Kind of a big deal to a twenty-four-year-old topless dancer without a high school education who strips to put food on the table to support her disabled son.
Acid burns in my veins as I think of all the ways that Jenna has struggled, trying to make ends meet since losing her job at Pure Fantasy. She went from bringing home two grand a week to living in the back of her car and stealing food from convenience stores to feed her kid. All of her money was paid under the table, so she can’t claim unemployment. Her kid’s father is a heroin junkie who hasn’t been seen in two years and is presumably lying dead in a ditch somewhere. She has no family and no friends, and I put my law license at risk when I put Jenna up in a low-income apartment and provided a bank account in which I deposited money every two weeks so she could eat and pay rent. That was a huge no-no to the North Carolina State Bar, but fuck ’em. I’m not about to let that family live out of a car and off stolen food.
Pushing the binder aside, I know I’m better served to study my opponent than the law, because the law is clear and in my favor. Tomorrow’s courtroom battle will be nothing more than my swatting away this annoying flea and making it clear he doesn’t want to fuck with someone like me.
I pull up the law firm of Battle, Carnes, and Pearson on my computer. It’s a powerhouse defense firm that’s the polar opposite of Knight & Payne. Whereas we fight nobly to save the downtrodden, Battle Carnes sits in a gilded roost and only represents the nation’s elite one percent.
I navigate their roster of attorneys and click on the link for Reeve Holloway. He’s pretty damn good-looking. Dark, wavy hair that’s cut short on the sides and back, with the top just slightly longer, and very JFK Jr. His eyes are light colored, but I can’t tell if they’re blue or green, and his lips are sensual. He’s actually really hot. His online profile states he’s been practicing for eight years, which puts him at about thirty-two, and he just started with the firm six months ago. Prior to Battle Carnes he was working in foreign acquisitions in New York City, which sounds slightly boring and nauseating to me.
The rest of his profile reveals the most important piece of information I can glean, though.
He’s single, and while it truly doesn’t matter if he’s married or not, I can definitely work much more quickly against a single guy than someone who’s bound by commitment.
An idea starts brewing in my head.
CHAPTER 2
REEVE
Glancing down at my watch, I see that I have plenty of time to make it to courtroom 21A on the twenty-first floor of the judicial building to argue my motion to dismiss. It’s a bullshit motion.
I know it.
The judge knows it.
My opposing counsel, some guy named Leary Michaels, knows it.
Everyone who’ll be standing in courtroom 21A knows this is a bullshit motion, and that after just a few minutes of argument, Judge Henry will deny me. The only reason I’m heading to court on this seasonably warm October day is because my new employer, Battle, Carnes, and Pearson, has an unspoken policy to bilk our corporate clients for as much money as possible. Seeing as how I bill $300 per hour, preparing for and arguing this unwinnable motion hearing will bring in about $1,200 to my esteemed employers. Doesn’t matter that I’ll lose—it will earn money for the firm, and our client is too rich and self-absorbed to question the billing or why I’m arguing a losing motion.
My phone buzzes from my jacket pocket, indicating a text. Pulling it out, I smile when I see it’s from one of my buddies inviting me for a few beers tonight. As I walk toward the courthouse, I shoot a quick return text that I’ll see him later.
Just as I hit Send, I slam into something extremely soft and very movable, and my hands come out to grasp at whatever I hit before it can get knocked over. I wince at the cracking sound my phone makes as it hits the sidewalk, and my fingers clasp toned arms encased in red silk.
I hold on firmly to what I now realize is a woman who I easily could have slammed to the ground because I wasn’t watching where I was going. When my cognizance kicks in full force, I find myself looking into a pair of amber-colored eyes set into a stunningly beautiful face.
Flawless skin.
Full lips.
Perfectly arched eyebrows.
Dark hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail that rests at the back of her neck.
She exudes a chic, confident style in her power suit, with a tasteful but narrow pencil skirt in cherry red and a matching formfitting silk jacket with notched lapels. Her long legs are encased in sheer black stockings, with the fucking sexiest black pumps ever made to walk across a man’s back.
Utter perfection.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell her, refusing to let her go just yet.
She smiles at me with genuine warmth, and chuckles. “It’s all good. I wasn’t watching where I was going, either.”
I stare at her, unsure of what to say next. It’s a rarity that I’ll lose my tongue around a woman, but damn if her voice isn’t smoky rich, sexy beyond belief, and fuck . . . she even smells delicious from where I’m standing.
“I’m afraid you may have broken your phone, though,” she says as she looks pointedly at the ground.
“Shit,” I mutter as I release her and bend to pick it up, glaring at the shattered screen. Looks like I’ll be making a trip to the store rather than the gym and drinks with the boys tonight.
Shoving the phone in my pocket, I grab the courthouse door and hold it open for her. Giving her a “no worries” smile, I motion for her to precede me in. She inclines her head in thanks and walks in, carrying an expensive-looking, black patent-leather purse over her shoulder.
I’m not a southern man, having been born and raised in the small but great state of Vermont, so it certainly wasn’t due to ingrained manners that I opened the door for her. I merely wanted to get a gander of her ass in that narrow skirt.
Just kill me right now. I groan internally because her ass is slammin’ and her sex appeal is ramped up by the fact that those sheer stockings have a thin black seam running up the back of each leg.
We reach the elevator at the same time, and she pulls out her own smartphone to study something. She hasn’t given me a backward glance, so I use the opportunity to continue checking her out. This woman oozes sophistication; her eyes—from what little I was able to see—hold intellect and maybe even a bit of cunning.
I wonder what she’s doing in the courthouse, because while her cherry-red suit is professional, it also shows a hint of cleavage and borders on just a tad too sexy for an attorney, and besides, she’s not carrying the telltale briefcase that would give her away as one of my legal brethren.
When the elevator doors open, she doesn’t even lift her eyes, but we both wait for it to empty. A young guy in a short-sleeved shirt and skinny tie, whom I peg as an overworked, underpaid clerk, joins us, and then all three of us enter for the ride upward. I immediately walk to the back of the car and lean my back against the wall, setting my briefcase on the floor.
The guy pushes the second-floor button, and I roll my eyes. Lazy ass, can’t walk up one flight of stairs?
The woman in red pushes the button to the twentieth floor, and I say to her, maybe in a vain attempt to get her attention, “Number twenty-one, if you don’t mind.”