by Jones, Gwen
“Visiting your parents, then?” he said, rejoining her on the other side.
She laughed. “That’s as good a reason as any, I suppose. But actually I’m here with my boss.” She turned, her bare shoulder pressing against his arm. “There he is, over there. See?” She held up her flute, one manicured fingernail indicating the direction.
“Oh. Really,” he said, not seeing and certainly not caring. The only thing he did see was how pert and perfect her body was encased in that burgundy gown, and how much he’d like to hike it over her hips. “So you’re working then?”
She gritted her teeth. “Seems like I always am—ooh! I think I just made the mistake of making eye contact with my boss.” She whirled around. “Don’t look now, but standing next to him there’s this flabby old man with really bad breath he wants me to keep schmoozing. But I’ve already spent an hour with him and the only thing I got out of it was an ass grab and his cell number.” Her nose wrinkled. “Ew. Look at that gut. Talk about gross.”
Rex silently gave thanks for his personal trainer. “You poor thing.”
“I know! And he wasn’t the only one who grabbed me tonight.” She ran her hand down the slope of her derrière. “This crowd’s like wading through an octopus tank. I bet I won’t be able to sit down for a week.” She frowned. “I’d duck out of here, but I’m getting paid for tonight, and with all the student loans I have, I really can’t turn down the money.”
He was all about seizing opportunity. Rex leaned into her. “We could go hide.”
Her eyes lit. “Could we? Where?”
“I’m not sure, but there’s the exit.” Which led to the elevator right up to his suite.
She thought a moment. “Oh! I know. There’s some conference rooms right outside that door. But first, why don’t we—”
She gulped back her champagne, Rex doing likewise before they stopped a butler. They replaced their empty flutes with two fresh ones.
“Perhaps if we stood here long enough the tray of canapés would also pass by?” he said, his stomach rumbling at the thought. He really didn’t remember the last time he ate.
“Who has time!” Amanda chirped. She grabbed his hand, pulling him toward the exit. “Let’s go!”
They scuttled from the ballroom and into a conference room right out the exit, closing the door behind them. Inside was a long table surrounded by chairs and on one side, a credenza with a towering bouquet of fresh flowers, on the other, the city skyline shining through the casement windows. Amanda whirled around, sitting on the edge of the table.
Rex went to the flowers and plucking out a rose, brought it back to her.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, handing it to her. “Pour vous.”
“Merci,” she said, bringing it to her nose. She laughed. “And with that, I think I’ve exhausted my French.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’ve enough English for the both of us.” Actually, he preferred if they didn’t talk at all.
She slid the rose against her jaw, regarding him. “Then what do you suppose we should do? Now that we’re properly hidden.” She leaned back on her arm, the thin strap of her dress, sliding off. She glanced toward it. “Oops.”
“Lose something?” Rex said, moving closer, slowly sipping the champagne.
She glanced to the strap. “This is what happens when a fat man sits on your dress. Got all stretched out when I tried to get up.” She set down her flute, slipping the strap back into place. “There,” she said. “All fixed. Or if you’d rather . . .” She flipped it back down, then, looking to the other shoulder, flipped that one down, too. “Or better yet . . .” She gathered the two straps together in front and tugged, both easily breaking loose from the back. Then she let go, the bodice falling to her waist.
Rex’s gaze dropped to her bare breasts, small yet exquisitely shaped and pale in the moonlight. “Well.” He took one last sip from his flute before setting it next to hers. “What does this mean?”
Her smile was lazy and lust-filled as she latched hold of his lapels and pulled him toward her. “It means I’m not going back out there. It means that fat old man can kiss my ass.”
“What a lovely idea,” Rex said, raking his fingers through her hair. “But why should he have all the fun?”
“He won’t have any fun at all.” She tugged at his bow tie, unraveling it. “But maybe you will.”
He held her face between his hands and whispered, “Coquette . . .” before brushing his lips against hers.
She seized his greedily, plunging her tongue into his mouth as she threw her arms around his neck, taking him with her as she fell back against the mahogany table. What she lacked in grace she made up for in enthusiasm, Rex conceded. She slipped her hands inside his jacket and under his cummerbund and around to the small of his back.
“I want you to fuck me,” she said, biting, nipping his ear. “I’ve been waiting for you to fuck me ever since you bought me that drink in D.C.”
“Really,” he said, kissing her neck, his hand sliding down to her breast. She felt more petite than he originally figured, though every part of her seemed fit and firm, almost unnaturally so. “So what have you been doing since then?”
“Thinking about your cock,” she said, her hands wasting no time in finding it, snaking around to the front of his trousers, where she quickly went to work undoing them. “How much I wanted it inside me.” She made speedy work of his zipper. “How much I want it in me now.”
Apparently his body had the same idea, while his mind wasn’t yet fully vested. He kissed a trail up her neck. “I have a suite just an elevator ride away.”
“I can’t wait that long,” she said, her fingers grasping his rod. “I want you to fuck me now.” She wriggled beneath him, her gown hiking up as she spread her legs. “Rip my underwear off.”
He stopped, mid-kiss. “What?”
“I said . . .” She grunted with impatience, grabbing his hand. “Rip my panties off!”
He whipped his hand back and straightened. Oui, he was hard and oui, she was one hot little package. But he was still old school enough to want to drive the bus. “Excusez-moi?”
“My panties.” She palmed her breast, nudging him with the heel of her stiletto. “Rip. Them. Off. Comprendre?”
Merde. For one split-second he entertained going back to his suite and just turning on the Playboy Channel. Instead he spread her legs and stepped between them, tossing up her gown until it puddled atop her chest. Then placing his palms atop her knees, he said, “Chérie, I’m much older than you as you’re probably aware.”
“I know that,” she said, looking confused. “But that doesn’t make any difference—”
“Eh!” He raised a finger, stopping her. She silenced immediately. “What that means is you get the benefit of my experience, as I have much, much more than you.” He leaned in, looming over her. “Trust me, I know what to do and can do it so well, you’ll scream with so much pleasure the back of your head will cave in.”
Her legs twitched. “Oh.”
“Mais oui. Now.” He bent over her. “What is it you wanted me to do . . . ?” he asked, trailing his finger down her belly.
She shivered under his trace. “Rip my panties off,” she whispered.
“Qu’est-ce que tu as dit?” he said, his fingertip rimming the top of her pale pink boy shorts.
“My panties . . .” She groaned, swallowing hard. “Rip them.”
“Avec plaisir.” He gripped the top of her panties and yanked down, the fabric shredding in his hand.
Amanda lifted her head and fixing her gaze on him, screamed.
And screamed and screamed and screamed.
Rex turned, hearing the door open. “Oh Christ,” he said, her underwear dangling from his fingers, “it’s not what you think.”
Chapter Three
A Marriage of Convenience
Philadelphia
11:58 p.m.
“AND THEN?” CHARLOTTE said.
Rex sighed. “I was caught in flagrante delicto, or was it corpus delicti?” He flipped his hand dismissively. “You pick the poison, it’s all the same to me.”
“But you say it was consensual,” Charlotte said, again citing the police report.
“Isn’t that what I told you?” he said, getting annoyed.
“You can tell me what you want, but I operate on facts and evidence.”
“Then why’d you ask?” he said, his expression darkening.
The last thing Charlotte expected was to enjoy herself, but watching Rex getting perturbed was more fun than she had thought. “To see how you’d answer.”
“Fils de pute,” he said, “what would you expect me to say?”
“I really don’t know. From your side of the story, it almost sounds like she was out to attack you. Or is the very idea a challenge to your manhood?”
Being well acquainted with Gallic views on male virility, she expected an eruption. But what she got was a most malevolent smile. “Non. In fact, it’s what I’m counting on to clear me.”
“But why—” She stared at him. “You didn’t turn your voice recorder off after your chat with the congresswoman, did you?”
“Non.” He sat back, relaxing again, as if recalling his phone was the only tranquilizer he needed. “I didn’t turn it off until the police came. And once they listen to it, everything will be perfectly clear.”
“Don’t be so sure of that,” Charlotte said. “Her sexual aggression is one thing, but her prolonged screaming won’t be so easy to explain.”
“What’s to explain?” he said, perturbed again. “It was all part of setting me up.”
“You really believe you were set up? Why?”
“I don’t know,” he said angrily. “Yet. But my position makes me an easy target. Rest assured though. I’m going to find out.”
His attitude had to come from frustration, Charlotte surmised. Not knowing the why of something was probably a situation he didn’t often find him in. “I suppose that’s something we’ll get out of the investigation. I imagine they took your phone when you were arrested?”
“Oui. It should be with the rest of my things.”
Charlotte glanced at the tan line on his wrist, his open French cuffs. She could only imagine what the rest of those things were. “Well, aren’t you in luck. The cops can’t search your cell phone when you’re first arrested anymore, not without a warrant. But if they find out what’s on it, you’ll never get it back. So don’t say anything, at least for now.”
“Why Charlotte, are you advising me to suppress evidence?” He smiled again, and quite brilliantly. “You must have decided to be my avocate.”
A moment later they heard shuffling outside the door. Then it swung open. “It’s time, Ms. Andreko,” said the officer.
Rex looked to Charlotte. “So, are you going to get me out of here?”
“At least,” she said, picking up her briefcase. She met the cop at the door, then turned. “After that, if everything works out the way you say it will, you’ll hardly need me anyway.”
“That, mon amie,” he said, rising, “has yet to be determined.”
“What isn’t?” she said, the door choosing behind her.
“BONJOUR, AVOCATE,” Rex said as Charlotte entered the small office aside the courtroom the next morning. “Guess what I just found out from this lovely young lady here? You could’ve gotten me released last night. Did you know that preliminary arraignments are held twenty-four-seven?”
She shivered with a small jolt of awareness. Even after spending the night in jail, dressed in the same tuxedo he had more than likely slept in, he still exuded a sharpness and a command of the milieu that never failed to throw her. For all he’d been through in the last twelve hours, he still looked as dead-sexy as if he’d just walked out of a photo shoot. With his hair tousled, his eyes hooded, his jaw alluringly bristled, the Rex she kept in her head was now ablaze in all his womanizer glory, smiling blindingly as he half perched on the edge of a desk, a cup of coffee in his hand. No doubt it was bribed out of the way-too-attentive sheriff’s deputy looking just as comfortable on a chair before him. Apparently Charlotte had just interrupted a rather animated tête-à-tête.
She looked to the deputy. “I’m sorry, but my client and I need a few minutes before we have to go in.”
Did the deputy actually just look to Rex for permission? She must have because he nodded, saying something en français Charlotte couldn’t translate, but sure sounded awfully suggestive. The deputy answered in kind, albeit with a girlish grin and a Caribbean lilt, taking way too long to rise from her seat.
“Ὰ plus, chérie,” he said as the deputy beamed at her charge like an ingénue, slowly closing the door behind her.
Charlotte couldn’t help rolling her eyes. “My God, what is this strange power you hold over unsuspecting women?” She crossed to him, taking the deputy’s seat. “You ought to come with a warning label.”
“And what would you suggest?” he said drolly. “Slippery when wet?”
“How about just plain slippery,” she answered, digging into her briefcase for an iPad. “I’ll draw up a formal document when I get back to the office, but before we begin, I need you to sign for my retainer.”
His mouth crooked. “So you’ve decided to represent me after all.”
“Let’s just say we’re taking it one step at a time.” She brought up the form, handing him a stylus. “Sign right here,” she said, tapping the spot.
“Not so fast,” he said, sliding off the desk. In one swift movement, he was towering over her, staring her down with well-honed, authoritarian hauteur. “You didn’t answer my question. Normally, I make it my practice to know exactly what I’m involved in, but last night you had me at a disadvantage.” His eyes darkened. “Though I’m right back on it this morning. Why didn’t you get me out last night?”
She rose to meet him, more than a little peeved. “Because it took me all night to figure out what the hell I was going to do with you. Which, by the way, included four hours of research, two hours with the French consulate, an hour in transit, and roughly forty-five minutes to shower, change, and ingest a stale bran muffin and some astoundingly bad coffee.”
After a moment he said, “You didn’t sleep at all last night? No wonder you look so wretched.”
Damn, if he didn’t have passive-aggressive down to a science. “Thank you, I’m sure,” she said, blowing a strand of hair from her eyes. She twisted it around her finger and tucked it back into her upsweep. “I’ll be sure to repay the compliment real soon.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he said. “I only meant you’re usually so put together and today you look . . .” He peered at her. “A little worn around your edges.”
Praise, however faint, from Rex? She scowled inwardly, trying to ignore the flip deep down in her belly. “Well, no thanks to you.”
“Yes, I know.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Thank you.”
She looked to where his fingers grasped hers. She always thought she could tell a man’s personality by the look of their hands, but in Rex’s case, she was utterly confounded. By all accounts they should have been soft, unabraded, and well manicured, the pampered paws of the unapologetically privileged. Instead his carried a few nicks and scratches, the underside toughened by calluses, his grip firm and amazingly warm. Part of her was pleasantly surprised, but a larger part fought the contradiction. Because in no way did she want him to be playing against type, let alone offering his gratitude. She needed to remember he was only using her because as a female lawyer, she could save his ass. But that was all right. Because she’d be using him, too. The only thing she wanted from him was his cold, impersonal cash,
and if she had to be a bitch to siphon off as much of it as she could, she would. She slipped her hand from his.
“I’ll take your thanks in the form of a cash transfer,” she said. “But first . . .” Again she tapped for his signature. “You need to pony up for my retainer.”
He half sat on the desk. “A few preliminaries first. How fast can you get me out of here?”
“How fast can you sign your name?”
“At the speed when-my-shoes-hit-the-sidewalk.”
“My shoes ought to walk out of here right now.”
He tilted his head, his gaze trailing down her legs. “Go ahead. You sure don’t want to keep the next pro bono waiting.”
“Very funny.” She clenched her eyes against the burn racing down her spine as sucker! rolled through her head. The work she’d done so far, any rookie would’ve already dragged a fat fee out of him before going any further. “Look, you’re aware you’ve been charged with a felony, right? That alone carries big bail. But you’re also a foreign national and a flight risk, not to mention you’re a person of considerable means.”
“Oh?” His mouth quirked. “Look into my bank account, did you?”
“Didn’t have to. They did at the consulate. I just peeked.” She grinned. “And what a pretty thing it is.”
“And now I know two things that get you off—seeing me suffer and my big fat wallet.” He leaned in. “Want to try for a third?”
He just loved to knock her off her heels, didn’t he? “I’d rather talk countries without extradition treaties.”
“That, I would’ve never have figured.” His eyes darkened. “Now why is that?”
“Because your Cayman reserves sure are sexy. Oh, the bribes they could buy.”
“But as we determined before, I’m innocent.”
“Then tell me what happened after the screaming or better yet, just before?”
The look he gave her shot straight down her spine. “First things first. What’s your price, avocate?”