by Cindy Dees
“You may call me Miss Wellford. And I’ll take my chances.” Fuming, she spun on her Louboutin heel and stormed away from him. Jerk.
She went in search of alcohol that did not involve olives or vermouth, and eventually found a table in the corner with glasses of white wine...no doubt meant for the lovely trophy wives of WMP. Screw martinis and being one of the boys. She snatched up a glass of wine and drained it.
Huh. She really was hearing a buzzing noise inside her skull. No wonder they called it getting buzzed. God. One week on the job and she was turning into an alcoholic. She backed away from the table of liquid calm and ducked around the potted palms to rejoin the party. And that was when she overheard the voices. A familiar, infuriating male one. And a raspier, older voice, also male.
“...could you guys assign such a rank amateur to the Koronov case?”
“...thought you’d enjoy the view, Cam. Wellford’s one of the throwaway junior associates for the piddly cases we’re not allowed to say no to. She won’t last a year.”
Aghast, Dani faded back into the palm fronds.
The raspy voice continued, “You’re the one we want. Screw her lights out if you feel like it. That’s why we hired her.”
CHAPTER TWO
DANI FROZE. She would never be able prove it in court. She had no recording of the conversation. Their word against hers. Who belonged to that raspy voice? She sidled around the corner, searching for the tall frame and sun-streaked locks of Cam Townsend, asshole extraordinaire, and the senior member of the firm that apparently was planning to pimp her out to attorneys they were hoping to hire.
Dammit! No sign of Cam or his conversation partner. They must have moved off into the crowd while she’d been regaining the ability to breathe.
Eyes narrowed, she plowed into the crowd, a woman on a mission. She might be swimming in the big shark tank now, but she wasn’t entirely without teeth of her own. And hey, she could always screw Cam Townsend into telling who’d said he could have her.
There he was. Cam was holding court for some of the other junior associates who’d survived their first year at the firm. For the first time she registered that there were no women among them. Funny that.
She reached for the second button of her silk blouse and pulled the neck further open. What the hell. She undid the third button, too. So mad she could spit, she pulled her blouse to the side far enough for her right bra cup to peek out from the white silk. Too bad the bra was conservative white and not red. At least it was lace. She fluffed up her hair and bit her lips as she approached the cluster of laughing young men.
“Hey, Dani,” one of her coworkers called out. “Have you met Cam Townsend? Avoid him like the plague in court if you want to keep your batting average up.”
Her gaze snapped to Cam’s, and on cue he smirked. She snapped, “At least my bat’s hard and smashes balls.”
The crowd hooted and she marched away from the sycophants. Badly in need of escape, she ducked out of the party and all but ran down a long hallway to the ladies’ restroom. She dived into the plush bathroom and leaned against the door, fighting back tears of impotent rage. The bastards had hired her for her tits?
After all those years of grueling work, slogging through law school, working humiliating part-time jobs to cover what her student loans didn’t, never sleeping, all but never dating...she’d given up everything to get herself into and then through law school. Hell, she’d even turned down a couple really decent offers from other law firms to work at the big prestigious one in New York City. And now this.
No way could she quit this job, now. Hiring season was over for this year’s crop of new law school grads, and jobs were actually darned hard to come by in a tight market with way too many newbie lawyers clawing their way into the job market. She had to start paying off her student loans now that she had graduated, and no way could she cover those by flipping burgers at a fast food chain. She was well and truly trapped.
She would not cry. She was running with the big boys now, and girls didn’t get to act like girls. Moving over to the Italian marble sink, she splashed water on her face and rinsed out her mouth. She was never drinking another martini as long as she lived. They were foul concoctions, and furthermore, she was fairly sure they would put hair on her chest if she kept drinking them.
She swallowed a burp and swiped away the resulting tears of distress. It turned out burping gin and vermouth through Kool-Aid-sweet wine ethers was even more disgusting than downing one of the evil potions neat. Her stomach heaved alarmingly. She grabbed a big handful of the pastel mints candies in the bowl and jammed them into her mouth. The oversweet mint both calmed her stomach and made the interior of her mouth tolerable. She swished water around in her mouth again and spit it out. Whew. Humanity restored.
* * *
THE CHERRY-wood door swung open and she pasted on a polite smile—Cam. She declared sharply, “This is the lady’s room, kemosabe.”
His baby blues narrowed in irritation. He must have known that the word did not mean “friend” like the Lone Ranger believed, but rather had meant “horse’s rear end.” Excellent.
“What the hell is your problem with me?” he demanded. “When did I piss in your Wheaties?”
She glared back at him as he stepped forward. “This actually is the lady’s room. You need to leave.”
Scowling he whirled around, threw the lock on the door and resumed stalking toward her.
Her heart was not racing. She was not suddenly feeling very breakable and very vulnerable and very, very unbuttoned. Her hand started up toward her blouse to clutch the silk closed. But a tiny spark of defiance buried deep beneath the “holy craps” singing in her head exerted itself and stilled her fist.
She did take a step back, though, her thighs bumping into the cold marble countertop. And still he came. “Mr. Townsend—”
“My name is Cam.”
“Cam. You need to go.”
“I think not. I think I need to see if you’re as fiery underneath all that boring gray wool as I think you are.”
Screw her lights out if you feel like it. That’s why we hired her. Assault was not sexy. And abruptly, she was not amused. Her spine stiffened. She was not meat to be consumed at this jerk’s pleasure. Furious, she pushed away from the counter. Closed the remaining few inches between him. Ran her French-manicured fingernail down the button placket of his custom-tailored, Egyptian cotton shirt. Cast a sidelong glance up at him through her long, dark lashes, and murmured, “You think you can handle the heat...Cam?”
His hands came up. Cupped her face in big, strong, surprisingly gently palms, that nonetheless could break her in two if he tried. His bronzed jaw rippled as his head bent down to hers. His lips brushed across hers lightly once. Twice.
Wow. She’d expected him to fall on her like a dog with a fresh bone. This was...dammit...better. Polite. Respectful, even.
His tongue lapped lightly across her lips, dipping into the wet heat of her mouth, as the fight drained out of her. Or at least the assault charges. His right thigh drifted forward between her legs, sensuously pinning her to the counter at her back. His hands plunged into her hair as his head tilted and the kiss deepened.
God almighty, it felt like he was inhaling her. All of her. Body, mind and soul. He sucked all will to resist out of her as he swept her up against his gloriously hard body, kissing her deeply, druggingly. Ay chihuahua, could this guy kiss! Her entire lower body tensed in anticipation of the plundering to come, aching for him to fill her, pound into her until she couldn’t think, claim her as his woman—
What. The. Hell?
She was not about to let him kiss the anger out of her and transform it into mindless passion for him, no sir. Throwing her head back, she pulled his head down to her neck. “Oh, Cam,” she moaned. “Take me. I’m yours. Yes. Yes!”
He made a triumphant sound akin to a growl in the back of his throat, and darned if something raw and shocking deep in her groin didn’t leap in response
to it. Viciously suppressing her body’s reaction to this sexual god, she forced all the tension from her body and sagged, limp in his arms.
Startled, he straightened abruptly and stared down at her in what looked like genuine concern.
Quick as a mink, she slipped out from under his arm and darted to the door. She unlocked it and cracked it open, pausing only long enough to shoot him the most disdainful stare she could muster. “In your dreams, Counselor. You’ll tap this when hell freezes over.”
* * *
THUNDERSTRUCK, CAM watched as Dani Wellford threw her hair back, notched her chin up in the air and strolled out of the ladies’ room like the bloody queen of England. Son of a bitch. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, crotch bulging and jaw agape and turned away, appalled. That little cock tease had gotten him but good.
He swore as he heard a gaggle of female voices growing louder fast. He wouldn’t put it past Dani to have recruited a batch of women to come in here to powder their damned noses and incidentally humiliate the living hell out of him. He dived into a stall and locked it hastily. Balancing precariously on the toilet, he hugged his knees, pulling his shoes up out of sight lest someone peek under the door and see his size twelve Barker Black ostrich cap toe shoes. He was in hell.
The women chatted noisily and took their sweet time peeing and reapplying makeup, but at long last, they trailed out of the bathroom. Silence fell once more.
Deeply suspicious of another gaggle of women waiting outside to pounce as soon as he showed himself, he sat there in an uncomfortable ball for a long time. Long enough to play back that smoking hot kiss she’d laid on him out there. And at long last, for his rock hard erection to subside. She’d been soft and sweet and curvy in his arms and had felt like silken sin as she rubbed up against him. A cat in heat had nothing on her. Okay, that wasn’t fair. He hadn’t exactly been a passive participant in the kiss. But his toes were still curled in tight knots of lust. And her mouth. She’d been all wet and slippery and welcoming suction, drawing him in with blatantly carnal intent.
Crap. He was getting hard again just thinking about those luscious blow-job lips and big, dark, sex kitten eyes.
He took a deep breath and started mentally reciting the criminal code pertaining to professional ethics violations. Sometimes, it truly sucked having an eidetic memory. He remembered absolutely everything he read. Ever. Verbatim. With punctuation marks. It came in handy as a lawyer. But right now, it wasn’t doing a blessed thing to take his mind off how badly he wanted to get into the sassy, off-limits panties of one Miss Dani Wellford.
People at the party must be wondering where he’d gone off to. They would probably figure he was boinking one of the paralegals in the research stacks. Which wasn’t an entirely unfair assumption. He’d slept his way through most of the hot legal secretaries in New York City over the past few years. Before he got jaded. Disgusted with himself. Tired of playing the insatiable playboy stud all the time. It had been fun when he was a horny, immature prick fresh out of law school. But nowadays, he secretly despised his behavior in retrospect.
Truth be told, he hadn’t had sex in nearly three months. Not since he broke up—reasonably politely, considering—with an interior designer from the Upper East Side who’d turned out to be just a wee bit more married than he liked his women.
But his reputation preceded him, and everyone would assume the worst. And he deserved it.
He unfolded his cramping legs and let himself out of the stall like a felon, creeping to the hallway door. Rueful, reluctant laughter bubbled up on his chest at the absurdity of his predicament. He had to give Dani credit. She’d nailed him but good. Of course, one good turn did deserve another. Entertained as he hadn’t been in months, he slipped furtively out of the bathroom and commenced plotting his revenge.
CHAPTER THREE
DANI WOKE UP slowly. Her head hurt and her mouth felt filled with sawdust. It tasted like battery acid. There was dried saliva at one corner of her mouth and the light coming in her tiny loft’s window was inordinately bright this morning. Note to self: never drink martinis on an empty stomach again. Ever. Thankfully, the partners had given the new associates the morning off if they had no meetings or court appearances. She lay back down carefully and closed her eyes.
But darn it if impressions of the hottest assistant district attorney in New York didn’t keep dancing through her brain. The bastard had dominated her dreams last night, kissing his imagined way across parts of her body that didn’t bear recalling this morning. Suffice it to say she’d spent a restless night, tossing and turning, a lot, while sugar plum fairies and perfect pecs danced in her head. Damn him. He could just get out of her head and stay out, thank you very much. And he could take his steamy kisses and the hungry yearnings deep in her core and stuff them. Metaphorically. Not literally. Arrgghh! She pulled a pillow over her head with a groan and tried to go back to sleep.
No dice. She was firmly stuck fantasizing about plastering herself against that big, hard body. Being carried off in his arms. Rolling around naked with him. In the sack or not. There was no escaping the fact that, as giant a jerk as he was, he turned her on.
Her taste in men hadn’t always been abysmal. Bobby Thompson in the first grade had been pretty sweet to her. But it had been downhill pretty much ever since young Bobby. Apparently, she’d now added being a ginormous ass to her list of requirements for bad boyfriend material. She was doomed. Might as well buy herself a wimple and get to the nearest nunnery.
Her cell phone rang and she moaned into her pillow before rolling over to see who was disturbing her at this ungodly—no wait, it was after ten a.m.—this perfectly godly hour.
Crap. WMP’s number. She didn’t recognize the extension. She snatched the phone to her ear. “Hel—” she cleared the just-woke-up phlegm out of her throat and repeated brightly “—Hello!”
“Miss Wellford?” a female voice asked briskly.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Whitney would like to see you in an hour. Is your schedule free?”
The secretary was calling her at home. Of course her schedule was free for the big kahuna at WMP. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Perfect.”
It turned out racing around one’s bathroom showering, shaving, drying hair, doing makeup and dressing on an empty stomach with a martini hangover sucked. Bad. She was a hot mess, but somehow she pulled it all together. The taxi gods were kind to her and she managed to catch a ride with a grizzled Russian who knew a shortcut around the worst of the construction in Manhattan and got her to the curb in front of the WMP offices with three minutes to spare. She tipped the guy a twenty as she hustled out of the cab.
The elevator gods were not so kind, however, and she ended up having to run down the hall in heels to skid into the reception area on the partner’s floor with seconds to spare.
Then, of course, she had to sit and wait for twenty minutes, silently cursing herself for not taking the time to choke down a slice of dry toast or at least a few saltines, as her stomach churned like a vat of radioactive waste.
“He’s ready for you now, Miss Wellford,” the secretary finally announced.
The senior partner at the firm stood when she entered his office. Old-school manners, Leon Whitney had. He sat back down at his desk before checking her out thoroughly from head to toe. Old-school sexist pig manners. “You’re looking as attractive as usual, Miss Wellford.”
Seriously? When male lawyers walked in here did he say, “You look totally beddable, today, young man”? She gritted her teeth and mumbled something inane. Screw her lights out if you feel like it. That’s why we hired her. Was Leon’s voice raspy enough to be the one she’d heard last night? Throw in the effect of a few martinis and cigars on his vocal chords and it was possible.
Something dangerous rattled around in her gut. If she had any balls at all, she’d bait the guy. See if he gave himself away as the firm’s senior pimp. To hell with being able to pay her bills.
&nbs
p; “So, Dani. I hear you’re being difficult with the district attorney’s office on a pro bono case.”
As tempting as it was to defend herself, she held her silence. The guy hadn’t asked her a question, after all.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Well what?” she asked innocently. After all, she was just a pair of tits and not expected to understand much.
“What do you have to say for yourself?”
“Nothing. My client turned down the district attorney’s plea offer, and we’ll be going to trial.”
“It’s an open-and-shut case, and we’re going to lose!”
“You’ll be joining the defense team then, sir?” She put on her best Bambi at the Beach imitation. “Awesome! I’ll send up the file for your review...”
“Don’t get sassy with me, young lady.”
This from the owner of a firm that had hired her so it could throw her at guys like Cam Townsend? She leaned back in her chair and studied Leon Whitney closely. Just how much rampant chauvinism informed his calling her “young lady”?
Obviously Cam had spoken to one of the big dogs last night and either hinted or asked outright for them to lean on her. Leon Whitney didn’t know her well at all if he thought she was going to roll over and play dead just because he told her to. Not after what she’d overheard last night about his firm’s plans for her.
Come to think of it, she really ought to track down a few other women attorneys who’d been hired by WMP in the past few years and see why they’d left the place.
“We can’t have you running around being irresponsible. You represent this firm.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said pleasantly. “I thought I represented my client on behalf of the State of New York. And speaking of which, I have a meeting with him in a little while. I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut this short. It’s been so nice talking with you, sir.”