Dr. Bad Boy

by Ainsley Booth

  "So I know who to ask for next time." Because there needs to be a next time.

  She hesitates. "What?"

  "Come on, that was amazing." I yawn. "Next time I'm back in town…"

  She's totally still now, and if I was more awake, I'd process that as the danger sign it is. I'm not, and I don't.

  I'll regret the next thing I say, but I don't realize that yet.

  "Do you want my number?" she asks quietly.

  "I prefer to go through the agency," I say, because it's the truth, and again, I'm fucking tired.

  Also, fucking stupid.

  Because it's in the silence that follows that I piece together the clues my dick ignored all night long and realize, Violet's not a call girl.

  The door opens a millisecond later, and I'm out of bed, but it's too late. I'm naked, and she's gone.

  3

  Violet

  October

  present day

  Summer is officially a thing of the past. I wake up early Tuesday morning, the day after the Canadian Thanksgiving long weekend, and my nose is cold. I love my apartment, a second-floor walk-up in a heritage building in Rockcliffe Park. It’s not big, one bedroom plus a small den that’s really a glorified closet, but it’s all I need. And I have a parking spot, which is good, because I’m not cut out for Ottawa winters without a car. So many people in this city bike everywhere for a good chunk of the year. I appreciate their enthusiasm.

  But I don’t share it.

  Besides, I have an indoor parking spot at work—a major luxury.

  So all I need to do is climb out from under the covers, shower, dress, and drive to work.

  Except my nose is cold, so I stay where I am.

  My alarm beeps again.

  I peer over at it. Quarter to seven. I really need to be at the office before eight, so I should hustle.

  You know those remote-starters for cars? I need one for my shower.

  In the kitchen, my coffee maker hisses to life. Maybe my shower could have a timer.

  I’d take either.

  I roll out of bed, taking my blankets with me, and pad into the bathroom where I crank on the shower. I wait until steam is billowing out from behind the curtain, then toss my blankets back in the direction of my bed and throw myself into the warmth.

  From the second I arrive at the office until a very late lunch, it’s non-stop work.

  Early next week I have a cancellation proceeding at the Trademark Office I need to prep for, and my client is beyond anxious. I spend more than thirty minutes on the phone with him, reassuring him we have a solid argument for voiding the trademark registered by a scummy internet marketer—the other party had demonstrated multiple elements of bad faith and inaction, while my client had been building his business in good faith for nearly a decade.

  But it's his life, his livelihood. I understand the stress, so I let him talk it around and around until he feels confident again.

  This is what I love about the law—building protections for my clients, and finding the loopholes left by others that I can make work to my advantage.

  I flip to my next case. As an associate, I do a little bit of everything. I like the intellectual property stuff best, and as I gain more experience, that will probably be where I end up focusing my work. Others find the federal courts and Trademark Office proceedings dry, but I’ve never been one for the flash and spectacle of a crowded courtroom.

  Which makes my next case my least favourite kind: defending a client against a defamation action. There will almost certainly be a heavy media presence when we wind up in court, and there isn’t any doubt that is where we are headed, because neither side is interested in settling.

  I only need to clock one billable hour on the case today, reviewing a letter we received earlier from the opposition counsel and drafting a reply.

  But before I can get started, Derrick Carr, the junior partner to whom I report, knocks and walks right into my office.

  I don’t mind Derrick. But I don’t like that he doesn’t wait for me to invite him in.

  He launches straight in. “Novak has a new VIP client he’s handing off to you."

  That has my attention. Each junior associate only gets the chance to prove themselves with a marquee account once or twice a year. "Name is Max Donovan, and he’s a former child star who’s moved to town.”

  I nod, trying to ignore the now-familiar tremor that runs through me every time I hear the name Max. But my Max lives in Vancouver, and is a doctor.

  He’s also not mine.

  And he thought I was a hooker.

  So it’s a complicated thing, my reaction. And I need to get over it, especially when one of my clients also has that name.

  Derrick dumps a thick folder on my desk. “No time to review, unfortunately, but the client doesn’t like to talk about the actor thing. He’s really just here to meet Novak.”

  I nod and wait for Derrick to leave before I roll my eyes. No, the client is here to meet me, because I’ll be the one that holds his hand when shit hits the fan. And most clients understand that in a way partners, both junior and senior, seem to have forgotten from their own associate days.

  I open the folder, but I barely make it halfway through the first page before there’s another knock at my door.

  “Did you get Max’s file?” William Novak asks in his slick, booming voice. “Great stuff. He’s waiting in the boardroom. Follow me.”

  I scramble to catch up to him, grabbing a notepad and three pens as well as the thick folder on our client. So it’s going to be this kind of afternoon. I’ll write that letter when I get back to my desk, and order dinner to be delivered, because I’m sure I’ll have some billable hours for this file, too.

  And there’s nothing I hate more than starting a day behind on my to-do list.

  “Here’s our client,” William says as he leads me into the glassed-in conference room in the middle of our office. It’s like a fishbowl, and that’s deliberate, but I didn’t get a good look at Mr. Donovan because I didn’t know he was our client until five minutes ago.

  I curse Derrick in my head.

  Our client has his back to us, but I don’t need him to turn around to know who he is. That hair, short on the sides and thick on top. Those shoulders…

  I don’t want him to turn around.

  But that doesn’t stop him. And when he does, for a split second I have a pulse of relief. It’s not him.

  Except it is. He’s got a beard now, and that almost fooled me—but I’d know that gaze anywhere.

  “Violet Roberts, this is—”

  “Max Donovan,” I breathe.

  “Have you two met?” William asks Max.

  He’s got a look on his face, tight and vicious, and sharp fear stabs through me. Like he might tell the truth—and that would be a disaster.

  “No.” I narrow my eyes and grit my teeth. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  I set the files—his files, that I haven’t had a chance to go through yet—down on the boardroom table, and the smack of paper against wood is louder than I intended. But William doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. He just shakes Max’s hand, then exits smoothly.

  And now we’re alone.

  “Mr.—” I cut myself off. “Dr. Donovan. Nice to meet you.”

  Even under the beard, I can see his jaw flex. He motions for me to sit, and reflexively, I do, just like a good little submissive.

  “So, you’re my lawyer.”

  Maybe. No. Yes.

  God, I don’t know how to navigate this. I flip open his file and buy myself a minute. “You recently moved to the Ottawa area,” I say like it’s totally no big deal. “And you’re looking for new representation in province. Am I correct in my understanding?”

  “Violet.”

  I ignore the stern command in his voice. No. He doesn’t get to pull that here. I flip another page. “You have a medical corporation in British Columbia. You have two choices. You can maintain that entity there, and regi
ster a new company here in Ontario, or we can file articles of continuance to transfer the corporation—”

  “Stop.”

  I stop. My heart is pounding in my chest.

  “I understand we need to do this,” he says, softly now. “But first I need you to look at me.”

  I look up. My eyes are wide, and I’m sure my face is drained of colour.

  He nods. “Good. Do you need to get someone else to take over?”

  He’s giving me an out. Like he’s in charge here. Like that’s no big deal. Except it is a big deal. And there is no out. So I shake my head. “I’m fine.”

  “Continue.”

  And so we go on, working through the to-do list. He’s been working at the hospital on some kind of reciprocal license, but he needs to be fully registered in Ontario, and that’s straight forward. As is the corporation stuff.

  All of it is very straight forward except for the fact that I’ve gagged on his cock as he fucked my face.

  Don’t think about that night. What a stupid instruction to myself. I’ve thought of little else for three months, and now Max, my Max, is in front of me.

  And he’s so far off-limits now, it hurts.

  Plus he only fucked me because he thought I was an escort. There’s that painful fact I’ll never get a chance to confront him with, because my professional ethics preclude me from demanding anything of this client except that he pays his bill.

  “This is more work than I expected,” he says as his phone vibrates. “I have a committee meeting at the hospital in an hour. Who would I see about booking another appointment with you?”

  “It’s not necessary for us to meet in person,” I stammer out as he stands. I stand, too, gathering up my papers. “A lot of this can be handled by email.”

  “Violet.” God, he needs to stop saying my name. And he keeps going, his voice smooth and careful. Dripping with confidence. “That’s not going to work for me.”

  “I…” What can I say? He’s the client. I nod. “My assistant manages my calendar. I’m sure if we book a time for a few weeks from now—”

  The little muscles at the corners of his eyes tighten, as does his voice. “Friday.”

  “I…” Violet, you’re a professional. Pull your shit together. “That won’t be possible.”

  “Make it possible.”

  “I’m in court all day, and I prep over lunch.”

  He doesn’t miss a beat. He’s staring me down now, like he’s not going to take no for an answer. “Dinner, then.”

  “No!” The protest rips out of me. So much for being professional. Although he started it. “Dr. Donovan—”

  “Max.”

  “Dr. Donovan.” I take a deep breath and step toward the door. “If you’ll follow me, we can check with Hannah for my next available appointment during business hours.”

  “I work during business hours.”

  “You’re here now.”

  “This was an exception. I was under the impression that your firm was…flexible about such things.”

  We are. For everyone except the man who made me strip for him in a hotel room and kneel on an ottoman for inspection.

  Max and I need boundaries, and we need them fast. And we can’t discuss them in a glass fishbowl.

  “Fine. Friday. Six-thirty. Here. My office, not the boardroom. And the door will stay open.”

  He lowers his voice. “I swear, Violet, those are more conditions than you put on our night together.”

  And with that, he’s gone.

  Well, our night together was supposed to be a simple one-night stand.

  Violet gets her groove back.

  Not Violet watches her life implode, three months delayed.

  I wait until my pulse stops racing, then I head back to my office, and the first thing I do is Google him.

  I’m staring at his Wikipedia entry when Derrick returns. “You recognized him, huh?”

  Yes, but not for the reason the junior partner expects. “Uh…” I click out of the screen. “Mm-hmm.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  Yes, the fact that I had the best sex of my life with my new client is a problem. It’s a conflict of interest and evidence of my terrible judgement in men.

  “He’s a doctor now,” I murmur, turning to pore over Max’s file so I don’t have to look Derrick in the eye and lie to him just yet.

  “His previous attorneys, who will continue to do some work for him, made it clear to me that he prefers to only discuss his medical practice. The acting is firmly in the past.”

  “I understand.” That came across loud and clear in our brief meeting, and would have been good to know more about before I went in there. I shove away the sneaking suspicion that Derrick purposely didn’t give me enough time to fully brief myself.

  “Between the two careers, he has significant holdings within his corporation. So I don’t need to tell you how important he is as a client in his own right.”

  I shake my head. “Of course not.”

  “But on top of that, he has the ear of the prime minister.”

  I jerk my head up. “Oh?”

  “They were college roommates. Closer than brothers, from all reports.”

  The prime minister’s best friend hires hookers.

  He hired me.

  Well, this is an epic disaster. I swallow hard.

  “So you’ll take good care of him?” Derrick says, in the form of a question, but we both know it’s a directive—and one I can’t refuse.

  4

  Max

  One weekend a month, I’m on call. It’s not this weekend, though, so I’m counting down the hours until Friday night, when Violet and I will have dinner in her office.

  With the door closed.

  I’m practically whistling as I leave the paeds in-patient ward and head downstairs to my office behind the out-patient clinic. I reach for the ID card hanging on my lanyard, right next to the Sponge Bob Square Pants squeaker that always distracts kids long enough for me to look in their ears or up their nose.

  It’s the same reason I’ve got a Kermit the Frog stethoscope.

  But both are getting dumped in my desk drawer before I leave tonight, because the role I’m assuming for Violet—Ms. Roberts, as I’m sure she’d prefer I call her now—is something entirely different.

  I swipe my card over the sensor and the door buzzes open. The restricted hallway is already quiet, with half my colleagues done for the day, and their assistants packed up as well.

  My own assistant is a capable young man named Blair. He was sourced for me by the ever-capable Beth Evans, executive assistant to the prime minister, and my oft-saviour.

  Blair is waiting for me, his hands full of pink message slips and his eyes bright. “All done?”

  “I have to make a few notes, but we’ll be out of here shortly. Let’s triage those messages, shall we?”

  He waves the first three in the air. “Patient calls. Well, parent calls. Not appointment related, and they all sounded like they could use a call back.”

  I take them.

  He lifts the next one up. “Someone from the hospital foundation wondering if you want to sit on a committee for—”

  I shake my head and he balls it up, tossing it toward the trash.

  “And two messages from Eliza Black.”

  I reach for the last slips of paper. He doesn’t hand them over.

  “The Eliza Black?”

  I close my fingers on the edge of the message slips and tug. He hangs on. “Blair, let go.”

  “I was a complete professional while talking to Ms. Black. I’m just saying, you could give me a little gossip now.”

  “I will never, ever give you gossip. But I will give you a generous Christmas bonus, so tell me the rest of my messages and then the weekend can begin.”

  “That’s it.”

  I frown. “That’s not very many.”

  He beams proudly. “There were five other calls, but I dealt with them all.” He gives me
a quick run-down, but he’s right—I approve of how he handled each of them.

  “Great work, Blair.”

  “And your monthly insurance billings report is on your desk.”

  I bite back a sigh. Nobody tells you how much paperwork is involved with saving people’s lives. “I’ll look it over. You can head out now. See you Monday.”

  I settle behind my desk and reach for the phone. The parent phone calls won’t wait. Everything else can go home with me, including getting back to Eliza.

  Like me, Eliza is a survivor of the Hollywood churn.

  Unlike me, she stayed in L.A. after our long-running sitcom came to an end. She used to be Lizzie Black, then. Deliverer of killer punch-lines and winning smiles.

  Now she’s a bonafide A-list star of award-winning films. And mostly due to her persistence, she’s a friend.

  One of the few and the brave.

  My cell phone vibrates in my pocket. I glance at the screen. BJ. That’s code for Gavin, my only other serious friend.

  As in Gavin Strong, the nation’s new prime minister. My platonic better half since our first year of university, where I saved his ass in chemistry and he saved mine everywhere else.

  Even our now-required-because-he’s-powerful secret identities speak to our relationship. He’s BJ and I’m Hawkeye. M*A*S*H re-runs got us through a lot of late night cramming sessions.

  But I’m not his other half any more. He’s got Ellie, his fiancée, and they don’t need me hanging on.

  So even if I didn’t have dinner plans, I’d probably duck out on whatever offer he’s about to make.

  I hit the green button and lift the phone to my ear. “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Ellie and I were wondering if you wanted to come by for dinner tonight.”

  “I’ve got plans, actually.”

  “You’re lying. You’re lonely and miserable and need us to save you from yourself.” He’s teasing, but there’s a thread of history in his words.

  I laugh, because I don’t wallow. “Often the case. Not tonight.” Just last week I’d lied to Gavin about there being a woman on my mind. Violet had been my secret for three months. I wasn’t ready to tell him everything, but I’d found her. She wasn’t a figment of my imagination. “I have…a date.”