Entice (Hearts of Stone #2)

by Veronica Larsen

  The door to the office swings open, forcing me to squeeze out of the way so I'm not pinned against the wall. Mona pokes her head inside. Her tense expression melts with relief when she sees me and she hurries inside, shutting the door behind her.

  Nope. Whatever it is she wants from me, it needs to wait until after I eat. Walking around to my desk without looking at her is a challenge, but I manage just fine.

  Mona is Bernstein's personal assistant. For Adam and me—associates, also known as bottom feeders—Mona is often the bearer of bad news in the form of tedious tasks that make me wonder if my profession is actually indebted servitude.

  When I walked across the stage and received my law degree, no one called it a 'sort-of law degree.' When I passed the boards, no one said, 'You're almost there.'

  No.

  They said things like, 'Congratulations!' and 'You've made it!'

  Made it where? To the filing room? To the coffee run? Not the way I envisioned my career panning out. From the time that I was a kid, I wanted to be able to slam my palm against a polished wood surface and yell, 'I object!'

  That was the dream.

  At some point, I allowed myself to be seduced by the notion of intellectual property law being the fastest growing specialty. As an IP, the only things I will ever get to jam angrily are keyboard keys. Not exactly exciting. But as a new associate, I don't even get to do this. I'm denied the simple joy of angry key jamming.

  "Emily…" Mona says, realizing I'm ignoring her.

  I'm already settled behind my desk, peeling the wrapping paper away from my sandwich. The creamy scent of mayo makes my mouth water. Almost at the same time, a pang rips through my stomach.

  Oh, sandwich, come to momma. You're the light of my day and I'm going to make sweet love to you with my mouth.

  "Collin Davenport's in the office," Mona blurts out.

  My head snaps up and, from the corner of my eye, I see Adam look up as well. Even he isn't immune to that name.

  "Is he outside the door?" I ask her, wondering what her secrecy is all about.

  "No, he's in Bernstein's office."

  "Okay, so why are you whispering?"

  "I'm nervous!" She throws her hands up as though she can't understand how that's not obvious. "You need to go in there."

  I bring the sandwich to my mouth but pause at her words.

  "What—me? Why?"

  Any other day, any other moment, I would be thrilled if not incredulous at the opportunity to carry out a real task. But something is off. Neither Adam nor I handle any real part of Davenport's civil suit. Bernstein seems insistent at keeping him away from the rest of the staff whenever he's in the office.

  "Where's Bernstein?" I ask.

  She lowers her voice to a whisper again. "Davenport wasn't supposed to come in today. His meeting was yesterday but he didn't show up. I think there was some scheduling mix-up, but I don't know how to tell him." She runs a hand through her hair and then fidgets with my stapler. "Bernstein's with the others at the promotion luncheon. I called him and he's on his way but he said to keep Davenport happy. The guy's already been waiting for ten minutes and he's super impatient."

  "So you want me to stall him, until the real lawyers get back?"

  She nods quickly then stops to bite her lip, realizing what she admitted. I give her a resentful look, which she returns with an innocent smile.

  She gets me. I like Mona.

  "Let me just finish eating this." I gesture toward my lunch.

  She turns her head from me with an air of impatience. "Emily, it'll take ten minutes. Fifteen minutes, tops. Bernstein will take over as soon as he gets in. All you have to do is start going over the interrogatories that came in earlier this week. You've seen the questions."

  "Sure, when I was filing them into the case file." I glance down, noting the onions poking out from between the two slices of sourdough bread. Damn it. I'll reek if I try to eat this right now. I swear, my damn vanity will kill me one day.

  Sighing for dramatic effect, I set the sandwich down and rewrap it.

  "Thank you," Mona says, the urgency fading from her voice. "He's usually really nice, but he's in such a bad mood today."

  "Great, you're throwing me in with an angry puppy."

  Her lips twitch before she mouths more thanks and disappears behind the door again.

  Adam doesn't say a single word, even though I'm glaring at him, blaming him for the fact that I won't be able to eat for at least another fifteen minutes.

  Why do I have to be punished for being the socially competent one?

  With the stab of hunger now spreading into my veins, this is bound to be a lovely meeting, indeed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The revamp of the Batman franchise is in production right here in San Francisco. The movie has yet to wrap filming and its star, Collin Davenport, is already garnering twice the tabloid attention he usually receives. For him, it's translated into a string of run-ins with the paparazzi. The latest of which is the reason he's in Bernstein's office oozing irritation, among other things.

  Davenport gets to his feet when I enter. His companion, a blonde woman wearing a tight, black sweater dress, remains seated.

  I've never met a famous person before but there isn't an ounce of awestruck giddiness in me. Maybe the growling beast in my gut ate it. While Davenport is nice to look at, I can't exactly eat him.

  He's taller than I expected. At least six foot three, by my estimate. He wears a black peacoat over a tan sweater. His hair, which I always thought to be black, is in fact dark brown and longer than I've ever seen it, combed back in a sleek hairstyle. He's the spitting image of Bruce Wayne if I've ever seen one. The guy is as attractive as they come. Yet, I don't even picture myself sitting on his face.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Davenport."

  I do my best to keep my tone even, trying to tune out my irritation, which, I try to remind myself, has little to do with his impatient demeanor.

  "Hello." He's unsmiling as he shakes my outstretched hand, gaze moving past my face and toward the door behind me like he's expecting someone else to walk in.

  His grip is loose over mine, barely taking the action seriously. It's not until I pull down firmly that he seems to correct himself at the last second to meet my purpose. I'm a fan of firm handshakes. None of that gentle bullshit.

  His attention snaps back to me and I can tell I've caught him off guard. Good, little cock measuring contest, just for fun.

  "I'm Emily Stone. I'll be going over a few things with you before Bernstein joins us."

  We sit off to the left side of the room. An area designed to make meetings feel less formal. That's just code for getting the client to tell the damn truth so we can cover our blind spots.

  He takes a seat on the couch beside his companion and I lower myself onto the armchair across from them. The blonde eyes me critically, throwing invisible daggers in my direction. I have no clue what her problem is, but I don't spend a second longer considering it.

  Generally speaking, a woman who carries herself with her head high is something I admire. Just not when the reason her chin is pulled up is that she gets fucked by a more successful, famous man.

  I flip through the case file. "Mr. Davenport, what I'm about to go over with you is a list of questions the opposing counsel sent for clarification—"

  "Why couldn't this have been done over the phone or email?"

  "It's best to do this sort of thing in person. You can…take your time to word your response. Off the record."

  "And Bernstein?"

  "He's running a little late and will take over once he arrives."

  Davenport nods. "Let's get started then."

  Truly, the meeting is a pleasure. And by pleasure I mean an experience akin to beating my face in with my own high-heeled shoe.

  All I'm doing is asking simple questions that anyone could answer in their sleep. For the life of me, I can't understand why he insists on complicating the meeting.

 
"Where were you headed when you left the hotel and had the altercation with Mr. Qua—"

  Davenport cuts me off for what has to be the tenth time in less than five minutes. "Calling him by his name somehow makes him sound like a decent human being. He's a paparazzi, a parasite."

  I take a breath and repeat the question. "Where were you headed?"

  "Out."

  "Mr. Davenport, I need you to answer the questions thoroughly, please. Clarifying the details works in your favor."

  Mona warned me he was in a bad mood. She didn't tell me he was a freaking grenade with its pin slipping off. The man's responses started off curt, quickly growing dismissive, and are now bordering on antagonistic.

  Davenport seems peeved his actual attorney is not present and does not appear to take me seriously in any regard. Someone with twice the patience I possess would be worn thin by his arrogance and bravado.

  Sure, I'm familiar with the expression 'the customer is always right.' And Davenport isn't the first difficult client to walk through the firm's doors. But on this particular day, all the forces have aligned to bring me over the edge.

  There has to be someone up there, way up there in the control center for humans, pushing a bunch of buttons on a screen, throwing random obstacles in front of me. Waiting to see what tedious, seemingly insignificant event might be the one that makes me snap.

  I'm almost there.

  You hear that, Control Center? I'm almost there.

  "This was blown way out of proportion." Davenport paces the office in long strides. I'm still waiting for him to answer the last question I asked regarding the presence of security outside of the hotel. But he's gone off on a tangent again. "The guy was laughing at me from the ground. He's not hurt. Bernstein should've gotten this case thrown out already. These questions are a waste of my time."

  The tension in the room reaches an intolerable level. From Davenport interrupting me every few seconds to go on and on about how annoyed and bothered he is by the whole situation, to the blonde giving me what the fuck are you looking at eyes.

  Her presence is annoying enough, given I've already been exposed to her face plastered all over the tabloids. Davenport is known for his carousel of women, each one plucked from a mundane job, paraded around like a royal princess, dressed in expensive gowns, and walking all the red carpet events at his side. Until the day she slinks back to obscurity, replaced by a similar looking blonde.

  My tongue aches from the dozens of times I've had to sink my teeth into it. A dull ache creeps in between my eyes, throbbing to the tune of the growls in my stomach. All the while, I struggle to the very inch of control to remain outwardly calm against Davenport's beam of hatred unfairly aimed in my direction. I struggle to suppress my temper, which is now pulsating in my ears, picking up speed, as Davenport interrupts me. Yet. Again.

  Jesus, go choke on a dick.

  The blonde gasps, as though suddenly choking on the very dick I imagined for Davenport. Cold sweeps through me as I realize my thoughts left my lips in actual, spoken words, cutting Davenport off in mid sentence. I shut my eyes in vain before opening them again to chance a look at my client.

  Davenport seems stunned silent, a tightness creeping into his face, before he manages to ask, "What did you just say?"

  Unchecked anger pours out of his eyes. And I—forgetting in the moment that I'm the culprit of the sudden, ice-cold hostility—set my jaw. Rage blinds me. Rage at the look on his face, an expression more infuriating than his attitude, than his tone, or even the hunger clawing at my insides. A look that says, quite simply, I should've asked his permission to dare speak.

  Grasping around for my professionalism, I discover it's not where I last left it. In fact, it's nowhere to be found.

  I clear my throat. "What I meant to say was, your lawsuit isn't going to disappear. You should really cooperate with us so we can help you. I paraphrased it the wrong way, that's all."

  My tone could've been more apologetic and less hostile, but fuck him.

  He half-turns away and raises his hand in my direction, as though dismissing my words. "Rebecca, let's go."

  His companion rises from her seat as though his words pull on strings attached to her limbs. The sight is so bizarre and unexpected that I literally choke on my own snicker, which brings Davenport's attention back to me.

  We have a stare down that lasts a few seconds, or a few hours. I can't tell which.

  "You are…obscene," he says.

  I swallow back the dread of how much worse I've made things for myself. First, I tell him to go choke on a dick, and then I laugh at him.

  Davenport walks to the door and I'm rooted to the spot, feeling as though the entire meeting might have been an ominous daydream and I'm actually still sitting behind my desk, contemplating whether or not to take a bite of my sandwich.

  But no, it's all real. The proof is in the clunking sounds of Rebecca's heels as she rushes past to follow him out into the hall.

  I've just fucked up. Big time.

  CHAPTER THREE

  If the meeting with Davenport is any indication, hunger isn't just a physiological state for me. It's an actual, legitimate emotion. A mutant love child of unreasonable frustration and dangerous irritability.

  There's nothing left to do now but settle back behind my desk and eat my sandwich without tasting it. As I wipe my mouth with a napkin, Mona pokes her head inside once more.

  "Bernstein wants you see you. Right away," she says, her sights angled toward the carpeted floor.

  "Hey?" I call out before she can rush away again. She makes eye contact with me, hesitant. "Did someone call, or something?"

  Mona nods.

  "Davenport?"

  "No. His girlfriend."

  Adam shoots me a curious sideways glance, probably wondering what the hell is going on.

  As I get up from my chair, I'm acutely aware the heaviness in my stomach has nothing to do with my lunch. Hearing my boss wants an impromptu meeting is not comforting on any day, let alone on this day. Worse still, when my boss is Donald Bernstein.

  In the months I've worked here, I've witnessed Bernstein only as an enigma of sorts. Tall, white-haired man, who looks the way you'd expect a wizard to look: grim and intimidating with his overly thick eyebrows and large nose. He's had very little to say to me, but the times I've heard him speak, the implication of silent mockery lay evident in his tone, though his actual words are always short, measured, and never decisively offensive. In fact, aside from clients and Snyder, his partner, Bernstein treats everyone with blatant disinterest. My impression is he underestimates those who yield less power than he does, and merely tolerates those who feed it.

  As I sit before his massive desk, drumming a finger along the handle of the chair in a slow, steady beat, I try to push my swirling thoughts back. The worst thing to do is assume I know why he wants to meet with me. If I did, I'd be more likely to blurt out something that could bury me into further trouble. No. I have to keep a clear head and see where this goes.

  There could be another reason Rebecca called, something completely unrelated to me. Far-fetched, but I need to hold on to that hope, however slim. Davenport's been gone all of twenty minutes. Bernstein could just be curious as to why his client isn't waiting for him.

  Taking slow, deliberate breaths to calm myself, I squint in the direction of the wall-to-wall windows. The natural light assaults my eyes, but the view beyond the haze is of the harbor and Oakland Bay Bridge. A view I can stare at forever and find comfort in, most days.

  But the scene fails to comfort me now. I have an odd, existential sensation of being at a crossroads in my life. I've felt this way before, as if I am standing on the cusp of something and about to topple over.

  "Emily," Bernstein says, walking into the room.

  He sits behind his desk, setting down the small memo pad in his hand.

  "Good afternoon." My tone is clipped. I don't mean it to be, it just is.

  I've never been good with authori
ty, especially authority wielded by a man, as it often is. For some reason, it makes me resentful and defensive. I'm no shrink, but I'm sure my aversion has something to do with suppressed daddy issues.

  There's already an air of impatience clinging to Bernstein as he speaks. "I understand you met with Davenport earlier?"

  I nod. The whole meeting lasted maybe eight minutes, the longest eight minutes of my life.

  Bernstein tilts his head forward, watching me closely, his fingertips touching. "Is there anything you want to tell me about the meeting?"

  Just by his tone, it's obvious that Rebecca called to report me. My heartbeat should pick up. My hands should grow damp. Nerves should tie my gut in knots. But all I feel is numb as though the real me is floating overhead, watching all of this play out like a movie.

  My boss asks me to recount the meeting to the best of my memory. I do so but I'm careful, of course, to leave out my parting words.

  When I finish, his tone grows sweetly patronizing. "Emily, I'm just going to come out and say it. I've been informed you hurled a crude comment at our client. Do you recall what that was?"

  I shake my head but touch a hand to the base of my neck. I'd lie through my teeth if I could get them to unclench.

  Bernstein glances down to the notepad in front of him and hesitates. "Our clients can be difficult, at times." He sounds simultaneously bored and disdainful, as though he's explaining something to a small child that requires him to reel in his patience. "We have to remain understanding that each of them is going through stressful times in their lives, or they wouldn't need our help. Davenport is headstrong, sure, but I've never known him to be hostile. I can't imagine what would compel you to say…this..." He looks down at the paper again and all I can think about is that the words 'choke on a dick' are scribbled there in Bernstein's handwriting. And he keeps glancing down at them.

  It occurs to me that Bernstein, for all of his biting attitude, has never uttered a single word of profanity around the office. I wonder if he's one of those people that never curse at all. The man is old enough to be my grandfather, but carries himself with the pretentious swagger of an aristocrat, someone far superior to the average person, far too good to degrade himself by uttering nonsense.