Текст книги "Masked Innocence"
Автор книги: Alessandra Torre
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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 17 страниц)
Twenty-Nine
I stood nervously in the conference room, dressed in a black sleeveless turtleneck, tweed pencil skirt and black peep-toe heels. I had spent an extra fifteen minutes that morning making sure that my hair and makeup looked professionally perfect. The entire West Wing staff, which I still thought of as “Broward’s staff,” was assembled in the room, ready for an 11:00 a.m. meeting. There was expectant silence in the room as the wall clock clicked to 10:59 a.m.
The conference room door opened. A man in a gray suit strode up to the podium. He was traditionally handsome, the blond-haired, blue-eyed variety that fills every department store flyer in the Sunday paper. He wore glasses, which he adjusted before looking out at the room.
“Good morning. My name is Scott Burge. I would first like to extend my deepest sympathies to you for the loss of Kent Broward. I was personally acquainted with Kent, and had nothing but the utmost respect for him. I know that he has left big shoes to fill.”
I studied him carefully, trying to decide what I thought of him. His clothes hung well on his frame, and his face had just enough strength to be attractive, almost abnormally so.
He paused, clearing his throat and straightening his tie, a gesture I recognized as a nervous one. “That being said, I have come to a partnership agreement with Attorneys Clarke and De Luca, so I will be a permanent fixture in this firm, and the firm name will now be Clarke, De Luca & Burge. I will only be in the office for a few hours today, but will start full-time next week. I would appreciate all of your patience and assistance in familiarizing me with the current caseload and statuses of all ongoing litigation.” He nodded once and then closed his notebook, apparently done. There was a scattering of applause, no one knowing whether or not to clap, and Burge left the room.
Chatter started all around me and I moved, heading to the restroom and then to my office, passing Broward’s old office on my way. I paused, unsure, and then knocked lightly on the open door, waiting for Burge to look up. He did, and beckoned me in.
The office looked strange without Broward’s bald head behind the desk. The office had always been packed with file boxes. That hadn’t changed, but now different prints hung on the walls, and Broward’s family photos had disappeared. New carpet was underfoot. Probably because of the bloodstains.
“Can I help you?” His voice was authoritative, strong, and he looked up at me with clear blue eyes, his skin tan and smooth, his eyes passing briefly over me before they returned to my face.
“I’m Julia Campbell. I was the intern and, starting next week, will be a part-time assistant for this wing. I just wanted to introduce myself.” I gestured awkwardly to the doorway. “My office is adjacent to yours. If you need anything, just call out.”
He stood, and I realized he was Brad’s height, taller than me in my three-inch heels. “Are you in law school, Ms. Campbell?”
“No.” I flushed. “I’m an undergrad. I’m still two semesters from graduation but have already started the process of applying to law schools.”
“And what did you do for Broward?”
I sensed a hint of sexual innuendo in his question, but brushed it off, meeting his eyes with professionalism. “I worked mainly with corporate document prep. Any basic filings, annual reports, meeting minutes, operating agreements, he would send to me. I prepared them and then sent them back for his approval.” A slight exaggeration of my duties.
He nodded, looking pleased. “And you had experience in this previously?”
“No, Broward taught me.” I crossed my fingers behind my back, hoping God would give me some leeway given the situation.
He nodded thoughtfully and then smiled. “Thank you, Julia. I look forward to working with you.” He reached his hand across the desk and I shook it firmly.
“Likewise, sir.” I smiled and left his office, my self-confidence patting my back and smiling broadly. I entered my office and sat down, attacking my work stack with renewed enthusiasm.
* * *
THE SOON-TO-BE EX-MRS. Windthorp sat in Brad’s large office, facing his desk. She was exquisite, born beautiful and enhanced by the city’s top plastic surgeons. She wore a tight white tube top with a cashmere cardigan over it, and had long tan legs barely contained with a black miniskirt. Brad flipped through her file, glancing at her occasionally over the top of it. The file listed her age as thirty-seven, though she didn’t look over twenty-six. Her husband was Brett Windthorp, a silver-spoon trust fund baby who had intelligently quadrupled his family’s wealth. His current net worth was listed at seventy-two million dollars. Married six years, no children. No prenup. Brad closed the folder.
“Mrs. Windthorp, why—”
“Call me Lisa.” A cultured voice, probably from a pageant-queen childhood.
“Fine. Lisa, why do you want a divorce?”
“I’m unhappy.” She folded her arms, enhancing her perfect cleavage in the process. Brad looked away, back at the file.
“We’re going to need more than your unhappiness to go to the judge with. Tell me about Brett.”
“What about him?” She sounded almost petulant in her response.
“Just give me a synopsis.”
She delicately sighed, her breasts heaving. “He’s boring. All he does is work, and expects me to entertain myself all day. When he’s not working, he’s either playing golf or spending time with his friends, who he wants me to entertain, as well. It’s just not what I expected marriage to be.”
Brad met her gaze, her response verifying all of the reasons why he never wanted to remarry. “Okay, so irreconcilable differences. And what do you want from the settlement?”
She seemed surprised by the statement. “Why, everything, of course. I thought that was what you did.”
Brad flexed his hands under the desk, hating his job at this moment. Being good at it made it even more difficult at times. He leaned forward. “You are not going to get everything. You’ll be lucky to get half. You have no children and have been married less than seven years. You need to take a realistic look at this marriage and reassess your expectations.”
The beautiful blonde uncrossed her legs, flashing Brad an eyeful of red lace, and stood, moving forward and leaning on the desk. She tossed her long hair over a shoulder and stared at him, smiling slightly. “Mr. De Luca, I typically get exactly what I want.”
I bet you do. Brad reclined in his chair and lifted his hands, shrugging. “I’m not the judge, Lisa.”
She sniffed and straightened. Patting her hair into place, she lifted her chin at him. “Then make sure you are friends with the one we get.” She turned, grabbed her purse and walked out. Brad watched her tight ass as it moved out his door, then shook his head. Women.
Reaching forward, he picked up his phone and called Julia’s extension.
“Julia Campbell.”
“Hey.”
“Hey.” There was a muffled sound, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Let me shut my door.”
Brad said nothing, watching through the glass wall of his office as Mrs. Windthorp—Lisa—conversed with Diana, one of his secretaries. Then Julia was back.
“I met Burge.”
“And?”
“I think he’s going to keep me on. He seems fine. Not as nice as Broward, but not an asshole, at least not yet.”
“Good. What are your plans for the evening?”
There was silence for a spell, and then she spoke. “I don’t know. I had assumed that I’d be working.”
“Your slave driver is gone.”
“A fact I feel guilty profiting from.”
“So feel guilty. There’s a concert downtown tonight that Rebecca got us tickets to. Come with me.”
“Well, that would depend on who’s playing.”
“Dave Matthews Band. If that is hip enough for you.”
She giggled, a sound that made his cock hard. “You are unhip just from use of the word hip. Please, please stop, before you age yourself further.”
“So you’ll come?”
“Yes. What time’s the concert?”
“Nine.”
“I’ll be ready by eight.”
“I’ll get a driver and see you then.” He hung up the phone, shaking his head and fighting back a grin.
Thirty
The concert was insane. Held at a small, hole-in-the wall bar, it was intimate, fifty of us and him—straddling a stool and holding his guitar as if it were an extension of his arm. We dined on finger-size portions of bar food while Dave Matthews told stories, joked around and crooned songs I had committed to memory. In the dim light of the bar, with Brad’s grin and Dave’s lyrics, it was like being in a dream. I reached over, trailing a hand over Brad’s arm, his mouth pressing gently against my neck, strands of sexual harmony floating through the air, a hand sliding up my bare leg.
Dave took a half-hour break and we escaped the smoky air, stumbling into the dark alley behind the bar, inhaling the cool breeze, my cheeks red from too many drinks, Brad’s eyes dark embers lit by night streetlamps. We were laughing over some stupid thing, my body folding into his, his strength encasing me, when he gripped me, picking me easily up and setting me on the hood of a parked car, his hands separating my legs, his body sliding perfectly between them.
I laughed at the cold metal against my bare skin, the thin fabric of my dress now bunched around my waist. He growled against my throat, his mouth kissing and suckling it, making its way up to my mouth as his hands explored my body. My laughter faded as need overtook it, and my hands traveled also, stealing underneath his shirt, feeling the cut of muscles and abs, feeling the shudder of heart underneath my palm. I withdrew my hands, capturing his face in them and planting soft kisses on his cheeks and forehead. There was a strum of music behind us and I heard a voice over the microphone.
“Time to go back,” I whispered.
He protested, pulling me tight to him, his need obvious, even through jeans.
“Later,” I promised, wrapping my arms tight around his neck, and he lifted and spun me, my legs releasing him and finding ground. Then we ducked back into the bar, the crowd, smoke and music engulfing and drawing us in.
* * *
BRAD HAD PURCHASED a CD, and the strands of music danced through the dark limo. I was officially drunk, having polished off five beers along with about two thousand calories of nachos, wings and potato skins. Brad grinned down at me, somehow completely sober despite doubling my alcohol consumption. His image blurred, and I closed my eyes briefly, hoping that a wave of nausea wasn’t next.
“You okay?”
“I’m good,” I mumbled. “Did I mention I love Dave Matthews?”
He chuckled. “Several times, in fact.”
I opened my eyes, his image focused before me. “You did good, De Luca. Even without the cheat sheet.”
I felt his fingers, tracing the outline of my lips, rough skin against soft. The limo slowed, turning a corner, and my mind focused. “You’re taking me home, right?”
His fingers froze. “I thought you would stay with me tonight.”
“I didn’t pack a bag, and don’t want to go all the way home just to get stuff. Why don’t you just stay with me tonight?”
He snorted, the sound causing my eyes to pop open and my vision to sharpen, focusing on a look on his face that could only be described as offensive. “I don’t think so.”
I sat up, propping my arm against his crotch with more force than was necessary, and glared at him. He winced, shifting in the seat, trying to move my arm. “What, the big fancy lawyer can’t stay in my crappy common dwelling?”
He tilted his head to the side and then nodded. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” His cool dismissal infuriated me, spawning a sudden surge of anger heightened by my drunken state. Regardless of how much sense staying at his house made, I wanted the upper hand in the relationship, and him giving in to my unreasonable demands was part of that hand.
“I stay at your place all the time!”
“It’s hardly a comparison. I live in a nice house, with air-conditioning and running water and—”
I shoved on his crotch, aiming for balls, but must have missed the mark, since his expression didn’t change. I gritted my teeth, my chin rising defiantly. “You are such an ass. Now I’m staying at home purely out of principle.”
He laughed, grabbing my arms and trying to pull me closer. I fought him, my drunken arms sluggish, and finally untangled from his grasp, moving to the front, to the window that opened to the chauffeur.
“Sir?” I poked my head through the window, scaring the man and causing him to swerve slightly on the road. He shot me the most dignified irritated look I had ever seen, and I giggled at the expression. “Sorry. Really, I’m sorry. Can you drop me off at the same place where you picked me up?”
He gave an almost imperceptible sigh, nodded stiffly and put his turn signal on, preparing to turn off on my exit. I was pulling back through the window when he spoke. “Madam?”
I stuck my head back through the opening, causing him to wince again. “Yeees?”
“There is an intercom button back there for your use. So you don’t have to crawl through the window.”
“Gotcha.” I smiled brightly at him in response, no doubt enforcing his perception of me as the village idiot.
By the time I navigated the slippery leather seats back to Brad, his huge arms were crossed and he had fixed me with a stern look. “Why are you being difficult?”
I blew out a breath, trying to organize my woozy thoughts into a coherent response. “You are the one being difficult. It would do you good to sleep one night in a real, imperfect house, without someone making you breakfast or fluffing your pillow.”
“Are cockroaches and mildew part of the humbling experience?”
I blew out an irritated breath and rolled my eyes. “Whatever. You’re going to regret it when you are sleeping alone tonight.” The limo turned down my street, squeezing its way past cars until it was in front of my house. I leaned over, kissed Brad briefly on the lips and pushed open the door, spilling out of the car, my bare feet hitting the pavement, my shoes and my purse clutched tight in my hand. He followed me out of the car, the night air ruffling his hair, his white shirt gaping at the neck.
“You’re staying?” I asked, surprised.
He chuckled. “No. Just making sure you get inside safely.”
I pouted at that, moving past him down my driveway and up to the front door. There was a voice from the limo driver, who still held the car door. “Sir, I will need to move the car. I’m blocking the street.”
Brad turned. “Park in the apartment complex across the street. I’ll walk over there when I’m done.”
“Yes, sir.”
I unlocked my front door, pushing it open to darkness and turning to Brad. “You can go with him. I made it in safely.” I folded my arms and leaned in the doorway.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“Nope. It’s an all-or-nothing thing, babe.”
He tugged at my dress, pulled me a step forward and slid his arms around me. “Come home with me. Stay in luxury tonight.”
I set my jaw, shaking my head. He kissed the soft curve of my neck, and I pushed back on his chest. “Go. You don’t want your fancy house to get lonely.”
He sighed, taking a step back and looking at me. “Why are you being stubborn?”
“I’m not the one being stubborn. I’ve stayed at your place a bunch of times. You’ve never stayed here and it’s the principle of it. This is my house. You should be happy to sacrifice personal comfort for the chance to spend the night with me.”
“I’m too old to spend a night in a drug-filled home that might fall around my head if I lean too hard against a wall.” He took a step back and stood, the finality of the motion closing the argument.
I shrugged, turning on my heel and wiggling my fingers at him. “Fine. See ya.” I shut the door on his handsome frown, flipped the dead bolt and moved through the darkness to my room.
Thirty-One
The man drove down unfamiliar roads, following the map in his head until his headlights illuminated the tin green sign for Cambridge Road. He slowed, turning right and moving slowly down the road, passing the dejected mailbox with the number 2105 pasted on the side. He examined the house carefully as he passed. It was dark, three cars in the drive. One the tan Toyota Camry, which the DMV had verified as belonging to Julia Campbell. Once he passed the house he accelerated, following the road until it circled back to the main street. He took a left and then turned back onto her road, this time looking for a place to park.
* * *
BRAD RETURNED TO the limo, waving off the driver and opening the door himself. He climbed in and sat, looking out the window at the concrete block house, sitting beneath a lone streetlight, looking even more pathetic in the fluorescent yellow glow, like an old bald man, his head shining and face in shadow. He could see a ripped screen hanging off a front window, limp and dirty, as if it had just given up one day. A car turned down the street and drove slowly by, obscuring his view for a brief moment. This was a shit neighborhood. She shouldn’t live here. She should live somewhere with at least a sliver of privacy, of safety.
A voice spoke, and it took him a minute to realize that the driver was speaking to him. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I asked if I should return to your home, Mr. De Luca.”
“Just wait a moment. I may stay here after all. Just let me think.”
“Take your time, sir. I have all night.”
He blew out a frustrated breath, looking at that damn house. Why should he stay there? He didn’t have his car, not that he would leave it parked in this neighborhood. She herself had told him that the place was barely habitable. She was being stubborn, and reminding him of why his life was easier without a relationship. Then that car was back, the same one as before, and he focused on it now, watching as it slowed, braked, then moved forward, pulling into an empty spot on the street, two houses down. Probably a neighbor. But the vehicle didn’t fit, not in this street filled with Hondas, Fords and Mitsubishis. This car, a black Audi sedan with tinted windows hiding the driver, was wrong. He watched it, leaning forward now, a sense of foreboding birthing in his psyche.
* * *
I WASHED MY face, standing in the bathroom, rubbing my skin with cold water and a rough washcloth. The light was bright, harsh in my eyes, and I rushed through the process, taking out my contacts and skipping the whole dental hygiene obligation. I pulled off my dress, swaying slightly from the action, and flipped off the light, opening the door to the hall and stepping into the blackness, lukewarm air hitting my bare skin.
* * *
THE AUDI SAT for a long minute with the engine off. Brad watched it, glancing at his watch, willing the damn person inside to get on with his night so he could leave in good conscience. Fuck staying at Julia’s tonight. He needed to regain the upper hand in this relationship, something he lost the first damn time he saw her. If she was going to be stubborn and insist on staying here, he wasn’t going to fall all over himself to accommodate her senseless demands. The driver door finally opened and a tall, thin man stepped out.
Brad could instantly tell from his stance and stride that this was not a college student. The man had a developed build and a bearing built on years of confidence and experience. Brad’s foreboding grew, its arms and legs gaining strength and fortitude. The man moved, walking casually to the back of the car and removing a small bag from the trunk. Puzzled, and with a nagging sense of familiarity, Brad opened the limo’s door, leaving it ajar, and moving quietly out into the night air. The man shut the trunk and ambled toward Julia’s home.
The coincidence of the whole situation struck Brad as remarkable. There was a chance that this man was not going to her home, but that would be solved soon enough. Regardless, wherever he was headed, he needed to be stopped. What was odd was that this man was here, in this neighborhood. The man was a professional, that much was obvious. A professional didn’t hunt for sport, and a job shouldn’t bring him to this college neighborhood. Brad moved through the shadows of the street, lengths from the man. The fact that Brad was unarmed brought him considerable frustration. He watched the stride of the man, studying his gait, his eyes sharpening, a sliver of something snaking through his mind. Then the man twisted his leg, a quick popping motion that brought Brad to a sudden stop, the motion familiar. The sliver in his mind turned solid. Recognition. The realization hit him hard, and he turned his back to the man, leaning against a nearby tree and attempting to wrap his head around the fact. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his cell and dialed a number. Then he turned and watched the man.
The man glanced casually at the dejected mailbox and stepped over the curb, moving onto the grass and across the lawn, heading to the front door. Julia’s front door. Brad cursed, listening to the phone ring, his eyes glued to the man.
* * *
MY PHONE WAS ringing, the sound muted by my clutch, and I stood in the dark room, feeling around blindly, trying to remember where I had put the damn thing. I felt for the light switch, following the wall, when my foot bumped into my purse. I crouched, opening the metal clasp and pulling out my cell. Ha. Big surprise. Brad had cracked first. I smiled, answering the phone with a sexy drawl.
“Where are you in the house?” Brad’s voice was quick and quiet.
“My bedroom,” I whispered, matching his tone and trying to inject the proper level of husky sex into it.
“Do not turn on any lights. Do you have a gun?” His voice was too calm to ask that question, but so calm that I knew something was wrong.
“No. What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know yet. Stay inside and hide. I’m going to try and take care of it from this end. Turn off the ringer and keep your phone on you.” There was a click, and he was gone. I crouched, fumbling with my phone until I had the ringer switched off. I listened, hearing nothing but the wheeze of our air conditioner. I was painfully aware of my nakedness, and had a vision of me running outside stark naked with half of the neighborhood watching. I groped around the floor until I found my discarded dress, pulled it on and crawled on my knees to my closet.
* * *
THE STREETLIGHT HAD illuminated for a quick moment the man’s features, confirming Brad’s suspicion. He knew who the man was. What he was doing outside Julia’s house was the fucking question of the century.
