Текст книги "About That Night"
Автор книги: Julie James
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
Darn pride.
Her cell phone rang, so she put the dinnerware conundrum on hold. She rummaged around on the floor and finally located her phone under a pile of packing paper. She checked the display and saw it was Rae. “Hey, you.”
“How’s the new apartment?” Rae asked.
Rylann tucked the phone against her shoulder, freeing her hands so she could continue unpacking the box as she talked. “Mostly a disaster right now, since I got a late start. I spent the afternoon walking around, checking out the neighborhood.” And she’d nearly frozen her ass off in her trench coat. Apparently, somebody hadn’t told the city of Chicago that it was spring. “If I remember correctly, somebody had volunteered to come over and help me unpack,” she said teasingly.
Rae sounded guilty. “I know. I’m the worst friend in the world. I’m still stuck at work. I’ve got a summary judgment motion due next week, and the draft this second-year sent me is a piece of crap. I’ve been rewriting the statement of facts all afternoon. But I think I can be there in about an hour. On the bright side, I’ve got cupcakes.”
Rylann pulled a dessert plate out of the box. “Ooh—nice. We can eat them on my very fancy and incomplete set of china.” She looked around. “Seriously, what am I going to do with five sets of dinnerware?”
“You could…throw an elaborate dinner party for my imaginary boyfriend, your imaginary boyfriend, and their imaginary third-wheel friend who seemingly never has anything better to do?”
Ouch. “Don’t laugh. After Jon and I broke up and he moved to Rome, I was that third-wheel friend,” Rylann said. Their closest friends in San Francisco had been “couple” friends, and after the breakup, she simply hadn’t fit in anymore. One of the many reasons she’d been looking for a fresh start in Chicago. “At least in this city, I’m a first wheel. A unicycle.”
Rae laughed. “Very tricky business, unicycling. Particularly in your thirties.”
“It’s not like I never dated before Jon. How different can it be?”
“Oh, such naivete.” Rae sighed dramatically. “I remember when I, too, was once so hopeful and unjaded.” Her tone turned a touch more serious. “Think you’re ready for all this?”
As Rylann took in the chaotic state of the apartment—her new apartment—Jon’s words popped into her head.
Maybe it’s time for a new adventure.
“I think I have to be,” she told Rae.
Because there was one final piece of the sixth-month plan she was absolutely determined to follow through on.
No regrets, and no looking back.
Five
MONDAY MORNING, WITH her briefcase swinging by her side, Rylann got off the elevator at the twenty-first floor of the Dirksen Federal Building. She made her way to a set of glass doors bearing the familiar Department of Justice seal: an eagle carrying the United States shield with the motto Qui Pro Domina Justitia Sequitur, “who prosecutes on behalf of justice.”
Seeing that seal helped put Rylann at ease. Sure, she was a little nervous about her first day at the Chicago office, and it felt odd being the new kid on the block again, but she wasn’t a junior litigator fresh off a clerkship anymore. She’d prosecuted cases as an assistant U.S. attorney in San Francisco for the last six years; she’d advanced her way up to the special prosecutions division, and she’d had one of the best trial records in the district.
She belonged behind those glass doors, she reminded herself. And the sooner she proved that to everyone else, the better she’d feel. So she took a deep breath—silently vowing to knock ‘em dead—and stepped into the office.
The receptionist behind the desk smiled in greeting. “Good to see you again, Rylann. Ms. Lynde said that you’d be starting today. I’ll let her know you’re here.”
“Thanks, Katie.” Rylann stepped off to the side, standing before a panoramic photograph of the Chicago skyline. She was somewhat familiar with the office, having gone on a tour last month when she’d flown in to interview for the open AUSA position. Spanning across four floors of the Federal Building, the office employed approximately 170 lawyers, two dozen paralegals, and a large administrative and support staff.
Timing-wise, Rylann had gotten lucky with this transfer. She’d been looking for a fresh start after her breakup with Jon, and thus had been relieved when she’d heard that the Department of Justice had opened up a new AUSA slot for the Northern District of Illinois. Since she’d grown up in the Chicago suburbs and had always considered the possibility of returning one day to be closer to her family and Rae, she’d leapt at the chance.
Rylann smiled when she saw an attractive woman with long, chestnut-brown hair and a welcoming look in her aquamarine eyes coming down the hallway. As she had been during her interview, she was struck by how relatively young Cameron Lynde was for a U.S. attorney—thirty-three, only a year older than Rylann herself. Formerly the top AUSA in Chicago, Cameron had been appointed to the position after the former U.S. attorney, Silas Briggs, had been arrested and indicted on public corruption charges. The arrest of such a prominent political figure had caused quite a stir—both within the Department of Justice and in the media—and had been the topic of gossip among all the assistant U.S. attorneys for weeks.
When interviewing, that had been Rylann’s one concern—transferring to an office that had recently experienced such significant upheaval—but she’d walked away from the meeting with only positive impressions of Cameron. From what she surmised, the new U.S. attorney was driven and ambitious and eager to restore a good name to the Chicago office.
Cameron stuck out her hand. “It’s good to see you again, Rylann,” she said warmly. “We’ve been counting down the days to your arrival.” She gestured to the stack of case files she carried in her other hand. “As you can see, we’re swamped around here. Come with me—I’ll show you to your office.”
While making small talk, Rylann followed Cameron down an internal staircase to the twentieth floor. The setup of the office was similar to that of the one in San Francisco, with the assistant U.S. attorneys in the exterior offices, and the support staff and paralegals working from desks and cubicles in the interior space. If she recalled correctly, all twenty-seven AUSAs in the special prosecutions division were located on this floor.
“So when I spoke to Bill after your interview,” Cameron led in, referring to Rylann’s former boss, the U.S. attorney for the Northern District of California, “he said that I’m supposed to ask why the San Francisco FBI agents call you ‘Meth Lab Rylann.’ “
Rylann groaned. Although, secretly, she didn’t mind the moniker that much. “They gave me that nickname my first year on the job, and I’ve never been able to shake it.”
Cameron looked curious. “So? Let’s hear the story.”
“I’ll give you the abridged version. I was the second chair on a multiple-count organized crime and drug case, and was scheduled to meet the two FBI agents who’d handled the investigation at this underground meth lab. What the agents failed to mention before I got there was that the only way to get into the meth lab was to climb through a hatch in the ground and climb down a rusty, rickety fifteen-foot ladder. And since I’d been in court earlier that morning, I happened to be wearing a skirt suit and heels. Most inconveniently.”
Cameron chuckled. “Come on. The agents had to be messing with you—how could they forget to mention that?”
Walking side by side with Cameron, Rylann didn’t disagree. “I think they might have been testing the new girl, sure.”
“What did you do?”
“The only thing I could do,” Rylann said matter-of-factly. “I climbed through the hatch in my skirt suit and went down that rusty, rickety fifteen-foot ladder.”
Cameron laughed. “Good for you.” She stopped in front of a midsized office. “Here we are.”
The bronze nameplate outside the door said it all:
RYLANN PIERCE
assistant u.s. attorney
Rylann stepped inside. It wasn’t a glamorous office, with dark blue carpeting and fairly inexpensive furniture, but as a senior AUSA, she at least had a view of the Hancock building and Lake Michigan.
“Everything should be virtually the same as your old office,” Cameron said. “Luckily, we don’t have to waste time training you on the phones and computer, since you’re familiar with those already. Oh, one thing I wanted to be sure of: you’re on active status with the Illinois bar, correct?”
Rylann nodded. “Yes. I’m good to go.” She had taken the Illinois bar exam the summer after graduating from law school and had gone back on active status as soon as she’d learned she’d gotten the job in Chicago.
“Perfect. With that said…” Cameron handed the stack of files over to Rylann. “Welcome to Chicago.” She cocked her head. “Am I going too fast?”
“Not at all,” Rylann assured her. “Just point me in the direction of the courtrooms, tell me where the nearest Starbucks is, and I’ll be all set.”
Cameron grinned. “The Starbucks is right across the street—follow the herd of people sneaking out of the office at three o’clock every afternoon and you’ll find it. The courtrooms are on the twelfth through eighteenth floors.” She gestured to the stack of files Rylann held. “Why don’t you take the morning to review the case files? Feel free to swing by my office this afternoon with any questions you might have.”
“That sounds great, Cameron. Thank you.”
“You’re actually the first AUSA I’ve hired since taking over. How am I doing so far with the welcome speech?”
“Not bad. The part where you softened me up by asking about the meth lab story was a nice touch.”
With a laugh, Cameron looked her over approvingly. “I think you’re going to fit in just fine around here, Rylann.” She paused in the doorway before leaving. “I almost forgot. You should probably check out the top file first—there’s a motion call tomorrow morning. The AUSA who’d originally handled the case had a trial unexpectedly rescheduled for this week, so I needed somebody in special prosecutions to cover for him. It’s an agreed motion, so I don’t expect you’ll have any trouble. There’ll be reporters, but just go with the usual response—that we’re satisfied with the resolution of the matter, have no further comment, that kind of thing. You’ve been doing this for a while now, so you know the drill.”
The prosecutor in Rylann was instantly intrigued. “Reporters for an agreed motion? What kind of case is it?” Curious, she opened the file folder on top of the stack and read the caption.
United States v. Kyle Rhodes
Thank God her six years as a trial lawyer had given her one damn good poker face; otherwise, her jaw would’ve hit the floor right then.
You’ve got to be shitting me.
Just seeing the name brought forth a sudden rush of memories. The amazing blue eyes and sexy smile. The lean, muscular, made-for-sin body. His mouth covering hers as she pressed closer to him in the moonlight.
Probably not the best time to let her new boss know that she’d kissed the defendant in her first case.
“The Twitter Terrorist case,” Rylann said casually. Sure, she may have been taken aback by this unexpected turn of events, but no one else would ever know that. Once upon a time, Kyle Rhodes had made her heart skip a beat with just a kiss, but that had been nearly a decade ago. Now she was Meth Lab Rylann—and on the job, she never let anyone see her flustered.
“I figured that would be a fun one to give the new girl.” Cameron paused on her way out the door. “Feel free to stop by my office anytime. My door is always open.”
After she left, Rylann peered down at the mug shot of Kyle that was paper-clipped to the top of the file. Not surprisingly, he looked serious and chagrined in the photograph, a far cry from the devil-may-care charmer who’d once walked her home on a warm May night in Champaign.
She wondered if he would even remember her.
Not that this mattered much, obviously. She had no doubt that Kyle Rhodes had kissed many a woman in the last nine years—and done a helluva lot more than that—so she considered it quite probable that he wouldn’t so much as blink when she walked into the courtroom tomorrow. Which was just fine with her. After all, what she remembered about that night was that her first impression of him hadn’t been all that favorable.
And if her second and third impressions had been any different…well, she would forever plead the Fifth on that one. Because a serious federal prosecutor like herself did not get all hot-and-bothered over the criminal defendants she faced off against in court.
Not even a criminal defendant who’d once said he would drive two hours to take her out for chicken wings.
Luckily, that was ancient history. Yes, the circumstances of their “reunion” were ironic, perhaps even laughable, but at the end of the day she would treat Kyle Rhodes no different from the many other felons she’d encountered during her career as an assistant U.S. attorney. She was a professional, after all.
And tomorrow, she would prove just that.
Six
“KYLE! KYLE! WHAT are your plans for the future now that you’re a convicted hacker?”
“Have you spoken to Daniela since your arrest?”
Seated at the defense table in the front of the courtroom, Kyle ignored the questions and the flashes of the cameras behind him. They would get bored with him eventually, he told himself. In less than an hour, he would have his freedom, and then this would all be over.
“Do you plan to make Facebook your next target?” another reporter screamed out.
“Would you like to make a statement before the judge comes in?” someone else yelled.
“Sure, here’s a statement,” Kyle growled under his breath, “let’s get this show on the road so I don’t have to listen to anymore dumbass questions.”
Sitting next to him, one of his lawyers—inexplicably, there were five of them today—leaned over and spoke in a hushed tone. “Maybe we should handle all inquiries from the press.”
The courtroom door suddenly opened, and cameras began flashing wildly. A low murmur spread through the crowd, and Kyle knew it could mean only one thing: either his sister or his father had walked in.
He looked over his shoulder and saw Jordan walking up the aisle in her oversized sunglasses and cashmere coat. She wore her blond hair—which was several shades lighter than his—pulled back in some sort of knot or bun thing and coolly ignored the reporters as she took a seat in the front row of the gallery, directly behind Kyle.
Kyle turned around to face her and blinked at the multitude of flashes that instantly exploded in his eyes. “I told you not to take off work for this,” he grumbled.
“And miss your big finale? No way.” Jordan grinned. “I’m all atwitter to see how things turn out.”
Ha, ha. Kyle opened his mouth to retort—five months ago he’d given his sister free license to make jokes and, boy, had she ever run with that—when she took off her sunglasses, revealing a big, ugly yellow bruise on her cheek.
Aw…hell.
No way could he say anything sarcastic now. Kyle doubted he would ever stop feeling guilty over the fact that his sister had gotten that bruise and a broken wrist—and had nearly been killed—while working with the FBI as part of a deal to get him out of prison.
His fingers curled instinctively into a fist, thinking it was a good thing that the dickhead who’d caused those injuries was behind bars. Because a bruised cheek and a broken wrist would be the least of Xander Eckhart’s problems if Kyle ever got five minutes alone with the guy. Yes, Jordan was a pain in the ass, but still. Kyle had clearly set the rules back in sixth grade, when he’d given Robbie Wilmer a black eye for de-pantsing Jordan on the playground in front of the whole school.
No one messed with his sister.
So he humored Jordan’s Twitter joke with a smile. “That’s cute, Jordo.” Then he frowned as a dark-haired, well-built man wearing a standard-issue government suit walked into the courtroom.
“You invited Tall, Dark, and Sarcastic?” Kyle asked Jordan as Special Agent Nick McCall approached them. Despite the fact that his sister was now practically living with the guy, he and Nick were still circling each other warily. Since Kyle had been in prison the entire time Jordan and the FBI agent had been dating, he hadn’t been around to see their relationship develop. All he knew was that Nick McCall was suddenly there, in their lives, and Kyle was therefore being a little…cautious before welcoming him into the family.
“Be nice, Kyle,” Jordan warned.
“What?” he asked innocently. “When have I ever not been nice to Tall, Dark, and You Can’t Be Serious About This Guy?”
“I like him. Get used to it.”
“He’s FBI. The guys who arrested me, remember? Where’s your sense of family loyalty?”
She pretended to think. “Remind me again—why was it that they arrested you? Oh, right. Because you broke about eighteen federal laws.”
“Six federal laws. And it was Twitter!” he shot back, perhaps a bit too loudly.
Seeing his five lawyers exchange if-this-guy-implodes-do-we-still-get-our-five-thousand-an-hour looks, Kyle sat back in his chair and adjusted his tie. “I’m just saying that we could all use a bit of perspective here.”
“Hey, Sawyer—I’d recommend not using the ‘It was Twitter’ argument when the judge comes out,” Nick said with a confident grin as he took a seat next to Jordan.
Kyle looked up at the ceiling and counted to ten. “Tell your FBI friend that I don’t answer to that name, Jordo.” In fact, he hated that nickname—one he’d earned in prison because of a resemblance he supposedly bore to a certain character on Lost.
“But the ‘Rhodes’ nickname was already taken,” Nick said. He took Jordan’s hand, the one with the cast, and gently stroked her fingers as their eyes met.
When Kyle saw Jordan smile at the FBI agent—some sort of secret, inside-joke-type smile—he reluctantly had to admit that the two of them appeared very into each other. It was weird to have to watch them being all affectionate—and kind of gross, actually, seeing how she was his sister—but sweet nonetheless.
Just then, another murmur flowed through the crowd, and everyone stopped and stared as business entrepreneur and billionaire Grey Rhodes strolled in wearing a tailored navy suit.
He took a seat on the other side of Jordan. “Hope I didn’t miss anything. I’ve been twittering with excitement all morning.”
Jordan laughed. “Good one, Dad.”
Shaking his head, Kyle turned around in his seat and faced the front of the courtroom. Seriously, there were times when he thought that his family would actually be disappointed when this whole debacle was over. He half-expected to see them pull out popcorn and Cokes while they waited for the That Kyle Sure Is a Funny Asshole show to get started.
Speaking of assholes, Kyle checked his watch and looked over at the empty prosecution table. “Where’s Morgan?” he asked his lawyers, referring to the assistant U.S. attorney who’d called him a terrorist and demanded the maximum sentence. Not that Kyle had expected a mere slap on the wrist for his crimes. But he was no fool—the U.S. Attorney’s Office had sensationalized his case, seizing on the chance to make a name for themselves by dragging his name through the mud. He highly doubted they would’ve demanded the maximum prison sentence if he hadn’t been the son of a billionaire—and his lawyers had said the same exact thing.
“Actually, Morgan’s not coming today,” said Mark Whitehead, the lead defense attorney, in response to Kyle’s question. “He had a conflict with another trial. A new guy filed an appearance yesterday afternoon; I don’t remember his name. Ryan something.”
“So I don’t get to say good-bye to Morgan in person?” Kyle asked. “Aw, that’s a shame. We had such a special connection—it’s not every day a man calls you a ‘cyber-menace to society.’ “
The door to the courtroom slammed open.
Kyle turned around, curious to check out this mope the U.S. Attorney’s Office had rustled up on short notice, and—
Well, hello.
Those certainly didn’t look like a mope’s legs.
Sitting in his chair at the defense table, Kyle’s gaze traveled from the ground up, taking in the high heels, sleek legs, black skirt suit and naughty good-girl pearls, and finally came to rest on a pair of gorgeous—and shockingly familiar—amber eyes.
Eyes that held his with bemusement.
Ho-ly fuck.
Rylann.
Kyle watched as she strode up the aisle toward him, looking criminally sexy in her suit and heels. She’d changed her hair—gone was the cute chin-length bob. Now she wore it long, tumbling over her shoulders in thick, raven-colored waves.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, stopping at the defense table. “Only the six of you today?”
Kyle fought back a grin. Yep, still as sassy as ever. His five lawyers immediately sprang to attention and rose to their feet. Slowly, he stood up as well.
Rylann introduced herself as she shook Mark’s hand. “Rylann Pierce.”
Pierce. After nine years, Kyle finally had a last name.
She shook hands with the rest of his lawyers, then made her way to him. With the edges of her lips turned up in a smile, she held out her hand. Her voice was low and throaty, with the same teasing note as the night they’d met. “Mr. Rhodes.”
Kyle slid his hand around hers. The most innocent of touches, but with her it felt downright sinful. “Counselor,” he said in a low voice, as intimate as he dared given their surroundings.
She cocked her head. “Shall we do this?”
It was only after she turned and walked to the opposite side of the courtroom that Kyle realized she’d been talking to his lawyers, not him.
She set her briefcase on the prosecution table just as the door to the judge’s chambers flew open. “All rise!” called the clerk. “This court is now in session, the Honorable Reginald Batista presiding.”
Everyone in the courtroom rose to their feet as the judge took his seat and the clerk called his case. “United States versus Kyle Rhodes.”
Rylann stepped up to the podium along with Kyle’s lead attorney.
“Rylann Pierce, representing the U.S. Attorney’s Office, your honor.”
“Mark Whitehead, for the defense.”
The judge looked up from the motion he held in his hands. “Since both parties and what appears to be the entire Chicago press corps are in attendance, we might as well get right down to business.” He set the papers off to the side. “We’re here on a rather unusual Rule 35 motion filed by the U.S. Attorney’s Office, a motion to reduce the sentence of the defendant, Kyle Rhodes, to time served. My understanding is that Mr. Rhodes has served four months of the eighteen months’ incarceration ordered by this court.” The judge turned to Mark for confirmation. “Is that correct, counselor?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Mark said. “Two weeks ago, per an arrangement with the U.S. Attorney’s Office, Mr. Rhodes was released from Metropolitan Correctional Center and has been serving his sentence in home detention.”
The judge took off his reading glasses and turned to Rylann. “Ms. Pierce, I’ve seen the appearance you filed yesterday with the clerk’s office, and I appreciate that you haven’t been involved in this case prior to these proceedings. But I have to say, I’m a little surprised by this motion. During the sentencing hearing, your office argued—quite vehemently—that I should order Mr. Rhodes to serve the maximum sentence. I believe terrorist and cyber-menace to society were two of the terms Mr. Morgan used to describe the defendant. Now, four months later, you want to reduce that sentence to time served.”
Kyle shot a nervous glance at the four lawyers sitting at his table, not liking the sound of that. He’d been under the impression that this motion was a done deal.
Then a beautiful voice spoke out on his behalf.
“The circumstances have changed, Your Honor,” Rylann said. “The U.S. Attorney’s Office, in conjunction with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, made an arrangement with the defendant’s sister, Jordan Rhodes. In exchange for Ms. Rhodes’s assistance in an undercover investigation, our office agreed to petition this court for the reduction of Mr. Rhodes’s sentence. Ms. Rhodes upheld her end of the deal, and now we would like to honor ours.”
“And while I note that this court is not bound by any agreements the government has made pertaining to the defendant, I’m going to grant your motion, counselor,” the judge said. “The defendant’s sentence is hereby reduced to time served.”
Kyle blinked. Just like that, he was free.
Then the judge turned to him, peering down sternly from his bench. “But do us all a favor, Mr. Rhodes: stay off of Twitter. Because if I see you in my courtroom again, there won’t be any deal that can save you.” He banged his gavel. “This court stands in recess.”
“All rise!” the clerk shouted, and the entire courtroom rose to its feet.
Pandemonium ensued as an excited roar rippled through the crowd. Cameras flashed in Kyle’s eyes as a mass of bodies, including his lawyers, Jordan, and his dad, swarmed him. Reporters surged forward, eager for a quote, but Kyle pushed past them, catching sight of Rylann as she grabbed her briefcase and turned to leave.
They met in the center of the aisle just as several reporters shoved microphones in both their faces.
“Ms. Pierce! Does the U.S. Attorney’s Office have any comment about the fact that Kyle Rhodes is once again a free man?”
When Rylann’s eyes met his, Kyle felt as if every nerve in his body had been zapped with a body Taser.
He peered down at her boldly, remembering well this woman who’d managed to get under his skin—in more ways than one—with only a walk home. He waited for her to say something, any kind of quip or wink or subtle nod to the fact that they had a prior history. But just as her lips parted, undoubtedly ready with what he assumed would be some sort of saucy zinger, another camera flashed.
She blinked—and the sparkle was gone from her eyes, replaced by an all-business expression as she turned to the reporters. “Only that we are satisfied with the resolution of this case.”
Then, without so much as a glance back in his direction, she brushed past the reporters and walked out of the courtroom.
