by Brynley Bush
“She does look young,” Griffin agrees good-naturedly. He looks at me, his eyes twinkling. “In fact, she doesn’t look a day over thirty. Well, maybe three days,” he amends.
I shoot daggers at him.
Thankfully there’s a knock at the door and my friend Jenna, who is Marcus’ paralegal, pokes her head in. Her eyes widen as she sees Griffin sitting across from Marcus. She shoots me a questioning look and I shrug helplessly.
“Um, Nancy wanted to know if she should order lunch for you guys.”
“Tell her thanks, but I think we’ll go out,” Marcus says.
I inwardly groan. The last thing I want to do is spend more time with Griffin. It’s hard enough sitting next to him in Marcus’ office, his sensual lips and competent hands a constant reminder of Friday night. I don’t think I can handle an entire lunch pretending we’re casual acquaintances.
“Where were we?” Marcus says as Jenna closes the door. “Ah, yes. The anonymous donor. That is the first and foremost question. We need to ascertain if Camille Penworth has anything to do with the research grant funding. Mila, talk to Jake and see what the two of you can find out.”
To Griffin he says, “Jake is our private investigator.”
Turning back to me, Marcus adds, “Once we figure that out, it will be up to you to find a way to protect the research.”
I nod thoughtfully, my mind racing as I consider the possibilities. Marcus was right; this will be a tough case. I’m so lost in my thoughts that it takes me a minute to realize Marcus is talking again. Luckily, his conversation is directed at Griffin.
“Although I will be available to consult as necessary, Mila will be the lead on this case and your primary contact,” he’s saying. “Do you have her number?”
“Oddly enough, I don’t,” Griffin says looking over at me, his gaze challenging.
“You never asked for it,” I reply lightly.
“You never gave me the chance,” he counters.
Marcus clears his throat.
“I’ll give you my business card before you leave,” I promise, my cheeks flushing.
“Well, then,” Marcus says, rising from his seat behind his desk. “I think that’s it for now. Are you free for lunch, Griffin?”
“Sure,” Griffin says, his athletic body nimble as he stands up as well. I do the same. With any luck, I can sneak out and plead getting to work on finding out who the anonymous donor is while the two of them go to lunch without me.
I’m halfway to the door when Marcus says, “Excellent! You and Mila go ahead. I have some work to take care of.”
I pause in my tracks. The traitor. He would have to be completely oblivious to not notice the tension between Griffin and me, and Marcus Dunn is one of the most astute men I know. I look up and see him catch Griffin’s eye. Griffin nods almost imperceptively. What’s that about?
I look from one man to the other. The way they communicate without words, coupled with their easy banter earlier, indicates a relationship that goes much deeper than the typical Navy SEAL brotherhood, and I wonder exactly what Griffin’s story is. I realize how little I know this man who knew me so intimately just a few nights ago.
The air is thick with tension as Griffin and I take the elevator down to the ground floor. I don’t know how I’m going to survive lunch.
“Look…” I begin as the elevator doors open. He places his hand at the small of my back and pushes me gently out of the elevator, expertly maneuvering me around the talkative group of women waiting to get on. My breath catches at his casual touch. Apparently that electric charge at the simplest touch of his hand wasn’t just a result of the alcohol on Friday night. I stop before we reach the double glass doors that lead out of the building onto the street and turn to face him. “We don’t have to do this. You don’t have to feel obligated to have lunch with me since Marcus is busy.”
“I don’t feel obligated,” Griffin says seriously. “I would very much like to have lunch with you.”
“Why?” I ask with exasperation.
A small smile plays over his sensual lips as he says, “I want to get to know my attorney better.”
Fine,” I grumble, turning and pushing the door open as we walk out into the California sunshine. “There’s an Italian restaurant about a block from here. Let’s get this over with.”
Griffin simply laughs. “Be careful or you’ll crush my ego.”
“That’s doubtful,” I mutter.
Once we’re on the sidewalk, he places his hand on the small of my back again, guiding me up the street.
“Why do you insist on doing that?” I ask, frustrated.
“I like touching you,” he says simply. “You’re immensely touchable.”
“And if I don’t like it?” I counter.
“It’s a moot point,” he says dismissively, “because you do like it. I can see it in your eyes. Your pupils dilate when I touch you, which indicates pleasure and arousal.”
I roll my eyes. “And you are an expert on this how?”
“Interrogation technique classes,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’m extremely skilled at reading body language, and your body language says you’re interested, even if your words say you’re not.”
“That is such a chauvinistic remark!” I exclaim as we arrive at the restaurant. We’re immediately shown to a small booth and a waiter appears instantly to take our drink orders.
“Let’s just drop the pretense now, please,” I plead once the waiter has returned with our drinks and taken our order.
“What pretense is that?” Griffin asks curiously, as usual infuriatingly unflustered and self-possessed.
“That you have any interest in me beyond our professional relationship,” I say. “You were quite clear Friday night that you weren’t interested in anything more than a one-night stand. There’s no need to pretend you are now that we’ve been thrown together on this case. I assure you I’m capable of giving you my best legal advice without you having to barter your body for it.”
He throws back his head and laughs. “Touché, Mila. But the fact that I can’t have a relationship right now doesn’t mean I don’t have any interest in you,” he says, staring at me intently. “Nothing could be further from the truth.”
“I don’t know what the truth is with you,” I say accusingly. “You clearly lied to me about having to be out of the country.”
His eyes cloud as he places his hand over mine. “Listen, Mila. It’s not the way it looks. It’s…complicated.”
“It always is,” I say, extricating my hand.
The waiter arrives with our lunch—a pasta dish for Griffin and a salad for me—and our conversation thankfully turns to Marcus as Griffin asks how I came to work for him.
“I interned for the district attorney’s office when I attended law school at Stanford, and Marcus tried a case that I was assisting on,” I explain. “He was amazing. Afterward, he made a point of finding me and complimenting me on my closing argument and told me to send him my resume when I graduated. After graduation, I interviewed with him. Even though I ultimately didn’t take the job at Dunn and Wallace then, he kind of evolved into my mentor. I don’t usually like Navy men,” I give Griffin a pointed look, “but Marcus is one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. He approached me three years ago with a job offer I couldn’t turn down. It was a great career move. I’ve learned so much working with him—he’s extremely smart—and I work hard to deserve the trust he puts in me.”
Griffin nods thoughtfully, his fingertip idly rimming the mouth of his water glass. Unwanted images of those clever fingers circling my breasts flash into my mind and I can feel my nipples tighten. I shift uncomfortably in my chair and ask, “What about you? How do you know Marcus?”
Griffin smiles easily. “He was my BUD/S Commanding Officer.”
“What’s that?” I ask curiously, forking a bite of lettuce.
“Basic Underwater Demolition SEAL training. Or, in a word, hell,” he explains wryly. “Marcus was a tough but f
air leader. He hounded and pushed me until I achieved the potential he swore he saw in me. I probably owe becoming a SEAL to him.”
“I’ve always heard they try to get you to quit, not encourage you to stay,” I point out.
“They don’t want you to quit so much as test you to the breaking point to make sure you have what it takes,” he explains. “Navy SEALs have to be strong physically as well as mentally. People’s lives depend on us not breaking, no matter what. The training is tough.”
“What’s it like?” I ask with interest.
“The first phase is eight weeks of basic conditioning—lots of running and swimming—that involves physical endurance, learning to operate on little to no sleep, enduring harsh conditions, continuous training over the course of five days, that sort of thing. Basically doing ten times what you think you’re capable of. If you survive that, and only about a third of your class will, you move on to dive training, land warfare—which includes weapons, explosives, rappelling, and stuff like that—and then parachute training before graduating.”
“Wow,” I say. I have to admit I’m impressed. “That explains your rock hard body.”
Too late, I realize I’ve said that out loud. He smiles at me cockily, his eyes warm.
“Just when I thought you didn’t care,” he says lazily.
Flustered, I change the subject. “So, why are you handling the patent protection for the graviola research instead of your dad or brother doing it?” I ask curiously.
He takes a drink and I can’t help but notice the water droplets clinging to his sensuous upper lip. I unwittingly lick my own lip in response and notice that his eyes dilate as he watches me. Damn the man for telling me that’s a sign of arousal! I look away quickly, suddenly self-conscious.
“For one thing, I’m in California and they’re in Houston, and the best intellectual property attorneys are here,” he explains. “Also, there’s my connection with Marcus. I trust him. And,” he adds, his tone turning steely, “I take care of what’s mine. Camille has tried to hurt Beckett twice now. I won’t let it happen again.”
I once again get a glimpse of Griffin’s underlying hardness, which is in sharp contrast to his typical laid back, easy-going demeanor, and I’m reminded how lethal he can be when he wants to.
“What else did Camille do?” I ask curiously.
“My brother, Beckett, is a dominant man,” he says, watching me closely to gauge my reaction. “Do you know what that means?”
“Um, he likes to tie his girlfriend up?” I guess, flushing.
A slow smile crosses Griffin’s face. “That’s definitely part of it, but there’s more to it than that. In general, it means he likes to call the shots and take the lead. He likes to handle the hard situations and make sure they never touch the woman he’s with, although with an independent woman like Emma it doesn’t always work out that way. He has an instinctive need to protect her. But as you pointed out, there’s a sexual aspect to it as well. He likes to control her sexual responses and use her body for his and her mutual pleasure.”
I feel my breath catch and my nostrils flare as something primitive clenches in my core at his explanation. Too late, I remember to lower my gaze so that Griffin can’t read my instinctive reaction to his explanation. I can’t help but wonder if Griffin has the same sexual appetites as his brother. Although we didn’t do anything overtly kinky last Friday night, he was definitely in control. Even when I was on top, riding him, he was gripping my hips, controlling the angle and thrust. And his hand on my nape, holding me in place as he pounded into me in the hot tub…
When I lift my eyes, he is gazing straight at me, his eyes smoldering. “Liking to be in charge runs in the Black family,” he says evenly, letting me know in uncertain terms where he stands.
Just another reason there can’t be anything more between me and Griffin, I remind myself. Just because I like an alpha male doesn’t mean I want that! However, based on the way everything inside me just tightened, my body doesn’t necessarily agree with my mind.
I’m grateful when our waiter interrupts to ask if we need anything else and the moment passes. Griffin continues his story as if we didn’t just flirt with the issue of domination and submission. “Before Beckett met Emma, he occasionally frequented a private BDSM club owned by a friend of his. After Camille had been spurned by Beckett, she got her half-brother Gavin to get a job at the club, and he took some photos that would have ruined Beckett’s reputation in the medical field if anyone had seen them. She told the media she had compromising photos of a prominent member of the medical community and scheduled a press conference.”
“What happened?” I ask, completely enthralled.
Griffin quirks an eyebrow at me. “Is this conversation protected by attorney client privilege?” he asks.
I can’t help but laugh. Griffin may be cocky as hell but he is immensely likeable. “Absolutely,” I assure him. “Now you have to tell me!”
Griffin smiles back and my stomach drops. “I’m a Navy SEAL,” he says simply. “The day before the press conference I broke into her apartment, took the pictures, and replaced them with pictures of Mickey and Minnie Mouse photoshopped into compromising positions. I will never forget the look on her face when she pulled out those photos in a televised press conference.”
I laugh so hard I have tears running down my cheeks. I’m still wiping them away when the waiter brings our check, and we both reach for it at the same time, our hands brushing in the process. I pull back as if his touch burns, which is actually a pretty fair description.
“I’ll get it,” he says firmly.
“You’re the client,” I protest. “I’ll get it.”
Griffin levels a look at me that brooks no argument and I find myself backing down. What the hell?
He smiles his approval. “There’s hope for you yet,” he says.
“What does that mean?” I demand.
“It means that I like to be in charge, and you just acquiesced to my authority,” he says.
I roll my eyes in frustration. What kind of Navy SEAL uses the word ‘acquiesce’? “It means that I didn’t want to argue with you in public,” I contradict, but I have to admit there’s a part of me that finds his utter confidence totally hot.
“I have to go,” he says. “Are you going to give me your number?”
I reach into my purse and pull out a business card, which I hand to him. “Here’s my work number,” I say, stressing the word work. “Although you can reach me there pretty much anytime,” I admit.
He takes the card and studies it before slipping it into his pocket. Taking the pen from the bill folder, he reaches across the table and takes my hand in his, turning it over so my palm is facing up. He rubs his thumb firmly across my open palm before scrawling his phone number across it. The erotic stroke of the pen across my palm, coupled with the warmth of his hand on mine, has my nerve endings tingling.
“I don’t have a business card,” he says, shrugging, as I stare at my hand. “But you know where to find me.”
Chapter Seven
I spend the next few days with my nose buried in books or on the computer, researching trade secrets, patents, and trademarks in the pharmaceutical industry and looking up case law when I’m not working on the rest of my caseload. At nine o’clock on Thursday night, I’m still in the law library at the office, papers and half a dozen books littering the surface of the table I have commandeered, when Marcus walks in. He pulls out a chair opposite from me and sits down, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
“How’s it going on Griffin Black’s case?” he asks, concern and interest in his voice.
I set down the book of case law I’m reading and sigh. “Okay,” I say. “I talked to Jake this morning and he’s hit nothing but dead ends in locating the identity of the anonymous donor who’s funding the research grant. Whoever they are, they definitely want to stay anonymous. All of the funds have been transferred from a bank in Grand Cayman, and all of the supp
orting documentation has come through an attorney in New York who says there are so many layers of cover-up documentation that even he doesn’t know who the original client is.”
“Interesting,” Marcus says, steepling his fingers as he looks at me thoughtfully.
I pull out Griffin’s file, which contains a copy of the legal agreement his dad and brother signed before accepting the research positions funded by the grant. “The good thing is that both Griffin’s brother and dad signed a legally binding contract with the grant foundation that gives them the rights to their research data, which in theory should protect them from whoever is providing the funding from claiming those rights.”
“In theory?” Marcus questions.
“Case law on disputes like this is pretty ambiguous,” I admit. “In some cases, although the researcher technically owns the rights and can file for a patent, the funding entity can still have some ownership. Given what Griffin has said about Camille and her tenaciousness, I would feel better if we had something more airtight to protect their work just in case she has some connection to the foundation funding their research.”
My stomach growls and I realize I haven’t eaten anything except the tuna sandwich my secretary brought me from the downstairs deli more than eight hours ago. Rummaging through my bag, I pull out a package of almonds. I might as well make the most of my break and eat while I talk to Marcus. I offer him one and he shakes his head.
“Is that your dinner?” he asks skeptically.
“Um, I think I have an orange in here somewhere,” I say distractedly.
“Come on. I’m taking you to dinner,” he says resolutely.
“I can’t,” I protest. “I still have a lot to do.”
“Dinner, Mila. Now! You have to eat.” The stern look in his eyes has me closing the book and scrambling for my bag before I even realize what I’m doing.
“How do you do that?” I complain as we take the elevator down to lobby. “I can’t even argue with you when you give me that look. It’s a good thing I never have to go up against you in court.”