In Your Corner
Page 3
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The murmur of voices drifts up the hallway, and two men round the corner walking toward me. As they get closer, my heart lifts and then sinks.
Ray, my favorite private investigator contracted by the firm, is wearing his usual commando attire: dark khaki cargo pants and a tight gray T-shirt that highlights every plane and angle of his muscular torso. His dark hair is military short and he walks with an easy grace that belies his height. Powerful was the first word that came to mind when we met. Dangerous was the second. He catches my gaze and gives me a wink.
Beside him, in startling contrast, is Farnsworth’s protégée and my least favorite senior associate in the firm, Evil Reid, aka Reid Cravath. Evil Reid and I crossed swords the day I joined the litigation department. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize he was in charge of the weeklong induction for new associates or that I was supposed to drool over his shoes and smile when he pinched my ass. After I slapped his hand away, we fought over the last croissant at the new associate breakfast, and things quickly went downhill from there. After I turned down his offer for a quick drunken hookup in the firm sleeping pods during a firm party, I thought that was the end of it.
Unfortunately, like his mentor, Evil Reid never gives up.
Even now, as I approach, his gaze slimes over my body and his thick pink tongue darts out to lick his full lips. Evil Reid is tall, rich, handsome, suave, and…well, evil. His dark hair is thick and neatly cut. His eyes are two black holes in a broad, smooth face. Not a day goes by that someone doesn’t suffer from the bite of his sharp tongue or the seemingly inadvertent brush of his roving octopus tentacles.
Ray nods as I draw near. “Had a great time at that Giants game, Amanda. Thanks for the tickets.”
“My pleasure. Just wanted to thank you for all the great work you do for me.”
Evil Reid huffs his annoyance and stalks past without so much as a shoulder brush or ass pinch. Although I’m years away from partnership and no threat to him, he doesn’t like to be shown up. I guess he didn’t buy Ray any Giants tickets.
Moments later, I reach room thirteen. Taking a moment to compose myself, I push open the ten-foot-high door—yet another example of the ridiculous ostentation that is Farnsworth & Tillman—and step into the room, ready to meet the man who could make or break my career with his damned multimillion-dollar lawsuit.
Light floods across the plush, royal blue carpet through floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Dust motes dance in the sunbeam. A large mahogany table surrounded by eight black leather chairs dominates the center space. I inhale the scents of leather and furniture polish and a whiff of something else, sharp and clean like an ocean breeze.
Familiar.
Across the room, the client is pouring himself a glass of water from the tray on the credenza. From the back, he takes my breath away. Sleek black suit pants hug the curves of his tight ass. His crisp white shirt is tucked into a narrow waist and stretched tight across a broad, strong back. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, and I catch a glimpse of a strong, muscled forearm as he lifts the water glass.
But it’s the thick, blond, wavy hair just brushing the top of his collar that makes my pulse race. Soft. Silky. Hair that is meant to be touched.
Have touched?
The latch clicks as I close the door and he turns to face me.
“Christ! Amanda!” His hand jerks and water sloshes onto the carpet.
My heart stutters in my chest and the legal pad falls from my fingers to the floor, the world falling away as if everything until now had been an illusion.
“Jake.”
Eyes wide, jaw tight, he stares at me, dismay and disbelief etched on his handsome face. I can’t believe over two years have passed since the night we broke up. Whether a result of maturity or the passing of time, he is even more gorgeous than I remember. Strong cheekbones and a firm chin give his face an angular look, made more rugged by the small scars on his forehead and cheeks, a testament to his success in the fight ring. His eyes are a startling, brilliant blue and when he smiles, dimples appear in the corners of his cheeks. But he isn’t smiling now.
He shakes himself and looks away, then gestures toward the legal pad on the floor. “You dropped it.”
“You startled me.”
He gives me a half smile. “Yeah, I know the feeling. I forgot you worked here.”
Two years of longing and regret. Two years of fantasies and dreams. And yet our first words after two years are so mundane I want to cry.
His gaze skims down my body, taking in my fitted black suit, white silk blouse, and black stilettos. Black or blue only for associates at Farnsworth & Tillman. Like a bruise. The very fact that he is checking me out sends little flutters through my stomach. When he looks up, his eyes warm and spark with interest.
“You look good…professional.” The low, husky rumble of his voice makes my toes curl. So different from his harsh tone and cold words the last time we met.
By force of will alone, I manage a smile. “Firm uniform. They put the policy in place after we…broke…” I choke on my words and then swallow past the lump in my throat. “If I had a choice, I would liven things up. Maybe add a splash of color.”
His lips curl up and the dimples appear. “You always were one for color.”
My throat tightens at the oblique reference to his shocked expression the first time he walked into my apartment in San Francisco’s Marina District. He said he had expected clean, bold, modern lines, blacks and reds. Instead, he got country chic and a riot of pastels, sex toys hidden in a refurbished pie cupboard, and naughty costumes hanging in a pink-stenciled wardrobe.
Ray, my favorite private investigator contracted by the firm, is wearing his usual commando attire: dark khaki cargo pants and a tight gray T-shirt that highlights every plane and angle of his muscular torso. His dark hair is military short and he walks with an easy grace that belies his height. Powerful was the first word that came to mind when we met. Dangerous was the second. He catches my gaze and gives me a wink.
Beside him, in startling contrast, is Farnsworth’s protégée and my least favorite senior associate in the firm, Evil Reid, aka Reid Cravath. Evil Reid and I crossed swords the day I joined the litigation department. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize he was in charge of the weeklong induction for new associates or that I was supposed to drool over his shoes and smile when he pinched my ass. After I slapped his hand away, we fought over the last croissant at the new associate breakfast, and things quickly went downhill from there. After I turned down his offer for a quick drunken hookup in the firm sleeping pods during a firm party, I thought that was the end of it.
Unfortunately, like his mentor, Evil Reid never gives up.
Even now, as I approach, his gaze slimes over my body and his thick pink tongue darts out to lick his full lips. Evil Reid is tall, rich, handsome, suave, and…well, evil. His dark hair is thick and neatly cut. His eyes are two black holes in a broad, smooth face. Not a day goes by that someone doesn’t suffer from the bite of his sharp tongue or the seemingly inadvertent brush of his roving octopus tentacles.
Ray nods as I draw near. “Had a great time at that Giants game, Amanda. Thanks for the tickets.”
“My pleasure. Just wanted to thank you for all the great work you do for me.”
Evil Reid huffs his annoyance and stalks past without so much as a shoulder brush or ass pinch. Although I’m years away from partnership and no threat to him, he doesn’t like to be shown up. I guess he didn’t buy Ray any Giants tickets.
Moments later, I reach room thirteen. Taking a moment to compose myself, I push open the ten-foot-high door—yet another example of the ridiculous ostentation that is Farnsworth & Tillman—and step into the room, ready to meet the man who could make or break my career with his damned multimillion-dollar lawsuit.
Light floods across the plush, royal blue carpet through floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Dust motes dance in the sunbeam. A large mahogany table surrounded by eight black leather chairs dominates the center space. I inhale the scents of leather and furniture polish and a whiff of something else, sharp and clean like an ocean breeze.
Familiar.
Across the room, the client is pouring himself a glass of water from the tray on the credenza. From the back, he takes my breath away. Sleek black suit pants hug the curves of his tight ass. His crisp white shirt is tucked into a narrow waist and stretched tight across a broad, strong back. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, and I catch a glimpse of a strong, muscled forearm as he lifts the water glass.
But it’s the thick, blond, wavy hair just brushing the top of his collar that makes my pulse race. Soft. Silky. Hair that is meant to be touched.
Have touched?
The latch clicks as I close the door and he turns to face me.
“Christ! Amanda!” His hand jerks and water sloshes onto the carpet.
My heart stutters in my chest and the legal pad falls from my fingers to the floor, the world falling away as if everything until now had been an illusion.
“Jake.”
Eyes wide, jaw tight, he stares at me, dismay and disbelief etched on his handsome face. I can’t believe over two years have passed since the night we broke up. Whether a result of maturity or the passing of time, he is even more gorgeous than I remember. Strong cheekbones and a firm chin give his face an angular look, made more rugged by the small scars on his forehead and cheeks, a testament to his success in the fight ring. His eyes are a startling, brilliant blue and when he smiles, dimples appear in the corners of his cheeks. But he isn’t smiling now.
He shakes himself and looks away, then gestures toward the legal pad on the floor. “You dropped it.”
“You startled me.”
He gives me a half smile. “Yeah, I know the feeling. I forgot you worked here.”
Two years of longing and regret. Two years of fantasies and dreams. And yet our first words after two years are so mundane I want to cry.
His gaze skims down my body, taking in my fitted black suit, white silk blouse, and black stilettos. Black or blue only for associates at Farnsworth & Tillman. Like a bruise. The very fact that he is checking me out sends little flutters through my stomach. When he looks up, his eyes warm and spark with interest.
“You look good…professional.” The low, husky rumble of his voice makes my toes curl. So different from his harsh tone and cold words the last time we met.
By force of will alone, I manage a smile. “Firm uniform. They put the policy in place after we…broke…” I choke on my words and then swallow past the lump in my throat. “If I had a choice, I would liven things up. Maybe add a splash of color.”
His lips curl up and the dimples appear. “You always were one for color.”
My throat tightens at the oblique reference to his shocked expression the first time he walked into my apartment in San Francisco’s Marina District. He said he had expected clean, bold, modern lines, blacks and reds. Instead, he got country chic and a riot of pastels, sex toys hidden in a refurbished pie cupboard, and naughty costumes hanging in a pink-stenciled wardrobe.
