Friction by Sawyer Bennett
Finally, I pull out the requests for admissions. This is a method of discovery that a party can use to narrow down the issues by having the opposing party admit or deny certain statements. Normally you don't see them used by the defendants in a case, so I'm slightly surprised to have them in my hand, but again . . . not by any means something that would be personal or confidential.
I scan through the requests for admissions addressed to my client, Jenna LaPietra. They're ordinary . . . no surprises.
Admit your name is Jenna LaPietra.
Admit your age is twenty-three.
Admit you sought out Dr. Summerland for a breast-reduction surgery.
Admit you worked at Pure Fantasy as a topless dancer.
Yup . . . all benign, ordinary requests.
My eyes scan farther, seeing nothing that jumps out at me.
Until I get to request number eighteen.
18. Admit or deny that at the time of your employment as a dancer at Pure Fantasy, your job duties included taking off your clothing in exchange for payment of money.
Okay, that's a bit inflammatory, but still within the bounds of a reasonable request, because we certainly aren't hiding what she did for a living. It might not be considered the most respectable of professions, but damn it, she worked a steady job to provide for her family. No shame there.
I read the next one.
19. Admit or deny that at the time of your employment as a dancer at Pure Fantasy, you solicited and performed sexual acts on the customers in exchange for money.
What. The. Fuck?
I read the request one more time, and yup . . . they're basically asking Jenna if she was prostituting herself.
My blood pressure rises and my head feels like it's going to explode. I read through the rest of the requests, and there are no other questions that are inappropriate. Just this one.
I push the documents aside and turn to my computer, intent to pull up the contact information for Reeve Holloway so I can call him and give him a piece of my mind. But before my fingers can even touch the keyboard, a thought crosses my mind.
This was not a long list of inappropriate questions. All of the questions seemed well within the normal boundaries of what I'd expect. All except request number nineteen.
Which makes the hairs rise up on the back of my head.
If Reeve was trying to goad me, he would have sent me a slew of crazy questions. Instead, he only asked one, and he placed it in a chronologically appropriate place with the other requests asking about her work at Pure Fantasy.
Which means that he must have some type of information to lead him to believe that Jenna was selling herself in addition to just dancing topless.
Fuck!
I quickly dial Jenna's number, needing to put this issue to rest as quickly as possible. I pray to God she tells me that it's not true, because if it is, that's going to throw a big fucking monkey wrench into her case.
She doesn't answer and I leave her a voice mail, asking her to call me immediately.
Drumming my fingers on my desk, my mind starts working on overdrive. How will I handle this if it's true? Can I do a pretrial motion to keep the information out? Is it even relevant? That will definitely call for more legal research.
My eyes drift over my desk, lost in thought over this conundrum, and come to rest on the white envelope and smaller box I'd pushed aside.
Reaching out, I decide to open the box first, because I love to get to the surprise. I peel the paper back efficiently and lift the top off a small black box.
Inside, nestled in deep-purple tissue paper, is a pair of black silk stockings. Picking them up, I see that they're almost identical to the ones I had on last week when I chose to show Reeve my partial goods. Sheerest of silk with a two-inch band of black lace around the tops. The only difference is that these don't have little red bows on them. My finger and thumb rub the soft material for a moment, then I set them down.
Picking up the white envelope, I break the seal and pull out a note card with blue-ink handwriting on one side. The message is simple:
Leary,
Stockings to replace the ones you ruined last week and to take the sting out of request number nineteen. It's a legitimate question . . . check it out.
Reeve
P.S. Are you wearing black lace right now?
I read the note one more time, not sure how to feel. Reeve couldn't have been clearer. He believes Jenna might have been involved in some criminal activity as part of her job at Pure Fantasy. He's warning me loud and clear.
The silk lingerie is a different matter. He sent those stockings to remind me that there's a sexual tension now existing between us. And his postscript? He's telling me that he wants to continue our sexual byplay.
Everything about this note and gift is wrong, according to normal standards. He's crossing personal boundaries and his gift is completely unethical. His postscript highly unprofessional.
But I'm not normal, and fuck . . . it turns me on.
CHAPTER 4
REEVE
The phone on my desk rings and I hit the speaker button. "Talk to me."
"Mr. Holloway, you have a visitor down here in the lobby," our receptionist says in a low tone. "She's not on your appointment calendar."
I glance down at my watch. The package was delivered to Leary about an hour ago, so she's right on time.
I can't help the grin that forms on my face.
"Let me guess," I say casually. "Leary Michaels from Knight & Payne."
"Yes, sir," she says smoothly.
"Sign her in and send her to my office."
Disconnecting the call, I lean back in my chair and take a deep breath, my eyes pinned on my door. Leary will be walking through it any moment, and I suspect she will be either very pissed off or very turned on--perhaps both.
Even with what little I know about her, I'm going to guess both.
That, of course, is an easy guess. I've already proven that I have an uncanny ability to piss her off. And our little interlude in the courthouse hallway? Yeah . . . she was fucking turned on when I slid my finger along the edges of her panties.
I know that I'm playing with fire. Any sane, rational female attorney would have taken the stockings and note card and made a direct complaint to the North Carolina State Bar about my behavior.
I'm taking a bit of a gamble with Leary. I don't figure her for the type to cry to the teacher when her pigtails get pulled at recess. No, I expect she's the type who'd throw a right hook back, and the mere fact that she's here--in person at my office--well, that leads me to believe I've got her pegged.
She's not going to report me.
Leary doesn't even bother to knock on my closed office door. She merely opens it and strides right in as if she owns the place, not even bothering to shut it behind her.
Looking magnificent in a formfitting black shirtdress with black tights, knee-high tan boots, and a scarf around her neck in taupe, orange, and black, she comes off with polished sophistication. Her hair is loose, cut in long layers of chocolate silk that frame her shoulders and pour down her back.
And those soft brown eyes, looking almost bronze from the afternoon sun pouring in from my office window.
I'm a sucker for eyes.
"This is a pleasant surprise," I say cordially and motion with my hand for her to take a seat.
She smiles at me nicely enough but ignores my invitation, instead walking beside my desk right up to my office window. It's floor-to-ceiling tinted glass that overlooks the capitol building. If I lean all the way back and to the right in my chair, I can see the top of the Watts Building, where she works just a few blocks over.
Crossing her arms over her chest, she gazes out with an almost serene look on her face. I swivel my chair forty-five degrees so I face her, but I don't say a word, waiting for her to make the first move in this metaphorical chess game we seem to be playing with each other.
"Jenna wasn't prostituting herself at Pure Fantasy," she says in
"So just deny the request," I reply matter-of-factly.
"I will," she says, uncrossing her arms and flicking an impatient hand at me as she turns her body toward mine. "But I want to know why you asked. That wasn't a shot in the dark. You had some reason to ask it."
We lock eyes for a moment, then I let my gaze casually travel down her body. She's built like a damn swimsuit model, dressed in expensive designer clothing, but I can tell she'd look fantastic in burlap.
Or just those silk stockings I bought her.
"You know I can't divulge that," I tell her. "It's attorney work product."
"Cut the shit, Holloway," she snaps as she narrows her eyes at me. "You know I can find out with a few craftily questioned interrogatories of my own. Why not throw me some professional courtesy and tell me?"
My eyebrows raise at her, because I hear more than just irritation in her voice. I hear something close to sadness. Something about this case, maybe this question in particular, is very personal to her. I find this intriguing, and I also know that I can potentially use this as a weapon at some point down the road.
Resting my elbows on my armrests, I steeple my fingers in front of my face and give her a calculating look. "I'll tell you for an exchange of information. Tell me why this particular question has you wigged out so much. You could easily deny it, and if your client truly hasn't committed any crime, you have nothing to worry about. So tell me what I want to know, and I'll tell you what you want to know."
The corner of Leary's lip turns up in what I'm thinking might be a sneer, but before she fully engages, she turns away from the window and heads toward the door. "Sorry . . . I don't negotiate."
Whoa, what the fuck?
I lunge from my chair and snag her wrist, stopping her before she can even make it past the edge of my desk. Her skin is soft under my hand, and she smells fucking fantastic. If it weren't for the glare that she's shooting me right now, I'd consider kissing the answer out of her.
Instead, I surprise myself by giving her exactly what she wants without the expectation of anything in return. "I ran a criminal background check on the owner of the club. He's been busted twice before for whoring his girls out. This was during the time your client worked there."
"That doesn't mean she was prostituting herself," Leary asserts.
"No, it doesn't," I acquiesce, stroking the inside of her wrist with my thumb. Leary still wears irritation all over her face, but her body relaxes slightly. "But based on what I found, you know that it was a legitimate question."
"It was dirty," she seethes.
"Probing," I counter.
"Slick."
"Wait a minute, are we still talking about the question or something else here?" I murmur, tugging on her wrist and pulling her in just a tad closer to me.
I'm stunned when Leary's cheeks turn pink and she lowers her eyes coyly. I didn't think this woman had a shy bone in her body, but I'm enjoying the power I'm obviously wielding over her.
"I can't believe a little double entendre has you blushing," I taunt, rubbing my finger over her wrist. A tiny gasp escapes her lips, and her eyes raise up to mine filled with confusion and desire.
I find it incredibly difficult to get one up on this woman, and just moments ago, she had me rolling over and spilling my guts to her. This moment now . . . where I have her flustered?
Feels fucking awesome and causes my cock to harden.
Leary takes in a stuttering breath, nibbles on her lower lip.
My cock goes harder yet.
"I can't tell if you're baiting me or you're truly attracted to me. I find it confusing," she whispers, and for a moment, I'm confused myself. This hesitant, almost shy side to Leary is at odds with the woman who stripped in front of me in the elevator.
I'm not sure I like it.
"But," she says with more confidence in her voice, stepping in closer to me until mere inches separate our bodies, "there's only one sure way to find out."
Then she drops her free hand down and cups me between my legs. Her fingers immediately grasp and curl around my erection, squeezing me tight and even giving a firm stroke up my shaft. My eyes close, my head tilts back, and I can't stop the groan that comes out of my mouth.
Just like that, she's back in control.
Just like that, I realize her shyness was nothing but a fucking act.
"Mmm," Leary purrs. "Very nice. I'd have to say you're definitely attracted to me."
A brief thought runs through my head: my office door is open, and anyone could walk by and see what we're doing. But for the life of me, I can't seem to care enough to stop whatever this is.
Instead, I cover her hand with my own and urge her fingers to grip me harder as I push my hips forward to create more friction. If her hand feels this good, I can't imagine what her mouth would feel like.
"I can't believe you'd even have any doubt I was attracted to you," I tell her gruffly.
She laughs, deep and husky, and no doubt she feels me swell even larger in her hand. "I never doubted it. I just wanted an excuse to see what you were packing down below."
Pressing up on her tiptoes, she leans toward me and nips my chin with her teeth. Then she's pulling away from me, those sweet fingers letting my dick go, and I almost grab her back to me.
"Well, this has been enlightening," she says as she turns away and walks toward the door. When she gets to it, she turns to me as an afterthought. "And thank you for the stockings. They're lovely."
"And might I be seeing them on you sometime?" I ask as I reach down and adjust myself.
Her eyes follow my hand and she smirks. "Now that would just be a bit unethical, don't you think?"
"You just had your hand on my dick," I point out courteously. "I think we crossed that line already."
Shooting me a grin, she doesn't respond but turns back toward the door.
"Wait," I call out, and she turns once again, an amused look on her face. "Let me take you out to dinner tonight."
"Can't," she says simply. "I have plans."
"A date?"
"Possibly," she says with an impish grin. "But not really any of your business."
In three long strides, I'm across my office floor and my hand is circling the front of her neck. I grip her hard enough to get her attention and reel her in closer to me. I can tell she's been enjoying our banter, and I can also tell she enjoys when my alpha tendencies take over, as evidenced by the way her eyes flare hot.
Leaning in, I place my lips along her jaw, skim them lightly to her ear. "It's irrelevant to me if you have a date tonight. I'm only interested if when you go to bed, you'll be thinking of your date or my cock. Maybe you'll call me tomorrow and tell me."
I release my hold on Leary, relishing the uncertainty in her eyes. If she expected me to get jealous over a potential date, she can put that right out of her beautiful head. It's not that I don't have the power to get jealous, it's that I don't like being goaded into it.
Confident I've had the last word and this conversation is ending with me having the upper hand, I turn from Leary and head back toward my desk.
"Is there anything else we need to discuss about this case?" I ask as I grasp the back of my chair and swivel it around to me.
I'm met with silence, and when I look back toward the door, she's gone.
Pulling out my phone, I send a quick text to my buddy Ford. Heading out early. Want to get a beer?
We met last year playing in a rugby league together and since then have become pretty tight. He works at Knight & Payne as well . . . is a partner, actually, so maybe I can get some personal scoop on the beautiful Miss Leary Michaels. Their firm is gigantic, so he might not even know her all that well, but I figure it doesn't hurt to ask. Maybe he'll help me get a better grip on what I'm dealing with.
I drain the rest of my beer, pushing the empty glass toward the edge of the bar just as I see Ford walk into Carter's, a local hangout just across the street from the courthouse, where most of
After stopping for handshakes, back slaps, and one woman who caresses Ford's chest when he leans over to kiss her cheek, he finally makes his way over to me. After he's perched on the stool next to me, he waves at the bartender and points to my glass, then holds up two fingers, effectively ordering the next round.
"So what's up, man?" he asks casually. "I think sign-ups for the rugby league are starting next week. You in?"
"Definitely in," I tell him. "Nothing like getting your ass pounded into the ground to make you appreciate the day job, right?"
Ford laughs and reaches for the beer the bartender just set down in front of us.
"Put it on my tab," I tell the bartender, who nods and saunters off.
"Working on any good cases?" I ask Ford as I snag a few peanuts from the bowl before me.
"Same old shit, different day," he says unenthusiastically. I've noticed a certain lack of excitement over his career lately, and I wonder if he's getting burned out. He's been practicing for fifteen years, and litigation is a tough business. The stress factor is extremely high.
"What about you?" he asks.
"Actually, I wanted to get some scoop from you on one of your associate attorneys. I have a case against her, and she's been a little difficult to deal with so far."
"I don't know all the associates, but I'll try," he says, grabbing some peanuts for himself.
"Her name is Leary Michaels. It's a medical malpractice case we have together that we just started."
"Fuck," Ford groans and then leans forward to bang his head lightly against the wooden bar. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
"What?" When Ford sits back up straight, he pins me with a death glare.
"You're defending the LaPietra case?" he practically snarls.
"Yeah," I say with some hesitation. "And I'm sensing this pisses you off for some reason, but fuck if I know why."
Leaning toward me, he growls, "Maybe because you had your hand up Leary's skirt at the courthouse the other day."
I rear back, completely astounded that Ford knows this.
And then it immediately stands to reason in my mind that he knows this because Leary told him.