I step off the elevator on the seventh floor—affectionately known as the penthouse—and into the Law Offices of Daniels & Roberts, LLC. The penthouse is reserved for the partners and exceptional attorneys. Support staff are all female, all very young, and most could adorn the centerfold pages of men's magazines. Proof that misogyny is alive and well.
"Hey, Kylie. How did Mr. Turner's hearing go?"
The receptionist.
Skinny and bubbly, Sarah and her surgically enhanced breasts and ass are everything the middle-aged male associates, partners, and clients in the penthouse want greeting them as soon as they step off the elevator.
Despite her airhead persona, I like her. She's just the right amount of enthusiastic without going overboard, and she knows how to rein in her flighty, flirtatious facade when addressing the other women in the office.
Being excellent at her job was also a happy surprise when I transitioned upstairs from the fourth floor. I'd pretty much tagged her as inept and what my father would've termed "a dingbat."
"Deferred sentence." I hand her my files and rest my elbows on the white, marble receptionist desk that welcomes clients into the stark, sterile, contemporary reception area.
The past two days have been filled with running from one courtroom to another, attempting to clear up issues on smaller cases. Soon, my life will revolve exclusively around my first-degree murder trial.
"Awesome," Sarah mutters, her mind elsewhere, her hand nearly missing the files.
"Alex Stone," she whispers across the desk. "He's here—meeting with Jack." With each revelation, the elevation of pitch in her voice is slight but discernible.
I give her credit. She's not squealing and jumping up and down with glee.
"This is the first time I've ever seen him here. He never comes into our office. Insists meetings take place only at his headquarters." Sarah darts her gaze around the open space, most likely ensuring we are still alone and not overheard. "I'm not sure what they're meeting about, but it must be really important for Mr. Stone to leave his ivory tower and mingle with us mere mortals."
I snicker at the truth of the statement. Alex Stone , the forty-five-year-old, multi-billionaire businessman extraordinaire, is the most eligible bachelor worldwide. The local boy who made it big, employs many people in the area, and is responsible for much of the economic prosperity in town. He's purportedly very good at what he does, if his outrageous wealth is any indication. However, he's extremely ruthless and unfeeling in his business dealings.
Not many of the penthouse attorneys like him, claiming he's an arrogant, severe asshole. He refuses to allow them to negotiate on his behalf and insists they merely draft contracts to his specifications, basically relegating them to secretarial status.
I can't help but wonder if they're just bitter because he doesn't cater to their own enormous egos. Whatever the case, his large retainer and the immensely high hourly fee the firm charges have provided more than a few of those attorneys with the ability to purchase vacation homes in the Caribbean.
Having never had any dealings with the man, I’m not one of them.
Stone also has a reputation as a playboy and dates only excessively beautiful, young women.
Sarah checks her makeup and hair in the small compact she discreetly pulled from her desk drawer. Stone will be passing by her as he heads to the elevator to leave, and Sarah will have a small window of opportunity to capture his attention, his heart, and his wallet.
I sigh, turn on my heel, and head to my office. There is too much to do to waste time on a guy who probably wouldn't look at me, let alone speak. Not that I care. Alex Stone is exactly the type of man I don't need complicating my life.
Three months ago, I moved from my small office on the fourth floor with a not-so-great view of the alley and dumpsters to my radically larger office, which provides a spectacular view of the downtown area with a decent glimpse of the bay. The male associates in the penthouse—who mounted a protest when it was announced that a female attorney would be moving into a suite—apparently nearly revolted when I snagged a corner office.
Every time I walk into it, I feel like I'm giving them the proverbial finger while my subconscious screams at them to fuck off.
A knock on my door drags my attention from the response brief I'm working on. I glance up as my boss makes his way into my office.
Jack Daniels—no shit, his actual name—crosses to one of the two chairs opposite my desk. In his early seventies, he has no inclination to retire—despite the rumblings of the rumor mill. He's still handsome—salt-and-pepper hair and kind blue eyes—until he’s pissed off. He's been my biggest supporter at the firm and lobbied for me to move up to the penthouse when others sought to keep a males-only attorney pool.
"Kylie,” Jack says, “I'd like you to meet our client, Alex Stone."
I hadn't noticed him until he strolled to the vacant chair next to Jack, and I nearly choke on my recognition. Alex Stone is the arrogant, smarmy Mr. Rich Pants from my morning run two days earlier.
Jack takes a seat across from me. "Alex has been a client of this firm for—what—fifteen or sixteen years now? He utilizes many different areas within the firm for his various business ventures."
I stand, offer my hand to Stone, and kick myself for not figuring out who he was that day on the side of the road. His face is blank, and I’m sure he doesn't recognize me.
But I remember him—and those gorgeous eyes. It's as if the gods pulled water from the Aegean Sea, with all its beauty and sparkle, and poured it straight into Alex Stone's irises.
Stone releases my hand, and I'm vaguely aware of Jack singing my praises.
My brain finally engages with my mouth, and I manage to get out, "Very nice to meet you, Mr. Stone," as I sit back in my chair.
"Likewise, Miss..." His words are as smooth as silk.
"Tate. Kylie Tate."
He nods, sits in the chair next to Jack, and I decide he hasn't made the connection between the sweaty car expert from the other morning and the woman in the business suit in front of him.
"Kylie, Alex informed me of a sensitive issue he needs to discuss with you. It involves his nephew, and the family would like to keep it out of the press at this time."
This introduction is something more than a simple meet-the-newest-penthouse-associate-and-she's-a-woman...aren't-we-progressive? introduction I've been subjected to since my move upstairs. Apparently, Stone's underage nephew, Joshua Banks, was caught drinking alcohol at a party. He also had a joint in his pocket when the cops frisked him.
I turn my attention back to Stone. "Do you know the name of the prosecutor assigned to his case?"
"No, but I can find out." He thumbs through his cellphone, presses a button, and speaks to someone on the other end.
I smile, remembering his inability to use the phone two mornings ago which prompted me to stop and help him. His gaze is locked on my mouth, and I bite my lower lip. He looks away and shifts in his seat.
"Amy, look in Josh's file and tell me the name of the prosecutor in his case," he asks Amy.
"Do you have the charging documents? Or the initial citation he received when he was arrested?" I ask Stone while he's still on the phone.
"Send a copy of the file to Miss Tate," he says into the phone. He looks at me. "Your email?"
I give him the address, pull a yellow legal pad from my desk drawer, and start running through more questions I want to ask.
"You should have all the documents shortly, Miss Tate," Stone says, and slides the cellphone back into his pocket.
My email pings with the materials from Stone's assistant and I do a hasty scan for the information I need.
The office is quiet as the two men watch me read. I reach for the phone and make the all-too-familiar call to the prosecutor's office.
"Hi, Teri. Kylie Tate. I understand you're assigned to the Joshua Banks case. Charges are intoxication of a minor and possession of an illegal substance. Looks like the hearing is set for this Friday at three. What's the offer on the table right now?"
I listen to the prosecutor's admonition. It is a serious charge. We need to nip this in the bud while he’s still young...
Blah, blah, blah...bullshit on top of bullshit.
"Teri, this is a good kid from a good family. He made an error in judgment, nothing more. He has no prior criminal record. Hell, he's never even been sent to the principal's office. Are you really going to saddle him with a criminal record for going to a party and having a beer?”
“You’re forgetting about the marijuana in his possession, Kylie,” Teri says.
“The joint wasn't even lit. Someone handed it to him and he inadvertently put it in his pocket, intending to flush it later." I take a breath. "He'll be applying to colleges soon. He doesn't need this hanging around his neck like an anchor."
Teri sighs as though what she is about to do is going to cost her job. “I shouldn’t do this, but…”
I scribble her offer on my legal pad. It's decent, and what I expected for a first-time offender.
I thank Teri, tell her I will get back to her, and hang up the phone. "They're offering a deferred sentence, three-hundred-dollar fine, and ten hours of community service. It's a good deal, in my opinion."
It's the standard deal actually, and I wonder why this needs the attention of an experienced attorney instead of the many new, eager lawyers looking for some face time in court. Any first-year associate would've been given the same deal.
Not that I mind. Assisting Alex Stone can only help my career here at the firm. And I get the added bonus of spending more time with the man who has captivated my thoughts over the past couple of days. He both intrigued me and pissed me off that day on the side of the road. But one thing is for sure. I won't be getting this man out of my head anytime soon.
I explain the remainder of the process as he leans back in his seat. I watch as his thumb slowly moves across his bottom lip. The motion is sensuous and my breath hitches. The corners of his mouth twitch into a faint smile. I blink and break the connection.
"Have your nephew meet me outside the courtroom on Friday. I'll go over the procedure with him to enter his plea. Make sure he's dressed appropriately for court." It's a programmed and automatic recitation, which I desperately need at this moment. Alex Stone's proximity and intense gaze are entirely disarming.
Jack is grinning, apparently happy with my work on this sensitive matter. "See, Alex? I told you she's amazing." Jack winks at me.
Stone stands and provides a glimpse of his incredible physique. "That she is." Stone's gaze are still fixed on mine, a near imperceptible shake of his head.
"Happy to help." I extend my hand to him once more.
He leans in toward me. "Thank you again for your assistance earlier this week, Miss Tate. You continue to come to my rescue just when I need you."
My eyes stay on his, but I'm unable to speak. My heart beats double time. The return of his arrogant, smug smile as he releases my hand and joins Jack, yanks me out of my state of infatuation, and I remember why this man created such disfavor days earlier. Good looks can only compensate for so much, and Stone's outstanding physique does not offset his egomaniacal personality.
"Thanks again, Kylie," Jack says.
I sit at my desk as they leave my office and walk to the elevator. Shaking hands with Jack, Stone is left in the care of the busty, blonde Sarah with her just retouched makeup. I try to pull my gaze away from him but find it impossible. He is quite possibly the most imposing, sensual man I have ever met. The overwhelming urge to dislike him is arm-wrestling with my schoolgirl crush, which is pissing me off. I'm too old to have this type of a reaction. Add to that a deep distrust of men, and Alex Stone is nothing more than a fantasy that I can live without.
By the end of the day, I'm exhausted. Between trying to get all my cases squared away and the sudden unexpected appearance of Alex Stone in my office, I'm completely drained. I lean against the back of the elevator, lost in the constant loop of my conversation with Stone earlier in the afternoon, and oblivious to the other attorneys getting on.
Fingers lightly trail up my arm. I pull away, annoyed at someone touching me. John Sysco, an attorney—and my ex-boyfriend—is standing next to me, a sly smile across his face. I pull my arm tighter against my side and step into the corner of the car. He leans closer but doesn't say a word. His presence is ominous, and a shiver runs down my spine.
As we exit the elevator, John stops to talk to another lawyer, and I take the opportunity to escape. It's bad enough I have to work with him on a daily basis, even having to co-chair the biggest case of my career with him. I don't want to deal with him outside the office. There is too much baggage between us. Too many ugly memories which refuse to go away.
I round the back end of my Jeep Wrangler and grab the door handle. His hand is on my elbow, and he spins me around. Icy fear rushes through my veins as cold sweat breaks out over my skin. I try to climb into the driver's seat, but John fills the space between us.
"Kylie, don't run off. I want to talk to you. Let's grab a drink—or dinner."
He has the uncanny ability to speak as if we are the best of friends, as if there is not a long, dark history between us.
"There's nothing to say, John." I toss my briefcase onto the passenger seat.
He slams his hand against the frame of the Jeep next to my head. I jerk away, and instinctively block a hit to my face.
"Damn it, Kylie. This shit has gone on long enough. I've apologized over and over for that night.” His eyes are dark, and red rage floods his cheeks, but his lips are tight and ghost white. “It's time for you to let it go, so we can move on. I think I've been pretty patient with you, but my tolerance is growing thin."
My stomach drops at the memory of that night. I swallow, and force the dark visions away.
The Mercedes sedan in the next parking space beeps, and the doors unlock. The owner approaches, staring at us for a moment. He almost looks as if he might intervene on my behalf, but looks away as he opens the car door.
Coward.
John takes two steps away from me and shifts too easily into his professional demeanor. "Hey, Allan." He walks around the car and shakes hands with the man.
I slide behind the steering wheel, start the engine, and quickly back out. John watches as I pull away, a quick flash of anger which says so much. This is not over.
Nearly breaking every driving law in the state, I drive to my row house, pull into the small garage, and sit in the Jeep for a moment. My heart beat drums in my ears. I drag in a ragged, long breath, hoping it will calm my nerves.
Memories of that night with John start to seep out of the tight box within my mind, but I quickly push them away. They've been locked up for over a year. There's no reason they ever need to come out. I clawed my way from the pits of hell where I dwelled while in the relationship with John.
I refuse to go back there.
It was so hard for me to see any light at the end of the tunnel. I was sure I would always exist somewhere in limbo. Not irretrievably broken, but nowhere near fixed. But the sturdier my box became, the brighter the light grew. I'm not healed, but I exist in light, and that keeps the ever-present demons in my mind at bay.
And that's a hell of a lot better than where I've been.