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Her nostrils flared, but she didn't say anything.

  I dropped back down into my seat and gestured to the door. “I don’t think any of the partners are free, but you’re welcome to leave a message for them. They have pretty tight schedules, but they might be able to get in touch with you in the next couple of weeks.” I paused, then added, “Feel free to mention how you offered to go a little easier on my client, Dukowsy, if I’d share a cock...tail or two with you.” I made sure to phrase it just as she had, smiling as her face went red again. “You remember that?”

  Behind her, out in the hallway, there was a series of low, heated whispers. Bethany’s mouth tightened, and I knew she'd finally heard them.

  I nodded at the door. “The partners get pretty busy, but I think one of the administrative assistants could take a message. Just pick one, but I wouldn’t recommend offering any them that cocktail thing.”

  She stormed out and the audience scattered in front of her.

  ***

  “I understand you had a run in with one of the DAs.” Sheldon stood in the office doorway, smoothing down his tie, and not bothering to hide his smile. “My administrative assistant told me that she didn’t think I had any time open this week, but I might be able to speak with her the middle of next week.”

  Leaning back in my chair, I studied the benign smile on his face. It was going to be interesting to see how this played out.

  He arched an eyebrow and busied himself with a thorough study of his nails, the gesture so similar to Bethany's that I almost smiled.

  “She also said that while I might enjoy the occasional scotch, I might wish to decline any invitation to a...cocktail.”

  I smothered a laugh behind a poorly disguised cough.

  “Well, sir.” I cleared my throat. “That would be up to you entirely. But it might be wise to decline.”

  “Yes, I believe it might.” He pursed his lips and studied me. “While my wife might be a few years her senior, I suspect we’d be defending her if she ever got wind of any such an invite from Ms. McDermott.”

  I felt my lips twitch in a partial smile. “I take it that Ms. McDermott is known to like a...drink from time to time.”

  Sheldon gave me a cagey grin. “You didn't hear it from me.” He rubbed at his chin and gave a thoughtful nod. “I’ll have to be the one to talk to her, of course. She’s...well, she likes to stir the pot, and I’m most suited to handling her. You did mention it might take a week for me to get back to her? Do you think I’ll be free that soon?”

  Recognizing the amusement in his eyes, I studied the calendar on my desk and then gave him a look. “Well, it seems to me you’ve got enough work to keep you busy until hell freezes over. But you know it’s always a good idea to at least pretend to play nice with the DA’s office.”

  Sheldon snorted.

  “It may be. It may well be.” He shook his head and then turned to go. “I’ll probably try to work it in before the end of the week. Just to maintain my sanity. A phone call, that’s about all I can manage. She’s already left two messages for me and called my assistant twice.”

  Leaning back in my chair, I gave Sheldon a level look. “Do I owe you an apology?”

  “Is she acting in a manner that seemed unethical to you?” He’d almost made it back to the door, but now he turned and studied me, eyes thoughtful. “Do you think you had justification in requesting to have her removed from the case?”

  “Absolutely.” Shrugging, I looked away from him to study the drab panoramic of the New York City skyline that had been used to decorate my office. “Can I handle it? Of course.”

  “Why don’t you give me the run-down, and assume I’m smart enough to figure out the real answer?” Sheldon sighed.

  Blowing out a breath, I nodded, and then gave him a quick, concise summary of everything that had taken place, not just about the Mance case, but between Bethany and me from the first time we met.

  When I was done, the question Sheldon had for me caught me off-guard.

  “Why did you go into defense instead of prosecution? It seems to me you're very much interested in having people adhere to the letter of the law.”

  “It’s not just about the letter of the law. It’s about the spirit of the law and doing what’s right.” I kept my fingers spread wide on the desk, even though in my mind, I was thinking about how often I’d been expected to compromise doing what was right. It'd been one of the reasons I decided to leave Chicago, truth be told. I’d never compromised the rules, but I’d been pushed. I wasn’t going to do it here either.

  “Well, that just makes your response to my question that much more important. You're not so naïve as to believe that all of the people we defend are innocent.” Sheldon folded his arms around me and focused intense eyes on me. “So, why?”

  “Because everybody is entitled to a defense.” I lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “And I believe in the importance of a working system of checks and balances. There are layers to that answer, of course. Like, is a woman who's been abused her entire life until she snaps and kills her husband as guilty of murder as the man who walks into a convenience store and kills the cashier for whatever was in the register?” I paused a moment, eyeing Sheldon. He made a gesture for me to continue. “And the woman who kills the man who raped her child, doesn’t she deserve more leniency, even perhaps a walk, when you compare her to the eighteen-year-old kid who decided he was going to bash in his girlfriend’s skull because he found out she was cheating on him?”

  A sad smile twisted Sheldon’s face. “I had a feeling I was going to like you, Porter. We need balance in this practice. A couple of the partners are absolutely in it for the same reason you are. I’m one of them. A couple are very much focused on the bottom dollar. Some are in it because they believe in the letter of the law. It's good to have a balance.”

  He turned and took a step back into the office, his expression growing more serious than I'd seen it before.

  “Now, about Ms. McDermott. I had a pro bono case where she was the prosecuting attorney. She was still new, hadn’t quite had all the shine knocked off of her. But she was hungry, even then. My client wasn’t guilty. Solid evidence proving his innocence came up during our investigation. Even the cops admitted that if they’d been aware, they would have focused much harder on somebody else. We eventually managed to have the guilty verdict reversed on appeal, but I'd known in my gut when I talked to him that he hadn’t done anything. There are times when you just know, isn’t that right, Porter?”

  I just held his eyes. Waiting.

  “But the key evidence that would have proved our case went missing the day before I would've presented my argument. He was found guilty. That case would've haunted me my entire life if we hadn’t had a successful appeal. Even now, I think about him and the year he lost while we waited to go back to court. And then I think about the smug look she had on her face when that crucial bit of evidence was lost. Nobody can prove anything, but I still had that funny feeling.”

  Shit. I hadn't thought she'd go that far. There was a big difference between bending the rules a bit and breaking the damn things.

  He stood and started for the door. “If she wants to talk to me or have her boss make a call, that’s fine by me. But all she can do is blow hot air. I’m not worried about her. Your nose is clean, and so is your work. You don’t need to worry about that, because I checked you out before I even extended you the job offer.”

  Before he left, he added one more thing.

  “Watch your back with her, Arik. And take care of Ms. Mance. She’s one of those who'll haunt you if she’s found guilty. I can promise you that.”

  ***

  It was past eight by the time I let myself into my condo.

  The place was small and sparse, nothing to make it home. Not now, and not six months from now. It had absolutely no personality at all, but it didn’t bother me because I wasn’t planning on staying here. Sooner or later, I’d find a place that appealed to me. The cold, icy condo with its profe
ssionally outfitted rooms had been available when I needed it, and that was why I'd taken it.

  I didn’t intend to buy anything permanent in a rush. When I did find a home in New York City, it would be a real home. Something I hadn't had since my dad passed five years back.

  One thing this place did have going for it, however, was the balcony. After I poured myself a drink, I took that and the Chinese takeout I'd picked up, and headed outside.

  I'd brought home notes and reports, but I didn’t bring any of them onto the balcony with me. I needed a little bit of time away from my cases, away from the chaos and the rush.

  I just needed to clear my head and relax.

  I managed to clear my head...for all about five seconds, and then Dena was there.

  Thoughts of her had been lurking ever since she’d walked out of that hotel room. Staring out over the multi-hued lights of the New York City skyline, I wondered if she was at Club Privé right now. I wondered if she was looking for me. If she’d make that same raw moan when another man made her come.

  She hadn’t been there when I’d gone the other night.

  A sub had approached me, all cool elegance and demure sensuality, but the subtle sheen of confidence had faded once we'd gone inside one of the private rooms. I’d almost turned around and walked out. Unfortunately for me, I’d recognized the look in her eyes, in the way she'd bit her lip and hadn't been able to meet my eyes.

  She reminded me of somebody who’d been kicked too many times, and one more blow would end her.

  I wasn’t into this lifestyle to be anybody’s therapist, but that didn't mean I shouldn't have paid more attention.

  We hadn’t had sex.

  I had bound her, making the restraints tighter than I usually did. I'd spanked her, taking her into the subspace, that blissful zone where she'd found something more than release.

  When she'd come back down and I freed her, she'd crawled to me, rubbed her cheek against my thigh. I’d felt nothing.

  She hadn’t done anything wrong really, but there was just nothing there. I’d left her alone in the room after stroking her hair for a few minutes so she'd known I wasn’t mad at her.

  Dena hadn’t been there when I left either, and I'd been glad for it.

  I thought about going back to the club again, but if I didn’t see her, I didn't know if I’d be stupid like I had been before, or smart enough to just have a drink and leave.

  Brooding into my scotch, the takeout growing cold on the table next to me, I let my thoughts drift back to that one amazing night.

  I should've gotten her phone number.

  Screw the fact that it went against my rules.

  I should have gotten her phone number.

  I’d woken up thinking of her this morning, my hand wrapped around my cock while I'd driven my hips into the mattress.

  I still had the taste of her on my lips even though it had been more than a week since I'd touched her, and now, all I could think about was having her under me again. Under me. On her knees in front of me. Bent over a table with her hands tied at the base of her spine.

  Even just having her clutch at my shoulders as I pinned her up against a wall and shoved inside her hard and fast. Fuck the rest of it.

  Yeah, I should have gotten her phone number, because if I didn't see her again soon, I was going to go insane.

  Chapter 3

  Dena

  Talking with Officer Dunne was proving to be...well, enlightening.

  The law was supposed to be blind and impartial, or so we’re supposed to think, but sometimes, you just get a feeling about a person. Good cops, good lawyers, we were trained to listen to those gut feelings.

  Dunne was a good cop, and I didn’t like the way he was looking at me right now.

  “I can’t tell you much.” Shaking my head, I spread my hands wide. “I’m sorry. I’m not even arguing the case. I’m...assisting.”

  The word left a bad taste in my mouth. I'd already known I'd be doing all the work and getting none of the credit. But it was worse than that.

  They were letting me work blind, and that could be dangerous.

  “They didn’t tell you anything, did they?”

  Glancing up at him over the rim of my coffee cup, I held his eyes for a moment, and then shook my head. “No.”

  Shifting my attention back down to the police report, I tapped it with the tip of my left index finger. “What happened when you went to your superior and told him your report didn’t match the reports filed by the detectives assigned to the case?”

  Dunne looked away, his eyes grim.

  “He’s still 'looking into it.' My uncle and I...” Dunne shrugged. “We chewed the fat on it a while. He told me to give it time. I’m doing that. But it’s rubbing me wrong.”

  “Your uncle? Oh, yeah. Never mind.” I rolled my eyes.

  Dunne’s uncle was the former chief of police, now retired and enjoying his days sitting in front of the slots down in Atlantic City. Apparently, he was Midas when it came to the slot machines. He was sitting very pretty and according to Dunne, he was including three – and only three – entities in his will. Dunne, a pretty bartender by the name of Jolene, and Marlie McTierney.

  I could see why he would choose Dunne to include. Dunne was a wonderful guy and if he hadn't been old enough to be my father, I just might have fallen a little in love with him.

  Jolene...well, if the old guy wanted to give his heart to a cute bartender in his old age? Good for him.

  Marlie, though...

  The chief had been pushed into retirement some ten years ago. Dunne and I had talked about it one late night when I’d run into him at a coffee shop. I’d been dressed in a long coat that hid the leather I’d worn to Club Privé. Dunne had been dressed like a bum, apparently on stakeout. So I’d brought him a cup of coffee and sat at the bus stop a few feet away.

  Dunne did some moonlighting as a private investigator. He’d entertained me more than once with some of his stories.

  But the story between Marlie McTierney and his uncle wasn’t a pretty one.

  Her husband had been murdered by some dirty cops.

  There was no other word for it.

  He’d been driving home after a day of teaching. They'd lived outside the city and they'd liked to travel, so they’d dealt with the expense and hassle of having a car.

  Marlie maintained that more than once, her husband had been stopped by the same two cops, several times while she'd been in the car. She'd even known who they were. One of them had a son who'd been doing just fine in school, according the cop and all his teachers. Save for one class.

  The cop had insisted that Marlie's husband had tried to draw on them using an unregistered gun, and they’d ordered him out of the car, tried to disarm him. He’d gotten away and tried to run, reaching into the waistband of his pants for another gun.

  Ironically, neither gun had ever been found. And every entry wound of the twelve that had gone into him, had been in his back.

  Marlie had gone broke trying to find justice for him, but she'd gotten nothing. The chief of police had suspended the officers. He’d believed her.

  He'd also been quietly forced out within six months.

  The officers hadn't even been charged, and the boy’s grades had miraculously improved, so much so that he'd won a basketball scholarship somewhere down south. He'd killed himself a week after receiving the call.

  A few months after that, Marlie had a son.

  “Listen to your uncle,” I said to Dunne, dragging my attention back to the matter at hand.

  “Ms. Monroe–”

  “Dena.” I sipped at my steaming hot coffee and wished like hell it was something stronger, but I was stuck with coffee because my job was nowhere close to done.

  “So what are you going to do, Dena?”

  “Keep doing what I’ve been doing. Investigating and talking to witnesses. At least that witness pool has widened, right?”

  But so had the list of other possible suspec
ts.

  I really wanted to know why Bethany hadn’t seen fit to include in any of the reports that the defendant’s former husband had ties to the mafia.

  ***

  I had another long, restless night. This time, though, it wasn’t dreams of Arik that haunted me. Nope, this time, I got to live-out some of the most horrific moments from documentaries I had seen about the Russian mafia. In Technicolor.

  The Russian fucking mafia.

  I was from New York. Born and bred. Stories of the mafia were almost like bedtime tales for people raised in the city, but this was something different altogether.

  The various forms of mafia that had once ruled much of New York City weren't the same beasts they had once been. They were, however, far from gone, and a smart person steered clear of them. The Italians, the Irish...

  The Russians...

  Even thinking about them made my stomach clench uncomfortably. And now I was involved in a case that just might bring me into contact with them.

  What. The. Hell.

  “Cheer up,” I muttered to myself. “It could be worse. You could be dealing with, I dunno, somebody from one of the Mexican cartels?” After a moment, I sighed. “Nope, can't be worse.”

  Somehow, less than a month into my new job, and without even arguing a single case, I’d gotten tangled up with the mob.

  On my first case.

  Except it wasn’t even my case. It was Bethany’s, and Pierce had second chair. I was just a gopher. Chances were, nobody would even know I existed.

  That didn’t help at all.

  After brooding in bed for a few more minutes, I forced myself to open my eyes. I had to get out of bed. Not because I wanted to, but because I had things to get done, and I planned to do them before I went into the office.

  I didn't know if Bethany was doing something shady or she was just distracted by Pierce, but she couldn't present a case with holes big enough to drive a truck through. As much as I despised what was going on right now, I hated the idea of an innocent person in jail while the real murderer went free.

  Somebody had to do their fucking job, and it might as well be me.