by Hannah Ford
“I hadn’t heard from Clementine since she left my office that day. She was the one who’d been trailing him, and without her, I lost track of him.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice and failing. “So this is my fault?” After all, I’d been the one to accuse Clementine of filing that report against me the day she’d left Noah’s office.
“No one said that.”
“You were thinking it.”
“No,” he said. “I wasn’t. We don’t know where Clementine has been, if she left on purpose or if she was taken. And if I were you, I’d stop with that smart tone.”
“Or what? You’ll continue not to tell me things that are important?”
He crossed the room in one long stride, his body pushing up against mine and pining me to the ass the marble island behind me. He slipped his hands around my hips and picked me up, set me down on the island and pushed his body in between my legs.
“Stay there,” he said. “Do not move. Do not pull at your dress like that, do you understand me?”
I nodded. I knew the gesture was driving him crazy.
He pulled two shots of espresso from the espresso machine and set one of them on the counter next to me.
“Drink.”
I thought about protesting – Noah had brought me around to the idea of drinking coffee, but I still wasn’t sure that I liked it that much, and I definitely didn’t like it black. But Noah insisted that black was the only real way to drink coffee, that if you added cream and sugar you ruined the coffee and so you might as well just drink something you could get at a Dunkin’ Donuts instead of the custom blend he had flown in from some small, exotic island in South America.
I picked up the shot and sipped it.
I made a face. “Can I at least have an Americano?”
He picked up the shot, dumped it into a bigger cup, and added a few shots of hot water.
He handed me back the mug and I wrapped my hands around it. I was suddenly cold, even though the apartment was warm.
“So you think Audi killed those women,” I said.
“I have no evidence he did that.”
“Stop talking like a lawyer.”
“Then stop expecting me to have answers.”
“You’re being a real prick about this, you know that?”
His jaw tensed. “Am I?” His tone was laced with something dark. It wasn’t threatening exactly -- he sounded almost as though he thought I was being naïve, that if I thought he was being a prick now, then I had no idea how much of a prick he could really be.
“Yes.” I took another sip of my espresso. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Because there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“That’s not the point.” I sighed. “There’s nothing I can do about it, yes, but…did you think I was in danger?”
“Yes.”
“No.” I shook my head. “Not the crazy kind of danger you think I’m in when I’m just being a normal person walking to the coffee shop. And not the real kind of danger that comes from Professor Worthington being on the run.”
He stayed silent.
“Noah.”
He sighed, and picked up his espresso, downed it in one shot and then brewed another one. “No, I don’t think you’re in any danger from Audi. He would never come after you, that’s not his MO.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me about it?”
“I told you, because there’s nothing ---”
“That’s bullshit,” I said. “There’s nothing I can do about a lot of things.” I jumped off the counter, set my espresso down and walked toward him. He was turned away from me, and I could see his profile illuminated in the light from the coffee maker.
The curve of his lip, the strength of his jaw, the furrow of his brow.
God, he was so beautiful.
I reached up and brushed his hair back from his face. “Noah, look at me.”
He looked at me.
“Remember what I said?” I asked. “About telling each other things? We have to. We have to be partners in this relationship. There can’t be a double standard when it comes to confiding in each other.” I knew that if the roles were reversed, and I’d kept something like this from him, he would be livid.
He didn’t say anything, just stared at me, his shoulders back.
Finally, he nodded. “I’m trying.”
“I know you are.” I took his hand in mine, raised his knuckles to my lips and kissed his hand. The gesture seemed to calm him, and he reached for me, gathering me in his arms and pulling me to his chest.
I rested my cheek against him and closed my eyes, savoring the comfort that came from being in his strong arms. He was the only man who’d ever been able to make me feel delicate and feminine, and I knew that was not only because of his physical strength, but his emotional strength as well.
When I pulled back, he kissed me on the forehead, his lips warm.
“Why are you so perfect?” he murmured.
“Some people would beg to differ,” I said, giving a rueful laugh. “Some people think I’m a murderer.”
“Those people are idiots.”
I gave him a smile, and then disentangled myself from his grasp. I turned around and picked up my Americano and dumped it into the sink. Noah opened his mouth to protest, but I beat him to it. “Can’t have caffeine, Cutler,” I said. “Pregnant, remember?”
The restaurant we were meeting Penn Dylan was called Mahogany Rail, and it was the hotspot for all of New York’s elite legal minds. Plea deals were cut here, careers were made, and the clientele was as exclusive as a madam’s little black book.
We drove over together in a sleek black town car, Jared at the helm.
I was tense, my fingers twisting together.
Noah, on the other hand, sat next to me, the perfect picture of calm.
“Stop fidgeting.”
“I can’t help it.” I slipped my hands under my thighs and curled my toes up inside of the sensible black heels I was wearing. I’d foregone makeup, wearing only a little bit of foundation and a swipe of blush. I hoped my simple black wrap dress, in its simple elegance, had been the right choice. I’d never heard of the designer, but the price tag I’d cut off of it after finding it in my closet this morning showed that it cost $4000.
My whole look had been carefully constructed. Not much makeup, to make me look young and innocent. An expensive dress to show I had money. A simple dress to show I wasn’t the type of person that wanted to call attention to myself.
“You need to relax,” Noah said. He was scrolling through a brief on his iPad, shaking his head and marking it up, making notes in the margins as he scowled. I felt bad for whatever poor paralegal or clerk had written it up. “There’s nothing for you to do. You just sit there and let me do the talking.”
“Then I don’t understand why Penn wants me to be here, too.” It made me nervous.
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Noah said. “It’s my job to worry about that.”
I nodded. I knew he was right. There was no sense in me getting worked up about all of this, at least not until we’d had the meeting. Of course, this was much easier said than done.
I slipped my hand into my bag and pulled out my own iPad. We were stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, and it would be a few minutes before we got to the restaurant. The clock on the dashboard said 5:58. We were going to be late, but Noah didn’t seem concerned, and made no move to call anyone and let them know.
I pulled up the Middleton website and logged into my student account, downloading a PDF of my transcript so I could make sure to have it on hand for when I began filling out my transfer applications.
Just the act of doing it somehow helped to calm me.
Next to me, Noah was on the phone, presumably with whichever one of his associates had written the brief he’d just been reading, barking out more changes.
My hands slid over the iPad touchscreen, and before I kne
w what I was doing, I was googling Penn Dylan.
As I did it, it was almost as if I knew I shouldn’t be. Which made no sense. Why shouldn’t I have googled him? It was strange feeling, a kind of trepidation that I’d never felt before.
I almost closed out the browser window, that’s how strong it was.
But at that moment, the car lurched forward as whatever backup suddenly began to dissipate.
A moment later, we were pulling up in front of Mahogany Rail.
Noah ended his call, and I put the iPad away.
Ready or not, here we went.
My friend Cora called Mahogany Rail’s clientele the legalati, a play on the glitterati. I’d never been inside Mahogany Rail – it was impossible to get a table if you weren’t a high-powered lawyer or judge or politician, even though the food was rumored to be some of the best in the city.
They served breakfast, lunch and dinner, and were open 24/7, something that was unheard of for a restaurant so upscale. The owner, Cal Sorello, was a lawyer who’d made millions by winning a class-action lawsuit against a drug company. He’d always wanted to own a restaurant, so he retired and invested his windfall into Mahogany Rail.
Mahogany Rail soon began to get a reputation as being lawyer-friendly, and before long, it was the place in Manhattan where deals were made. The prices of the food kept going up as Cal realized that if you could guarantee confidentiality, you could charge whatever you wanted.
Pictures were forbidden in Mahogany Rail, and therefore the only hint I had of what it looked like inside came from law school lore, which always included some story about a fight or bargain.
“You are not to speak,” Noah said as we pulled up in front.
“What if he asks me a question?”
“What did I just say?” Noah tucked his phone into the inside pocket of his suit, the expensive material showing no indication that there was a phone inside. He placed his iPad into his black leather briefcase. He looked every part the billionaire lawyer, and I marveled again at how different he’d looked just a few hours ago, when he’d been dressed for a run. Now he exuded business and sophistication, totally alpha male. Of course, he was alpha when he was running, too, but that was a different kind of strength, his physicality on full display.
“That I will not speak.”
Jared opened the door and Noah began to get out, then turned and reached for my hand to pull me out of the car.
“Noah,” I said, suddenly dizzy, my head swimming.
He pulled me to him, and I inhaled the spicy scent of his expensive aftershave. “I love you,” he whispered into my ear, and just like that, I felt better.
We walked toward the restaurant.
He didn’t hold my hand, which I knew was intentional. When we were lawyer and client, we were lawyer and client. Any weakness we showed to the prosecutor, any way that he could exploit our relationship, either during his investigation or during a trial, would be used against us.
Noah opened the door for me, and I felt his hand surreptitiously on my back, just light enough that no one would notice if they saw us, and just hard enough for me to know he was there.
“Mr. Cutler,” the maitre’d nodded at Noah with an air of familiarity, as if she knew him, and yet her voice was devoid of any emotion. Nothing that led you to believe she was glad to see him, and yet she didn’t sound like she wasn’t happy to see him either.
She wore a plain white button-up shirt and crisp black tuxedo pants, her ice blond hair pulled back into a bun. She was pretty, but nondescript.
“Your party is waiting for you in the back.” I noticed she was careful not to mention the name of the party, and she also didn’t pick up any menus from the back of her hostess stand.
Instead, she turned on the heel of her black ballet flat and began winding her way through the restaurant.
I was surprised at how busy it was. From the outside, there hadn’t been any signs of the activity that was going on inside. The place was all booths, no tables, each one high-backed and made from dark mahogany.
The windows were covered with dark brown wooden blinds, and the glass itself was tinted.
Men and women in suits sat in almost every booth, some of them alone, some of them with colleagues. There were small domed reading lamps at every spot, casting yellow light over the tables. Some people had theirs switched on as they pored over briefs, making notes furiously or typing away on their computers.
The light in the main part of the restaurant was provided by golden domed chandeliers, which gave off a murky glow at best. The whole place was dark. Even the floor was made from wide planks of dark mahogany, as if whoever designed it hadn’t understood the concept of balance or contrasting colors.
The bar sat on one side of the room, tucked back in the corner. There were a few people sitting on the high-backed leather stools that sat in front of it, all of them with drinks, although there was no bartender in sight.
We passed by it as we were led to our table, and I couldn’t help but notice one of the men who sat there. He nursed a bourbon and talked into his Bluetooth, then ended the call and put his head in his hands. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a few days, the tails of his dress shirt hanging out of the back of his pants, his hair messy.
The vibe of this place was very old school law, the kind of place that reminded me more of Boston than of New York. It felt dark and heavy and serious, and I blinked my eyes and tried to adjust them to the darkness.
In the very back of the restaurant was a large door, also made of mahogany, and the maitre’d pulled out a key card and entered a code into the door. She slipped the card into the reader, until a green light glowed.
She pulled out the card and handed it to Noah.
“Your card will be active for one hour. If you need more time, just push the button on the table.”
Noah nodded, as if he’d been through his many times.
The maitre’d left.
“Ready?” Noah asked gruffly.
I nodded. I felt suddenly strong. It should have been the opposite – this place was like something out of movie, the kind of place that had someone told me about it, I would have told them there was no way it existed.
It was intimidating and scary and serious.
And yet something about the seriousness of it gave me a certain kind of comfort. This place had existed for years, and Noah seemed perfectly comfortable here, as did the other people who were here.
It was the same kind of feeling I used to get when my dad was sick and I had to take him to the hospital. When you were there, with the doctors, you felt as if there were people there who could take care of everything, and if something went wrong, it would be okay.
Of course, it hadn’t been okay.
My dad had died.
The room began to swim again, but there was no time to think about any of that, because a second later, Noah took the card and slid it back into card holder. The electronic screen blinked green, and then Noah was opening the door.
The room had the same kind of décor as the main restaurant, with one notable difference. Back here, there were no booths, and there were no windows.
Instead, there was a just a square table – mahogany of course – sitting in the middle of the room.
Penn Dylan sat on one side of the table, facing us.
I’d have thought he’d have been on his phone, rolling calls or trying to seem important. Instead, he sat there with nothing in front of him – no phone, no iPad, no papers or briefcase – except for a tall cylindrical glass filled with what looked to be one of those green smoothies that were made of things like kale and wheatgrass and whatever other disgusting vegetable was in vogue at the moment.
“Noah,” he said, nodding at us. “Charlotte.” He stood from his chair and leaned over the table as we approached, holding his hand out to me. “I don’t think we’ve had a chance to be formally introduced.”
I took Penn’s hand, and I felt Noah tense next to me just the tiniest bit. It
was almost imperceptible, and if I hadn’t known him as well as I did, I wouldn’t have even noticed it. But he didn’t like Penn Dylan touching me, even if it was only a handshake. He didn’t like any other man touching me, but Penn Dylan specifically.
“How are you feeling? With the pregnancy, I mean? Congratulations by the way.” He gave me a friendly smile, showing perfect, straight white teeth.
“I’m fine,” I said, forgetting for a moment that Noah had forbidden me from speaking.
“You didn’t seem to care much about the fact that she was pregnant when the police were slamming her up against the side of a car, arresting her without cause,” Noah said, as we sat down across from Penn.
“The police operate independent of the prosecutor’s office,” Penn said, sitting back down in his chair.
“Yes, well, we’ll be filing a formal complaint.”
“You should,” Penn said, nodding in approval, like it was the greatest idea he’d ever heard. I knew he was doing it just to annoy Noah. He was acting like he was on his side, but he wasn’t. The prosecutor’s office depended on the police in order to get evidence for their investigations, not to mention the testimony of officers. The two departments may have operated independently, but they were inextricably linked.
Noah pushed a button on the side of a table, and a wooden cover slid across the table, exposing a touchscreen underneath.
It was filled with a list of food and beverages.
Noah scrolled through, selecting a coffee for himself and an orange juice for me. The thought of a juice made my stomach roll, but I knew that to contradict him wouldn’t be prudent.
“Still on the caffeine, eh, Cutler?” Penn smiled. “Don’t touch the stuff myself.”
“What is that?” Noah asked, looking at Penn’s drink with distaste. “Green juice?”
“It’s a kale smoothie.”
“How very millennial of you,” Noah said, making it sound like it was the worse thing you could say about someone.
A woman appeared through a door on the other side of the room, walked to our table, and set down a glass tray filled with our drinks.