Dirty Rich One Night Stand

by Jones, Lisa Renee

  “You did?”

  “Yes,” Gabe says. “I’m not the ass you are apparently remembering me to be.”

  “You hate that I left my legal career.”

  “I’m over it. Your column is damn good, and so was the book. Why are you turning down another deal?”

  “Wait,” Liz says, glancing at Gabe. “Did you congratulate her when she hit the Times?”

  “No, but—”

  “And now we know why you’re single,” she says. “Next time send her flowers and chocolate. And no. I was not flirting with you.” She refocuses on me. “Back to his question. Why?”

  “No,” I repeat.

  “Why?” Gabe presses.

  “Yes,” Liz says. “Why?”

  “Dan is an ass,” I say. “He also represents everything I hate about the system. I’m not writing a book with him.”

  My cellphone rings, and I’m quick to pull it from my purse in hopes that I can just end this meet-and-greet in the kitchen. I glance at Reese’s number and answer, “Hey.”

  “Did you walk home?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s chilly out and I have your panties. You must have felt that.”

  I laugh and cut my gaze as inquiring eyes suddenly study me more intensely. “I survived.”

  “Come back and get them.”

  “They aren’t exactly usable at this point. But I’ll be about an hour. My brother and my agent showed up at my house.”

  “Take the book deal, Cat,” he says, turning serious on me.

  “I can’t have this conversation with you right now.”

  “Just don’t decline it officially until we talk. Promise.”

  “No.”

  “Cat—”

  “No.”

  “Right,” he says. “We’ll talk about this later, naked. But soon. Get back here or I’ll come after you.” He hangs up.

  I set my phone down and look between Liz and Gabe. “You both need to leave. I have someplace to be.”

  Gabe cuts his stare and looks frustrated, like he wants to say something but thinks better of it. “I’ll see you later,” he says, heading out of the room.

  I glance at Liz. “I’m fine. Go see him off. I’ll make coffee. I know where everything is.”

  “No to the book deal,” I say, trying to get her to leave, too.

  “Okay. I’ll make a cup of coffee and stay awhile.”

  I sigh and follow Gabe to the exit to find him waiting on me with the door cracked open, his expression stern. “Why are you really here?”

  “How good is Reese Summer?”

  “He’s good. Really good. Why?”

  “The best?”

  “Yes. The best.”

  “A killer?”

  “In courtroom terms, yes. Why? Are you thinking of contracting him?”

  “It’s complicated and you have company.” He turns and leaves, and I have this urge to chase after him and demand answers, when I’m not sure why, but he’s right. I have company.

  Frowning, I walk back into the kitchen and find Liz leaning on the counter by the pot, sipping from a cup. “We can set rules and guidelines for the book. You are in charge. You control the content, title, and cover. It’s insanity to walk away from this.” She sets her cup down and walks to the island, where she sets her phone down. “Are you fucking Reese Summer?” She taps her phone, and I go all hot and cold inside.

  “What?”

  “Look at the photo,” she instructs.

  I walk to the counter and stare down at a photo of me with Reese at the hotel last night, his hand on my arm. His body very close to mine. “How did you get that?”

  “From your editor, who got it from Dan.”

  “That bastard,” I say. “I had a fight with Reese last night just as I did with Dan. I tried to leave and Reese wasn’t done with the fight.”

  “Are you fucking him?”

  Damn it, she isn’t giving up. “I plead the Fifth.”

  “Cat,” she breathes out. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It didn’t happen until last night.”

  “The publisher, the person above your editors, wants to see me Monday, but I can already hear her now.” She lowers her voice. “This situation creates a wave of tabloid-like gossip that doesn’t do justice to true crime.” She returns to her normal voice. “I hope that man is worth your career. I’ll let you know what happens.”

  She heads to the door, and I let her go. I don’t move, but I listen as the door opens and closes. I’d already turned down the book deal. I don’t know why I feel so bad right now.

  I spend the short time I’m in the shower fretting over Liz’s claim that I’ve ruined my career. By the time I’m out and drying off, I’m starting to get over it. Just as I’ve dressed in a pair of black jeans, a thin, long-sleeved teal sweater and boots, my phone buzzes with a text on the bathroom sink. I grab it and sit down on the vanity chair to find a message from Reese: Bring clothes. Stay the weekend. In the name of justice and all that is good and right about our court system.

  “Justice and all that is good and right about our court system,” I laughingly murmur, and after a moment of considering my reply, I text back: What if we hate each other today? Then the whole weekend thing could get awkward.

  His reply is quick and all man: We’ll fuck until we get over it. Doesn’t sound awkward to me.

  He’s right, I think. We will.

  That’s not awkward.

  Which means that maybe it’s okay if we hate each other and make that happen. Or even better, just don’t hate each other at all and do it anyway. I think I’ll pack a bag and just consider the options. I don’t have to stay. I do so quickly, feeling good about my decisions as I apply my makeup, but as I dry my hair, Liz’s words quite unfortunately replay in my mind. Is he worth ruining your career? Obviously, I’m not as over her saying that after all. No, I’m not, but by the time I’ve finished with my flat iron, I know why. Liz is doing exactly what my father did to me every time he and I disagreed. And I did exactly what I did with my father: I doubted myself.

  I swore I was done with that kind of thinking, yet I get questioned about Reese, and I’ve reverted back to old habits and I’m second-guessing myself. I walk to my closet in the back of my bathroom, and in between beating myself up and replaying Liz’s words, I pack my rolling computer bag with some personal items and a change of clothes, then stuff my computer inside. Now I can stay or go, and it won’t look like I planned the opposite of either. I grab my purse, and in about two minutes, I’m inside the elevator and really fuming at myself, not Liz. I let her do that to me. That’s on me.

  I pull my phone from my purse, planning to call her once I’m street level. It beeps with a text from Reese. I sent a car for you. He’s there when you’re ready.

  I frown and text him back: How do you know where I live?

  He replies with: Arrogant, sexy assholes know all.

  He asked Lauren, who is going to get her pregnant booty whipped, and not by her husband. I glance at the text message and type: I said arrogant, good-looking asshole.

  He replies: I like my version better.

  I laugh. Again. That matters. I don’t usually laugh much. And I kind of like it. And I like this man. But stay the weekend? Am I really going to stay with him? God. I packed a bag. I think I am. I exit the elevator, and sure enough, there is a car waiting for me. Once I’m settled into the back seat, I dial Liz, who doesn’t answer. I leave a message. “Call me.”

  I’m bothered by her not taking my call. Really bothered by it, and by the time I’m inside Reese’s apartment building and clearing my entry with the security desk, she still hasn’t called back. I dial her again on my way to the elevator with the same results. I try once more as I exit the elevator to Reese’s floor and decide to just set aside my Liz issues. It’s time to go help find real justice for an innocent woman and child. And this trial, and Dan, haven’t done that.

  I’m just arriving at the door when it op
ens, and he appears, and boy, does he make an impression. In ripped jeans and a simple black T-shirt that is not simple on him, he looks like sex, sin, and just what I need in my life, aside from a real purpose. Right now, that purpose is to help him with this case.

  “Hey,” he says as I stop in front of him.

  “Hey,” I reply, deciding he always smells wonderfully masculine. “Is your team here?”

  “Yes,” he says, but he doesn’t back up to let me inside. His hand slides under my hair at my neck and he tilts my face to his. “But before we join them…” He kisses me, this slow, seductive, drugging kiss that has me softening against him before he pulls back and looks at me. “What the hell are you doing to me, woman?”

  “Hopefully encouraging you to do that again.”

  “What happened with your agent?” he asks, his lips still a breath from mine.

  “You really know how to ruin the mood,” I say, pushing against his chest with hardly any movement on his behalf. He’s still holding me. His mouth is still close to my mouth. “That’s not important.”

  “We both know it is.”

  “It’s not. Let’s go inside and do something that is.”

  “Right. We’ll have that naked conversation when we’re alone.” He kisses me fast and hard before releasing me. “Come on.” He takes my bag and gives me a pointed look. “Kind of small.”

  “Big enough,” I say, breezing past him and into the hallway before turning to wait on him. “But I need to get my computer out of it so that I won’t be dragging other things out with your crew.”

  He shuts the door and sets my bag against the wall. “We certainly wouldn’t want your clothing all over the house, now would we? For instance, hanging off a lampshade.”

  I’m already squatting by my bag, unzipping it, and my gaze jerks upward to his. “That’s where my, ah, garment was at?”

  “Yes,” he says, his eyes alight with mischief and amusement. “That is exactly where it was at.”

  I grab my MacBook and zip up my bag before standing back up, at which time I decide to find out how much trouble awaits me in the other room. “Has the Walker clan left the premises?”

  “Yes,” he says, his hands settling on his hips. “They came in like a hurricane, asked a ton of questions, and then left.”

  “Didn’t you say they had a lead?”

  “Yeah. They think the wife did it.”

  My brow furrows. “The wife? You mean the victim’s boyfriend had a wife?”

  “My client’s wife.”

  “Oh. Wow. Do you think she did it?”

  “They have me leaning that way, but what I think doesn’t matter. What I prove or what she admits does.”

  “All you need is reasonable doubt.”

  “I have reasonable doubt. You know that isn’t enough in these cases.”

  “It’s supposed to be,” I say.

  “Would have, could have, should have,” he says, motioning me toward the archway that leads to the kitchen and the parts of the house I have yet to see.

  We walk through that archway and pass the kitchen to enter the room on the other side of the stairwell, which is not so unlike the living area. The room is rectangular, wrapped in windows, with the same mahogany hardwood, only in this case there is a thick gray pile carpet covering most of the sitting area. On top of it is an L-shaped gray sectional with several low cushioned chairs. Reese’s co-counsels are each on the floor, on opposite sides of the gray marble rectangular coffee table, their computers in front of them. “Cat,” Reese says, his hand at my lower back, “meet Elsa and Richard.”

  “Hi,” I say. “How’s it going?”

  Elsa and Richard give me steady, unreadable stares. “Hi,” they say in near unison.

  “I’m Richard, not Elsa,” Richard says, with a completely straight face. And it is a handsome face, with sharp features, hard, and framed by longish, wavy brown hair.

  Elsa, on the other hand, is pretty, blonde, with a heart-shaped face and about ten years older than me. With manners, too, it seems, as she says, “Nice to meet you, Cat.”

  “You look like Elsa,” Richard comments.

  Elsa snorts. “If only I were so young, but I’m not, so thank you, Richard. I’ll take that comparison.” She looks at me. “Come sit. I’ve read your column. I’m a fan.”

  “Agreed,” Richard states, his tone dry and unexcited, but I’ve had the impression from his courtroom presence that this is his normal.

  “Thanks to both of you,” I say, chatting with them just a short bit about nothing much.

  Reese breaks up the nothing chit chat by having me sign a confidentiality and consulting agreement before paying me one dollar for my services. “We’ll work out compensation later,” he promises.

  I smile and he smiles, because we both know what I want, and it’s not money. It’s him, naked, and in all kinds of ways. That shared moment doesn’t pass without notice but I don’t really care. At this point, it’s over, and we all get to work. I’m settled on the floor at the end of the coffee table and Reese moves to stand at the window with his back to us while he stares out over the city, most likely seeing nothing but what’s in his head. “I still think it was the boyfriend,” Elsa says, as I’m reading through the Walker notes.

  “It was the wife,” Richard states, almost matter-of-factly.

  Neither myself nor Reese comment as they proceed to debate their points of view. I half listen, reading through all the Walker notes, which include some phone calls between the wife and the victim, as well as a few emails about meetups. “There’s nothing that proves the wife is the killer,” I say. “But I find the meetings curious. Reese, does your client know about those meetings?”

  Reese turns to face us. “Good question,” he says, walking to a chair right by me and sitting down. “He’s not answering his phone.”

  “The boyfriend did it anyway,” Elsa interjects. “We have police reports of a violent history. Fights. Domestic disturbances.”

  “None with the victim,” Richard points out. “And all years ago, when he was a punk kid.”

  “In the absence of evidence,” I say, “we have to make the suspects believe we have it.”

  “Exactly,” Reese says. “Let’s get a list of questions and cover every possible way they might be answered.”

  “We can’t predict where the questions will lead,” I say. “But we can come up with scenarios.”

  “The challenge,” he says, “is that I don’t want the jury to simmer on the heels of a hot testimony that helps us. I need to get a closing ready that I can tweak slightly based on courtroom action, and go in for the kill fast and hard.”

  We all agree, and for the next two hours, we work on prep for the wife. Reese is focused on his trial, not on me, but when our eyes collide, I feel it in every inch of my body. And I like watching him with his team, the way he interacts with them, the fierceness of his beliefs in each communication. We’ve all just filled room service cups with coffee from the pot Reese ordered when Liz calls my cellphone I have sitting on the coffee table. I inhale on the memory of her words, and pick up my phone and myself from the floor. Reese, who has been reading through his notes, looks up, and I look away before he reads something in me I don’t want him to read.

  Crossing the room, I feel Reese watching me, curious, perhaps too intuitive about my present mood, which is tense and fired up. I pass the stairwell and answer the call. “Just a minute,” I say, even as I exit to the hallway and cross through to the living room, where I will have privacy. “Are you there?” I ask, stepping to the window I’d stood at with Reese last night.

  “Yes,” Liz says. “I’m here. I saw you called. I had a meeting this afternoon.”

  It feels like a fake excuse, and that just drives me to get right to the point. “Dan stands for everything I don’t like about the legal system,” I say. “I’m not writing a book with him, and nothing you say to me is going to change that.”

  “The damage is already done,” sh
e replies. “The publisher is not happy. But I have to ask, because I have to explain this when asked. How is Dan a problem for you, but you’ll sleep with the guy defending a killer?”

  “What? Did you really just say that to me? Have you read my columns at all? There is no proof that the defendant is guilty. You don’t convict an innocent man just to please the public.” I remember Reese’s courtroom statement. “Or to get a book deal. You know what, Liz? I think you need to represent Dan, not me.”

  “What? No. I’m just being frank.”

  “I’m glad you are. It tells me that we don’t match up. And I’ve learned that when I expect those kinds of relationships to improve, they don’t. They become poison. I’m sorry.” I hang up, and the reality of what I just did hits me hard and fast. I fired my agent. Oh God. I fired my agent. That’s a big deal.

  I press my hands on the rail around the window and replay the conversation. My mind races so fast I don’t even hear Reese approach. Suddenly, he’s behind me, his hand on my belly, his body cradling mine. My body warms everywhere he touches and everywhere I instinctively want to be touched by this man. “How long have you been there?”

  “I heard the call,” he says. “All the important parts.”

  I face him, leaning on the rail around the window. “You’re nosy.”

  “Concerned, and you were talking louder than you realized.”

  “Oh. I was?”

  “Yes. You were. And back to me being concerned.”

  “No. Yes. I mean, firing Liz was the right choice. She has different priorities than I do.”

  “Are you sure? Or have you made this personal?”

  I think about her reprimanding my brother over ignoring my New York Times achievement. “I think she cares about my career, but only when it pays her well. And I get that, too. She needs to get paid. I’m just not willing to get her paid doing what she wants me to do. It’s just one of those decisions that you make, and then you get drunk on ice cream and chocolate afterward and move on.”

  “Okay. Then we’ll have chocolate and ice cream for dinner. But you should write the book, just do it your way. It’ll sell.”

  And just that easily, he becomes the first man in my life that has told me to do something my way, not his. Especially when it might affect him, and this will. I’d be writing about him to a rather large extent. “Maybe,” I say. “I’ll think about it. Right now, let’s go win your trial.”