James picks up the cue. “We wanted to get to know you better, sweetheart. Off the clock. See if your reputation holds up outside the office.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Which reputation? The paralegal who can outwork Jenkins, or the daughter of your most infamous client?”
James shrugs, smiling. “Both.”
The beautiful blonde sips her wine, sets the glass on a coaster, and steeples her fingers like she’s about to cross-examine us. “For the record, I never wanted to trade on my father’s name. I just want to do my job.”
I lean back, arms spread on the back of the sofa. “You’re not here because of your father. You’re here because you’re qualified, between your stellar grades to your previous job at Carter Graywright.”
Marnie shrugs, but doesn’t contradict me.
The conversation is, at first, a chess match. Every word is precise, every compliment laced with a question. We talk about trial prep, the circus of the media, the way a bad ruling can make or break a career. She’s sharper than most new hires, and more careful than any of the last dozen. She doesn’t fish for gossip, but she knows how to pick apart a story. When I mention theNew York office, she asks about their record on post-conviction relief. When James tells a story about a disaster deposition, she wants to know how the witness was found. She’s cataloguing, and supersmart. Even more surprising, I love it. I have to admit that my bud and I generally don’t pay attention to a woman’s brains, just to her body because female bodies were made to be fucked hard. But this bodacious blonde is more than a pair of tits and a curvy ass. She’s sharp, witty, and keeps us on our toes, and I fucking love it.
After a second round of drinks, the city outside is black and shimmering, and we’re a little closer on the sofa than before. My knee touches hers when I shift, and Marnie doesn’t flinch or pull away. James watches her over the rim of his glass, his gaze laser-locked.
She sets her empty wine on the table and leans in, almost conspiratorial. “Okay. My turn. Ask me anything.”
James grins. “Anything, sweetheart? That’s quite the offer.”
“Anything.”
He lets the silence expand. “Why did youreallywant to work at Gibson Grant?”
She holds his stare. “I thought we went over this. Because you represented my father, and I want to understand what happened to him. Not the news version. Thetruth.”
I can feel my jaw tighten, but I keep my expression neutral.
She turns to me. “Did you think Stanley was guilty?”
I pause, considering my answer. “I thought he was the best liar I ever met.”
She nods, as if that’s confirmation.
James shifts forward, elbows on knees. “And doyouthink he was innocent?”
She smiles, a sad one this time. “I think he was my father. And that’s enough. He didn’t deserve to die.”
There’s a pause, and then, almost imperceptibly, something cracks. The room softens. We’re no longer adversaries, but three people locked in a private orbit, waiting to see who moves first.
I move first. I refill Marnie’s glass, but this time, when I pass it to her, my hand brushes hers. She doesn’t pull away.
James slides a little closer, the triangle tightening.
“You know why you’re really here, don’t you?” I say, voice low.
The beautiful blonde’s cornflower eyes are huge in the city lights. “Enlighten me.”
James gives her an assessing look—calm, predatory, all teeth.
“Brent told me how you broke into the archive room. We know what you did.”
Her composure flickers, but she recovers fast. “Well, if you’re going to fire me, at least let me finish the wine.”
I shake my head. “We’re not going to fire you. We want something else. Payback. Retribution.”
She laughs, quick and breathy. “What do you mean?”
James leans in, all charm and menace at the same time.
