by Natalie Wrye
Setting a stack of hundreds in the center of the fuzz-covered table, I lean back in my chair, admiring the view of victory in my palm. Until I feel a cold hand on my shoulder—an unwelcome touch that feels strangely familiar.
I pull away, glancing up into the face of another King—this one much worse than the first two. I take in his face.
David King.
My father’s law partner was always a prick. No matter what his nameplate said.
A money-hungry asshole more interested in swimming in dollar bills than being a decent person, he had always regarded me in some way like the scum beneath his Oxford shoes. His wrinkled hands are rough against my shirt collar, his stare steady. His blue eyes are cold—arctic, despite his smile, and as he grins down at me, I resist the urge to wrap my fingers around his… and squeeze. Squeeze until I hear a crunch hard enough to break bone.
But I put the bone-splinting thoughts aside and do nothing but glare as David King finds a seat across from me, his lightly weathered face smug as he peers at me through a set of ocean blue eyes crinkled at the corners.
He runs a few fingers through the thick salt-and-peppered strands across his head, glaring back at me, his countenance just as harsh. Just as coolly conceited as ever.
I flick a thumb over the cards between my fingers. I nod. Just once.
“David King,” I utter slowly.
“Heath Sparrow.” His stare holds a dash of humor. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
“Thought?” I respond. “Or hoped?”
“Does it make a difference?” He motions towards the waitress, who takes his order, smiling down at him as she does.
The overconfident prick.
I’d push the table on him, if I thought I wouldn’t get kicked out. The itch of risk in me from earlier becomes harder and harder not to scratch.
I’m ready to make a bet that has nothing to do with the game in front of me. I smile.
“Nice to know you think so highly of me, David.”
“Oh, I do.” He blinks, baring a little of his teeth. It’s more a grimace than a grin. “Especially now… Considering what’s happened with your dad.”
I want to strangle him dead. If my hands weren’t currently occupied with my cards, I might hold them around his throat. Choke the fucking life out of him for even opening his dickheaded mouth to mention my family.
My eyes never leave his face. “Thank you for your condolences.”
“My sincerest apologies.” David places a hand on his sturdy chest. “That was my attempt to give them to you. Your dad is a fine man.”
Fine to who? I’m tempted to say but don’t.
Especially as David continues, kicking back in the black paint-chipped seat as if he belongs there. As if I won’t break every bone in his goddamned body for being the asshole he always was.
He crosses one suited leg over the other, adjusting the cuffs to an English-styled ensemble. His tailoring is perfect. Just like mine.
He, of course, has no qualms, letting me know that I’m not the only high roller at our little illegal poker game, and he gazes at me like the cat who ate the canary, his eyes full of some sentiment I can’t yet describe.
I feel an ambush coming, but can’t tell from what angle. I wait.
“A very fine man,” he keeps going. “The best, in fact. Just like Chris Jackson.”
Here we go.
“It’s a shame Chris has been implicated in all this mess. He’s a fine businessman himself. A good man.”
“If by ‘good,’ you mean ‘ruthless and money-grubbing,’” I counter, and David grins—amused at my rising anger, his mouth open to say something else when the shouts at a table across from us reaches our ears, the sounds of a verbal shuffle bringing us back down to earth.
I glance up, only to catch a drunken player swinging at one of his poker opponents, his fist flying through the air as he tries to throw a punch at the other man. He misses, stumbling to the floor as momentum carries him downward.
The room erupts in laughter, cheers and jeers, and as security swoops in to escort the two men out, David King’s eyes never stray from mine, his poised stature seemingly more empowered by the violence happening around us.
He gets off on it. The prick.
And I’d love to shove my fucking cards exactly where the sun doesn’t shine. I hike one eyebrow high as he eyeballs me.
“What about those men, David? Are they ‘fine’ too? Seeing as how your standards for decency couldn’t be any goddamned lower than it already is.”
He smirks in response, one side of his slightly wrinkled face pulling upwards towards his ear. He leans back, unfazed by my comments. With the confidence of a man with the perfect poker hand, he straightens his shoulders, his size seeming to increase as he angles forward. His voice sinks to almost a whisper.
“I want you to know that my standards are high in everything I do. Be it business or women.” He smiles wider. “Speaking of women, I’m so glad your sister Marilyn recommended that friend of hers to join the firm. She’s a great new addition. And a great piece-of-ass, if I might add.”
My skin prickles. Warning bells go off in my head, but I’m too damned stubborn to ignore, too torqued up to stop myself from asking a question whose answer I’m not sure I want to hear.
But twenty-eight years of hardheadedness take hold of me, and the words come out against my will. My eyes taper into slits as I stare at the elder man.
“Which friend?” I ask.
He lifts his chin. “Violet Keats,” he declares, not a hint of humor in his voice. “She’s our newest junior partner. From what I’ve heard…she might be as good in the bedroom as she is in the courtroom.” He winks. “And she’s very, very good in the courtroom.”
My pulse jumps into my ears, pounding heavily. I have an out-of-body experience. I don’t even hear myself say the words until seconds later, when I realize that I snarl—out loud—a sentence very similar to this: “Stay the fuck away from Violet Keats.”
David beams. “I might stay away from Violet Keats…but I can’t guarantee she’ll stay away from me. We’re colleagues, after all. And besides…it’s my goddamned firm, Sparrow. Or haven’t you figured that out?”
“It’s my fucking father’s, you aging asshole. Ever since you both took the company public. The firm has been in my family for years. And it’ll stay that way…at least, according to my father’s will. Or haven’t you figured that out?”
I watch his falsely-tanned face pale, the skin turning white. “Your father’s leaving you his shares?”
It’s my turn to grin. “And the Managing Partner status that comes with it… If I want it. And let me tell you, King…” I angle towards him. “I’m really close to wanting it.”
He bluffs. “You’ve never been interested in law.”
“Who says I have to be? With my father’s shares, I essentially become your CEO. That’s the risk you run when you turn a law firm into an IPO. Someone has to own the biggest piece. And right now, that someone is me, King.” I sit back. “Like it or not.”
David’s face turns red, his normally even breath coming out in huffs. His shoulders puff to twice their size, and he purses his lips together as if he might implode, a pressure building in his body that I can practically see.
I tighten a fist under the table, tempted to see how much pressure he can really deal with. I hold back as he finally finds the words to say to me. My body tightens like a taut string.
“Why don’t you put your money where your mouth is, then, Sparrow? Can you handle a better bet than this?” He nods towards the table, his heated stare bearing into mine.
I eat his animosity like its breakfast, wanting to push the bastard to the breaking point. I grin.
“I can handle anything you can throw at me, Queen,” I counter, changing his self-absorbed surname. “Just name the terms.”
“You got it. The firm. And Violet. They’re mine.”
“In what fucking world?”
“This one.” He sneers. “You know stocks, right?”
“I should. It’s my fucking job.”
“Well, now that you own the most stocks as the top shareholder, we should be on easy street, right? I mean…unless the firm has some sort of scandal…” He pokes at my unruly past.
“It won’t,” I say, a silent promise to myself.
“Good. Then, two weeks it is.”
“To do what?”
“To ensure that our stock doesn’t fall.” He smirks. “If anyone can keep our stock trading high, it’s Heath Sparrow, right? Investor extraordinaire.”
He’s mocking me. I know it. I don’t give a shit, really, but it’s that competitive streak in me, that whisper of insecurity that nags at my throat making it dry.
I’ve never lost a bet at this table. Not even once. King knows this. More than most.
His pride is on the line in front of the players, and I glance at the surrounding circle of wealthy men around us, who eat our drama as if savoring every morsel. This will be the most dangerous bet I’ve ever made. The biggest.
But to back down from a dickhead like David King at this type of table was a fate worse than death. Because in a city like New York—with its high rollers and royalty, with its stockbrokers and businessman and career white-collar criminals—respect?
Well, that was the one thing you couldn’t barter.
And I wasn’t losing a shred of it to the likes of David King. Wouldn’t sacrifice one bit of it at the altar of his oversized ego.
No matter what the loss entailed.
This was the man I was.
I think for a second about what a bet like this could mean to whatever Violet Keats and I had—or didn’t—and before my good sense can step in, I stand to my feet, sticking out my hand for David King—dickhead that he is, to shake.
I watch him take it, his hand wrapping around mine as I grin.
“You’re fucking on.”
Chapter 8
VIOLET
Don’t spill the coffee in his lap. Don’t spill in the coffee in his lap. Do. Not. Spill the coffee in his lap.
They’re the only words I can think off while my hands shake on an already strange Monday morning. My legs are shaking even worse, and as I set the steaming cup of coffee in front of my boss, David King, it’s the only thing I can focus on.
Well, that…and the huge bulge lying limp in his crotch. I can’t help it. I can’t help but notice.
He’s freaking hot. He’s also the closest thing I’ve had to a mentor in a long time, and the more I look at him, the more I wish I didn’t.
Why can’t I lose myself in a David? Granted there’s only the one and the teeny tiny crush I have on my boss is probably nothing more than product of too much male testosterone in the room—a combination of cologne and raw masculinity with a hint of musk.
And the suits. Holy shit. The suits. The midnight blue stunner on David’s sculpted shoulders is worth more than my first year of law school, and as I lean in to lay the java in front of his paper and pen, he smiles, making me fumble the large mug in my right hand. My cup spills, splashing some cold coffee on my right hand, and as I shake the liquid away, I feel my knees do the same, nearly knocking as they try to carry me through the rest of the oval-shaped circle that borders the boardroom.
I manage to make it all the way around without spilling another drop. I grin, feeling triumphant, but nobody notices me. They’re too busy in the middle of some senior partner meeting that I probably shouldn’t even be listening to. I sneak out of the well-lit walls with my hands clasped gently around the porcelain mug held to my navel, my head down, strawberry-colored strands of my hair falling over my face.
I tuck a few behind my ear when I feel a sudden touch on my back.
“Holy shit.” I jump.
Karina backs up. “Sorry.”
I close the boardroom doors. “Think you might want to give me a heads-up before you scare me shitless? There’s a really important deposition going down and I don’t want to interrupt.”
My newest colleague crosses her arms. “Of course you don’t. All that delicious-looking David…and one Violet. Must be tough…being around such a fuckable man.”
I shrug, walking past her. “You act like it’s my fault the firm hired a good-looking guy.”
“Just because he’s good-looking doesn’t mean you have to get his coffee. You’re a junior partner, for crying out loud.”
“Key word: junior. And I’d like to be senior someday.”
“You won’t. If David sees you as his coffee girl.”
I groan, leaning my head back. “I’m just trying to be nice. Any other advice you want to throw to the tired junior partner, two inches from diving out the window?”
“Yeah,” she says, standing. “Stop ogling the man and get your own.” She points at the boardroom’s floor-to-ceiling windows. “I can see through glass, you know.” She grins. She grabs a brown paper bag I hadn’t seen until just now, sneaking into another boardroom without making a sound.
My fingertips are running hot and cold from the drinks, and so are my emotions. I stalk into the main floor’s kitchenette where I find myself leaning against the counter.
It’s been a hell of a day. Made more hell-ish by the office shipments that never arrived and my faulty computer keyboard. Not to mention the night classes that have been wreaking havoc on my nerves or the fact that my job has made any sort of dating life almost impossible.
I stood up another Internet date again last night.
And even after my several attempts at apologies, he practically shrugged off my texts, giving me the virtual cold shoulder.
I sigh, stirring up my own cup of now-lukewarm coffee.
Yup. I was going to be sex-less for another eleven months.
I tap the stirring spoon against the edge of my coffee cup when I feel a tap on my lower back. Actually, less like a tap. More like a caress.
I turn.
“Well, hello, Violet.”
Fuck, I hate the way he says my name, as it were a dirty word. Every time Steven Randall comes around, I feel the need to fall out of my skin and replace it with a new one. Anything to get his touch off me. Our local delivery man is a creep if I ever saw one, and the last person I want to see so early in the morning. I step away from his touch.
“And goodbye, Steven.” I grab my coffee.
“Wait, wait,” he says, blocking my path. “Leaving so soon? You just got here.”
“I’ve been here since five o’clock this morning. And I’m no good to anybody until my tenth fix of caffeine so if you’ll excuse me…”
He steps in front of me again, and I want to splash my cold drink in his face. If I didn’t want the coffee so bad, I would have faked tripping, just to toss it into his lap.
But I wasn’t lying. I need the caffeine. If I’m going to survive another day of that high-stress position that sometimes I think I would only wish on the bitterest of bimbos that went to high school with me.
Being one of the few female lawyers at my firm is no easy feat. And neither is keeping my cool while Steven tries to stop my escape.
Why was it always the shitty guys who liked to pretend they had the biggest balls?
From the way he swaggered through the halls, you’d think Steven owned the place. Contrary to what I’d seen earlier with David, Steven’s lack of bulge in his too-tight overalls is a tell-tale sign that he’s not the boss of anything, and I consider commenting about it when he pipes up again.
“There are other pick-me-ups besides caffeine, you know…” He smiles knowingly.
“None that I care to talk about.” I reached back for a second tray of filled coffee cups. “Now if you’ll excuse me.”
I can see the word “No” forming on his lips, but then someone grabs me. A female someone. Warm brown liquid goes splashing sideways, and I curse as a wave of caramel macchiato goes flying out of my hands and towards the table. “Shit!” I scream out loud. “Dammit, Emily.”<
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“Sorry,” she yelps quickly, though she looks anything but. “We’ve got an emergency on our hands.”
“What?” I snap. “Did David or someone else not receive enough whipped cream on their frappe-whatever or something?”
She shakes her head. “No. We have a visitor. Boy, do we have a visitor.”
From the way she spits out the words, I can tell she’s in shock. Her eyes widen with nervousness…or maybe it’s excitement. I can’t tell.
I take a deep breath, my chest literally heaving. “And?”
“Problem is,” she interrupts, “he has no identification, no appointment. He wants to come on the floor. But I can’t let him. Not without ID. Not dressed so casually, in an outfit tight enough to make my tongue twist ten different ways.”
I sigh, setting the rest of the coffee cups down. “Why don’t you just tell him ‘no’?
She gapes as if I asked her to strip naked and do the Hokey-Pokey. “Are you nuts?” She glances over her shoulder, lowering her voice. “He is way too fucking hot for me to make out my name, let alone the word ’no.’” She grabs for me again. “Come on. You need to see this for yourself.”
And just like that I was stolen from Steven’s grasp. Saved…by the scatterbrained secretary. But I have to admit: I am curious.
Emily’s fingers are still wrapped around my wrist, and as she pulls me into the front lobby to meet the strange man, I turn the corner, feeling as if I’ve walked smack-dab into wall. The stranger that stands there, suited in a white button down shirt and black slacks, is debonair, despite the flakes of snow on his broad shoulders, and though he looks annoyingly heavenly, his brown hair slightly mussed, I know better than most…that the man standing before us both is the devil.
I place my hands behind my back, holding them there, my fingers interlocked…and every single one of them shaking. He glances over at me, ignoring Emily completely, his smile wicked and wide—showing everything I hate about him.
Heath Sparrow.
My heart almost stops at the sight of him, and suddenly I’m forgetting all about my hot-as-hell boss, all of my focus going to him. I swallow.
“Hi, Violet,” he says quietly to me, his voice smoother than silk. “Bet you never thought you’d see me so soon.”
