The Bridgewater Case

by R. C. Martin

  Laughing softly, she shakes her head and assures me, “I can do better than suffice without having to go home.”

  “Very well.”

  Still maintaining the imaginary boundary preventing face to face contact, she lifts her box of chocolate and asks, “Would you like one? They’re truffles.”

  I draw in a deep breath, concentrating on thinking with the appropriate head as I replay the moan she let loose while enjoying her last truffle. I clear my throat, returning my hands to my pockets as I manage to mumble, “No, thank you. But the sound you made eating that last piece—it’s a sound I intend to draw from you this evening, when I have you suck on something harder.”

  “Dane,” she whispers.

  A smirk curls my lips, certain she meant for that to come out as a reprimand—amused it came out nothing like the sort.

  “As you were,” I command, turning on my heel to walk back to my office.

  My amusement vanishes when I see my father standing just out of earshot. His arms are folded across his chest, and his shoulder is propped up against the wall to the conference room one door down. He wears an assumed grin on his face, and it pisses me off without him having to say a word. I ignore him, walking into my office and hoping he doesn’t follow. I don’t even make it to my desk before I realize I’ve hoped in vein.

  “You know, if you intended to claim her as yours all along, you could have just said so from the beginning. Admitting you didn’t want us to compete in yet another arena would have been honorable,” he jokes.

  I spin around to face him, my gaze cold as I declare, “You are not, neither have you ever been, my competition—and she is not my play thing.”

  “Are you sure about that? You might be able to fool everyone else, but contrary to what you’d like to believe, I know you better than most.”

  “You don’t know shit,” I reply, keeping my tone cool and even.

  Grinning like a fool, he says, “Your name is on the door, and I’d wager that your secretary is in your bed. Tell me, son, which one of us is in denial? You’re more like me than your mother, and you know it.”

  I pull in a deep breath, reining in my anger, refusing to take his bait. I have no intention of arguing with the man. I will not stoop to his level. I will not give him the satisfaction of thinking I am anything like him.

  “My name is on the door because I earned the right to put it there; and while I might be years behind you, I’m a better lawyer than you’ve ever been.” Returning his grin with one of my own, I add, “By the way, that’s not arrogance—it’s fact. As for Sigourney, she has never—neither will she ever—be my conquest. Our professional relationship is none of your business, and my personal life is even less so. Now, is there a point to your visit? Or did you just drop by to fill me in on your asinine assumptions?”

  His smile drops into a sneer, but it’s gone just as quickly as it appeared. He then surprises me when he states, “A complaint has been brought to my attention. Your associates feel as though you aren’t utilizing them in the way that you should be. Your responsibility is to mentor them, not play favorites with Sally.”

  Stifling a sigh, I fold my arms across my chest and reply, “I can assure you, father, I am using my associates to the limits of their potential. I’m surprised you would even give ear to their complaints. The simple fact that they brought it to you at all should be proof enough that their time and their efforts are not focused in the right direction. Any case they made against me was a waste of time—and that is precisely why their workload is so light. If they can’t learn that in order to be invited into the room they must first give reason to be needed in the room, then they’ll never know success at the level at which Croft, Sloan, Parker, & Croft will expect—and you know it.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. This conversation is currently a waste of my time.”

  I see it when a muscle in his cheek jumps as he clamps his jaw closed tight. The fact of the matter is, he knows I’m right. To argue otherwise would be to admit he doesn’t uphold the standards by which this firm was built, and he won’t do that. Thankfully, rather than saying anything, he leaves, and I blow out a sigh of relief.

  It isn’t until I sit behind my desk that I realize, in spite of the things he thinks he knows, I don’t give a shit. Granted, my father’s opinion hasn’t weighed more than a grain of salt in my eyes for years now. Nevertheless, there was a time when even the slightest comparison he made between us would get under my skin. I would carry it around, allowing it to irk me until I reasoned that at our cores, we are not the same. Now, instead of being pissed at him for implying that the nature of my relationship with Sigourney is in anyway illicit, I’m confident in the truth that it isn’t.

  Yes, I know her intimately. Yes, it is a secret we carry for one another—but if word got out tomorrow, I wouldn’t have a shit to give. Not merely because who I fuck is nobody’s goddamn business, but also because I know who I am, I’m confident in who she is, and our attraction to each other goes beyond what I can do for her or what she can provide for me. Looking out at her now, my chest swells with a sense of pride. That is who she is—that is what she does to me—she makes me proud.

  I’m proud to be the man she trusts with her safety.

  I’m proud to be the man she trusts with her career.

  I’m proud to be the man she trusts with her body.

  I’m proud to be the man by her side, certain that the desk she now occupies is not good enough for her; not because I say so, but because she does. Her ambition, her drive, it’s coupled with her beauty and her femininity. I don’t give a shit what anyone says about the nature of our relationship. I want her. Not just for the night, not just for the weekend—I fucking want her.

  The seat I now occupy was fought for. It was paid for. The pride I bear in occupying it is justified.

  It’s no different with Sigourney. Whatever it is that exists between us, it’s not degrading, it’s not illicit, it’s not manipulative in any way, shape, or form. It’s real, and nobody can take that from us—least of all my father.

  PUTTING MY MIX-and-match skills to good use, I manage to piece together an outfit that’s both sexy and classy for my dinner with Dane. I pair my black pencil skirt with my fitted, maroon sweater. The sleeves are long, but the material is thin, and it folds off of my shoulders, making it more appropriate for an L.A. winter than a Denver winter—but it’s about working what I’ve got. After freshening my makeup, I smooth my hair back into a low ponytail and then return to the closet to put the final touches on my outfit.

  Pulling out my little jewelry box from one of the cubbies, I search and find my favorite pair of gold earrings. They’re simple—just a long, slim, dangling bar—but they’re a great accent for when my hair is pulled away from my face and my shoulders are bare. After stowing my small collection back in the velvet lined cubby, I then pull out the sexiest pair of heels I own. When I was packing the night I was threatened, I remember throwing them in my bag because they always make me feel good about myself. Slipping my feet into the black, five-inch stilettoes, that familiar feeling of confidence comes back.

  Unfortunately, it’s short lived.

  As I look at myself in the mirror, smoothing my hands down my stomach and along my sides, in an effort to ensure that everything is laying right, the idea enters my mind that perhaps I’m too sexy. That thought is immediately followed by another, questioning whether or not it’s a good idea to go to this dinner at all. Doubt starts to circle around my mind, one thought after another making me start to feel sick to my stomach. I turn away from my reflection entirely when it occurs to me that maybe moving in with Dane wasn’t such a great plan.

  Try as I might, I can’t seem to forget the things Lydia said to me this afternoon. Then, when Dane flirted with me while I was still at my desk, it gave me an anxious feeling in my belly. Of course, part of that was an impatience for tonight to arrive, so I could be alone with him; but another part of me was afraid of
someone walking by and catching us.

  Before, the fact that we weren’t telling anyone didn’t feel so dirty and wrong. It felt like a private matter that simply wasn’t anyone else’s business. Not to mention, given Allen Croft’s reputation, I understood how Dane was trying to protect me. He didn’t want people to assume I was something that I’m not. However, after Lydia’s comment, I’m afraid maybe some people are thinking those things already. Now, it’s as though whatever exists between us has been reduced to some cheap, office affair—something we have to keep quiet because it doesn’t matter what we have, people are going to see it in whatever way they wish to interpret it.

  Ava saw me this morning. She saw me coming from Dane’s office and promptly put two and two together. While I trust her to keep what I shared with her to herself, I don’t have that kind of comradery with anyone else in the office. No matter how careful we think we’re being, Dane and I could get caught at any moment. I’m sleeping above the firm, for goodness sake!

  “Sigourney?”

  I whip my head in the direction of Dane’s voice. He’s standing in the doorway of the closet, the expression on his face unreadable.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I think maybe I should move home,” I blurt.

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I cover my lips with my fingertips. I hadn’t thought that through, not entirely, and now I can’t take it back. However, I’m still not sure if I want to or not. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Dane shuts me down without batting an eyelash.

  “No.”

  I drop my hand, taking a step toward him, my mouth still spouting out words as if I have no filter. “Dane, I just don’t think—”

  “You’re not going back to that apartment so long as whoever is threatening you is still out there, Sigourney,” he states with a scowl. “Where is this coming from?”

  Hugging my arms around myself, I suddenly go mute. I don’t want him to know what Lydia said to me. I don’t want him to find out how pathetic I was, and how I didn’t say anything to defend my intelligence. It’s embarrassing. The shortcomings that define my career—or lack there of—have always been embarrassing.

  I watch as he closes the distance between us, but I can’t look at him when he gently slides a hand around the side of my neck.

  “What happened?”

  “It’s nothing,” I murmur meekly. “Forget I said anything. I know it’s not safe for me to be at my apartment—I wouldn’t feel protected. It was a stupid idea.”

  “Sigourney, look at me.”

  Sure that he’ll be able to see right through me if I do as he demands, I don’t.

  “Babe,” he grunts.

  I grow weak at the term of endearment, my eyes peeking up at him from beneath my lashes of their own accord.

  “I don’t appreciate being lied to. Something tells me it’s a sentiment we share.”

  Resting my hands against his solid middle, I lean into him a little as I whisper, “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Explain.”

  “I think there might be rumors,” I say on a sigh. “Rumors about us and why you give me the responsibilities you do.”

  He scowls, even as his thumb glides delicately back and forth across my skin. “Go on,” he insists.

  Not wanting to point fingers, though I’m sure he can piece it together himself, I mutter, “Ava knows I’ve been staying up here. She saw me coming out of your office this morning. The point is, other people are going to find out.”

  “Let them,” he replies, wrapping his free arm around my waist and pulling me closer.

  “What?” I breathe, caught off guard by his response.

  “Babe, I’m not holding your hand through the hallways; I’m not groping you outside of the bathroom; I’m not fucking you on my desk. I’m your boss. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone. Even if I did, your work would prove that my trust is not misplaced or unwarranted. Who we are downstairs does not have any bearing on who we are up here. I thought we agreed.”

  “We did—but they’re not wrong. I am sleeping with you,” I argue, pressing into him even further. “I know I once said it didn’t matter what they thought, but I’ve had a taste of what they think and…” My sentence trails off as I drop my focus down my cheeks.

  “Sigourney?”

  “It’s embarrassing enough to know that even though we have the same level of education, your associates think I’m some mindless kiss-ass. It’s even more humiliating to hear their theories about what sexual favors I must be offering in exchange for my seat at the table, which they don’t think I deserve.

  “I want to be with you, Dane—but I don’t want to be some woman who’s shacking up with her boss. I—”

  “My woman,” he declares, his hand tightening around my neck as his arm holds me closer. “You are not some woman shacking up with her boss. Look at me.”

  I suck in a breath when my gaze collides with his, those blue eyes alight with a fire I’ve never seen before.

  “Don’t trick yourself into believing you don’t know what this is. You, sleeping in my bed, sharing my fucking closet—this is not a matter of convenience.”

  “I know. It’s about my saf—”

  “It’s about me taking care of what’s mine.”

  All the air whooshes out of my lungs as my fingers curl around the lapels of his suit jacket. My lips parted open in awe, I try and conjure a word—a letter—anything that might resemble a response, but I fall short. Up until this moment, I thought we were…whatever we are. I didn’t know we were that. I didn’t know that here was there.

  “I’m—I’m yours?” I finally manage on a whisper.

  “Fuck, baby,” he mumbles in reply before lowering his lips to mine.

  He forces his tongue into my mouth, and I tighten my grip around his jacket as I open up for him. He kisses me decisively, like he’s making a statement, and I melt against him, receiving his message loud and clear.

  I’m his.

  When he brings our kiss to an end, he touches his forehead to mine, his voice soft and gentle as he tells me, “You’re mine, no matter what they think—no matter what they say. We don’t have to tell them shit. If they find out, they’ll find out nothing more than that I’m your man—that I wine and dine you like a woman of your caliber deserves, and I fuck you even better.”

  I free a sigh, tilting my head back until my lips are grazing his. I flick my tongue out, hoping for more, but he’s not finished.

  Speaking into my mouth, he whispers, “If they find out, they’ll find out nothing more than that I’m also your boss—that I treat you with just as much respect and professionalism as anyone else who has earned it. Nothing more, babe—there’s nothing more to know. Are you hearing me?”

  I smile, tilting my head to line up our lips just right, tugging on his jacket in an attempt to get him closer. I’ve heard every word he’s spoken, but one truth speaks louder than anything else. One truth chases away all the anxiety and embarrassment I was feeling before.

  “I hear you,” I breathe, brushing a soft kiss against his lips. “I’m yours.”

  He grunts, crashing his mouth against mine as he slides a hand down over my ass and gives me a squeeze. Then, before I’m ready, he pulls away, smacking my backside with a grin.

  “You good now?”

  “Yes,” I admit, returning his grin with one of my own.

  “Good. Get your coat. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  DINNER ENDS UP being amazing. I order the Scottish Salmon with crispy Brussel sprouts, and Dane orders a steak with whipped mashed potatoes. After seeing the price of his 21 Day Dry-Aged Bone-In Prime cut, I insist that he let me have a bite. I’m not usually a steak person, but after having a taste, even I have to admit that it’s the best beef I’ve had in twenty-eight years of existence. We each enjoy our meal with a glass of wine. I let him pick mine, as his pairing knowledge far exceeds my own, and I savor every last drop.

  While ther
e’s a part of me that misses Ellery and our usual birthday shenanigans, there’s a bigger part of me that wouldn’t want to be anywhere with anyone else tonight. Being wined and dined by this man is the best I could ever hope for on my first birthday away from home. And the look in his eye when he asks for the check? It’s my clue that our evening has merely just begun.

  After making our way to the front and handing the valet our ticket, we step outside and wait for someone to pull Dane’s SUV around. I cling to his arm, staying close in an attempt to keep warm, and then it happens. I gasp, tilting my head back to stare into the sky.

  “Dane!”

  “Hmm?” he hums. I sense his eyes on me, but I don’t meet his gaze, too distracted by this birthday miracle.

  “It’s snowing!”

  Chuckling, he presses his lips against my temple and mumbles, “Yeah, babe.”

  “I’ve never been in the snow before,” I whisper reverently.

  “This is nothing. It won’t stick. The ground is still too warm.”

  “Shhh,” I hush, resting my head against his shoulder. “Don’t ruin it.”

  “Very well,” he replies, his tone laced in amusement.

  I don’t even care if he’s laughing at me—I think the snow is beautiful.

  SIGOURNEY GAZES OUT the window in awe, marveling at her first snow the entire ride back to the office. She sighs contentedly when I pull into the parking garage, and I can’t help the small smile that plays at my lips. She’s too fucking cute. Except, when I turn off my vehicle and suddenly feel her hand slip around my thigh, cute isn’t the word I’d use any longer.

  “Thank you for today—for the dinner and the flowers.” Giggling softly, she adds, “And for this morning’s orgasm. You really know how to make a girl feel special on her birthday.”

  Leaning over the center console, I touch my lips to hers before I reply, “You’re welcome.”