Instead, I simply say, “See you in court, Cat,” before I turn away and head into the coffee shop again, where I stop for napkins, and head for the door, motivated to win my case, and Cat. And I am going to win with Cat. One lick at a time, if that’s what it takes.
Reese is making me crazy. Since I met him, I can’t think straight. I can’t sleep. I can’t even get a cup of coffee without it ending up all over me. He’s trouble. He’s my job. He’s an incredible kisser. I hate him. I want to hit him. I’m all over the board with this man.
These are the thoughts I have over and over as I rush to my apartment to put on a pink dress I don’t often wear to court. But I somehow end up in it anyway. Just like I somehow ended up with Reese’s lips on my lips. Maybe that is the value of pink. It’s innocence and sweetness. If I look the role, I’ll behave the role. I’ll scare off the deviant, arrogant assholes like Reese. Whom I hate.
I don’t second-guess the dress as I step out of my building again, but I do in fact second-guess just how I allowed his hands to end up on my body, in a coffee shop, in the middle of this trial. I hurry toward the black sedan Uber I’ve prearranged and climb inside, greeting the middle-aged man behind the wheel. “Hello.”
He gives a wave but doesn’t speak, and perhaps I should question the weird triangle bald spot on his head that cannot be natural, but this is Manhattan. Antennas on the man’s head wouldn’t even be as weird as some of the things I’ve seen in my almost thirty years in this city.
We make it all of one block before we’re in a dead stop and my cellphone rings in my purse. Digging it out, I note Reese’s number. “Shouldn’t you be with your client?”
“That implies a crisis to manage, which also implies the prosecution, not me or my team. Do you always taste like chocolate and coffee?”
“Do you always taste like arrogance?
“Better arrogance than an inability to please,” he replies.
“That was a ridiculously arrogant answer.”
“Back to the kiss. Better yet, let’s talk about you and your confessed desire to get naked with me.”
“I did not say that.”
“You did.”
He’s right. I kind of did. “That was then,” I say.
“When you hated me.”
“I didn’t hate you,” I say. “I just didn’t like you.”
“And yet you wanted to get naked with me?”
“I said I considered that option. A one and done.”
“Sweetheart, the fact that you believe that’s an option tells me you’ve never been properly fucked. So let’s be clear. If a man fucks you, and you have the ability to be one and done, he did it wrong. And I don’t intend to do it wrong. Until later, Cat. And Cat, I can still taste you on my lips.”
He hangs up.
My phone rings again almost instantly, and I answer with, “You know what they say. A guy who talks big—”
“Has a little dick. Don’t I know it.”
At the sound of my agent’s voice, I cringe. “Liz. I thought you were—”
“A man who pissed you off. I hope there’s incredible make-up sex to follow. After the trial. Stay focused. What you’re writing is working for you and me. The publisher is preempting you with six figures to ensure you don’t go elsewhere,” she says. “But they want a lot of creative control.”
“What kind of control?”
“They want to attach portions of your money to specific interviews that have to be included.”
“I don’t like that. That isn’t how I work. And if that’s how they want to play this, I’ll write the book and then let you take it out to publishers when it’s done. Then it’s done my way.”
“I knew you’d say that, but I needed to confirm. But there is more. They’re in talks with Dan Miller for a book. They want you to consider co-writing it.”
“The prosecutor? You have got to be kidding me. He’s going to lose this case and he’s a jerk. No one wants a book from a jerk and a loser.”
“It plays out like this: The real story. What the jury wasn’t allowed to know but the prosecution did.”
“That’s not my style.”
“There isn’t just more money in this for you. There’s the establishment of your true crime brand.”
“Which is not what you just described.”
“Talk to him,” she says. “Appease the publisher.”
“Being forced to appease others isn’t why I started writing.”
“You’ll meet him tonight,” she says, as if I haven’t spoken. “After court. The boutique hotel on the corner by the courthouse. The Johnnie—”
“Walker,” I say. “I know it. It’s popular with the insiders. When?”
“Seven,” she says. “That’s safe, right?”
“Yes. Seven works.” I think of my encounter with him in the coffee shop and his comment about writing a book. “And he knows who I am?”
“Yes.”
“I approached him for an interview and he told me he knew me and he’ll write his own book.” That made no sense at that point in time, but now it does.
She laughs. “Obviously the publisher had been talking to him.”
“So tell me again why we’re meeting? Because to make matters worse, I haven’t been favorable to his trial skills.”
“I’m aware of that fact. We all are aware of that fact, but the publisher seems to believe your present tone only makes you two teaming up all the more interesting.”
“They’re just looking for scandal on top of scandal,” I supply.
“They’re looking to sell books,” she says, and without giving me time to respond, she adds, “Call me after,” and hangs up.
I blow out a breath. I could be partnering with Reese’s adversary, while I’m presently trying to recover from Reese’s hands on my body and his mouth on mine.
Could this get any more complicated?
I’m still asking that very question as I reach the courthouse and discover that I’m running so late I need a guard to allow me inside the courtroom. The judge, jury, and legal teams are in place, which means I am forced to claim a back seat, or walk down the aisle and in front of all of the cameras. I’m not a newscaster for a reason. I don’t like the invasion of the cameras lenses on ten different levels, which is something that someone other than me can analyze, preferably never.
The court is called to order, for once without counsels taking a walk to the bench. Reese works the courtroom, an edge of control and determination about him. He calls his first witness. The victim’s boyfriend, whom Lauren is certain is the killer. He cries. He shouts. He cries some more. Guilty or not, he’s painted himself as a victim, and I believe him. Right up until Reese turns the tables on him.
“Was it true that Jennifer was afraid of you?” he asks of the victim.
“Of course not.”
“Are you certain that no one I put on the stand will say that Jennifer was afraid of you?”
“There are people who don’t like me. I can’t know what they will say.”
“Which people?” Reese asks.
“Her mother, for one. She doesn’t seem to even consider that I lost the woman I love and my unborn child. That is punishment enough without her attacking me. I can’t deal with her attacking me, too.”
“You’ve been accused of being abusive.”
From there it doesn’t get better for the witness, but it does for the accused. Reese doesn’t produce a confession, but he opens the door to another suspect, and does so artfully in every way.
The prosecution is just about to cross-examine when the judge calls a short break. “Thirty minutes for lunch,” he says. “It’s Friday. I want to get people out of here and to their families tonight.” The gavel hits the wooden block. The break is barely long enough to scarf something from a machine and pee, and, I reluctantly admit, my disappointment at the absence of a meetup with Reese. I’m leaning on a wall, watching people pass by and shoving a bag of peanuts down, when my phone buzze
s. I dig it out of my purse to find a text message from Reese that reads: You taste as sweet as you look in that pink dress, but not quite as innocent.
I glance up and my gaze pulls right, to find Reese leaning on this very wall, a good ten feet away. Those blue eyes of his fix on me, and for just a few moments I think of what the witnesses feel on the stand. The steel force of his attention consuming them as it is me now. We stare at each other for several beats, but he doesn’t move toward me, he keeps a distance, respecting the professional lines I’ve established between us. And then he’s gone, walking away before we become obvious, and I watch him join one of his co-counsels and disappear down a hallway.
I could type a reply, but I have no idea what to say. None. Zero. Zip. I write words for a living and I can’t find any words to type. This man really is making me crazy. And exceptionally warm. I guzzle my water, but what I really want is a long, tall drink of Reese Summer. I glance at my watch and confirm that The Reese Summer Show is about to start again. That means I’m one step closer to removing my no sex during the trial rule.
Four hours later, the courtroom of jurors, press and observers, has endured the tedious cross-examination of the victim’s boyfriend and the tears of her mother. The testimony drags onward, and the day does not end early because it’s Friday. But ultimately Reese tries to give us all an ending to the trial. Come nearly six o’clock, he stands and addresses the court. “Judge,” he says, “the defense respectfully requests the dismissal of all charges. There has been no evidence presented to support charging my client. At this point, I think we can all question why my client was charged at all. With the obvious lack of evidence against my client, and a number of suspects, did the prosecution simply pick the one that gets them the biggest book deals?”
The courtroom erupts in murmurs and chaos, while I cringe at the personal note this has hit for me. I’ve been flirting with Reese. I’ve all but promised to get naked with Reese. I have a meeting about writing a book with the prosecutor, this very hour, perhaps. Turns out I know the answer to my earlier question: Yes. It can get more complicated.
The judge bangs his gavel and shouts, “Order!” pulling me back into the moment as he looks directly at Reese. “Unless you get me a confession by someone other than your client, the jury will decide this case, not me. Don’t argue. You won’t like the results. Court adjourned.”
And just like that, the trial will continue on Monday, and I have drinks with the prosecutor instead of coffee followed by sex with Reese Summer. This day needs a do-over.
I don’t wait to find out if there are press conferences after court. I analyze and opine on crimes. I don’t push and shove. I don’t hide in bushes or around corners to get stories. In other words, I don’t wait to find out if there is a press conference after court that will include nothing more than more of the same huff and puff I listened to all day. A short walk later, I arrive at the Johnnie Walker bar, on the ground level of the Johnnie Walker Hotel, before the clusters of tables are filled. I glance around the spacious bar, the décor all brown leather and wooden masculinity, the lights dim.
I cross the room and settle into a seat by a window, away from any other tables, allowing for a private conversation with Dan that could include sensitive and confidential information, if we can get past our dislike for one another. It also allows me to see the door, at least at the moment, before the crowds erupt. For the time being, I ignore the entrance, and the menu on the table that I know from previous visits sports a wide variety of Johnnie Walker scotch. I’m not a scotch girl. I’m not a drinker at all—at least, not when I need my head on straight. Which means I will never drink with Reese Summer.
I’ll order coffee.
It’s safe.
Or not.
It’s not safe, but it is lucky. Coffee is how I met Reese. Coffee is how I ended up kissing Reese. I’m not writing a book with the prosecutor. If I’m going to write a book with anyone, I’ll write it with Reese. I’ll propose that idea to him and the publisher. I just need to do the obligatory meeting I have set tonight.
Instead I order a White Russian with a half pour, which ensures I drink more cream than alcohol. While I wait for it and Dan, a television nearby has been tuned to the news and a familiar broadcaster is standing in front of the courthouse, where there is nothing but picketers being reported. I get one look at a “kill the baby killer sign” and I think I need the rest of that pour. But too late. My drink is here, and so is Dan Miller, and he looks as angry tonight as he does pretty much always.
Dan locates me quickly, proving once again that this day needs a reset button. He crosses the room: Tall, lanky, and in his forties, with a hint of gray in his brown hair. Too soon, he sits down by the window opposite me. “I assume you chose this location to be seen. The reporter that scooped the prosecution.”
My anger is instant, but my legal training and debate skills remind me to clamp it down. “First,” I say, biting out a controlled reply, “I didn’t choose this location. My publisher did. Second, I don’t scoop stories. Ever. I write expert analyses and true crime novels.”
“Right,” he says. “And I gave in and agreed to meet you. No more need to stalk me at coffee shops. Now what?”
I give an incredulous shake of my head. First Reese with the stalker thing. Now him. “I live by that coffee shop, so perhaps you were stalking me to get a true crime book deal.”
“I don’t need you for a book deal.”
“And yet you’re sitting with me. Have you ever written a book?”
“No, but—”
“It was a yes or no question, counselor. And now we both know why you’re here. The publisher believes you need a skilled co-writer to write a decent book. I don’t want to be your co-writer. Now we can say we met, we did this, and we won’t work together.”
He studies me several beats. “Who wins this case?”
“No one, because justice is not going to be served. You acted rashly. You didn’t wait for the evidence to tell a convincing story.”
“You don’t think he’s guilty.”
“I’m an attorney. I honor the court system, and he’s innocent until proven guilty. As for the book, this meeting is over. We can say we did it. We can say we aren’t compatible.”
“But you’re writing a book anyway.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll need my input.”
“If you choose to let Reese Summer speak out while you do not,” I counter, “I’ll deal with that fact in my book and you’ll have to as well.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a statement of fact.”
“This meeting was a joke from the get go.”
He says something else, but I tune him out with the sensation of being watched I’d felt at the courthouse repeating all over again. My gaze pulls wide and lands on a table across the room, where Reese sits with his co-counsels, and my eyes connect with his, his narrowing, a question in their depths. He isn’t sure what to think. I’m not either. My palms are sweaty. I feel guilty. This is crazy. I did nothing wrong. He really is making me crazy. My fingers curl into my palms. Why did I agree to a meeting at a courtroom hotspot? I’ve tried to be discreet with Reese, but I happily meet with his opposition in public?
“Look,” Dan says, “I don’t need or want—”
“I get it,” I say, looking at him. “I’m not writing a book with you. And frankly, I hope you decide to spend your time finding the right person to prosecute, rather than writing a book about the wrong one.” I grab my bag, stand up, and head for the door without looking in Reese’s direction. I’ll text him when I get out of here and explain, or not. This is my job.
I start walking, and I swear Reese’s gaze burns through me. I weave through the now-occupied tables and the group of people that enter as I’m trying to exit the bar, pushing past them to travel through the lobby. Once I step outside, the temperature has dropped about ten degrees, while I feel downright hot. “Wait one moment.”
&nb
sp; At the sound of Dan’s voice, I cringe and turn to face him. “The publisher wants this to happen,” he says, standing in front of me, crowding me now. “We need to be on the same page when addressing them.”
“I’ll talk to them,” I say. “I’ll move this in the direction we both obviously want it to go.” Which is nowhere, I silently add.
“When?”
“They’ll contact me tonight. I’ll let them know our decision.”
He glares at me for several seconds and then scrubs his jaw and walks away. And that is when I realize that Reese is standing just outside the hotel door, close enough that had Dan turned just right, he’d have seen him. Close enough to have heard everything. For several beats, neither of us move, speak, even breathe, it seems, the overhang attached to the building shadows his face. But I don’t need to see his expression to feel the anger in him. He thinks he knows something he does not know.
“Whatever you think you saw, you didn’t,” I say, and my voice seems to set him into action.
He walks toward me, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Angry at the moment, a man of power and control, but that anger is palpable. He stops in front of me, so damn tall and broad, a chilly breeze lifting that spicy scent of him, which wraps around me. Everything about him in this moment is overwhelmingly large.
“What I saw isn’t what pisses me off,” he says. “You have a job to do. You have interviews to do. I get that. It’s what I heard that pisses me off. A book deal with that man? Were you feeding your book partner information?”
“No,” I say quickly. “God. No. Reese, this isn’t—”
“Were you going to fuck me for information?”
“That’s not what this is. Why would I wait, if that’s what I wanted?”
“You got me talking. And I admit it. You were good, sweetheart. You look good. You taste good. You fuck people over real damn good.”
“Don’t be an asshole because you think I’m an asshole. Because I’m not an asshole, and that makes you a really big asshole. And the very fact that you’re going off the deep end like this tells a story. You’ve been burned, and guess what? Whoever she was is not me.”
Dirty Rich One Night Stand: a sexy standalone novel Page 5
