by Lisa Rayne
Bucking up for the confrontation ahead, Jordis disembarked from her car. She stepped inside the eclectic scene. Low lights shadowed tables of differing heights and shapes. An acoustic guitar accompanied a plaintive female voice in a haunting rendition of Roberta Flack’s Killing Me Softly. Bodies huddled together, a mix of casual acquaintances, friends, and obvious lovers—of all persuasions. Jordis’s eyes glanced over two gentlemen in an intimate embrace before she caught a glimpse of a familiar face.
She tensed. She was never going to live this down. Stepping up to a round, bar height table, she tossed down her purse. “Vivian, I’m going to kill you.”
Her redheaded colleague’s eyebrows shot up. “What did I do?”
Jordis hoisted herself into a high-backed chair and let out a deep breath. “When I got your note, I nearly had a heart attack. I thought the worst. I drove here expecting to find Eric or Alyson waiting for me.”
Vivian noticed the tight look on her friend’s face. “Oh. Sorry about that.”
“You should be.”
“Didn’t you recognize my handwriting?” Vivian gestured to a barista and motioned towards her cup and then at Jordis.
“No, I didn’t.” Jordis saw the pantomime and shook her head. “You know I’m not a big coffee fan. They wouldn’t happen to serve alcohol here? I need a real drink.”
“As a matter of fact, they do.” Vivian hopped down from her seat. “Be right back.”
Jordis reached for her handbag.
Vivian waived her off. “Tonight’s tab is on me.”
Jordis threw her handbag back down. “No argument from me. It’s the least you can do. And no froufrou drinks either. Bring me something that’ll make my throat burn.”
Vivian hesitated. “Are you driving tonight?”
Jordis leaned back in her chair. “No. You are.”
Vivian disappeared and returned quickly with a tall glass that, with one taste, Jordis identified as a Tom Collins. Gin. That would work.
Vivian waited for Jordis to finish half her drink before she delved into the matter of the evening. “Well, clearly, you’re not gay, but I see I was off base about you not doing white guys.”
“I don’t.” Jordis sighed. “Or, at least, I didn’t. That elevator kiss was a fluke.”
After this past weekend, Jordis knew that wasn’t exactly the case, but she didn’t want to talk about it. She downed more of her drink.
“Ah, I see.” Vivian sat back with a grin. “An interracial virgin. Is that the problem?”
“W-what?” Jordis choked a bit on her drink at Vivian’s use of the word virgin. “No, of course not.” She’d pretty much barreled past that particular issue when she’d let Michael fondle his way through third base.
She gave Vivian an indignant look. “Hello! He’s my supervising attorney. You are familiar with the Rules of Professional Conduct?”
“Hello!” Vivian mocked. “The Rules are just guidelines to prevent certain unethical behavior.”
“Exactly.”
“So avoid the unethical behavior without passing on the phenomenal bedroom skills of your hunky managing partner.”
“Phenomenal bedroom skills? How do you know the man has phenomenal bedroom skills?”
“That man is drop-dead sexy. Any man who looks like that, moves like that, and gets that much female attention has to be great in bed. Otherwise, the Lord is simply not merciful.”
Jordis chuckled at her friend’s backwards Catholic reasoning.
Vivian sipped her latte. “So, how do we get you and Mr. Remington from liplock to horizontal mambo?” She made a sensual sound of pleasure while wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.
Jordis burst out laughing at the lascivious expression. “That is sooo not going to happen.”
“Really? We’ll see about that.”
Jordis shook her head, her laughter tapering off. “How did you know, by the way?”
“We’ll get to that later. First, tell me all about that elevator kiss.” Vivian leaned forward. “And don’t leave anything out.”
Chapter 14
Jordis looked up as Michael, dressed in a charcoal gray Armani suit she loved on him, strolled into her office two days later. He’d left his jacket off and rolled the sleeves of his baby blue dress shirt to mid-forearm. The blue of his shirt gave a silver glint to his gray eyes.
Except for an exchange of emails, they’d only spoken a few times since their evening meeting. Each time, he’d been completely professional. He hadn’t mentioned their disagreement or made a pass at her once. She should be happy. That’s what she’d wanted. Instead, because she was dealing with a known master strategist, she kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. No way he’d let her off this easy. He had to be up to something.
Michael sat down in one of the two guest chairs opposite her desk. “I sent you the preliminary arguments for my section of our response to the motion for summary judgment.”
She sat back. “I got them.”
“Did you have a chance to look them over?”
“Not yet. I’ll take a look later this afternoon and let you know my thoughts.”
“That’ll work. Thanks.” He stood.
As he turned to go, she called, “Michael?”
He stopped and looked at her.
“Is that all you wanted?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. Oh—” He looked down at his hand as if with afterthought. “And this is for you.” He placed a tall refillable beverage mug on the desk in front of her.
She glanced at the mug with a brown screw-on lid. On its beige front, a script J floated in the center of a painted ornate medallion and the word tea floated around the sides multiple times along with various words for coffee, like java, latte and café.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Just a little something to get you through the afternoon.” He strutted to the door.
Her eyes fell to the drape of his slacks over his tight butt. He had a nice backside. The kind a woman would like naked and tensed beneath her hands while he . . .
She shook her head. Enough of that.
Regaining focus, she looked up and found Michael watching her, his hand poised on the handle of the open office door. His suppressed grin and look of amusement let her know he’d caught her eyeing his ass. He winked and exited.
Arrogant jerk.
If she didn’t know better, she’d think he came by just to make her drool. Although she had no intention of acting on her lust for him, that didn’t mean she’d found a way to get over it. To her chagrin, after what he’d just witnessed, he now knew it.
She flopped back in her chair and pondered the mug before her. The script J on the front made it obvious he’d bought it for her to keep.
She didn’t want to accept gifts from him, but how did a woman turn down something as simple as a travel mug—a personalized one at that—without seeming petty?
She lifted the mug, took a sip, and almost moaned out loud.
A milk chocolate turtle latte.
That snake. A little something to get her through the afternoon, indeed.
Without saying a word, he’d reminded her of their Plaza rendezvous. She should run to the break room and pour the beverage down the drain. But, she wouldn’t, and he’d known she wouldn’t. She liked them too much.
She berated herself for being a weak-willed ninny and took another sip, resigned to the Proustian effect unleashed by the burst of flavors across her tongue. By the time she finished the latte, she had to concede this skirmish in her battle to resist Mr. Sex Appeal. She couldn’t concentrate on work. Memories from the first night she’d tasted the drink invaded her thoughts. A carriage ride in the snow and a makeout session against a parked car kept intruding on her concentration.
She gave up on work and went to find Vivian for an early lunch. She needed to regroup and find a way to win the next battle in this war of near-fatal attraction.
* * *
The following week, Michael sat at his desk
twirling his stylus with a grin on his face. He’d decided his best offense with Jordis hinged on a covert operation. Her strong-willed personality wired her for battle. A strong offensive would have set her on a defensive path to fight off his every advance. By downshifting his play, he’d thrown her off balance. She hadn’t been sure whether to trust his disinterest or steel herself for a sneak attack.
He’d never had to pursue a woman before. Who knew it would be so much fun?
He’d made sure to be a gentleman at every turn, but every once in a while, he’d stand too close to her or touch her absently and seemingly in innocence.
At first, he’d thought he wasn’t getting anywhere. He’d feared despite his apology, her anger had doused any remaining embers of the passion she may have felt for him. Last night, he’d learned otherwise. He’d escorted her to her car after their evening of polishing the response to the motion for summary judgment. When he’d touched the small of her back to lead her out of the elevator, she’d jumped nearly a foot in the air.
He had her tightly wound, which meant he was getting to her. More than mere embers rested in her hearth for him. If he stoked just right, he had every confidence he could stir up a blaze.
They’d filed their response with the court this morning. The opponents would have fourteen days to file a reply, but he and Jordis were banking on an ultimate decision in their favor. Tomorrow, they’d move on to the next phase of their case strategy, but right now he needed to figure out the next phase in his strategy to win her.
His phone rang. He saw the number for his investigator on the caller ID. He answered. “Remington.”
“Battle Rodriquez here. I’ve got your preliminary report. You want to tell me why you had me investigate a member of your own firm?”
“No.”
Battle laughed. “Diplomatic as ever I see, Remington.”
Battle Newton Rodriquez was Michael’s investigator of choice. A former marine with a law degree, Battle had served as a Judge Advocate before a brief stint with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. He ultimately decided working hard to capture evildoers served no purpose if their crimes often went unpunished due to shortcomings in the case for prosecution. He now freelanced, putting together airtight evidence portfolios on varied matters for lawyers and law enforcement agents across the country. Not only was he thorough, he was unfailingly discreet.
Michael trusted no one else to get him the information he needed about Jordis and her prior life in LA. He’d been curious about Keith Wilson’s relationship with Jordis since that night on the Plaza. He’d garnered from what she and Wilson had said to each other that their split had occurred over something involving her work. He hadn’t gotten around to questioning Jordis about the relationship. The timing had never seemed right. When he’d thought about Wilson’s meddling voicemail message and what Jordis hadn’t said whenever he’d tried to make conversation about her time in LA, Michael figured the story might hold the key to breaking through her current emotional blockade.
Battle filled Michael in on what he’d found out about Wilson and Jordis’s relationship and the facts surrounding her departure from her prior firm. “The party line I got from her prior firm’s administration was she’d had ‘some case management issues’ and ‘irreconcilable personal conflicts’ with a senior partner. I did some asking around and learned the story has a more scandalous version. Apparently, rumors of sexual impropriety between Jordis and a senior partner made the rounds.”
Michael’s ire rose when Battle detailed rumors of alleged sexual favors for which Jordis was supposedly rewarded with premium case assignments. A raw burn festered in his gut. He felt momentarily betrayed. The lady was being awfully self-righteous about a liaison with him for someone with a history of shenanigans with her superiors. Then, a twinge of guilt hit him. He knew better than to jump to assumptions without hearing both sides of the story. The allegations of poor case management didn’t gel with what he knew about the woman. Not to mention that, according to Battle, the prior firm had paid her a severance package equal to three years salary plus corresponding bonuses.
The size of her severance package alone gave him pause. Given what he estimated Jordis’s salary level and bonus range would have been in LA, she’d walked away with upwards of seven figures. That was a hefty chunk of change to dole out to someone who’d been guilty of sexual impropriety. People paid that kind of money to keep someone from filing a suit they didn’t want filed.
Michael thought about Chase’s comment a few weekends ago that Jordis didn’t need Michael’s money. Had Chase known about the sex scandal and the severance package? If he had and hadn’t said anything, Chase had some serious explaining to do. Pushing aside his growing desire to manhandle his best friend, Michael let this new information settle in.
Unless Jordis tended to pitter away her paychecks—something he doubted—with the payoff she’d received and her current income, she was sitting pretty. It didn’t come close to his assets, factoring in his investments and real estate holdings, which included the office tower housing the firm. Nevertheless, for an independent woman like Jordis, her cashflow situation meant she’d never need, or want, to look to a man for financial support or gain.
Battle’s voice lured him back into the conversation. “Now that I’ve given you an objective rundown of the basic facts, let me say, you know that’s all bullshit, right?”
“Yeah. I’m thinking the same thing.” At least, he hoped so.
“I did some checking with her first employer and asked around about the situation with her ex. The lady’s had a pretty stellar career up to her prior position. Seems mighty suspicious that a woman who graduated in the upper percentile of her law school class and has a near perfect court record had to resort to sexual bribery to get ahead. From where I’m sitting, I suspect the partner involved . . .” Battle’s voice faded as if he were looking up something. “. . . a Lowell Bruner, has been caught up in this kind of thing before and probably failed to mind his manners. Only this time, he picked the wrong woman, and they had to either pay her off or risk a PR circus with the potential to negatively impact the firm’s reputation.”
Michael hummed in response. The picture Battle painted gave him new insight as to why Jordis had tried to avoid working late with him. Given the prior sexual advances he’d made, it was understandable she’d thought he might be after more than her legal expertise. His ego wanted to believe she should have known he wasn’t that kind of guy, but if the situation had been reversed . . . What would I have thought?
“I’ll get the written report to you in the next day or so,” Battle said. “Oh, and before I forget. I’m faxing over right now the information you wanted on that taxi drop New Year’s Eve. I also started working on that other matter you sent me concerning the prior expert witnesses of the opponent in your patent case. I’m beginning to think there may be something there. I’ll let you know where things end up.”
“Okay, Battle. Thanks for getting this done so quickly.”
“You didn’t exactly give me a choice.” Battle chuckled. “I’m getting curious about this Ms. Morgan. Maybe I’ll deliver the report personally so I can check out the lady myself.”
“You stay away from my firm. I have a business to run. The women here haven’t finished swooning from your last visit.” Half black, half Latino, Battle’s model-worthy looks sent the females at RHM into a tizzy every time he stopped by. Until Michael got a lock on Ms. Morgan’s affections, he wanted Battle Rodriguez as far away from her as possible.
“I can’t help it if the ladies love this chocolate suave,” Battle cooed, overemphasizing the Spanish vowels. He laughed. “Talk to you later, man.”
The connection clicked off.
Michael shook his head. Battle was an arrogant SOB. Good thing he was so damn effective.
Michael pulled Battle’s fax off the machine. He’d specifically asked Battle not to email him an electronic report because he didn’t want anyone else privy to this infor
mation.
In black and white, the address to which Juliet had been taken on New Year’s Eve glared up at him. His gut twisted into a knot. Since their basketball game, he’d been acting on the assumption Jordis and Juliet were the same person. Now, he faced the possibility he’d been wrong.
He considered shredding the fax and letting the matter rest. At this point, it shouldn’t matter who the woman he’d kissed on New Year’s Eve had been. The woman he wanted was Jordis. Yet, a part of him needed to know if he’d truly imprinted on a woman after no more than a brief forty-five minute anonymous encounter.
He pushed the intercom. His secretary, Lana Davenport, answered. “Yes, Michael?”
“Lana, I need Jordis Morgan’s personnel file, please. Right away.”
“Okay. I’ll take care of it.”
Ten minutes later, Lana walked into his office and dropped the folder on his desk. “I hope there’s not a problem with that young lady. I like her.”
Lana’s comment surprised him. “Really? Why?”
Lana wasn’t the type to be easily swayed by people. A bit of a pillar at the firm, Lana had started out as his father’s secretary when the firm first opened. She was practical, super efficient and no-nonsense. If Jordis had impressed her, that was saying something.
“It’s refreshing to meet a young female attorney who doesn’t think she has to dress and act like a man to be taken seriously at her job. Plus, after the way she handled Studly, she’s becoming a bit of a legend around here.”
“You heard about that?”
“Of course.” Lana headed for the door. “You know you can’t keep anything from the staff around here.”
After she closed the door, Michael stared at the file she’d left on his desk. His pulse raced. He sat quietly for several seconds before he forced himself to flip the file open to the sheet containing Jordis’s personal information.
He flopped back in his chair. The address wasn’t the same.
How could he have been wrong?
His jovial mood of earlier dissipated. He picked up his stylus and twirled.