He lowered his voice. “The Greenwood contingent is here. The four of them are huddling near the back corner next to the atrium.”

“Has anyone spoken with them yet?”

“I greeted them, but they played dumb. Acted as if nothing were amiss.” Mr. Rhone sniffed and shook his head.

“Well, there’s no point letting this dress go to waste. Let me see if I can go chat them up.” I took a sip of my drink, the alcohol bitter but crisp on my tongue. “Wish me luck.”

Guy’s eyebrows lifted, but he didn’t naysay my plans. I turned and walked toward the atrium, my long hair free and swinging against the bare skin of my back.

“Scarlett?” A man grabbed my elbow, his dark eyes shining through a gold mask. “It’s Eric, from Rhone.” He smiled.

“Oh, hi.” I glanced toward the atrium. Four people stood huddled next the glass doors, chatting despite the mass of dance and music all around.

“Want to dance?”

“I can’t.” I gently pulled my elbow away. “I’m working.”

“Later, then?”

“Sure.” I nodded, but hoped I didn’t see him later. He was nice, but the way he was openly perving on my breasts at that moment sent a chill over my skin. Then again, if Kennedy were the one perving, I didn’t think it would have been a problem. The thought made me take another swig of my lemon drop.

I continued my beeline toward the Greenwood group and was almost to them when I saw a man in a perfectly fitted tux and silver mask stroll up to them. I edged over to one of the Roman columns lining the ballroom and stood, watching.

The woman in the group took to him quickly, placing her hand on his arm. He had them laughing within moments. He shot a glance over to me. Kennedy. He’d beaten me to them. Had he been watching me?

After a few more moments of conversation, he peeled off with the woman. They took to the dance floor, moving easily to the live band’s rendition of some Top 40 pop song. I could have sworn Kennedy smirked at me every time he came into view.

Not to be outdone, I threw my shoulders back and walked over to the group of three men. They quieted as I approached. Brandon stood with his back to the windows, the outside of the venue lit with sparkling overhead lights.

“Brandon?” I asked, and intentionally stumbled a bit in my heels. “Is that you?”

He smiled and gripped my arm before I faux fell. “Do we know each other?”

“Oh, I thought you were Brandon Leatherwood. I’m sorry. Too many drinks, I guess.” I held up my now-empty glass, most of the contents watering one of the interior plants next to the column I’d hidden behind.

“No, that’s me. I’m just not sure who you are.” He reached around me, his fingers grazing the bare skin at my back as he pulled me into his side. “Though I’d really like to know.” He smiled and glanced to his companions.

They laughed and split off to talk amongst themselves.

“You are?” He peered at my eyes behind the mask.

“Gloria Templeton.” I stole a name from my debutante days. I could only hope Brandon didn’t keep up with her.

“Right, Gloria.” He nodded. “We danced once, didn’t we? Did we kiss?” He ran his hand under my dress, gripping my waist.

I smiled and leaned into him. “Maybe. I don’t remember. It’s been a while.”

“You’ve certainly aged well.” He rubbed his fingers along my skin, inching them lower.

I fought the urge to back away. Maybe my plan was working too well.

“Want to dance?” I asked.

“Sure.” He leaned down into my ear. “But I want more after that.”

I giggled and fought the urge to roll my eyes. He pulled me onto the dance floor as the music slowed to a slow song I knew—“Fade into You” by Mazzy Star.

“This is an oldie.” He pulled me to him, one of his hands at my back, the other casually holding mine.

I needed to get him talking. “So, what have you been up to since the debutante days?”

“Just work. Nothing important or even worth talking about.” He pressed me into him, forcing me to appreciate his toned body. He worked out. A lot.

“Oh, that’s too bad.” I affected my best pout.

He pulled back and stared into my eyes. “Why’s that?”

“Work talk from powerful men always turns me on.” Please be dumb enough to fall for this.

“Powerful men, huh.” He slid his hand down to my rear and squeezed. “You came to the right place.”

“So anything interesting in your world?”

“Hmm.” He spoke in my ear as we swayed to the music. “Some big deals on defense contracts. Millions of government dollars. Does that do anything for you?”

“A lot, actually,” I breathed. Defense contracts made possible by Rhone secrets?

He slid his hand even farther down my rear, rubbing the silky fabric of my dress. “No panties, Gloria?”

“I hate panty lines.” I fake-giggled again.

“I do, too.” His lips grazed my ear. “You smell amazing.”

“Mind if I cut in?” Kennedy snatched my hand from Brandon and pulled me to him.

“I do, actually.” Brandon bristled and took a step toward us.

“I do, too.” I tried to push Kennedy away but he locked his forearm at my back.

“Gloria.” Brandon held his hand out to me. “Come.”

I opened my mouth, though I was unsure which one of them I wanted to excoriate—Kennedy for screwing up my plan or Brandon for treating me like a pet.

“Gloria.” Kennedy snorted. “I told you it was a bad idea to see strange men when you’re having a flare-up.” He shook his head.

My cheeks heated and I dug my nails into Kennedy’s ribs through his jacket. He grunted but didn’t release me.

“Flare-up?” Brandon took a step back. “You know what? Never mind. There’s plenty of pussy here. I don’t need this trash.”

He disappeared into the crowd.

“What the heck are you doing? I was getting information.” I kept trying to harm him through his clothes, but it wasn’t working.

He pulled me farther into the middle of the room, surrounded by other couples dancing to the smooth, low voice of the angsty song.

“I already got what we needed.” He ran his hand down my back, his touch sending tingles through my body.

“Oh, really?” I sneered. “I already got it, too.”

“What have you got?” He splayed his fingers on my back and swayed me back and forth.

“You first.” I stopped fighting him and put one hand at the back of his neck. If he really did have the information, then I was verging on grateful that I didn’t have to deal with Brandon’s roving hands any longer.

“You look amazing.” His lips curled into a smile beneath the silver mask.

“Thank you.” My response was automatic anytime I received a compliment, even if it came from a cad like Kennedy.

He was larger than Brandon, his shoulders wider and his arms stronger. But he didn’t manhandle me like my former dance partner. Instead, he moved with me, our bodies melting into each other as the music ruled our movements.

I tried to shake out of the song’s spell. “Let’s get down to business. What did you find out?”

His piercing eyes shone through his mask, glittering in the low light of the ballroom. We were so close, our breaths mingled and I tried to ignore the butterflies floating around in my stomach. They had to have been from the alcohol, not the nearness of Kennedy. Had to be.

“Greenwood just got several plum Department of Defense contracts—”

“Pfft, I got the same thing.” I tried to ignore his index finger caressing my bare skin, raising goose bumps along my back.

“Did you get that Rhone was set to get the contracts until Greenwood came out with some new technology in the last few days?”

“No.” I chewed on my lip. “The stolen data. It has to be.”

“Look who graduated top of her class from Princeton.”

I pulled back and considered him. “You’ve been checking up on me?”

“Sometimes I Google. Or I make my secretary, Faye, do it and print it all for me.”

“Look who graduated dead last in his class from Loyola.”

He nuzzled into my hair and ran his hand down my back to the top of my rear. “You know what they say. Get A’s in law school, be a professor. Get B’s, be a judge. Get C’s, be a millionaire.”

“You aren’t a millionaire just yet.” I tilted my head to the side, giving him more access to my neck. He took it, his warm breath tickling along my jugular as we kept the slow, sensual rhythm.

“I’m not?” He laughed and his lips brushed my throat, sending a tingle straight to my clit.

My knees tried to turn to jelly, but he held me tighter.

“I’ve seen your office, remember?” I tried to concentrate on anything other than his lips, his hard body pressed against mine, the scent of his aftershave. I couldn’t.

“Looks can be deceiving. Like how you always wear clothes that don’t fit to hide this perfect body. How you wear your hair like a librarian but I can tell you’re a tiger in the sack.” He moved a hand down to my thigh, the high slit giving him easy access to my rear. “How, despite your prim and proper manners, you aren’t wearing any panties.” Sliding his hand up, he kneaded my bare skin to make his point.

“Kennedy.”

“Scarlett.” His voice was a low growl. “If you say my name like that one more time, I’m going to drag you to the coat closet and forget you against the furs.”

A whip of heat shot up my thighs. “Y-you wouldn’t.”

“Try me.” He moved his hand to cup my rear, his fingers seeking lower and farther. A few more inches and he’d know how wet his threat made me.

My heart thumped against my ribs and his touch seemed to take my breath away.

“I think we should report back to Mr. Rhone and Mr. Porter.” I slowed, trying to break his hold on me.

He eased up and gave me a hint of space, but not much. “Can’t it wait? One more song?”

“No …”

He bent down, his lips so close to mine.

I had to stop him. Stop this. “Kennedy.”

He grinned. “What did I just say?”

Before I could protest, he’d gripped my wrist and was pulling me past the dancers, heading straight toward the front doors and the coat closet.

Excitement and fear mixed in my blood. “Let go of me.” I tried to yank my hand back.

“Not a chance.” He said over his shoulder and kept barreling forward.

Up the two steps to the entrance and then at the coat check. An attendant was there. I said a silent thank-you that the coatroom was off-limits, thanks to the teenage worker in the maudlin mask.

Without releasing my hand, Kennedy dug into his front coat pocket, pulled out a twenty, handed it to the kid, and yanked me through the open doorway.

“You just bribed the—”

The coat closet was deep, dim, and packed to the brim. The kid closed the door behind us as Kennedy bulldozed down one of the tight rows, his front hand outstretched, touching the materials.

I tried one more time to wrench my wrist free, but he wouldn’t release me.

“This one.” He turned and gripped my waist before pressing me face-first into a luxurious fur coat.

“Stop.” I couldn’t do this. Not here. What if Guy or Frank had seen us?

He gripped my hair close to my scalp and pulled my head to the side. When his lips met the juncture of my neck and my shoulder, I clutched the dark fur and my pussy tingled.

“Please,” I breathed.

He reached around and gripped one of my breasts, squeezing the nipple between his thumb and index finger. Little sparks of pleasure raced across my skin as he bit, and he sucked on my neck. His mouth was at the perfect spot below my ear and above my shoulder, the spot that erased all reason and turned me into a slave to my sensations. I arched my back, my rear pressing into the hard length in his pants.

He gave my breast another squeeze before running his hand down my trembling stomach and to the slit along my thigh. Hiking up my dress, he pressed two fingers to my clit. My hips jerked back to him and he grunted and answered with a small thrust.

“So wet.” He pulled even harder on my hair as his fingers delved lower, teasing my wet folds until he plunged inside me. I moaned and rubbed my rear against his cock as he worked his fingers in and out.

He pulled away, releasing my hair and leaving me reeling. I started to turn around, but he put his palm flat on my back and pushed me forward. He’d freed his cock, the smooth head rubbing against my rear. I reached around to grip him, but he stole my wrist and pinned it against my lower back.

“Kennedy.” I was desperate to touch him.

“You know what that does to me, Scarlett.” He shoved his cock between my thighs and pumped his hips so his slick head caressed my clit. Maintaining his grip on my wrist, he wrapped his other hand around my neck, giving gentle pressure.

I was utterly snared—the soft fur caressing my front while Kennedy mastered my back. I pressed my thighs together to get every delicious lick of friction as he thrust against my pussy.

“I need to feel you. All of you.” His voice was a gravelly rumble as he pulled back and positioned his tip at my entrance.

“Oh goodness.” The sound was swallowed by the fur as he began to ease inside me, my entire body on fire and desperate for him.

“Scarlett?” A man’s voice called.

I froze and whipped my head around to the door. A slight amount of light was slipping through into the dim closet. Someone was standing in the doorway.

“Are you all right?” He called again, uncertainty coating his words.

“Idiot. Coat check’s closed, jerk,” Kennedy barked.

“It’s Eric. I was just checking on Scarlett.” His voice sounded stronger. Was he coming closer?

I had to get out of there. I shoved back against Kennedy, which pushed him inside me a bit farther. I gasped at the sudden pleasure and he groaned.

“Do that again.” He laughed, the sound low and throaty.

“I’m fine, Eric,” I called.

“Are you sure?” He’d moved deeper inside the closet, only a few steps from discovering what we were doing, though he’d likely already guessed. “Frank and Guy were asking about you.”

I wrenched my hand from Kennedy’s grasp and scooted forward, the feeling of his toe sliding out like a bucket of cold water being dumped over me. It shocked me back to reality. What are you doing? I was about to let him idiot me bareback in a coat closet at a Mardi Gras ball.

“I’ll be out in a minute, Eric. Just wait for me, okay?” I spun, our bodies still pressed tightly together, and stared up into Kennedy’s eyes. “You have to stop this,” I hissed.

“Stop what?” He smirked down at me, his face half hidden by his mask.

“You know what.” I pulled my dress down.

He took my hand and placed it against his erection. His hot skin was smooth and soft in my grip. I let out a breath as he kept his hand on top of mine and stroked down his length and back up.

I bit my lip, trying and failing to fight the desire for him that overtook my mind, my body.

“You sure you want me to stop? Seems like every time you say that, you only want more.” He leaned in and grazed his lips across mine, still moving my hand up and down his shaft.

“Scarlett?” Eric asked again.

“I’m coming.” The words came out harsher than I’d intended.

“Not yet.” Kennedy whispered against my lips.

I pulled my hand away, silently cursing him for putting me into this situation, and also cursing myself for loving every second of it.

“Zip up, jerk.” I hated the breathlessness in my voice.

I shimmied past Kennedy and pushed through the coats to Eric. He peered down at me, his mouth drawn into a frown.

“Come on.” I hurried past him and out of the closet. The open air of the foyer attacked my overheated skin, making goose bumps erupt all over my arms and legs. “Where are they?”

Eric took my elbow and led me back to the ballroom. “Oh, Guy and Frank have already left for the night. I just said that to rescue you.”

I ground my teeth. I didn’t need rescuing, and certainly not by Eric.

“So, about that dance?” He gestured to the mass of partiers, their movements getting sloppier as the night progressed and the alcohol kept flowing.

“Maybe next time.” I patted his arm. “I need to get home. I’ll be working all weekend. Have to stay frosty for our case.”

“Well, can I drive you home?”

His persistence should have been adorable. Instead, I was irritated. On edge. Desperate to feel some sort of release. What was it they called it in my lit classes? Catharsis. I needed clit catharsis.

“I’ll get a cab, but you enjoy your night. I’ll call you next week.” I turned on my heel, leaving Eric in my wake as I retrieved my coat. The coast was clear, no sign of Kennedy.

At least the coat check boy didn’t seem to recognize me from just a few moments before, likely thanks to my disguise. Masks—everyone in New Orleans wore them, but they were obvious about it only during Mardi Gras.

I slipped into a waiting cab and closed the door. Pulling the mask off, I tossed it next to me and settled back into the seat. I glanced up the stairs to the front doors of the ballroom. Kennedy darted out, still a lady killer in his tux and mask.

“Go,” I told the driver.

Kennedy scanned the cab as it started moving. I gave him a too-sweet smile, and the slight quirk of his lip told me he’d seen it.

He may have won the round at the restaurant, but this one belonged to me.

Chapter Eight

KENNEDY

I hadn’t worked on a Saturday in several years. But the 8 a.m. email from Scarlett—which I read at 10 a.m. when I woke up—had me out of bed and in the shower in record time.

Did I have to jerk off to her last night instead of getting the real thing? Yes. Would I get the real thing sooner rather than later? Yes. And something told me finally getting all of Scarlett Carmichael would be the hottest thing I’d ever experienced.

I got ready, paying a little extra attention to my shave, though I didn’t bother with my hair. It did whatever it wanted no matter how I tried to style it.

I drove to the office, the streets relatively tame, as the partiers were still asleep or just waking up from the previous night’s fun. The business district was relatively quiet, though beads littered every street, even those nowhere near a parade route.

The Stone & Porter building was eerily silent, and I rode the elevator alone. Entering the foyer, I hoped I’d find her at the office alone. The things I could do to her—maybe even on Guy Porter’s desk—made my cock unruly in my pants.

“Down, boy,” I muttered under my breath as I spotted Carey and someone else who wasn’t Scarlett in the conference room.

I pushed through the door. “Where’s Scarlett?”

I recognized the other man, Graham, Scarlett’s paralegal. Shaking hands, I said, “She got you working on the weekends?”

He smiled, the friendly wrinkles around his eyes making him seem almost fatherly. “I like to keep an eye on her whenever I can. See if I can help.” He shrugged. “But this time, I don’t think I can offer much. I like to think she relies on me. But Carey here has a way with the computers, and that’s what she needs.”

“That and something to remove the stick from her rear.” I laughed.

Graham didn’t seem quite so amused by my little joke. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk about her like that around me.”

Carey whistled and made a bomb exploding noise, complete with hand motions showing me detonating on the conference table.

My cheeks heated as Graham’s friendly smile turned into a stone-faced look of contempt.

That escalated quickly. Backpedal time. “I didn’t mean … I was just—”

“You have any idea what it’s like to be the only woman in a firm dominated by men?” He pulled to his full height, eye to eye with me. “Any idea what sort of character it takes to walk through those doors every morning and not only do a decent job, but do an excellent job? All the while knowing that the partners you work for still think you should be getting them coffee and taking dictation?”

“I—”

He shook his head. “Of course you don’t. But you might want to think about that before you shoot your mouth off about Ms. Carmichael.”

Graham clapped Carey on the shoulder, though he kept his eyes on me. “Keep up the good work and keep an eye on this one, Carey. Tell me if he gets out of line with our girl.”

“Yes, sir.” Carey nodded.

“Good man.” Graham gave me one more withering look before striding out and heading toward the elevators.

My heart pounded like I’d been running laps around the conference room.

“That was, um, intense.” Carey let out a deep breath once the door clicked shut.

“Incredible. I was just kidding.” I turned Graham’s words over in my mind like a coin. Had I misjudged Scarlett so terribly? “But I guess he might have a point.”

“You think?” Carey snorted. “In any case, I’d steer clear of him for a while.”

“No kidding. So, where’s Scarlett?”

Carey twirled a pen between his fingers while staring at his computer screen. “You just missed her. She had to go to some lunch thing at Lynch Lane, I think she said? Something with a charity or something.”

“Lynch Lane? Posh.” The Lynches were some of the richest people in the city. Of course Scarlett Carmichael would hobnob with them on the regular. Faye’s warning about Scarlett being “out of my league” echoed through my thoughts. While that may have been true on a blue-blood level, I’d been able to mingle with the upper crust off and on, and messed my fair share of New Orleans socialites. All the same, I’d never been invited to Lynch Lane, not even to shovel trash or cut the grass.

“Charity thing.” I tapped my index finger on my chin. Scarlett had run away to somewhere she no doubt thought I couldn’t follow. Distance made her comfortable. I wasn’t going to let up, not even if it meant crashing a philanthropy meeting. “What was she wearing?”

He stopped twirling the pen and gave me a quizzical look. “Did you hear what Graham just said? All that about treating Scarlett with respect?”

“Yes, I heard. I’m not trying to be inappropriate about Ms. Carmichael.” I shrugged. “I mean, I really need to talk to her about the case. I might just drop in over at Lynch Lane.”

“Right.” He shook his head and grinned. He looked younger whenever he smiled big, especially given he was wearing a Star Wars Tshirt and what looked like skinny jeans. “Some sort of flowy skirt and a white top that showed a decent amount of the goods. A lot better than what she wears to work.”

I could only imagine how good she’d look in that outfit. “I see. I think I’ll just head on over and give her a rundown of what I was working on overnight.”

“Oh, and her hair was down.”

“Like all the way? Like total girl hotness?”

“It wasn’t all tight up in that …” He motioned to the crown of his head.

“The bun thing?”

“Yeah, I wanted to touch it.” He nodded and smiled, mischief written all over his youthful face.

“Don’t.” I hadn’t meant for my tone to be so clipped, but the thought of his hands on Scarlett sent a prickly sensation down my spine. I batted it aside. I didn’t get jealous over women. Never had, never would. Even so, I didn’t want him to think he could touch her hair or anything else.

“Calm down. I didn’t jump her. Besides, you heard Graham. I’m supposed to keep an eye on you, not the other way around. You’re the one who disrespects Scarlett right in front of her pseudo-dad, not me.”

I laughed off his comments, as if I didn’t care. I didn’t, did I?

“Look, do you what gotta do. Scarlett’s a smart woman, she’ll curb you soon enough.”

I popped him on the back of the head, the same way I’d do to one of my brothers. “Any news on breaking the encryption?”

He rubbed the spot where I’d tapped him. “Dick. Nope. But like I said, could be any minute, could be days. It’s a crapshoot. An intensely rigorous and multilayered crapshoot.”

“All right. I’ll be back later.” I went to the door.

“Good luck. I’ll be here to comfort her once she’s had it with you,” he said, almost too quietly for me to hear.

“What?” I shot over my shoulder.

“Nothing, man. Later.” He gave me a two-finger wave.

I laughed and hustled back to the elevator. He may have been a mastermind superhacker, but Carey was quickly becoming one of my favorite people.

Lynch Lane was a sprawling estate in the heart of the Garden District. I had a slim chance of making it past the gates, but I’d be darned if I’d let Scarlett get away. Not today, not after how she left me last night. I intended to invade her space on every possible level. Full-court press.

As I drove through the streets, the parties starting anew, it occurred to me I’d never had to chase a woman before. I could sit at a bar, flirt a little, then have the prettiest one in the room flat on her back within an hour. But Scarlett, she evaded me. Even when I’d been close in that coat closet, she’d still had me by the balls—and not in the fun and frisky way.

I figured if I could just harass her and get it out of my system, I could settle down. That was the plan. It would work. And then I’d be on to the next conquest as usual.

I pulled up to the wrought iron gate with the double L insignia along the top and pressed the speaker box.

A man with a British accent answered brightly. “May I help you, sir?”

“Yes, I’m here to see Ms. Carmichael.” I gave what I hoped was a winning smile to the small camera situated above the speaker. “I’m her date for the lunch.” Never hurt to add a little to the story.

Silence … Then some more silence … Silence to the point I just knew Scarlett and all her snobby friends were having a good laugh. But then the gate began to swing silently inward.

I winked at the camera and drove onto Lynch Lane, my tires rumbling over the cobblestones that wound through an estate full of azaleas and mature oaks. The sun filtered through the leafless branches and warmed the otherwise dormant landscape. A house, a brick antebellum number with wisteria climbing the Georgian columns along the front porch, came into view. I pulled around the circular drive and parked next to a row of cars—all of them pricey.

I wondered for a moment if I’d bitten off more than I could chew. Nah. Glancing in the mirror, I smoothed my hair down as best I could. Operation Penetrate Scarlett Carmichael” was a go.

The air was crisp, but not cold for early February. The sun warmed me as I climbed the steps to the porch and used a giant brass knocker on one of the doors.

A young man with blond hair and the whitest teeth I’d ever seen opened the door for me and waved me inside. “Welcome.” The same British voice from the speaker. “The luncheon is in the sunroom. Right this way.”

“Sure.” I glanced around, taking in the sort of splendor that one could find only in New Orleans or Europe. Everything was carved, shiny, or glittering—from the dark wood floors to the massive fireplaces and the opulent crystal chandeliers.

We veered off to the right through a music room with a grand piano and multiple family portraits lining the walls.

He stopped at a set of glass double doors and gave a slight bow. “Ms. Carmichael is inside. My apologies, but I was not informed she had a date for the occasion. I’ll alert the kitchen. Do you have any food allergies or preferences?”

“As long as my drink has alcohol in it, I’m good.”

He smiled. “Very well, sir.”

I took a deep breath and did what I’d always done—faked it till I made it.

The wide room was brightly lit from the sun streaming through the glass walls and ceiling. Three long tables were laid out with service and large bouquets of white hydrangeas and pink roses. Several people congregated to the bar off to the left, and I strode over like I belonged.

“Kennedy?”

I looked up and saw my brother Wash leaning against the bar. I couldn’t stop my smile. Having two Granades in the same place meant I was on home turf.

“What are you doing here?” I shook his hand and pulled it in for a chest bump before ordering a mimosa with extra champagne.

Caroline, Wash’s girlfriend, sidled up to him, her blond hair and wicked curves marking her as one of the prettier women at the party. “I didn’t know you had an interest in the Junior League.” She smiled and gave me a hug, whispering in my ear, “It’s Scarlett, isn’t it?”

Pulling back, she grinned big as Wash pulled her into his side.

“I’ve always had an interest in Junior League.” I took a gulp of my drink and scanned the crowd. Scarlett spoke to a couple of young men at the corner of the bar. She must have seen me come in, because she was already glaring by the time my gaze made it to her eyes. It took a while—I gave her shapely legs, hourglass waist, and generous breasts plenty of attention before making eye contact.

Caroline squealed and got onto her tiptoes, whispering in Wash’s ear before nipping at it.

He growled and pulled her into his chest. “Are you trying to get me hard at a philanthropy meeting?”

Hearing Wash, my big brother who was nothing if not a hard-rear, talk to Caroline that way had me pulling at my collar. Awkward. “Get a room, you two.”

Caroline pecked Wash on the cheek and turned to face me. “Working with Terrell and me, helping the helpless, defending the defenseless—it just has him all riled up. You know how he gets.”

“I don’t. Thank goodness.” I laughed as she smiled and glanced over to Scarlett. “She’s a good one.”

I leaned closer to her. “How did you know?”

“Do you honestly think there are any secrets in this town?”

“I guess not?”

“Definitely not—Terrell, there you are.”

A tall man entered the room and walked over to us, smiling and greeting everyone as he came.

“Where have you been?” Caroline whispered.

He bowed his head. “Lost track of time. Had too much dic—I mean fun last night.”

“Player.” She kissed him on the cheek as he smirked at her.

“Jealous.” He whispered before raising his voice. “Everyone ready to get started?” He popped her on the rear as he walked by and called the meeting to order. If Terrell hadn’t been Caroline’s best friend—and gay—I was certain Wash would have ripped his arm off. “Take your seats and we’ll get to the agenda.”

I watched Scarlett edge around the farthest table from me, the two young men she’d been chatting with sticking close to her.

“I’m going to, um—”

“You don’t have to explain. Go get her, tiger.” Caroline shooed me toward Scarlett’s end of the expansive sunroom.

“Try not to embarrass the family name,” Wash added.

“No promises,” I said over my shoulder as I maneuvered around the young, wealthy elite of New Orleans. Plenty of beautiful girls with trust funds and killer bodies swirled around me, but there was only one I wanted to talk to. She was currently giving me a look that had a very real chance of melting my face off.

One of the men with her pulled her chair out and she sat, though her eyes never left mine. He took the chair next to her. I stepped up to her side just as the other young man tried to sit.

“Sorry, man. Terrell told me he wanted me to lead discussion on this end. I’ll need this seat.”

He looked up, his Bieber haircut falling into his eyes. “Uh, okay.”

“Thanks. I knew you’d understand.” I clapped him on the back far too hard and pulled out the chair next to Scarlett.

As I sat, she whispered through clenched teeth, “What do you think you’re doing?”

I laid my arm across the back of her chair, knowing she hated it. “I just wanted to talk to you about our case.”

She turned and stared at me. Her blue eyes sparkled in the bright sunlight and her long hair shone a dark brown but with lighter strands around her face. With her hair down, her face was a heart shape, her chin making a cute little point and the dark pink bow of her lips a decidedly sweet lure.

Her eyes widened. “Did Carey break the encryption?”

“No.”

“Then what do we have to talk about?”

“You look nice.”

She opened her mouth to speak and then snapped it shut again. Color rose from the collar of her white blouse, creeping into her cheeks. Her pale skin was the perfect palette.

“Thank you.”

“—and if we’re ready …” Terrell stared at us from the head of the middle table. I hadn’t realized the room had grown quiet. Wash raised his eyebrows at me from one table over, silently scolding.

“My bad.” I waved.

“Oh my goodness,” Scarlett said under her breath.

“It’s cool. We have a couple of items. First, the spring gala. We’ve planned an even bigger event than usual this year, and we’ll have it here at Lynch Lane. The committee has worked hard to get the plans for a botanical show and auction in cooperation with the New Orleans Botanical Garden. That will be the last weekend in May. Setup will have to be swift, because the prior weekend we intend to host a very special wedding. Evangeline Angel and Lincoln Granade.”

I still couldn’t believe my oldest brother was getting hitched. And to a firecracker, at that. Evan, his fiancée, could drink me under the table and out-swear me on the regular—neither of which were small feats.

“Your brother, right?” Scarlett whispered without turning her head as Terrell continued his charity event spiel.

“Yes.”

“So are there more. Or just the three I know about?”

“Just the three.” I slipped my hand down onto her shoulder. “I’m the best one, though.”

She snorted and slapped my hand off her. Then she turned the snort into a cough to cover it as Terrell gave her an unamused look.

“It’s true,” I protested.

“I think I’ll be the judge of that. Lincoln is a highly respected Assistant U.S. attorney, well on his way to be being the U.S. attorney for the district, and Wash is the number one criminal defense attorney in town. And you are?” She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye.

“Me? Oh, I’m just the hot plaintiff’s attorney who you desperately want to bend you over this table.”

She bit her lip and radiated disapproval, but I saw the pulse in her neck speed up. The rosy color intensified in her cheeks, and I just bet that if I could slip my fingers to the little patch of heaven between her thighs, she’d be wet.

My cock agreed, stiffening uncomfortably in my pants.

She stared straight ahead. “You are a total toe.”

I grabbed her hand from her lap and placed it on my erection. “For you. Yeah, I am.”

She pulled her hand back, but not fast enough. Her parted lips and her lingering touch gave her away.

I had her where I wanted her. All I needed to do was capitalize.

“—and without further ado, let’s eat.” Terrell sat and servers began entering from behind the bar and bringing out platters piled high with croissant sandwiches, chicken salad with grapes, shrimp, and numerous other dishes that were part and parcel of a New Orleans luncheon. Of course, they served more alcohol right along with the food.

I leaned over and whispered into her ear as conversations started up around us. “Now, about that table idiot we were just discussing …”

“Charles.” She turned to the man sitting to her left. “What were you telling me about how your firm is working on implementing a new associate training program with courses abroad?”

He smiled, his all-American looks—blond hair, light blue eyes, and a swimmer’s build—chapping my rear. “Yes. Since I became chair of the associate round table, we’ve started upping our game. We’re actually planning a Paris trip in two months. And it’s not just our associates. It’ll be an opportunity for associates from all firms. I’ve billed it as continuing legal education on the banks of the Seine. Sound good?”

She leaned away from me. Toward him. “I think that sounds fabulous.” Had her voice risen an octave?

“I—I’d love it if you could join.” His smiled widened.

She put her hand on his shoulder and moved closer. Was she pressing her body into him? I reached under the table and gripped her knee.

She jumped a little but told him, “Paris sounds wonderful. As long as you’ll be there, too.”

The same emotion that had colored my vision earlier when Carey spoke about touching Scarlett’s hair came roaring to life in my chest. Actually, it was more like a nuclear explosion of that feeling—jealousy. Ugly, prickly, sour-tasting envy.

I ran my hand roughly up her thigh, pressing between her legs until I felt the silky material of her panties. Her pussy was already wet. The thought that it was wet for anyone but me made something short-circuit in my brain.

She let out a soft “oh” and pulled away from Charles as she sank her nails into the back of my hand.

“Stop,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

“What?” I picked up my fork with my other hand and speared a shrimp, chewing it as my fingertips rubbed back and forth across the damp material.

I pressed harder against her clit, and she let out a little sigh, her eyelids fluttering.

“You okay, Scarlett?” Charles asked.

“She’s fine. Enjoy your lunch.” I gave him a trash-eating grin and stroked her faster. “You, too, Scarlett. You should eat.”

“I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Charles Riesling. You are?” The challenge in his voice amused me.

“Kennedy Granade.”

His eyes brightened with recognition. “Oh, the ambulance chaser I’ve heard about.”

I slid my fingers beneath her panties, her nub hard and wanting. She no longer tried to pry my hand away, and her breathing became quicker with each of my caresses. My cock was painfully hard, but it would have to wait.

“The very one. I’ve even caught a few. What firm do you work for?”

“Mills and Everly.”

I smirked and slid my fingers lower, sinking them inside her as she bit her lip. “So you work for Bert Mills?”

“Yes. You know him?” He needed to work on his poker face—incredulous surprise never looked good on any attorney.

I moved my fingers back out and gave her clit the attention it needed.

I shook my head. “I don’t know him personally, no.”

He smirked. “I didn’t think so.”

“But his wife and I are well acquainted. Well, I guess she’s his ex-wife now.”

He swallowed hard. “You know Lily?”

I laughed. “Who doesn’t?”

Scarlett stiffened and gripped my wrist, wrenching my hand away and closing her legs. Her glare told me I’d messed up.

“I’m not sure what you’re suggesting,” Charles sputtered.

“It’s simple, Charles.” I brought my fingers to my mouth and licked Scarlett’s taste from them, never dropping her gaze as I did so. “The food at these things is always so delicious, don’t you think?”

She squirmed, rubbing her thighs together. I needed to be between them.

“What’s simple?” Charles pressed.

“Oh, sorry. Forgot what I was saying for a moment there. It’s simple that I messed Bert’s wife when I was a law clerk at his firm. That’s where I was going. No real mystery.”

“Kennedy!” Scarlett turned to Charles. “I am so sorry. He’s lying.”

“I am?” I leered at Charles. I was. I didn’t actually idiot Lily, though she made a pretty hard pass at me after a firm party one night. But I had good information that Bert’s star associate had been her for quite some time. Charles’s reaction told me that he was the “star associate” I’d heard about. The New Orleans rumor mill was always churning, especially in legal circles.

Scarlett stood and tossed her napkin down next to her plate. “I have to get back to the office. Big case. It was lovely to see you, Charles.”

He stood. “I’ll walk you out.”

“I got this. We’re going to the same office, after all.” I stepped back to let Scarlett pass and then blocked Charles from following. “Give Lily my regards.”

He blanched, finally realizing that I knew. “I—I …”

“Good man.” I turned and followed Scarlett, giving Wash and Caroline a wave as I left. Wash shook his head as Caroline smiled and gave me two thumbs up.

I caught up to Scarlett in the foyer and grabbed her elbow, whipping her around to me. “You don’t have to run.”

“You don’t have to be a prick!” she shot back, her eyes flashing.

“I don’t know if that’s exactly true.”

“You invade my private life, embarrass me in front of my friend, and y-you—”

“Get you all hot and bothered?” I filled in for her.

“Forget you, Kennedy.” She turned on her heel and stalked out of the house.

I’d seen her, the fiery woman hidden behind the prim façade. I’d broken through her exquisitely crafted exterior to the point I had her vehemently cussing me in one of the finest houses in the city. I smiled, but then shook my head, remembering how I felt when she’d touched Charles.

I’d gotten to her. The only problem was, she’d gotten to me, too.

Chapter Nine

SCARLETT

The wrought iron gate to my family estate receded behind me. I hadn’t been out of the luncheon for fifteen minutes before my phone rang. Mother. Somehow, she’d already heard about my quick exit from Lynch Lane. Word traveled fast when a Carmichael didn’t behave properly at an event, even one as small as the Junior League planning luncheon.

I pulled to the right and parked under one of the oaks that skirted the two-story Tudor home. My palms grew clammy, and I wiped them on my skirt as I stepped from the car. She would be in her sitting room waiting for me, a tight smile on her lips. Mother had the singular ability to make me feel like a twelve-year-old again, awkward and in some sort of nebulous trouble for a breach of decorum.

I strode through the front door and gave our longtime butler a small nod. His kindly smile did nothing to stop me from schooling my face into an impassive, calm mask. She wouldn’t get to me. Not today.

“Scarlett?” Her high voice chirped and echoed through the lofty foyer.

I straightened my back and strode inside. She sat with a drink in her hand and, Matisse, her Pomeranian, on her lap. He growled at me, as usual. I sat on the uncomfortable sofa across from them and crossed my legs at the ankle.

Mother took me in from head to toe with her sharp gray eyes. Her silver bob didn’t move, every strand sprayed into a prison of perfection. She wore a cream top and a beige skirt, her skin tan from mornings of tennis practice.

“You need a necklace with that, sweetheart.” She smiled and took a sip of her cocktail. “And earrings. What have I told you about a woman who leaves the house without earrings?”

“Did you call me for a reason?” I clasped my hands in my lap, more than ready to get it over with and get back to the office.

Her fake smile faltered. “I want to know what you’re doing with this Kennedy Granade character.”

“We work together on a case. That’s all.”

She lowered her gaze and pretended to rack her brain. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that family name before. Who are his parents?”

“They aren’t our people.” The phrase was general enough, but it had an all-too-specific meaning. The Granades weren’t members of the New Orleans elite. They didn’t escort me to debutante balls, or go to the same parties, or have the right friends.

“Well.” She waved her drink, almost sloshing it on Matisse. “Then I have nothing to worry about?”

I ground my teeth. “What do you mean?” I knew exactly what she meant.

She set her glass down and scratched Matisse’s head. “I mean that once you get done with this lawyer nonsense and settle down, it will be with someone from an appropriate family. Not some riffraff ambulance chaser. You have a name, a reputation to protect.”

The room seemed to have grown hotter, and my cheeks burned.

“Mother, who I see is none of your business.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So you are seeing him.”

I stood. “If you intended to scold me, you have. Can I go now?”

“There are plenty of lovely young men, ones whose mothers have told me are more than interested in you. Trevor Scales, Van Robins, even William Rabelais. They’ve all expressed a desire to get to know you. What about them?”

I shrugged, which did nothing to alleviate the feeling that I was an unruly twelve-year-old. “What about them? I’m not in the market for a husband. I have a career. I’m perfectly happy where I am.”

She scooted an irritated Matisse from her lap and rose. “But you need to think of the future. Of children.” She swept her hand in an arc toward the rest of the expansive house. “One day, all this will be yours and what will you fill it with?”

It always went like this—her trying to tell me to get married, and me telling her that I wasn’t ready. She never listened, only pushed. “Mother, I have to go to work.”

“On a Saturday?” She picked her drink back up and took a dainty sip. I knew she’d finish the bottle before dinnertime.

“Yes. I have a very important case I’m working on. Now, if you’re done getting onto me, I’d like to go.”

Her face softened as much as the Botox would allow. “I just want what’s best for you.”

“I know.” I air-kissed her cheeks and turned to leave.

“Just don’t fall for any song and dance from that Granade man. He’s not in our league. He never will be,” she called behind me.

I gave a weak smile to our butler and hurried to my car. Mother would never change. The stratification of society was written in stone for her. Being the eldest Carmichael heir had been a full-time job since the day I was born.

I peered into the rearview mirror. I had my mother’s eyes, but not much else.

She was right about one thing: Kennedy was a different breed, and not based on status. I needed to keep him at arm’s length. Kennedy just needed to respect my space. I sighed and straightened my shoulders. We would keep it professional from there on out. I would make sure of it.

I tossed my bag onto the conference table and sank into the seat at Carey’s elbow. The sun was already low on the horizon, creating angular shadows from the downtown high-rises. I’d gone over my mother’s scolding as I drove, but it was the same song I’d heard all my life.

Frustrated on all fronts, I hoped a trip to the office would get me back in control. The legal world I’d made for myself was mine. Even though I was an associate—a small cog in a much larger machine—I was doing it my way. My career was a creature of my own invention. The fact that my mother frowned on it made it all the more rewarding.

I cleared my head of family responsibilities and focused on Carey. “Hey, how are you feeling? About Fluffy? We haven’t really had time to talk about it.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “It sucks. He was a nice guy. I hate that he got mixed up in whatever Discord was doing that led to this.”

“I’m glad you got out of the hacking business.” I patted his arm.

“I didn’t really have a choice. Iron bars wouldn’t look good on a guy like me.”

“Keep on the straight and narrow. That’s the way to do it.” I nodded.

“Well, let’s not go too far. I still know how to do the high jinks.” He grinned.

“Like riding a bicycle, right?” I glanced to Carey’s computer screen. “Any luck?”

“Nope. But I did find some really interesting shibari bondage art porn. Interested?” He hovered his finger over his keys, waiting for my go-ahead.

“I don’t even know what you just said, though I did make out the word ‘porn,’ so I’ll have to pass.” I put my head down on my arms, exhaustion setting in from the mental battles I’d been waging at the luncheon and then at Mother’s.

“Come on. If you hate it, I’ll turn it off.” Carey elbowed me. “Live a little. A tiny ‘forget you’ to the man would do you good.”

I wobbled my head back and forth on my arms. “It’s against the rules. I’m pretty sure there has to be a line or two in the Stone and Porter employment manual about no porn at work.” I was too tired to debate the inherent sexism of porn and how watching it would, in many circles, be high-fiving “the man.”

“A good life is a series of small rebellions.”

I lifted my head. “Who said that?”

“Gorepheus.” He pointed to himself.

“Smart guy.”

He nodded, his piercings glinting in the fading light. “He is. Handsome, too.”

I sighed. Maybe a little rebellion wouldn’t be so bad. “Fine, play porn at work.” I waved toward his monitor. What Mr. Porter doesn’t know won’t hurt him. “Let’s do this.”

He grinned and tapped the keys as I shielded my eyes. I tried to deny the little thrill of excitement breaking the rules gave me, but it wasn’t working. The corners of my lips quirked up, trying to give me away with a smile.

He stood and flicked the overhead lights off. “Okay, it’s starting. Check it out.”

I peeked through my fingers. A nude woman with a thin, but still killer, figure sat on the floor as a topless man covered in gorgeous tattoos circled her.

“Ready?” he asked.

She stretched leisurely and settled on the floor on her back, giving him a smile. “Do your worst.”

“Is he going to hit her?” I dropped my hands as the camera focused on the woman.

“No, well, maybe later if that’s what she wants. Shibari is a particularly specialized form of bondage, not BDSM in the hitting sense.”

“So he’s just going to tie her up?”

“Yeah.” He nodded as the man in the movie began wrapping rope around the woman’s ankles and linking it to her torso.

Before long, I was entranced by the delicate way he positioned her limbs, taking his time knotting, tying, and adjusting. He broke a sweat as she remained serene, even as she was trussed up with her legs drawn up into an M pattern.

“It’s actually kind of beautiful.” I rested my head on my hand.

“Yeah. I’ve been practicing a little myself. Not enough to do it for real, but I’m trying to work up to it.” Carey scooted his rolling chair closer to mine and turned the screen. “Now here comes the even better part.”

The man lifted the woman and tied her ropes around some wooden rods on the ceiling so she was hanging helpless, totally at his mercy.

I stared at her face, her eyes glassy. “She has no control over any of this, but she looks so …”

“Happy,” Carey finished for me.

“Yeah. I would be losing my mind.”

“Maybe not.” Carey’s voice was quiet. “Strong people are often the sort who would really benefit from giving up control, if only for a short time.”

The man in the video stripped the rest of the way, appearing back on-screen totally nude and more than ready to go. He ran his hard cock across the woman’s pussy before easing inside as she let out a pant, though her expression remained calm. He started a slow rhythm. Carey shifted in his chair, and my skin flushed as the man flexed and thrusted.

“I think maybe we’ve seen enough.” I said the words but I still watched the woman, her serenity turning to pleasure as she gave over all control to the man who’d tied her so beautifully.

“Just a little longer.” Carey’s arm rested against mine, his voice husky.

The light flicked on, and I jumped with a startled squeak.

“What’s going on in here?”

I whipped my head around to see Kennedy leaning against the glass door, a grin on his face. How long had he been standing there?

“Nothing.” Carey tapped a key and the screen went dark.

“Porn at the office. My, my. I had no idea you were such a naughty little minx, Ms. Carmichael.”

So much heat rushed into my cheeks that they felt sunburned. “W-We were just—”

Kennedy snorted. “It’s okay. I get off on tying up chicks, too. No worries.”

My embarrassment turned to anger. “You get off on pushing people around. You’re a bully.”

“I am?” He smirked, and I wanted to backhand the look off his face. “Good one, Carey. I didn’t realize you were this savvy.” Kennedy shook his head at me. “Oldest trick in the book, Scarlett. Want to get a girl on her back? Turn her on. Porn is the easiest way to do that.”

“That’s not what I was doing.” Carey slapped his laptop closed and shoved it into his bag.

“Sure it wasn’t.” Kennedy sat at the head of the conference table.

I glared at him. “It’s fine, Carey. Mr. Granade is just jealous he didn’t get to watch, too.”

“I saw plenty. Trust me.”

“I need to get home anyway. I’ve been here all day. The decryption is still running. I’ll let you know if anything happens.” Carey hurried toward the door, embarrassment dogging his steps.

I followed him. “Hey, Carey. Look at me.”

He turned and glanced to Kennedy before meeting my eyes. “I know you weren’t trying anything. I enjoyed it. Thanks for showing me.” I dropped a kiss on his cheek and he gave me a wan smile before walking out.

I spun to Kennedy. “What Carey and I do is none of your business. And you should apologize to him.”

“You’re naïve. He’s just trying to get into your panties.”

“And you’re not?”

“I’ve already been in your panties. Remember?” He let his eyes drift down my body. Dick. I ignored the thrill that shot through me, the goose bumps erupting along my skin.

Grabbing my bag from the table, I strode to the door. He was on me before I could pull it open. Pressing his chest to my back, I was flat against the glass. My bag hit the floor.

“Get off me.” I tried to buck back against him, but his hard cock pressed into my rear and my body reacted, my pussy growing wetter by the second.

He snaked his fingers through my hair, clenching his fist and pulling my head to the side. He nipped at my ear, and my panting breaths fogged the glass of the door.

“I don’t think you want me to. I think you want me on you and in you. Isn’t that right, Scarlett?”

I closed my eyes as he said my name and rubbed his stiff length against my rear. No. I made one final effort, pushing him back and turning.

Holding my hand out in front of me, I said, “Don’t. We can’t do this. We work together. That’s it. We can’t …”

His shirt collar was open, the vein in his neck pumping hard and steady. When I met his eyes, I was lost. No one had ever looked at me like he did. Hungry, with a mix of need and desperation.

He wet his lips and grabbed my wrist. “You keep telling me what we can’t do. Let me show you what we can.”

He swatted my other hand away and pinched my chin before crushing me into a kiss that stole every last bit of breath from my body. I clutched his sides, holding on to him as he sank into my mouth. His tongue worked me into a stupor, my body a slave to his touch. I needed to stop this, to say no, to put an end to all of it. For my career, for my family name, for my propriety. Instead, I returned his kiss, my tongue battling with his in a dance that was a mix of warfare and passion.

Reaching down, he gripped my rear and lifted me. My shoes fell to the floor, and he swung me around and set me on the conference table. Snugging between my thighs, he bent and kissed to my neck, sucking and biting as I yanked his shirt from his pants and worked at the buttons. My panties were soaked and I needed him more than I’d ever needed anything.

He pulled at my top and I lifted my arms so he could pull it off. I wore a simple white bra. He nipped at my collarbone and reached behind me, unclasping the bra and stripping it from me.

“Idiot, you’re perfect.” He palmed my breasts and ran his thumbs over my nipples.

I bit his bottom lip and wrapped my arms around his neck, needing another taste of his wicked mouth. Our tongues parried and thrusted, neither of us giving ground. I didn’t know if I wanted to master him or to be mastered; all I knew was I didn’t want to stop.

He broke the kiss and pushed me back to lean down and capture a nipple in his mouth. I moaned and clawed at his scalp as he bit down on my hard tip, his tongue licking across it until I whimpered. Moving to the other breast, he slid a hand up my skirt to my panties.

He groaned when his fingers grazed my wet center. Putting a hand at my throat, he eased me back until I was lying on the table. The simple pressure of his fingers around my neck kicked my heart into a faster beat, made even quicker by his possessive gaze. The chilly marble top failed to cool my skin. Kissing down my stomach, he gripped my hips and yanked me to the edge before flipping up my skirt and pulling my panties off.

He dropped to his knees and put his palms flat against the inside of my thighs, giving gentle pressure and spreading me wide. One of my feet rested on an arm of a conference chair and the other perched at the edge of the table. I was completely exposed, at his mercy, and it turned me on to an alarming degree.

“Heck, Scarlett.” His voice sounded tortured.

I squirmed under his gaze, and then gasped when he licked me from entrance to clit with the broad velvet of his tongue.

“Kennedy!”

He fastened his mouth to me, his tongue licking along my folds and teasing at my clit.

I ran my nails across the surface of the table, but there was nothing to hold on to. Instead, I reached down and gripped his hair as he laved my pussy. He slid his hands up my thighs until they pressed against the sensitive skin along my bikini line. I met his gaze, his eyes locked on mine as he pushed me closer and closer to the edge of my release.

When he slipped two fingers inside me, I fell back on the table and arched my back. My moans echoed off the glass walls and back to me. He pressed against my spot, stroking in and out of me with the same rhythm as his tongue. My hips kept his pace, grinding my pussy against his face as I let every pleasurable sensation rule me.

Seizing on my clit, he ran his tongue over it again and again before fastening his lips around it and sucking.

I gasped and rocked my hips, the friction ramping up the tension coiling inside me.

He groaned and pushed his fingers deep within me. Sparks erupted along my skin, skittering across my body until I was on fire and coming in an explosion of pleasure. His name was ripped from my lungs as my hips seized and my pussy convulsed greedily around his fingers, dragging them in deeper as I arched my back so hard, the unforgiving table bruised my shoulders.

“Oh my goodness.” I let out a huge breath and relaxed back into the table as my pussy pulsed a few more times, sending endorphins rushing to every corner of my mind.

He stopped sucking and kissed me before standing. All I could do was stare, my body limp and my mind blissfully blank. He stripped his shirt the rest of the way off, giving me a view of his broad chest and the dark hair there that created a trail down into his pants. He scrubbed a hand down his face and reached for his belt, unbuckling it and dropping his zipper.

My eyes widened as he pulled his cock out, the tip glistening wet. I struggled to sit up, wanting to taste him. But he pushed me back down, his palm flat on my chest before roving to knead my breast. He fisted himself with his other hand, stroking slowly as he took in my body.

“Birth control?” he asked.

“Y-yes. Clean?”

“Yes.” He stroked harder and stepped to me, his tip pressing against my entrance. He leaned over me and pulled me up to him, claiming me in another mind-blowing kiss as he pushed inside me. I moaned into his mouth as he pulled back and pressed all the way inside, filling me until the slight pinch was overshadowed by the rush of need.

“So tight. Idiot, Scarlett.” He stared into my eyes and gave me a moment to adjust.

It was so wrong, everything we’d done and were about to do. But just this taste of him made me realize I’d been starved for his touch, this contact.

Gripping my rear with one hand, he pulled me into his strokes, while he used the other to rope my hair and pull my head back. His teeth grazed my neck as the slapping sound of his thighs against mine reverberated through the room. I panted as he bit down at my jugular, no doubt leaving a mark. I dug my nails into his shoulder and spread my legs even wider, getting every bit of contact to my clit and my spot.

He groaned as I opened to him fully; then he left a trail of kisses to my breasts. Sucking a hard nipple into his mouth, he yanked harder on my hair so that I arched into his mouth. I cried out as he slammed into me harder, his thick cock sliding deep with every thrust.

I reached up and yanked on his hair until he growled against my breast and stood, pulling my body to his and biting my bottom lip. Raking my nails down his back, I grabbed his rear, spurring him even rougher into me. I wanted to feel him the next day.

He pounded me, grunting with the effort, and his cock growing even harder. He wrapped his arms around me, crushing me to his chest and made smaller movements, keeping his cock lodged deeply as he thrusted. My clit buzzed, my pussy tightening for another orgasm.

He came up for air and rested his forehead against mine, staring at me as we both panted.

Resting his hand at my throat, he nuzzled next to my ear, never breaking his rhythm. “Say my name, Scarlett.”

I let my head loll back. Power games were my forte. “That all you got, Mr. Granade?”

He gripped my chin and pulled my gaze back to his. “That’s not the name I want, and you know it. Is that how you want to play it?”

I couldn’t help myself, even though my body was dancing along the edge of a knife and ready to fall. I smirked. “Yes, Mr. Granade.”

He grinned. “You asked for it.” Shoving me back down on the table, he caged my throat with one hand and used his other thumb to press on my clit.

My hips bucked, and I writhed beneath him as he pistoned so hard, the heavy table began to move.

“Say it, Scarlett. Tell me who makes you come.” He applied light pressure to the sides of my neck. “I want you to come on my toe. I want to feel you milking me as I give you every last drop.”

His dirty talk shot me into orbit, and when he swirled his thumb around my clit and then let off my neck, euphoria set in and my body froze. I came hard, my pussy undulating against his hard cock.

“Kennedy!” I was gone, dragged down beneath the waves of delicious release and coming harder than I ever had in my life.

“Idiot. Scarlett. Idiot.” He gave me a few more rough shoves before his movements became erratic. I watched as he furrowed his brow and grunted, masculine and deep, as his cock kicked inside me. His chest muscles and abs flexed, tension in every inch of skin. Gorgeous. He stayed deep, coating me with him as I lay boneless and spent.

When he was done, he leaned over, propping himself up with his hands.

“You said it.” He grinned, his breaths coming in pants and his body glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. “I won.”

I sat up, resting on my palms so that our bodies were parallel but not touching. “You did?” I flicked my gaze down to his lips and back to his eyes. “I don’t think so.”

“You said my name, Scarlett.” He leaned in for a kiss, but I dipped back, staying out of range. “That means I win.”

“Yeah?” I rolled my hips, working his half-mast cock. “I’m pretty sure I won.”

He groaned and, to my surprise, hardened a bit more. “How’s that?”

“You forgot something.” I leaned up and licked his lips before moving away again.

“What?”

I grinned. “I came twice.” I scooted back, hating that he was no longer inside me but loving the feel of beating him at his own game.

He didn’t let me get far. Gripping my hips, he wrenched me back beneath him, my damp skin skidding on the marble table. He wrapped his fingers around my wrists and pinned me, the devious sparkle in his eyes sending a lick of heat between my already-aching thighs.

“Let’s see if we can’t even this up a bit.” He seated himself to the hilt, his cock hard and getting harder by the second.

I arched an eyebrow. “If you aren’t able make it three for me, I win.”

“Cursed if I do. Cursed if I don’t.” He dropped his mouth to my ear and nibbled at the lobe. “Maybe losing to you isn’t as bad as I thought.”

Chapter Ten

KENNEDY

I tossed in my bed, trying to fall asleep. God knew I was tired enough to pass out after Scarlett long and hard. I couldn’t help the grin that overtook me in the dark. That woman was a wildcat up underneath her stuffy exterior. Who knew?

The sounds she made played on a loop in my mind and I grew hard, my toe tenting the sheet. I wanted her again. I’d wanted her the moment she’d straightened her clothes and hustled out of the conference room, giving me a deadly look over her shoulder.

I closed my eyes, mentally chastising my toe for getting overexcited when I needed to sleep. I’d see Scarlett again in eight hours, tops. Would she let me harass her in the office again? I would definitely give it a try, maybe in her office, or—even better—in Guy Porter’s office. Idiot, that would be epic.

I forced my breathing to slow, flashes of her dark hair splayed on the table and her belly bouncing with my impacts slowly fading until all I saw were her eyes. Then my phone rang.

I flipped over, hoping she was the booty call type. I frowned, the display showing Carey’s name.

I swiped across the screen and answered. “What’s up?”

“The encryption broke.”

Finally, some movement in the case. I checked my alarm clock. It was almost 2 a.m. “That’s great news. I’ll be in first thing.”

“No. You’re going to want to see this now.” His voice was quiet, and seemed somehow strained.

I sat up, alarm racing through my blood. “What is it? Tell me.”

“Not over the phone. Meet you at the office. Scarlett’s on her way.” The call ended, and I stared at my phone for a moment before jumping out of bed and throwing on a Tshirt and jeans.

Though it was late, plenty of Mardi Gras partiers wound their way through the thoroughfares of the Garden District and closer to downtown. A light rain didn’t deter them from their revels, and I remembered several Mardi Gras nights where I had been one of the all-night boozers. After a short drive, I pulled into Stone & Porter’s deck and parked next to Scarlett’s SUV.

By the time I made it to the conference room, she was leaning against the table and running a hand through her hair. A flash of her in a similar position from earlier in the night flitted across my mind. I pushed the thought away before my toe got too excited and made a scene.

“Where’s the fire?” I shoved through the door and Carey jumped, turning quickly before settling back down and scrubbing a hand across his face.

Scarlett gave me her usual glare, and I took in her jeans and law school Tshirt. She filled both items of clothing out nicely.

“We have a problem.” Carey put his head down as Scarlett nodded in agreement.

“Which is?” I plopped down in a chair and stifled a yawn.

“I don’t think Greenwood was behind the hack.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “What?” If Greenwood didn’t do it, then my chances of a multimillion-dollar payday were getting grimmer by the moment.

“The information Fluffy sent me shows that Discord was hired to hack Rhone, but that some other third party ordered it, not Greenwood. But—” He tapped some keys on his laptop and swung it around so I could see the screen. “—Fluffy’s instructions were to make it look as if it had been Greenwood. And the pay was far better than your regular hack job.”

The screen showed a terse bullet list of objectives via email. The payday for Fluffy was $250,000 if he got the job done—in and out without a trace.

“So, what does all this mean? Other than the obvious problem that now I don’t have a good faith basis to sue Greenwood.” I glanced down to my fingers, imagining hundred-dollar bills slipping right through them.

“It means that there’s more to all of this than we thought.” Scarlett crossed her arms over her chest. “Whoever it was wanted the secrets and wanted to pin it on Greenwood. Has to be another competitor. But who?”

“Most likely candidates are Donovan, Inc., or the Bern brothers.” I tapped my fingers along the table. “I can’t think of anyone else who’d have the sort of money or interest to retain Discord to do their dirty work against Rhone. Greenwood is the number one defense contractor in the nation, with Rhone a close second, and it’s common knowledge that their CEO Elliot Rangel and Frank Rhone have a long-standing feud. It would be easy enough for a smaller player to set Greenwood up for the fall.”

Scarlett gaped at me. “You’ve been doing research?”

I leaned back in my chair and laced my fingers behind my head. “I didn’t become the best plaintiff’s attorney in town by letting the defense lawyers run the show.”

She gave me a “not bad” look and turned back to Carey. “Can you tell who retained Discord?”

He shook his head. “Not from this. But I can run a few more pieces of data to ground. See what I can find.”

“Won’t that be dangerous?” Scarlett pinned her thumbnail between her teeth and wrinkled her nose.

“Yeah, but given what happened to Fluffy, I get the feeling we were in dangerous territory the minute we got this assignment.” Carey pushed up his shirtsleeves, the dark ink wrapping around his forearms rippling as his fingers ran over the keys. “I’ve already set a chat window on each of your laptops.” He jerked his chin toward where they sat at the end of the conference table. “If you want to discuss the case, do it through those windows only. They’re secure. Your phones aren’t. Your Internet isn’t. Don’t trust anyone. If anything happens, call me. Not the police, not the firm. You never know who’s listening.”

“But I need to get in touch with Guy.”

“Go see him in the morning.” Carey closed his laptop and started packing up. “I wouldn’t call or give anything away over the phone. Only talk face-to-face. We don’t want to tip Discord that we’re looking into them. At least not tip them any more than we already have. There’s a reason Fluffy sent me this information. He had to have known this Rhone hack was hazardous to his health. I just need to figure out why.”

“Okay. I’ll play it your way.” Scarlett reached for her laptop.

I grabbed it and handed it to her, running my finger along hers as she took it. She glanced up at me and then quickly away.

The elevator ride was silent, Carey chewing on a fingernail as Scarlett and I leaned against the back wall.

“Remember what I said. I hope to get some more information as soon as possible. I hope it’s not as bad as it seems. But I’d rather be safe than sorry.” Carey dropped his gear into his car and got in. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Stay safe,” Scarlett called.

He waved and pulled out of the deck as I walked Scarlett to her car.

“I can come home with you, if it would make you feel safer.” I was, after all, a gentleman.

“I’m good. Thanks.” She dropped her bag and laptop into her backseat before getting in the driver’s seat and closing her door, effectively cutting off my efforts.

I leaned against my car, watching her put hers in reverse and back away. I got in and started the engine, not too concerned by her turning me down. I intended to taste her again, though I was troubled by how much space she was already taking up in my head. I thought it would be a one-and-done situation, like usual, but it wasn’t. Her only seemed to make me want her more.

She turned left as she exited the deck. I waited for a moment, watching her taillights as I turned my wheel to the right. Movement at the corner of my eye caught my attention. A black car eased out of the alley across the way, flipped on its headlights, and got behind Scarlett’s car. It didn’t have a tag.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I turned the wheel to the left. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe hanging around downtown in the dead of night wasn’t just for lawyers and hackers. But something seemed off.

I hit the gas but hung back, tailing the black car as it took every turn and made every move Scarlett did. After a while, I realized it wasn’t a coincidence. The black car was glued to Scarlett, following her down St. Charles and into the Garden District. She wove through some narrow lanes until turning onto Prytania Street and then making another sharp turn onto a wooded lane that led to a small cottage with a small front porch and understated Corinthian columns. She stopped in the drive.

The black car continued down the block. I followed it, checking my rear view to make sure Scarlett got inside her house. She closed the front door as I turned right. The black car had already made another right, circling the block. I eased along, keeping my distance while maintaining my view. The car pulled up to the curb in the narrow alley behind Scarlett’s house.

Its brake lights faded as a man stepped out and pulled a mask down over his face, Mardi Gras maudlin. I scrambled for my phone, succeeding in knocking it to the floorboard as the man disappeared through the fence and into Scarlett’s backyard. I didn’t have a gun or any sort of weapon, but I’d be darned if I was going to let this guy get anywhere near Scarlett.

I parked at the end of the alley and got out, not closing my door. I hurried to Scarlett’s house, walking through her neighbors’ grass to muffle my steps.

A light clicked on in her house and a shadow passed in front of a window. I eased through the fence and stepped over the walk and into the neatly mown grass. The man was ahead of me, standing in the yard and watching Scarlett through the window. She’d stripped her shirt off and was opening a dresser drawer.

“Easy.” The man whispered and laughed low. The moon flashed through between the clouds and glinted off the silver gun hanging at his side. The muzzle was elongated from a silencer.

I crept up behind him as he stood mesmerized, watching Scarlett unhook her bra and change into her pajamas. He didn’t hear me behind him, the mask likely dulling his sense. Violence grew inside me, pushing me forward to take the guy out for thinking he could look at her, much less harm her. I was almost to him when he moved to my left, heading for the back door.

Idiot. I shadowed him. Before he even put his foot on the bottom step, I lunged at him, wrapping my arms around his middle and pinning his arms to him. We fell, him beneath me, and he let out a startled yell as he slammed into the ground. I gripped the cold metal of the gun, ripping it from his grip as he fired a single round into the dirt with a light pop sound. He threw an elbow back, catching me above the right eye so hard, I saw stars for a moment.

He shoved me off and stood to run, but I wrapped my arms around his shins, sending him toppling to the ground again. Crawling on top of him, I pistol-whipped him across the side of the head and he stilled.

Scrambling off him, I got to my feet and pointed the gun at his chest. He shook his head, as if clearing cobwebs. I could see his eyes through the mask, but it was too dark to get any details.

“Hands up, jerk.” I waved at him with the gun.

He sat up, hands in the air.

“Who sent you?”

He gave no response, the multicolored mask leering at me.

“Discord?” I asked.

He cocked his head, but still said nothing.

The porch light flipped on and the back door opened. I turned my head to warn Scarlett to stay inside, but the man on the ground took advantage and threw himself at my legs, knocking me off balance. I fell on my rear but held on to the gun. He was on his feet and running through the fence before I could get a shot off.

Scarlett rushed out to me as he started the car and peeled off into the night. “Are you okay? Who was that? What—?” She knelt and looked at my right eyebrow. “You’re bleeding.”

“Get in the house.” I struggled to my feet and wrapped my arm around her waist, hustling her up the stairs and through the back door. “Lock it. Make sure everything’s locked.”

She glared at me. “What are you doing here and who was that and why are you bleeding?” Her voice rose with each question. “And why do you have a gun?”

I gripped her shoulder. “We aren’t safe. Check the locks and when you come back, I’ll tell you. Okay?”

She opened her mouth, no doubt to argue, but seemed to think better of it and closed it again. She flipped the dead bolt on the back door and pointed to her kitchen table. “Sit. I’ll check the locks, but then I need to get you cleaned up. And I want to know what is going on.” Turning, she walked from the kitchen toward the front of the house, and I noticed she wore only an oversized Tshirt and panties. Nice.

I flipped the safety on and lay the gun on the table before pressing a palm to my eyebrow. I hadn’t felt the pain from the hit, adrenaline dulling everything but my need to take the guy out, but now it hurt like a jerk and bled even worse.

Scarlett reappeared with a bottle of alcohol, some cotton balls, and some gauze. “Now, tell me what that was.” She sat next to me and grabbed my chin, pulling my face toward hers. “Move your hand.”

I did as instructed, and she wrinkled her nose as she perused the cut. “This is going to sting.” She doused a cotton ball in alcohol and dabbed it on the wound. “Now, talk.”

I growled and gritted my teeth.

“Big baby.” She wiped across the cut and dropped the bloodied cotton on the table.

“A man followed you home. I followed him. He watched you through your window.”

Her hand stilled and she stared at me. “Go on.”

“I think he was sent here to hurt you, maybe kill you.” I tapped the gun. “He came with this.”

The color drained from her face. “We should call the police.”

“Carey said not to do that.” I covered her hand with mine.

She looked over her shoulder, her eyes wide. “What if he comes back? Let’s just go to the police station.”

“Look, we can go to the police, give them a statement and a description, but where would that get us? I didn’t see his face. I have no clue who he is or who sent him. All we have is his gun, and I’d bet good money—” I picked it up and flipped it over, inspecting it. “—yeah, the serial number’s been filed off. We got nothing to go on. I’ve got a better idea.” I put the gun back down and ran my hand across her cheek. I never wanted her to be afraid. “We’ll go to my place, and I’ll call some old clients of mine.”

“What good will that do?” She leaned away from my hand and ripped open a package of gauze. Her hands shook and I took them both in mine.

“Scarlett. I’ll keep you safe. I promise. Okay?”

She met my gaze and nodded. “You already did. If you hadn’t followed him …” She trailed off and her eyes watered.

“Don’t think about that.” I squeezed her fingers. “Just fix up my ugly mug, pack up a few things, and we’ll head to my house. We’ll get it all sorted from there. But we need to let Carey know what’s going on. Do you have your laptop?”

She rose, pulling her hands from mine, and dug around in her bag on the counter. Her house was clean, with a small kitchen that had been updated with granite and stainless. She pulled out the laptop and sat back down.

I flipped it open and clicked on the chat window as she dabbed at my cut again. The sting was nothing short of a jerk, but I ignored it and typed in the black box.

Gorepheus, we got trouble. ∼K

I hit enter and the green letters morphed into unrecognizable symbols mixed with numbers and then disappeared.

Scarlett pressed some gauze to my forehead and taped it in place. “That’s the best I can do. There’s a good reason I went to law school instead of med school.”

“I’m sure it’ll do just fine.” I resisted the urge to touch it.

She leaned over to see the screen. “Did he answer?”

“Not yet. Go get your things.” I scooted my chair back so I could watch down the hall. “Stay where I can see you. I’ll wait for him to reply.”

She stood and headed toward her bedroom.

“Thanks, by the way.” I pointed at my eyebrow. “For this.”

“Anytime.” She gave me a small smile.

A line of text appeared in the black box, the symbols and numbers telling me nothing until they changed into actual words after a few seconds.

What happened? ∼ G

A man followed Scarlett home. He had a gun. I stopped him, but he got away. I’m going to take her somewhere safe. Are you okay? ∼ K

Don’t worry about me. I can stay hidden. Get to safety, and don’t contact anyone that you don’t trust implicitly. No police. I’ve gotten a few responses to my feelers, but I still haven’t heard the final word on who ordered the breach. The things I’ve heard so far are not comforting, to say the least. When I get confirmation, we’ll know who’s out to get us. ∼G

Good. I want those idiots on a pike. ∼K

That’s a Gorepheus specialty. We’ll get them. Stay safe. ∼G

You, too. ∼K

Chapter Eleven

SCARLETT

I sat in the car and waited as Kennedy knocked on the door of a shotgun-style house in the Tremé district. The door opened a crack, letting a sliver of light out into the night, before the door opened all the way and Kennedy slipped inside.

I glanced around, making sure no one was lurking. The street was quiet, and Kennedy assured me we hadn’t been tailed, but I wasn’t taking any more chances. At first, when I saw the tussle in my yard, I’d been confused. Once Kennedy explained it, I’d become scared. But by the time we stopped in Tremé for this little errand, I was livid.

After only a few moments, Kennedy returned to the car.

“What was that about?”

“Just arranging some extra security at the house.”

“How?”

He pulled into the street and headed north toward Lake Pontchartrain. “That house belongs to a longtime client of mine, Lou. I helped him with a slip and fall a long time ago when I was just starting out.”

“Slip and fall, huh? Color me shocked.”

He glanced at me and nodded. “Your sarcasm is duly noted. Anyway, after that, Lou started sending me more and more work—his relatives, friends, people who worked for him. They helped me get established.”

“So, he’s like the godfather of Tremé?”

He smiled. “That’s one way to put it. He’s on the up-an-up … Mostly. And he owes me more than a few favors.”

We drove alongside the City Park, skirting its edge.

“Do you think anyone else is in danger? My mother or maybe Graham or Guy?” I didn’t want to think any of them were in harm’s way, even though I still wasn’t sure why I’d been targeted.

“I think they’re fine. That guy was after you. I didn’t have a tail and neither did Carey. You’re the one I’m worried about.”

I took a deep, steadying breath. “Do you think he was going to kill me?”

He reached over and took my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. My mind told me to take my hand away, but I couldn’t. I needed reassurance, comfort, anything other than the gnawing sensation that I’d dodged a bullet.

“I don’t know. He certainly had the right equipment, but maybe there was more to it. He could have been there to send a message or …”

“Or kidnap me? Or, or worse?” I tightened my grip, anger overcoming my fear.

“But don’t worry about that now. He’s gone. If he comes back, it’ll be the last move he makes. Lou’s men are already on their way.” He turned down a street on the banks of the Pontchartrain and then down a short drive. We pulled up to a house as the sky began to lighten with the approaching dawn.

“This is me.”

His home was small, a one-story bungalow painted a light cream, with a widow’s walk along the top to see over the floodwall to the lake. A lone palm tree decorated the front yard, and the grass was trimmed and neat.

“Sorry it’s not quite what you’re used to, but my other place in the District isn’t so easily protected.” He got out and pulled my carry-on suitcase from his trunk as I grabbed my laptop bag.

A cool breeze floated past, making the fronds of the palm tree dance.

“You have a place in the Garden District?”

We walked to a side door that opened to his kitchen. The space was clean and neat, the dark granite counters and white cabinets a nice, modern touch.

“Among others.”

“So you own lots of properties?” I followed him through the kitchen and into the living room. A fluffy leather couch and a matching chair took up most of the room, and a flat-screen TV was mounted on the wall.

“I have a few. Plaintiff’s work pays sometimes.”

He flipped the hall light on and led me through, showing me the bathroom, two bedrooms, and the master suite.

“You can sleep in here and I’ll take one of the guest rooms.” He picked up my suitcase and plopped it on the navy blue duvet.

“That’s okay. It’s your house. I don’t want to impose too much.” I glanced to the en suite bathroom that had a claw-foot soaking tub. A bath would have felt more than nice.

He followed my gaze. “It’s fine. Maria cleans every Thursday and I haven’t been here in a week or so, so everything should be tidy for you. But”—he stepped toward me—“if you want me to stay in here with you, of course I ca—”

“The master suite is fine. Thank you. I’ll take it.” I walked past him and opened my suitcase, turning my back to him so he wouldn’t see my smile.

“I’m just saying if you still feel, you know, vulnerable and stuff, then I—”

The doorbell rang, and he swore under his breath before retreating down the hall. I put some of my things in the bathroom as voices and laughter erupted from the living room.

I sneaked down the hall to investigate. Peeking around the corner, I saw three men talking to Kennedy.

One looked up and noticed me. “And who’s this?”

I stepped into the living room and walked around the couch to where the men were congregating in the entryway. “Scarlett Carmichael. You are?”

The one who’d seen me offered his hand, and we shook. “Clinton Redman, and these here are my cousins Clarence and Shorty.”

All three were tall, though Shorty was the tallest, with dark hair and eyes. None of them could have been older than thirty. Clarence smiled warmly and shook my hand. Shorty gave a shy glance to the floor instead of meeting my eyes and clasped my hand gently.

“Nice to meet all of you.”

“Yes, ma’am. Our pleasure.” Clinton patted the pistol at his side. “I heard you had some trouble?”

“A man. He came to my house.” A chill ran down my spine, the fear trying to take root again.

“My man K over here told us. Sorry to hear about all that. You okay?”

“I’m fine. Thanks. Kennedy saved the day.” The moment I said the words, I wished I could take them back, because I could swear Kennedy’s chest puffed out farther and his smile broadened into a self-satisfied grin. He edged toward me, his elbow touching mine. Like we were together.

“Anyway, I’m glad you’re here.”

“We like to help people that help us. K’s done a lot for my family, so if I can do something for him, I’m all for it.”

Kennedy handed the gun he’d taken to Clinton. “The guy left this behind.”

Clinton turned the weapon over in his hands and inspected the silencer. “This looks professional. Someone paid this guy a lot of money to come and visit you. Mind if I keep this?”

“Sure. I’ve got a .45 in my safe.”

“Best if you go ahead and get it out. I don’t know what you’re into, but it’s looking pretty heavy.” He turned to his cousins. “Shorty, I want you with them at all times. Clarence, you’ll be with me.” He took my hand again. “You won’t see me or Clarence, but we’ll be around. Trust me. Anyone tries to make a move on you, we’ll take him out. You’re safe.”

I nodded, the warmth in his tone and eyes reassuring me. “Thank you.”

He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Watch out for Kennedy, though. He’s a handsy jerk.”

Clinton shared my laugh as Kennedy raised his eyebrows at me in question. I shook my head.

“All right. Shorty, you know what to do.” Clinton opened the front door and Clarence followed him out into the growing daylight.

“Make yourself at home, Shorty.” Kennedy waved to the couch. “Have a seat. There’s food and drinks in the kitchen. Bedrooms are down the hall.”

Shorty leaned against the wall next to the door and hooked a finger in the curtain so he could survey the yard. “Thanks. You all plan on going anywhere today?”

I said yes as Kennedy said no.

“We should stay here,” Kennedy cautioned.

“No. I need to speak with Guy. We have to tell him what’s going on. He might be in danger, too. He needs to know.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.” He scratched the dark scruff along his cheek. I imagined, for a brief moment, what it would feel like against my skin.

“I don’t remember consulting you for advice on the subject. Shorty, let’s leave at eleven or so. I’m going to try to get a nap.”

“No problem.” He didn’t move from his spot at the door.

I sidestepped Kennedy and returned to the master bedroom.

He followed. “I’m just trying to keep you safe, Scarlett.”

“I’m safe. We have Shorty.” I pointed in the direction of the living room.

“I’m coming, too.” He stepped closer, the room becoming smaller with each move he made.

“I figured as much.”

He placed a hand on my hip. “I can stay in here. I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to. But I want to know you’re safe.”

I sighed, wanting his touch but knowing I shouldn’t. “No one is getting past Shorty, and we need to rest. Did you sleep at all last night?”

His breath tickled my ear. “No. I almost fell asleep, but I couldn’t stop thinking of you.” He placed his other hand on my waist and pulled me into him. Wrapping his arms around me, he just held me.

I didn’t realize how much I needed it until he did it. The fear and adrenaline of the attack had drained me, and with his comforting arms and warmth, I let my eyes close and rested my head against his shoulder.

“Let me stay. Please. I’ll be good.”

I snorted. “Have you ever been good?”

He swayed me back and forth a little, as if dancing me to sleep. “No. But for you, I’ll make an exception.”

“I think your toe poking into my stomach says different.” I shook my head, but didn’t open my eyes. His lullaby was working.

“Oh, that’s just a banana in my pocket. Don’t worry. I’ll let you snack on it later if you get hungry. Come on.” He scooped me up and lay me on the bed.

He set my suitcase on top of his dresser and closed the bedroom door. “Take your pants off.”

I opened my eyes, trying to glare at him though my eyelids were almost too tired to cooperate. “You said—”

“I know what I said. Take your pants off so you’re comfortable. I noticed you’re a Tshirt and panties kind of gal.” He smirked and pulled his shirt over his head before loosening his belt and stripping down to his boxers. “I like it.”

“I’m trusting you.” I stared at the rod in his shorts, color rising in my cheeks, and stripped off my jeans. I snuggled into his sheets as he got in bed next to me. “No touching.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He put his hands behind his head.

I flipped onto my side so I faced him. The sheets smelled like detergent and his aftershave, and I found myself inhaling and burying my face closer to the pillow.

“See you in a few hours.” He smiled, the boyish dimples making him seem as innocent as he claimed to be. How many women had fallen for it?

I supposed I was one of them. Another Kennedy conquest. I was too tired to care. I closed my eyes and drifted off.

A low rumble woke me. My eyelids fluttered open and I froze. I’d snugged up against Kennedy in my sleep. The low rumble was his quiet snore. I tried not to laugh, but I sort of chuffed out my nose.

He woke a little and pulled me closer, his palm pressing into my back. I’d slung my leg over the top of his thigh and I was trapped against his side. His breathing evened out again—no snoring this time—and he relaxed.

I started to ease away from him, carefully lifting my leg and scooting it on top of my other one. He tensed again and rolled to his side, pulling me into his chest and pushing his thigh between my legs.

“You’re awake,” I whispered.

He didn’t respond and began breathing deeply again.

It was like being hugged by a well-muscled, delicious-smelling bear with a hard-on. My panties were damp and I bit my lip at the thought of how easily he’d slide into me. I had to get away from him before I made a mistake. Glancing to his windows, I saw slivers of midday sun pouring through. It was time to get going.

“Kennedy.” My voice was too breathy for my tastes.

He moved his thigh up higher between mine, pressing into my pussy. I stifled a moan at the friction and the thick length of his toe against my leg.

“Kennedy, wake up. We have to go.” I dug my nails into his side for emphasis.

He gripped my hair with one hand and palmed my rear with the other.

“Scarlett.” His lips found mine, taking my breath away in a possessive kiss. I clawed harder into his side, but opened my mouth for him. He sank his tongue inside me and ground his cock against me.

I moaned, unable to keep my desire in check as he pressed his thigh into my pussy, rubbing it with each thrust of his hips. Need overtook any thought I’d had, any reasoning that would have led me from his bed. He squeezed my rear, and I captured his bottom lip between my teeth, biting down.

His eyes fluttered open and he froze. “Oh, shoot.”

I let my head fall to the pillow. “You really were asleep?”

He blinked and stared at me. “I was having the best wet dream of my life.”

“Sorry to interrupt. Go on back to sleep. Maybe you can find it again.” I couldn’t keep the smile from my face.

“Oh no. The real-life version is much, much better.” He leaned in and kissed me again, gentler this time but still with the same heat that made me combust.

He let go of my hair and palmed my breast through my Tshirt, kneading and squeezing as he moved on top, still straddling one thigh. His cock rested full and hard against me through his boxers. I wanted to taste it, but when I tried to push him off me, he grabbed my wrists and pinned them over my head in one hand.

He bit my throat and trailed his teeth down to the Vneck of my Tshirt, kissing my collarbones as he went. Sliding his hand under my shirt, he gripped a nipple between his thumb and forefinger, twisting it as he kissed my chest.

I squirmed against him, but his leg against my pussy only made my mind grow fuzzier.

“Kennedy.” I moaned as he licked back up my neck, his fingers still at play on my breast.

He moved his other leg between mine, the head of his cock sliding against the wet fabric of my panties.

“So wet.” He eased his hand down my body, sending goose bumps radiating out along my flesh, until he got to my pussy. Pushing my panties aside, he teased my clit as I writhed and moaned beneath him.

“Y-you said you wouldn’t touch me, remember?” I had to throw something out there. “It was like a contract.”

“It wasn’t a contract, only an offer. One that was rejected the moment I woke up to you biting my lip.” He swirled his fingers lower and pushed them inside me.

“Mmmm. Are you saying I made a counteroffer?”

“Yes. One that I’ve accepted via performance.”

I gasped when he thumbed my clit. “So, you paid attention in law school after all.”

He grinned and squeezed my wrists. “Let’s not get too carried away.”

I leaned up and kissed him, licking across his lips. He followed me back down to the pillow, slanting his mouth over mine and continuing to stroke me as I rocked my hips against his hand.

A knock on the door sounded like a series of three gunshots. “Ms. Carmichael, it’s almost eleven thirty. You said you wanted to leave right around now.”

His words brought reality crashing back down. We were in danger, and I needed to speak to Guy about all of it.

“Idiot.” Kennedy sighed. “We’ll be right out.”

“All right.” Shorty’s steps faded down the hallway.

“You backing out on the contract we just made?” He kissed my neck, his fingers still working my clit.

I wanted to keep going, but we had responsibilities. “Yes.”

He released my wrists and dropped a kiss on my lips. “But you’ve only partially performed. You’ll be in breach.”

I arched an eyebrow. “You want me to promise future performance?”

“That’s the only way to avoid a breach and thousands—” He rolled off me, scanned down my body and then back to my eyes. “—more like millions in damages I’m sustaining for not getting inside you right now.”

I giggled. Like an idiot. “I don’t know if I can promise future performance when you act like such a toe all the time.”

He put a hand over his heart, as if I’d wounded him there. “Me? Acting like a toe. Never.” Then he licked his fingers—the two he’d had inside me.

A thrill went through me as he kept his gaze on mine. “You are a filthy man, Mr. Granade.”

“And you are a delicious woman, Ms. Carmichael. So, do you promise future performance or would you prefer to be in breach?”

“I’ve never broken a contract in my life, so I’m not starting now. But the terms of my future performance are entirely up to me.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

“The terms have always been up to you, Scarlett.” He kissed the tip of my nose. “Didn’t you know that?”

Chapter Twelve

KENNEDY

“Guy lives on Audubon Place, really?”

“He comes from money. His wife comes from money. He makes tons of money at the firm. What did you expect?” Scarlett shrugged, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders.

“Something nice, but not Audubon Place nice.” I maneuvered through the city streets, crowds of people clogging the street corners and beads crunching under my tires.

The parades were in full swing the Sunday before Mardi Gras. I avoided the parade route and skirted along the edge of City Park.

“So, tell me about you. You’re from here, right? The Carmichaels?”

“Yes,” she answered curtly.

Of course, that told me it was time to push her. “You have a good relationship with your parents?”

She huffed out her nose and pinched her lips together. “My father’s dead. My mother and I are on good terms.”

I narrowly avoided running over a staggering drunk wearing an enormous hat shaped like a MoonPie.

“Jeez.” Scarlett gripped the dash as I swerved back into our lane. “The tourists get worse every year.”

“Spoken like a true native.”

“All my life.” Her tone was resolute.

“So, you have any hobbies? Stuff you like to do?”

She tapped her nails on her thigh. “I work. I go home. I work some more. I love my job. That’s it.”

I tried a different tack. “What’s your favorite movie?”

“It’s hard to pick one.” Her evasive answers were starting to chafe. Why didn’t she want to tell me anything about herself?

“Come on, you have to have at least one.”

“Clue.”

Good pick. “Oh, that’s perfect. A classic. Which ending do you like best?”

“You’ve seen it?” She cocked her head at me.

“Yeah, I always had a thing for Madeline Kahn. She played—”

“Mrs. White. I know. I imagine her ‘flames on the side of my face’ speech when I get irate at work.”

I smiled. “Goodness, I love that part. I read that she ad-libbed that whole scene.”

“Really?” She smiled, too. “She’s even more amazing than I thought.”

“Good taste in movies, check. Any particular music tastes I should know about?”

Her laughter stopped, and she bit down on her thumbnail—her nervous tell. “Look, I don’t know if we should keep going down this road.”

“I’m pretty sure this is the best way to get to Audubon Place …” I glanced to her, hoping she’d laugh again.

“You know what I meant.” She gestured at me and then back to herself. “This thing that we’ve been doing. It’s not … I don’t know if it’s a long-term sort of thing.”

My mind couldn’t parse what she’d just said. I’d never been dumped, never stuck around long enough for any woman to give me the boot. Was that what this was? Was the sinking feeling in my chest evidence of being dumped? Surely not.

She turned away from me, breaking the connection as I tried to form a coherent sentence. I failed, and we settled into an awkward silence before pulling under the wrought iron arch that marked the entrance to Audubon Place.

The guard walked up, but before I rolled down my window, I said, “This conversation isn’t over.”

Her eyes went wide, no doubt from the heat in my words.

I lowered my window and greeted the guard.

“Who are you visiting today?” He smiled and leaned over, sweeping his gaze over the inside of my car.

“Mr. Porter. I should be on the approved list. Scarlett Carmichael.”

“And, sir, you are?” He flicked his gaze to me.

“Oh, he’s just my driver. I can’t ride in the backseat. I get carsick.” She smiled and crossed her legs at the knee, her skirt riding up to show the creamy skin of her thigh.

The guard stared, just like I did. “Yes, ma’am. Let me just check the list.”

“Thanks.”

“Your driver, huh?” I grumbled under my breath.

“Shh. You wanted to come with me. This is the way to do it.”

I stared through the gate at mansion after mansion dotting the lane.

“Mr. Porter lives there.” Scarlett pointed to one of the houses—a white, three-story affair with too many columns to count along the front. “And Mr. Rhone is his neighbor on the other side.”

The guard flipped through some pages on a clipboard and then walked to the gate, swinging it open for us. We eased down the street, passing mansions left and right.

I checked my rear view. Shorty drove past the gate and stopped, keeping a clear view of our car as we turned into Guy Porter’s drive. He’d been following us like a shadow since we left the house.

“How do you know he’s home?” I peered at the house through the columns. It was an antebellum masterpiece—beautiful, stuffy, and outrageously expensive.

“He’s Catholic. So he won’t be at church and he will be drinking a mimosa or a bloody mary for brunch.”

“Good point.” We stepped out of the car, the sun breaking through the scattered clouds at intervals. The walk was surrounded by tall oaks, tangled and covered in Spanish moss.

Scarlett took the few steps to the front porch, marched to the door, and rang the bell. I checked my clothes, feeling out of place in such a grand entryway. My blue button-down was clean and my jeans seemed neat enough. I’d worn a regular pair of brown oxfords.

“You look fine. Don’t be a girl.” She didn’t even turn around.

“How did you—?”

The door opened and an older man in a white uniform smiled at Scarlett. “Ms. Carmichael. We weren’t expecting you.”

“Sorry about this. But I need to see Guy as soon as possible. Is he home?”

“Yes, ma’am. He’s in the breakfast room but he has company. Come on in and have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

“Thanks, Gene.” Scarlett stepped inside and I followed, nodding a greeting to Gene.

The house was beyond my wildest dreams of opulence, giving even Lynch Lane a run for its money. The floors were a light honey oak, highly polished, and the walls were covered in hand-painted vines and flowers. Gene led us to a sitting room and hurried back out into the hallway.

I sat on a couch that creaked under my weight. Scarlett sank down into a side chair, though she tapped her impatience with her heel. A large clock graced the wall above the ornate wooden mantel, and its ticktock sound clashed with Scarlett’s rhythm.

“Relax.” I leaned back into the Victorian couch, which creaked louder.

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

Oh. So that was why I was getting the cold shoulder. My history had caught up with me. All those women, all those wasted nights. But Scarlett was different. I just wasn’t sure how to tell her that without turning into a stage-five clinger.

Footsteps approached and Gene rounded the corner into the sitting room. “He’ll see you now. Right this way. If you haven’t breakfasted yet, please let me know how you’d like your eggs.”

I stood. “Over easy.”

“No, we don’t want to impose.” Scarlett narrowed her eyes at me.

“Please, it would be my pleasure. Just say the word.”

She strode over to Gene. “If you must, I’ll have over easy, too.”

He smiled, his dark brown eyes twinkling. “I’ll have the kitchen whip it right up.”

“Thanks.”

We followed him past a wide, sweeping staircase, down a hallway filled with paintings and vases on pedestals, and finally into a sunroom. Guy Porter, Frank Rhone, and Rhone’s employee Eric sat a wrought iron and glass table, drinking coffee and chatting.

“Scarlett.” Frank rose and shook her hand and mine.

Eric pulled out her chair and gave her a too-friendly smile. My hackles rose, especially when she returned his smile and sat with a thank-you.

Guy motioned me to an empty chair next to Eric. “Have a seat. What’s going on?”

I sat, elbowing Eric on “accident” as I got situated. “Frankly, I’m glad you’re here, Frank.” I paused at my awkward choice of phrase. Scarlett pinched the bridge of her nose.

I continued, “I suspect what we have to tell Guy is somehow linked to the Rhone break-in.”

Frank sipped his steaming coffee. “You track down Greenwood?”

“No, but someone tracked Scarlett down.”

“What do you mean?” Guy leaned forward and placed his coffee cup on its saucer. His thinning hair looked almost white in comparison to his too-tan, almost orange skin. He needed to lay off the Saint-Tropez trips.

“I mean someone followed her home last night. He had a gun.”

“What?” Guy’s face went from Oompa-Loompa orange to a lighter shade, and he seemed too stunned to respond.

“Goodness. Were you hurt? Have you called the police?” Eric reached across the table and grabbed Scarlett’s hand.

My fingers itched to grip his shirt, yank him up, and toss him through the glass of the sunroom. Maybe I could snap his Clark Kent glasses first, just to get his attention, and then do the rest of the violence. Instead, I did nothing, just steamed in silence.

Scarlett shook her head and pulled her hand away. Good girl. “No. Kennedy stopped him, but he got away, and he wore a mask the whole time. We couldn’t see his face. We think he was some sort of professional.”

“Like a hit man? Goodness, Scarlett. I’m glad you weren’t hurt. But we need to call the police.” Frank pulled his cell phone from his pocket.

“No.” Scarlett covered his hand with hers, stopping him from making the call. “We can’t. It won’t do any good. We think that Discord—”

She quieted as Gene, followed by two other servants in whites, walked in and placed plates of eggs in front of us. They laid out additional serving dishes of bacon, sausage, biscuits, English muffins, gravy, and grits. The smell alone put me in a happier place than I was only moments before.

Gene poured two glasses of orange juice as another servant poured coffees. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No, this is plenty.” Scarlett nodded her head in thanks.

I grabbed my napkin and dropped it in my lap. Meals like this were few and far between in my world, so I wasn’t about to pass up home cooking when it landed right on my plate, literally.

“I’m glad you’re all right. That’s the most important thing. But why do you think this masked criminal has something to do with the case?” Frank asked.

“And what did you mean by ‘Discord’?” Eric chimed in.

I forked a biscuit and scooped some grits next to it, digging in as Scarlett continued explaining.

“We think Discord—the hacker group—was the operator who pulled off the breach. One of their hackers, Fluffy, knew Carey and sent him a drive with all sorts of information on it about the Rhone break-in. Fluffy was in with Discord.”

Guy held up a hand and spoke slowly. “Now, wait, wait a minute. So Carey knew a Fluffy, who is in with Discord?”

Scarlett nodded and took a swig of orange juice. “Right. But Fluffy turned up dead a few days ago under suspicious circumstances. Before he died, he sent Carey a drive with information on the Rhone breach. So we suspect whoever killed him had something to do with Discord or the break-in.”

Frank slammed his hand on the table, the plates and silverware rattling. “Greenwood has gone too far this time! Killing people. Threatening Scarlett. I will have their heads for this.”

“Hang on a sec there.” I swallowed a particularly tasty piece of bacon. “Carey is under the impression, based on the information from Fluffy, that Greenwood isn’t the culprit behind the break-in.”

Eric shook his head and used his index finger to push the bridge piece of his glasses farther up his nose, straightening them in the most Poindexter way imaginable. “It has to be them. They’re the only ones capable of all this. They’re the ones with the most to gain from stealing our secrets.”

“Maybe.” Scarlett finally placed her napkin in her lap and began serving herself grits and an English muffin. “But Fluffy’s notes indicated that whoever paid for the breach asked for Discord to make it look like Greenwood was behind it.”

“It’s Greenwood. They’ve done something to try to cover their tracks. Maybe even planted that bit about someone trying to set them up. They’re just that desperate to get what we have.” Frank sighed and slumped back into his chair. “What a mess this is.”

“We’ll get to the bottom of it one way or another.” Scarlett’s confident tone perked me up a bit, and I got my second wind on the breakfast, piling up some pancakes and slathering them with butter and syrup.

“In the meantime, perhaps you should stay here, Scarlett.” Guy finally jumped into the conversation. “The gate’s always guarded, and we have plenty of room. It might be safer.”

“She’s with me,” I said around a mouthful of food. I swallowed, the amount of pancake trying to choke me as it went down, but I managed it. “I’ve arranged some security. Don’t worry.”

“What kind of security?” Guy focused his flint gray eyes on me. “If anything happens to Scarlett—”

“Nothing will happen to her. I can assure you my guys are far better equipped to handle the situation than your rent-a-cop at the front gate.” I would have made a jack-off motion if I weren’t so invested in stuffing myself.

“Scarlett, if you don’t feel safe with him, you should stay here.” The concern in Eric’s voice made me want to vomit up every delicious morsel I’d just inhaled.

“She feels plenty safe, Eric.” I glared at him but he didn’t turn to look at me. Pussy.

“I’m speaking to Scarlett.”

“Yeah, well, I’m speaking to you, Eric.”

“I’m fine. Everyone stop worrying about me. But, Mr. Porter, will you check on Graham for me? I want to make sure he’s safe.”

“Of course.” Guy sipped his coffee, a thoughtful look on his wrinkled face. “I feel like I should call Ramona—”

“No!” Scarlett spoke with a vehemence I’d never heard before. “You may not call my mother.”

“If she finds out from somewhere other than me …” Guy shook his head, his eyes widening. “That woman would have my head. You know that.”

“I don’t care. Don’t you dare call her.” Scarlett waved her butter knife at Guy for emphasis. “Besides, Carey said our phones are probably tapped. If you called her and told her, you might be putting her in harm’s way.”

“Well, how are we going to solve this?” Guy folded his hands in his lap, defeated.

“Carey has put out some feelers to discover who hired Discord. Once we have that information, we have the start of our case. We can file, go to the feds, go to the police—everything.”

“Who does Carey think it is?” Frank asked.

“He doesn’t know yet,” I replied. “As soon as he does, we’ll let you know.”

“Is he okay?” Guy waved Gene out of the sunroom, not letting him clear the table just yet. “Hidden somewhere?”

“Yes.” Scarlett finished her breakfast and pushed her plate away. “He said he’s good at lying low, and given his past, I believe him.”

I stood and patted my stomach. “I think we’re set. You know what you need to know. We’re going to hunker down and ride out the storm. Carey is key, though. He’ll get the information and then we’ll use it to bring them down, whoever they are.”

“I still just can’t believe it isn’t Greenwood.” Frank shrugged and stood as well.

“The sooner he finds out, the better. But you leaving here doesn’t sit right with me, Scarlett.” Guy frowned, the creases next to his mouth reminiscent of a bulldog.

“Me neither.” Eric walked around the table and helped Scarlett up.

I barely stifled an eye roll. “She’s not sick, Eric. She can stand by herself.”

“Just because you weren’t raised to be a gentleman, doesn’t mean I wasn’t,” he snapped.

I tossed my napkin down. “I do believe my mama, God rest her soul, would slap the trash out of you for suggesting she didn’t raise me right.”

“Boys.” Frank held his hands up, palm out. “This is neither the time nor the place. All I want to make sure of is that we’re all safe.”

Scarlett grabbed her bag. “Lie low, don’t talk on the phone, and wait to hear from us. We’ll get in touch somehow once we figure out what’s going on. And—” She stabbed a finger toward Guy. “—do not call my mother.”

Generally, mommy issues weren’t half so hot as daddy issues, but the way Scarlett got all riled up whenever her mother was mentioned would definitely provide me with some ammunition for later.

“I won’t.” He scratched his neck, as if he could feel the noose tightening. “But she’s going to raise trouble when this is all over.”

“I’ll deal with it then. Kennedy, let’s go.” She all but stomped from the room, tendrils of her hair whipping behind her as she went.

Eric tried to follow her like a puppy, but I stepped in front of him, getting the choice view of her rear in her tight skirt. The winter months looked good on her.

“Scarlett? A word?” Eric called.

“Douche bag,” I said over my shoulder.

“Wh-what?” Eric’s voice cracked.

“You asked for a word. I gave you one.”

Scarlett stopped and turned on her heel. “Kennedy, would you mind waiting for me in the car?” The thin line of her lips coupled with irritated squint of her eyes brooked no argument.

So, naturally, I argued. “Why? So you can talk to pixel toe?” I chuckled, amused at my own joke.

Scarlett scowled, though her plump lips formed more of a pout that I wanted to kiss until she was breathless. “Go.”

“Fine, I’ll be waiting for you. In the car. Where we will ride together. Alone. Back to my house. Where you will stay. With me. All day and night.” I spoke extra loud and brushed past her shoulder.

“You are the worst,” she said under her breath as I walked by.

I swung my hand back and smacked her rear for good measure. Her squeak of surprise brought a smile to my face as I strode out the front door and into the sun. She was all mine. She just didn’t know it yet.

Chapter Thirteen

SCARLETT

Slamming Kennedy’s car door gave me a twinge of satisfaction.

He winced. “Hey, watch it! I spent an entire settlement check on this bad boy.”

“You are such a toe.”

“What did I do?” He backed out of the driveway, slinging his arm across the back of my seat and leaning into my space to peer behind the car.

“You have a backup camera.”

“Can’t trust that.” He smirked, leaning closer to me as he eased into the street.

“Knock it off.” I crossed my arms over my chest and stared out the window, trying my best to ignore him.

“What?” We cruised out of Audubon Place and back onto the bumpy side roads.

“You know what! You can’t treat me like that in front of a client. Now Eric’s going to think that we’re, that, that we’re …” I waved my hands around as if that were an adequate stand-in for the word I refused to say.

“What, that we’re together?” Kennedy had no problem spitting out the word.

“Yes! That we’re together.”

“But we are together. For the foreseeable future anyway.”

“You’re never together with any woman. What happened before, this morning and at the office—that was temporary insanity or something. Stress. I don’t know.”

“Come on, Scarlett. You know it’s more than that.”

“I know I’m just another notch on your bedpost.” I tried to disregard how my eyes stung when I said the words. But the way he’d treated me in front of Eric—acting as if I were a plaything to be batted about and gloated over. Dang it. I fought the tears back and calmed my breathing.

“Scarlett—”

“Just don’t. Your reputation has preceded you.”

Kennedy braked and swerved to the curb so fast, I gripped my seat belt and clenched my eyes shut.

When we stopped, I turned to him. “What the heck—”

He put his palms on my cheeks and pressed his lips to mine. I tried to lean away, but he kept me still, tilting my head to get every ounce of contact between our mouths. His insistent kiss coupled with the gentleness in his hands melted me and before I knew I’d done it, I parted my lips.

His tongue swept inside, caressing mine as he slid one hand into my hair. I moaned when he trailed his fingertips down my neck, his touch raising goose bumps along my skin.

He broke the kiss, but pinned me with his gaze. “Did that feel like a kiss I’d give to just another notch?”

I shook my head, the butterflies in my chest stealing any speech from me.

“There’s something about you. About how you make me feel when I’m with you.” He put his hand at my nape, pulling me closer as he ghosted his lips across mine. “I’ve never met a woman like you.”

I tried to catch my breath. “So you didn’t hate me the first day we met?”

“Well, yeah, I did.”

I tried to pull away but he didn’t let up. Would he ever let up?

“I did. I thought you were a stuck-up jerk from Stone and Porter who thought she could push me around. I didn’t like it.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Sounds about right.”

“No, it isn’t.” His eyes were earnest, seeking. “You’re so much more than that. And you were right to doubt me, to challenge me, especially after how I treated you that first day. Now, though, I just need … I need you to give me a chance, okay? Can you do that?”

Could I? Kennedy wasn’t the sort of man I was expected to date. I knew nothing of his family other than who his brothers were, and his reputation was just as bad as or worse than I’d implied. Mother would have an even bigger fit. That last thought warmed me more than it should have.

“I think I saw a little smile there.” He kissed me lightly and let me go. “I’ll take that as a yes for now. Don’t say anything else. No takesies backsies.”

Looking past him, I saw Shorty give me an embarrassed wave. Color crept into my cheeks. I’d completely forgotten he was following us.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure he just took some mental pictures for the spank bank. Nothing serious.”

I snorted and covered my face with my hands. “You really are the worst.”

“Oh, you love it.” He pulled into the lane.

We made our way back to his house in a comfortable silence. The afternoon sun was warm, and the weather was supposed to hold for Mardi Gras. Not that I’d go to the parades. Natives—and especially the Carmichaels—wouldn’t be caught dead reaching out for beads or MoonPies.

Shorty followed us home, but parked around the corner and out of sight before coming through the back door.

I kicked my shoes off and arranged them neatly next to the front door. “I think I’m going to take a bath, if you don’t mind.”

“Sounds great. I’ll scrub your back.” Kennedy flipped his shoes off and left them where they fell.

“I want to relax.”

“I’m good at that. Getting you relaxed.” He hugged me from behind and nipped at my ear. “Please?”

I wanted to say yes, but I needed some time alone to think. Maybe there was some clue I was missing, something to tell me what was going on with the case. And if I were being honest, I wanted to think about him, about what our relationship was. “Next time.”

“Cock block.” He nipped my ear harder and then patted my rear, shooing me down the hall toward the bedroom. “Can I at least peep at you a little bit? Wait, scratch that. Pretend I didn’t say it. It’ll make it more exciting for me if you don’t know I’m there.”

Shorty chuckled from the kitchen. A thunk came from the guest bedroom to the right, and I froze.

“Kennedy,” I whispered, and began backpedaling toward the living room.

“What?” He sidestepped me when I bumped into him, putting his arm out in a protective motion.

“I heard something. In the bedroom.”

“Oh.” He relaxed. “Faye? That you?”

“Yeah, just trying to make sense of the drawers in here.” She chuckled. “I can tell you did some organizing since I was last here.”

He charged down the hall. “Don’t you touch the Autobots. If you take them out of the packaging, they lose their value.”

Kennedy collected toys? I lost it, laughing and following him into the guest room. “Hi, Faye.”

“Scarlett.” She walked over and hugged me, her gray hair scented with lavender and vanilla. “I hope Kennedy’s been behaving over at your firm. Though, I’ll be honest, it’s been like heaven not having to deal with him the past few days.”

“I can imagine. And don’t worry, I’ve been keeping him in line.”

Kennedy ran his fingers along the action figure boxes neatly arranged in the top drawer of the dresser, whispering outlandish names as he went.

Faye released me and shook her head. “I didn’t touch them. Get your panties out of a wad. I didn’t even want to be here, but Clarence said something about danger and contract killers and cyberterrorists, oh my.”

“It’s not a joke, Faye.” Kennedy tried on his adult tone.

“I didn’t say it was a joke. I just said we aren’t in Kansas anymore.”

Kennedy closed the top drawer, apparently satisfied that his Transformers were intact.

Faye pulled a bright floral muumuu from her suitcase and draped it across the bed.

“What is that?” Kennedy pointed. “A parachute?”

“If I have to stay here, I’m going to be comfortable. I don’t want to hear any lip from you about it. Dragging me over here when my shows are on. How come your brothers just got a warning and I got full-on kidnapped? How is that fair? A load of bull, that’s what this is.” She continued grumbling as I backed out of her room and Kennedy followed.

“I like her.” I smiled up at him.

“I like you, too, sugar,” she called.

Kennedy rolled his shoulders. “Great. It’s a lovefest.”

“Nobody said they liked you.” Faye closed the door for emphasis.

He puts his hands on his hips and hung his head. “She’s only been here for five minutes and I want to strangle her. Come on, Carey. Sooner rather than later. Don’t fail me now.”

“You aren’t fooling me. I know you love her.”

He peeked from beneath his lashes. “Maybe. But not enough to have to deal with her parachute fashion.”

“I’m sure it will look lovely on her.”

Fast as a boob flash on Bourbon Street, he reached out and pulled me to him. “I’d look lovely on you right now.”

“Kennedy,” I scolded, and pushed against him, but I didn’t try too hard. I was getting used to the feel of him, the way his skin brushed against mine with a singular jolt of heat.

“How about that joint bath we were talking about? Me and you, scrub-a-dub-dubbing?” He ran his hand down to my rear.

“You were talking about it. I was saying no and that I wanted to take my bath alone.” I reached back and gripped his wrist before yanking his hand north to my waist.

“I know.” He lowered his lids, desire written on his face. “But I’m generally pretty persuasive. All those courtroom victories. Countless jury verdicts. So many favorable mediations and arbitrations.” He leaned in closer as he talked.

“Convincing a jury of twelve with what averages out to an eighth-grade education is markedly different from convincing another lawyer, Counselor.” I let go of his wrist, and he slid it back south.

“I don’t know about that. I find that one on one, I tend to be even more persuasive.” He kneaded my rear and pressed into me until I had to grip his shoulders for balance. My thighs warmed and my heart kicked into a faster rhythm. “Here.” He lifted me and carried me to the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind us. “Let me show you.”

“No.” I groaned and shot a look at the tub as he tossed me down onto the bed.

“Don’t worry.” He smiled and dropped to his knees. “I’ll be quick and then you can bathe to your heart’s content.”

I pushed up into a sitting position, but he’d already slid his hands up my thighs and grabbed my panties, pulling them down my legs and tossing them aside.

“Kennedy …”

He ignored me and spread my legs, his palms firm and insistent against my inner thighs. The scrape of his five o’clock shadow across my skin was like the very first taste of chocolate—heady and almost too much.

He fastened his mouth on my pussy without warning. I jerked and squirmed, gripping his hair to try to slow him down.

“Kennedy!”

“Shh, do you want Faye to hear?” He grinned up at me. “Kinky, Ms. Carmichael.” He dived back onto my wet flesh, his face buried between my thighs.

“Oh!” I pulled his hair.

“Too loud.” He breathed across my clit and tsked before leaning over and snatching my panties from the floor. “Open your mouth.”

My eyes widened as he wadded the pink fabric of my panties into a ball.

“No, not a chance.” I clamped my lips shut.

He leaned over me, putting his palm to my chest and pushing me down into the bed. Gripping my hair with one hand, he attacked my neck with his mouth, his teeth grazing my jugular as he sucked and licked. He’d already memorized the spot that turned me into nothing more than a trembling ball of need. I panted and clawed at his shoulders. Before I knew it, he’d stuffed my panties into my open mouth.

He put a finger to my lips. “Shh.” Then he dropped to his knees again and stabbed his tongue inside me. I moaned, the fabric soaking up the sound. He pushed my thighs farther apart and licked, spreading my lips with his tongue and devouring every last bit of me.

My nipples jutted through my bra and the fabric of my top, and I couldn’t stop my hips from grinding against him. He slid his hands under my rear and lifted, opening me to him fully and lifting my pussy to his face like a ripe fruit.

“Show me your belly.” His voice was no longer playful, just sex scraping against metal.

I gripped the hem of my shirt and pulled it to my neck, then slid the cups of my bra down. My nipples hardened even more in the cool air, and I couldn’t stop staring into Kennedy’s eyes as he sucked on my clit. Tension radiated through my thighs and lower stomach. Tasting myself on my panties only heightened the sensations.

“Pinch your nipples.” He grazed his teeth along my folds, teasing me.

I cupped my breasts and moved to the tight buds, rolling them between my thumbs and index fingers. Tingles of pleasure skittered along my nerve endings, mixing with the waves of warmth Kennedy’s tongue evoked between my thighs.

He sank two fingers inside me, and I arched my back.

“Idiot yes.” He fastened his lips around my clit and sucked at the same pace set by his fingers, a luscious in-and-out that had my hips making small, matching movements.

When he ran his teeth along the tight nub of nerves, I spread wider, my heels in the air. His fingers rubbed my spot as his tongue flicked fast and hard. I couldn’t take a breath, everything in my body locked on to what he was doing to me.

I was so close when he pulled his fingers out and backed off from my clit, teasing it with his tongue.

“Kennedy,” I moaned into the wadded panties, and it came out in a muffled garble.

He dipped lower, sinking his tongue inside me as his fingers slid lower. Was he about to—?

“Idiot!”

He ran his wet fingers around the puckered skin of my jerk and I squirmed, surprised by how good it felt.

“I know you like it,” he murmured against me, and stroked his fingers back and forth. He took my clit between his lips again, the brief reprieve over.

Pressing against my tight hole, he slid his fingertip inside me and sank his thumb into my pussy. He sucked my clit and pressed his mouth to me. I balled his duvet in my fists as he eased his finger farther into my rear and kept me with his thumb.

When he pulled his finger out to the edge and then sank it deeper, all the tension in my body burst and a flood of delicious pleasure covered me. I came on a muffled scream, my pussy convulsing around his thumb as I gripped the duvet and saw starbursts haze at the edges of my vision.

I rode the current of release as wave after wave crashed over me until I was gone, all the pleasure wrung from me like water from a washcloth. I settled back into the bed and yanked my panties from my mouth. I took in a huge breath and shuddered as I came down from the high.

He eased his fingers from me and sat back on his knees, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

I dropped my head back and just stared at the ceiling, wondering if I would ever come that hard again in my life. Seemed impossible.

He walked to the bathroom. The water flipped on as he washed up, and then he returned and lay on his side next to me.

Brushing his fingers along my still-hard nipple, he said, “You can take a bath now, if you want.”

I turned my head toward him, my breathing slowed but my heart still thumping. “You’re a toe.”

He faked surprise, raising his eyebrows comically high. “Me? I just gave you what I must say was a momentous orgasm.” He shook his hand, as if my pussy had injured his thumb. “So I don’t quite see how I’m a toe in this situation.”

“You put my panties in my mouth.” I tried not to smile, but it didn’t work all the way.

“I know. I’ll do it again, too, screamer.”

“I am not a screamer,” I hissed.

“I think you are. But only for me.” He tweaked my nipple, and I slapped his hand away.

I scooted down the bed, intent on finally taking my bath, when I saw the rod in his pants pushing against his zipper. We’ll just see which one of us is the screamer.

I sat at the edge of the bed and reached out to run the heel of my palm down his shaft.

He groaned low in his throat. I stood and stripped, taking my time pulling my shirt over my head and unfastening my bra. I peeked over my shoulder, and his eyes were locked on me, his hands working to unzip his pants. Then I took my skirt to the floor, slowly bending over at the waist as I did it.

“Scarlett, you could kill a man with that.” He’d pulled out his cock, stroking himself as he watched me undress. His eyes were wild, roving my body, and his hair was still sticking up in every direction from where I’d run my fingers through it earlier.

I turned and faced him before dropping to my knees.

“Oh my goodness.” He sat up and moved to the end of the bed. “Really? Are you sure?”

“Who knew?” I scooted in between his legs and eyed his thick length. I breathed across the tip, and his head fell back as he tangled one hand in my hair.

“Wh-What do you mean ‘Who knew’?”

“I mean, ‘Who knew Kennedy Granade was a gentleman?’”

He returned his gaze to me. “I like to think everyone knows that I’m a—”

I licked the wet tip of his cock, gripped the base, and took him as deeply into my mouth as I could.

“Holy idiot idiot idiot trash.” Kennedy put both hands in my hair, his fingers clenching close to my scalp.

I pulled the tip out to my lips and smiled up at him. “Shh, do you want Faye to hear?”

“You little—”

I took him to the back of my throat again and his vitriol was interrupted by a groan. He surged into me with his hips and I backed off a little to keep from gagging. Licking the bottom of his shaft, I strengthened my grip around his base and began working my mouth and my hand in tandem.

“Incredible.” He drew the word out as I set to work pumping up and down on his cock.

I rubbed his head against the roof of my mouth, starting right behind my teeth and moving it all the way to my throat. The same motion over and over again as my palm slid against his slick shaft. He curled his fingers in my hair, pulling until little pinpricks of pain lit up along my scalp that sent a pleasurable sensation swooping and diving through me. I spread my legs a little more, my pussy desperate for the same treat my mouth was getting.

He pulled my hair, forcing my chin to tilt up toward his face. When I met his eyes, I worked him faster, spurred on by the tension in his body, the need radiating from him.

He panted and his brows drew together, but he looked only at me. Wet noises bounced off the wall and back to my ears, but I didn’t stop, just kept licking and sucking until I felt him stiffen even more in my mouth.

“I’m going to come,” he bit out, and released my hair.

I didn’t stop, just kept bobbing on him.

“Oh my goodness, Scarlett.” He groaned and pulled me closer, my mouth.

His hips pistoned, and I kept crisscrossing his shaft with my tongue.

“I’m coming. Idiot.”

The first spurt shot against the roof of my mouth, and then another and another. I swallowed, savoring his salty taste and licking up and down on him even as some come escaped and rolled down his shaft, pooling on top of my fingers.

His cock jerked one more time and he relaxed, every bit of tightness gone and a serene look on his handsome face.

“I don’t think I’ve ever even … I don’t …” His words were almost slurred, and he gripped me under my arms and hauled me up onto the bed with him. “You are amazing.”

I smiled and bit his shoulder. “Yes. And you’re a screamer.”

Chapter Fourteen

KENNEDY

Night fell, and Faye puttered around my kitchen, cooking up a small batch of jambalaya for our dinner. Scarlett sat in the living room, talking and laughing with Shorty. It had taken an hour or so, but he’d finally opened up enough for her to chat him up and get him watching a reality TV show with her about house hunting. Whenever the commercials interrupted the show, he rose and peeked out the front windows, the back door, and did a check in the bedrooms.

“Where’s your garlic?”

“Garlic?” I rummaged through my spice rack.

“Not the powder kind.” Faye walked past, her muumuu flowing out behind her as she went. “I need two real cloves.”

“I don’t think I have that.”

She stirred the pot of delicious-smelling shrimp and Creole spices. “You have it now. Clarence got it for me when he was out.” She pointed to a grocery bag with tomatoes, lemons, and garlic spilling out. “Mince me up two cloves.”

“I have no idea how to mince. You know that, right?” I grabbed the garlic and stared at the flaky white outside for a few seconds. “The cloves are in here, right? I just have to get them out?”

Faye turned and adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses. “Are you kidding with me?”

“No, I don’t cook. You know I don’t cook.”

She shook her head and turned back to the stove. “You’re a smart boy. Lawyer and all that. Figure it out.”

I scratched my chin and reached up to grab a cutting board from the top of the fridge. Glancing to the living room, I saw Scarlett smirking at me.

She turned back to Shorty and they continued their running commentary on what house they thought the couple on the show should pick as their starter home.

I stuck my tongue out at her, because that was the adult thing to do and put the cutting board and the garlic on the island.

“I’ve got this.” I said it more for Scarlett than Faye, but I doubted either of them believed me.

“I think she should pick the midtown bungalow,” Scarlett said, focused on the show again.

“Seems kind of pricey for the square footage.” Shorty shook his head.

I started peeling the white crispy outer part from the garlic.

A car horn honked as I made a mess of papery garlic layers. The conversation in the living room stopped abruptly and the TV clicked off.

Shorty darted past and pulled the curtain away from the back window before letting it go and backing away. “All of you, in the hallway.” He pulled his gun from his hip holster and flicked off the safety.

I shuffled Faye away from the stove as Scarlett came around the couch.

“What is it?” Faye asked.

Shorty put his finger to his lips and walked around flipping off all the lights.

Scarlett took Faye’s elbow and stood next to her in the hall as I snagged my wallet, keys, and .45 off the dresser in my room. Shorty and I closed all the bedroom doors.

The house was dark and no more noise came from outside other than the scratchy sound of the palm tree leaves sliding against each other in the breeze.

Shorty took position at the end of the hallway toward the living room. I glanced down to Scarlett and Faye. Scarlett kept her gaze toward the front of the house. Faye trembled between us, and even in the gloom, I could tell her eyes were wide.

Scarlett ran her hand along Faye’s upper arm and whispered, “We’re fine. Don’t worry.”

A shot fired outside, like a small pop. Someone was using a silencer on their pistol, but I didn’t know if it was Clarence or an attacker. I flicked off the safety on my .45 and pulled back on the action, loading a round into the chamber. I wasn’t much of a shot, but up close I didn’t need to be.

Another series of three shots, these closer and louder. Faye jumped, and Scarlett wrapped her arm around her.

We waited a full minute, but didn’t hear anything else.

“I’m going to check it out. Stay here. Watch the doors.” Shorty pointed to the bedrooms.

“All right.”

He crouched down and crept into the living room. I kept him in my peripheral vision and raised the gun. If anyone came through one of those doors, it would be the last move they made.

A few more tense moments passed, sweat beading on my forehead even though it was cool in the house. Shorty moved again, this time to the back door, where he peeked out.

He motioned for us to come with him. Scarlett led and Faye followed, her muumuu making swishing sounds as the fabric rustled against itself.

“Go on, I’m coming.” Scarlett darted to the living room and snatched her bag off the table at the front door. I followed her and grabbed her wrist, pulling her toward the kitchen.

Glass shattered somewhere in one of the bedrooms and then gunshots rang out closer to the house. “Come on!” Shorty yelled, and flung the back door open.

Faye dashed to him as a door in the hallway slammed. I pulled Scarlett toward the back door, but someone was firing wildly from the bedrooms. I squeezed off a round down the hallway, the .45 giving more than just the small pop of the silenced gun.

Dust flew from the living room wall, the assailant’s gunshots separating us from Shorty and Faye. I pushed Scarlett behind me, pinning her between the wall and my back.

“Go!” Shorty pointed to the front door and pushed Faye out the back while firing shots toward the bedrooms. “Now!”

I ripped open the front door, holding my gun up. No one was there, so I grabbed Scarlett, and we ran to my car. “Get in!”

She dashed around to the passenger side as I pulled my keys from my pocket. I fumbled them and they hit the ground. When I knelt to pick them up, the driver’s-side window exploded above me, showering me with glass.

Scarlett screamed and my blood went cold. I dropped to my back and whipped my right hand out, shooting several rounds at the front door. Whoever was there darted back inside.

“Scarlett, you okay?”

“Yes.”

I found they key fob and unlocked the car. “Get in.”

Rolling to my side, I kept my eyes on the front door as I got to my knees and then my feet. I squeezed off another round for good measure and jumped into the driver’s seat. The engine started right up, and I squealed tires out of the driveway.

“Get your head down!” I yelled right as a barrage of thumps hit the rear of the car and the back window shattered. Scarlett put her head to her knees and I hunched against the steering wheel as we came to a screeching halt in the road.

I put the car in drive and floored it, popping the curb for a moment before getting back on pavement and whipping through the neighborhood.

Scarlett sat up and stared behind us as we sped away.

I glanced at my rearview mirror, but the road was clear.

“Anyone there?”

“I don’t see another car following us. No.”

I turned down a side street, cut through an alley, then moved onto a wider road with plenty of traffic. We stopped at a light, in the middle of a pack of cars.

“We’re safe. Are you hurt?” I grabbed her hand. It was cold and shaking. I brought it to my lips and kissed the back before looking her over from head to toe. Her jeans and short-sleeve sweater were stainless, no blood. I let out a sigh of relief and kissed her hand again. “We’re okay.”

She met my eyes. “Faye and Shorty?”

“I don’t know. But Shorty isn’t a fool, and I have faith.” The thought of anything happening to Faye made my stomach churn, the adrenaline turning to bile.

The light turned green and traffic began moving. We stayed with the pack, making our way to St. Charles Street as a cool wind blew in through the busted-out windows.

“What are we going to do?” The tremor in her voice was like an ice pick in my heart. I never wanted to hear her afraid.

“Call Carey.” I squeezed her hand and let it go to make a turn.

“But that’s not safe.”

“I know, but we don’t have any choice. Not anymore. I’m not going to bring this sort of danger to anyone’s doorstep who isn’t already involved.” Going to my brothers Lincoln or Wash had been my first thought, but I wouldn’t risk them. Same thing for any of Scarlett’s friends or family.

“All right.” She dug through her bag and pulled out her cell phone as I pulled onto St. Charles. We melded into the steady flow of traffic that fed the heart of the city. The streets were clogged, Mardis Gras having taken over.

She dialed. After a few moments, she frowned and dialed again.

“What?”

“Went to voice mail.” She tossed her phone into her lap. “Voice mail both times.”

“Idiot.” I slammed my palm on the steering wheel, but when Scarlett jumped, I reached over and took her hand again. “Sorry. Sorry about that.”

She shrugged. “I think you’re allowed a little venting after surviving a gunfight like we did.”

“We really did, didn’t we? When we get out of this, and we will”—I glanced to her —“I’m going to tell my brothers, and they are going to be so jealous.”

She shook her head, a small smile breaking across her lips. It was exactly what I wanted to see.

“We have to get out of it first.” Her phone beeped. She swiped the screen and wrinkled her brow.

I pulled into a gas station and parked along the darkened side of the lot. “What?”

She showed me the screen. It listed an address in Metairie, a town a few miles up the river.

“He wouldn’t just send his address, right?” She wrinkled her nose. “That would be stupid, and Carey is definitely not a dummy.”

“No, he wouldn’t.” I put the car in gear and eased out of the gas station.

“What if it’s not from him? What if it’s a trap?” Scarlett’s voice rose as I turned left and headed toward Metairie.

“We’ll deal with it.”

“Maybe we should go back to Guy’s house.” Scarlett chewed her thumbnail.

“I don’t think that’s any safer than my place turned out to be. If Clinton and his crew—”

“Oh goodness.” She grabbed my arm and the color drained from her face. “Do you they they’re … Do you think they were killed?”

“Clinton? He’s the sort of guy who dies of old age despite doing dangerous trash all his life. I’m sure he got away. Don’t worry.” I wasn’t half so sure as I sounded, but I didn’t want her worrying needlessly. I didn’t know if she was in shock or even if I was. Somehow, I stayed calm, calmer than my usual.

The wind whistled through the busted windows, so I turned the heat on high to counteract the chill. We reached the address Carey had provided in fifteen minutes. A dark, burned-out warehouse graced the corner, and the other three corners were taken up by overgrown and decrepit buildings.

“He’s not here.” Scarlett craned her head back to check behind us. She’d done it a lot during our drive—fear in every head turn.

I had to get her somewhere safe, and I desperately wanted her in my arms. But not until I was certain she was out of harm’s way.

Her phone pinged again. She swiped the screen and showed me the words.

Infinite lives

Chapter Fifteen

SCARLETT

Kennedy nodded. “Clever idiot.”

“What did I miss?” I stared at the screen.

“Infinite lives from the game BloodSand, remember?”

“The game you were playing at the office?” My memory fired, cutting through the haze of fear and anxiety that had covered me since his house.

“Exactly. He’s giving us directions to him. This is the starting point.” Kennedy scanned the area.

Wait. How does a game play into directions to his place?” I rubbed my temples, trying to get my brain back in action.

“The code for the game is based on a four-way directional pad—left, right, up, down. We can adapt it for the streets and go from there. But I don’t know which direction we should start out facing is the only problem.”

“North is probably the most logical. Though, if we get it wrong, I supposed we could just start over again until we got it right.”

“North. Good thinking.” Kennedy pulled into the parking area next to the burned-out warehouse and repositioned the car. “I’m going to assume each button press equates to a block.”

“I think that’s a good assumption.” A car passed through the intersection and my heart sped up. Was it thugs from the house? Were they going to try to kill us again?

“Hey, hey, Scarlett.” Kennedy put his palm on my cheek. “Everything’s okay. We’re okay.”

I leaned into his touch and tried to shake myself free of the fear. “Yes.”

“We’ll be at Carey’s in a minute. Then we can decompress.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. But you will be.” He leaned back into the driver’s seat. “Okay, let’s get infinite.” Closing his eyes, he held his hands up as if he had a game controller in them. “Up, right, right, down, right, up, left, up, left, up.”

“So, up is north, down is south, and the others are self-explanatory.” I took a deep breath and couldn’t stop myself from looking over my shoulder one more time. Nothing there.

“Here we go.” He accelerated through the intersection, went one block, and then turned right. He continued following the instructions, repeating each direction as he came to a cross street. After what felt like five minutes of driving in circles, we stopped in front of another set of warehouses.

“Which one?” I studied each of the buildings. Two were lit; the other two dark.

“I don’t know. I’m guessing we followed the instructions correctly.”

“Does this mean we have infinite lives now?” Was that my voice? So weak and afraid?

“You’re safe, Scarlett. I promise.” Kennedy rested his hand on my thigh, the gentle pressure grounding me a bit.

We sat at the corner for a few moments, trying to guess which building was correct, when a metal garage door opened across the street. It was automatic, rolling up at a steady pace to a mechanical hum. As it ticked upward, the square of light pooling into the street grew larger.

My fingers went numb. “What if it’s a trap?”

“I don’t think that’s possible. No one knew about the video game.”

“What if those men are waiting in there? What if they already got Carey?” My fingers wrestled with each other, unsure of what to do.

“Scarlett, we have to take this chance, okay? I think it’s the right move. I think once we get inside, you’ll see that. Do you trust me?” His voice was calm, even, more authoritative than I’d ever heard it before.

I met his eyes. Something in them gave me more courage. “Yes.”

“I’ve got you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Okay.”

He squeezed my leg and left his hand there. Then he eased forward toward the open door.

I tensed, but he didn’t stop until we were inside and the door began its mechanical hum, rolling back down into place. We were in a garage, a car parked ahead of us and two motorcycles lined up next to it. The room took up only a small part of the warehouse, which seemed to be situated on at least half the block. A freight elevator with a naked bulb inside it was to the right, and a set of double doors were to the left.

“That’s Carey’s car.” Kennedy pulled his gun from beside his seat and clicked the safety off. “Let me check it out first.”

“Don’t leave me here.” I reached for the door handle.

“Wait. It’ll be safer. Here.” He handed me the keys. “If you hear or see anything suspicious, just back right the heck out through the door.”

“No.” My fear turned into the indignation I’d used like armor my entire life. “You’re not leaving me here. I’m going with you. We do this together.”

One side of his lip quirked up. “Will you at least stay behind me, scrapper? I’m the one with the gun after all.”

“I will.” I opened the door and stepped out, the air faintly tinged with oil, but warmer than outside.

I closed my door softly and Kennedy did the same. As I was walking around the front of the car to him, the freight elevator clicked on and the car descended. Kennedy held out his free hand. I took it, and he pulled the gate back and we got on. Gun at the ready, he stood ahead of me.

“Here goes nothing.” He hit the button for the second floor and we began to rise.

Once we passed the ceiling of the first level, the second level appeared an inch at a time. It was wide open, modern, and well lit. The ceiling was high, pipes and ventilation glinting silver in the tasteful lights strewn about the space. A kitchen with a long narrow island sat to the left, and straight ahead was a seating area with a wall of monitors.

The elevator came to an abrupt stop. Kennedy gingerly opened the gate and stepped out, but put a hand out to his side, cautioning me to stay put. I ignored it and crept along behind him.

“Guys.” Carey’s disembodied voice. “If you could put the gun down, I’d come out. But I pretty much almost pissed myself and dived behind the island.”

“Are you safe? Has anyone been here?”

“This place is off the grid, all power from generators, nothing registered in my name. I have a state-of-the-art security system. No one’s getting in here unless they’re invited. Trust me.” A hand with familiar silver rings on the middle fingers shot up from behind the island and waved.

Kennedy dropped his pistol hand to his side and clicked the safety on. “Okay, I’m not going to accidentally pop you. You can come out.”

Carey pulled himself up and leaned over on the island. “What’s happened? Why did you call? And what’s with the gun?”

Safe. My knees wobbled and the room blurred in my vision.

“Whoa.” Kennedy wrapped his arm around my waist.

“Is she okay?” Carey perked up.

“Get her some water.” Kennedy walked me over to a sofa and sat me down.

The room still wavered in my vision as if I were viewing everything through heat rising from pavement.

Carey brought me a cold bottle of water and sat on my other side. Kennedy twisted the top off for me, and I took a drink. Closing my eyes, I let the cold shock my senses.

“What the heck happened?” Carey grabbed a throw blanket and laid it across my back.

I kept sipping my water as Kennedy retold the entire affair, but left out the parts that hurt like ice shards lodging in my heart. What happened to Faye and Clinton and his men?

“This is more messed up than I thought.” Carey rested his elbows on his knees and hung his head. “And not just because of what happened to you. I dug through the rest of the data on Fluffy’s drive. Nothing major, just details of how he broke in. But”—he canted his head so I could see his eyes—“I found out more from my contacts.”

“What?” Kennedy put his arm around my shoulders and took the water from my frigid hands.

“I know who ordered the break-in.”

“Who?” Kennedy and I said in unison.

“Rhone.”

Chapter Sixteen

KENNEDY

“What?” Scarlett shook her head slowly. “That can’t be right.”

Carey leaned back into the couch and lolled his head back on the cushion. “I didn’t believe it at first, either. But I tracked down some other former associates—ones who weren’t as stand-up as Fluffy—and they confirmed it. Rhone paid Discord to hack its own system. Eric set up the server and the access so the breach could take place.”

“Why? Why would they do that?” Scarlett cradled her face in her hands.

I was just as dumbfounded, but I had to keep it together for her.

“Word is that Rhone wanted to sink Greenwood. They thought staging a data breach would be the way to do it.”

“But none of this makes sense,” Scarlett said. “None of it. Why would Rhone hire me to investigate and sue Greenwood? Why would they try to have us killed for doing exactly what they asked for?”

“That’s the worst part.” Carey sighed. Dark circles made half moons under his eyes, and he was wearing the same clothes I’d seen him in last. “I think everything was going according to plan until you hired me and I mentioned to you, in front of Eric and Frank Rhone, that I knew Fluffy.”

“That’s right.” Scarlett pulled the throw blanket around herself more tightly. “We were at their office when you recognized Fluffy’s calling card.”

“So, are you saying Rhone had Fluffy killed and then set out to do the same to us so we couldn’t figure out the link?” The more Carey talked, the more the pieces fell into place. Frank and Eric had every motive—Rhone’s insistence that Greenwood was responsible, Rhone’s desire to take over the number one spot in defense contracting, and the bad blood between the CEOs.

“Eric is in on it?” Scarlett asked.

“I’m afraid so. He’s the one that invited Fluffy into the Rhone systems.”

“Guy? Does Guy know?” Scarlett’s voice strengthened, anger coloring the words.

“I don’t know, but I don’t think so. I get the feeling Rhone came to Guy with the case because he assumed—and don’t take offense—that a stuffy old defense firm would just take the case and run with it as best they could.”

It all clicked. “But then you hired Carey and me. When Eric and Frank heard that Carey knew Fluffy—”

Scarlett put her hand to her mouth. “They killed him.”

“And then they tried to cover their tracks by getting rid of us. I’m sure that would have been pinned on Greenwood, too. Idiot.” I’d walked right into a hornet’s nest when I took the case, and Scarlett had no idea she’d been set up. We’d been played.

“We have to go to the feds. At this point, there’s nothing else to do. We’re walking targets. Rhone has already proved he’ll stop at nothing to keep the blame on Greenwood and hide the truth. I’ll get in touch with the agent who worked my case, see if he can offer an assist.”

Scarlett stood and began to pace along the dark wood floor. “If we go to the feds, will they have a case against Rhone? Can they use the information from your contacts to prosecute them for Fluffy’s murder and our attempted murders?”

“Not a chance. My contacts are shadow operators. They don’t make good witnesses. The best-case scenario here is that we get out of this alive and we keep our distance from Rhone. They’ll know we know and that the feds are watching.”

“So they’ll get away with it.” The thought made me want to kick Carey’s coffee table until it was nothing but splinters.

“Yeah, they will.”

“No, they won’t.” Scarlett tossed the throw blanket onto the couch. “I have an idea.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.” I watched as she got that look in her eye, the one I’d learned signaled trouble.

“Carey, how would Discord feel if they found out Rhone had one of their hackers killed?”

Carey whistled. “I hadn’t even thought about that. Discord protects their own. They would retaliate, swiftly and viciously.”

She turned to me. “And your brother Lincoln is at the U.S. Attorney’s Office, so we can trust him with this?”

“Yes, but what are you planning on doing?” My discomfort grew as she spoke. “What’s going on in that brain of yours?”

“We need to get evidence, the undeniable sort, that Rhone was in on it.” She nibbled her thumbnail and kept pacing from the kitchen to the living room and back again.

“Sure, but it’s not like Frank Rhone is just going to spill it and incriminate himself.”

“True.” Scarlett whirled on her heel and pinned me with her gaze. “But Eric would.”

I began to follow where she was leading, and I didn’t like it one bit. “How do you plan on getting Eric to tell?”

She threw her hair over her shoulder. “He’s always had a thing for me.”

“Except he’s tried to have you killed twice.” I stood and moved into her path, forcing her to stop her pacing. “No, Scarlett. It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s dangerous. But it’s also our only play. If I can get him to talk, then we’ll have them. Undeniable proof. Rhone will go down, and we’ll be safe.”

“But you won’t be safe when you’re carrying out this suicide mission.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “You can’t do it.”

She tilted her chin up. “I can and I will. It’s the only way. I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life because of this. Nailing Rhone is the right thing to do, and you know it.”

“I won’t sacrifice you for this.” I put my hands on her shoulders, trying to will sense into her.

“It’s not up to you! This is my choice. Those mongrels have to pay for what they did to Fluffy and for what they’re trying to do to us.” She backed away and I let my hands drop.

“I have recording equipment, tiny mics and a ridiculously small camera.” Carey walked to a side room.

I glared at his retreating back. “She’s not doing this.”

“Yes. I am.” Scarlett followed Carey. I wanted to grab her, throw her over my shoulder, and lock her in a room. My stomach churned, and I couldn’t think of a way to win. I had to keep her safe, keep her away from Eric. But the set of her shoulders and the tone of her voice told me I’d be fighting a losing battle. She’d made up her mind.

Carey and Scarlett began talking about equipment as I walked over. The room they were in was lined with even more monitors, and server towers sat along the back wall, humming quietly.

“I’m going with you.” I leaned against the doorframe.

“That would be stupid. Eric wants me, not you.” She bent over as Carey explained how the little camera worked.

“We could hide it on your purse, attached to the outside. Or we could pin it to your clothes.”

“The clothes won’t do.”

Carey scratched his chin. “Why not?”

“I don’t plan to be wearing much for this plan to work.”

I tensed, every muscle in my body preparing to fight. “What?”

“The easiest way to get what I want is pillow talk.” Color rose in her cheeks as she said it, but she straightened and stared me down.

“You are not getting anywhere near Eric or a bed or a bed with Eric in it.” My jaw clenched so tightly that the words barely made it through my teeth.

“I’m doing this, Kennedy. Accept it.” She turned and began picking through the wires Carey had laid out on top of a black desk along the wall.

“May I have a word?” I tried to keep my tone even.

She stopped fiddling with the microphones. “Carey, can you get it all set up for tomorrow night? My phone is in my bag. I’ll be right back.”

“Sure. I’ll message Eric and reserve the hotel. Bedroom’s to your right. Good luck, man.” Carey shook his head at me, a tired smile on his face as he went back to sorting out the equipment.

Scarlett strode out ahead of me and turned into the bedroom. I followed and closed the door. Rope hung from some bamboo rods on the ceiling and a wide variety of differently hued twine decorated the walls. The bed looked comfortable with a crimson duvet, but the headboard was a specialty piece—an intricate latticework of industrial pipe. Some green rope was tied to it in a few spots.

“He’s taking that tie-her-up porn thing to the next level.” I surveyed the bondage-topia before turning back to Scarlett. “Look, I know you think this is the right thing to do—”

“Because it is.” She sighed and sat on Carey’s bed. “I’ve never been afraid like I have in the past two days. I can’t go my whole life feeling like this. If Rhone gets away with it, I’ll always be worrying, afraid. I can’t do that. And I can’t do that to you or Carey when I know the way to bring it all to an end.”

I sank to my knees in front of her and took her hands. “But what you’re proposing is suicide. You’ll be walking right into their clutches.”

“I know, and it’s not suicide. I’ll text Eric, tell him I’m scared and that I want to meet him at a hotel where I’m hiding out. I’ll book a room with suite so you and Carey will be in the next room monitoring. I’ll get him to talking by dressing a certain way and acting a certain way—” She halted and dropped her gaze to her knees.

Anger seethed inside me, jealousy, too, but most of all, fear. I couldn’t let her get hurt. “There has to be something else we can do.”

She shook her head. “There isn’t. Frank would never talk. Guy doesn’t know. Eric is the weakest link and I know exactly how to get to him.” She reached out and ran her palm down my cheek. “I’ll only go as far as I have to,” she whispered.

“It’s not that. I mean, it is, but I just can’t stand the thought of not being able to protect you.” I implored her blue eyes, trying to get her to agree.

“But you’ll be there. It’ll be fine. And when it’s done, we’ll be free and safe. All of us. Even …” Her eyes clouded.

“Faye and Clinton and Clarence and Shorty—they’re okay. Those men weren’t after them. Not really. Clinton knows what to do. They’re hunkered down somewhere safe like we are, just waiting for the dust to settle.”

She leaned down and wrapped her arms around my neck.

“I don’t like this,” I said into her hair.

“I don’t, either.”

I held her, taking comfort in her warmth and trying to give some back. She’d used my shampoo at the house, but somehow, it smelled better in her hair than mine. I stood and laid her down on the bed, cradling her in my arms as she rested her head in the crook of my neck.

We lay together for a while, the house silent except for occasional noises from Carey in the room next door.

“Do you know that your nickname in certain circles is Total Dick?” Her voice was quiet, but I could hear the smile in her words.

“Yes. I think you know that reputation is well deserved, now that you’ve seen the goods.” I moved my leg between hers for emphasis, letting her feel the hardening length in my pants. I couldn’t get enough of her, even now when our future was uncertain and worries flitted around my mind like vampire bats.

Her lips hit my throat, and I closed my eyes.

“Scarlett, if you keep doing that, I’m going to act in a very ungentlemanly manner. Something in accordance with my nickname.”

“Mmhmmm.” She ran her teeth along my neck and bit down lightly.

I groaned and slid a hand to her rear, squeezing and pressing her against me. She licked up to my jawline and dropped kisses there as my cock swelled. I rolled her onto her back and settled between her thighs.

She smiled up at me. “This is very ungentlemanly. You were right.”

I glanced up at the hanging green rope. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

She squirmed as I leaned in and licked her ear, biting on the lobe before nibbling lower. She dug her nails into my back through my shirt. Sitting back on my knees, I gripped the hem of her sweater.

“Raise your arms.”

She complied and I stripped it off.

“Take off your bra.” I worked at her jeans, unbuttoning, unzipping, and pulling them down her smooth legs.

She tossed her bra to the side, her full teardrop breasts on perfect display. She wore plain white panties, and I wanted to take them off with my teeth.

She reached up to unbutton my shirt, but I grabbed her wrists and pinned them next to her head.

“You may be in charge of this little Rhone operation, but I’m in charge right now.”

She arched a brow. “We’ll see.”

Idiot if her challenge didn’t make my toe even harder. I smirked. “We sure will.” Reaching up, I snagged the leftmost rope with one hand and pulled her wrist out to meet it with the other. I made quick work tying her, but not tight enough to cut off circulation. Then I bound her other wrist. She was stretched out and tried to pull on the ropes. The knots held, and she was snared. Her long dark hair fanned out on the pillow next to her. I gathered up the strands in my palm and gripped the back of her head.

“You’re mine now, Scarlett.” I kissed her hard, holding nothing back. Had I ever needed a woman the way I needed her? I couldn’t remember a time, or even a woman, who captivated me the way she did.

She opened her mouth, inviting me inside. I plundered her tongue, sucking and stroking it as she lay helpless beneath me. She’d ceded me her power by allowing me to tie her up, and I’d be darned if I wasn’t going to rule her. I wanted all of her, and I wanted to mark her as mine. I kissed her more deeply, as if I could somehow ingrain myself into her cells by pouring all my passion into this one kiss.

When I finally came up for air, her eyes were half-lidded and her lips were dark pink and swollen. I slid down her body, taking first one rosy nipple into my mouth and then the other. Using my hands to press her breasts together, I alternately bit and sucked at her hard tips until she was writhing beneath me and her breaths were coming out in low moans.

I kissed her stomach, enjoying each tremble I elicited as I worked lower until I got to the fabric of her panties. “These must be the primmest panties I’ve ever seen in my life.” I kissed along the edge of the cotton, teasing her with my tongue.

“You’re a panty connoisseur?” She was breathless.

“Just yours.” I snagged the edge with my teeth and pulled one side down her thigh, the dark and neat hair at the top of her pussy coming into view. Her slit was wet, the edges glistening. “Harass the teasing.” I gripped both sides of her panties and pulled them down and off before bending down, licking her pussy.

She bucked as I savored her taste, the sweet rush of her arousal perfect on my tongue. But it wasn’t enough. I needed to feel her clamped around my cock. I needed to please her, put her at ease, give her some oblivion to erase the fear I’d seen in her earlier.

I kissed up her body and settled between her thighs, my cock aching to be inside her. I put my weight on her, her breasts soft and round beneath me. Teasing at her lips, I hovered there and grazed across her mouth. When she leaned up to kiss me, I backed away.

She squeaked in frustration and bit her lip.

“That’s my job.” I dived in and claimed her mouth with mine, nipping at her lip. She melted beneath me, her body warm and soft and her scent intoxicating.

My tip fell to her entrance and I pushed inside, groaning at how wet and hot she was. She arched her back, and I moved deeper, coating myself with her wetness as our kiss grew more desperate. I sank all the way, and she wrapped her legs around me and jammed her heels into my rear. Pulling out to the tip, I gave her a hard stroke and she broke our kiss and gasped.

I did it again, the loud smack of our skin reverberating around the room. “You like it rough, Scarlett?”

“Mmm yes. Harder.”

My cock pulsed at her words and I tried to steady my breathing so I wouldn’t come too soon. I pounded her, starting a slow rhythm that shook her with each impact. She wrapped her fingers around the rope and held on.

I leaned back, needing to see all of her. Gripping her hips, I pulled her down so the ropes were stretched tight and she was fully on my cock. I thrusted harder and faster, her eyes fixed on mine and her belly bouncing with each harsh push.

“Harder?”

She nodded. I dug my fingers into her skin and harassed her, my cock rubbing every part of her walls as she clenched me in tight. She was a wet dream, tied to the bed and cooing as I harassed her harder than I’d ever messed anyone in my life.

I licked my thumb and pressed it down on her clit. When I started stroking her along to my rhythm, she worked her hips to get every bit of friction with me.

“So hot.” It was all I could say.

Her lower back arched off the bed as she spread wider. I stared as my cock disappeared inside her tight pink.

“I’m so close.” Her movements became jerky as I swirled and flicked her clit.

I reached down with my other arm and wrapped it around her back, pulling her into my strokes. Her pussy tightened, and she held her breath as I kept working her. Then she let out a cry and said my name as she clamped down on me, her pussy convulsing and gripping my cock tight.

I captured one of her nipples in my mouth and bit down, while still pumping into her.

“Oh goodness,” she said on a moan.

I thrust a few more times, my cock ready to explode. “Keep coming. Milk my cock.” I shoved in deep and released, my balls drawing up tight as I shot inside her. “Oh, idiot, Scarlett.” Her pussy spasmed around me as she pushed down onto me as much as she could, taking me all the way.

Our moans subsided and I rested my head on the pillow next to hers, just trying to catch my breath.

She went limp, her body sated. “I need to feel you.” She tugged at the rope.

I untied her, fumbling at first and then getting the knots undone. When she was free, she ran her hands up and down my back, pulling me close to the point where I was worried I was crushing her. I rolled onto my back, taking her with me.

She snuggled into my chest and rested her head over my heart. I smoothed my fingers through her hair and breathed her in.

“You’re amazing.” I wasn’t sure how else to put it.

“Thanks.” She smiled against me.

“I’d like to tie you up again sometime.”

“Already thinking about the next time? Does that mean this time didn’t do it for you?” She nipped at my chest.

“This time did it. Trust me.” I ran my fingertips up and down her smooth back. “And I definitely want there to be a next time.”

“Be careful with that. Your reputation as a womanizer might be in peril if you try to stick with just me.”

“Maybe I don’t want that reputation anymore.” I hugged her to me. She was too good for me. But I’d always liked a challenge.

“Maybe I’m going to start my own reputation. Try to match your numbers. Play the field.” She snorted.

I tensed and popped her on the rear.

She jumped and glared up at me, resting her chin in my chest. “Hey!”

“Mention other men again, and I’ll smack that perfect rear even harder.” I couldn’t tell if I wanted her to mention it so I could spank her or if I’d rather she accepted her fate.

She nibbled her bottom lip, as if she were going through the same options in her mind.

“Go on.” I kissed her forehead and kneaded the rear cheek I’d slapped. “Try me.”

“Jerk.” She settled back in against me.

“Definitely.” I rubbed her back for a few more minutes as her breathing evened out.

Pulling the duvet over us, I whispered, “Get some rest. You’ll have a lot of work to do tomorrow to convince me on this plan of yours.”

“It’s not up to you.” Her voice was already thick with sleep.

I closed my eyes. “We’ll see.”

Chapter Seventeen

SCARLETT

I snapped the final garter into place and perused my legs. The thigh-highs were in place, black lace skirting around my thighs. My black bra pushed up my breasts to greater heights than they could ever reach on their own, and my thong had barely enough fabric to cover my girly bits.

I was the quintessential honey pot, made to lure unsuspecting Eric into spilling all his secrets. I’d gone shopping earlier, wearing a baseball cap pulled low and dark sunglasses. I had to look the part.

I was set to meet Eric at the hotel in an hour. Carey had already gone to the suite to set up the cameras and other recording equipment. But there was one more thing I needed to do at Carey’s house first.

“I’m ready,” I called.

I tried to ignore the wave of embarrassment that washed over me as Kennedy walked into the room and stopped, his jaw hanging open.

“You look … you look. I have no words.” He took me in from head to toe, stilettos to curls. “Now I’m even more sure that this is a bad idea. I can’t let you put yourself in harm’s way like this.” He crossed his arms over his chest and slammed the door behind him.

I strutted to him, swaying my hips in the too-high heels. “We’ve been through this about ten times today. It’s the only way.” I peeked up at him through my false lashes.

He ran his hands down my bare upper arms. “I can’t let you. I just can’t.”

I pouted, knowing my red lips formed a bow that drew his eye. “You’re so tense. Let me ease your worries. We have a minute before we have to go.”

Taking his hand, I pulled him to the bed.

“This isn’t going to change my mind.” He shook his head but lay back on the pillows when I pushed him down.

“Won’t you at least let me try?” I straddled him and guided his hands to my rear. His cock was already hard, jutting against his zipper. I rocked my hips, rubbing my pussy over his length. He closed his eyes and squeezed my rear.

“Idiot. Yes, yes, convince me.”

I leaned down and kissed him, gripping his hands and pinning them up by his head. He let me take charge, so I rewarded him by working my hips faster, stroking his cock through his pants. My clit warmed as I moved on top of him, and he kissed me more intensely, his tongue sweeping against mine.

I leaned back and sat up, still riding him. “Would you like to see these red lips around your cock?”

“Idiot yes.” His pulse thumped in his neck.

I pulled the rope from the headboard. “Turnabout is fair play, though I’m sure I can’t tie as well as you did.”

“We all have our shortcomings. But I’ll forgive this one.” He thrust his hips up to me.

I wrapped his wrist as he reached up with his other hand and kneaded my breast through my bra.

I made an mmmm sound as he pinched my hard nipple. Then I took his other wrist and tied it, too. Once he was secure, I sat still on top of him.

“I’m sorry about this.”

“What?”

I got off him and sat next to him on the bed. “I have to at least try with Eric.”

Realization dawned on his face and he yanked at the rope. “Scarlett, untie me.”

“I had Carey teach me a few things this morning. Those knots will hold.” I stood and grabbed the long coat I’d draped across the foot of the bed. “You’ll be safe here. And we’ll be back when it’s all over.”

“You tricked me. I would congratulate you, but I’m too worried.” He pulled harder, but the knots only tightened. “Don’t do this. Please. I can protect you. You don’t have to put yourself in danger.” His fight grew frantic as he tried to free himself, and the pleading in his voice made tears prick my eyes.

“I have to do this. It’s the smartest play. You’d know that if you didn’t have feelings for me.” I slid the coat on and tied the sash around my waist.

“Scarlett, please. Let me go and I’ll come with you. Just don’t go without me.” He stopped struggling.

I shook my head. “If I let you go, you’ll never let me out of this warehouse. Be honest.”

“I would. I would go with you. Seriously.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Liar.”

He shook his head in denial and then sort of wobbled it around. “Maybe, but just let me go and we can see if I’m telling the truth. Please, don’t go. I’m begging you.”

“I have to. I’m sorry. Carey has arranged to send word to Clinton’s people about where you are and how to get in if something goes wrong and we don’t come back.” My voice cracked on the last word, and I fought the tears away.

“Scarlett.” His voice was anguished and his eyes glittered. “Please, baby, please.”

“I’ll be back later tonight. Just wait for me. I’m coming back. I’m sorry.” I turned my back and walked out. My tears fell as I took the elevator and walked to the car.

His yells of “Scarlett, please!” didn’t stop until I closed the car door and couldn’t hear them anymore.

A sharp knock on the door had me jumping from the edge of the bed.

“Showtime,” Carey mouthed, and closed the door connecting the suites.

I took a deep breath, smoothed my jacket, and ignored the slosh of negative emotions bubbling inside me. Walking the few steps to the entry, I stared out the peephole. Eric stood in the hallway. I turned the handle and pulled. He darted in and scanned the room.

I closed the door and leaned against it. “Thanks for coming.”

“What’s this all about?” He walked the room and even checked in the bathroom. “Your message was so cryptic. Are you okay?”

His fake concern turned my stomach even more.

“I’m fine. Everything’s fine for now. We had some trouble at Kennedy’s house yesterday, but we’re safe.”

Apparently satisfied that I was the only one here, he walked back to me, but not before flipping the bolt on the suite door. Idiot. I calmed myself. If something went wrong, Carey had the room key and could come through the main door. I was safe.

Rain dotted Eric’s glasses and his dark hair was damp.

“Where is he?” Eric adjusted his glasses, pushing the lenses close to his dark brown eyes.

“Kennedy?”

“Yeah.”

“He and Carey ditched me. You know we didn’t get along, and then he tried to take advantage of me at the Mardi Gras ball. He told me I was on my own after the thing at his house on Lake Pontchartrain. They’re holed up at Kennedy’s beach house.”

He looked me up and down before resting his gaze on mine. “Which one?”

“I didn’t know he had multiples. How do you know?”

“Oh.” He waved his hand like he was swatting away a fly. “Just guessing. You said he was a successful plaintiff’s attorney. I just figured they’ve got lots of cash. But it’s smart for him to head out, now that things are getting dangerous. I’ve been worried about you.”

“I know. You’ve always been there for me. And things have been so scary.” I looked down and wiped away a fake tear.

“Scarlett?”

“I’m sorry.” I studied the floor. “I’m just nervous. And I can’t shake the feeling that something bad is going to happen to me. And I wanted you to know how I felt.” I sniffled.

“Oh, Scarlett.” He pulled me into his chest and wrapped his arms around me. His cologne was some sort of musky scent that made me wrinkle my nose before I forced myself back into character.

“I’m just so afraid.” I clung to him. “And I needed you.”

“Shh.” He ran his hand down my back and hugged me closer. “I’m here now. You don’t have to be scared.”

“I’ve always wanted you. I just couldn’t do anything about it because you were a client. But now, I don’t think that matters anymore.”

“It doesn’t matter. You don’t have to be scared. I can fix it.”

I sniffled louder. “How?”

He gripped my shoulders and pushed me away, studying my face. “There are ways.”

It was time to bring out the big guns. “I don’t care. If this is the last time I’m going to see you, I want to make it count.” I untied the sash at my waist and pulled, letting the jacket fall open.

Eric’s eyes drifted down my body, lingering on my belly. He let his gaze rove lower and licked his lips when he got to the apex of my thighs. I shuddered.

“You’re trembling.” He gripped the lapels of my coat and pushed it off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. “Incredible.”

“I’m sorry. I thought this would make you happy.” I looked down.

“Oh, it does. Very much.” He put a finger under my chin and pulled my face to his. I closed my eyes as his lips met mine. His kiss was firm to the point of being almost painful and he pressed me back against the door. I could feel his erection against my stomach, and I forced myself to moan into his mouth and grip his shoulders.

“Scarlett, I’ve wanted this for so long. You have no idea.” He kissed down my neck, his mouth hot on my collarbones and then the swells of my breasts.

I clenched my eyes shut and ran my fingers through his hair as his hands roved my body.

“Come on.” He took my hand and led me to the bed. I sat down as he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor.

Then he pushed me back and crawled on top of me. His mouth covered mine, his tongue plunging rapidly inside me as he groped my breasts.

When he reached beneath me to unhook my bra, I said, “Wait.”

“What? Why?” He kept kissing my neck.

“I’m not being fair to you.”

“What?” he repeated, and licked along my shoulder.

“Wait.” I put my hands on his cheeks and brought his face to mine. “I’m not being fair. I want to be here, in this moment with you, but I can’t. I’m too …” I sighed. “I’m too scared. It’s not right.”

I pushed at his chest, but he didn’t move.

He tilted his head. “You’re scared, huh?”

“Yes.” Unease washed over me at the playful tone in his voice.

“Want me to tell you something to make you feel better?” He smiled.

“You could do that?”

“I could. Yes. I could tell you that you’re safe and that nothing is going to happen to you. And that I believe everything you’ve said. How about that?”

I pushed harder and tried to scoot out from under him. He gripped my wrists and pinned me, a cruel smile turning his lips.

“I know what you’re up to. You have a mic in here somewhere? You want me to say things?”

My heart sank and fear rose in its place. “No.”

“You do. I know you do. That’s okay. I’ll find it. But first, you and I are going to have a little fun. Then I’ll take care of you so that you’re never scared again. You follow?”

I inhaled to scream, but he clapped a hand over my mouth. Where is Carey?

I hit his ribs with my free hand, but he pinned my arm to my side with his elbow.

He leaned into my ear and whispered, “I already told my squad you’re here. They’re waiting in the lobby to come up here and finish you once I’m done.”

Real tears seeped from my eyes and ran down to the bedspread. Something was wrong. Carey should have been here by now.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted you? How many times you’ve ignored me, only to let that piece-of-rubbish Kennedy forget you?” He squeezed my wrist hard, pain searing up my arm.

I shook my head and tried to buck him, but he’d settled on top of me like lead.

“I would have treated you so good. You wouldn’t have been hurt. But no. You messed up and opened your legs for him instead of me. I’m going to remedy that right now. It’s going to be a great night … for me, anyway.” He leered at me and shoved his thigh between my legs. “And when I’m done with you, I’m going to find Kennedy and Carey.” He looked around, raising his eyebrows in a thoughtful expression. “I hope you set it up for video. I’d really like to show them what we do together before they join you at the bottom of the Gulf.”

I screamed, but the sound made it no farther than his palm.

A knock at the door turned his head. “Do not disturb,” he called.

I struggled beneath him, but he only moved his hand up so it covered my nose and my mouth, cutting off my air.

The knock came again and a woman’s voice with it. “We have the champagne you ordered.”

“Leave it by the door.”

I tried to turn my head to dislodge his hand, but he let my wrist go and gripped my hair, keeping me still as he suffocated me.

“I can’t do that, sir. Against hotel policy.”

“Then take it back. I don’t want it.”

“Sir. I’m not allowed to do that either. It’s already paid for.”

My vision began to dim as I fought for air that wasn’t coming.

“Keep it, give it away, I don’t care.”

A brief pause, then, “Sir, I’m sorry, but that’s against policy, too. I’m just trying to do my job here.”

“Idiot.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife, flicking out the blade and locking it in place before pressing it to my throat. “Let’s go answer the door.”

Chapter Eighteen

KENNEDY

The garage door closed, and the house fell silent. I’d been an idiot, but any man would have been an idiot with a woman like Scarlett wearing black lingerie. The thought curdled in my mind, because she intended to let Eric get a look. If Eric even showed. He could send killers in his place. She hadn’t listened to any of my warnings. Instead, she and Carey had decided to handle it on their own.

I yanked at the rope, but it held fast. Whatever knot Carey had taught Scarlett wasn’t the half-ended kind I knew about.

“Idiot!” I yelled and kicked my legs out of sheer frustration, as if that would help. It didn’t. But it didn’t matter. I would rip the rope apart thread by thread if I had to, if that was the way to get to Scarlett.

I studied the threads around my left wrist. She’d tied it just tight enough that I couldn’t shimmy out of it, but it didn’t cut off my circulation. Same for the right wrist. I scooted up the bed so my back was against the pipe headboard. Pushing back against it, I tested to see if it had any give. None. I suspected some of the pipe was original to the warehouse and ran down to the first floor and then into the ground. And, of course, I was tied to the original pipes.

She’d left enough slack between the headboard and my wrists that, after some huffing and more than a few curse words, I was able to turn myself around to face it, though now my hands were crossed and bound even more tightly.

The silver pipes snaked around each other, but I could see areas where they were mismatched and some had been soldered together or screwed into one another. The patchwork of metal was a mixture of old and new. The original pipes weren’t going anywhere, but the ones Carey added might be susceptible to force. Problem was, I could reach only two individual pipes with my hands twisted, and both of those looked to be the permanent ones.

“Idiot!” I seethed and yanked some more, the rope chafing my wrists. “Calm down, moron. Think, think, think.” Peering at the pipes again, I noticed one that might have been low enough to wrench free. It was short, but the solder looked tight. Still, it was worth a try. But there was no way to get to it from this angle. More huffing and cursing, and I twisted to lie on my back again so I’d have more slack.

I scooted up and reached my right hand as far as I could toward the short pipe.

“Yes. Idiot yes.” I was barely able to get my fingers around it, but it was something. I gripped as hard as I could and yanked. Nothing happened, except a rattling noise rose from the vibration in the permanent pipes. I pulled again and again, but at the angle, I couldn’t get enough force to wrench it free.

I rested for a moment, sweat coating my brow. Leaning my head back, I stared at the short pipe, willing it to break off in my hand. What would I do with it once I had it? I didn’t know. But I’d definitely be better off with than without.

Gripping it again, I pulled until I thought the tendons in my wrist might pop. No movement. Scarlett had been gone for at least fifteen minutes, maybe more. Carey had thought to put every sort of rope known to man on his walls, but nothing useful, like a clock.

I leaned my head back and took a deep breath. My arm wasn’t going to get it done on its own. I glanced down my body. Six-four, 220 pounds. I’d been leaving out my best leverage from the force equation.

I wrapped my fingers around the bar, and instead of trying to wrench it free, I pulled myself up, letting my full weight come to bear on that one soldered joint. My muscles burned, but I lifted until I was, for the most part, hanging off that one piece of metal. Then I kicked my legs up and back down, bouncing all my weight. My arm and abs protested, but I kept pulling and kicking.

Metal clanged from below from my efforts and the pipes whined, but nothing gave. Until it did. With a satisfying ting, the short pipe came loose. I dropped to the bed, the metal in my hand.

“Yes!” I roared like I’d just killed a wildebeest with my bare hands. “Kennedy Granade laying the pipe, ladies and gentlemen.”

After the brief victory, dread swirled in my gut like a tornado. Get to Scarlett, get to Scarlett, get to Scarlett.

I inspected my spoils. The pipe had a jagged edge from where the solder had come apart. I scooted the pipe through my fingers and went to work on the rope, holding the threads taut while I whacked at them with the rough edge. Ten minutes later, one hand was free, and I was able to untie the other.

I dashed out of bed and swiped my .45 off the island before running down the back stairs, but when I got to the garage, both cars were gone. I flicked on the overhead fluorescents. Carey’s motorcycles glinted, speed and danger all rolled into sexy packages of steel and chrome.

The Ducati would do.

I snagged a helmet from the wall, turned the key, and fired up the crotch rocket. It purred like a kitten as I eased it toward the exit and hit the button to raise the garage door. A light rain fell, and I’d be soaked through in no time. But I didn’t care. I had to get to her.

I tore off through the slick streets, heading toward downtown. I wasn’t much of a rider, but necessity made me bolder. I gunned it through the narrow streets and then out onto the four-lane highway that was the lifeline between Metairie and New Orleans. Dodging cars, I weaved in and out of traffic and eventually took over the centerline as my own.

The rain pelted my exposed skin, but I didn’t care. The sting would be worth it once I knew she was safe in my arms. A car turned in front of me, and I barely missed colliding with it as I wrenched the bike to the right. The back wheel fishtailed on the slick pavement. I held on tight and barely straightened it out before nailing another car ahead of me. I whizzed past it, the side-view mirror grazing my upper arm.

“Idiot!” I shouted into the rainy dark, lit only by red brake lights and the random working streetlight. I cruised off the main street and took the side roads instead. Flying through stop signs and around cars, I made good time. When I pulled up in front of the hotel, it was right at seven. If Eric was upstairs, I should have enough time to get to the room before anything happened.

I parked under the front entrance and darted past the valet, ignoring him completely. The hotel was one of the fancier ones in the city, and the bar to the right was decked out in gold and crimson. Several ladies sat drinking, spaced out enough for any man to come and pick them up.

Everything else passed in a blur as I jogged to the elevators and jammed my forearm into the closing doors. They pulled open for me and I stepped inside. Soaking wet and shivering, I did my best to smile at the elderly couple who rode with me. They smushed themselves into the back corner as I pressed the button for the eleventh floor.

I gave them a small salute. They winced.

The ride to my floor was short, and I ran down the hall until I found the set of suite doors Carey had arranged. Room 1134 was where Scarlett would be. I walked up and raised my knuckles to knock, but hesitated.

She’d asked me trust her. No, that wasn’t true. She’d practically begged me to trust her all day, and I hadn’t. Instead, I wound up tied to a bed. That rankled, but then again, what choice had I given her? Still, I couldn’t leave her alone with a man like Eric. I pulled back to knock and then stayed my hand again.

Idiot. If I knocked, I’d ruin her whole plan.

I glanced over to room 1136, where Carey was set up. Though it took every tiny shred of willpower I possessed, I backed off and walked to Carey’s door. I heard voices from inside. Was Scarlett with Carey? I knocked lightly. The voices went silent.

I stared at the suite number. It was correct. I was at the right place. I knocked again, a little louder. Silence, and no one came to the door. What the heck? The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Something was wrong.

I eyed Scarlett’s room again. If Eric was in there, chances were slim he’d just open up for me. How would I get in? I glanced down the hall. A portly man got off the elevator with a petite blonde who clung to him almost as tightly as his shirt.

I patted my back pocket to make sure I had my wallet and took off back downstairs.

“Keep it, give it away, I don’t care.” Eric’s voice called from inside the hotel room.

“Tell him that won’t work, either,” I whispered to the big-haired, brash make-upped hooker I’d picked up in the lobby. Twenty dollars well spent.

“Sir, I’m sorry, but that’s against policy, too. I’m just trying to do my job here.”

“Perfect,” I mouthed from my spot flat against the wall.

She winked and held up the champagne and glasses I’d borrowed from in front of another room down the hall.

“Okay, I’m coming. Hang on.”

“You’re going to want to back up for this,” I whispered, and pulled the .45 from my waistband, clicking off the safety. “Enjoy the champagne.”

She took a few steps away from the door as I heard the bolt slide open and the handle turned. I threw my weight into the door. Eric let out a surprised cry as I rushed inside. The door shut behind me as I advanced on him. He whipped Scarlett to his front and pressed a knife to her neck.

“One step closer and I’ll cut her.”

Her eyes were wide, her mascara running from her tears. Other than that, she didn’t look hurt, but I couldn’t be sure. Rage boiled to my surface, and I wanted nothing more than to rip Eric’s head off.

“Stop!” He shouted. “Drop your gun.”

“It’s okay, Scarlett. It’s going to be okay.” I lowered the gun.

“Drop it.”

I hesitated, but I knew I wasn’t a good-enough shot to take him out without endangering Scarlett.

“I said drop it!” Eric nicked her skin, blood pooling on the edge of the blade. He would pay for that.

I knelt and put the gun on the floor before standing to my full height.

“Now, back the heck up and go into the hallway.”

“Let her go, Eric. She doesn’t know anything.” I wanted to move closer, but I didn’t dare.

“I said open the door and step into the hall.” He crushed her to him, his arm squeezing her ribs, but she didn’t make a sound, only stared at me with imploring eyes.

“I can’t do that. I won’t.”

“Then you’re going to watch me cut her throat, because that’s how this is going to end, with the two of you dead.” He kissed her ear. “Sorry I’m going to have to skip the fireworks I had planned.”

“Eric, don’t.” I took a step back.

“Too late. First her, then you.”

A bang came from my left and the connecting suite door burst open, shards of wood flying as the bolt and the doorjamb splintered. Two people rushed in, both in black ski masks, and aimed their guns at us. A few quiet pops, then a sting at my neck, and my vision began to blur.

“Scarlett?” She dropped to the floor as Eric fell back onto the bed. I tried to crawl to her, but made it only a foot before my vision dimmed and I closed my eyes.

Chapter Nineteen

SCARLETT

“Scarlett Carmichael. She’s the attorney from Stone and Porter.” A man’s voice, low and close.

“Who’s the guy?” a woman asked.

“Another attorney. Kennedy Granade. He’s the one with U.S. attorney brother.”

“And the other guy?”

“Eric Stiles.”

“Piece of trash. Take him and get his confession.”

A scraping noise, as if something heavy was being dragged away.

The woman made a hmm noise. “So Scarlett and Kennedy were in on it, or not?”

I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids refused to cooperate.

“Gorepheus says they weren’t, that they were trying to bring Rhone down.”

“Gorepheus isn’t with us, so we afford his word the same weight as everyone else’s. Garbage.”

“Hey, pretty girl. Wake up.” The woman’s voice whispered close to my ear and someone gripped my hair and pulled my head up. Sensation began to return to my limbs, and I realized I was tied to a chair.

I forced my eyelids open. My vision slowly cleared to show a woman, her blond hair shaved along the sides and long on the top, with heavy piercings in her lips and brows, staring up at me. She settled into a cross-legged position on the floor, a pensive look creasing her brow. She looked about thirty years old, maybe a little more. Her black leather jacket was well worn, and spiderwebs decorated both sides of her neck in stark ink.

The room was frigid, and the light overhead illuminated only a small circle around me. There was no way to know where I was.

She smiled. “I’m Charlotte’s Web. You’re Scarlett. Care to tell me what you were doing with Eric Stiles, enemy of Discord?”

My tongue was too big in my mouth, and I couldn’t make words.

“Give her a sip of water,” she instructed.

A shadowy figure to my left pulled my head back and held a cup to my lips. I sipped and sputtered a little before settling down and trying to focus on Charlotte’s Web again.

“He was trying to kill me.” My voice was a croak.

She looked me up and down. “You’re the one who looks dressed—or rather undressed—to kill. From what I can tell, you set up a rendezvous with Eric and intended to mess him and double-cross Carey and Kennedy. You were in on the Rhone break-in and Fluffy’s murder the entire time.”

“N-no. That’s not true.” I tried to shake my head, but I couldn’t because of the man gripping my hair. “I was trying to get Eric to admit what he and Frank Rhone had done, record it, then give it to the feds. That was the plan.”

“And you were the bait for getting him to talk?” She gave me another once-over.

“Yes. But he knew what I was doing. He was going to hurt me, t-to—”

“Rape you?” she filled in.

“Yes.”

Someone groaned next to me, but I couldn’t see who it was.

“I want to believe you. I do. Eric’s fate is already sealed. He sought us out, asked us to perform the break-in and set up Greenwood. We were all too happy to oblige. Discord has no problem taking money from the fascists and letting them fight it out amongst themselves. But when we discovered what happened to Fluffy.” She dug in her pocket and pulled out a metal set of knuckles. She slid them onto her right hand and flexed, showing me the spiders set in steel.

I shivered. “I swear I’m telling you the truth. We—Kennedy, and Carey, and me—were trying to expose Rhone. They tried to have us killed, too.”

She raised her eyebrows. “We heard about the shoot-out at the house on the Pontchartrain. But everyone got away unharmed. Makes it seem like you were in on it. Maybe had cold feet and warned your newfound friends instead of staying loyal to Rhone and Eric?”

“No.” Kennedy’s voice, slurred and slow, rang out next to me.

“Hi, handsome.” She gave him the same friendly smile she’d greeted me with. “You have something to add to our little conversation?”

“Scarlett is inno—” He coughed and tried again. “Innocent. She’s telling the truth.”

A scream echoed from somewhere farther inside the building.

I shook so hard, the chair squeaked.

“Don’t worry, pretty. That’s just Eric.”

“Good,” Kennedy spat.

I nodded as best I could with the man’s hand still pulling my head back.

“He was going to kill her. He knew we were onto them. You can check it all. Did you search the hotel room? There was recording equipment. She was trying to get his confession. Have you talked to Carey?”

“Gorepheus says you two are legit.” She stroked the knuckles against her cheek almost lovingly. “But we don’t trust anyone outside of Discord. What happened to Fluffy being the prime example why. Then again, we did find the recording equipment. Chantilly Mace is watching the footage as we speak. I suspect she’ll be the deciding vote on you two.”

Footsteps approached, echoing through the gloom. Charlotte’s Web smiled. “Speak of the devil.”

A brunette appeared behind Charlotte’s Web and leaned over, whispering in her ear.

“Well, well.” She stood and thanked the brunette, who retreated back into the dark. “Looks like you two are telling the truth.” She plucked the metal knuckles off and dropped them into her pocket. “Too bad. Maybe next time. Untie them.” She waved a hand and the man holding my hair finally released me.

Warm fingers played at my wrists and my back. The ropes fell away and I could breathe again. I glanced to Kennedy. His eyes were fixed on me, an inscrutable look on his face—relieved, angry, happy all at war with one another.

“You tied me up.” His expression turned to a glare.

“It’s my job.” The burly man who’d untied me went to work on Kennedy’s hands as I rubbed my wrists.

“Not you. Her. She tied me up.”

The guy chuckled. “That’s your business, though I’m definitely into that kink.”

“About that—I’m sorry. But you were being stubborn, and I had to do something to try to get us out of this mess.” I tried to stand, but my knees wobbled so I sat back down again.

“The drugs will wear off steadily.” Charlotte’s Web stretched her arms over her head, her lean body well muscled and covered in ink wherever I saw a patch of bare skin. “I’m going to check on our guest Eric.” She turned to the man. “Take them to Gorepheus once they can walk.”

“You’re sorry?” Kennedy continued as if Charlotte’s Web hadn’t spoken. She smirked and walked away.

“Oh, look, everybody—Scarlett’s sorry. That’s great. You left me utterly helpless and tried to seduce a murderer!”

I winced as his voice rose. “I had to.”

The man finished untying Kennedy. “I’ll be, um, over here. You two work it out and I’ll take you to Gorepheus.” He backed away and melted into the surrounding darkness.

Kennedy stood, wobbled, but kept coming until he pulled me up to him and wrapped me in his arms. “Don’t ever do that to me again. Promise me.”

“I promise I will never try and seduce an IT guy who moonlights as a hacker killer and cyberspy.”

He growled, literally, his frustration welling up as he held me close. “You know what I mean. Promise you’ll never run away from me. Promise you’ll never leave me behind.”

The butterflies in my stomach whirled in a chaotic dance and I snuggled against his neck, breathing him in. “I promise.”

He put his hands on my cheeks and pressed his forehead to mine. “I love you.”

I smiled, unable to contain the warmth spreading through me despite the chill in the room. “I love you, too.”

He smirked. “That’s a given.”

I laughed and he stole it by kissing me, his lips soft, his tongue caressing mine. He tangled a hand in my hair and wrapped his arm around me, lifting me off the floor. We kissed long and deep until I had to come up for air or pass out.

“One more thing.” He put me back on my feet.

“What’s that?”

“Promise me you’ll never wear this outfit for anyone else but me.”

I twirled a lock of hair around my index finger. “I don’t know if I can make such a wide-ranging promise.”

“Scarlett.” He ran his hands down my back and lightly smacked my rear. “We’ve talked about this.”

I bit my lip to hide my grin. “Fine. Only you.”

“Better.”

“You two lovebirds ready to see Gorepheus?”

“Please.” I crossed my arms over my chest to hide my breasts and try to fight off the chill.

Kennedy unbuttoned his shirt, stripped it off, and put it around my shoulders. His nipples hardened from the cold and I wanted to bite one just to see what he’d do.

The man stepped into the pool of light. “He’s in here. Follow me.”

Kennedy tucked me into his side and we followed the man. The room beyond was expansive, windowless, and empty.

We passed three sets of doors and, at the fourth, the man pushed through. We were bathed in light and warmth, the side room much more hospitable than the barren warehouse area where we’d been kept.

“Scarlett!” Carey shot up from his seat on a couch in the midst of several people and rushed over to me. He hugged me so hard, I had to pat him on his back viciously just to get away.

“My man Kennedy.” They hugged, but it was much more casual and less constricting than my treatment.

“I’m so glad you’re safe.” I huddled with the two of them. “What’s going on? What happened at the hotel?”

“They got me with a dart gun, same as you. I didn’t know what happened until Chantilly told me what she’d seen on the video. Goodness, I’m so sorry. I would have run in and ripped his head off.”

Kennedy held out his fist. “Pound it.”

“Right on.” Carey fist-bumped him. “But I was out. Apparently, we weren’t the only ones who figured out Fluffy’s death wasn’t a suicide.”

Laughter erupted from the small group Carey had been sitting with, some private joke among them. They acted like drugging and kidnapping were par for the course. Maybe it was for them.

“They’re going to let us go?” Kennedy asked.

“Yeah, as soon as they get Eric’s confession.” Carey squeezed my shoulder. “I really would have killed him with my bare hands.”

“It’s okay. Kennedy saved the day.”

“And I got the girl.” He pulled me into his side as Carey rolled his eyes.

“There’s no way I could beat that. You saved her from a knife-wielding maniac. I can’t compete.”

“Technically”—Charlotte’s Web had sneaked up behind us—“I saved her from the knife-wielding maniac, so I should get the girl.”

I squeaked as she pinched my rear when she walked by. I would have had words if we weren’t knee-deep in hackers with no qualms about violence to further their goals.

“Listen up. We got Eric Stiles’s confession. It’s ready to go live as soon as the rest of our plan is in place. Chantilly, you will escort the civilians back to their ever-so-secret warehouse hideaway that we’ve known about since they showed up there. Lynx, have you contacted the hired guns and told them to stand down?”

“Yep.” The burly guy who’d untied us spoke up. “We had to pay double, but they won’t take any more work from Rhone.”

“Fine. Quartz, where’s Rhone right now?”

A woman spoke up, her eyes glued to her laptop monitor. “Mansion on the river.”

“Lynx, you and I will handle the wet work. Quartz, you’re lookout. Everyone else, I want you working your channels to hype the upcoming Discord transmission.”

“Wait. Wet work?” I asked.

Charlotte’s Web glanced at me over her shoulder. “Lynx, get them out of here.”

“Got it.” The burly guy moved toward us and Kennedy tried to scoot me behind him.

“You’re going to kill them?”

Kennedy squeezed my hip. “Scarlett, I don’t think this is the time or the pl—”

I held my ground. “Wait, you can’t just execute people.”

“We’re Discord. We do whatever the heck we want.” The group erupted in “idiot yeah’s” in response to Charlotte’s Web.

“But—”

“He was going to rape you, kill you. Scarlett.” Kennedy gripped my elbow. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Listen to your boyfriend, Scarlett.”

Something flittered around in my mind, an idea that might not work, but it was worth a shot. Kennedy tried to hustle me out the door as Lynx pushed Carey along.

“Wait, I have an idea. What if you could bring them to justice without having to kill them?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Charlotte’s Web kept her back to me.

“But what if you got paid?”

“What are you talking about? Let’s just go.” Kennedy shook his head.

“Millions!” I yelled as the door closed.

“Wait!” Charlotte’s Web barked.

Lynx sighed and pulled the door open, pushing me back through.

She’d turned to me, hands on her hips. “What are you talking about?”

“Yeah.” Kennedy echoed, “What are you talking about?”

“You could be a federal whistle-blower.”

Half the room laughed, but Charlotte’s Web didn’t. “What do you mean?”

“While I was researching the intellectual property violations Rhone was alleging against Greenwood, I stumbled on a federal whistle-blower statute that was enacted in the 1990s during the dot-com boom. It grants federal immunity and millions of dollars to whistle-blowers who alert the government to just the sort of fraudulent practices Rhone was trying to run with this hack.”

Kennedy scratched his jaw. “I’ve actually heard of that.”

“But you’d have to turn Rhone in, and Eric, if you have any hope of gaining immunity and the cash.”

Charlotte’s Web narrowed her eyes and walked to stand in front of me, her nose only inches from mine. “Immunity? So you’re saying you want us to go legit?”

“I’m saying you can. You can erase your past crimes, whatever they may be, and start over.”

“I did it.” Carey chimed in.

I grabbed and squeezed his hand in silent thanks.

“But it’s not as fun, is it?” She turned her gaze to him.

“No, of course not. But I don’t have to look over my shoulder anymore.” He scanned the room. “I know all of you know what I mean. I don’t have to constantly worry that the feds will go to my family and try to get information on me. I don’t have to worry that a simple traffic stop will result in a sentence in a federal pound-me-in-the-rear prison. And, since we’re among friends, I’ll go ahead and tell you I still download movies and music illegally. So I’m a rebel, just not one with prison bars in his future.”

“Look.” Kennedy stepped forward. “She could really be onto something here. I’ll take it straight to my brother Lincoln at the U.S. Attorney’s Office. You’ll be given the fairest shake there is, because that guy is a hard-core, pain-in-the-rear stickler for federal procedure. Trust me.”

Charlotte’s Web pinned me with her dark eyes. “Why do you want to save them after what they did to you?”

I shook my head. “It’s not them I want to save. It’s you.”

Epilogue

SCARLETT

Charlotte Morris a.k.a. Charlotte’s Web sat on the witness stand, her face serene as she recounted how Frank Rhone and Eric Stiles hired her to break into their system, steal their algorithms, and make it appear as if Greenwood were behind the theft.

Lincoln Granade, Kennedy’s brother, took her through the details of her past with Discord and her present as a forthright citizen. Eric and Frank sat at their counsel table. I made a point never to look at them. I wouldn’t give them so much as a glance, not even when I was on the witness stand.

Kennedy watched his brother walk around the well, speaking to the judge more than to his witness. “He doesn’t seem like a man who’s going to get hitched in forty-eight hours,” Kennedy whispered in my ear. “I’d be vomiting, maybe running for the Canadian border. Something like that.”

I glared at him and he pulled me closer into his side.

“Why did you wear your hair up today?”

“Shh. I’m trying to watch a real lawyer do his job.” I smiled, knowing full well why I’d wrapped my hair up in a tight bun.

“I think you need to go to the bathroom.” His breath tickled my ear.

“No. I went before the session started.”

“Then I think you need a drink of water.”

“I think you need to be quiet before we get tossed out of the courtroom.” I glanced up to the bailiff, but he wasn’t paying us any attention.

“Do I need to go full screamer? Is that what it will take to get you out of here?”

I pinched his leg. “We’re here to support Charlotte. Can you not be good for a little while longer?”

“Fine.” He slumped back against the wooden pew.

“Let’s take a short recess before we continue. Ms. Morris, you may step down.” The judge stood and retreated to her chambers.

“Score.” Kennedy entwined his fingers with mine and pulled me to my feet.

We stepped into the middle aisle, and I turned toward the front of the courtroom, where Charlotte and Lincoln were talking.

“Nope.” Kennedy pulled me away, toward the hallway.

“Kennedy!” I whispered, but he ignored me and kept walking, my hand firmly in his. Pink bloomed in my cheeks, and a rush of adrenaline coursed through me.

We hurried past a couple of jury deliberation rooms, but then he stopped and pulled me into one. He flipped off the lights and turned the lock on the door. We could see into the hallway through the side panes of glass, but no one could see into the darkened room where we were.

“Get on the table.”

“No, we can’t.” I reached to click the lock back over, but he seized my wrist.

“Assume the position, Scarlett.” He laughed and walked me to the long conference table.

My breathing sped up and excitement built inside me. “We’ll get caught.”

“That makes it even hotter. Bend over.” He put my palms flat on the table and pressed his erection against my rear. “Are you wearing the garters I like?” He slid his hands under my skirt and groaned. “Yes, yes, you are.”

“This will result in disbarment,” I protested as he slid my skirt up and rested it on my hips.

He pushed my panties to the side and sank two fingers inside me. I moaned and bent all the way over, pressing my breasts into the table.

“Idiot yes.” He pulsed his fingers in and out of me a few times, then withdrew. His belt buckle jangled, and then I felt his tip at my entrance. “Getting disbarred for this is worth it.” He pushed inside me and covered my mouth with his palm mid-moan.

He bit my back through my shirt and reached around to grip my breast, kneading it as he messed me in short, strong strokes. Our skin slapped as people walked past in the hallway, but the sound must not have carried, because no one gave a second glance to our room. I pushed back into him and went up on my tiptoes in my heels.

“You know it drives me crazy when you do your hair like this.” He gripped my bun and dug his fingers in, searching for the elastic so he could flip it up and off.

I craned my neck around as he got the band loose and my hair fell around me. “Do you know how long I worked to get it like that?”

He thrusted harder and grabbed a handful. “I don’t know, but I do so love messing it up.”

“Jerk,” I said on a breathy exhale.

“Is that an offer?” He reached around my thigh and stroked my clit.

I bit my forearm to muffle my sounds as he rubbed back and forth across my nub, sending every spark of heat in my body to the one spot between my thighs.

“Closer. I need you closer.” He pulled my hair and I pushed up until I lay my head back on his shoulder.

He kissed me, messy and hard as our bodies moved against each other at a quickening pace. More people walked by. Kennedy was right. The thrill of getting caught had me climbing higher faster.

“You like that?” He bit my neck and I arched my back, feeling him slide in and out to the same rhythm as his fingers on my clit.

“Yes, perfect. Don’t stop.”

“I couldn’t stop even if the judge walked in.”

“Oh my goodness, Kennedy.” The tension built in my hips and I had trouble catching my breath.

“Naughty girl. That turned you on more, didn’t it.” He licked my neck. “Me, too.”

“I’m close.” I ground back onto him.

He shoved up hard and stilled, letting me work his cock the way I wanted. “That’s it. I’m going to blow if you keep doing that.”

“I’m coming.” I said the words right as my pussy constricted and the pleasure hit me, sending me into orbit.

I must have been noisy because he clapped his hand over my mouth again and gave another hard thrust deep inside me. He grunted his release as I dragged my nails down the wooden table, my legs going weak as my orgasm rolled through me. He pumped a few more times and then relaxed as I floated down from my high.

He lowered me to the table and patted my rear before pulling my skirt back into place.

“Now I do have to go the bathroom.”

“See, you should have listened to me earlier.”

I kicked my foot up and pegged him in the shin.

“Ow. Dang.” He hopped back.

“Deserved it.” I stood and tried to finger-comb my hair.

“I did deserve it.” He wrapped his arms around me and nuzzled into my hair. “You’re not mad, are you?”

“For getting off in a federal courthouse?” I tilted my head back and kissed him. “Never.”

“That’s my girl.”

“Maybe we could do it again?”

“Right now? I’m good, baby. But not that good. Maybe if you hadn’t already taken advantage of me in my office this morning right under Faye’s nose, then I could.”

I bit my lip, remembering how I’d been on my knees under his desk. “That was fun.”

“You’re a bad influence.”

I widened my eyes in mock amazement. “Me?”

He smacked my rear again. “Yes, you.”

“Come on.” I pulled him out the door.

After cleaning up in the bathrooms, we returned to the courtroom. Charlotte and Lincoln were speaking quietly at the back.

“It’s going great. You make an excellent witness.” I put my arm around Charlotte.

She smirked and returned my side hug, but not without letting her palm drift down to my rear.

Kennedy smacked the back of her hand. “Mine.”

Lincoln, the elder Granade brother, pinched the bridge of his nose and bowed his head, letting his dark hair fall over the scar running through his eyebrow. “This is more like being a high school teacher than a prosecutor.”

“Cheer up. At least you get to lay claim to the biggest whistle-blower case south of the Mason–Dixon.” Kennedy punched him in the arm. “You ready for the big day this weekend?”

Charlotte coughed into her palm to cover as she said, “Breeder.”

“I don’t want to talk about that right now. The defense is set to put their witnesses on the stand.” Lincoln glanced up, his green eyes focusing on something at my back. “Hang on. They want to talk.” He strode past, his frame taller and broader than Kennedy’s, though not by much.

“I’m not much for men, but like I’ve been saying, he might make me switch teams.” Charlotte licked her lips as Lincoln met with the lead defense attorney and engaged in a whisper conference.

“Have you seen his fiancée?” Kennedy asked, but before he gave her a chance to answer, he continued, “She’s a looker, and she would claw your eyes out if she heard you talking about her man.”

“She sounds more interesting by the second.” Charlotte purred like a cat, the sound realistic in an unnerving way.

I had to agree with Kennedy. “Trust me. Evan is, for lack of a better term, a bad jerk. You don’t want to mess with her.” In the times I’d met her over the past few months, she’d certainly made an impression. She and Caroline, Wash’s girlfriend, and I had formed a little “Granade Girls” club, as Kennedy called it. And I was all set to be Evan’s bridesmaid on Saturday when she married Lincoln.

“Hey, what did I miss?” Carey walked in and straightened his black skinny tie. His dirty blond hair had grown long and shaggy, making him look even younger.

“Nothing. Well, except Charlotte’s amazing testimony. She’s taking one for the team.”

“Yeah, Lynx texted me earlier, asking how it was going. I told him all seemed to be on track since Charlotte hasn’t gotten cuffed and stuffed yet.” He grinned and elbowed her.

“Not funny. Being around all this law enforcement”—she glanced to the bailiff—“makes me itch.”

“They aren’t so bad.” Carey shrugged. “Lincoln’s a fed and he’s doing you a solid.”

“Doing me a solid. Mmm.” Charlotte purred again, and we fell into the necessarily awkward silence.

Lincoln strolled back over to us. “They want a deal.”

“No.” Charlotte crossed her arms over her chest, black and green ink snaking from beneath her shirtsleeves.

“I haven’t even told you what the deal is yet.”

“If it means they walk, I don’t want it.” Charlotte’s earlier banter was gone, and steel lined her voice. “They killed Fluffy. They tried to kill you both, not to mention what else that piece-of-rubbish Eric tried to do to you.”

I stiffened. Since everything had happened, I’d awoken a few times in the night, crying and shaking. Kennedy was always there, wiping my tears and promising me I was safe. I hadn’t had one of the night terrors in a few weeks, and hoped they were done for good. But I wanted Eric put away. Just thinking of him gave me the creeps.

“They can’t just walk away.” She shot an acid stare at Eric and Frank.

“That’s part of the deal. They don’t want to have to go through two trials before landing in a penitentiary. This is the first trial, federal charges only. They still have to go through a state trial and a state sentencing on the murder and other charges.”

“I know.” Charlotte rolled her wrist in a “speed it up” motion.

Lincoln glowered but continued. “They want to avoid a Louisiana state prison and the possibility of the death sentence. They came to me, offering to take twenty years apiece.”

Charlotte. “They can’t—”

He held up his hand. “Hear me out. That’s what they wanted. I countered with life sentences, no chance for parole, in medium-security facilities.”

Charlotte tilted her head. “Medium? Why not low? I thought this sort of white-collar trash got minimum-security prison time.”

Lincoln narrowed his eyes at her. His stare was like a lead weight, suffocating and unyielding. “Because if I were to put them in minimum security, something tells me they would make it maybe a year at most on the inside before someone put a well-placed knife between their ribs.”

“Why, whatever would give you that idea?” Charlotte simpered in her best imitation southern accent.

Kennedy and I exchanged a look, and he pulled me tighter into his side and away from Charlotte.

“I think you know. And I think this is the best way to keep you out of trouble. There’s no guarantee they’d be convicted in state court, especially since the main victim was a world away. And, with this deal, we get them where we want them—behind bars for the rest of their lives. You get what you want, too—ridiculous payday and amnesty for all members of Discord.”

Charlotte pinched her lips together and remained silent for several moments. She looked to Carey.

“Take it. Put them away, and move on,” he said.

She sighed. “Fine. If they’ll take that deal, we’ll be satisfied. But nothing less. Understand?” She pointed a finger at Lincoln’s face.

Lincoln cocked his head. “You know you’re about as physically threatening as a whippet, right?”

“Looks can be deceiving.” I would never forget her metal knuckles with the spiders on them.

Charlotte smirked. “Listen to Scarlett. She has more sense than the two of you put together.”

“I can’t argue with that. But as for this case, the ball’s in their court. If they don’t take the deal, we’ll start the defense phase when the judge takes the bench.”

“I’d love to sit second chair on this. Go all ‘I am the law’ on somebody.” Kennedy grinned at his big brother.

“You know Mom and Dad wanted a girl, right? That’s why they went for three.” A small smile creased the corners of his lips.

Kennedy smirked. “Dick.”

“I believe that’s your claim to fame, not mine.”

“Did you just admit to these two lovely ladies that mine’s bigger than yours?” Kennedy puffed out his chest. “I’m glad you’ve finally set the record straight.”

I covered my face with my hands as Carey snickered.

Lincoln stepped toward Kennedy. “We may be in a courthouse, but I am more than happy to stomp a mudhole in your— Aw, incredible. Looks like they want to talk again.” Lincoln walked away and engaged in another conference, this one briefer than the last. On his way back, he pointed to the hallway.

We shuffled out the double doors and stood in the marble rotunda beneath the statue of Justice balancing the scales.

“They’re taking the deal.”

“Life, no parole. Right?” Charlotte asked.

“That’s right.” He pulled out his cell phone and began texting at lightning speed. “I’m having my assistant type up the particulars for the plea. She’ll bring me the agreement, we’ll have them sign, and then take it to the judge. This deal will be sealed within the hour.” He paused his texting. “You’re free to go.”

Charlotte shook her head in amazement. “So, that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

She turned to me and gave me a hug, the tips of her spiky hair tickling my nose. “If you ever want to switch teams, you know where to find me,” she whispered.

I patted her back awkwardly before she let me go. Then she shook Kennedy’s hand.

“I’ll report this to the crew. They’ll be pleased. Now, which prison will the judge send them to?” she asked.

Lincoln pointed to the stairs. “Go. Meet me at the office in the morning to get your paperwork signed on the whistle-blower money. But if I hear so much as a whisper of you hacking again or doing anything to retaliate against Rhone, we’ll be on opposite sides of the courtroom, and I can guarantee you there will be prison time in it for you.”

“Chill. I’m good. We’re good.” Charlotte rolled her shoulders and shot me a wink before hitting the stairs.

“Did she ask you to be her girlfriend?” Kennedy raised his eyebrows.

“Maybe.” I batted my eyelashes.

“Are you considering it?”

“Every lady has her secrets.”

“You are headed for a spanking.” He pulled me closer and bit my neck.

“Cut it out, you two.” Lincoln pocketed his phone, and Carey rolled his eyes.

Kennedy gave me one more nibble and turned to his brother. “Cock block. Hey, now that the hard part’s over, let’s talk about the lingerie you plan to wear on the wedding night. Maybe something to lift and separate here.” Kennedy ran his hands along his brother’s chest before Lincoln slapped them away.

“Goodness, I can’t take you anywhere.” Lincoln laughed.

Their antics always turned me into a teenage girl, giggling into my palm and sometimes laughing so hard, I cried. Even the middle brother, Wash, would join in sometimes despite his reputation for being a hard-rear.

“Ooh.” Kennedy tapped his index finger on his chin. “So definitely a corset? I like it. Daring but also somehow demure.”

“Shut up and get out of here. I’ll see you bright and early Saturday morning.” Lincoln flipped him off and pushed through the courtroom doors, calling over his shoulder, “Good to see you, Scarlett.”

“Well, phooy idiot idiot.” Evan plopped onto the bench in the bride’s room at Lynch Lane. Her gown, open at the back and skirting across her collarbones in the front, was a dream of white lace.

“Lie back.” I stood and pushed at her shoulder.

“What, why?”

“Because you’ll wrinkle it at your stomach if you don’t. Either stand or lie down, but you can’t sit.”

“Is this what you learn at debutante balls and all that?” Evan lay back.

“Careful with the hair! Hang your head off the side.” I made sure her red curls cascaded without being crushed. My mother had taught me well, and though I didn’t exactly adhere to her standards on a daily basis, keeping a bride fresh and unwrinkled definitely called for all the tricks of the trade.

“This is awkward.” She frowned and tried to sit up again.

I took her hand and pulled her to her feet.

“On your feet or on your back.”

A snort sounded from the bathroom and Caroline walked out. “That’s what Wash said to me last night. What are you mad about, anyway?”

“I just realized I forgot the something blue. I’m supposed to have blue, right? I have something old.” She touched the antique diamond tiara atop her head. “And something new, my dress, but nothing blue.” She paced around, the hardwood floor creaking under her heels.

“Oh, that’s easy.” Caroline walked to the door, opened it, and yelled down the hall for Terrell.

He appeared in moments, a cross look on his handsome face. He wore a simple black suit with a white dress shirt open at the collar. Posh, but not too stuffy. “Why are you yelling like a banshee at my mom’s house? She already hates that I go slumming it with you.”

“Oh, shut up.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I need a favor. We need something blue.”

“Anything blue will do?”

“As long as it’s not one of those test tubes from a blasted maxi pad commercial, we’re good.” Evan threw her hands up and kept pacing.

Clinton passed by and smiled. He, Clarence, and Shorty were serving as ushers for the event.

Terrell grinned, his brown eyes warming. “I’ll be right back. I know just the thing.”

I closed the door and smoothed down my lavender bridesmaid dress. Caroline and I matched, but it wasn’t the worst bridesmaid dress I’d ever worn.

“Is it two million degrees in here?” Evan snatched up a program and began fanning herself.

“You need to take it down a notch.” Caroline sat on the ornately carved four-poster bed.

“Why does she get to sit?” Evan pointed at Caroline.

“Our dresses don’t wrinkle. Besides, you’re the star of the show. You need to be flawless.” I picked up a program and began fanning her. At least my efforts made her stand still.

A knock at the door and Terrell slipped through. He had a blue ring in the palm of his hand, but it was too big to be for a finger. My eyes grew wide as I began to suspect what it was.

“What’s that?” Caroline walked over and examined it. “Wait.” She tucked a blond tendril of hair behind her ear and bent closer. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Indeed. Here you are, madam. Something blue.” He bowed and held his hand out to Evan.

She plucked it from his palm. “Why do I think this is a cock ring?”

“Because it is.” He shrugged and utterly failed to hide his smug smile. “I have a few things stashed in my old room. This is just one.”

“That’s um, well. It’s unique?” I hadn’t intended it as a question, but that’s what it was. I didn’t know if I should laugh or be outraged, though I preferred the former. It was Evan’s day, so I let her decide how to play it.

Evan stepped to Terrell so they were almost nose to nose. “Are you saying you want me to walk down the aisle on my dang wedding day with a cock ring stashed in my dress?”

“You said anything would do. And I’m sure putting it in your bouquet would suffice for tradition.” Terrell didn’t back down.

Evan arched an eyebrow and then belted out a laugh. “You’re on, idiot.” She snatched her bouquet of white calla lilies and yellow roses, flipped it around, and slid the cock ring up some of the stems until it was on tight.

“You are unbelievable.” Caroline poked Terrell in the ribs and shooed him out the door.

“Hey, is Scarlett in there?” Kennedy spoke in the hallway.

“Caroline, too?” Wash’s deeper voice carried, and Caroline perked up.

“Evan?” I raised my eyebrows, begging permission.

“Go, go. I need to get my balls hanging straight anyway. It’s an alone-time task.” She waved us out the door and into the hall.

Wash grabbed Caroline by the waist and, despite her startled cry, whipped her into a bedroom across the hall.

Kennedy looked me up and down, his brown eyes sparkling.

“Kennedy.” I meant to use a warning tone, but it came out in more of a sex whisper.

He put his hands on my shoulders and pushed me back against the wall. “You look good enough to eat.”

I ran my hands down the silky lapel of his tux. “So do you.”

“I just had to see you. Wash and I were talking after he and Lincoln had their big ‘I love you’ sesh—” He faked a gagging sound.

“Wait, they made up? Like, bygones are bygones over that whole episode with that girl when they were kids?” I smiled, happiness spreading in my chest at the news.

“Yeah, it was pretty gross. Hugging and stuff.” He trailed his fingers down my neck. “But let’s talk about more important things, like whether or not you’re wearing panties.”

“I’m a southern lady.” I darted my tongue out and licked along his lower lip.

A low moan rang out from the bedroom Wash and Caroline had claimed.

Kennedy glanced over his shoulder. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

“You’re not known as the particularly smart brother.”

“Is that so?”

I nodded. “I think your talents lie elsewhere.” My gaze flickered to his lips.

He moved his hands lower, balling my skirt in his fists. “If I kiss you, will it mess up your lipstick?” He grazed his lips over me.

“Yes.”

“Then I probably shouldn’t.” He slanted his mouth over mine and pulled me to him.

I parted my lips and he took full advantage, swirling his tongue inside. I slipped my hands inside his jacket and ran my nails down his back.

He put a hand under my dress and gripped my rear, then patted around. “You said you were wearing panties,” he said against my lips.

“No, I said I was a southern lady.”

“You little tramp.” He kissed me again. His touch lit me on fire, my knees going weak until I had to break our kiss to take a breath.

He pulled back and bit my lower lip.

I giggled.

“What?”

“You’re wearing lipstick now.”

“Well, heck, stop gawking and tell me if it’s a good color for me.”

“It’s almost time.” Terrell sauntered down the hall toward us.

I laughed and gave Kennedy another peck. “Perfect. Come on. I’ll get you cleaned up.” I shimmied past him and tried to pull him into the bride’s room.

“No way. Not a chance.”

“What?”

“I’m not walking into the jaws of the beast. I’ll clean up back in groom central.”

“Places, people,” Terrell chimed.

“Okay. I’m going.” Kennedy stole one more kiss and hustled back the way he’d come.

I dashed back into the bride’s room and freshened my makeup as Evan gave herself a pep talk full of more profanity than I’d ever heard in my life.

Caroline came in right behind me and did some freshening up of her own, but her cheeks were plenty rosy and her skin had a certain glow.

“You jerks ready?” Evan pulled herself up to her full height and strangled her bouquet in a death grip.

“Yes.” Caroline and I exchanged smiles.

“Good. Prance your rears out in front. I’m right behind you.”

We left the room and made our way to the rear of the house. The wedding was outside, the weather perfect—sunny and warm with a light breeze. We stopped on the steps of the sunroom.

“You’re going to be fine.” I walked around and smoothed her train out behind her.

“I know. I do. So ready. He’s hot, smart, likes it when I break the rules, has a fascinating temper, makes me squeal. Yes. He’s the one. I’m ready. Tell them.” She jerked her chin at Clinton, who waited just outside.

He nodded, and within moments, the string quartet began playing.

“Now or never. I got this. I’m the bad jerk. I. Got. This.” Evan took a deep breath as first Caroline then I walked out into the sunny morning, the chairs lined up in neat rows and filled with about fifty guests.

The center aisle was strewn with yellow rose petals, but I couldn’t look at my feet. All I could see was Kennedy, a boyish grin on his face, as he watched me approach. He crossed his hands in front of him, then put them at his sides, then clasped them behind his back, as if suddenly unsure what to do with himself.

I took my position next to Caroline. Glancing at Wash, I witnessed him giving her a look of admiration that made me smile, though it didn’t give me tingles the way Kennedy’s reverent gaze did. The song changed and everyone stood as Evan took the two steps down to the runner and held her head high as she walked slowly toward Lincoln.

He stood tall and proud, his dark hair smooth and his suit perfect. His look of anticipation turned into a smile, and when his eyes misted, mine did, too. I turned back to Kennedy. He looked nowhere but at me.

When we first met, I didn’t intend to give him a second glance. But looking at him on that happy day, I realized I’d given him my heart, my soul, and my future.

Evan walked past, her lace train flowing out behind her and collecting the yellow rose petals as she went. She took Lincoln’s arm. He smiled down at her and wiped away a tear.

“That’s it, then. He’s the one.” Evan took a deep breath and turned to the pastor. “Phoo. Let’s do this.”

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

TOTAL D*CK. Copyright © 2016 by Christina Saunders. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Cover photographs: slacks Shutterstock 338361212; couple Shutterstock 237130522
eISBN: 978-1-250-10977-4

First Edition: July 2016

Our eBooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, ext. 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

About the Author

Celia Aaron is a published romance and erotica author. Dark to light, angsty to funny, real to fantasy–if it’s hot and strikes her fancy, she writes it. Thanks for reading. You can sign up for email updates here.

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Bad Jerk

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Hardass

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Epilogue

Total D∗ck

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

About the Author

Copyright

These are works of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in these novels are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

BAD BEHAVIOR. Copyright © 2017 by Celia Aaron. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Cover photograph: man © anetta/Shutterstock.com
eISBN 978-1-250-15952-6

First Edition: May 2017

Our eBooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension. 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

Table of Contents

- Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice

- BAD BITCH

- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Copyright

- HARDASS

- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-one
- Chapter Twenty-two
- Epilogue
- Copyright

- TOTAL D∗CK

- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Epilogue
- Copyright

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