Hardass (Bad Bitch) Page 2

  He finally finished his rapid-fire typing and clicked something on his screen. Then he focused his eyes on me, and the heat that had already been in my ears turned into an inferno. He was just so good-looking. It should have gotten him a censure from the bar for unfairly competitive behavior. He was thirty-one but had made partner at an unheard-of twenty-seven. And he was so much more than an unbearably pretty face.

  I sighed. Wait, did I just sigh?

  He cocked an eyebrow. “What was that?”

  “What? Nothing. A yawn?” Ears at five-alarm-fire heat levels.

  He shook his head and, wait for it, ran his hand through his hair. There it was, the cause of the rumpling. It was so masculine yet also so unusual. He was always perfect to a fault whenever I saw him, not a hair out of place.

  “Never mind. Let’s just talk about the case.”

  I poised my pen over my legal pad.

  “Rowan Ellis.”

  I popped my head up. “The Bayou Butcher?”

  He nodded and leaned back in his chair, resting one hand on his desk. “But I never want to hear you refer to him as that again.”

  “Of course not.” I began writing “Bayou Butcher” on my notepad in big, dramatic letters.

  “We are heading to Angola tomorrow for our first face-to-face. I need you to be on point, be a second set of eyes and ears for me. Got it?”

  “Yes.” Seen and not heard, got it.

  “I expect you to take excellent notes. I want to be able to go over every fact, every scrap of information, once we’re out of there. This is the foundation of our case. We build our entire defense off this first interview, and I want it to be solid.”

  I glanced up from my notepad, and he looked away. But it was too late. I’d seen it. He’d been checking me out, the girls in particular. I couldn’t have stopped my smile even if a gallon of Botox had been injected into my lips.

  He cleared his throat. “I expect you to be ready to travel at eight sharp tomorrow. Meet me in the parking deck at my car.”

  He turned back to his e-mails and started typing again. I’d been dismissed. I stood and dropped my Rules of Evidence. It was accidental. Accidental on purpose. I bent over from my waist to pick up the book. By the time I’d straightened back up, he was staring intently at his computer screen, but his fingers were still.

  I swayed my hips for the few steps to the doorway, my heels click-clacking along his wood floor. I opened the door and was about to step out when he spoke.

  “Angola isn’t a picnic, Ms. Montreat. It’s full of murderers and rapists of the worst sort. I would suggest you dress a bit more conservatively. Please consult the employee handbook if you need any more instruction.”

  I looked over my shoulder and clocked another look. This time his gaze had been glued to my ass.

  “Yes, Mr. Granade.” I practically floated down the hall away from his office.

  When I turned the corner he closed his door roughly, not quite a slam but just shy. I smiled. This assignment was getting better by the second.

  Chapter Two

  Caroline

  I leaned against Mr. Granade’s car, the chilly morning air running up my bare legs and under my skirt. His engine was still ticking, as if he’d only just arrived. But he must have gone into the office, because he was nowhere to be seen.

  I had a notepad and my bag. It was five minutes before eight. I was surprised I’d managed to make it early, especially given that I tried on six different outfits before deciding on my short, light gray skirt suit and cobalt blue top. The top was especially calculated, because it hugged my ample breasts just right. Being curvy meant I knew how to emphasize my assets.

  I’d also spent an extra half hour getting my hair in perfect blond waves. I might not have been dressed for Angola, but I was certainly dressed for Mr. Granade. He just didn’t know it yet.

  At eight on the dot, he strolled out of the elevator. He wore a perfectly tailored dark gray suit, white dress shirt, and lighter blue tie. I stared. Hard.

  He stopped for a moment when he saw me, his blue eyes narrowing as he looked me up and down. He gave his head a slight shake. Did he even know he’d done it? Then he resumed his confident stride, though he looked everywhere but at me.

  “Morning, Ms. Montreat.”

  “Morning, boss.” I smiled up at him as he approached.

  His gaze snapped to me as the word “boss” rolled off my tongue. He went toward the passenger door of his sedan, as if he were going to open it for me. Then, at the last second, he walked around to the driver’s side.

  “Get in.” It was a gruff command.

  I obeyed and slid into his black leather seat. My skirt rode up a bit, showing even more of my legs. Total accident.

  He sank into his seat and started the engine. Voices took over the radio. Smart ones, at that.

  “NPR, huh?”

  “I like to learn something when I can.” He put the car in reverse, his gaze on the backup camera.

  “Me, too. Did you hear last week’s segment about the alleged embezzlement that went down on levee reconstruction post-Katrina?”

  He cut a glance to me before throwing the car into drive and maneuvering down the rows to the exit.

  “I did. I hear the AG is looking into it.”

  I slid on my sunglasses as we exited the deck. He pulled a pair from the center console and put them on. I didn’t think he could look any hotter. I was wrong. Washington Granade in sunglasses was a ladykiller. What was it about tinted glasses that gave such an air of mystery? I loved it.

  It wasn’t long before we were on the interstate, still listening to the news of the day and maintaining a relatively comfortable silence. He was an interesting driver. Aggressive, but somehow cautious at the same time. Several times I would have been dropping F-bombs like the blitzkrieg, but all he did was breathe out his nose sort of hard and then go back to his usual stoic self.

  When we got too far from the city to keep the NPR going, he switched it to a music station, nothing fancy, mostly Top Forty. It was just background. I saw my chance and took it.

  “So, you’re from New Orleans?”

  He took one hand from the wheel and laid it on the gearshift. The backs of his hands had a light dusting of dark hair. The fingers were long and the nails clipped to a reasonable man-length. Were his palms soft or callused?

  “Yes. From here.”

  I shifted in my seat, facing him at more of an angle. He moved his head toward me and then swiveled his attention back to the road. I couldn’t see his eyes behind the glasses.

  “Family still live here?”

  “Some of them.”

  His terse answers were no doubt meant to shut me up. They had the opposite effect.

  “Which ones?”

  “My brother Kennedy.” His smooth jaw tightened and released, tightened and released. “And my other brother, Lincoln, just moved back from New York.”

  “Parents?”

  “They’ve passed.”

  Shit. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. It’s been years, and I have a lot of great memories.” He smiled a little, as if a particularly happy memory had popped up right then.

  “So what does Kennedy do?”

  “Lawyer.”

  “Lincoln?”

  “Lawyer.”

  “Seems like the three of you should have started a firm. The name would be easy enough. The Granade Firm. Or maybe you’d do that ridiculous thing where you all three have to be listed because, you know, pissing contest.”

  His eyebrows raised above the frame of the sunglasses. But I was invested, so there was no stopping.

  “So it would be Granade, Granade, and Granade. But the question would be, which one of you is which Granade? Am I right? You’d probably tell everyone you were first, and then your brothers would do the same, and then it would be total anarchy.” I snickered.

  The corners of his lips twitched, not enough to give me a smile, not even the wolfish one, bu
t the impulse was there. I would take it. He sped up and passed several cars. Speed limits must have been for lesser attorneys. Or maybe ones who couldn’t talk themselves out of a ticket. I was certain he could talk his way out of a murder rap, even if he’d been caught with blood on his hands. He was just that good. I’d seen it. I believed it.

  “So what about your family?”

  “They live in Baton Rouge. I have a brother in New Orleans. He does some sort of financial stuff. I’m not really sure. He tells me about it, but I wind up, you know”—I made the jackoff motion with my hand—“just telling him to tell Mom so she can be proud, because I don’t give two shits.”

  Terrell’s voice echoed through my memory: Tone it down. I dropped my hand.

  He smirked as he glanced over at me. I was glad my sunglasses hid my eyes so he couldn’t see my attempt at being embarrassed.

  “I mean, I’m sure it’s a good job and everything.” I folded my hands in my lap to keep them under tighter guard. That meant my mouth was on its own. Not good.

  “How do you like the firm so far?”

  “I love it.” Kiss-ass. “I’ve wanted to do criminal defense since my second year of law school. And Palmer & Granade is where I wanted to be. So it all worked out according to my evil plans.”

  “Evil plans, huh? What made you decide on criminal defense?”

  You did. “I, well, I saw a trial that I got really interested in. It was like a Lifetime movie. You go into it thinking, Meh, this is going to be boring or stupid or dumb or trite, and then you watch and you’re crying and snotting and so invested and then you root for the heroine when she kills the bad guy even though she’s preggers with his love baby. You know?”

  The smirk graced me with its presence. “I am very pleased to say that no, I do not know. But do go on.”

  “The trial was just like that. It was an assignment for a litigation skills class. I’d already decided I wanted to be a transactional attorney and make the big bucks with minimal effort. No court time or anything. But then I saw this trial and I was hooked.”

  “What case?”

  “Oh, I, uh, it was State versus someone or other.” I shrugged and finally turned my gaze out the front windshield, the miles melting away in a blur of speed. I was lying. I would sound like a total stalker if I recited every detail of the trial—which I knew by heart.

  “I’m pretty sure all criminal trials are State versus someone or other.” He shifted in his seat the slightest bit, turning his attention on me. “Let’s see. You graduated last year, so your second summer—hmm. I remember trying a case that summer. Sutter—charged with murder. Ring a bell?”

  “That might have been it. I don’t really remember details.” My fingers fidgeted with each other, as if dying to escape and make another lewd hand gesture.

  “Let’s see, yeah, he was involved in a drug deal gone bad. His supplier was shot through the forehead with a .22. He was the likeliest suspect, so he got popped.” He smiled, even sexier with the sunglasses, but the dimples weren’t making an appearance. Not yet.

  Heat rushed along my skin, racing to the juncture of my thighs. “That may have been it.”

  “May have or was?” His voice was incisive.

  He was cross-examining me. Is it wrong that it turned me on to an alarming degree? “It was.”

  “That’s what I thought. Now, if I remember correctly, I tried that case alone, didn’t I? No co-counsel?”

  “I don’t remember.” I squirmed at the lie.

  “Come now, Ms. Montreat. Surely you can remember the case that you say is the very reason you took a job at my firm.” He had me. His tone, silky and oh-so-reasonable, told me he knew he had me. I knew that tone, remembered it from the very trial we were discussing. It had hypnotized me, put me under Washington Granade’s spell.

  Now I wanted him under mine. I tried a new tactic. Offense. I shifted back toward him and pretended to have noticed some lint on my top. I slid my lapel back and brushed my hand over the swell of my breast while letting my legs open the slightest bit because I was distracted.

  “Lint everywhere. I swear my dry cleaners are out to get me.” I looked up, and he faced forward, eyes on the road, both hands gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly.

  I took the chance to finish my interrogation the way I wanted. “But yes, I enjoyed the trial. I thought the State’s attorney, Matt Turnbull, wasn’t that his name? Anyway, I thought he really did a great job with the State’s case. Even though he lost, I think he was just so eloquent and prepared. Really a great attorney. I was so impressed that I wanted to do criminal work.”

  “Yeah, Matt.” A muscle ticked in his jaw.

  I wanted him to call me out on the lie, maybe pull over and spank me—if I was going to dream, I was going to dream big. Instead, he turned the radio up a few clicks and schooled his features. He was the Hardass again. At least I’d rattled him a bit and gotten him to stop cross-examining me. He was tenacious, but I didn’t want to show all my cards, and did I mention I was competitive?

  We rode the rest of the way in silence. I had a million more questions, but I tried to channel Terrell and keep them to myself.

  When we finally arrived at the front gate of the prison, the sun was high. Guard towers flanked the entrance, though I didn’t see anyone inside them. We pulled to a stop under an awning, and Mr. Granade rolled down his window to speak to the guard at what looked like a tollbooth.

  Once assured we were legit attorneys, not ex-cons with their hearts set on a prison break, the guard waved us through to the main building.

  “Stay close to me. Don’t wander off. Don’t speak to any of the inmates. Can you do that?” Mr. Granade stowed his glasses in the console.

  “Yes.”

  He turned to me, sternness and something else—worry?—written on his face. “Just keep your eyes open. These guys are contained, but it’s still a complex filled with violent people, okay? So stay close. Promise me you will.”

  “Okay. I promise.” I was at one and the same time thrilled that he cared but worried that I would get jumped Shawshank style.

  I got out, and he joined me as we walked up to the building. He kept his hand at my lower back as we went inside. It wasn’t exactly professional, but I wasn’t about to complain. His warning had gotten my radar pinging like crazy. I kept looking for shivs made from toothbrushes—and that was just on the guards. I had no idea what I’d do when I saw the actual inmates.

  We checked in at the desk and then prepared to go through the metal detector. Mr. Granade went ahead of me and dropped his keys, wallet, and a few other items in the bin. Then I heard the jingle of a belt buckle. Is he taking off his b—? Yes, he whipped his belt off and dropped it into the bin along with everything else and stepped through. No beeping; he was clear.

  I dropped my bag into a bin and walked through. Beeping. The guard came around and waved the wand all over me. The beeping happened whenever it went over my chest. The girls needed more than a regular underwire, as the metal detector could attest.

  “Put your arms out.” The guard kept waving his wand like he was directing airport traffic.

  I did as instructed. He kept beeping it over my chest. Heat rushed into my cheeks. Mr. Granade put his belt back on and stared as the guard kept up the TSA routine. At least he wasn’t laughing at me.

  “You got anything in your bra?”

  “Just my tits.” My face grew redder, and I wished, for just once in my life, I could think before I spoke.

  “I’m going to have to pat you down.” The guard grinned and dropped the wand onto the conveyor belt. He stepped toward me.

  Hell no.

  “No. You aren’t touching her.” Mr. Granade’s voice held a warning.

  “I have to search her. Can’t be letting people bring contraband into the prison.” The guard kept his eyes on me, or rather on my tits, until Mr. Granade walked between us.

  “I said you aren’t touching her. She’s an officer of the court,
and she’s with me. If you lay a finger on her, I’ll file a civil suit for section 1983 violations so fast it’ll make your hillbilly head spin.”

  I could only see his broad back, but tension was in his voice, his stance, his everything. I would have protested the search anyway, but having him step in for me was definitely more entertaining.

  “I have to search—”

  He took a step toward the guard so they were almost nose to nose. “Get Ted on the phone.”

  “Th-the warden?”

  I stood on my tiptoes and peeked over Mr. Granade’s shoulder. He smelled delicious, like some sort of woodsy soap. The guard glanced at me and back to Mr. Granade.

  “Yes, the warden. We pledged together in college. I spent a week at his beach house two months ago. So either let her through or get him on the phone. I don’t care which. But I can promise you, you aren’t touching her.”

  The guard opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, and grumbled before waving us through. I grabbed my items and gave the guard my best stink eye before following Mr. Granade down the hall. My heels were like gunshots on the linoleum, echoing off the whitewashed cinder-block walls.

  Mr. Granade rolled his shoulders, as if trying to unknot his earlier tension, and strode ahead to a set of iron bars. Another guard waited there, a comically enormous set of keys attached to a loop at his hip.

  “Washington Granade and Caroline Montreat here to see Rowan Ellis.”

  The guard radioed back to the front desk and got the okay before swinging the bars inward. We passed through another set of bars before entering the visiting area. I expected a row of chairs and reinforced glass separating us from the client, with old-school telephones to talk into. Instead, we were led to a small room with a desk and four chairs.

  “We’ll bring him out.” The guard closed and locked the door behind him, leaving Mr. Granade and me alone in the sparse room.

  “Have a seat facing the door. Get set up. Did you bring a recorder?”

  I dug in my bag. “Yes.”