My man card in crucial need of saving, I surge out of my chair. "Objection, Your Honor. I am indeed a breast man and know my way around them with my eyes closed--but legs tend to be more my thing," I say with a lascivious smile aimed toward my opponent.
"Couldn't prove it by me," Leary Michaels sneers back at me.
"Well, it takes a real woman--" I start to say, but I'm cut off.
"Children . . . I mean, counsel," Judge Henry says in a tired voice. "Let's use our inside voices when making snide comments that have nothing to do with the merits of this case."
"Totally agree, Your Honor," Leary says in a placating voice. "Mr. Holloway is being completely inappropriate."
"I'm being inappropriate?" I snarl as I stand up. "Your Honor, despite the fact Miss Michaels purports to hold a law degree, she's yet to argue one iota of law. I have to wonder who has cobwebs in that hollow space of a skull that's supposed to hold her brain."
Did I just say that out loud?
Judge Henry picks up his gavel and bangs it on his desk, but it's not loud enough to cover up the snarl emitting from those beautiful lips that would look amazing wrapped around my cock.
"Enough," Judge Henry barks at us. "God, they don't pay me enough to listen to this crap. Mr. Holloway, your motion is denied. There is no basis for it, and the one thing that Miss Michaels did say that is utterly accurate is that this is a waste of the court's time. Now, is there anything further you two brats want to discuss with me today?"
"No, Your Honor," the witch in red says sweetly. "As always, you make a well-reasoned decision."
"No, Your Honor," I grumble. "I apologize for wasting the court's time."
"So be it," Judge Henry says as he raps his gavel once more. "Court's in recess."
I close the file on my desk as Judge Henry steps off the dais and heads through the door to his chambers. When I turn, I see that my opponent is already walking down the aisle, her black purse slung over her shoulder. It's then that I realize she didn't even bring a file to court with her, she was so assured that she was going to win.
"Hey," I call out to her as I scramble through the swinging door, wincing as I bang my knee against it.
She doesn't slow down, so I quicken my pace, grabbing her elbow just as she clears the back door.
"Want to tell me what that little show was in the elevator?" I ask her as I turn her to me. "You knew who I was, didn't you?"
"Of course I did," she says as she leans in toward me with a husky voice that hints at sex and dirty words. "And let's just say your reaction, or lack thereof, told me all I needed to know about you."
Dropping her elbow, I rake my hand through my hair. "Oh, yeah? And what's that?"
Leaning in closer, she puts her lips near my ear, and I almost shudder from the nearness as she whispers, "You're all talk and no action. A docile baby, really. It's going to be so easy to kick your ass in this case."
I jerk back, my man card now having been fully stomped upon. "You're fucking kidding me?"
Reaching up, she pats me on the cheek with her hand and laughs. "I never kid about stuff like that, Mr. Holloway."
She starts to walk away, but there is no way I'm letting that happen without redeeming myself and my poor, busted ego. Quick as a striking snake, my hand shoots out and grabs hold of her wrist.
In one fluid motion, I spin her around and pull her toward me. I reach out with my other hand and lay it in the center of her chest, pushing gently and walking her backward into the wall. When she's pinned flat against it, I step in close to her . . . really close.
Leary's eyes flare briefly, then narrow with anger. "What the hell are you doing?"
Keeping my hand on her chest, I drop my other to the hem of her skirt and start dragging it up her leg. For a moment, she does nothing, then one of her hands grabs my wrist, attempting to stop my progress. "Are you crazy?" she hisses at me.
Her strength is no match for me, and I keep my hand moving upward. When her skirt gets to the top of the lace on her stockings, I bend my body to the side so I can see what I'm revealing. "I want to see if your panties match your stockings and garters."
"We are in fucking public," she practically wheezes, and her head flips to the right to make sure no one's coming down the hall. I can feel her heartbeat ratchet up a beat, thumping madly under my palm that's still resting on her chest.
Shrugging and with my eyes pinned to the black lace and creamy flesh exposed just above it, I tell her, "Oh, well. Besides, didn't seem to bother you when you put on that little striptease in the elevator. So quit being a baby and let me see."
I dare a glance up, and her eyes are no longer heated through with offense. Instead, I see challenge staring back at me, and I'm thinking she didn't like being called a baby. Her hand goes lax against my wrist, and I push the material of her skirt past her hip.
"Just as I thought." I breathe out softly when I get a look at her lingerie. "Black lace panties . . . goddamn perfect."
For a brief moment I'm overwhelmed with the urge to slide my hand between her legs and cup her lush heat. But I'm all about proving a point.
I let my thumb graze along the elastic edge that sits in that sexy crease just between her pussy and her upper thigh. She gives the tiniest gasp and my eyes seek hers again, which have a slightly fevered look to them.
"Oh, Miss Michaels, what I wouldn't give to run my tongue right along this edge," I tell her as my thumb sweeps back and forth against it.
Leary swallows hard and her bubblegum-pink tongue slips out and swipes at her lower lip. I nearly groan but tamp it down hard. I'm the one in control now.
Staring at her for a moment more, I whisper, "Maybe another time."
Dropping her skirt and stepping away, I shoot her a charming smile. "Can't wait to see you again . . . in or out of the courtroom."
Her mouth hangs open slightly when I turn to walk away.
CHAPTER 3
LEARY
I'm a pretty smart cookie. Graduated first in my class in high school and went on to do my undergrad at Duke and then law school at Stanford. While I didn't graduate at the exact top of those two schools, I was in the top ten percent of both. I was also on law review at Stanford, as well as a member of their trial advocacy team that placed third in the nation during my third year.
Again . . . smart cookie.
But even the brainiest of people have their weaknesses, and unfortunately, mine happens to be legal research. I have a trial starting next week, and there's going to be a huge argument over a statement I'd like to introduce into evidence that the other side is claiming as hearsay. I know there's an exception to the hearsay rule that applies to this exact situation . . . at least, I seem to remember reading something along those lines in another case but fuck if I can find it now.
I normally assign this shit to my paralegal, but she's on maternity leave, and the temp I have working in her place doesn't know how to do legal research. So, here I am . . . slogging through the overwhelming LexisNexis database to find this obscure case that expounds on the exception I might have read about but am not really sure if I did. It could just be that I want that exception to exist, so maybe I created it in my mind.
Pushing back from my computer, I glare at my monitor.
Give me the answer! I shout at it telepathically.
My cursor just blinks in monotonous fashion, mocking me.
Knock, knock, knock.
Looking up, I see Ford standing at my door. I wave him in and peer back at the computer, hoping something will leap out at me.
"What are you doing?" Ford asks as he takes a seat on the other side of my desk.
I don't even spare him a glance. "Legal research."
"You? Doing legal research? Are we on the cusp of Armageddon or something?" he teases me.
"Stuff it, Ford," I say while reading a court-of-appeals case summary on my screen. "My paralegal's out so I had to break down and do it myself."
"Want some help?" he asks amiably.
> "No, thanks. I can figure it out on my own."
"Such stubborn pride," he muses, and I finally slide my eyes to his. He's smirking at me.
"What's that look for?" I ask as I push back from my desk a little.
"Nothing. It's just . . . you've been wound up pretty tight since your motion hearing last week. You won, right? What's the deal?"
"I'm not wound up," I mutter, but God, I'm so wound up. I'm no longer pissed that Reeve Holloway would waste my time with that motion. It's done. I won. Anger gone.
But jeez . . . what he did to me after the hearing was over?
In the freakin' hallway, just outside the courtroom. Where anyone could have walked up on us. He shocked me and then--I admit, with no small amount of shame--turned me on more than I've ever been in my life.
I thought the guy was a pushover. The way he just silently watched me in the elevator as I took my stocking off clued me in to all I thought I needed to know about him. He didn't have any game. He had no confidence, no gumption. He would be easy pickings.
Then he turned it all around and practically had me begging for him to touch me more when he pulled my skirt up and looked at my lace panties.
I didn't miss the hard-on he was sporting, either. He was as turned on as I was, and there's no denying he is sex on a stick. He was handsome in his profile picture on his firm's website, but he was even better looking in person. When I saw him outside the courthouse with his head down as he looked at his phone, I couldn't help but stare. He's tall with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, and with each stride, his well-muscled thighs pulled at the charcoal gray of his dress pants.
When we "accidentally" ran into each other and he first raised his gaze to me, my girlie parts nearly rolled over and sighed at the light green of his eyes staring at me in apology. Framed by the thickest, darkest lashes, they finished off his sex appeal with a flourish.
"You need an orgasm . . . maybe two."
"What?" I exclaim, wondering if Ford can read my thoughts about Reeve.
His palms are resting calmly on the armrests of the leather chair, and he has one leg crossed casually over the other as he smiles at me. "You need an orgasm or two. I can tell by the pinched look on your face, which isn't very attractive, by the way."
I immediately lessen my frown, roll my eyes at him, and turn back to my screen. "No, I don't."
"Yes, you do. Let's go. I'll take you out to dinner, and then we'll go to your place. I'll have a smile on your face in no time. Then you can return the favor."
"Not tonight," I say absently as I stare at the computer and try to refocus on the research.
"Okay, who is he?" Ford asks curiously.
My eyes fly back to his, and I try for my most innocent look. "What do you mean?"
"Whoever has you in a knot," he says with a knowing look. "You've never turned me down before unless you were involved with someone. That's the only thing that would have you turning your nose up at the magic my lips can work on you."
Sighing, I push back from my desk again and rub the bridge of my nose. Not only does Ford know me well, he's also my closest friend. While we might indulge in pleasure with each other, there's also a mutual care and trust that's been fortified over the years. Besides that, neither one of us has a jealous bone in our bodies, and we've always stepped out of the picture if one of us wants to pursue someone else.
"It's that attorney I had the motion against," I admit.
One of Ford's eyebrows arches high with skepticism. "You won the motion. How can that still be bothering you? Your temper doesn't work that way. Once it blows and you purge it, you're cool as a cucumber again."
Yup . . . see . . . Ford knows me as well as I know myself.
"It's not the motion. It's what happened before and after."
Leaning forward in his chair to rest his elbows on his knees, his eyes light up with curiosity. "Oh, do tell."
"Well . . . I timed my arrival to the courthouse at the same time as him, and when we were alone in the elevator, I got this wild idea. So I sort of performed a tiny striptease in front of him."
"You did what?" Ford asks as he rears back in his chair.
"Relax," I tell him with a laugh. "I just changed one of my stockings that had a run in it. He didn't get much more than a flash of lace."
Ford stares at me, mouth slightly agape. His eyes have a slight look of censure.
"Stop looking at me that way," I chide him. "I wanted to see how he'd react. Get a read on what type of man he was."
"And exactly what did you learn?" he asks, his tone now intrigued.
"He didn't do anything. Just watched me. Although he finally found his voice when I got out on a different floor. Asked for my name, but I didn't give it to him. He had no clue who I was, and I wanted him to be shocked when I walked into the courtroom."
Ford shakes his head back and forth as he leans back in his chair again. "What did he do when you walked into the courtroom?"
"No clue," I tell him honestly. "I didn't make eye contact. I wanted him to know that he wasn't worth my time."
"But that's not all that happened?" Ford guesses.
Standing up from my desk, I walk around it and take the chair that sits next to Ford. Turning slightly so I'm facing him, I cross one leg over the other, gently swinging my foot. Leaning toward him conspiratorially, I tell him, "We had a moment in the hallway . . . after the hearing."
"A moment?"
"A moment. I goaded him, pretty much called him a pansy ass for the way he did nothing in the elevator, and I guess he didn't take kindly to it. He pushed me up against the wall and told me he wanted to see if my panties matched my silk stockings and garters."
"Are you fucking serious? He attacked you?" Ford growls.
"No, it wasn't like that. It was all sexy slow. Seductive. He was proving to me that he could do something about it if he wanted."
Ford stares at me quietly and his face is impassive. Finally he asks, "Did you ask him to stop?"
Odd, that tone of voice he's using on me. I would expect him to be a little protective, but it smacks of jealousy.
"No, I didn't ask him to stop. I wanted to see how far he'd take it. I wanted to know exactly what type of opponent I'm dealing with."
"Bullshit, Leary," Ford says in a rush. "You liked it, plain and simple. You like him."
"I absolutely do not like him," I argue, but then because I'm always honest with Ford, I tell him, "but I did like what he did. I liked that confidence, that ego. But that's all there was to it. Even if I wanted to check this guy out some more, it's impossible. We're on opposing sides of the case. It's unethical."
Sighing heavily, Ford looks at me a moment more, then smiles softly. "So, I'm definitely not going to be giving you an orgasm tonight?"
Ordinarily, that would be lovely. A quiet dinner with Ford where he'd make me laugh, and then his mouth on me all night. But for some reason, I'm not into it. At least not tonight.
"Rain check? Okay? I have a lot of work to do tonight, and I'm looking forward to a quiet night alone after that."
Slapping his palms on his thighs, Ford gives me an understanding smile and then stands up. "Sure. I'll catch you later."
I watch as he leaves, and wait for something to flash through me where I change my mind and tell him that I want to see him tonight.
But it never comes.
Fortifying myself with determination, I make my way back to my computer and the legal research that's not going to do itself.
"Miss Michaels?" I hear hesitantly from my office doorway.
I glance up from the deposition transcript I'm reviewing and see one of our runners, a young girl who just started college and is working for our firm for the fall semester. She wants to go to law school eventually and--like a lot of the young people who work here--has grand aspirations of joining the team of Knight & Payne one day. Until that day, they start at the bottom, running errands back and forth between the lawyers and the courthouse.
"Hi, Ke
ri. What's up?"
"You had a hand-delivered package up at the front desk," she says as she steps into my office, "and they asked me to bring it back to you. It says, 'personal and confidential,' so it didn't go through the mail room."
"Thanks," I say as I take the box from her and set it on the middle of my desk.
"No problem. Have a great evening," she says before leaving.
"You, too," I murmur, but I don't look back at her. I'm staring at the box and the big white label that shows a return address of Battle, Carnes, and Pearson.
Reeve's firm.
My skin tingles with awareness and my heart beats faster. What in the hell could that firm have sent me that's personal and confidential?
No, not "that firm."
Reeve Holloway.
No doubt in my mind that this is from him.
Pulling a pair of scissors out of my drawer, I cut along the securely taped seams. The box isn't very big, maybe only a foot by a foot and about six inches deep. My curiosity is on overdrive.
When I finally cut my way through the tape and pull the flaps back, I immediately see a cover letter on top of a stack of documents--the Battle Carnes logo prominent, top and center. Beneath the stack of documents is a small white envelope that looks like it holds a card, as well as a smaller box wrapped in glossy white paper.
I remove all of the contents, pushing the small envelope and white-wrapped box aside, and look at the legal documents first, starting with the cover letter.
After the requisite formalities of my name, address, and the case reference, Reeve writes as follows:
Dear Leary:
His informal use of my first name is not lost on me.
Enclosed please find Defendants' First Set of Interrogatories, Requests for Production of Documents and Requests for Admissions. As you know, you have thirty days to answer these, but I'll be happy to grant an informal extension of time if you need it.
Sincerely,
BATTLE, CARNES, AND PEARSON
Reeve Holloway
He signs it "Reeve," and I'm lost as to why this was a personal or confidential matter. These documents were expected. I plan on sending my own interrogatories and requests out to him late next week after I finish my other trial.
I start flipping through the pleadings, scanning the interrogatories, which are nothing more than questions that my client is bound to answer, in writing and under oath. They look pretty standard to me. Same for the requests for production of documents . . . all standard stuff, requesting my client's medical records, both as a result of her surgery and those ten years prior, lost wage documentation, photographs, yada, yada, yada.