by Piper Rayne
“Stop looking like I just told you Reed has a secret wife. I’m not going to sell my body, Victoria.” I google Roarke Baldwin, bastard-at-law and scribble his phone number down, sliding the note to Victoria. “Here. Call over and say I need to have a word with the snake.”
“I don’t like this. I’m just saying,” she says before rising from her chair.
There’s no sense responding because there’s nothing else to say.
Through the frosted glass, I watch her movements. She picks up the phone and I hear the murmur of her voice as she talks, but she hangs up before sending a call through to me.
He’s probably in court screwing someone else over.
My throat contracts when she rises from her desk. I can’t remember the last time I was nervous and it only makes my resentment for Mr. Baldwin grow.
She enters my office and places a colored sticky note on my desk. “He told his assistant you’re to use his cell phone only. The office phone is for clients and you’re not a client.”
I crinkle the piece of paper, balling it in my fist.
“What a son of a bitch!” I throw the coral piece of paper across the room.
“I don’t like this. I think we should reschedule the gala.”
I slide my chair out, press my palms on the edge of my desk and push up, heading over to retrieve the note I just flung. “No. Mr. Baldwin wants to play, I can fucking play. The most arrogant predators always underestimate their prey. Roarke Baldwin is the biggest pompous ass I’ve ever met, and I guarantee he underestimates every woman he comes into contact with, including me.”
“You’re kind of scary right now,” Victoria says, backing away from the desk. “Can I leave the door open a sliver so I can eavesdrop?” She grins.
I laugh and shoo her out of the office with my hand. Chelsea must arrive because a moment later I spot two shadows with their ears pressed against my door.
Chapter Five
I press the numbers on my phone with shaky fingers, bringing the receiver up to my ear and release a deep breath.
He picks up after one ring. “I thought we were friends? Having your assistant call my assistant. Tsk. Tsk, Ms. Crowley.”
Aggravation fuses together every cell in my body until I become an impenetrable wall.
“First, we are not friends. Second, I would prefer to talk to you via our office phones.”
There’s a brief second of silence where he’s probably realizing I called him through my office line.
“Ahh… so now you have my number and I don’t have yours? That seems terribly unfair.”
“I didn’t realize you cared about fairness?” I lean back in my chair and cross my legs.
“You don’t know that much about me. It’s not like you know me intimately.” He lowers his voice on the last word and drags it out.
I roll my eyes, happy we’re not face-to-face so he can’t see the flush in my cheeks.
“You may have witnessed how I own the courtroom, but you know nothing about my private life. For instance, you don’t know if I like thrillers or comedies. Whether I prefer sorbet to ice cream or if I wear boxers or briefs.”
“I don’t need to know those things,” I say with frustration, shutting my eyes to rid the vision from my head of him in tight black boxer briefs—since that’s my preference.
“You want to know though.” A sexual innuendo pours out of his mouth and hits its mark between my thighs.
“There you go making assumptions about my wants.” I pick up my pen, shuffling through paperwork. Anything to distract me from this ache.
“I not only know what you want, I know what you need, Ms. Crowley.”
I smack my hand down on my desk. “Okay Rico Suave, let’s talk about this venue you have access to and keep the discussion of undergarments for another time.”
A beeping sound interrupts us.
“Hold all my calls please, Kristen.” Then nothing for a moment. “Sorry about that but you know how busy I am.”
“Yes, I’m sure destroying people’s lives takes a lot of time. So let’s stop the sexual innuendos and get down to business.”
“Let’s meet tonight. You frequent Torrio’s. I frequent Torrio’s. Let’s do something crazy and have a drink together.”
“I don’t need a drink at Torrio’s, Mr. Baldwin, I need a venue to house my gala. Now tell me your terms and I want the details of this venue you insist you can secure. I refuse to meet you until you supply me with that information.” I uncross my legs and tap my foot on the floor under me.
“So demanding. I like it.” I can hear him shuffling papers in the background. “I’ll have my assistant message your assistant with all the details of the venue. I’m sure it will be of your liking. Then we’ll meet tonight at Torrio’s. Seven sharp. Consider it our own personal happy hour.”
“I’m not committing to anything until I see the venue.”
“Then I’ll see you at seven.” The phone clicks and I stare at the receiver in my hand.
“Prick,” I murmur.
A knock sounds on my door.
“Just come in.”
The two women practically fall through the door.
“Nice to know there’s no such thing as privacy in this office,” I say, tossing my pen down on my desk.
“We only heard bits and pieces.” Victoria walks in with a muffin in her hand.
“Give us some credit. At least we didn’t hide in my office and try to connect to the line.”
Chelsea seems much happier today as she sits down in the chair. No red eyes or blotchy skin, her smile wide and bright.
“You’re happy today,” I remark.
Her smile grows wider.
“Oh let me guess, Dean made use of those uncontrollable hormones last night,” I say with a chuckle.
She shrugs, her eyes flitting up behind her eyelids.
“Good for you.”
“Wait until you’re five months along. That smile might as well be sewn on your lips.” Victoria waggles her eyebrows and places the muffin on my desk.
“Tell the bakery to stop sending samples. My God, do they want my ass to be the size of Lake Michigan?” I push it away, my attitude having a lot to do with the bastard I just hung up with.
“I’ll tell them.” Victoria’s abrupt removal of the muffin says I’m being a bitch. I reach out for the delicious looking treat. “It’s fine really. Sorry. That man just makes me crazy.”
“Let me take it back. I think they think since we’re an office of women we want to give all the items a go.”
Chelsea throws her hands in the air. “Don’t go telling them to stop. Hello!” She points to her stomach. “I can eat whatever I want for the next seven months with zero guilt.”
Victoria hands the muffin to Chelsea who happily takes a big bite, crumbs falling to her lap.
“So, we’re all going to Torrio’s tonight?” Chelsea asks with a mouthful of muffin.
“No. I am. Mr. Baldwin’s assistant will be sending you the information on the venue, Vic. Let me know as soon as you get it.”
“You’re going to have a drink with him?” Chelsea asks, her gaze meeting Victoria’s. “Under those dim lights that promise roaming hands and sneaking kisses?”
“No Chelsea. I’m going to Torrio’s, where more business transactions happen than hook-ups. Where our usual waiter, Lincoln, will serve me and Mr. Baldwin. We’ll negotiate an agreement I find reasonable and then I will leave. Alone.”
Chelsea stands, dropping the muffin wrapper into my trashcan.
“Sure. Okay. Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.” She waves her hand in the air. “Catch you on the flip side when you’re all hot and bothered and sexually unfulfilled wishing your dildo was the real thing.”
I sit at my desk with my mouth ajar.
“It’s the hormones. They make you crazy.” Victoria sticks up for her friend.
I’m not upset though. What she just did is the reason I hired her. She calls people out on
their bullshit and right now I know I’m full of shit. Tonight I’m going to wear a pants suit just to protect myself. I’ll never admit that what she just said is my worst fear and could be my fate come dawn.
“Let me know when you receive the information on the venue.”
“Sure thing.” Victoria steps out of the office glancing down the hall, probably to make sure Chelsea is at her desk and not ready to mouth back to me with some more unwelcome truths.
Chapter Six
“Thank you, Bernie.”
I step into the speakeasy whose membership has been in my family for generations. If only they didn’t let assholes like Roarke in here, it’d be the perfect, serene wind down place for me to come after the office.
“My pleasure, Ms. Crowley.”
I nod and head into the bar filled with seventy percent males. I’d love it if they attracted more professional women here. It’s ridiculous how much of a boy’s club it still is.
My gaze sweeps over the room, looking for the king of the good ol’ boys, and I find him immediately. He can’t be missed. While other men have loosened their ties and abandoned their jackets, Roarke looks like he just started his day in a three-piece suit that fits to perfection, not a piece of his salt and pepper hair out of place. Other men’s postures are relaxed in the booths or chairs with their arms loose and legs open, laughing and smiling with the others, but Roarke sits in the booth facing the door with a straight back and his eyes on me.
I don’t get a wave, but his gaze locks with mine. No condescending smile plays on his lips, but I don’t get a welcoming smile either. I feel like I was transported back into that courtroom when he’d give me a fleeting look before whispering to Todd.
This has to be the lowest thing I’ve ever done. Negotiating myself in exchange for a venue. What the hell is wrong with me?
I step down the two stairs and break the distance between us. Smiling at a few familiar faces, I delay my impending doom.
He slides out of the booth, standing at the edge of the table, waiting to greet me. Such a noble prince. Not.
“Nice to see you, Ms. Crowley.”
“I can’t say the same, Mr. Baldwin.” I slide down into my usual booth with the girls, except I’m on Chelsea’s side this time.
Thankfully, Lincoln is as attentive as he always is. “Vesper?” he asks, putting a napkin down in front of me.
“Not tonight. How about scotch on the rocks.”
He nods and heads back to the bar.
“Scotch?” Roarke questions, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline.
“Yes. I know you probably think I’m a margarita or a daiquiri girl. Sorry to disappoint you.”
He chuckles lightly to himself, bringing the glass to his lips. “You never disappoint.”
I roll my eyes.
“Let’s just cut the bullshit, shall we?” I place my entwined hands on the table.
He sets his drink down, trying like a champ to hold back his smile.
“Bullshit?” he asks.
My anxiety ticks up a level with his one-word questions to everything I say. Is this the lawyer in him?
“Yes, you’re using the leverage of a venue to reap something from me. I’m not for sale, Mr. Baldwin. I’m here because the venue will work and if you can deliver like you say you can, I’m more than willing to negotiate terms.” I lean forward so he won’t miss a word of the next part. “But let me be clear, I will not be naked and strapped to your bedpost.”
Lincoln’s hand rattles as he sets my drink down, resulting in it tipping and spilling all over the table.
“I’m so sorry.” Lincoln grabs the napkin, but the three by three square isn’t enough to sop up the mess so he races off to the bar.
“Look what you’ve done. You got Lincoln all excited about the possibilities.” Roarke takes his own napkin and stops the rush of liquid before it soaks my lap.
Lincoln runs back with a rag. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Crowley. That’s never happened to me before.”
“It’s okay, Lincoln,” I say.
“I’ll go get you another drink.”
“Thanks for saving my pants,” I begrudgingly say to the man across from me.
“I’d hate to give you an excuse to cut this meeting short.”
Before I can respond, Lincoln delivers a fresh drink from the bar. “Here you are, Ms. Crowley. Again, I’m sorry.”
He’s newer and efficient, although I’m sure they hired him as eye candy for the few women who belong. Too young for me, but the tattoos that peek out of his white linen shirt intrigue me nonetheless.
“Hannah, please and it’s fine.” I smile up at him.
Roarke’s eyes widen. “He can call you Hannah?”
“Yes.” I nod.
Lincoln glances to Roarke. “Another, sir?”
Roarke shakes his head in a dismissive gesture and Lincoln heads to the next table.
“Back to what you were saying about bedposts and ties… Let’s get one thing straight. I would never ask that of you because when I finally have you, Ms. Crowley…” He says my name with maple syrup coated sarcasm. “I won’t need to tie you down to keep you there. You’ll want it.”
I roll my eyes, letting the scotch burn my throat as I take a healthy sip of my drink.
“You’re pretty presumptuous. And if you want me as you say, you went about winning me over the wrong way. I’m not some young girl who’s going to fall on my knees for you.”
“Dare I say there’ll come a time when you will drop to your knees in front of me.” When I spear him with a disgusted look, he chuckles. “Why do you think you intrigue me?”
“You know everything about me. You know how much money sits in my bank accounts. How many properties I have. I’m simply an opportunity to you Mr. Baldwin. If you want me, it’s strictly because of what I can offer you financially and socially.”
He rests his weight on his arms, leaning over the table toward me. The scent of his expensive cologne permeates my senses and I have to will myself not to show him any weakness by leaning back in my seat.
“There you go again, making assumptions.” His finger slides out and runs over the top of my hand. “I’m not Todd. I don’t want a cent from you. When I told you it was you I wanted, that was it. Nothing else. But I would never force that on you either. The choice is yours.”
I push back the burning arousal from his confession. If he’s telling the truth, it sets him apart. No one has ever just wanted me. Including a lot of my friends. There was always some club or designer they wanted me to pull strings for. I have no doubt Roarke is playing me. You’re not raised with the Crowley last name and end up just skipping along the yellow brick road not thinking your next enemy couldn’t be someone you call a friend.
“Enough of this back and forth,” I snip. “What are you proposing?”
He leans back and I move my hands to my lap. His gaze follows and then floats up to my face after pausing briefly at my breasts.
His own hand disappears beneath the table and reappears with a manila folder.
Lawyers.
“What, are you going to make me sign a contract?”
“Look how well you already know me.” He grins.
“Seriously?” My gaze flies to the papers he pulls from the folder. “I can guarantee you my word is enough.”
“In my line of work, someone’s word is never enough. People forget. There are misunderstandings, miscommunications. This way our agreement is in black and white with no room for misinterpretation.”
I lean forward, my hands reaching for the contract but he retracts it. I slink back into the booth. “Let me guess if I don’t fulfill my end there’s a monetary fine for me to pay.”
“Tsk. Tsk. Ms. Crowley, stop making assumptions.” He reaches into his jacket, pulling out a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses, he positions them on his face and reaches in his pocket again for a pen.
I hate to admit it, but the few times I saw him wearing those glasses in cour
t or during discovery, I couldn’t help noticing how much it upped his hotness factor. A pair of glasses should not make a man even sexier.
“Maybe we should have had this meeting at your office with it all being so by the book.” I give him a caustic smile across the table.
“I debated that,” he says flipping through the papers and not looking up at me. “But the desire to bend you over my desk would’ve been too strong.” He looks up from the papers and winks.
A sudden bolt of lightning electrifies me from head to toe and every hair on my body stands on end. Bastard.
“That’s never going to happen,” I say.
“Still making assumptions I see.” He sets the pen down, taking off his glasses and letting his gaze fall over me. “I rarely fail to get what I want.”
“Cut the Fifty Shades bullshit.” I seize the contract, the pen tumbling down off the papers and landing on the table. “My lawyers will have a look at this.”
“Your lawyers aren’t going to see this contract. I assure you, it’s favorable for both sides.” He sits back, giving me time to read it over.
“What are you going to sit here the entire time?” I ask.
“I’d like nothing better than to spend the night with you. I’d prefer other alternatives, but I’ll take what you’re offering.” I stare at him for longer than I should. He has me at a disadvantage—his true intentions are foggy to me now.
“Then get comfortable.”
He raises his hand, and Lincoln rushes over. “Another please,” he shakes his glass.
“Ms. Crowley?” Lincoln asks.
“Hannah,” I remind him. “And no, I’m good.”
Roarke’s jaw ticks while Lincoln walks away.
“You’ll find there’s nothing out of the ordinary. No sexual favors. No exchange of money. It’s a straight deal. I secure you the venue and you grant me five favors.”