Page 18 of Resist

“How would it be their fault?” he asks and angles his head to the side.

“Like if they cheat.”

“No matter how you look at it, a spouse doesn’t cheat if the marriage is a good one.”

“And you’re wrong.”

His laugh is loud and boisterous, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s not used to being told he’s wrong or if it’s because he flat out disagrees with me. “How so?”

“Because some men are just bastards. Just like some women are assholes. Not everyone is good in this world.”

He stares at me longer than normal and nods slowly, conceding without admitting it verbally. “Yes, I always represent the husbands . . . bastards or not.”

“Why?” I’m fascinated.

“Because I understand men. Their motivation. Their positioning in social circles. The appearances they need to uphold. I also understand women too. More than I’m ever given credit for . . . and it comes in handy during negotiations.”

“Do you use a private investigator?”

I can see the sudden jolt of surprise at my question and the ghost of a smile. It’s conniving . . . a bit dangerous, and tells me everything I need to know—yes, he’ll have no hesitation trying to look into me, Vee. Or maybe he already has. “Of course I do.”

“Have you ever lied in court to get the judgment you want?”

His eyes darken for the briefest of moments as he purses his lips. “Why the twenty questions?”

“I like to know what I’m working with.”

“What you’re working with?”

“Character matters,” I state.

“Everyone lies in some form or another. Some people drive a car more expensive than they can afford to look the part. Others tell their spouse they satisfy them and then hire an escort to take care of their darker needs on the side. Some lie to get ahead at work. Everybody lies, Saxony . . . the question you need to ask is why the person is lying. That will tell you about their true character.”

I hate that every point he makes feels like it has a double meaning, like I’m the one sitting in the jury box during his closing arguments as he drives home a conclusion he wants me to figure out on my own.

“Is this your full-time job?” he asks, the sudden change of topic unexpected, seeing as we were just speaking about lying.

I proceed with caution, wary that I’m falling into a trap he’s set.

“No.”

“Do you mind me asking what else it is that you do?”

“Only if you mind me asking why you’re using a service when I’ve clearly seen every woman in this restaurant glance your way more than once.” I offer a tight smile as he chuckles, evidently not surprised by my forwardness.

He leans closer, his voice low. “Some things are better left unexplained.”

I’m uncertain what he means, and we both stare at each other for a few moments in a break from our combative conversation. He leans back, elbow on the arm of his chair and thumb and forefinger running back and forth over his jaw.

“Is there something you want to ask?” I finally voice when our plates have been cleared but his eyes haven’t left mine.

He purses his lips and angles his head to the side. “Just trying to figure you out is all.”

“I wasn’t aware I need to be figured.”

“That’s what I do for a living.”

“And what is it that you’ve figured out?”