Текст книги "Friction"

Автор книги: Sawyer Bennett

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“Well, yeah . . . I thought we discussed this.”

“But that was before I just pissed you off with my stunt,” she points out.

“You pissed me off earlier playing footsie with my cock, and that didn’t stop me from fucking your mouth, did it?”

Her lips turn upward and her eyes shine with amusement. “I suppose not.”

“Then rest assured, your little stunt isn’t going to stop me from fucking your pussy with my tongue and then my dick when we get to my place.”

I take immense pleasure in seeing Leary suppress a physical shudder that ripples through her body as her eyes grow hot.

“Then what are we waiting for?” she asks impishly.

I motion with my hand for her to precede me to the door. Just as she reaches it, I ask her something that is frankly driving me nuts. “What’s your relationship with Jenna?”

Leary doesn’t even stop to look at me. She pulls the door open. “She’s my client.”

“She’s more than that,” I assert as I follow her out.

“Yes, she is,” Leary says softly.

“Are you going to tell me?” I ask again.

“No, Reeve. I’m not,” she says with a firm tone that effectively shuts me down. And because we agreed that this is just physical, no-strings sex without the complications of commitment and all the other fuzzy things that might go with actually dating someone, I let it drop.

CHAPTER 9

LEARY

“Um . . . I need to warn you about Mr. Chico Taco before we go in,” Reeve says as we walk up the sidewalk to his front door. We’d taken separate cars—at my insistence—so I won’t be stranded if I want to leave. I’ve seen enough of Reeve’s domineering ways to know that if he doesn’t want me to leave, he’ll just refuse to take me home.

“Mr. Chico Taco?”

“My dog,” he says as he searches for his key ring to unlock the door. “He’s a little, um . . . exuberant.”

As Reeve slides the key home, I start to ask what type of dog, but the big, booming bark that comes from the other side of the door stops me in my tracks. I’m pretty sure it’s not a dog, but a T. rex on the other side.

Looking over his shoulder at me with his eyes shining bright, he says, “He’s really nice, but he gets excited when I come home.”

And then a strange and slightly unwelcome thought comes into my head. If I was with Reeve, in a relationship, I would probably be just as excited for him to come home to me. I’m pretty sure he could make me bark like a dog.

Reeve pushes the door open but we can’t move inside because a huge, massive beast with shiny gray fur and a head the size of a basketball jumps up on him. Laughing, Reeve actually hugs the dog as he puts his gigantic paws the size of salad plates on his shoulders and starts whining in pleasure to see his master. His head hangs over Reeve’s shoulder, and light-blue eyes stare at me with a happy grin on his face that causes his tongue to loll out of his head.

“All right, buddy,” Reeve says and, with a big heave, pushes the dog off him. With a gentle but firm command, Reeve says, “Sit.”

The dog, which I recognize as a Great Dane, flops his butt to the floor, his eyes pinned to Reeve in adoration. “Come say hello to Mr. Chico Taco.”

I step forward hesitantly. “Do I have to address him by his formal name?”

“Nah,” Reeve says with a laugh. “Chico is fine.”

“He should be called Brutus,” I mutter as Mr. Chico Taco cocks his head at me in curiosity. “He looks more like a Brutus.”

“Now that’s just mean. He takes offense to that,” Reeve chides.

I reach my hand out and bring it to the big dog’s head. “Hi, Chico. I’m Leary.”

I scratch him a few times, but when I try to withdraw my hand, his head bumps against it, urging it back up to pet him. I laugh and scratch him again. “You’re just a big baby, aren’t you?”

“Now that I take offense to,” Reeve says over his shoulder as he walks into his living room, pulls off his suit jacket, and tosses it onto the back of a dark-blue suede couch. He pulls at his tie and loosens it enough so he can pull it over his head.

Throwing the tie on top of his suit jacket, Reeve turns to wink at me. “I might tie you up with that later.”

God, I hope so.

Reeve continues to walk through the living room, so I follow him. Mr. Chico Taco walks at my side, continuing to bump my hand with his head for attention. Turning left, Reeve is momentarily gone from sight, but when I round the corner, I find him in his kitchen, rooting around in the refrigerator.

His kitchen is gorgeous, all stainless steel and granite with dark-cherry cabinetry. “What are you doing?” I ask uncertainly, because the way things went back at the office, I was pretty certain that Reeve brought me to his house so we could have sex.

“Going to make us an early dinner. I’m thinking lemon pasta with blackened chicken.”

“You’re going to cook?”

Reeve stands up, pulling a pack of chicken and three lemons from his fridge. He gives me a knowing look with a touch of sympathy. “Yes, I’m going to cook.”

“I don’t understand,” I say as I cock my eyebrow at him, and Chico nudges me again. I absently pet the dog’s head.

“I’m going to cook,” he says again with an annoying smirk.

“You’re going to cook?”

Throwing the chicken and lemons on the counter, Reeve walks up to me. His hands rest lightly on my waist. Bending down so his nose almost touches mine, he says, “This conversation is a little redundant, so let me clarify for you. I’m going to cook us an early dinner. I’m loading us up on protein and carbs, because after said meal, I intend to take you back to my bedroom, and then I’m not letting you out of said bedroom until morning. With me so far?”

I can’t help the tiny smile that pops forth, and I give him an understanding nod.

“Good,” he continues. “When we get into that bedroom, there’s going to be very little rest. I’m a fast recharger, so there’s no telling how many times I’m going to fuck you tonight. Plus, I have toys. Lots of toys that I want to play with. Thus, we need fuel before we fuck. Clear?”

“Clear,” I whisper, now so completely turned on that I want to beg him to take me right here in the kitchen.

But he releases me and points to a stool that sits on the opposite side of his massive kitchen island. “Now sit. I’ll pour us a glass of wine and we can relax for a bit.”

I do as he commands, not because I’m obedient, but because now I’m very curious as to what in the hell he thinks he’s doing. Cooking us a meal, sipping wine? That’s not in the general order of fuck buddy–dom.

At least I don’t think it is.

Reeve pulls a bottle of red wine from the back kitchen counter. “Do you like Cab?”

“Sure,” I say as I prop one elbow up on the counter and stick my chin in the palm of my hand so I can watch him. He moves about with surety and casual grace. Only I know the raw and dirty power he has hidden underneath this elegant persona.

Reeve pours two glasses then hands one to me. He holds his glass out and I tap mine to his. “To fuck buddies,” he says with a grin.

“Fuck buddies,” I echo and take a tiny sip of my wine.

There’s a quick knock on Reeve’s front door, and then the door swings open, and I hear a woman’s voice. “Reeve, it’s just me.”

“In the kitchen,” he calls back, and I hear the padding of feet coming through the living room.

My eyebrows rise when a beautiful young woman of about twenty or so walks into Reeve’s kitchen. Her golden-blonde hair is long, her makeup flawless. She has exquisite features with high cheekbones and a straight nose. Her blue eyes are bright, wide, and focused on Reeve in what I immediately recognize as lustful adoration.

This pisses me off.

Chico spins away from where he’d been sitting by my stool and bounds over to the woman. She bends over, slaps at her thighs, and says, “Hey, big boy. Come here.”

Chico launches his frame at her, putting his front legs on her shoulders—he towers over her by a good five or so inches. I glance back at Reeve, and he’s watching the pair with an amused smile.

This also pisses me off.

Reeve’s dog clearly knows and likes this woman.

It also pisses me off that Reeve is amused by the relationship this woman has with his dog.

“Everything okay?” Reeve asks her.

“Yeah,” she says pertly. Her gaze—which is no less adoring or hopeful looking—cuts from Chico over to him. “Just wanted to let you know that Chico had a good day today. We walked about two miles.”

“That’s great,” Reeve says as he starts opening the pack of chicken, intent on his work.

“Who’s this?” the woman says as she slides her gaze over to me.

Reeve’s head snaps up, and an almost guilty look flashes over his face. “Oh, shit . . . sorry. This is a friend of mine, Leary Michaels. Leary, this is Vanessa. She lives next door with her parents and walks Chico every morning for me.”

“Hi,” I say with a smile that I hope comes off as friendly and genuine.

“Hi,” she says, in a flat tone that does not come off as friendly and genuine. Her message is clear—she has her sights on Reeve and does not like me sitting here. I have to wonder if he’s fucking her, but sadly, I can’t be mad about that. I told him last week I didn’t care if he saw other women.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Vanessa turns her attention back to Reeve and walks up to the counter, resting her arms on the edge next to me. “So what are you making?”

“Lemon pasta and blackened chicken,” he says as he pulls out a cutting board and knife. I take another sip—well, gulp—of my wine.

“Sounds fantastic. I’m starved,” she says and actually sits her ass on the edge of the stool next to me.

My jaw drops open slightly because I’m wondering if we now have a dinner guest. This also pisses me off, and all of my fantasies of Reeve being completely immersed in me go crashing down into dejected disappointment. I actually start to push up off the stool, intent on walking out the front door, when Reeve looks up to Vanessa.

“I’m sorry, Vanessa,” he says in a sympathetic but firm tone. “I’m actually on a date with Leary. Wouldn’t be quite as romantic with you joining us, now would it?”

I know we only agreed to be fuck buddies, but damn . . . it feels nice having him validate me to this stunning and youthful beauty.

Vanessa’s face flames, her eyes going round with surprise. “A date?”

“A date,” Reeve affirms and then shoots me a quick smile. I smile back—big—and take a delicate sip of my wine, now enjoying the show.

“But you don’t date,” she says in confusion, and I have to wonder how close she is to him to know that.

“I do now,” he says with a grin, and then he points to me. “I mean, look at her. How could I not date that?”

My chest actually puffs out a little.

Vanessa’s face flames redder, and I think it’s from anger, not embarrassment. Reeve just stares at her, waiting for her to take the hint to leave. She stares back at him, and I might just have to take matters into my own hands and throw her out.

Finally, her shoulders sag and she says, “Okay. I guess I’ll get going. Enjoy your dinner.”

“’Bye,” Reeve says, and Vanessa doesn’t bother looking at me as she walks out of the kitchen. A moment later I hear his door open and close.

Reeve starts cutting the chicken up, a knowing smile on his face. I’m desperate for him to tell me about her, but he’s clearly not going to do so willingly.

Finally, I prompt, “So . . . she seems nice.”

“She is,” he agrees.

“Beautiful, too.”

“Yeah, sure . . . I guess.”

“Young,” I prod.

“I think she’s twenty.”

I have to bite down on my tongue not to gnash my teeth in frustration. “Big, big boobs,” I goad him.

“I guess. Didn’t really pay attention.”

Aha! He didn’t look at her boobs. Vindication.

No, wait. All men look at boobs.

“Oh, give me a fucking break,” I snap at Reeve, and his eyes slide to mine with a mischievous grin. “All men look at boobs. So tell me the deal . . . is she a fuck buddy, too?”

Reeve sets the knife down, calmly steps over to the sink, and washes his hands. He takes a towel and dries them, then says to me in a slightly taunting voice, “Well, well, well. Who would have thought it? My little fuck buddy, Leary Michaels, is jealous.”

“Am not,” I deny.

“Are, too,” he says in a silky voice as he sets the towel down and starts rounding the kitchen island.

“You’re demented,” I sneer at him, but my heart rate accelerates as he clears the corner and steps up to me.

“Hmm,” is all he says as he turns the stool I’m sitting on toward him. His hands go to my knees, and he pries my legs apart so he can step in closer. “I’m finding I like this jealousy.”

“I’m not jealous,” I snap at him. “Just curious.”

“This jealousy sort of turns me on,” he murmurs, completely ignoring my denials. He bends down to nip at my lower lip, and I can’t help the tiny moan that escapes. My hands come up to grab his shoulders.

“I. Am. Not. Jealous.”

“So jealous,” he says with a grin; then his hands come to my hips, and he lifts me up and deposits me on the counter. “Lie down.”

“What?” He places his hand on my chest and pushes me backward on the island.

When my back hits the cold granite, his hands are already working at my clothes. My pumps hit the floor, and I send a brief prayer up that Mr. Chico Taco doesn’t eat my Stuart Weitzmans. I stare at his recessed lighting as I feel my garters unsnapped and my stockings pulled off. Then he’s bunching up my skirt and pulling my panties down.

“Black lace,” he murmurs, but I don’t even bother looking up. I know what he’s going to do, and I’m going to just lie back and enjoy it. “Did you wear that for me?”

“No,” I deny, but he just laughs softly.

“Liar.”

I smile to myself and my eyes flutter shut when I feel his hands spreading my legs wider. His fingertips probe at my pussy, and I feel hot breath on me, then a tiny flutter on my clit from his tongue.

“Ooh,” I murmur and then sigh contentedly.

“I wanted to do this in my bedroom,” Reeve says, then gives me a long swipe of his tongue, causing my hips to buck. “I wanted to use a G-spot stimulator on you while I ate you out.”

“Oh God,” I moan at the thought of him and his toys.

“Guess I’ll just have to use my fingers. The old-fashioned way,” he says before plunging his tongue inside me. He pumps and swivels and swirls it, his nose pressed up against my clit. His face is buried in deep, and my hands automatically come to his head.

Reeve pulls back, takes a deep breath, and then pushes two fingers inside me. He curls them, hits the right spot, and a bolt of pleasure spears through me. He starts massaging me from the inside with his fingers while his mouth comes down to cover my clit.

Then in a series of circles, flutters, and lashings, he starts to work me over hard. My hips gyrate on their own, completely ruled and possessed by the lust he’s stirring up and the insanely terrible need I now have to come.

I grip his head hard and mutter, “Too bad Vanessa didn’t walk in on this.”

Reeve laughs against my pussy, and even the vibrations of his humor are fueling me higher. His mouth pulls away from me, and I give a soft whine of disappointment.

“Hey,” Reeve says softly, his fingers still deep inside me.

My eyes pop open and I lift my head from the counter. He’s peering up at me in between my legs.

“She’s not a fuck buddy,” he says. “Never has been and never will be.”

Warmth spreads through my chest, and I’m oddly touched that he would take the time to ease my worry. I smile at him, hoping he sees my gratitude and that he understands that maybe his answer is more important to me than even I give it credit for.

He smiles back.

“Thank you,” I tell him softly.

“Anytime,” he murmurs.

I squeeze my fingers on his skull and lay my head back down, closing my eyes. “Now finish me off, baby.”

“With pleasure,” he says, and then his mouth is back on me.

He doesn’t fuck around, either. He goes right in for the kill, doing something with his tongue that batters at me, causes my orgasm to furl inward for a brief moment, then pulse outward until my entire back arches off the counter and I’m coming, coming, coming.

“So damn beautiful,” Reeve mutters as my body shakes and spasms, and his fingers pump inside me a few more times.

Then he’s gone and I hear the rustle of his pants, the clink of his belt buckle, and the sound of foil being ripped.

My eyes open just as Reeve’s hands are back at my hips, pulling me off the counter. I’m loose and weak as a baby after that orgasm, so I just let Reeve do all the work as he turns me away from him and bends me over one of the kitchen stools.

He props my ass up, tilts it, and pulls back on my hips. I feel his cock rubbing between my legs from behind, and a low growl coming out of his chest.

“Your ass is so beautiful, Leary,” he whispers as one hand comes up to caress my skin. He pushes the head of his cock into me at the same time he turns his hand, dragging an index finger down between my ass cheeks. His finger lightly touches and prods at my opening, and my breath catches.

“Ever had your ass fucked, Leary?”

I shake my head violently back and forth, not because the idea is abhorrent to me but because, God help me, his finger there is entirely too sinful and erotic, and I yearn for him to push me.

“Maybe I will one day,” he murmurs, stroking his finger lightly over me. I push back a little and he gives a hoarse chuckle. “Yeah, I think you’ll like it, but we’ll start with some toys first.”

The idea frightens yet titillates me, so I won’t rule it out.

His hand moves away, back to grasp my hips, and he pushes into me in a slow, fluid stroke, straight to the hilt.

“Ah,” I moan as his fingers dig into my flesh.

He holds himself within me just a moment, and I wait for him to start pounding away. His thumbs move softly over my lower back, and I can feel the pulse of his cock thumping lightly inside me.

“I’m confused,” Reeve says, grinding into me just a bit.

“Why?” I gasp and push back against him.

“I don’t understand how one woman can feel this good,” he says with naked honesty.

His words strike at me deep. He’s voicing the same thoughts I’ve had all week.

How can one man be so vastly different from the others I’ve had? How can he bring me so quickly to dizzying heights? How can he fully entertain and annoy me at the same time? And how can I actually be starting to have feelings for a man who should be my sworn enemy?

I don’t respond, although I feel like he’s waiting for me to validate what he just said. I can’t. My emotions are too clogged up right now to sort them out and voice them correctly. Instead, I grind back against him, pull forward so he slips out of me a bit, then slam back again.

His fingers dig in again and then it’s on.

He starts thrusting into me deep and fast. I slam back against his forward motion.

It’s brutal, the type of fucking that’s going to leave bruises, and it feels so amazing, I think I’m going to blow quickly again.

I listen to Reeve’s harsh pants coming faster, almost wheezing. My heartbeat is thundering so hard, I feel light-headed. With every knock against my deepest wall with the end of his cock, my orgasm starts to gather tightly.

“I can’t hold it, Leary,” Reeve gasps as he lurches against me frantically. “Going to come.”

Not without me, you’re not.

My hand goes between my legs, and with the slightest touch of my fingertips to my clit, the dam of pleasure bursts wide-open and I start to moan with the release.

“Oh God, baby,” Reeve pants in between hard pumps of his hips. “I can feel you coming all around me.”

His words alone spark me again, and tears spring to my eyes from the overwhelming pleasure I’m experiencing.

Reeve slams into me so hard my chest goes to the stool seat, and the crack of his flesh against mine rebounds through the kitchen. He goes utterly still and then a long groan pours out of him. His cock leaps inside me a few times, and I know that every movement corresponds to a jet of release pouring out of him.

“Holy shit,” Reeve wheezes as his chest drops to my back. “Holy fucking shit.”

I giggle, but that’s all I can do, as I’m having a hard enough time sucking in oxygen.

“So good,” Reeve mutters, and I nod my head. His arms come around my waist, and he squeezes me tight. “So damn good.”

CHAPTER 10

REEVE

My client is a schmuck. Dr. Garry Summerland is the sole owner of Summerland General Surgery. He’s been practicing medicine for twenty-seven years now, having first cut his teeth in various ER trauma wards, and later opening up his private practice in Raleigh, just shy of twenty years ago. He employs fourteen general surgeons to perform a variety of surgeries, with most of their expertise focused on abdominal and gastrointestinal procedures.

About ten years ago, Summerland got into the gastric-bypass business because it was big bucks and could be considered a medically necessary procedure, which equated to big payouts from private and state insurance as well as Medicare.

This should have been enough to satisfy Summerland, but it wasn’t, which meant that he would still take any type of surgical case that walked through his doors. Jenna LaPietra was the unfortunate soul who walked through those doors.

She originally saw him for an emergency appendectomy, for which he happened to be on call at the hospital. During her postsurgery follow-up appointment with him, she mentioned the back pain she was experiencing from her large breasts. That conversation perked Summerland’s ears. He smelled money and suggested a reduction.

Now most of the medical experts will agree that a general surgeon is qualified to perform certain breast surgeries. Usually that means lumpectomies and mastectomies for breast-cancer patients. I believe Summerland’s line of thinking was, I’ve lopped off many a woman’s boobs, thus I’m qualified to handle Jenna’s breast-reduction surgery.

The absolute fight in this case boils down to whether or not Summerland should have performed this surgery. Leary has three medical experts who will testify on Jenna’s behalf. They’re good.

Damn good.

Two are from Duke—a general surgeon and a plastic surgeon—and the other is a general surgeon from the University of North Carolina. Leary’s experts will testify that although it’s within the standard of care for general surgeons to perform breast surgeries, including mastectomies, it is generally not within their field of expertise to perform cosmetic breast reductions.

Leary’s doctors will testify that plastic surgeons have much more certification and training in the complexities and delicate nature of such a surgery, and a breast reduction is not a mastectomy. A mastectomy without reconstruction is done for full breast removal without any thought to the way it looks after. A breast reduction is a delicate procedure to remove a defined portion of breast material that involves shaping and contouring, something a general surgeon is not qualified to do. If a breast-cancer patient wants a mastectomy with reconstruction, then a plastic surgeon is called in to handle that type of surgery.

Thus, Leary’s theory of negligence is very simple.

Dr. Summerland was only qualified to perform a breast surgery that would require full removal of the breast without any expectation of nondeformed results.

My client is a schmuck because he sees it differently.

Garry Summerland sees it differently because he has a God complex. He’s one of those doctors who believes he can do anything, and he’s cocky and egocentric enough not to let little things like advanced training get in the way of his desire to make money.

Today is the last of three straight days that Leary and I have been in depositions. I’ve deposed her expert witnesses, asking painstakingly crafted questions to delve into and reveal every potential piece of evidence and testimony that they may give on Jenna’s behalf. I’ll use these transcripts to compare to the medical research I’ve done, as well as my own experts’ opinions, and hopefully discredit these witnesses on the stand during my cross-examination during trial.

These last three days Leary has also deposed my experts, who I admit are not as good as hers. Two of my experts went to medical school with my client and one is a golfing buddy, so there’s bias there. My other expert is from Oregon, and it’s hard to match up an out-of-state doctor with her experts from Duke and Carolina.

If this case boils down to a battle of the experts, Leary will most likely win, and the odd thing about that is I don’t care if she wins. I mean, I want to win because I’m competitive, but when all things are considered, I have to admit to myself I believe in Leary’s case more than my own.

Some would think this would create an ethical dilemma, but it doesn’t. I don’t have to believe in my cases. I only have to use the evidence I have and do my best to present and argue them to convince a jury to see my way of thinking. I get paid a good salary to do this, and I have no qualms about keeping my emotions and personal feelings out of it, because ultimately I wasn’t hired to protect Dr. Summerland. My actual client is his insurance company, TransBenefit Insurance, which makes billions of dollars every year and hires people like me to fight against claims like this so they can preserve their billions of dollars.

Leary and the type of law she practices are a bit different. She represents people, not corporations. She not only invests her time and effort into the actual evidence, but she has an emotional connection to the people she represents. Put money aside, and the stakes are higher for her than for me.

Now, back to Summerland being a schmuck.

Leary saved his deposition for last. After three solid days of being immersed in complex medical testimony, we’re both exhausted. My brain is fuzzy, and luckily all I have to do this afternoon is listen to Leary’s questions and object if necessary.

Summerland walked into the conference room, chest puffed out, chin raised, and condescension in his eyes. I prepared him last night via phone and highly encouraged him to come in humble, but I could tell right away that was a concept so foreign to him that he’d never be able to pull it off.

The first thing he did was refuse to shake Leary’s hand when she stood up from the table to welcome him. The next thing he did was run his gaze up and down her body a few times, and even lick his bottom lip.

I get it. I really do. Leary is a phenomenal beauty and sexy as hell. What man wouldn’t do that?

I wanted to punch the motherfucker.

Leary handled it like a pro. She grilled him for three hours straight, refusing to take a break when he asked to go to the bathroom. Every answer he gave her was short and clipped, and she had to fight with him the entire time to get him to answer her questions in a straightforward manner. She did it with an absolutely professional demeanor.

Total fucking schmuck, and I’m glad this deposition is almost over. I can tell when Leary starts winding down.

“Just a few more questions, Dr. Summerland,” she says, flipping through her notes. “I want to talk to you about the finances of your practice, Summerland General Surgery.”

“I don’t think that’s relevant,” he sneers. “What I make has nothing to do with this case.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” she says calmly. “But I’m allowed to ask any questions that may lead to the discovery of admissible evidence. So I’m going to ask them, you’re going to answer them, and it’s up to your attorney—Mr. Holloway there—to keep anything inappropriate out of evidence. Okay?”

He just glares at Leary and that’s enough for her. She presses on.

“Now, Dr. Summerland, I understand the majority of your practice relates to abdominal and gastrointestinal surgeries, is that correct?”

“Yes,” he says.

“But you do other types of surgeries?”

“Yes.” Glare.

“Minor surgeries like hernia repairs and appendectomies?”

“Yes.” Eyes flick to her breasts.

“Surgical oncology, removal of tumors?”

“Yes.” Eyes stay pinned on her breasts. My fists clench.

“And if I’m correct, the majority of your income earned comes from weight-loss surgeries like gastric bypass, right?”

“Yes.” Lick of his lips. My nails dig into my palms.

“What percentage of your overall income is from the weight-loss surgeries?”

Summerland’s eyes now snap up to Leary’s. His lip curls up in a sneer. “I’m not answering that. It’s none of your business.”

“I have to wonder what you’re so afraid of, Dr. Summerland. What could you possibly be trying to hide from the jury?” Leary says with wide-eyed innocence.

Summerland’s face flames red and he stutters, realizing this will make him look like a fool to the trial jury. He is well aware of the camera Leary has rolling to later play to the jury—she’s probably zoomed in now on his face. “I am not hiding anything. It’s just that without my financial records in front of me, I can’t honestly answer that question.”

“And I assume you didn’t bring those records with you today?” she asks politely.

“No, I didn’t,” he says confidently, giving her a smarmy smile, and his gaze goes back to her breasts.

“And may I also assume that if you did have those records here with you, you’d gladly disclose that information to the jury, who will later see this video?”

He gives a magnanimous incline of his head to her and says, “Of course I would.”

“Then I’d like to go ahead and hand this to you,” she says as she pulls a white form out from underneath her notepad.

Dr. Summerland blinks in surprise and reaches a tentative hand out to accept the document. She’s been handing him various medical records all afternoon and going through his notes with painstaking detail, so he thinks nothing of taking this document from her now.

His gaze goes down to skim the paper in his hand and then jolts back to hers. I have no clue what she just handed him, and ordinarily I’d ask to see it, but damn . . . I’m kind of enjoying watching her hand him his ass.

“That’s a subpoena, Dr. Summerland, demanding you turn over your tax returns for the last five years, as well as your accounting books, specifically asking your income to be broken down by the various types of surgeries you conduct each year.”

Summerland starts to shake and I see him getting ready to explode. I want to cover my face with my hand to laugh at him. I want to shoot a smirk and a wink across the table to Leary, never having enjoyed one of my clients getting sandbagged before.