Legal Attraction

by Lisa Childs

  “Why are you here?” Bette asked him. She obviously wasn’t very happy to see him, not that he could blame her. He hadn’t been very nice to her at her going-away office party.

  He wondered if she would ever forgive him. And if she couldn’t, Muriel certainly never would. But what was there to forgive?

  He had only been doing his job. Ronan was not the one who’d done anything wrong. Muriel was. Wasn’t she?

  “I came here to ask you about Muriel,” he replied.

  “Bette already told you she had nothing to do with those documents that were given to the bar association,” Simon said. And now his voice was as cold and unwelcoming as his girlfriend’s.

  “Muriel said those documents were given to her,” Ronan said.

  And she was the one who’d given them to the bar association. But why? If she had really done what those witnesses had said, why would she have been so upset? And why would she seem so certain that those witnesses had lied?

  His blood chilled with the thought that they might have committed perjury. But no. He couldn’t be wrong.

  “And I don’t know who gave them to her,” Bette said. “Muriel doesn’t even know.”

  “How well do you know her?” Ronan asked.

  Bette glared at him now, and there was a defensive snap in her voice when she replied, “Very well.”

  He didn’t want to piss her off, especially not with Simon present. But he had to ask, “How do you even know her at all?”

  “What do you mean?” Simon shot that question at him, and his voice was sharp, too, in defense of his girlfriend. “What are you getting at, Ro?”

  Ronan sighed with frustration. “I just don’t understand their friendship.”

  Bette obviously understood what he was getting at because she answered Simon. “He doesn’t understand how we can be friends because Muriel’s beautiful and famous, and I’m not.” Hurt flashed in her dark eyes.

  And Ronan flinched. That wasn’t what he’d really meant, but it was a valid reason for them not to be friends. They seemed to have very little in common.

  Simon’s arm tightened around his girlfriend’s small waist. “You’re beautiful and famous, too, sweetheart.”

  She laughed, but with no bitterness or resentment. “Not like Muriel.” But she didn’t appear to be jealous of her friend. “She’s The World’s Most Beautiful Woman.”

  Ronan agreed with her, but Simon apparently didn’t. Before he could argue with her, Ronan interjected, “That’s not what I meant at all. Bette, you’re sweet and nice and honest...” At least, he hoped, for his friend’s sake and his, that she was. “And Muriel Sanz is not.”

  Bette laughed again. “Yes, she is. And that’s why we’re friends. I have never met anyone more straightforward or honest than Muriel is.”

  He shook his head. It wasn’t possible. “But...that’s not what all those witnesses said.”

  “They lied,” Bette said as if it was just that simple.

  His doubts escaped in a snort of derision. “Really? All of them?”

  “Why is it so easy for you to believe that Muriel is the one who lied?” Bette asked. “Because she’s a woman? Because she’s beautiful?”

  Ronan narrowed his eyes now. How much did Bette know about his life? About his past? He turned toward his friend.

  Simon shrugged. “She’s intuitive.”

  “And a good judge of character,” Bette added. “I trust Muriel. I believe she’s telling the truth.”

  Ronan didn’t want to believe it. Because if she was telling the truth, then she had every reason to hate him. Hell, he would hate himself.

  He shook his head, refusing to accept it. All of those people wouldn’t have lied. No. Muriel was the liar and the manipulator, perhaps better even than his mother had been. He had to be careful. He had to protect himself before he got in too deep.

  But he had a sick feeling that it might already be too late for that. He’d been smart to leave her alone in bed tonight and run. He probably should have run farther than he had, though, because he would have a hard time stepping back into that elevator and not pressing the button for her floor, not going back for more of her.

  For the first time in his life, Ronan was beginning to understand his father. He was beginning to understand how a woman could become an addiction.

  What would it take to cure him?

  Losing his license?

  Would that finally kill his attraction to her?

  * * *

  The doorbell rang, and even though she’d been waiting for it, the sound startled her. And Muriel realized she’d dozed off on the couch. She opened her eyes and squinted against the sun streaming through the tall windows.

  After what they’d done in the bedroom, she wouldn’t have been able to sleep there, not on the tangled sheets that had smelled of Ronan and sex. She wouldn’t have been able to sleep there because she would have just lain awake, wanting more. But she must have been the only one who’d wanted more, because Ronan had taken off in a hurry.

  Had he been late for a date with another woman?

  Not that their dinner together had been a date. He hadn’t asked Muriel out; he’d just shown up with take-out. And, embarrassingly enough, she had been home alone on a Friday night. But it had been a Friday night, so of course, he’d had plans. No wonder he’d left in such a hurry.

  But she’d been certain he would come back, that he had been as affected by the attraction between them as she was. But he hadn’t returned.

  Unless that was him at the door, persistently ringing the bell. Maybe he’d brought her breakfast.

  Her stomach rumbling at the thought of food, Muriel rolled off the couch and hurried down the short hall to the door. When she pulled it open and found her friend standing in the hall, disappointment flashed through her.

  Feeling guilty, she pushed it aside and gave Bette a bright smile. The pretty brunette held a beverage carrier and a bag that was already getting soggy from whatever greasy bounty she’d brought with her. Muriel stepped back, but her friend remained standing in the hall.

  “Is he here?” she asked.

  Muriel tensed. She hadn’t told Bette that she’d run into Ronan—a couple of times—lately. No doubt Bette would think she was a fool for even talking to him, let alone letting him get as close as he’d been to her.

  Inside her...

  She shivered despite the fact that she’d pulled on her yoga pants and a sweatshirt after he left. “Is who here?” she asked, stalling for time.

  Could Bette think she’d been hooking up with someone else? Maybe some magazine had printed some more lies about her. But Bette knew better than to believe what she read about Muriel.

  “Ronan Hall,” Bette said.

  The heat of embarrassment rushed to Muriel’s face.

  “He’s playing you,” her friend warned. “He’s trying to seduce you into dropping your complaint with the bar association.”

  A pang struck Muriel’s heart. Not that she was hurt or anything...

  She’d suspected Ronan was up to something, that he’d had a reason for seeking her out in the elevator and at her photo shoot.

  She plucked a cup of coffee from the beverage carrier Bette held in one hand. “At least let me have some caffeine before we start this conversation.”

  She was exhausted. Not just because of the marathon sex she’d had with Ronan but because she hadn’t been able to sleep after he’d left.

  She’d wanted him again. Hell, she wanted him now.

  Bette held up the grease-stained bag. “I brought doughnuts, too.”

  “I love you,” Muriel said as she ushered Bette into the apartment and closed the door behind her.

  “You love too easily,” Bette said.

  Feeling like her friend had struck her, Muriel gasped. “I am not in love with Ronan.�
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  “I should hope not,” Bette said.

  “I hate his guts,” Muriel reminded her.

  “Then why are you even talking to him, let alone sleeping with him?” Bette asked.

  Muriel silently cursed him for being a tool and herself for being a fool. She should have known that he would brag to his friends, and Bette was seeing one of those friends. Simon Kramer wasn’t much better than Ronan. All of the partners of the Street Legal law practice were notorious for being ruthless lawyers and lovers.

  “I could say the same about you and Simon,” Muriel reminded her.

  “You could have in the beginning,” Bette admitted. “But I am in love with him now. And he loves me.”

  She didn’t doubt Bette’s feelings for her former boss, and he actually seemed invested in the relationship, too. He certainly spent enough time at her place.

  “That’s not going to happen with me and Ronan,” Muriel said. He’d skipped out right after they’d had sex.

  “I know,” Bette agreed. “So what the hell are you doing with him?”

  “We’re not sleeping together,” Muriel murmured as she thought of everything they’d done to each other, everything she wanted to do with him still. “I’m playing him, too.”

  Bette’s brown eyes darkened with obvious skepticism. “How’s that?”

  “I want to get him to admit the truth,” Muriel replied. “I want to make him confess that he coerced all those people to lie about me on the witness stand.”

  Bette glanced away from her then. Did she not believe that those people had lied?

  “Do you think they were telling the truth about me?” Muriel asked.

  “No,” Bette quickly replied. “Absolutely not. But I’m not sure that Ronan got them to lie about you.” She dumped out the doughnuts onto the table.

  Muriel reached for a powdered one. She knew it would be custard filled; those were their favorites. Before she took a bite, she asked, “Then why would they?”

  Bette shrugged. “Why does anyone do anything?”

  “For money,” Muriel replied. “Or fame.”

  “Exactly,” Bette said.

  The people who’d testified against her had gotten both. The interviews they’d given after the trial had brought them their fifteen minutes of fame, and the magazines and television networks had probably paid for those interviews.

  Could Ronan really have not suborned perjury?

  “But what about those memos?” Muriel asked.

  Bette sighed. “I think they were forged.”

  “You believe Ronan?”

  “He’s too smart to put anything incriminating in writing,” Bette pointed out.

  And she was right. Ronan was smart. If he’d done something illegal, he wouldn’t have risked someone discovering what he’d done. He probably wouldn’t have documented it. Were the memos she’d received forged, as he’d claimed?

  She cursed. She wouldn’t have filed her complaint with the bar association if she hadn’t been certain they were authentic. “But why would someone have given them to me?”

  Bette sighed. “Someone is making trouble for Street Legal,” she said. “They’ve given case file notes to opposing counsel for another trial...”

  “But were those notes real?” Muriel asked.

  Bette nodded. “But that doesn’t mean the ones you were given are,” she said. “I really don’t think Ronan would have been so careless.” Her throat moved as she swallowed, as if she was choking on her words, before she added, “And I don’t think he would have suborned perjury.”

  “Not even to win?” Muriel asked. Ronan Hall was all about winning. He had freely admitted that in every interview he’d ever given.

  “He doesn’t take cases he doesn’t think he can win,” Bette replied. “So maybe he’s telling the truth, too.”

  But Muriel couldn’t be certain that was the case. And until she was certain, she wouldn’t withdraw her complaint from the bar association, no matter how many times Ronan seduced her. Yet if getting her to withdraw her complaint was what he wanted, why hadn’t he asked her to do it?

  He hadn’t asked her anything during or after sex. He’d dressed quickly and hightailed it out of her bedroom and apartment as if he’d been late for something else.

  Or someone else...

  Now she felt a curious pang of emotion, one that left a bitter taste in her mouth despite the sweetness of the custard and powdered sugar. It couldn’t be jealousy; it must have just been disgust. Anger surged through her.

  “Even if he didn’t know those people were lying, he treated me like trash,” Muriel said. “He dragged my name through the mud. I will never forgive him for that.”

  “Good,” Bette said. “I don’t want you to fall for the wrong man again and get hurt.”

  “I won’t,” Muriel assured her friend. But she had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, and it wasn’t the doughnut. She’d barely nibbled on that. It was fear.

  No. She wouldn’t fall for Ronan. It didn’t matter how good the sex was between them. He wasn’t a good man. But he was the best lover she’d ever had...

  Maybe she would just have to have a lot of sex with him, so much that she would get sick of it, that she would get sick of him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SUNSHINE POURED THROUGH the wall of windows in Ronan’s office. Street Legal’s offices encompassed the entire top floor of a building in Midtown. The space was like a loft with high ceilings open to the rafters, exposed ductwork, brick exterior walls and rough-sawn hardwood floors.

  Ronan stood at his desk. He had the kind that he could raise, so he could forgo a chair. He didn’t like sitting. It was hard enough staying in his seat in a courtroom, which he managed to do only as long as he had to, when the opposing counsel had the floor.

  He flipped through the file on his desk, reading over the court transcripts he’d printed out, and he snorted in derision at his opposing counsel in this case. The defendant’s attorney had posed no challenge for Ronan at all.

  She hadn’t raised any of the arguments that Ronan would have, had he been Muriel’s attorney. But he hadn’t been. He’d been working for her ex.

  He remembered Stone’s comment at the meeting. The reason Ronan’s partner had questioned Muriel’s intelligence wasn’t because she was a model but because of the man she’d married. Stone didn’t have a very high opinion of Ronan’s former client, and as Ronan reread his real case notes—not the forged ones Muriel had given to the bar association—his opinion of Arte Armand sank, as well.

  Why the hell had he represented this schmuck?

  Oh, yeah, he’d felt sorry for the guy. Arte had been a broken man when he’d come into Ronan’s office. He’d sobbed out his misery over how horribly his new bride had mistreated him. New bride...

  They hadn’t been married very long at all. Less than a year. The prenup she’d had him sign should have held up—would have held up—had she not been proven at fault in the divorce. Had Ronan not proven her at fault.

  Had she been at fault? All those witnesses had claimed she was, that she had treated Arte as horribly as he’d said she had. But if that was true, why had he stayed with her?

  Because he hadn’t been able to leave, just like Ronan’s father hadn’t been able to leave his mother? That was why Ronan had taken the case, because Arte had reminded him of his father. But his father had loved his mother for years before she’d started cheating on him. They’d had a child together. He’d had reasons to stay.

  What had Arte’s reasons been? Money? Or love?

  He’d claimed he’d loved Muriel. But if that were true, why had he wanted to hurt her so badly? To publicly humiliate her? And why had Ronan helped him do it?

  That twinge of discomfort and regret he’d been having turned into a gnawing ache in his chest now. Had he been wrong? No.
That wasn’t possible. Not with all those witnesses claiming how badly Muriel had treated her ex...

  But as he read their testimony in the transcripts, he noticed how similar their stories were, which had previously convinced him of their veracity. Now he wondered...were they too similar, almost as if every one of them had been reading from the same script?

  He felt a shiver of unease chasing down his spine. It wasn’t because of the transcripts but because someone stood in the doorway of his office. He turned toward where Muriel leaned against the jamb, watching him.

  How had she gotten past Miguel, their receptionist-slash-bouncer? Then he remembered that it was Sunday. Miguel didn’t come in on Sundays. Nobody did but Ronan and his partners. Stone had come in, too, to prepare for his upcoming murder trial. And Trev was working on something, as well. Only Simon hadn’t come in—probably because he was still in bed with Bette.

  Ronan wished he was still in bed with Muriel. He shouldn’t have left her Friday night. Right now—as he stared at her, looking so gorgeous in artfully ripped jeans and a sweater with shoulder cutouts—he didn’t know how he’d left her at all when she’d been lying there naked in the sheets tangled from their sexual romp.

  Remembering how she’d looked—her silky skin flushed from their passion—his body tensed, and his cock hardened. He wanted her again. Still...

  She was so damn sexy and looked almost posed against that doorjamb, the way she had posed for that photo shoot. Then she moved, her hips rolling as she walked slowly toward him.

  His hand shook slightly as he closed the file—her case file. He didn’t want her to see what he’d been reading. He didn’t want her to know that she was getting to him, giving him doubts.

  He had to clear the desire from his throat to ask, “What are you doing here?” But the question came out brusquely, his voice still gruff.

  “It’s good to see you, too,” she remarked sarcastically.

  It was better than good to see her. Despite her face being everywhere, he’d missed her, and that unsettled Ronan. It wasn’t like him to miss anyone but his friends. And he and Muriel were not friends.

  They were enemies. Weren’t they? She’d turned him into the bar association, and he had...