ONE
Rosalie
Alone, I cross my legs beneath the intimidating metal table secured to the floor, feeling as out of place as a raven in a nursery rhyme. The heat clunks and whispers from a grate in the ceiling but fails to warm the interview room, and when the door finally opens, the heavy frame scrapes against the grimy cement floor.
My spine naturally straightens, and my chin lifts as my client stalks inside, his hands cuffed to a chain secured around his narrow waist. He doesn’t shuffle. Or walk. Or saunter.
No. This man ... stalks.
His gaze rakes me, and I mean,rakesme. Black eyes—deep and dark—glint with more than one threat of violence in their depths. He kicks back the lone metal chair opposite me and sits in one fluid motion. The scent of motor oil in fresh rain, something all male, wafts toward me.
I swallow.
The guard, a burly man with gray hair, stares at me, concern in his eyes.
“Please remove his cuffs,” I say, my focus not leaving my client.
My client. I don’t practice criminal law. Never have and don’t want to.
The guard hesitates. “Miss, I—”
“I appreciate it.” I make my voice as authoritative as possible, considering I’m about to crap my pants. Or rather, my best navy-blue pencil skirt bought on clearance at the Women’s Center Thrift Store. I don’t live there, but I’m happy to shop there. Rich people give away good items.
In a jangle of metal, the guard hitches toward us, releases the cuffs, and turns on his scuffed boot toward the door. “Want me to stay inside?”
“No, thank you.” I wait until he shrugs, exits, and shuts the door. “Mr. Sokolov? I’m Rosalie Mooncrest, your new attorney from Cage and Lion.”
“What happened to my old attorney?” His voice is the rasp of a blade on a sharpening stone.
I clear my throat and focus only on his eyes and not the tattoo of a panther prowling across the side of his neck, amethyst eyes glittering. “Mr. Molasses died in a car accident a month ago.” Molasses was a partner in the firm, and he represented Alexei in the criminal trial that had led to a guilty verdict. “I take it he wasn’t in touch with you often?”
“No.” Alexei leans back and finishes removing the cuffs from his wrists to slap onto the table. “You’re responsible for my being brought to the minimum-security section of this prison?”
Actually, my firm has juice and a named partner had made this happen. “Yes, and it’s temporary. You’re back to your normal cell block after this meeting.”
His chin lifts. “So this plush locale for our conference is for you, princess? The prestigious law firm doesn’t want you dirtied by the bowels of this place?”
Probably true. “I’m here to help you, Mr. Sokolov.”
His eyes glitter sharper than the panther’s on his neck. “Don’t call me that name again.”
I frown. “Sokolov?”
“Yes. It’s Alexei. No mister.”
Fair enough. I can’t help but study him. Unruly black hair, unfathomable dark eyes, golden-brown skin, and bone structure chipped out of a mountain with a finely sharpened tool. Brutally rugged, the angles of his face reveal a primal strength that’s ominously beautiful. The deadliest predators in life usually are.
Awareness filters through me. I don’t like it.
Worse yet, he’s studying me right back, as if he has Superman’s x-ray vision and no problem using it. He lingers inappropriately on my breasts beneath my crisp white blouse before sliding to my face, his gaze a rough scrape I can feel. “You fuck your way through law school?”
My mouth drops open for the smallest of seconds. “Are you insane?”
“Insanity is relative. It depends on who has who locked in what cage,” he drawls.
Did he just quote Ray Bradbury? “You might want to remember that I’m here to help you.”
“Hence my question. Not that I’m judging. If you want to do the entire parole board to get me out, then don’t hold back. If that isn’t your plan, then I’d like to know that you understand the law.”
