Lawyer Up (24 page)

WRIT FOR SANCTIONS

As Pat walked back to her office, she looked at the plain manila envelope that had been hand-delivered to her. In fact, the messenger insisted that she sign for it personally, which was unusual. Also, while the return address was the Orleans Parish Civil District Court, there was no indication of who had sent it.

Odd!

Pat ripped it open as she walked back into her small office. Glancing through the windows, she could see the old court building in the distance, and if she squinted, she could just about make out which one was Stockard's window. She tried not to look. Two weeks had gone by since the final settlement filing and not a word. Clearly their kiss hadn't wowed him, but Pat thought he would at least have approved of how she “solved the problem.”

Thinking she might run into him or that he might even seek her out to compliment her creativity, Pat had dressed to impress every day right down to her sexy pumps. She had the sore feet to prove it. At least all the available guys in the firm were now eager to spend time with the new Pat-tastic, from the youngest associate to a gray-haired, newly divorced partner. Too bad none of them interested her.

Pat decisively turned her back on the window and on him, and sat down as she pulled out the single paper. The title, “Writ for Sanctions” startled her. Quickly she scanned the brief document, her absolute disbelief and ire growing with each word she read. Emmit Stockard seemed to think that he could use his extraordinary powers as a circuit court judge to demand her presence in his chambers. It was rather vague to say the least and looked strangely informal—no official stamp or court filing number—but Pat gathered she was in for another verbal set-down. It even stated the exact time she was supposed to appear before him. Exactly 6:30 p.m. today, only fifteen minutes from now!

“Unbelievable!” Pat shrieked, slamming the paper down on her desk after just a quick scan. “What nerve! Thinking I'll run over to him like a first-year associate.”

“What? Did you need something?” asked an actual associate who just happened to be walking by her open door.

“No, ah, no. I was just rambling,” she called, waving the young woman on her way, but Pat recognized that in this circumstance, she was really no different from a first-year attorney. Whether she liked it or not, she would hightail it over there to his chambers. One did not ignore a summons from a judge, and ignoring an official “writ” might even land her in contempt.

Pat started madly stuffing papers into her briefcase and then switched off her computer. She had to hurry, but vanity wouldn't allow her to go stand humbly before him without looking her best, which required a quick trip to the restroom to touch up her face and brush her hair. Staring at her lips while she reapplied her new favorite Kiss-Me-Red lipstick, Pat couldn't help but recall the last time she was in the judge's chambers.

She paused, frozen in place, as she remembered how it felt to be held in his strong arms, the fire Stockard had lit inside her with just one smoldering, demanding kiss. Pat shivered, the memory still so vivid. He'd been the man in her dreams come alive. So immensely masculine that even in four-inch heels she had, for the first time in her life, felt delicate, vulnerable…and feminine. Shoving those regrets aside, Pat raced back to her desk. There was little time to spare unless she wanted to be late and anger the judge even more.

As she marched the one block to the courthouse, Pat tried to imagine what transgression had so infuriated Stockard to cause him to actually enact a writ of sanctions against her. She wasn't sure it was even strictly legal—certainly the terminology was odd. Pat wished that he'd given her more time—it would have been an easy matter to draft a letter or a motion seeking reconsideration. But no, the Playboy Judge would expect all women to be delighted to rush to his chambers at the drop of a hat.

“Ha!” she chortled.

The more Pat griped, the madder she got, eventually reaching the courthouse doors in a full-blown fury. Lost in her thoughts, Pat didn't notice that she had slammed her purse and briefcase down onto the metal detector.

The elderly security guard smiled. “Tough day?” he asked, handing them back to her.

Pat managed a quick, “Sorry. Thanks,” before she stomped off toward the elevators. She glanced at her phone—only four minutes until six thirty!

“Please work, please work,” she quietly begged the elevators. The week before, only one had worked, and tonight it appeared none were operational. Abruptly she turned and headed for the stairs, dreading the thought of racing up three flights in high heels but afraid to arrive late. By the time Pat finally stood outside Stockard's chambers, she was harried, anxious, and out of breath, and above all else, furiously, tumultuously enraged. Most galling of all, she realized that she was also a little bit excited to see him again. Actually, a lot excited.

Argh!
Pat ground her teeth together in annoyance.

The door was open and she stomped on through without knocking. “I'm here,” she announced. It was the least inflammatory thing she could manage.

Stockard glanced up at her. She couldn't tell for sure, but he seemed to be stifling a grin. He took his time perusing the length of her body ever so slowly and then all the way back up again before he looked at her eyes.

“You're late, Patricia.”

Still panting from the race up the stairs, she glanced at the clock on the wall.

Six thirty-four p.m.

That did it—threw her right over the top. Pat waved the writ in the air and railed, “What is the meaning of this? I don't know who you think you are, but this is an abuse of power!”

Stockard didn't respond to her tirade. He just smiled at her, but the look on his face wasn't happy…more like hungry. Pat felt tingles zing up and down her spine. Her pelvis clenched in anticipation.

She stomped her foot.

“And my name's Pat!”

Stockard rose from his chair. “Patricia suits you better. More feminine, like the new you.”

“What insufferable arrogance!” But inside, his comment pleased her.

As he moved around the desk toward her, Stockard kept speaking. “Patricia is a beautiful, elegant name for a beautiful, elegant…
sexy
woman.”

Her insides melted.
Maybe
not
so
insufferable
. And maybe it
was
time to go back to the name she used to favor when she was young and hopeful.

“Please call me Emmit,” he bid. “I've asked you before, but I've never heard you say it.”

“Emmit,” she replied breathily, instinctively responding to his commanding tone.

Then in a matter of seconds, Emmit grabbed Patricia and kissed her…again. It was a complete replication of the first time, only better. She had relived that first kiss so often, dreamed of it, that Patricia felt a sense of the familiar, like they were already lovers now coming back together after a lengthy separation. With a moan, she threw herself into Emmit's arms and held him tightly as waves of desire consumed her.

Just as suddenly as she had surrendered to him, Patricia pushed Emmit away, embarrassed about how completely she had capitulated. “I suppose now you're going to say that was a mistake too!” she raged.

Emmit smiled warmly at her. He didn't speak but instead calmly walked around her toward the open door.

“Don't you dare leave on me!” she yelled.

He shut and locked the door, then turned around to face her.

“You're very sure of yourself.”

“No. Just hopeful.”

“I don't—”

“You didn't let me explain before when I said our first kiss was a mistake. It's not that I don't think you and I would be great together…or that you aren't the sexiest woman I have
ever
known.” He chuckled then. “Especially when you're blazing at me like now. I said it was a mistake only because we were in the middle of a trial. It would have been unethical… That's all I meant, but you left before I could say anything.”

Patricia paused in her tirade. Thinking back, it all made sense now. She'd let her heightened emotions and her fear of rejection swamp her usual clearheaded thinking. It changed everything she had been thinking these past few weeks. Relief flooded her.

But still Patricia was confused. “Then what is it that you want?” she asked, holding out the writ.

“This.”

He grabbed Patricia and kissed her for a third time…kissed her senseless. Patricia melted into him and let Emmit take over. For the first time in a long while, perhaps ever, she let go of her tight hold on her emotions. She let go of trying to control everything and just let the sensations wash over her. Then unexpectedly, it all made sense.

Her naughty dreams of subservience and her feelings of isolation when she was awake coalesced into this one powerful man and what he could offer her—a sexual fulfillment that she craved but barely understood. Patricia was able to let go because she sensed this dominant man would take what he wanted without waiting for her to cede supremacy. It freed her from needing to spell out her secret cravings and the accompanying fear of rejection.

Emmit pulled back from her, just far enough to rest his forehead against hers. Sounding hoarse, he groaned, “Patricia, I want you. I've wanted you nonstop since I kissed you. Even before that. Since I got to know you a little, personally, in the elevator. There hasn't been one moment since that I haven't thought of you, of us together. I'm not letting you go.”

For once, Patricia didn't think, didn't weigh the ramifications. Instead, she opened her mouth and breathed, “Take me, Emmit.”

Just the act of whispering the compliant invitation made her throb and ache. It made Emmit groan, her sweet acquiescence seeming to incite a surge of testosterone-laden lust. He pulled her close, and his mouth slammed down on hers in a demanding kiss. His tongue thrust repeatedly into her mouth, foretelling what he would soon do to her with his body, while his hands swept all around her, trying to feel everywhere at once.

Patricia was on fire, the burning ache between her legs making her frantic. She couldn't get close enough to him. Moaning loudly, she started pulling mindlessly, uselessly, at her clothes, even as she writhed against his arousal. Her unrestrained, blatant need seemed to affect Emmit as nothing else ever had. He completely lost control and started frantically tearing at her clothes. Within seconds, her blazer was tugged off and her skirt unzipped and shoved down, while Patricia kept moaning, her eyes shut and her pussy seeking friction against any part of him that was near.

Never before had Patricia felt so abandoned and wild. She was awash in erotic sensation, completely enslaved to the frenzied stimulation that Emmit was creating with his hands and mouth. Never before had a lover asserted such control. He asked nothing of her and didn't need her guidance. He just took over, and she let him. It left her free to just exist, to just feel. It was liberating.

Patricia had been waiting a very long time for this, but how could she have possibly known that domination was what she truly craved—hard-nosed attorney by day, sexual plaything by night. The smallest part of her brain that was still working—not yet inflamed with desire—chuckled.
About
time!
it said, but Patricia didn't care. It all seemed so right, and she decided right then to accept the gift and enjoy the moment, promising no cares and no regrets.

Finally, pulling her blouse off in one quick yank, Emmit paused to look at her standing there in just her lingerie and sexy heels. “Patricia, you're so beautiful!” he groaned, before sweeping her up into his arms and turning toward his desk.

Emmit placed her on top of his large, old-world desk. He shoved a few files onto the floor and eased her down onto her back. He pulled off her silk panties and shoved them into his pants pocket.

“Mine now.”

Then she watched him hurriedly unzip his pants and yank them down. Emmit's thick, rock-hard shaft jutted out, and Patricia moaned.

“Please,” she begged as she watched him desperately yank a condom on. “Please. Now.”

“Yes,” Emmit groaned, and then he was fully inside her with one powerful thrust. “Yes… Oh fuck
yes
!”

He held her hips tightly in place and then began screwing her as if there was nothing else on earth, no one else—just his dick hammering into her tight pussy, the wet slapping sound earthy and lewd in the sterile office. He grunted as Patricia lay there on her back, knees pushed up, moaning and begging—and uncontrollably writhing. Emmit rutted faster.

Patricia felt the aching pleasure grow with each full, deep thrust. Eyes shut, her only awareness was the building, clenching throb in her pussy until she exploded in a white-hot climax. She screamed in bliss, even as she continued to writhe beneath him. Feeling her clutching tightly around him, Emmit drove her even faster until he grunted loudly in answering orgasm.

He dropped his head down to rest on Patricia's chest, panting. It felt so good and so right to be here with this man. Slowly their breathing returned to normal, and Emmit stood up and smiled at her. Patricia felt wonderful, more relaxed and happy than she had in a long time. It allowed her to adopt a teasing, playful tone that would have been beyond her before.

“What you did was very,
very
naughty.”

“I know.” Emmit grinned at her. “But what's the point of having all this power if I can't on rare occasions bend the rules a bit?”

“A bit!” She laughed.

Emmit silenced her the quickest way possible, drawing her upward into his arms for a long, delicious kiss. Patricia kissed him back with every ounce of her newfound erotic freedom.

LAISSEZ LES BONS TEMPS ROULER ~ LET THE GOOD TIMES ROLL

They made love again right there in Emmit's chambers before he invited her to dinner. As they walked the nine blocks to the popular bistro Herbsaint, he called ahead for a table. Patricia could hardly believe she was about to go out to dinner in public with the Playboy Judge of Orleans. Would she now appear in the gossip blogs and newspapers next to Stockard?

As if he'd read her mind, Emmit thrust his elbow out in invitation, and Patricia slipped her hand within the crook of his arm—just like the photographs she'd seen over the years. It was a heady sensation, being escorted by the man she'd had a crush on for so long. She smiled up at him and they talked of nothings as they moved along the crowded sidewalk. The night air was balmy and the full moon glowed overhead. It was a magical evening.

As they walked into the crowded bistro, a smiling hostess zoomed in on them. “Judge Stockard, it's always a pleasure to welcome you to Herbsaint. But really, monsieur, a little more than five minutes notice in the future would be so greatly appreciated.”

“You know how I love the food here. Impossible to resist, when the urge strikes.”

“Ah, the food is that good, isn't it?” The petite, white-haired lady smiled up at Emmit before giving Patricia a wink. “This one is hard to resist,
non
?”

“Not that hard!” Patricia rejoined. Emmit gave her a pointed look and opened his mouth to add his two cents, but she squeezed his arm, afraid, however unlikely, that he'd reference her easy capitulation. “Well, I tried anyway, but Emmit can be quite persuasive.”

They all laughed, and Patricia suddenly felt at ease. It was no surprise that women everywhere responded to him like this but, unexpectedly, she didn't really mind it. She was the one on his arm, and the way he looked at her turned that inner glow of pleasure into a blazing fire. Patricia wondered what he would do if she tugged him right out of the restaurant and back to her place, but instead she followed the hostess up the stairs and out onto the gallery-style balcony.

“Here you are,” the hostess said, pointing to a prime table right along the antique wrought iron railing. “I'll have you know, I had to pry it away from a little old lady to save it just for you.” The twinkle in her eye let Patricia know it was all in good fun. “Chef is in tonight, and I'll let him know you're here. Enjoy your meals.” She placed menus on the table and departed.

“You know the owner?” Patricia inquired, not quite surprised.

“I've been a constant customer since the place opened. It's my absolute favorite place to eat out, and it doesn't hurt that it's directly between my work and home.”

“I love the food here too.”

The rumbling sound of a passing streetcar caught her attention, and Patricia gazed down at historic St. Charles Avenue below. With the stars twinkling overhead and the city bustle below, the setting was distinctly romantic. The Big Easy at its best.

After they ordered their meals and their Sazerac cocktails arrived, Patricia ventured, “Remember in the elevator…you said I was not what you expected. What did you mean?”

“We all have our secrets, I suppose, but you're very different from your reputation.”

“Your image also seems at odds with the real you. Do you know what people call you?”

“The Playboy Judge of Orleans.”

Patricia nodded.

“Hopefully nothing worse than that?”

She shook her head no but answered, “However, while I don't believe everything I read in the papers, I've seen the photos of you…with other women. Lots of women.”

“Patricia.” He reached over and took her hand. “Please believe me. That's not who I am. At least not anymore.” Emmit explained about the humiliating demise of his marriage and his subsequent foray into hedonism. The reputation had been great for rebuilding his ego, but these days it was just that, a reputation and nothing more.

“I always have a date for events, but that's just to ensure I don't get hit on, so I can network and enjoy the evening.”

“So you're saying that those other women aren't… None of them are your current…” Patricia didn't know how to ask. They'd just had sex in his chambers, but that didn't mean he didn't have a current amour as well. Maybe several.

Emmit still held her hand, and he squeezed it. “I'm seeing no one right now. Haven't in a long time.” He chuckled lightly. “That should be obvious by the way I jumped you back in chambers. I've had a long dry spell, and that's because no woman had interested me…until you.”

Patricia responded, “Well, I can assure you, Judge Stockard, you may have been out of practice, but your due process was right on the mark.” She had never felt this at ease bantering and flirting before.

Emmit laughed. Then he asked, “Hey, in a couple weeks I have yet another black-tie fund-raising benefit to attend. Would you consider going with me?”

Patricia felt a jolt of purely feminine pride. She was being asked to go to a fancy event as Emmit's eye candy. Nothing he'd said or done suggested that her new look was the only reason he'd invited her, but her new self-confidence made her realize that for the first time in her life she wanted to stand out, to be noticed as a woman. She wanted to look fabulous, be fabulous! She didn't need to be the belle of the ball, but just enjoy inhabiting the new Pat-tastic, a woman who deserved to be on the arm of Judge Emmit Stockard. Patricia started envisioning the gown she'd need to buy. Creole would have to help, and…

“Earth to Patricia.” She jerked her eyes to Emmit. “You have a dreamy-eyed look on your face. It's beautiful…but I should warn you that the event is really kind of a bore. Gather a bunch of ancient judges into one place, and it's not all that fun. With you along, I'm sure I'll enjoy it more than I ever have before.”

Patricia didn't feel any disappointment. The fact that she'd be with him made it exciting. The fact that Emmit wanted her as his escort made it wonderful.

“Oh, don't worry about that. I've been to it before at the firm's table.” Keeping it lighthearted, she added, “Don't you know every woman gets that look when they start thinking about shopping for formal dresses? I'll probably call in my personal fashionista, Creole, to help. He's my closest friend.”

She noticed Emmit stiffen ever so slightly. Jealousy? It didn't seem likely, but…

“I'm sure you'll look lovely in whatever you wear,” he responded. “But I'd enjoy going shopping with you. Meeting your friends.”

“A man who's great in bed and likes to go shopping! I must have died and gone to heaven. And I would love to have you meet Creole.”

“Great in bed, you say?”

The image of a peacock, flaunting his feathers and strutting like a king, flashed into her mind. “Don't get too cocky. I can't say that I'm exactly a connoisseur of the opposite sex like you, so I don't have the depth of knowledge to rank your abilities. I mean I've had some, of course…” Patricia really didn't want Emmit to think she was a total amateur in bed.

“I'm pleased that you're not overly experienced. I'd like to be the one to introduce you to…” Emmit was clearly searching for the right words. “To the extreme pleasure that can come from giving oneself over to another's desires.”

There it was again. Another hint of something darker, something demanding. It stirred her as always, but Patricia felt less need to fight its allure, caution swept aside by a growing desire to experience something from her haunting dreams. Was Emmit the man who could do this for her? Did she dare ask him, or was he already asking her?

“I think I would like that, possibly,” she responded.

“Let's take it slow. I want us to get comfortable with each other first and for you to feel…safe.” Then Emmit changed the subject. “You're different from your reputation, but there's more. It seems like you've changed somehow. You're, um…”

“Nicer?”

“Yes, but also more self-assured and outgoing, more feminine even. I like the way you've changed…all of it.”

Patricia didn't hesitate this time about sharing her history with him—from her meager beginnings to her hopes to be made partner at B and W. It no longer felt shameful but something to be proud of. She'd overcome a wretched childhood and dealt with her demons.

“Giving up the need to control everyone around me was hardest. I had to make sure Mom got up and got to work and kept a roof over our heads for many years, but as an adult that coping mechanism didn't work. No one likes a bossy know-it-all. I guess you could say I've been on a Pat makeover for years now, but the latest incarnation feels the most real, like I'm finally emerging from behind the constricting disguise that I always showed the world.”

“I can hardly imagine how difficult it was for you to change behaviors that you'd needed for so long. I'm glad you emerged in my courtroom. Your metamorphosis was spectacular. Not a new butterfly at all but a beautiful phoenix ready to take on the world.”

“The old me would rebut with a self-deprecating put-down right about now. Along the lines of, ‘I bet you say that to all the women you want to get into bed,' but the new me…I'll just say thank you. That's really sweet.”

“I'm serious, Patricia. You're gorgeous, stunning. I hope you know that. But what makes you special is much more than that…your intelligence, how hard you worked to get where you are, even your ability to learn from past mistakes and let go of your controlling ways. Really, you should feel very proud.”

“Thank you for your kind words, but that control thing… I'll have to keep working on it, because it seems to pop up over and over. I guess that's the most deeply ingrained aspect of my personality, but I won't let it rule me any longer, won't let it keep me from making friends and building relationships at work.”

“You know, Patricia, giving up control can be…exciting, liberating even. You've clearly made incredible progress, but…it's something I might be able to work on with you…privately.”

Patricia looked at him, not completely sure what he was trying to tell her, but nonetheless her pelvis clenched in anticipation. Was he talking about more of what they had just done where he took the lead, or something even more demanding?

Patricia squirmed in her seat and he didn't miss the movement. His eyes took on an intense, knowing darkness, and she had to fight to sit still. It was almost too much—she felt light-headed.

Locking her eyes with his, he murmured mildly, “All in good time, Patricia. Lesson one, letting things develop at a natural pace.”

Patricia nodded okay, but her clenching pussy wasn't interested in waiting to learn Emmit's secrets.

Later back in his home, they made love again…and again. It was amazing, passionate, but Patricia sensed vaguely that Emmit was holding back. She wondered how long it would take before he was comfortable sharing himself fully and revealing his deepest secrets. It was quickly becoming a yearning desire to experience all that Emmit only hinted at.

On Saturday they never left his place the entire day. When evening hit, Emmit suggested they go out for dinner again. Patricia agreed but said, “Tonight let's go to my favorite haunt, and it's my treat.”

They walked hand in hand to the restaurant, and once they were seated at a window table for two in the Marigny Brasserie, they resumed their ongoing discussion on fine wine. It was the first mutual hobby they'd discovered, and they were heatedly debating the merits of French versus Californian grapes.

“Have you ever tried a Château Montrose from Burgundy?” asked Emmit.

“No, but I doubt it's as good as California's Clos Du Val.”

“Well, we may need to have a blind tasting someday.”

“Okay, but you're buying the French Montrose… At more than two hundred dollars a bottle, it still can't compare with California wines that run around fifty.”

Just then, Patricia saw Creole waving energetically at her through the window, and she returned the greeting. It was clear he was aglow with curiosity as he hurried through the door toward their table.

Patricia conducted the introductions. She could sense Emmit relaxing once he understood that Creole was not nor ever would be competition.

They chatted for a few minutes, bringing Creole into their wine debate. He, of course, enthused about wines created in Louisiana, mentioning that Ponchartrain and Casa de Sue had both produced award-winning wines.

Then Emmit suddenly changed the subject. “So, Creole, I can tell you two are great friends, but that day in the courthouse lobby, the way you held Patricia… It didn't look like friendship. More like…” It was apparent the second he grasped Creole's ploy. “You did that on purpose to throw me off the scent.”

“
Alohrs
pas.
” When it was clear Emmit didn't understand, Creole repeated, “No, of course not. I did it solely to rouse your alpha-male instincts.”

Emmit glanced at Patricia. “Your friend doesn't beat around the bush.”

“Emmit, he didn't mean any—”

“I'm not mad. It's funny, really, 'cause Creole's absolutely correct. You'd already hooked my interest, but that just ramped up my driving need to stake a claim.” Emmit snorted. “I'm even more of a caveman than I realized!”

They all laughed then.

“I've got to run.” Creole leaned down and gave Patricia a peck on the cheek. “But one of these days,
cher
, you're going Louisiana wine tasting with me if
l'homme magnifique
can stop with the
ça-va, ça-vient
long enough to spare you for a day.”

“I may not speak French, but I got the gist of that,” Emmit interjected.

“I was counting on it.” Creole winked at Emmit, and they laughed again.