Appealed (17 page)

After the judge calls us to order and runs through the preliminaries, dear old Mrs. Potter resumes her place in the witness box. I stand up to continue my cross-examination, buttoning my charcoal-gray suit jacket, and I wonder if things will be different between Kennedy and me in court from now on.

If
she's
going to be different.

Kinder. Gentler. More . . . friendly.

Halfway through my second question to Mrs. Potter, Kennedy hops to her feet.

“Objection!”

Okay—guess that answers that.

•  •  •

The moment the judge smacks his gavel to adjourn us for the day, Kennedy's high heels click briskly as she grabs her briefcase and dashes past me out the door. My eyes follow her, but the rest of me sticks around to offer Justin a ride home, because neither of his parents showed today. An hour and a half later, Harrison drops me in front of the U.S. Attorney's building. I take the stone steps two at a time and make my way to Kennedy's closed office door.

Her secretary says she's in a meeting. A stealthy glance through the window tells me it's an important meeting, considering there's four serious-faced, lawyerish-looking men in suits hunched over in deep discussion around her desk.

“I'll wait.” I tell the secretary.

I hate waiting, especially when I have an ass spanking to deliver. And in this case, I mean that every way it can be taken.

I sit in the empty chair outside Kennedy's door, my right knee bouncing and my head tilted back against the wall.

After forever, her door opens and the parade of men exits. The last one out, a burly, gray-haired guy, nods to her. “We'll speak soon, Kennedy.”

“Yes. Keep me informed.” She nods back, her face set like a seventeenth-century plaster bust. That was a very unhappy era for ceramics.

I wait until the last man turns the corner, then I step into Kennedy's office, closing the door behind me. She sits at her desk, staring down at a file like she wants to set it on fire with her eyes.

I reach behind my back and lock her door. Then I pull down the blinds, concealing us from the outside world. If Kennedy picks up on my actions, she doesn't show it.

I stroll toward her desk, doing my best Heath Ledger–Joker impersonation. “Why so serious?”

Kennedy sighs, still glaring down at the file. “My mob case from Vegas just got kicked back on appeal. Moriotti got himself a new trial.”

I lean against the corner of her desk. “Are you going to retry him?”

“Absolutely. The son of a bitch deserves to spend the rest of his life in a cold, dark hole, and I'm going to be the one to put him there.”

My whistle is long and impressed. “In case I haven't mentioned it before, that vengeful streak is damn sexy.”

She doesn't laugh. She doesn't smile. “I really don't have time to talk right now.”

“Yeah . . . I don't particularly feel like talking either. But—”

Surprising her, I yank her chair out, spin it around, and brace my hands on the arms, leaning down. Caging her in.

For a hot second I'm distracted by the way her chest heaves, the way her eyes round, and her lips part—just wide enough to slip my tongue in. My cock would require her to open wider—and that thought's pretty damn distracting too.

“
But
—whether we want to talk or not, it looks like I need to lay some ground rules.” My gaze burns into hers and my voice is almost as hard as my dick. “Rule number one—you don't set one pretty toe out of my bed without waking me up first. Ever.”

I lean in and skim my nose up the delicate line of her neck, then I drag my tongue down the same path to her pulse point—wrapping my lips around it and sucking—hard enough to leave one bitch of a mark.

But . . . that's the price she pays.

“I jerked off twice in the shower,” I hiss against her skin. “And I was still hard as a goddamn rock watching you in court.”

That little tidbit gets me a nice whimper. But I'm not done. “And I swear to Christ, I could still smell you on my fingers. It drove me crazy all fucking day.”

I tilt back until I'm looking into her eyes. They're lit up with heat and sublimely stimulated.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I bark.

“Like what?”

“Like you want me to kiss you. I'm not going to kiss you, Kennedy—I'm pissed off at you.”

She squirms in her seat, her eyes flickering between my lips and my Adam's apple, rubbing her thighs together ever so slightly. And a groan catches in my chest—because she apparently likes me being pissed off at her.

Jesus, the fun I could have with that.

But I stay focused. “Ground rule two—we talk. Not about the case, but everything else is on the table. No more running away.”

Her throats constrict as she swallows—and I can almost hear her heart pounding. Or maybe it's mine.

“Three—we take this one day at a time. You're freaked, there's shit between us—I get it. I won't ask for more than you can give me.”

Her brow crinkles. “Brent, I don't think—”

“You say that a lot. You seem confused, so I'm going to make it real easy for you. Four—I'm coming to your house tonight. I'm bringing food. We'll hang out. If we happen to spend a good portion of that time without any clothes on—we'll roll with that too. Say yes.”

She's silent for several heartbeats, making me hold my breath.

Then she relents. “Yes.”

“Good girl.”

Her eyes narrow at me. But because I'm so pleased—because I've wanted to all damn day—I eat my own words, lean in, and kiss the fuck out of her. It's hard, demanding—and infused with every ounce of possessiveness I feel for her. A teeth-clashing, tongue-lashing kiss that leaves her trembling.

I'm a big believer in a well-timed exit. During final summations, the last image you give to the jury, the final words you leave ringing in their ears, are the most powerful. They can make a difference between an acquittal or a life sentence.

And that kiss was one hell of a closing.

So I stand up, turn, and stroll out of Kennedy's office.

•  •  •

Just before sunset, I stand on the rickety porch of her Victorian house and knock on her front door. It swings open almost immediately, like she was waiting for me. Kennedy stands in the glow of the fading sunlight wearing worn, light blue jeans that hug her hips and show off her sweet ass in a fantastic fucking way. Her top is loose and thin strapped, a layer of white lace over a layer of chiffon, the neckline dipping to a low V that puts her pert, braless tits on perfect display.

With my mouth watering, and my imagination raging, I mutter, “I'm sending Justice Bradshaw a thank-you note.”

She giggles and I feel her eyes trail up my own faded jeans, over my black T-shirt, pausing right where the short sleeves wrap tight around my biceps. “You look very nice too.”

Meow.

Peeking out from behind Kennedy's calf are two big black eyes attached to a puffball of gray fur. Cats aren't my favorite animals—they come in behind dogs, pot-bellied pigs, and the cutest creature God ever created: the hedgehog. But, unlike my possible-future-serial-killer freshman-year college roommate—who tried to run over every stray cat that crossed his path—I don't hate them either.

“Who's this?”

“That's Jasper.”

Meow
.

I crouch down and reach out my hand. “Hey, Jasper . . .”

“Brent, wait—”

But before I can heed her warning, Jasper's eyes transform into sharp slits and his paw slashes at my hand like Wolverine on a bad day. One claw nicks my middle finger.

“Bastard!”

“So sorry,” Kennedy coos.

I shake my hand, then stick the tip in my mouth, tasting blood.

“I hate to be the one to break it to you, but your cat's a dick.”

She takes my hand, inspecting my injury. “He's just wary of people he doesn't know. Like a guard cat.” She glances behind her. “Jacob and Edward are a lot friendlier.”

“How many do you have?”

She shrugs. “Just the three.”

I nod slowly. “I came back into your life just in time. Old house, multiple feline companions, an inappropriate interest in vampire books that were meant to be enjoyed by teenage virgin girls.” I pinch my thumb and forefinger together. “You realize you're this close to becoming a full-fledged Cat Lady.”

Kennedy sticks her tongue out at me.

I smirk. “Do that again later; I'll demonstrate much better uses for that tongue.”

She laughs, shaking her head as if she thinks I'm kidding.

“All right, let's get going,” I tell her. “We've got a walk ahead of us.”

Her brows crinkle. “I thought you said you were bringing food?”

“I did. But I didn't say we were eating it here.”

I hold out my hand, and she puts hers in mine. It's warm and soft and a perfect fit.

“Where are we going?”

I lean down and whisper in her ear, raising goose bumps along her collarbone. “It's a surprise.”

•  •  •

We walk through the city beneath the pink-orange dusk sky, hands entwined. We pass the World War II Memorial and the Reflecting Pool across from the glowing warmth of the Lincoln Memorial, weaving between the picture-snapping, map-studying tourists that are a permanent fixture. And then we reach the Tidal Basin, its calm, still waters reflecting the soft orbs of the lampposts that illuminate the circling path around it. In the spring, the trees here are laden with cherry blossoms, making a thick light-pink wreath around the water, but by this time of year, the blossoms have all fallen, leaving only healthy greenery on their branches—the promise of next year's bloom.

I lead Kennedy off the path closer to the water's edge, where a flannel blanket awaits us on the grass, lit lanterns stationed at each of the four corners. In the center are a bottle of white wine and two picnic baskets—one with cutlery, plates, and napkins, the other insulated to keep the containers of Chinese takeout inside it warm. I wasn't sure what kind of Chinese food she liked, so I ordered a variety. The surrounding shrubbery sequesters the spot from the path—it feels like from the entire city—creating our own personal oasis. Our own little world for just her and me.

Kennedy stops, taking it all in. The light from the lanterns shines in her sparkling eyes and her smile takes my fucking breath away.

“This is . . . it's beautiful, Brent. Thank you.”

My thumb traces her bottom lip. “That smile is all the thanks I need.”

Then I rethink that statement.

“Well, maybe not
all
the thanks.” I wink. “Let's see how the night goes.”

And then we eat and drink, talk and laugh. Kennedy tells me about her scuba-diving trip to Belize this past spring and I tell her about my kayaking excursion in Alaska last year. I talk to her about the men's lacrosse league I play with on the weekends and her face lights up as she tells me about her Sunday garage-sale antique hunts. We catch up on each other's relatives and the latest gossip about distant family acquaintances. We tell each other stories—funny, horrifying, raunchy stories about college and law school.

Basically, it's a really fantastic date. The kind that would play in a montage with some terrible pop song in the background if this was a cheesy romantic comedy. The kind a guy would tell his friends about the next day—even if he didn't get laid.

The hours go by without either of us realizing it, and by the time we walk back up Kennedy's front porch steps, it's after midnight. We're both relaxed and smiling—and her cheeks bloom with the loveliest flush of good wine and great conversation.

She unlocks the door and asks, “Do you want to come inside?”

Inside, back, stomach, mouth—I want to come everywhere she'll let me.

“For ‘coffee'?” I tease, making air quotes with my fingers.

Her eyes darken to simmering chocolate brown. “No, but I could give you a tour. Show you how the restoration is going. We were able to keep all the original moldings.”

I grin. “I know how that goes. First it's ‘come see my moldings' . . . then it's ‘tear down my Sheetrock and take a look at my brickwork, big boy.' And if I'm lucky, you'll let me peek under your carpet for some floor action that'll make us both lose our minds.”

She chuckles. “Don't forget the fireplace—do you want me to show you my mantel, Brent?”

“You bet your sweet soffits I do.”

•  •  •

The house is an awe-inspiring combination of top-of-the-line modern convenience and gleaming old-world charm. We talk about the wood beams she's keeping exposed in the den, and the hidden Bluetooth-capable speakers that will be installed in every room. She shows me a tiny drawing room with original wallpaper, which if you look at very closely contains hidden images of naked women and men.

That's the Victorians for you. Repressed perverts.

Then we go upstairs, to her bedroom.

The lighting is low, but welcoming—one lone crystal lamp on a mahogany bedside table. The walls are beige with a warm, deep red accent wall behind the bed. Kennedy's actual bed is humongous, a four-poster with a thousand big puffy pillows that make me think of cumulous clouds. It's the kind of bed you'd want to stay in for days—and with the way Kennedy is looking at me, that might just be the plan.

I stop in front of the fireplace, running my hand along the impressive marble mantel. “This is nice.”

Kennedy watches me from just inside the closed door. “Yes . . . it is.”

When our eyes meet and hold, it's like we both just know. No words are needed. Good or bad, right or wrong, everything that's happened in our entwined lives has led us here—to this moment.

My voice is deep, rough. “Come here, Kennedy.”