Stiff Drink: Runaway Billionaires: Arthur Duet #1

by Blair Babylon

  Gen didn’t want to see the red dot of anger. Every time it appeared, Gen’s chances to obtain tenancy in the law chambers dropped a little.

  Pupil barristers always made and served coffee for their pupil masters or mistresses. Gen had made Horace’s tea during her first six, though after the first month, they had been making tea for each other.

  The student lawyers also wheeled in the silver tea service and chocolate cookies at high tea every day at four-thirty, and they served the drinks at the chambers’ occasional cocktail parties. It was a very British way of putting baby barristers in their place: making them serve their betters like actual servants.

  But that morning, Gen waited in the conference room, fiddling with a pen, shuffling the stacks of papers associated with the Finch-Hatten case, and drinking her third cup of coffee. The cookies over on the sideboard called to her, even though they were the plain biscuits that they served to clients, not the chocolate ones that the barristers reserved for themselves at tea.

  Lord Severn was late.

  The lazy libertine had struck again. He had probably been out carousing and womanizing until the wee hours of the morning, perhaps a belated New Year’s party, and had only just gotten his privileged arse out of bed. When Horace Lindsey had arranged meetings with Lord Severn, Horace had joked that he always set the meeting for half past the hour in his own schedule, but he had told the rascal Lord Severn to be at the offices on the hour and started charging him then.

  She did her best not to grind her teeth. It was all billable hours, after all. Lord Severn was paying her to wait for him.

  But twenty-five minutes was excessive.

  Gen’s pupil mistress, Octavia Hawkes, would have said, “Tardiness robs us of opportunity and the dispatch of our forces,” one of her quotes from Machiavelli. Octavia liked The Prince and Sun Tzu’s The Art of War a little too much.

  As she had control over Gen’s entire future, Gen studied both books so she could hold a coherent conversation with Octavia.

  Horace Lindsey had preferred Shakespeare, and his quotes were still marked on some of his clients’ file folders.

  Like all lawyers who were waiting for a scheduled meeting, Gen busied herself with yet another case and billed that client for her time, too. Racking up the billable hours was another way to distinguish herself from the other pupil barristers who were competing for a tenancy offer.

  Of course, everyone was doing that.

  Gen needed to do something smart, something exceptional.

  Something besides waiting for Lord Severn to show himself.

  Even Horace’s death from overwork hadn’t shamed the irascible Lord Severn into mending his ways.

  Gen straightened the stacks of papers on the table. She had read over and taken notes on all of them over the last few days, even though it should have been an easily winnable case.

  Honestly, the Finch-Hatten case should never come to trial. No solicitor nor barrister should have touched the complaint.

  Lord Severn’s parents had died in a car accident when he and his younger brother had been small children. As was customary, they had not divided the earldom and properties but had left the vast majority of the estates to the eldest son, Arthur. They had bequeathed only enough money for an excellent education and a nest egg to his younger brother, Christopher. Preserving the great estates in this manner was still common practice.

  There had been no way for Arthur’s parents to know that Arthur would become a lascivious wastrel, while his brother, Christopher, would become an upstanding doctor with ties to Doctors Without Borders and do pro bono work in the most disadvantaged parts of London.

  But even if they had known how their two sons would turn out, it probably wouldn’t have made a difference.

  After their parents’ deaths, the younger brother, Christopher, had gone to Eton and other very British independent schools to prepare him for an excellent career because he would have to work for a living.

  Arthur Finch-Hatten had been raised in one of the world’s most expensive boarding schools in Switzerland, Institut Le Rosey, where the very wealthy dumped their inconvenient children.

  No wonder the poor sod had turned out so badly, Gen mused. He hadn’t stood a chance. Everyone at that hoity-toity school probably had the work ethic of a sloth with a Quaalude problem.

  Arthur had grown up among the offspring of Saudi sheiks, deposed European royalty, African and Latin American dictators, politicians and businesspeople from every continent, and Russian mobsters. The joke was that Le Rosey held their parent-teacher conferences in conjunction with the World Economic Forum that took place in January in Davos, Switzerland because many of the parents were in town that week, anyway. “Davos” is the annual event where the world’s twenty-five hundred most powerful people gather to discuss their world domination and to ski. Some of the world’s most effective security forces, supplemented by elite mercenaries, kept back the conspiracy theorists and anarchists who protested outside and at a considerable distance.

  Her phone screen read eleven-thirty.

  Gen shuffled the papers, checking over her notes.

  Maybe, like Horace, she should have just assumed that Lord Severn would be at least half an hour late and scheduled other clients’ appointments in the meantime.

  She whiled away the hour, her professional meter ticking off her ever-increasing fee, staring at the pages of the brief in her hand and wondering why the case had even gotten this far. It seemed that any judge should have thrown this out.

  The parents had written their will.

  It was a legal will.

  It was aligned with the laws and customs of England.

  The estate had been settled twenty years before.

  Gen didn’t see how Christopher could even contest it.

  Except that the defendant was the notorious rake, Lord Severn.

  She was still staring at the paper when Miriam, one of the junior clerks, opened the conference room door and leaned inside, giggling. “Your client is here,” she practically sprayed.

  Miriam never sprayed anything. The clerk was the soul of decorum and took care of Gen’s fees with the utmost professionalism.

  Miriam withdrew, and the door gaped wider.

  Gen steeled herself for battle. This client who was a walking waste of oxygen wasn’t going to put one over on her.

  Lord Severn strolled into the room, his long legs covering the carpet at a quick pace even though he walked leisurely.

  Gen had seen Lord Severn before, of course, but she had dodged behind other people and scurried back to her office while he had met with Horace. A nobleman with such an outrageous fee always commanded the attention of the most senior barrister in the office.

  When he strolled in, Lord Arthur Finch-Hatton, the Earl of Severn, was still staring straight ahead at the window that overlooked the crowded streets of central London, so Gen’s first look at him was his profile.

  Morning sunlight streaming in the window clung to his golden skin. His cheekbones were hard slashes, and his jaw was a sharp right angle above the crisp, white collar of the dress shirt and black business suit he wore. His lush lips curved in a smile, as if looking over London from such a prestigious advantage suited him. The subtle lift of his chin and roll of his broad shoulders suggested that, had history been different, he might have ruled the land that spread beneath the window.

  He turned to survey the rest of the room and caught Gen sitting at the table, gaping at him.

  Oh, God. She was staring.

  He always caught her staring.

  She was staring at the black curls of his dark hair that stroked his ears and the back of his neck, and she was staring at the way his very precisely tailored suit skimmed his strong shoulders and the rounded biceps of his arms and then narrowed at his waist and hips, and she was staring at his extravagant height and his long legs and the way his head tilted with amusement as he caught her staring at him again.

  Gen’s brain turned to goo.
>
  Damn, Lord Severn was one gorgeous man.

  No, no, no.

  No, Gen was a highly trained barrister, not a silly schoolgirl meeting a good-looking man for the first time. She had seen lots of handsome men.

  Lots of them.

  Lots.

  Lots-lots-lots-lots-lots. The goo in her mind grew fuzzy tendrils, and cotton candy filled her skull and stopped up her ears.

  Her thoughts slowed as she met his eyes.

  My God. His eyes.

  His eyes weren’t blue or gray or any color that she had ever seen on a real human being before.

  His eyes shimmered with an unexpected delight and intelligence.

  They narrowed when he smiled that good-natured, natural smile that beckoned to her.

  And most of all, his eyes sparkled silver and were bounded by a dark blue ring.

  They changed color depending on the light, from baby blue to silvery-gray and all the shades in-between. Gen saw all the variations as he turned his face from the sunlight toward her.

  They were beguiling, magical, unearthly.

  That was not damn fair.

  Gen had heard about peoples’ knees weakening, but she was already sitting down. Still, her bones turned to soft clay, and she grabbed the sides of her chair because she was in danger of slithering out of it and onto the carpeting under the conference room table.

  Lord Severn walked toward her.

  It was customary for barristers to stand when greeting a client.

  She should stand up. You really should stand up.

  Stand up, dammit.

  Gen gripped the sides of her chair and pushed with her arms to lift herself to her feet.

  Even though too-tall Gen was wearing blunt, two-inch heels, Lord Severn was still inches taller than she was. At least four inches. Which meant he was at least six-four.

  Blathering. Her brain was blathering.

  His tie was the same azure-silver as his eyes but glimmering silk.

  Goddamn it. She had seen Lord Severn before, several times, and he always had this effect on her.

  Her and pretty much every person who was sexually attracted to men. One of the clerks, Roland, had actually fainted after Lord Severn had left chambers one time.

  She should have gotten immune to him with subsequent exposures, right? This crazy reaction should have worn off by now, right?

  Dizziness spun her head, and she gasped for air because she had forgotten how to breathe.

  At her stupid sucking sound, Lord Severn smiled, though it was a sad smile like he regretted that his mere presence was overwhelming her so.

  He pulled out a chair on the other side of the table. “I was terribly sorry to hear about Horace Lindsey’s untimely death. He was an excellent barrister and a family friend.”

  Even though it was only eleven-thirty in the morning, Lord Severn’s breath carried a faint whiff of whiskey under the mint, like he had just come from a gentleman’s brunch.

  Gen’s mind searched for words.

  Any words.

  Wut arrre werdz.

  She gathered her brain together and squeezed something out.

  “Yes, it was a great loss to us all,” she managed.

  Lord Severn nodded. “He spoke highly of you. I’m pleased that you will be taking over my case.”

  “You are?” she blurted. Oh, good grief. Could she be any more junior-high school? “I mean, Mr. Lindsey did a great deal of work preparing for this case. I’m honored to argue it in his stead.”

  “Horace and I always discussed my case over a liquid lunch at my club. Why don’t you skive off work for a few hours and enjoy my hospitality?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” Gen said. “I’m due in court with Ms. Hawkes this afternoon.”

  “When?”

  “Three o’clock.”

  “I could have you back by then.”

  “But I have to read the briefs that the solicitors sent over so that I know what I’m arguing.” Her native Texas accent broadened in her mouth. “What use is a hired gun if they don’t know whom to shoot?”

  Lord Severn tilted his head. The corner of his lips twitched up. “Horace didn’t mention that you were American.”

  Damn. Gen had been living in London for several years. Surely, most of her American accent should have faded away. She was trying like the Devil to enunciate, but evidently, she was still garbling her marbles. “I was raised in the States until I was seventeen, when my mother and I moved back to London.”

  “So you’re a British citizen?”

  None of Gen’s other clients had worried about what color passport she presented at customs. “Yes, I was born here. I have American citizenship, too, because when I was a kid in Texas, my dad made sure of it. I still travel with my US passport sometimes.”

  Lord Severn leaned his elbows on the table and watched her. “And why would you use an American passport when you travel?”

  The laser-like focus of his silvery eyes blinded her, and Jesus, he had dimples when he smiled.

  Gen stuttered, “Masochism?”

  Lord Severn laughed and adjusted his tie. The silver silk flashed in the sunlight, and his eyes took on a metallic sheen. “There’s something you won’t hear a barrister admit to every day.”

  “Yes, well, barristers don’t admit to a lot of things.”

  “Do tell.” His voice was warm with amusement as if he liked her.

  “Oh, I couldn’t say. Professional courtesy.”

  “Said the bishop to the actress.”

  “Quite.” She laughed at him. Her laugh didn’t sound like a nervous cackle, either, which was a small miracle.

  “I can only imagine what those other barristers do,” he said, and his eyes twinkled.

  Jesus, Lord. How did he get his eyes to twinkle like that? They practically glittered with white-hot sparks, and Gen felt herself leaning forward and swaying her back like a broken-down mare to push out her boobs, two of her few decent physical assets. She admitted, “Sometimes, we play games in court.”

  “What kinds of games?” he asked.

  Go ahead, his voice implied. Say something outrageous, something unprofessional, something sexy.

  Gen giggled. “One judge plays online poker all day while hearing cases, so we find him online and take his money while we’re arguing the cases.”

  Lord Severn’s jaw dropped a little. “Does he know that you’re playing against him?”

  “Oh, heavens, no. But if you win the case and the money from him, then the losing barrister has to buy a round for the pub that night.”

  Lord Severn leaned in. “Are there any others?”

  Gen whispered, “Like, we give each other a list of words that we have to work in during arguments.”

  He asked, “What kinds of words?”

  In his high-bred, arch English accent, his open-ended question couldn’t have sounded dirty, and yet there was just the suggestion that, if she said something naughty, he would be even more amused.

  “Anything. Last time, the words were encumbered, rectitude, and nabob.”

  “Oh, you barristers and your vocabulary. Horace said that he admired your wit.”

  “He did not,” Gen said.

  “Oh, yes. He was quite taken with you, in his own way, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “He thought that you would make an excellent QC or a judge.”

  Gen blinked, trying to process that Horace thought she could rise so high. “That’s more than I could hope for.”

  “And yet he saw it in you.” Lord Severn leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg over the other.

  His pant leg rode up above his ankle.

  The precisely tailored suit that he wore was soft black, as were his shoes, but his socks were teal.

  Shockingly teal.

  His ankles were a flash of Caribbean-sea color in the very conservative English barristers’ chambers.

  Nothing that Gen was wearing had anywhere near that kind of color. Her
pale gray blouse, black suit, pearl earrings, and beige-toned stockings and underwear were all respectable.

  It wasn’t every day that someone wore teal socks into a trial lawyer’s office. Most clients were in a battle for their lives. They might lose or win a great deal of money or be sent to jail at the end of their trials. Most people wore their somber, Sunday best into her office to discuss the strategy and their odds.

  The vibrant color of Lord Severn’s teal sock was so unexpected, so careless, that Gen felt like a Victorian matron offended by a glimpse of a table leg that should have been covered by a modest lace skirt.

  Oh, Lord. She was staring at his ankle, a trim ankle that led up his leg to a swell of calf muscle.

  She had to stop.

  Stop looking.

  Gen snapped her eyes up to his face.

  Lord Severn’s smile grew. “Something amusing?”

  “No.” She pointedly did not look near his foot.

  He did, however. “My socks amuse you?”

  “No.”

  “A barrister wouldn’t wear anything so whimsical, would they?”

  “Of course not. A judge might actually take offense, thinking that the barrister was flaunting the dignity of the court.”

  Lord Severn said, “Because you’re in the professions. A man matches his socks to his pants. A gentleman matches his socks to his mood.”

  Gen steeled herself not to ask how he chose his underwear. “I can’t imagine what sort of mood you’re in to choose such an—” she didn’t look down at them, “—unusual color.”

  “I’m a creature of many appetites, it’s true.” Though he was still smiling, his gaze didn’t waver from her eyes as he said this.

  And right there, with Lord Severn’s words and his sultry glance that turned his silver eyes molten, their conversation went from casual banter, a pointless conversation that meant nothing to either of them, to something heated and with the suggestion of an offer, an implied extension of his hand to go wherever he might lead her.

  Gen stared down at the paperwork she was holding, trying to steady her hands. “We need to go over this information,” she said. Her voice sounded thin in her own ears. “Is this contact information correct?”