The Proviso

by Moriah Jovan

  71: WHAT A GIRL WANTS

  Justice sat up in the most luxurious bed she had ever seen, much less slept in, reading a Georgette Heyer novel Giselle had given her.

  “Why don’t you give her Sleeping Beauty, Giselle?” Mr. Kenard had drawled slyly, which, to Justice’s astonishment and delight, made Giselle choke on her food and blush furiously.

  “The fairy tale?” Justice had asked doubtfully.

  “Anne Rice’s interpretation,” Mr. Kenard offered helpfully, almost eagerly. “Google it.”

  “No, don’t,” Giselle muttered.

  Justice watched her in astonishment, never having seen her flustered before this evening, which Mr. Kenard seemed to do with ease and great regularity. As soon as she got to her room that night, she pulled out a piece of paper and wrote, “Sleeping Beauty, Anne Rice.”

  Justice didn’t feel like cracking her laptop open; she simply wanted to enjoy this sudden and welcome break from the blogs, the writing, the constant analytical thinking. She was a warmly welcomed guest in a beautiful home that she imagined could only be superior to the best hotel in the world, a large library at her disposal, no work, no school, no farm chores.

  When she’d called her father to tell him she was staying with a friend for a week, she’d expected to be given the silent treatment at best and a good drubbing at worst. Instead, he’d said simply, “Okay.”

  That was suspicious.

  But she’d forgotten it as they ate and then the evening deepened. The three of them sat around the table for hours talking about politics and constitutional theory, both as interested in her opinion as she was in theirs. The subject of Kevin Oakley appeared to be off limits, though, which disconcerted Justice to no small degree.

  She didn’t dare ask how Mr. Kenard had gotten his scars, though she could see now that they were burns. She felt so very sad and regretful that she had had a bad initial reaction to him, that she had been so rude. It made her feel small and undignified.

  “In the interest of full disclosure,” he’d told her wryly, his voice rough, “Giselle breaks a lot of her own rules. I knew exactly what she thought the first time she looked at me because she wanted me to know what that was.”

  Giselle laughed. “It’s a little different when you take one look at a man and all you can think about is what it’d be like to be on top of him.”

  Justice could feel the red creeping up her cheeks. Mr. Kenard chuckled and patted her on the back.

  She took the liberty of staying up late just to read for pleasure, because that itself was such a luxury. She was in heaven and—

  Knox had done this for her.

  The thought sobered her.

  Why? Giselle was his cousin; didn’t he know what would happen? Had he meant for her to be here having fun, being pampered and cosseted by two of the nicest people she had ever met?

  Troubled, she had a hard time getting back into her book. At midnight, she went downstairs to raid the fridge of some blueberries she’d seen there—Giselle had told her she was welcome to anything—poured some cream and sugar over them, and took them back to her room.

  As she passed the master bedroom door, she heard a series of long, low moans that startled her and she stopped, unable to not listen. She heard a sharp gasp, a giggle, and then a low, grainy chuckle.

  Low voices talking. More laughter, more gasps and moans.

  “Ares.” It was only a whisper, heavy and dripping with desire. “Do that again.”

  “Say, ‘Please do that again, Ares.’”

  “Oh, please do that again, Ares.”

  Justice closed her eyes and swallowed. She swayed, thinking of that day in Knox’s office. She knew. For the first time in her life, she had felt real passion, real desire. It was nothing like she had read or imagined. She wanted what the Kenards had, but she didn’t know how that would happen or even if it would.

  Then Justice’s eyes popped open and she blushed, deeply embarrassed for having eavesdropped on something so intimate. She scurried back to her room and sat down on the bed, confused, and feeling very, very young.

  When had she turned into such a stupid, stupid girl? She lay down and curled up, closing her eyes to relive that day in Knox’s office when he’d seduced her.

  She wasn’t ashamed for wanting what the Kenards had, but only a fool would still want it from Knox Hilliard after everything he had done to her.

  * * * * *

  “Today, guns,” Giselle pronounced three days later, once Justice had arisen and gotten ready for the day in a pair of Giselle’s jeans that fit more like capris, and a tee shirt that stretched a little too tight across the chest and revealed more of her midriff than she liked. “You can just wear my regular clothes until you get home.”

  Giselle hadn’t bothered with such things because every girl had sixteen dozen pairs of jeans and a billion tee shirts, she said.

  “The reason Knox wants me to do this,” she pronounced on the way to the shooting range, “is because he doesn’t trust your sheriff up there not to give you defective equipment, which would likely get you killed. Either it won’t fire when you need it to or it’ll misfire and kill you. And he probably doesn’t want you anywhere near that shooting range. He’ll take you shooting somewhere else later.”

  He would? Justice gulped with both dread and tingling anticipation.

  Justice proved to be a better marksman than Giselle had hoped and Justice allowed herself to be proud.

  “Unfortunately,” Giselle said, “I can’t teach you anything about hand-to-hand in four days. I don’t buy into those short-course women’s defense seminars because they just give women a false sense of security. In my opinion, they do more harm than good. It took me four years of martial arts for me to get half as good as I felt I should be. So that’s why I carry a gun. No fuss, no muss, and people get the point.”

  “Why do you carry a gun at all?” Justice asked.

  “Oh, it’s just one of those things,” Giselle said airily, meaning she wasn’t going to tell her. Just like Kevin Oakley. “A thigh holster isn’t going to help you if you’re wearing a dress, so we’ll get you the standard shoulder holster the men wear. You need to wear one or the other at all times along with your badge, except when you’re in court, just like the men do.”

  Justice had three days at the range, which was equal to the time it took to get a new wardrobe. In that time, she got really good at drawing from both holsters, shooting with two standard grips, shooting with one hand, and with her hand turned over in what Giselle called “gangsta grip.”

  “Don’t use that if you can help it. It’s unstable and inaccurate as hell, but it’s very intimidating because of its gang association. Now, let’s do it all over again, only with your left hand this time.”

  “But—”

  “You have no idea how important it is to be able to be as good with your non-dominant hand as your dominant one—and both at the same time. Trust me.”

  It was in the car on the way back to Giselle’s home that Justice put her foot in her mouth.

  “Have you ever used a gun?”

  Giselle pursed her lips. “Be more specific.”

  “Have you ever used one on someone?”

  There was a long silence. Then Giselle drew in a deep breath and looked away from her, out the window. Suddenly, Justice understood. “Oh, I’m sorry. Never mind.”

  But by the time they parked in the driveway late that evening, Giselle had begun lecturing again as they walked into the house, like nothing had happened.

  “You never draw a gun on someone unless you’re prepared to shoot them, but—as Bryce so kindly pointed out—I break a lot of my own rules. I do attempt to aim for something nonessential to life.”

  “If you consider the head nonessential,” Mr. Kenard called from somewhere in the house and Giselle laughed delightedly.

  Justice spent the rest of her time there feeling as if she were being prepared for something. There was something going on that ran much, much dee
per than her having shown up at the courthouse for an interview one day and witnessing a shooting. Justice knew she was in over her head and had no idea how she’d gotten there.

  The deafeningly silent answer Giselle had given her probably shouldn’t have shocked her so much. Giselle was Knox’s “right hand.”

  Justice had already seen what Knox’s left hand could do.

  * * * * *

  72: LIVING IN A FISHEYE LENS

  “She cleans up nice,” Mr. Kenard commented, popping a handful of nuts into his mouth as Giselle put the finishing touches on Justice to go to the symphony the last night she would be with the Kenards.

  “Yeah, she does,” Giselle commented absently, fiddling with Justice’s hair and some very nice costume earrings. “Pretty sure Knox doesn’t want me buying you pearls and emeralds straight out of the gate,” she’d said earlier that day when they’d passed by Tivol.

  Justice didn’t say anything. After almost a week of trying on and buying tons of clothes and shoes, learning how to wear them and walk in them, how to hold her head and sit and cross her legs, how to apply makeup and fix her hair, Giselle had declared her a quick learner and said they’d go out.

  “You don’t really have a need for a formal evening gown,” Giselle had told her, “but every woman needs at least one—if only to make herself feel better. That, a semiformal dress, and a couple of cocktail dresses ought to be sufficient.

  “I’m not sure Knox would consider pants appropriate for the courtroom, so we’re only going to get a couple pairs. I think that pants in the courtroom diminish a woman’s power but then, Knox doesn’t like my leathers, so what do I know? If I had legs like yours, I wouldn’t hide them in pants. Okay, let’s go.”

  At the Lyric Theater, there was a good mix of people milling about in the lobby and gathering at their seats in various dress, from jeans and tee shirts to formal. She noted that the people in jeans sat way up in the back and the people in formal wear sat down in the front, center.

  Mr. Kenard had offered Justice his left arm and held hands with Giselle on his right. Justice garnered many looks that night, which made her anxious not because she was getting them, but because they were entirely different from the looks she’d always garnered. Men looked at her appreciatively and women looked at her resentfully. Giselle got the same attention, but seemed oblivious to it—as always.

  Then Mr. Kenard spoke to her, low. “Don’t let on that you see people looking at us. I’m a very ugly man with two very beautiful women, so people are going to stare. If you were here alone, they’d stare anyway. It’s just part of being a beautiful woman. You need to understand that you are one and get used to the attention. Stand up straight and walk like you own the world—because at this moment, you do.”

  “Does Giselle—?”

  “Oh, believe me, she knows exactly what’s going on. And she doesn’t care.”

  Justice wore a short-sleeved cheongsam made from an iridescent green silk that looked black when it lay a certain way. “It’s woven with two colors,” Giselle told her. “The warp is green; the weft is black. The silk itself has a sheen, so when it’s all put together, it shimmers.”

  It had black piping and frogs and stopped just below her knees and looked like it was a lot tighter than it really was. It fit well, emphasizing her long legs and what Giselle called her “hourglass figure.” Her copper hair emphasized the green sheen of her dress while the green sheen of her dress exaggerated her hair color and her freckles to outlandish proportions. Her hair was not specially dressed.

  “Your freckles dance and your curls bounce when you walk. It’s very dramatic.” Justice wasn’t a dramatic person, so she was uncomfortable with this and she still wasn’t happy about the freckles. Her legs were wrapped in almost-nude nylons and her feet were shod in black heels.

  “ . . . in until lights down.”

  “ . . . be so stupid. You see Fen anywhere?”

  “No.”

  “Are we done cleaning up his messes?”

  “Do we have to talk about this right now?”

  Justice only caught bits and pieces of Mr. and Mrs. Kenard’s low conversation, but it meant nothing to her.

  Mr. Kenard and Giselle took their seats, leaving Justice on the end, with one empty seat between her and the aisle. Once the lights dimmed and the emcee had begun to speak, she felt the seat next to her shift and depress. She looked up and gasped.

  “Justice,” Knox murmured as he inspected her from head to toe, but it was dark so she wasn’t sure how he could tell anything about anything. “I guess you’ll do.”

  Anger exploded in her chest and she sucked in an angry breath. She’d do?

  He smirked at her, then settled back in his seat to listen to the orchestra while she fumed. She couldn’t even enjoy it because of him—and she’d only had time during law school to go to one symphony concert.

  Gradually, though, she relaxed when Knox did nothing. He shifted every so often, but other than that, he didn’t talk to her, didn’t touch her except when they brushed at the arms a few times. Yet at the moment she’d decided to let her guard down and enjoy the rest of the program, his arm stretched across her shoulders and he began to play with her curls.

  She gasped and shot him a look, and he looked straight back with a calculating but endearing smile, daring her to say anything.

  Justice gulped and decided there were worse things than having one’s hair played with by a devastatingly handsome blond man in a black suit—and he never wore dark suits at work—at the symphony.

  Though she refused to look at him if she could help it, she did feel every twist of his fingers, every touch of his thumb brushing her ear.

  Gradually, she got used to the feeling of the warmth of his body next to hers, his hand in her hair, the occasional touch of his shoulder to hers, the feel of his thigh next to hers when he moved his long legs to a more comfortable position. She didn’t even get angry with herself for resting her elbow on the arm they shared and leaning (just a little) toward him. This—this was what she had fantasized about oh, so way back, when she was still a law student.

  Suddenly she felt fingers on her chin. Surprised, she looked at him and found herself caught in a kiss that took her breath away.

  Knox’s tongue swept into her mouth and she thought she was falling off a cliff. Her belly turned and churned. That empty spot between her legs was suddenly wet and she tingled all over.

  Who was this man beside her tonight? Was he the same man who’d calmly put the gun on the desk to let her know she wasn’t leaving? Was this the same man who’d not-so-forcibly nuzzled her in his office that day? Was this the same man who, except from that moment in time to now, had ignored her completely?

  The kiss went on and on, and Justice thought she might cry with the sheer beauty of it.

  Then he wasn’t there anymore.

  The lights came up to reveal an empty seat. She was left flushed, her mouth wet, her heart thundering in her chest, and bereft.

  Lost.

  Alone.

  She missed him. Inexplicably. She touched the cushion that was still warm and felt a tear slide down her cheek.

  * * * * *

  73: NOT YOUR DADDY’S SHOTGUN

  Justice walked into the courthouse Monday in one of her new outfits, turning every head as she went. She wondered if it was because she was pretty now, because they didn’t recognize her, or because she looked so different. She did not like all this attention, and she didn’t care what Mr. Kenard said.

  She tried to walk the way Giselle had taught her, with a slight swivel to her hips—not too much as it would be trashy and not too little because it wouldn’t be noticed. The high heels helped with that because she had to walk that way just to balance on the darned things.

  On the other hand, the leather shoulder holster complete with Glock under her left elbow, and the badge attached to her holster did take quite a bit of “gorgeous” edge off the outfit, for which she was grateful.


  Looking in the mirror that morning, with no Giselle there to fuss and pick over details, she had been struck nearly dumb with this new person who looked back at her from the glass. That girl—woman—was beautiful and that was one thing Justice had never been. Her father had looked at her in a way she didn’t understand, but left her vaguely uncomfortable.

  “I don’t know where you got the money for those clothes, Justice,” he said gruffly, “but you better not have gotten it from the farm account.”

  He didn’t really seem interested in the money, though, and she’d left as quickly as she could.

  The dress was almost straight, plain, lightly tailored; it had short sleeves and a square neckline that dipped a little too low for her comfort. The hem was too short in her estimation, but Giselle had assured her that, as it stopped only an inch or two above her knees, it was a proper length for court and, if pressed, could do double duty for a cocktail party if she didn’t have time to change.

  A harvest gold color, it nearly disappeared, giving her the illusion of nothing between her face and her feet. Her red-copper hair overwhelmed the color, but in turn, it made her freckles pop and her hazel eyes glimmer amber the way Giselle wanted them to. She still didn’t like deliberately emphasizing her freckles when she’d spent her entire life trying to fade them and hide them, but Giselle said it made her unique and memorable. It would make people focus above her neck, she said, which was a good thing to dress her body down and her face up.

  Her sandals matched her hair. It was just enough color to contrast, Giselle told her, but not too much.

  “The essence of pulling all this off,” Giselle said, “is knowing what’s just right. It’s subtle and very tricky. You’ll get better with practice.”

  So here Justice had arrived at the courthouse, hoping she wasn’t too much and wasn’t too little, trying to remember how to walk in high heels, thinking everyone would laugh at her, and desperately trying not to think about the scandalous (albeit lovely and sensuous) lingerie she wore underneath it all. Giselle had threatened to tell Knox to check her for cotton granny panties if she didn’t promise to wear her new things and Justice had no doubt she would follow through with that.