“Erik Jensen,” she said, sounding a little breathless.
I shouldn’t like the way my name sounded from her lips, but damn it to hell, I did.
“How do you two know each other?”asked Ms.Ellis, glancing suspiciously from her client to me.
“We bumped into each other in front of a friend’s restaurant a few weeks ago, and again more recently at a domestic violence luncheon.”I had the pleasure of watching her brown eyes widen when she realized I’d noticed her at the benefit.
It was a short-lived triumph.She straightened, shifting her weight almost imperceptibly, and it was as if she’d slipped on another persona as easily as if she’d put on a coat.She took a deep breath, arching her back slightly and emphasizing her breasts.Without changing one article of clothing, she’d gone from innocent librarian to sex kitten.
The shift reminded me of exactly why we were there.Ms.Smithson used her sexuality for power and money.I’d just have to tell the protective part of me to shut the fuck up because I didn’t want anything she was selling.And I damn sure wouldn’t let anyone else get caught in her scheme.
“I will see you on the eighth for the start of discovery.I’ll allow myself the pleasure of conducting your interrogatory myself, Ms.Smithson.”I took a step closer, fully intending to put her off-balance and make her uncomfortable.It worked.She held her own, not giving any ground but her nostrils flared, and I saw her hands clench into fists at her sides.Good.I wanted her defensive.It would make my job that much easier.“And then after that,” I said, closing the last bit of distance between us, “I’ll make sure you stop playing with things you don’t understand and taking innocent people along with you.”
“That’s enough,” said Ms.Ellis, physically inserting herself between us.
“Not yet,” I said, backing away from the women.“But by the time I’m done, it will be.See you on the eighth, ladies.”I saw a flash of fear in Ms.Smithson’s dark eyes and had to remind myself of all the trouble she’d caused and the arrogance with which she conducted her business.I couldn’t let myself forget or I was afraid I’d do something I might regret.Part of me worried I already had.
ITHUMBED THE ANTACIDOUT of the top of the quickly diminishing roll as I waited for the receptionist to acknowledge me.Peter—no surprise—hadn’t called back for another appointment, and I’d put off the few new inquiries I’d gotten until after the eighth.It didn’t matter.My heart wasn’t in it.I found it increasingly difficult to think about work with the date for the interrogatories looming.The best I could hope for out of the day was pretty toes.
“Thanks so much for squeezing me in,” I said to the receptionist as I bit down on the antacid, chewing discreetly until the fruit taste filled my mouth.
I’d been practically living on the rolls of chalky goodness since my last encounter at the courthouse with Erik Jensen.I couldn’t think of him as Mr.Tall, Dark, and Dangerous any more, not when he had so clearly positioned himself in the Dangerous-only category.
“My pleasure,” said the receptionist.“Right this way.”
She came around the counter and led me toward one of the high leather chairs sitting in a row at the back of the salon.
“Can I get you something to drink?Coffee or champagne?”she asked.
“Champagne would be lovely, thank you.”It was barely noon, but nothing went better with antacids than champagne.
A petite Asian woman took the bottle of nail polish I’d chosen and set it on the rolling cart beside her.She placed my feet in the warm scented water, and the receptionist placed a champagne flute in my hand.For a few blissful minutes, my troubles vanished into the myriad bubbles.I loved getting pedicures.Next to sex, there was very little that felt as good, and despite my profession or maybe because of it, sometimes sex slid into second place.
I spent so much time cramming my feet into impossible high heels, a habit I had no intention of changing regardless of what happened with my business.It was heaven to have someone—even someone I paid or maybe especially because it was someone I paid—rub the knots out of my arches.It would be easy to get caught up in the class disparity, but as someone who made her living the way I did, I knew the woman with my foot in her hands didn’t need my condescension or pity.She needed my money and honest gratitude.She gave my arch another long stroke, involuntarily curling my toes, and I bit back a groan of disappointment when she set my foot back into the water and reached for her nail shaping tools.
Closing my eyes, I let my mind drift.The problem was, when it drifted, it always seemed to end up back at the eighth and the upcoming interrogatories.Nothing good could come of that.I dug in my pocket and fished out what was left of the roll of antacids, thumbing one off the top.As soon as the fruit-flavored chalk hit my tongue, I let out my breath and felt my chest relax a fraction of an inch.
