“You gave away five percent of Leibowitz Oil?” He couldn’t believe his ears. “Beauty, if you had given any other man five percent of Leibowitz Oil, he would have laid on the floor for you to step on with your stilettos.”
“Maybe you’re right, but I didn’t need a doormat. I needed a trustworthy friend and a great CEO to support me. And before you say that I’ve done a senseless and stupid thing, hear my reasons.” She raised a hand and started to count, “First, he worked for Gabriel for more than seventeen years. Second, Gabriel trusted him. Third, I already knew him and his work, and I liked what I knew. Fourth, I was utterly alone in a strange country and needed someone by my side. And last, most importantly, my instincts said he was the man who would help me through it.” She drank more wine and handed him her empty glass for more.
Gabriel, Ashford, Davidoff. How many men are a part of your life, Sophia? “Instincts? You do business based on instincts?”
“No.”
“Thank Chr-”
“I do everything in life based on my instincts. It is the first thing that guides me. If my instincts say no, I say no. It doesn’t matter how many reasons there are for me to say yes. It drove Gabriel crazy,” she laughed. “Edward, at first, didn’t trust my opinions, either.”
“And now?”
“He’s learned that, although strange, it works well.”
“No kidding,” he frowned.
“For example, the contract I signed with your bank. I didn’t trust Wales. Turned out I was right.” She shrugged. “Haven’t you ever had a feeling you shouldn’t do something? Or that a person is worth trusting, contrary to all proof?”
“No, not really.” He finished his pasta. “Is that how you used to decide on your pro bono work?”
“Want more?”
He shook his head. She took their plates, rinsed them, and stashed them in the dishwasher. “I only accepted cases when I believed in what the person was telling me. Either guilty or innocent. And that is the way all the lawyers at my foundation are directed to do as well. Of course, if the evidence is too strong against the person, I couldn’t do magic.” She covered the bowl of pasta with plastic film and put it in the refrigerator. “Contrary to Leonard’s beliefs, I’m not a witch.”
He smiled at this. “I think you have a book of spells and a caldron hidden somewhere. What does your instinct say about me? Innocent or guilty?”
“It says I should trust you,” she answered sincerely. “Dessert? There’s a banana cake that I usually heat up, or ice cream. Or chocolate? Pierre Marcolini. The same I gave your father the weekend of Tavish’s birthday.”
“Chocolate.” He scowled at her, “Innocent or guilty?”
“Bring the wine, will you?” She didn’t answer and exited the kitchen with the pack of condoms in her hand. “Come. Or I get to choose the film,” she shouted from the stairs.
He didn’t move from his chair.
What had started as a joke unexpectedly turned into something serious.
Why isn’t she answering? He wanted, no, needed to know her opinion. He ran after her, the decanter in his hand.
“Sophia.”
“Please, choose the film.” She didn’t look up from where she hunched near the small fridge. “I have champagne truffles, marzipan, or dark chocolate-seventy percent-for grown-ups,” she pointed to a beautiful big black box by her feet with the number sixteen stamped on it, and her lips curled up, teasing, “or milk for the kids. Or,” she grabbed a different box, “macaroons. Which do you prefer?”
“Dark and macaroons.” He put the decanter and his glass next to hers. She’s beating around the bush. He approached the window, looking outside, but not seeing the park. “But I’d rather you answered my question, Sophia.
“I have answered.”
“No. You. Have. Not.” His voice was icy thin. “Innocent or guilty?”
Chapter 22
10.55 p.m.
Sophia stiffened and rose from the floor with the boxes in her hand.
Alistair turned from the window, a stern look on his face. She didn’t face him, but she could see his unhappiness.
She took her time putting the boxes on the square ottoman and picked up her glass, refilling it. He watched as she breathed deep, her ribcage expanding.
She drank a steady gulp. “Whom shall I judge?”
He tipped his head to the side, “Me. Me, myself, and I.”
“Me, myself, and I,” she repeated, in a whisper, straightening to her full height.
Sophia turned and watched his face intently before asking in an austere voice, her forehead creased. She gazed at him in the way she sometimes did, as though she thought she could read him. “How do you plead?” Gone was the playful Sophia.
Fuck. Nobody can read me. Or can she? “You’re the lawyer.” And then he scorned, “The one with the instincts.”
“I have to hear the client first. I cannot judge before a fair hearing. State your plea and your crime, please.”
How does she change her mood so fast? “Too many sins and most of the seven capital vices,” he answered quickly without doubt.
“Too general,” she riposted in a calm way, but promptly. “Pray continue.”
I shouldn’t have started this. “Debauchery, perversion, anger, hate, selfishness, murder, indifference, and detachment. And, of the seven vices: lust, wrath, pride, and envy.” He tried to shock her. “In that order, since December 1999.”
She just raised an eyebrow in disdain. “Innocent or guilty?” I know exactly what you’re looking for, Alistair Connor. But I’m not game for condemning someone without a cause. I know quite well the rules of this game. Life has taught me well.
“Of my own sins? Guilty. Of course,” he scoffed.
“Who pressed charges?”
He stood there looking at her cold and analytic face. She’s still evading. Oh, come on, Conselor Leibowitz, stop this. Condemn me, once and for all.
“I’m waiting.” She tapped her foot on the rug, aggravated. “Who pressed charges?”
“Me, myself, and I.”
“Me, myself, and I,” she mused, frowning, evaluating his eyes, face and body language searching for something more. How can you press changes against yourself, Alistair Connor? Because of your own sins? She turned her back to him and pinched the bridge of her nose. He’s lying. There’s more to this. What is he hiding? His guilt isn’t caused by something he did. He’s probably guilty by omission. But she wouldn’t deny him the right of lying, even to himself. Nodding, she inquired further. “Any evidence? Proof?”
A fight. A destroyed car. Blood everywhere. Two dead bodies. “Photos,” he answered brusquely.
“No documents? Testimonies? Fingerprints?”
“Nothing conclusive.” He stood still as a statue and watched her pace the room.
“Photos can be forged, manipulated,” she mused. “And the jury sees what the lawyer wants them to see.”
“Sorry, no escape. The photos weren’t forged.” His deep voice sounded angry and sad at the same time. “Guilty as charged.”
A piece is missing from this puzzle. She finished the wine, placing the glass on the other side table and paced some more. “Just photos.” she voiced her thoughts.
Then she whirled around - suddenly, violently - and her dress swirled around her, the Japanese hair stick dropped to the ground and her hair tumbled down.
She left her hair down and concentrated on her actions. “Who or what was in the photos?” A dark look came over her features.