My cock is instantly, readily on alert. I step closer, a lean from touching her. “That was your plan? To fuck me and say goodbye.”
“It was an option.”
I arch a brow. “Was?”
“Now you’re my job, and I can’t cross that line.”
We’ll see about that, I think. “Who do you write for?”
“The New York News. The ‘Cat Does Crime’ column.”
“And what makes you qualified to write that kind of column?”
“A Harvard law degree, five years of practice, and a family of attorneys.”
“A Harvard law degree,” I say, surprised, though now that I’ve sparred with her, I shouldn’t be.
“And Harvard trumps Yale,” she says, pitting her degree against mine.
My lips curve with that obvious jab and challenge. “And yet I’m practicing and you aren’t.”
“Being good at what you do doesn’t matter if you’re miserable.”
“If you were miserable, why did you do it?”
“None of your business,” she says.
“What if I want it to be my business?”
“Give me a real interview, and you can ask me as many questions as I ask you,” she negotiates.
“I’ll think about it.”
“An interview with you and an interview with your client,” she adds.
“Now you’re pushing your luck.”
“You get nothing you don’t ask for,” she says.
“Do you think he’s guilty?” I ask, sizing her up to decide what I will, or will not, grant her.
“What I know,” she says, “is that you’re winning so far.”
“Let’s hope the jury agrees with you.”
“Because he’s innocent?” she asks.
“Yes. He is. And yes, you can quote me on that, and on this: If he wasn’t innocent, I wouldn’t be defending him.” My cellphone rings in my pocket. “That would be the end of our time together. At least for now.”
“What about my interviews?”
“Give me your business card.”
She reaches into the side pocket of her purse and hands a card to me. I accept it, my hand sliding over hers in the process, that touch between us is electric, and I stare down at her, assessing her. My phone stops ringing and then starts back up again, my gaze flickering over her lips and returning to her beautiful green eyes. I believe her. She didn’t know who I was when we met. And in hindsight, of course she did not. We fought, and I wanted to have make-up sex with a woman I didn’t even know at that point.
“I’ll call you,” I say, heading toward the door, pausing to look at her. “I won’t be your job for long.”
The rest of the afternoon, I watch Reese work the courtroom, and he is no longer a stranger. He’s the man who just had a conversation with me in the bathroom of this very courthouse. He is the man who touched me on the hand, just the hand, and made me feel it everywhere, inside and out. I really felt that touch, probably because those blue eyes of his were burning into me when it happened.
All that aside, he is still the lead counsel on this case, whom I need to interview to do my job properly, but at least I’ve set the stage to get past our initial encounter, by being upfront about that request. The air is clear. I’ve been honest and professional. Well, honest. I’m not sure telling him that he’s an asshole that can’t be fixed can be called professional any more than me telling him that I considered getting naked with him, even if that tidbit was mostly implied. But as far as I’m concerned, the questionable professionalism of those confessions should be cancelled out by him following me into the women’s bathroom. After that encounter, I’m not convinced he’s the nice guy he and Lauren claim him to be, but I am convinced he’s trouble.
By the time the courtroom closes for the day, I’m also convinced that he’s one hell of an attorney who hasn’t earned his perfect track record of all wins and no losses by luck. He’s picked his clients wisely and defended them just as wisely. By the time I’ve left the day behind, and I’m back home in my PJs, with Chinese food and my MacBook both in bed with me, I’m convinced that nothing he said in that bathroom was accidental. I replay the conversation and focus on four significant words from our exchange: “You can quote me,” he’d said. Was that a test? To see what I would or would not write? I frown and decide that even if it wasn’t a test, it’s a message that he wants delivered.
With that in mind, I start working on my column, writing up my detailed outline of my day in court and then using my closing statement to deliver his message and summarize mine: With more horror-show antics that lacked evidence, once again the prosecution came up short and the defense made their case by simply pointing out the weakness in every witness that took the stand. I expected physical evidence, which hasn’t been presented. But tomorrow the medical examiner takes the stand, and that will be the real test of guilt or innocence in the eyes of the courtroom, at least from where I sit, which is admittedly pretty far back. As for where that will leave the defense once the torch is passed to them and they take the floor is yet to be seen, but I find Reese Summer competent and convincing.
On a side note, I’ve been told by those who know Summer that he won’t defend anyone he doesn’t believe to be innocent. In a short, unexpected encounter with him, that is exactly what he told me. He believes in his client’s innocence. I’m not suggesting that means that he’s right and the prosecution is wrong, but in our court system, you are innocent until proven guilty, and thus far the prosecution has not shown guilt. Will tomorrow prove a different story? We shall see. Finished, I sign off with: Until then, —Cat.
I reread and edit my work and then send it off to my editor before I close my computer. It’s done. I’m done. I’ve delivered a message to the general masses and the prosecution for Reese Summer, and I’ve sent a message to Reese Summer: He can trust me enough to grant me those interviews. The question is, can I trust him? With that question in my mind, I plop down on my back on the bed and stare up at the ceiling, replaying my encounter with him in the bathroom, and damn it, I am remembering how good he’d smelled: Spicy and woodsy. How good he’d looked up close and personal. He’s still an arrogant asshole, but he’s also dirty, sexy trouble that I can’t escape as long as this trial is a live media charge. In other words, I have to be willing to play whatever game he plays with me, and games are how you get burned.
Day 3: The Trial of the Century
I wake to my phone ringing, and a dark room, with a quick look at my clock that reads 6:30 a.m. I answer without even looking at the number. “Who died?
“You quoted me.”
My eyes go wide. “Reese Summer?”
“You know my voice.”
“Don’t let that go to your head,” I say, scooting up to lean on my headboard. “Even if I hadn’t been listening to you talk for two days now, which I have, you’re the only person I quoted. And before this goes any further. You said, ‘You can quote me on that,’ twice, and so I quoted you.”
“Yes. I did. I liked your insights.”
“Because I said you were winning.”
“Admittedly, that did help.”
“Did you call to tell me I’m getting an interview?”
“If I say no, what will you write about me tomorrow?”
“The truth,” I say, “just like I did today. I want to interview you and your client, but I’m not a child who will throw a literary tantrum if I don’t get one. There will be another case. Another time. A little less coffee to fight over.”
“Yes. Coffee. I’ll see you at the coffee shop in an hour.”
He hangs up.
I lift the phone in the air and stare at it. Coffee. Reese. The mistakes I could make because of how good he smells. The way he just ordered me to show up. The way I have no idea the purpose of this meeting. I call him back. “Hello, Cat,” he greets me.
My name is like silk on his tongue.
I love it.
I hate it.
“Am I meeting you for an interview?” I ask.
“No.”
“Then I’m not meeting you for coffee.”
“Why?”
“One,” I say, without missing a beat, “you didn’t ask. I don’t take orders. Two, if I met you, you wouldn’t know if I’m there for the interview or sex or your stunningly humble personality. And I wouldn’t know if you were trying to sway my coverage. Three, even if you did ask, I would not say yes until this trial frenzy was over.”
I hang up, throw away the blanket, and twist around to settle my feet on the floor. My phone rings. I answer again without looking at the number. “Hello, Reese,” I say, mimicking his greeting.
“I’ll call. I’ll ask. I’ll impatiently wait until after the trial.”
He hangs up.
He is making me crazy. He’s making me want to know him.
I don’t want to know him.
Only maybe I do.
I head to the bathroom and remind myself that there is a reason I just had a six-month relationship with an artist. Powerful, money-hungry, controlling men like Reese Summer are not my kind of guys. Then again, neither are artists, since the whole live in the moment with no planning thing drove me nuts, and no amount of sex, which the man called his “creative outlet,” could change that. But my newly crossed-out artist boyfriend isn’t the point. I’ve been here with a man like Reese, done this simmering burn before, and I cannot forget how this plays out. The sex is wild, the connection explosive, and then the crash and burn is hard, fast, and painful.
I will not fall for Reese “Mr. Hotness” Summer.
Three hours later, I am dressed in a black pantsuit—meant to fight the chill outside and inside the courtroom, which had everyone shivering the afternoon before—and heading out the door. With plenty of time to spare, and since that coffee date with Reese is on indefinite hold, I stop by the coffee shop. I endure the line and grab my white mocha, hoping the earlier hour will allow me to get a closer seat to the action. I fail miserably. I work my way toward the front door and the picketers and the camera crews seem to swell by the moment. My press pass is the only saving grace but I’m still delayed entry into the courthouse. Once I’m finally inside the building, I’m through security, and to the courtroom quickly. I’m also stuck in the back row again, but just as I’m pulling my things from my bag, a security guard steps beside me. “If you’ll follow me, miss,” he says, “I’ll be relocating you.”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Not that I know of,” he says, motioning me forward.
The next thing I know, I’m being shown to a seat just behind the families, sitting with the high-powered television news media and not far from where Reese is seated. The court is brought to order, and we all stand. The normal order of events takes place and Reese and his counterpart do as they have every morning: Approach the bench for some argument they are both already making. When Reese turns back to walk to his table, his eyes land on me, and while he shows no outer reaction, I feel the silent nod. The confirmation that he put me in this seat. And I’m not sure how to feel about it. Yes, I want the seat. Yes, I want an interview. But I don’t want the sex for an interview thing. That isn’t who I am, and maybe this has gotten so far out there with us that I just can’t ask for an interview.
It’s not a thought I hang on to for long, as Nathan Miles, the medical examiner on the case, is called to the stand, where he proceeds to deliver a convoluted testimony. The prosecution keeps him tied to the stand for hours, and I take pages of notes, but find no proof in anything presented. There is simply gore meant to drive the jury to convict. Come lunchtime, Reese hasn’t even been given the chance to cross-examine, though he’s had his share of objections.
The court dismisses everyone for an hour break, and I stand up, waiting for the crowd before I can exit my row. I’m stopped dead in my tracks and end up scanning the courtroom, where Reese remains by his table, and my eyes lock with his, the instant punch of awareness between us something I feel to my toes. My God. What am I doing with this man? Someone knocks into me and bodies fill the space between us, breaking the connection but I still feel it. I’m hot all over despite the courtroom being an icebox again today, and I waste no time hurrying through the building to exit the front door. Security has the picketers and the cameras pushed to one side, while a pathway is clear for the rest of us humans. I walk down the dramatic concrete steps and to my right, where there are food trucks parked. I’m starving and I want to stop, but there are hordes of reporters everywhere. I hurry away, take another two right turns, and head to a small park down the way that is my secret courtroom escape.
Once I’m there, I’m free from the crowds, and I have food trucks and even a bench when I’m ready to eat. I stop at a place that has candies and nuts and order two bags of the latter.
Once I’ve paid, I turn around and walk straight into a hard chest. “Oh God. I’m sorry. I—” I blink up and into Reese’s eyes, that spicy scent of him now becoming familiar. “How are you here?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he says.
“You were behind me again, remember? I was trying to escape the crowd.” And suddenly I’m aware that my hand is on his chest. I pull back.
He catches my hip, his hands settling just under the hem of my jacket. “Seems we were both trying to escape the crowd.”
“Right. Of course.” I hold up my bag. “Nuts?”
“No, but I really want to kiss you right now,” he says, his voice a low intense rasp, his eyes a simmering hot invitation.
“That would be a bad idea,” I say, when I really want him to just do it. Kiss me right now.
“Make your case, counselor.”
“For the same reason your hand shouldn’t be on my hip. We are most likely being watched, and you’re feeding your Mr. Hotness reputation.”
His entire expression sharpens. “I hate that damn name,” he says, his hand sliding from my hip. “I need a hotdog. You want a hotdog?”
“No, but thank you,” I say, making a point of showing off my manners.
His lips curve. “You’re welcome, Cat. How was that for manners?”
“You’re learning.”
“Maybe I won’t end up single and alone after all,” he teases, before motioning to a truck a half block down. “Walk with me.”
I nod, and we fall into step together. “You’re really getting a hotdog?”
“Yes. What’s wrong with hotdogs?”
“I once worked for a concert venue, as a teen, of course, and the hotdogs we were putting out were green before they were heated.”
“I love concert hotdogs,” he says.
“I don’t even know what to do with that statement.”
“Cover those dogs with mustard and relish, you won’t know anything but how good they taste.” We stop at the truck and he glances at me. “You want something else?”
“A bottle of water, please,” I say.
Five minutes later, we’re on the opposite side of the truck, on a bench just inside the park, and out of easy view. “You don’t seem like a hotdog kind of guy,” I comment, tossing some nuts in my mouth and watching him devouring his lunch.
“I’m a Texas cowboy, sweetheart,” he says. “Hotdogs around the campfire at the ranch used to be gourmet.”
“My brother lives in Texas, but he doesn’t like hotdogs.”
“Is he an attorney?”
“No. He hates the legal profession. He’s an engineer and went to school in Austin and just stayed. I thought your parents were law professors, not ranchers? And yes, I read up on you.”
“For the record, I looked you up as well, and yes. My parents are professors. My grandparents owned the ranch. They passed and my younger brother took it over a few years ago.”
“How old is your brother?”
“Twenty-eight. And to be clear, this conversation is not an interview.”
“I’m not a tabloid or even a scoop reporter,” I say. “I w
rite opinion pieces and I’ve written a true crime novel, and have a second coming out in a few months. I don’t do this for money.”
“Because your father is Mike Maxwell.”
I arch a brow. “How do you know that?”
“I told you I checked you out.” His lips curve. “I called Lauren.”
“You called Lauren,” I repeat. “That wouldn’t surprise me if she would have actually told me.”
“It was right before court.”
He was thinking about me right before court instead of his work. “And what did she tell you?”
“Good luck.”
My brow furrows. “Good luck?”
“She said I’d need it to get anywhere with you.”
“She’s right,” I say, and quickly turn the topic back to him. “Why didn’t you run the ranch with your brother? That has to be a big job.”
“I need more than horses and hay. He didn’t, and I didn’t miss how you just deflected from you back to me.”
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Thirty-five.”
“Ever been married?”
“Never,” he says. “Must be my bad manners, right?”
“Exactly,” I say. “They say you can tell a lot about a man based on his manners and his mother.”
“So says my mother when she calls me three times a week, usually to bitch about my father. They’ve been married forty years and hate each other. I’m not inspired to fall in love. What about you? What’s your story?”
“Thirty next month. Never married. If my mother was still alive, your parents and mine could be best friends, based on what you just told me about yours. And as for the interview, I don’t want it anymore.”
He crumples up his paper and tosses it into the trash before turning his big body and the full force of his blue-eyed stare on me. “Why?”
“Okay, I do want it but I don’t want it because you—we—whatever this is that we’re doing.”
“Whatever this is wouldn’t be happening if I thought that’s why you wanted the interview. You still have a job to do, and this case will be over soon.”