Overruled (4 page)

I’m shaking my head before she’s done speaking. Because we’ve been debating this since the trial started. “I’ve got all the time in the world, darlin’. Hell, we may even order dessert—that jury isn’t coming back until Monday, at the earliest.”

“You may be the Jury Charmer.” Her manicured fingers swirl in a circle, like she’s conjuring a crystal ball. “But I’m the Jury Seer. And I see those housewives wanting to scratch this trial off their to-do lists for the weekend.”

“The Jury Charmer?” Drew comments dryly. “That’s adorable.”

I give him the jerk-off sign with my hand while insisting to Sofia, “Your vision is off this time.”

Her mouth purses. “Care to make a wager on that, big boy?”

“What are your terms, sweet thing?” I counter with a daring grin.

Evans watches our exchange with unconcealed mirth.

She braces her hands on the table, leaning forward. And I have a whole new esteem for gravity—because it’s that force that causes her
blouse to pull away from her body, giving me a delectable view of her stunning tits encased in delicate black lace.

“The Porsche.”

Caught off guard, my eyes widen. She’s not messing around.

She knows my silver 911 Carrera 4S Cabriolet convertible is my prized possession. The first thing I bought myself when I was hired at the prestigious Adams & Williamson law firm four years ago. It’s pristine. It doesn’t come out in the rain. It doesn’t get parked where a bird could shit on it. It doesn’t get driven by anyone but me.

“
When
the jury comes back today, you let me take your Porsche out for the ride of its life.”

She stares me down, waiting.

I rub my knuckles along my jaw, debating.

“It’s a stick shift,” I warn in a low voice.

“Pft—child’s play.”

“What do I get if—when—you lose the bet?”

She straightens up, looking pleased with herself, even though she hasn’t heard my terms. “What do you want?”

The image of Sofia’s curves barely covered in a tiny red bikini, damp and soapy with suds, infiltrates my brain. And I can’t hold back the lewd smile that graces my face. “You have to wash the Porsche, by hand, once a week for a month.”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Done.”

Before we shake on it, I look into her eyes and spit deliberately on my palm. Our grasp is sliding and slick. Her nose crinkles, but her eyes—her eyes simmer with an amused heat only I can read.

She likes it.

After I release her grip, she wipes her hand with a napkin. Then Brent Mason walks out from the direction of the restrooms to join us. Brent is an associate at our firm, started the same year as Sofia and me, though he looks much younger. His round blue eyes, wavy brown hair, and carefree personality invoke protective, little brother–like feel
ings. The limp that accompanies his gait adds to the boyish impression, though in reality it’s the result of the prosthetic on his left leg, the consequence of a childhood accident. The event may have taken his limb, but Brent’s jovial good humor remains fully intact.

Like all the associates at our firm, Brent and Sofia share an office. They’re close, but in a strictly platonic, friend-zone sort of way.

He also has more money than God—or at least his family does. Old money, the kind of wealth so abundant his relations don’t realize that not everyone “summers” in the south of France or is able to retreat to their country estate on the Potomac when they need a break from the city. Brent’s father has political aspirations for his only child and believed an impressive record as a prosecutor would lay the foundation for those ambitions.

Which is precisely why Brent went out and became a criminal defense attorney.

“Hey, Shaw,” he greets.

I nod. “Mason.” I gesture once again to Drew. “Brent Mason, this is Drew Evans, an old friend.” My eyes fall to him. “Brent’s another lawyer at our firm.”

They shake hands firmly, then Drew remarks, “Jesus, is anyone in DC not a lawyer?”

I chuckle. “Most per capita in the country.”

Before he can respond with what I’d bet my life on would’ve been an insult, Brent pipes up. “You ready to go, Sofia? I have a client coming in twenty minutes.”

“I’m all set. It was nice meeting you, Drew. Stanton, I’ll see you at the courthouse soon.”

I feign confusion. “You mean the office?”

With a shake of her head, she lets Brent lead her out the door.

I watch her go. And I enjoy every damn second of it.

Which does not go unnoticed. “Do you really think that’s wise?”

My attention drags back to him. “What’s that?”

“Screwing your coworker,” Evans clarifies. “Do you think that’s wise?”

I pause a moment, wondering how he knew . . . and then I laugh at myself for wondering . . . because of course he’d know.

“This coming from the man who
married
his coworker a few months ago?”

Drew leans back, resting one arm on the chair beside him. “That’s completely different. Kate and I are special.”

I sip my water. “What makes you think Soph and I are screwing?”

“Ah . . . because I have eyes. And ears. And nothing about the sexual tension I just witnessed was unresolved. You sold yourself short on the bet, by the way. My terms would’ve been
fucking
her on the hood of the car first—
then
she washes it.” He shrugs. “But that’s just me. Now back to my original question . . .”

There’s really no point in denying it. “Sofia is without a doubt the wisest woman I’ve ever done—pun intended.”

He doesn’t approve. “That’s a dangerous path you’re walking, Shaw. A minefield of awkwardness and female scorn.”

I understand his concerns, but they’re not necessary. Sofia’s a woman in all the important places, but with the practicality of a man. There are no minivans or white picket fences in her future, just corner offices and billable hours. She’s frank, direct, but also fun. A woman I consider a friend—someone I enjoy going out with as much as I enjoy going down on.

Our arrangement started six months ago. The first time was spontaneous, reckless. I’d known I wanted her, but didn’t realize how much until the night we were alone in the firm’s basement library. Both working late, tense and tight for time—one minute we were discussing the finer points of Miranda v. Arizona and the next we were tearing each other’s clothes off, up against the stacks of thick, leather-bound volumes, rutting like wild animals.

Sounded just like them, too.

I get turned on every time I think of the noises Sofia made that
night, a symphony of gasps, whimpers, and growls as I made her come three times. A trifecta. And when my orgasm finally flooded me—shit—I couldn’t feel my legs for five full minutes.

Afterward, when we were sweaty and disheveled as soldiers after battle, we talked. We agreed that it was something we both wanted to do again—and again—a needed stress reliever that would fit perfectly into our mutually packed schedules.

It’s not as cold as it sounds. But it is . . . easy.

I grin. “Nah, man, Sofia’s like . . . one of the guys.”

“You’re screwing one of the guys?”

I frown. “It doesn’t sound nearly as hot when you say it like that. What I mean is—she lives for the job, like me. Trying to make partner doesn’t leave a whole lot of time for anything else. She’s convenient and fucking beautiful. I know you’re married and all, but you’d have to be half-dead not to notice. And even then, her tits would coax an erection from a corpse.”

“Oh, I noticed, believe me,” he says. “Does she know about your Mississippi booty call?”

“Jenny’s not my booty call,” I grumble. “Dick.”

“Well, she’s not your girlfriend or your wife. She’s the chick you bang when you happen to breeze into town. Hate to break it to you, but that’s the definition of a booty call.”

At times Drew’s propensity to call ’em like he sees ’em puts his nads in grave danger of getting punched.

“Sofia knows all about Jenn and Presley.”

“Interesting.” Then comes the patented advice. “I’m just saying a situation like this could get . . . complicated for you. Regret is a bite in the ass that stings like a motherfucker. I’ve been there—it’s not fun.”

“Thanks for the warning. But I can handle it.”

“Famous last words. Just remember, by the time you realize you can’t handle it, it’s too late.” He checks his phone and stands. “And on that note, I have to take off—gotta catch my train.”

I stand up and smack his arm. “Hey, why don’t you stay in DC tonight? I’ll set up a poker game with the boys—it’ll be like old times.”

He lifts his hands, weighing the options. “Let’s see . . . take Shaw’s money . . . or go home to the stunning wife who’s been sexting me all afternoon? No contest. I like you, man, but I’ll never like you that much.”

We hug briefly, slapping each other’s back, both pledging to do this again soon.

That’s when my cell phone chimes. I pick it up from the table, read the message, and curse.

As Drew retrieves his briefcase from under the table, I hold my phone out.

“Jury’s back.”

He laughs at me. “For your sake, I hope she’s as good with a stick as she claims.” He pauses, then grins. “But I guess you already know she is.”

With a final smack to my arm, he heads toward the door. “Later, man.”

“Give Kate my best,” I call after him. “And my card!”

He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t break his stride, but just raises his hand, with his middle finger extended loud and clear above his head.

4

Sofia

T
here’s an energy in a courtroom just before a verdict is read, a static that crackles in the air. It’s a shared, breathless tension, the same the Romans must’ve felt at the Colosseum as they waited to see what direction Caesar would point his thumb. Your pulse pounds, your blood hums, and the adrenaline surges. It’s exciting.

As addictive as really fantastic sex. The kind that leaves you marked, sore, and exhausted—and you can’t wait to do all over again.

I always knew I wanted to be an attorney. As I was growing up, I watched shows like
L.A. Law
, where female litigators possessed rapier wits, wore stylish suits with impeccable hairstyles, and worked in glass and chrome offices in the sky.

Education was the highest priority for my parents, because they had had such limited access to it themselves. My mother left the poverty of her home village in Pará for the relative opulence of Rio de Janeiro when she was a young girl. But she escaped illiteracy only after meeting my father, who taught her to read when she was sixteen years old. Together, they emigrated to the United States and became the very definition of the American Dream—building a thriving business, rising through the ranks of the middle class to prosperous wealth. Keenly
aware of the opportunities their hard work afforded their children, they impressed upon each of us—myself and three older brothers—that education was the key to unlocking all doors. It was a treasure that could never be stolen, the most durable safety net. It’s no accident that we each went on to pursue professional fields: my eldest brother, Victor, became a doctor; the next, Lucas, a CPA, and Tomás, just a year older than me, an engineer.

“Madam Forewoman, have you reached your verdict?”

Our client Pierce Montgomery’s simmering attention is blatantly
not
on the woman who’s about to announce his judgment, but instead trained squarely on my chest. It makes me feel dirty in an unenjoyable way.

There’s a nice hot shower in my future—to rinse off the sleaze.

“We have, Your Honor.”

Going in to criminal defense, I knew the high probability of having to work with scumbags like Montgomery, but that didn’t deter me. Because I was the youngest in my family, and the only daughter, they were highly protective. But instead of restricting me, that protective instinct drove my parents to make sure I was capable and prepared for whatever life may throw at me.

Opportunities
, my father would say,
have to be seized with both hands, because you never know if they’ll come again.

He’s the one who taught me to be fearless.

Opportunity is all he’s ever wanted for me. More than a husband or children, he wanted me to have the chance to go anywhere. Do anything.

Being raised in Chicago gave me an edge. It’s a beautiful city, but like all urban areas, it has its dangers. I learned early to move fast but stand my ground, to be on guard and generally distrust unfamiliar people until they prove otherwise.

In short, a leering, skeevy son of a senator like Pierce Montgomery doesn’t intimidate me. If he ever tried to touch me with more than his eyes, I could bring him to his knees with the turn of my wrist.

Simple as that.

“What say you?”

Here we go. Moment of truth.

From the corner of my eye I see Stanton’s broad shoulders rise ever so slightly as he inhales . . . and holds his breath.

Just like I do.

The forewoman rattles off the case number and the charges, and then she utters the magic words: “Not guilty.”

Hell to the yes! Whoot fucking whoot! Let the mental fist pumping commence!

Much like with touchdown-scoring NFL players, excessive celebration in the courtroom is frowned upon, so Stanton and I restrain ourselves to glowing, congratulatory smiles. But both of us know this is huge, a win that’s a stepping stone to the kind of notoriety enjoyed by Cochran, Allred, Geragos, Abramson, and Dershowitz—the League of Everybody Knows Your Name.

Montgomery thanks Stanton with a handshake, yet manages to make even his gratitude sound supercilious. He turns to me with open arms—expecting a hug of course.

Because I have a vagina.

And like so many, he functions under the belief that penises shake hands, vaginas hug.

Not this one, buddy.

I extend an unyielding arm, which makes my point and keeps him out of my personal space. He settles for the handshake, but adds a leering wink.

And the hot shower beckons louder.

When we step outside the courthouse, reporters are waiting. Local, not national. Not yet. Like I said, stepping stone.

Stanton, being first chair, fields the questions with a well-practiced mixture of charm and egotism—lawyers don’t do modest. But he gives me my due, referring to “our” defense, mentioning how “we” were con
fident of the outcome from the very beginning, highlighting our firm like a good little soldier, and stressing that every client of Adams & Williamson would receive equally stellar representation.

While he speaks, I take a moment to admire him—because he’s so easy to admire. His jade eyes glitter with excitement and afternoon sun, framed by dense, surprisingly dark lashes that women would kill to have. A few rebel strands of thick, golden hair—Robert Redford,
Legal Eagles
kind of hair—fall over his intelligent brow. A Roman nose and high cheekbones give him a strong, noble look, but Stanton Shaw’s all man—not a hint of pretty boy here. I think my favorite part is his jaw. It’s porn worthy. Rugged and square with the perfect amount of scratchy, blond stubble to conjure images of sexy late mornings and warm beds.

He stands at six foot two—just four inches taller than I am—and his long legs and broad torso are a tailor’s dream. It’s the kind of body that was made to wear a suit. His voice is deep, a melodic baritone with the barest hint of southern lilt that during cross-examination can slash like a scalpel or mesmerize with the comfort of a bedtime storyteller. But it’s his smile that draws you in, that disarms. Expert lips that make you want to laugh when they do or provoke the dirtiest of thoughts when they slide into that lazy, lopsided smirk.

The smirk and I are well acquainted.

“. . . isn’t that right, Ms. Santos?” he asks, and the reporters’ gazes fall to me expectantly.

Shit.
I have no idea what he’s asking. I was too busy staring at the jawline—
damn you, jaw
—remembering how its bristles scraped my inner thigh, making me purr with the satisfaction of a feline enjoying her favorite scratching post.

But I recover smoothly. “Absolutely. I couldn’t agree more.”

The reporters thank us, and while our client climbs into his chauffeured car, Stanton and I decide to walk the few blocks back to the office.

“Where’d you go back there? You zoned out,” he says with a ring of amusement that tells me he’s already guessed.

“I’ll give you detailed instructions later on,” I reply as Stanton opens the door to our building for me.

Abrams & Williamson is one of the oldest law firms in DC. The building itself is only ten stories, adhering to the Height of Buildings Act of 1910, which prohibited construction of any new structures that would be taller than the Capitol dome, save for a few limited exceptions. But what the building lacks in stature it makes up for in historical grandeur. Polished mahogany gleams beneath overhead lighting, designed to highlight the handcrafted moldings that decorate every wall. A restored marble fireplace welcomes visitors with its perpetual light as they walk to the huge walnut receptionist’s desk.

The longtime receptionist, Vivian, is in her fifties, her flawless white suit and blond updo providing the perfect first impression of experienced elegance to all who enter.

She smiles warmly. “Congratulations to you both. Mr. Adams would like to see you in his office.”

News travels fast in DC, making high school gossip grapevines look as slow as dial-up Internet. So it’s no surprise that word of our win has already reached our boss’s desk. However, impressive win or not, Jonas Adams, founding partner of our firm and direct descendant of our second president, would never descend from his top-floor perch to offer congratulations.

He summons us to him.

On the elevator ride up, the same eager excitement bubbling inside me emanates from my colleague in crime. We’re immediately ushered into Jonas’s office, where he stands behind his desk, speedily sliding folders into a worn leather briefcase. His resemblance to his founding father ancestor is nothing short of uncanny—a bulging midsection accessorized by the gold chain of an antique pocket watch, round spectacles balanced on a pointy nose, and white tufts of hair combed over in
an attempt to cover the bald crown of his head, which is as shiny as the hardwood floors we’re standing on.

If he ever retires, historical reenactment companies will be tearing each other to pieces to have him.

Jonas has lectured at the finest legal institutions and is considered one of the most brilliant minds in our field. But like many gifted intellectuals, he exhibits a busy, scatterbrained temperament that makes you think he’s forever losing his car keys.

“Come in, come in,” he calls as he pats his pockets, relieved to discover the items he was obviously hoping were still there. “I’m leaving momentarily for a conference in Hawaii, but I wanted to congratulate you both on the Montgomery case.”

He shuffles out from behind his desk and shakes our hands. “Excellent work—not an easy win, that one. But Senator Montgomery is sure to be grateful.”

“Thank you, sir,” Stanton replies.

“What’s that for you now, Mr. Shaw? Eight wins under the proverbial belt?”

Stanton shrugs, immodestly. “Nine, actually.”

Jonas nods as he removes his glasses and cleans them with a monogrammed handkerchief. “Impressive.”

“It’s all about the jury, Mr. Adams,” Stanton crows. “Never met one that didn’t like me.”

“Yes, very good, very good. And you, Miss Santos? Still undefeated, eh?”

With a smile, I lift my chin proudly. “Yes, sir—six for six.”

Professional women have come a long way—our feet are now firmly in the door of the previously dominated boy’s club of political, legal, and business fields. But we still have a long way to go. The fact remains that more often than not, when it comes to promotions and professional opportunities, we’re the afterthought, not the first consideration. In order to get to the forefront of our bosses’ regard, it’s not
enough to be as good as our male counterparts—we have to be better. We have to stand out.

It’s an unfair truth, but a truth all the same.

Which is why when Jonas’s driver enters the room to retrieve his luggage, wheeling out a luxury brand golf bag whose contents are worth more than Stanton’s Porsche, I comment, “I didn’t know you were a golfer, Mr. Adams.”

That’s not true—I totally knew.

“Yes, I’m an avid player. Relaxing, you know, helps with the stress. I’m looking forward to a few rounds during the conference. Do you play?”

I smile like the Cheshire Cat. “I do, as a matter of fact. Just shot a seventy-seven at East Potomac.”

He replaces his glasses over widened eyes. “That’s remarkable.” He wags his finger. “When I return from Hawaii, you’ll be my guest at my club, Trump National, for a few rounds.”

“That would be lovely. Thank you.”

Jonas’s jowls jiggle hypnotically as he nods. “My secretary will have your assistant add it to your calendar.” Then he turns his attention back to Stanton. “Do you play, Shaw?”

Because I know him, I notice the nanosecond of hesitation. But then his face splits into a wide grin. “Of course. Golf is my life.”

Jonas claps his hands. “Excellent. Then you’ll join us for the day.”

Stanton swallows hard. “Super.”

After Jonas takes his leave, Stanton and I are back in the elevator heading to our own respective offices on the fourth floor.

“ ‘
Golf is my life’
?
”
I quote, watching the lighted numbers descend.

His amused eyes turn to me. “What the hell was I supposed to say?”

“Ah, you could have said what you said to me three months ago: ‘
Golf is not a real sport
.’ ”

“It’s not,” he insists. “If you don’t sweat, it’s not a sport.”

To which I respond, “Golf requires a tremendous amount of skill . . .”

“So does Ping-Pong. And that’s not a fucking sport either.”

Stubborn, stupid man perspective. Having grown up with brothers I’m familiar with it, yet I still laugh at the absurdity.

“So what are you going to do? Jonas returns from Hawaii in two weeks.”

“Plenty of time for you to teach me to play,” he answers, elbowing me softly.

“Me?” I sputter.

“Sure, Ms. Seventy-Seven at East Potomac. Who better?”

I shake my head. This is how Stanton operates. Like my niece uses her quivering lip against my oldest brother, Stanton uses his damnable charm.

It’s impossible to resist—especially when you don’t really want to.

“Two weeks isn’t much time.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder, rubbing his thumb against the bare skin at the nape of my neck. The action scorches a path down my spine, making all the muscles below my waist clench.

“We’ll start this weekend. I have total confidence in you, Soph. Plus”—he winks—“I’m a fast learner.”

As the elevator doors open, he removes his hand, and for a quick moment, I mourn the loss. “That’ll be the perfect time to settle up on our bet. Your car owes me a drive.”

“I don’t think I should be held responsible for bets I made under duress.”

My heels click on the wood floors as I scoff, “What possible duress were you under?”

Stanton stops a few feet from our office doors. He lowers his voice and leans in to whisper against my ear. “You underestimate the power of your miraculous tits. They were in my face—thinking clearly was not possible.”

I fold my arms skeptically. “Miraculous?”

He holds his hands up, palms out. “Made me want to stand up and shout amen . . . or drop to my knees and do other things.”