“Yes,” he says. “I am. Are you going to call me arrogant again?”
“Have you won the cases to back it up?
“Yes,” he says again. “I have.”
“Then it’s fact, not arrogance.”
“And you?” he asks. “How good are you, Lori?”
He’s hit that nerve I’ve been avoiding and I cut my gaze, reaching for the wine and downing a big swallow. “I really don’t want to talk about my career.”
“You lost a case,” he assumes. “Is that what brought you here tonight? You can talk to me about it. I get it. I know this world. I’m a good choice.”
“Tonight isn’t about my career,” I say, but isn’t it? Haven’t I just lied without meaning to lie? What is tonight really about for me?
“What are you trying to escape tonight?” he presses, as if reading my mind.
I down my wine and look at him. “Am I on trial, counselor?”
“If you’re never going to see me again, keep using me. Sex isn’t all I’m good for.”
“We weren’t supposed to get this personal.”
“I don’t even know your last name,” he says. “You don’t know mine. Let’s call it therapy. Quid pro quo. I’ll even go first.” He shoves his plate away. “Ask me anything.”
“I don’t want to play this game,” I say.
“Ask me anything,” he insists.
“How many women have been in this room?”
“None, not with me. My turn. How many one night stands have you had?”
“I already answered that,” I say. “None. Ever. Just you.”
“Why me?” he asks.
“No one else ever made me think I wanted to,” I say honestly, without hesitation. “My turn. Who burned you?”
His eyes narrow. “Who says I was burned?”
“You hate cheaters.”
“Good observation and accurate. My father fucked around on my mother and pretty much ruined her. I was engaged when I was right out of law school and she fucked my best friend. Now they’re married with three kids.”
I sink back onto the cushion, and pull my legs to my side, wondering if I dare ask what I want to ask. He leans into the cushion as well. “What do you want to know?” he asks.
I decide to dare. “Did you love her?”
“No,” he says easily. “I knew that even then, and so did she, but fucking around with my best friend—that was the wrong way to handle it.” He studies me a moment. “Your turn. Who burned you?”
“In the romance department? Me. For being stupid and probably young and infatuated.”
“An older man?”
“Yes,” I say. “And semi-famous, arrogant, and generally wrong for me, but I’m not heartbroken. I wasn’t in love either.” The muffled sound of my cell phone pings a text message. “My phone,” I say straightening. “I need my phone.” I jolt to my feet and round the coffee table to grab my bag, only to run smack into Cole, who’s apparently attempting to retrieve it for me. He catches my arms and gives me a mischievous look. “Always running into me.”
Heat radiates up and down my arms where he holds me, the awareness between us electric, the heat too fierce to have recently been sated. “I am, aren’t I?”
“Yes, sweetheart,” he says, his voice packing a low, rough quality, “you are, but I’m not complaining. I like it.”
He reaches down and scoops up my bag and sets it on the coffee table. “Thank you,” I say, and quickly dig my cell from my bag. I tab to the message and read the text from my mother: I have a surprise for your birthday! On shift, and I won’t tell anyway. Love you!
My birthday, which is only a week away and should have been celebrated with a law degree in my pocket and on my wall. “Something wrong?” Cole asks.
I glance up at him. “No,” I say, stuffing my phone in the pocket of the robe. “Nothing is wrong.”
He studies me, his eyes darkening, and suddenly, chilly. “You sure about that?”
He’s upset. He might even be angry. “What just happened?” I ask.
He doesn’t play those games he favors now. He’s direct. “That message,” he says. “Your urgency to check your phone. Are you married, Lori?”
I blanch, shocked, but quickly recover and his concern is not without merit. “No,” I breathe out. “No. God, no.” My hands find the hard wall of his chest. “I’m not that kind of person, Cole. I’m not a cheater.”
He doesn’t reach for me. He doesn’t touch me. “And yet you won’t tell me anything about yourself.” It’s a statement, not a question.
I yank my hand back. “It was my mother, who I worry about constantly since my father died, texting me about making me a cake, which is a big deal for reasons I won’t try to explain. I don’t even know why I told you that.” I suddenly feel trapped, and I didn’t even feel trapped when I was laying across his lap. “I should leave. Yes. I’ll leave.” I grab my bag, about to step away from him and he takes it from me, sets it on the table, and pulls me to him.
“Don’t go.”
“You just accused me—”
“I asked. You answered. I know lies when they’re spoken. I believe you. That I do just makes me want to fuck you all over again.”
“Cole—”
His fingers slide into my hair, his mouth slanting over mine, his tongue pressing past my lips. I tell myself not to respond. I tell myself this is the end of the road for this night, but he kisses me with passion, with possessive, hungry passion and he is big and wonderful, and he doesn’t taste of anger or accusation. He tastes of wine, pleasure, and everything right about this night.
“Do I taste like I want you to leave?” he asks again.
“You still taste like trouble, which is why if I had any sense, I would have left before now.”
“But you didn’t. You haven’t, and you shouldn’t.”
He doesn’t give me time to reply. He scoops me up and carries me toward the bedroom, and in a few moments, I’m on the mattress with his big body over me, the heavy weight of him pressing against me.
“We don’t have another condom.”
“I told you,” he says. “I’m resourceful.” He kisses me again and with one delicious lick of his tongue, I moan and forget my objections, and soon without regret. Because it’s not long before my robe is open and his mouth is on my nipple, and then my belly and lower. And lower, until his shoulders are parting my legs, and his warm breath trickles over my sex.
“Cole,” I whisper desperately when that touch of his mouth is just out of reach.
He answers with a lick of my clit, that sends sensations spiraling through me. I arch my hips, and he teases me, his hands at my sides, his mouth pressing to my belly. “Cole,” I plead again.
He glances up at me, his eyes simmering with the kind of relentless passion every woman wants to see in “the” man’s eyes; the one she wants. The one she needs. The one that is trailing his tongue down my belly, and oh God, yes, he closes his mouth down on my nub, and suckles.
I grip the blankets and a panting, wild sound I don’t recognize myself being capable of slips from my lips. He licks, teases, strokes, using his fingers, mouth, and of course, his tongue, until I’m right there on the edge.
Everything fades but pleasure, and I don’t come back up for air until I’ve trembled with release, and Cole has pulled me into his arms. My head rests on his chest and the steady thump of his heart is like a drug mixed with wine, food, and no sleep, I can’t fight. My lashes lower and I just need to rest my eyes a few minutes before I leave.
***
I wake with heavy lids, blinking into a dimly lit room, the sound of a muffled male voice touching my ears. “I need the car here in exactly one hour. Right. Yes. That works.”
Cole’s voice.
I sit up, to find myself under the hotel bed sheets, naked beneath, and alone. The bathroom door is shut, a light peeking from beneath it. Light is peeking through a nearby curtain. It’s morning and I’m still here. I don’t even
remember deciding to stay. It’s morning and either Cole and I say an awkward goodbye or we don’t, in which case, I have to tell him that I’m not an attorney. Then he’ll find out what my life is and think I’m now staying for his money. Or I’ll fall for him, I’m already falling for him, and I’ll get distracted, screw up my plans, and end up heartbroken.
I have to leave.
I throw off the blankets and grab my phone from the nightstand, checking for messages that don’t exist, before dashing for my clothes. In a rush of movement, I’m dressed, though I can’t find my panties, but that is just going to have to be okay. I settle my briefcase on my shoulder and stare at the bathroom door, regret filling me. I don’t want to leave, but that is exactly why I have to leave. I need my Cinderella with a spanking fantasy to be fantasy-worthy. I don’t want to ruin it with real life.
Regret settles in my belly; I plan to just leave, but a pad of paper on the nightstand catches my eyes. I walk to it and grab a pen, before writing:
Hello and everything that followed was perfect. I didn’t want to ruin perfect with a bad goodbye.
—Lori
I set the note in the center of the bed right when the shower turns off. Heart racing, I rush for the door, hurrying down the stairs. I picture him exiting the bedroom and reading the note, wondering what his reaction will be. Regret? Relief? Anger? Disappointment? By the time I step onto the elevator and sink against the wall for the ride, my only certainty is that despite my certainty I will never see Cole again, I will never forget him either.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Cole
I walk out of the bathroom with a towel around my waist to check on Lori, and grab the doorframe at the sight of the empty bed. I don’t have to call out her name to know that she’s gone. I feel it and I can’t fucking explain why I feel it any more than I can explain why I want her more than I did before I fucked her. She’s different. I wasn’t wrong about that. I flip on the bedroom light and my eyes catch on a note on the pillow. I know what it says: Goodbye, but still I cross the room with too much eagerness, and grab it, to read:
Hello and everything that followed was perfect. I didn’t want to ruin perfect with a bad goodbye.
—Lori
I toss the damn note on the bed and consider my options for all of thirty seconds before walking back to the bathroom and picking up my phone. I punch in my assistant’s number. “Hey, boss,” Ashley answers, always quick on the draw and an asset I’ll miss when I start calling New York City home. “Don’t tell me,” she continues, “you need your flight moved.”
“Actually, no,” I say, more motivated than ever to wrap up things back south before I move north. “I need you to find an attorney for me.”
“Did you kill someone and it’s not made the news yet?”
“She practices in New York City,” I say, ignoring the joke, “and her name is Lori. Brunette. Pretty. Late twenties.”
“That’s all you have for me to go on?”
“How many brunette, attorneys named Lori can work in New York City?” I ask, and I don’t wait for an answer. “Get me photos of any hits you find. Send them to my email and text me when you do. This is urgent.”
“Okay,” she says. “I’m on it as soon as I get to the office.”
“Now,” I say. “I’ll buy you that damn Gucci purse you’re always talking about if you find her. Hell, I’ll buy you two. I need those photos before I leave for the airport.”
“You can’t miss your flight,” she warns, as if she knows that’s exactly what I’m considering, which is to push back my flight. “You’re in chambers with Judge Conners at four o’clock and he’s unforgiving.”
And capable of granting my client, an innocent man who had the wrong attorney before me, a new trial. She’s right. I can’t miss my flight. If I get the answer my client deserves, I’ll continue living between cities for months on end, but I can’t walk away from him or Lori.
“Cole,” she warns when I haven’t replied. “You land at two. There is no give here unless you go private, and you’ll miss your plane before I can confirm I can make that happen this late in the game.”
Game.
This isn’t a game, but last night was, and more than I knew. “Get me those photos,” I say and remembering the note I add, “She spells her name L-O-R-I.”
“Who is this woman?” she says, clearly baffled by the limited information behind my order.
“Just find her,” I say, and disconnect the line, setting the phone down and pressing my hands to the counter. Fuck. I should have kept eyes on her. I knew she was running, but she didn’t want to. She was afraid of something. I needed more time to get her past whatever it was. I’m going to get that time. I’m going to make sure of it.
I tear away the towel, and return to the bedroom, making fast work of getting dressed, but I don’t bother to pack. I’m keeping the room another few weeks. I’ll be back, and sooner than planned. I’m about to exit the bedroom when I walk back to the bed and grab the note Lori left for me. I read it again, and grimace with the “perfect hello” she didn’t want to ruin with a “bad goodbye.”
“All right then,” I murmur. “We won’t say goodbye, but we damn sure will say hello again.” I stuff the note in my pocket and head for the door. I already have a car service waiting on me downstairs, and waste no time heading that direction.
A short elevator ride later, I’m street-side and I climb into the backseat of the car, directing the driver to the corner where I met Lori, and have him pull to the curb. I get out with the insane idea I might actually see her. I walk to the exact spot where I ran into her. I walk the whole damn sidewalk, left and right, and a block in either direction, and of course, she’s not here, there, or anywhere. I head back to the car and slide into the backseat. “Airport as planned,” I order the driver when my cell phone buzzes with a text: Photos in your inbox, but there are only two Loris who spell their name as you indicated, and none fit the description you gave me. I included all other spellings and there is only one possibility, but she is thirty-two.
I switch to my email and open the file, scanning the photos. My Lori is not in the photos. This makes no sense. I think back to our conversations. Holy Hell. She never actually confirmed she was an attorney. I have a name and nothing more.
***
Lori
“What’s your dirty secret?”
The question is delivered by Daniel, a handsome, familiar man, in an expensive suit, from the other side of the coffee bar counter; the side without the register, which I know far more intimately than him.
“I have no secret,” I assure him. That’s my programmed answer that I’ve given him every one of the early mornings I’ve been working here, only this time it feels like a lie. I do have a secret. I have Cole and despite my rushed shower and change of clothes after leaving his place, I swear I can still smell him on my skin.
“Have a drink with me and tell me,” Daniel presses, keeping to his daily script.
“Actually,” I say, leaning forward and lowering my voice. “I’ll tell you now.”
He leans in closer. His eyes light. “Tell me,” he urges.
I could say “I let a stranger spank me last night” but that’s my only dirty secret, and I want it just for me. Instead I say, “You have a girlfriend,” thinking of Sally, who joins him here every Saturday morning.
He wiggles a brow. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Thankfully, a line is forming, and I motion him to the end of the bar. “Your regular order is ready, and I charged your account.”
“We’ll invite Sally,” he suggests.
“No and go,” I order, and then shout out, “Next!” to force the issue.
He grimaces but leaves, and I don’t really think that he’s serious about a hook-up anyway. I certainly hope not for Sally’s sake, which momentarily conjures a memory of Cole’s guttural “I fucking hate him” about his cheating father.
My next customer steps to the counter an
d I shake off the memory, and the line churns endlessly it seems until finally my shift is over. Karen, the “coffee-making girl” as she calls herself, makes me a white mocha and I have about fifteen minutes to drink it before I have to change, and head to my day job. Cup in hand, I round the bar to find Cat sitting in the corner, where she’s been since I avoided her upon my arrival, certain somehow she’d know I’ve now been spanked. It’s a silly notion, but I can’t shake it. Nevertheless, she’s my boss and friend, and I walk in her direction.
“Good morning, my coffee queen,” she says, blowing blonde hair from her pretty green eyes. “Who shouldn’t be a coffee queen at all.”
“We do what we have to do,” I say.
“Except you don’t have to do it anymore,” she assures me.
“Cat—”
She holds up her hands. “Before you tell me you aren’t taking my charity, I need help. My column was officially syndicated and I’m co-authoring on the book I told you about last night.”
“You syndicated! Oh my God. That’s incredible. I’m so happy for you. Seriously. No one deserves this more than you.”
“I’m excited but overwhelmed and so is Reese. He has his merger and a case that is heating up. We talked last night, and we agree. He can’t co-write the new book with me. I need a full-time research assistant and Reese talked to one of the consortium members and he said you in this role looks good to the board.”
If only I could afford to take it, and I hate so much that it’s just not an option. “Cat,” I breathe out. “I can’t—”
“Three times what I’m paying you now, but you have to work obsessively with me,” she says. “There’s no room for the other jobs. I need you. And you’ll earn the money. If Reese needs research help, I need you to cross over.”
I swallow hard, thinking of her offer last night to help me with my mother’s medical bills. “I know what you’re doing,” I say. “I love you, but no. I decline.”
Her jaw sets. “I’m going to put an ad out for the job and give it to someone else at this same pay, which means I’ll have to let you go. Is that what you want?”
Dirty Rich Cinderella Story Page 6