In Your Corner

by Sarah Castille

  Copyright © 2014 by Sarah Castille

  Cover and internal design © 2014 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover art by Blake Marrow

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Castille, Sarah.

  In your corner / Sarah Castille.

  pages cm

  (trade paper : alk. paper) 1. Mixed martial arts–Fiction. I. Title.

  PR9199.4.C38596I5 2014

  813’.6–dc23

  2014011625

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To Kaia, Sapphira, and Alysha and your forever love of stories.

  And to John…because you gave everything and expected nothing.

  Chapter 1

  RAH, RAH! GO, TEAM, GO!

  Hell.

  In the five seconds it takes James P. Farnsworth III, managing partner of Farnsworth & Tillman, LLP, to step into my office, my life goes from happy to hell in a heartbeat.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Is that a new suit? I’m guessing Armani, new label. And your tie, Italian silk, maybe Salvatore Ferragamo?”

  I can do obsequious with the best of them.

  Unfortunately, Farnsworth isn’t in a mood to be fawned over today. With a frown, he tosses a file folder on my desk and folds his arms, his biceps straining against the fine wool of his black suit jacket.

  Farnsworth isn’t like most other law firm managing partners I know. No jowls or reddened cheeks from excess drinking at client functions. Not an ounce of fat around his tall, toned frame. His silvery-gray hair is impeccably styled, his skin overly tanned, and his jaw impossibly square. On the outside, he is undeniably handsome in a George Clooney kind of way.

  “I hope you don’t have any plans for the next few months, Amanda.” His dark eyes gleam with the power of being able to ruin a junior associate’s life with a mere seven words. “I have a new case for you.”

  “I live to serve, sir.” The firm motto slides off my tongue like a corked Merlot.

  His thin lips twitch. “That’s what I like to hear.”

  I’m guessing what he doesn’t want to hear is that I already have twenty-six cases on the go, as well as ten secret pro bono files for the community legal aid clinic I just can’t give up. If not for the twenty-four-hour cafeteria and coffin-like sleeping pods Farnsworth & Tillman graciously provides for its associates, I wouldn’t be able to manage.

  Farnsworth rakes his eyes over my body, and it isn’t difficult to tell what he’s thinking. From the day I started at the firm almost three years ago, he has made no effort to hide his interest. I suspect if he weren’t my father’s best friend, I might have suffered more of his attentions. Rumor has it he has a fondness for young, blond, blue-eyed associates.

  “Tight suit.”

  “Yes, sir.” What else can I say? It isn’t so much tight as it is tailored. Not that I would ever dream of contradicting Farnsworth. Cold, hard, ruthless, and fiercely intelligent, Farnsworth suffers no fools, and associates have been dismissed for less than asking a question. Clients love him. Opposing counsel hate him. In the California Bay Area courts, he’s known as the Barracuda. Relentless. Merciless. The ultimate predator. Feared by all. Defeated by none.

  “The client is a privately held real estate development company based here in San Francisco,” he says to my breasts. “They have a new, very young and inexperienced chairman, the son of the founder, and they’ve just been hit with a multimillion-dollar lawsuit from a company called Duel Properties. You will have an opportunity to showcase your skills under my guidance. Your performance on this case will help us decide whether you are partnership material.”

  Folding my arms over the objects of Farnsworth’s interest, I flash my most sycophantic smile. “Wonderful, sir. I relish the opportunity for a new challenge. And you won’t be disappointed.”

  He studies me for a long moment. “We’ll see.”

  We’ll see? If ever two words struck fear into the heart of a desperate and ambitious junior associate, those would be the words. We’ll see means he isn’t confident I’ll make it through to partnership. We’ll see means he knows something I don’t know. We’ll see means I might not receive the sleeping-pod sized, Farnsworth & Tillman duck-down duvet my department head presents to every associate who becomes partner.

  We’ll see means I’d better kick ass on this new case, or my father will disown me.

  “The client will be here in fifteen minutes, and I’m double-booked with a pressing engagement, so I’m letting you handle the initial interview. Make an appointment with my secretary to debrief this evening.” He pauses and then his forehead creases. “And, Amanda…”

  “Sir?”

  “Although our new client isn’t a big company, their opponent, Duel Properties, is a target client of the firm. We want to hit Duel Properties hard. We want them to hate us, so the next time they need a law firm, we’re the ones they call because they know we’ll make their opponent suffer the way we made them suffer. I’m taking a chance by giving you the file instead of handing it over to a senior associate. Don’t fuck it up.”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  He turns and breezes out my door as if he hadn’t just given me the warning to end all warnings and dropped a bombshell that could mean the end of my career at Farnsworth & Tillman.

  We’ll see.

  “Penny!” I race out of my office and call for my secretary slash personal assistant slash willing slave. “New client. Fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll meet you in the restroom.” Her slick, brown ponytail swings violently as she leaps from her chair, her perfect English-rose complexion paling when she stumbles over her spare pair of kitten heels.

  Penny is from England. Although she’s only in her mid-twenties like me, she dresses the way I always imagined English women dressed when they had tea in the garden in the 1950s, all floaty florals, pearls, and pastels.
She has the most delicious accent, an offbeat sense of humor, and, except when she is bossing me around, a gentle manner. She once told me the English described her as a Scouser. Sounded dirty to me. I suggested it wasn’t information she needed to share in America.

  Three minutes later, Penny bursts into the restroom and hefts my makeup case on the counter. With the efficiency that made the firm offer her a permanent position one week into her exchange program, she pulls out a handful of brushes and orders me to sit.

  Obediently, I drop onto the padded stool beside the vanity table etched with the Farnsworth & Tillman logo, a crest with an F resembling a fox and a T resembling a tiger battling over the scales of justice. Classy.

  “Male client?”

  “Yup.”

  “Age?”

  “Founder just passed the mantle to his son, and Farnsworth described him as young and inexperienced, so I’m guessing early thirties.”

  She discards a few selections and sorts through the bottom of the kit for my “younger face,” then spends the next ten minutes fixing me up.

  After a quick glance in the mirror, I sigh and lean back in my chair. “You did your best, but it’s no use. We’d need an entire crate of concealer to get rid of the circles under my eyes. Hopefully, the new client will think an exhausted attorney is a good attorney because it means she’s working hard. What do you think? How do I look?”

  “Haggard.” Penny gently wipes away some of the excess makeup and touches up my cheeks with her blush brush.

  “I’m hoping that’s a British word for lovely.”

  Penny snorts. “It means you’re pushing yourself too hard and it shows. It’s those pro bono cases you’re running on the side. They’re eating into the time people normally reserve for sleeping and basic body maintenance.”

  My eyebrow lifts at Penny’s gentle rebuke. “I’m meeting a new client in a few minutes and this could be the case that cements my path to partnership. My father, my grandfather, my great-grandfather, and probably all my relatives back to the beginning of time were law firm partners before they were thirty-two. I can’t break the family tradition. I need to be cheerful and happy. I need to be motivated. I need the ‘Rah, rah! Go, team, go!’ speech we are forced to endure in our morning meetings.”

  Penny studies me for a long moment. “Is that really what you want? Partnership at the age of thirty-two with all the burdens and responsibilities of running a law firm?”

  “Of course that’s what I want.” I follow her out of the restroom. “It’s the next logical step. It’s what I’ve been working toward since I got my kindergarten report card. Nothing will make my parents happier or more proud than to have me carry on the family tradition.”

  “Rah, rah. Go, team, go.” Penny adorns her monotone with a bland expression.

  I go. But, for once, I’m not feeling the rah.

  ***

  Ten minutes later, after a wave to Penny, I grab my cell phone and notebook, and head to the elevator bank through a labyrinth of gray felt partitions. As I step into the shiny steel and glass elevator, my phone buzzes. A smile curls my lips when I check the caller ID.

  Drake. Or, to be more formal, Dr. Donald Drake. My long-term friend with benefits, and one of Oakland’s preeminent heart surgeons, has kept me going through the worst of times. Tall and muscular with natural blond hair and brilliant blue eyes, I thought he was an Adonis when I first laid eyes on him. Still do.

  “Well hello, stranger,” I breathe into the phone. “How long has it been? Two…three months?” The doors close, and almost immediately, I am catapulted toward the client reception area at light speed. Time is money at Farnsworth & Tillman.

  Drake chuckles. “Long time no sex.”

  “I was thinking that myself. Unfortunately, I’ve been hit with a new case, and it’s going to eat into my sex time.”

  Drake makes a disapproving noise into the phone. “Sex is a basic human need, like food or sleep. As a medical professional, I can’t in good conscience allow you to risk your health by depriving yourself. How about I pick you up tonight for a quick fix? I’m ring doctor at Redemption until about ten p.m., and then I can come straight to your office.”

  My chest tightens when he mentions Redemption. My best friend, Makayla, met the love of her life, Max, aka Torment, at what is now one of Oakland’s up-and-coming MMA fight training gyms.

  And I lost mine…Jake.

  I try to wipe out the memories of Jake that are intimately associated with the fight club as the elevator hurtles me toward my destination, but once he’s in my mind, he refuses to leave. I can’t decide which memory is worse. The devastation on his face when he walked into my apartment after our breakup and saw Drake in my living room wearing only a towel, or the hurt and anger in his voice at Torment’s near-fatal fight when he told me exactly what I’d thrown away.

  “I would love to use you for sex, Drake. It’s been far too long. But I’m not getting out of the office any month soon.” My voice catches and I hesitate before bringing up the topic I have successfully avoided for the last few months. “Actually, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about our arrangement…”

  The elevator jerks to a stop and I end the call, promising to meet Drake for coffee after he’s done at Redemption as I step out into the gaping maw of the client reception area. Designed with the sole purpose of intimidation, the vast foyer with its twenty-foot ceilings and almost three-hundred-sixty-degree views gives a whole new meaning to the word fishbowl.

  With a nod to the team of receptionists, all wearing their matching navy blue and teal Farnsworth & Tillman uniforms, I check the TV monitor for the room number and then turn in to the maze of marble corridors, stilettos clacking as I head toward unlucky room thirteen.

  The murmur of voices drifts up the hallway, and two men round the corner walking toward me. As they get closer, my heart lifts and then sinks.

  Ray, my favorite private investigator contracted by the firm, is wearing his usual commando attire: dark khaki cargo pants and a tight gray T-shirt that highlights every plane and angle of his muscular torso. His dark hair is military short and he walks with an easy grace that belies his height. Powerful was the first word that came to mind when we met. Dangerous was the second. He catches my gaze and gives me a wink.

  Beside him, in startling contrast, is Farnsworth’s protégée and my least favorite senior associate in the firm, Evil Reid, aka Reid Cravath. Evil Reid and I crossed swords the day I joined the litigation department. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize he was in charge of the weeklong induction for new associates or that I was supposed to drool over his shoes and smile when he pinched my ass. After I slapped his hand away, we fought over the last croissant at the new associate breakfast, and things quickly went downhill from there. After I turned down his offer for a quick drunken hookup in the firm sleeping pods during a firm party, I thought that was the end of it.

  Unfortunately, like his mentor, Evil Reid never gives up.

  Even now, as I approach, his gaze slimes over my body and his thick pink tongue darts out to lick his full lips. Evil Reid is tall, rich, handsome, suave, and…well, evil. His dark hair is thick and neatly cut. His eyes are two black holes in a broad, smooth face. Not a day goes by that someone doesn’t suffer from the bite of his sharp tongue or the seemingly inadvertent brush of his roving octopus tentacles.

  Ray nods as I draw near. “Had a great time at that Giants game, Amanda. Thanks for the tickets.”

  “My pleasure. Just wanted to thank you for all the great work you do for me.”

  Evil Reid huffs his annoyance and stalks past without so much as a shoulder brush or ass pinch. Although I’m years away from partnership and no threat to him, he doesn’t like to be shown up. I guess he didn’t buy Ray any Giants tickets.

  Moments later, I reach room thirteen. Taking a moment to compose myself, I push open the ten-foot-high door�
�yet another example of the ridiculous ostentation that is Farnsworth & Tillman—and step into the room, ready to meet the man who could make or break my career with his damned multimillion-dollar lawsuit.

  Light floods across the plush, royal blue carpet through floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Dust motes dance in the sunbeam. A large mahogany table surrounded by eight black leather chairs dominates the center space. I inhale the scents of leather and furniture polish and a whiff of something else, sharp and clean like an ocean breeze.

  Familiar.

  Across the room, the client is pouring himself a glass of water from the tray on the credenza. From the back, he takes my breath away. Sleek black suit pants hug the curves of his tight ass. His crisp white shirt is tucked into a narrow waist and stretched tight across a broad, strong back. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, and I catch a glimpse of a strong, muscled forearm as he lifts the water glass.

  But it’s the thick, blond, wavy hair just brushing the top of his collar that makes my pulse race. Soft. Silky. Hair that is meant to be touched.

  Have touched?

  The latch clicks as I close the door and he turns to face me.

  “Christ! Amanda!” His hand jerks and water sloshes onto the carpet.

  My heart stutters in my chest and the legal pad falls from my fingers to the floor, the world falling away as if everything until now had been an illusion.

  “Jake.”

  Eyes wide, jaw tight, he stares at me, dismay and disbelief etched on his handsome face. I can’t believe over two years have passed since the night we broke up. Whether a result of maturity or the passing of time, he is even more gorgeous than I remember. Strong cheekbones and a firm chin give his face an angular look, made more rugged by the small scars on his forehead and cheeks, a testament to his success in the fight ring. His eyes are a startling, brilliant blue and when he smiles, dimples appear in the corners of his cheeks. But he isn’t smiling now.

  He shakes himself and looks away, then gestures toward the legal pad on the floor. “You dropped it.”

  “You startled me.”

  He gives me a half smile. “Yeah, I know the feeling. I forgot you worked here.”