“Honestly?”
“Yes, honestly.”
“I work.”
Her laugh is the freest I’ve heard from her. It causes the corners of my lips to twitch.
“You sound like me,” she says. “I get such satisfaction from finding a bit of evidence the prosecution didn’t think I’d see or hearing a verdict go the right way.”
I lean forward and rest my arms on the table. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do you ever have to take on clients you know are guilty?”
“Yes. Sometimes. But, before you go judging me, I’d like the opportunity to explain.”
I nod. “The floor is yours.”
She smiles, but her game face is on. A finger touches the gold chain sitting around her neck. “My job is to ensure my clients are tried fairly in accordance with the Constitution. Yes, I’ll represent men and women who I know are guilty if, and this is a big if, they haven’t been accused of a violent crime. And I cannot ethically encourage them to plead not guilty, and I won’t put them on the stand if I think they might lie. I have to sleep at night.”
Her eyes shine with a ferocity and intelligence that fucks with me. It raises a hundred questions that I want her to answer if for nothing but to watch her speak.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, “I think that’s highly admirable.”
And fucking hot.
I sit back again and try to block out the image of her in a courtroom.
“What do you do?” she asks. “Work-wise, I mean.”
“Business shit,” I say, trying to brush it under the rug. Going intothe ins and outs of my world seems like a waste of time when we could be talking about her.
She grins. “I’m going to need a little more than that, Mr. Mason.”
“I’m the CEO of Mason Limited. My grandfather started it. My father expanded it. Oliver and I are ushering it into a new age.”
“I love the sound of that.”
“It’s fun.”
She slides a lock of hair behind her ear. The candle in the middle of the table casts reflections across her high cheekbones. She looks like a model sitting across from me, but one you could touch without knocking her over.
I’ve been with a lot of women, but none quite like her. She might just be the total package.
“What?” she asks, catching me studying her.
I could toss her a canned line or redirect the conversation to something that’s not how gorgeous she is. But if I know anything about Blaire so far, it’s that she can pick out a line of bullshit a mile away.
“You’re beautiful, Blaire.”
She flushes. “Thank you.”
“It’s not a line. I mean it—you’re fucking beautiful.”
The candlelight flickers as she shifts in her seat. Her eyes pull away from mine, and I instantly regret opening my mouth.
She clears her throat as her fingertips touch her necklace again.
