Hardass (Bad Bitch) Page 5

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Hearing problems, Ms. Montreat?”

  “No, that’s just”—I stole a glance at the sheaf of papers and the CD that could contain thousands more documents—“soon, is all.”

  “If you can’t keep up, I’m sure Ms. Evans would be more than happy to help me.”

  “Really? Yvonne couldn’t lawyer her way out of a paper bag.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “And you can?” He gave me a sidelong glance as we pulled into his parking spot.

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll see. Have it on my desk by noon.” He didn’t move, just waited for me to get out.

  “Calling it an early night, Mr. Granade?” I twisted and reached between our seats to gather the documents.

  Mr. Granade shifted in his seat at my intentional invasion of his personal space. Good.

  “I have a prior appointment, which is why I’m trusting you to get this done for me.”

  I turned back around in my seat and opened the door. “I will. By noon.”

  “Good. After we get our feet under us with the documents, we’ll start doing some real investigation.”

  I got out and was about to close the door when Mr. Granade spoke.

  “And don’t forget to schedule a visit to the morgue within the next few days. I want to see the bodies. Photos are good, but we need to take our expert, Dr. Snider, over for a look. Coordinate the trip.”

  My blood chilled at the thought of dead bodies. I bent over and met his eye. “Do we have to go?”

  “Do you want to be a defense attorney?” His tone was mocking, though he did genuinely quirk an eyebrow.

  I had never seen a body before, especially not one that had been carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey, if the news reports were true. I fought my fear and tried to nod. Nothing happened. I swallowed hard.

  His gaze flickered down to my throat but no lower before he caught my eyes again. “Well?”

  I clutched the documents to my chest and let out a resigned sigh. “Yes.”

  “Then, yes, we have to go. Good night, Ms. Montreat.”

  “’Night.” I straightened up and closed the car door. I expected him to back out and leave, but he waited until I’d made it to the elevator bank, and even until the doors were closing and blocking me from view, before he put his car in reverse.

  Terrell was waiting for the elevator when I arrived on the third floor.

  “You’re going the wrong way. Turn around for home and wine.”

  “Can’t.” I held up the folder of documents. “Have to go through some evidence and make a log for Mr. Granade.”

  “We already back to Mr. Granade’s log again?” He grinned.

  I rolled my eyes and walked past him. “Don’t wait up. I’m going to be here for a while.”

  Yvonne came around the corner, her hooker heels clacking. “Finally decided to do some work today, Caroline?”

  I was not in the mood for her shit. “The only thing you know about working is how to shimmy your skinny ass up under a desk and work a dick like you’re a bobblehead doll.”

  Terrell snorted and covered his mouth with his hand.

  Yvonne narrowed her eyes. “You—”

  “Ladies.” Mr. Palmer walked past the reception desk, the expression on his face akin to sucking on a lemon . . . a rotten one. “Let’s at least try to live up to the decorum required in our profession, shall we?”

  Fuck. Whereas Mr. Granade was the fabled hardass, Mr. Palmer was a stone-cold operator. Nothing got by him. He was in his fifties, single, rich from his own hard work, and conscientious to a fault. I was still surprised he’d hired me to work for him, though I suspected Terrell had something to do with it.

  The Lynches and the Palmers were once slave families to one of the most powerful families in New Orleans. It was some sort of poetic justice that the slaves’ descendants were at the top of the food chain whereas the former masters’ families were scattered and no more high class than I was.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Palmer.” Yvonne jumped ahead of me in the brown-noser line.

  “I don’t want apologies, Ms. Evans, just better behavior.”

  His gaze rested on the documents in my arms. “Long night, Ms. Montreat? I heard Wash chose you to work on the Ellis case.”

  “Yes. Just got the evidence from the State.” I wanted to apologize, but it didn’t seem to have worked out too well for Yvonne, so I held off.

  Mr. Palmer dismissed me by turning his gaze to Terrell. “Care to go for an early dinner? Your father’s meeting me at the club.”

  I grinned at Terrell over Mr. Palmer’s shoulder. Terrell hated the “stuffy rich folks torture chamber,” as he called it. But he wasn’t getting out of it this time, not when Mr. Palmer was asking point blank.

  “Sure, sounds great.” He forced a smile as I tiptoed backward like a cartoon character.

  It was gratifying that Yvonne was left standing to the side, not invited and with nothing to do other than give me a scathing look as I turned and walked down the hall to my office.

  My smile faded as I realized the long night of work I had ahead of me. I kicked my shoes into my office and went to the copy room to scan everything into the firm’s document-management software. It was relatively painless, taking only a few minutes before I could sit down at my desk and begin sifting. I called in an order to the Indian place a few blocks over and settled in for the evening.

  The police reports seemed like the best place to start. Seven bodies over three years. I began working up an outline, filling in details of the murders. The similar injuries, the checkered pasts of the victims, the even more checkered past of Rowan Ellis. I saved the pictures for last. I figured if I could get through everything else, I would have steeled myself for the gore.

  It was almost midnight by the time I’d read through the last document and gotten to the photo evidence. The office was eerily quiet. The hum of the air-conditioning and the whir of my computer’s fan were the only things to break the silence.

  I skimmed down to the JPEG files and clicked on the first one. I flinched, expecting some horribly gory scene. Instead, it was just a peaceful waterway, cypress trees and vines in the background. It wasn’t so bad. You can do this.

  I clicked to the next one. More water, more trees. No big deal. The next was a closer shot of a white tree trunk rising out of the water a bit. I clicked through a few more, each one focusing more on the tree trunk. Then I put my hand to my mouth. It wasn’t a tree trunk. It was a body. Its skin was ghastly white, as if it’d been bleached by the sun. She was nude, her flesh wrinkled and ruined from the water. Her mouth was open, as if frozen in a perpetual scream. I had thought it was a dark knot on the tree.

  My gorge rose, and I stood, trying to escape the image that was already seared into the backs of my eyelids. I leaned against my desk, my back to the monitor as I tried to shake the horror away. I had to pull myself together. This was probably nothing compared to what the morgue would be like. But her face, the terror that was visible even through the decay . . . Breathe, I told myself, my hand at my throat. Just breathe.

  “Ms. Montr—?”

  I jumped and screamed.

  “Whoa, whoa.” Mr. Granade had been standing in my doorway and hurried over to me. “You okay?”

  I nodded and examined the floor, still horrified yet simultaneously embarrassed that I’d screamed like a banshee. He stood in front of me and looked to my right, at the screen. I was shaking, and my knees felt like they might go if not for the desk behind me.

  “Oh, hell. This is not something you should be looking at all alone up here this late at night.” He sighed and put his hands on my upper arms. “Ms. Montreat, look at me. It’s okay.”

  I lifted my eyes to his. He reached over and hit a key that made my screen go back to my desktop. A photo of Terrell and me at a particularly booze-filled pub crawl filled the screen, both of us smiling goofily and raising our glasses. Why did I think that was a good desktop bac
kground? I shook my head.

  The corners of his mouth quirked a bit as he put his hand back on my arm. “You’re shaking.” He ran a hand through his hair, his dark blue eyes searching mine.

  Her face flashed across my mind, and I fought the tears away. His eyes on me, his scent, his five o’clock shadow—all of it was comforting, which made the tears an even greater possibility. Funny how when you have someone to cry on, the tears are more willing to a show up and make a scene.

  “Shit. Come here.” His words were gruff, but he pulled me into his arms with a gentleness that shocked me more than if he’d hit me.

  I rested my cheek against his chest, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath his dress shirt. His tie was gone, and his top buttons were open. I stood there in his arms, letting him hold me as tears rolled down my face. I didn’t sob, no dramatics. I just cried silent tears for the woman in the photo.

  Mr. Granade rubbed a hand down my back as my breath hitched.

  “It’s okay. I know, Caroline. It’s okay.” He spoke into my hair since, without my shoes, I was a foot shorter than him.

  “It’s just so horrible, is all.” As if that explained me turning into a blubbering mess.

  “I know. I shouldn’t have let you look through those without me here. It’s late. You’re tired. I just didn’t think. That was my mistake.” The low rumble of his voice against my ear was soothing, just like his hand at my back.

  I would definitely give myself a stern talking-to later about my crybaby antics. But for now, I just wanted to stay in his arms. After a few more moments, I got myself under control and wiped my eyes. He stepped back, though he kept his hands on my arms.

  “Better?”

  “Yes, better.” Thank God for waterproof mascara or I would have ruined his shirt. “Thank you.”

  I looked at him and resolved to suck it up. I put my shoulders back just a little and lifted my chin. My simple movements caused something to change as he watched me, his lids lowering the slightest bit. The air was different, charged somehow. The concern in his face shifted until his wolfish gaze was back. My breath caught in my throat, but not because of fear. It was pure desire that roared to life inside me, heating my skin. I bit my bottom lip. His gaze followed the movement and then his mouth was on mine.

  I closed my eyes, unable to process what was happening. His hands were at my back clutching me to him as his lips owned mine. I moaned into his mouth and raised on my tiptoes to get even closer. He tasted like whisky and mint. He tilted his head to the side and slanted over me, his tongue licking me and seeking entrance. I gave it to him, opening and letting him plunder my mouth, my tongue stroking his.

  My breath left my body and everything in me was focused on the connection between us. My nerve endings were exploding, chill bumps radiating down my arms. He pulled me closer and lifted me so I was sitting on the desk. I wrapped my arms around him as he fisted my hair and pulled my head back. He wedged his hips between my legs, my skirt stretching to its limit as I spread for him. He was possessing me, his body mastering mine. I’d wanted this, wanted him, but it was only then I realized it was more than just a want. I was starved for him.

  He ran his hand down my back to my ass and pulled me toward him. My skirt rode up my thighs as my legs opened wider. I was perched on the edge of the desk, his hard length pushing up against my sweet spot as he groaned. I was already so hot, so wet for him that I was certain he could feel it through his slacks.

  He gripped my hair tighter and moved down to my neck, his five o’clock shadow sending chills through me as he fastened his lips to my throat. I couldn’t stop the hooker moan that rose from me. All I could think of was him, his lips, his cock between my legs. There was nothing else. . . until he palmed my breast through my blouse.

  My hips bucked against him as he squeezed me hard, almost to the point of pain, before easing off and brushing his thumb over my stiff nipple.

  “Fuck,” he said against my neck and ground his cock into me.

  The pressure on my clit sent little explosions of pleasure detonating through me. He moved down to my breasts and yanked my hair harder, forcing me to arch into him. He fastened on my nipple through my shirt, sucking the hard bud into his mouth as he squeezed my ass with his other hand.

  When he clenched my nipple between his teeth, I gripped the edge of my desk so hard I thought I might crack a nail. I wouldn’t have cared. I was at his mercy, and there was nowhere else I wanted to be.

  “I have to stop.” His voice was a rasp, sex in every note. Instead of following through with his words, he ran a hand up my thigh, pushing my skirt up onto my hips.

  “Jesus Christ. You aren’t wearing panties.”

  When his thumb grazed over my bare flesh, I squirmed and let out a desperate sound on a pant. He released my hair and sank to his knees.

  “You aren’t wearing panties.” Disbelief and lust mixed as he repeated himself. I could feel his breath on me, warming my already-hot flesh.

  “Please.” It was the only word I could muster. I was desperate for his mouth on me.

  “Please, Caroline?” He hesitated, his warm exhale making me desperate for his touch. “I should stop. I should.”

  “Please.” I curled my fingers, my nails digging into the papers on top of the desk.

  “I couldn’t stop even if I tried.” He ran his tongue up my slit, and my hips nearly jolted off the desk. He smiled up at me, his devilish dimples on full display. “You taste just as good as I imagined.”

  “Oh my God.” I dropped my head back and braced myself with my hands behind me on the desk.

  “Look at me, Caroline. I want you to look at me the entire time I’m eating your sweet pussy. Understand?”

  I could have come just from his words, the tenor of his voice, the deep blue of his eyes as I returned his gaze. He ducked his head down, though he kept his eyes on me, and open-mouth-kissed my clit. I moaned as he put his palms against my thighs and pushed them wider. His tongue was wicked, licking and swirling around my clit to the point my hips were rocking against him, fucking his face.

  He groaned into my skin, and I thought I was going to come from the vibration. But he backed away. I wanted to drag his head back to me. He smoothed one hand up my inner thigh, and then I felt the pressure of his fingers.

  “Mr. Granade,” I gasped as he finger-fucked me.

  Then he went back to work with his tongue, and I was awash in a sea of pleasure. He sucked my clit and moved his fingers in and out at a hellish pace. My hips acted of their own accord, pushing his fingers deeper with each stroke as he fastened his mouth to my sensitive spot.

  My hips began to seize and my pussy clenched. I moaned to the ceiling as I came, my walls compressing around his fingers as a hard, thumping orgasm claimed all my senses. I was nothing but nerve endings, centered around what his mouth and fingers were doing.

  I came back down, and he gave me a few more licks before pulling his fingers from me and standing.

  “Open.” His eyes were alight as he brought his fingers to my mouth.

  I did as he said and opened my mouth for him, licking and sucking my own taste from his fingers until they were clean.

  He closed his eyes for a second, as if overcome, and then yanked my skirt back down my thighs.

  “I trust you realize this never happened, Ms. Montreat.” He stepped back, giving me an excellent view of his substantial, rock-hard cock. My mouth watered.

  “Never happened. That’s right.” I nodded in agreement, but inside I was panicking. Would he try to fire me for this? Would he want me off the case?

  “When I say it never happened, I mean it, Ms. Montreat. Everything will be back to normal tomorrow, and this will never happen again.”

  “Yes.” But what if I want it to happen again?

  His mussed hair made it seem as if he’d just ridden me like a rented mule when, in fact, he’d been generous and given me the best orgasm of my life. “I’ll walk you out. It’s late.”

  I
would have protested that I could take care of myself, but the memory of the woman in the water crept back into my mind, and I grabbed my bag.

  We rode the elevator in silence, each in our own corner despite what we’d just shared. He walked me to my car and reached to open the door for me, but stopped. Again. “Good night, Ms. Montreat. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Okay. ’Night.” I got into my car and cranked it up. He followed me out of the deck, but we turned opposite ways once on the street.

  My thoughts were a tornado of shock and post-orgasm endorphins. What was he thinking? I knew what I was thinking. I’d finally gotten a taste of what I wanted. But Mr. Granade? I smirked. He was probably panicking his hardass off. Fine by me.

  I couldn’t wait to test his theory of “this will never happen again.” Game on.

  Chapter Five

  Washington

  The water rushed over me, and I leaned my forehead against the cool shower tile. What had I been thinking? I hadn’t, and that was the problem. I’d just mouth-fucked an associate, and in the office, no less.

  I’d returned home in a blur the night before, Caroline’s taste still on my lips as I stroked myself off. I’d closed my eyes and felt her blond locks in my hands, her pussy squeezing me tight, and I came in moments. A hard orgasm that had me panting and bracing myself against my sink.

  My cock had hardened again at just the thought of her, the memory of her bare pussy, her shuddering breaths, her strangled cries as she came. Fuck. I bounced my head against the tile and tried to will my erection away. It didn’t work. I couldn’t go to work like this. I had to be with her all day, going over evidence and planning our next steps.

  I gripped myself and gave a few hard pumps, my eyes closed, her big brown eyes staring up at me as her pink lips took every inch. I was already at the edge, but then her soft whimpers played in my mind and I was lost, my seed spurting out in hot jets and flowing down the drain right along with my self-control.

  I soaped up and finished my shower, trying to refocus my energies on the case instead of thinking about how much more fulfilled my cock would be if it really had been buried deep in Caroline’s mouth. I batted those thoughts away and shaved, cutting myself far more than usual as my thoughts wandered.