Their Summer Heat (2 page)

“Your Honor, according to Miss Heat’s earlier statement, she has
a
job to get to—and in fact, her tax returns reveal she’s employed by four different firms. Surely she can afford to pay her balance.”

Summer’s belly dropped as rage poured through her. In four hours, he’d invaded her privacy.
Circling. Circling.
“Mr. Preston. How did you obtain my tax records?”

He faced her, a small smile playing on his face. “With a court order.”

“Let me guess; you asked a female judge for the order, and she smiled and happily signed?”

He shrugged.

Summer shook her head. The Shark refused to acknowledge the obvious. “Mr. Preston, you use your good looks and sexuality to play games in court. You’re dressed in an expensive dark suit, white pressed shirt—heavily starched—but some days you trade the white for baby blue to match your eyes. Your shoes are polished and pricey, cufflinks no doubt real gold and the crest means somethin’ to you. You own several high-end cars that you love to drive when away from the New York, but a car service drives you in the city, so you can wheel and deal from the backseat. You are ruthless in the courtroom as well as the bedroom. Too bad the package on the inside doesn’t match the wrapping on the outside.”

“Miss Heat,” warned the judge.

“No, Your Honor. It’s okay. Miss Heat, Judge Jason Barns was scheduled to preside over these proceedings today, a fact you knew when you dressed in that skin-tight black dress. But Judge Barns got sick, so Judge Overton took his place. I’m thinking you chose your clothes with Judge Barns in mind.”

“And you’d be wrong—again. I have an engagement at 5:30 and wasn’t sure if I’d have time to change. When I was here back in July, I wore loose black pants with a safety pin to hold them up, fifteen-year-old one-inch heels, and a top that covered more than your colleague’s does.”

“My colleague?” He glanced from Summer to the puppy and back. “What does she have to do with this?”

The Judge rolled her eyes.

“She is wearin’ a suit that costs more than my entire wardrobe, her sleeveless, low-cut blouse is a thin, wispy silk that shows her lacy bra, and I’m sure she has matchin’ expensive panties. Garters are no doubt holdin’ up her silk stockin’s, and she’s wearin’ an exclusive brand of heels that I, for one, don’t even know the name of but that scream come-do-me. You work in pairs—you for the ladies and her for the men.”

Mr. Preston opened his mouth and then closed it. Was he perplexed that she’d figured him out?

“Seems she’s got him pegged,” said someone behind her.

Summer was on fire, the adrenaline pumping through her like a runaway freight train. “Your Honor, this mornin’ I stated that I currently was in class and had a job to get to in the afternoon. My normal day consists of class in the mornin’, job one at a deli in the afternoon and job two in the evenin’ from 8 p.m. to 2 a.m. cleanin’ offices. Job two is replaced by my engagement tonight—have to be there at 5:30—for which I’m dressed. Job three has flexible hours, and I only work at job four when I’m not in school, mostly weekends and holidays, so if Mr. Preston is tryin’ to catch me in fabrication, he’ll have to try a little harder.”

Baiting the Shark. Probably not a good idea.

“Okay, I stand corrected.”

The judge stared wide-eyed at the Shark, and a few people behind Summer shifted in their seats. She couldn’t hide her smile; she knew exactly how much it took for the Shark’s admission. Probably a first for him.

“Do you have a problem with the letter G?”

Heat infused her face so badly she thought her nose hairs would catch on fire. Summer turned and spoke directly to him. “I do
not
apologize for my southern accent. Most people find it endearin’, and those who associate it with ignorance find out they are badly mistaken.”

It was true. She dropped her Gs and said ain’t all the time. The habits were engrained and changing them would gain her
nothin’
.

Mr. Preston picked up a piece of paper. “According to Miss Heat’s bank account statements, there is a consistent cash deposit for $1500 every month. Would you like to explain this money?”

“No, Your Honor, I would not like to explain that. As Mr. Preston can see from my
private
bank account, there’s far more month than money, even with the $1500. If anything, he should note that I can’t afford payments of $700 at 29.5 percent interest.”

“But, Miss Heat, perhaps you have more cash where this came from, and you
can
afford $700 at 29.5 percent interest.”

“No, Mr. Preston. I don’t have any cash stashed under my mattress.”

“Perhaps you’re a kept woman who has a sugar daddy you could ask to pay off your loan.”

Summer’s eyes drifted closed before they snapped open. “Tell me, Mr. Preston, what is the goin’ rate for a kept woman? $1500 sounds low, but you should know.”

A dark brow cocked upward. “I wouldn’t know. Just tell us where you get that money, and I’ll leave you alone.”
Circling, Circling
.

Yep, this was his game. Muddy the water with extraneous information, sink the truth. But backing down wasn’t an option. “Your Honor, it’s not in my best interest to reveal where the money comes from. He has my W-2s, which I still think is a gross invasion of my privacy, and the taxes I’ve paid were bailout money to Bunkum Bank.”

“I agree with Miss Heat. Unless you can prove she’s rolling in money we don’t know about, stop fishing.”

Summer couldn’t see, but she had no doubt Mr. Preston had arched an eyebrow in an I-can’t-believe-you-just-did-that move. Being slapped on the hand by a woman…
that’s gotta sting his pride
.

His little puppy tugged on his coattail, and he bent his large frame to stare at his laptop screen. A slow smile played on his face. “Your Honor, I would like to know what DG Enterprises does, and is that where she gets the cash?”

Her belly bypassed the chair and hit the floor as dread clawed along her skin with long raking talons. No more circling. This was the grab and devour.

Summer cleared her throat, forcing down the bile. “Your Honor, why should I reply to a question Mr. Shark already knows the answer to? He wants to smear my name, which still has nothing to do with this case.”

“Well, Mr. Preston. Do you know the answer?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Counselor, I don’t need to remind you that Miss Heat is not on trial for where she works.”

“Forgive me. I’ll try not to forget that. DG Enterprises is a sex-for-sale company.”

A couple of gasps resonated behind her.

“What does sex-for-sale mean?” Summer asked. One thing her daddy always said was to answer a question with a question until you figured out what to say, and never, ever answer and give your opponent information when they don’t have it.
Thanks, Daddy.

The shark pursed his lips, so he didn’t know. Like her momma said—money can’t buy everything. “Well?” she asked.

“An escort service, perhaps?”

The Shark was fishing. Summer crossed her arms over her chest and said nothing, nada, zilch.

“Straight up prostitution?”

“You don’t know, and Your Honor, I don’t think it’s any of his business. I pay taxes on whatever it is.”

“I agree with Miss Heat. Move on.”

He studied his screen, probably trying to intimidate it to cough up the answer. After a few seconds passed, he rubbed his chin, a clear sign he was hedging for time instead of dropping the subject and moving on as the judge had instructed.

“Ah. My sources tell me it’s a 900 service.”

She couldn’t deny his statement because lying wasn’t something she was good at, but not denying it was an admission. Summer remained silent and would only answer if the judge ordered her to.

“So, Miss Heat. What’s your call name, or do you use your real name? Summer Heat has a nice seductive ring.”

The damage was done; no tucking the truth back in the shadows. “Two things.” She stood and faced the judge. “Your Honor, my jobs are irrelevant to this case.” She turned her head to stare at the New York Shark. “And do you want to know my call name to see if you’ve talked to me before, see if you might be one of those who’ve waited in line on the phone until it’s your turn?”

He worked his lower jaw, no doubt grinding his teeth. She was stupid to open her mouth and imply such a thing. Of course, he didn’t need phone sex, probably had all sorts of women calling him, just to hear his deep voice say hello. Hell, she could almost get off on his voice alone.

“Let’s move on,” instructed the judge.

“Okay.” Mr. Preston resumed his seat, which struck her as totally out of character for someone who made their living intimidating people with is eyes, his voice, his height. He pulled some papers out of his case and flipped through them. Summer remained standing, hoping to give the impression she wasn’t intimidated by the fact that the whole world now knew she got paid for talking dirty to men and women so they could get their rocks off.

She was a psych major, had left her small town in North Carolina to come to New York to attend college. The 900 job paid damn good money, and she had discovered she could study and whisper sensual suggestions on the phone at the same time. It was an association game, a person to facts. She didn’t claim to understand it, but earning while learning was a sweet, sweet deal.

Summer forced her head up a notch and murmured, “Bring it on.”

Max flipped through the credit card charges and wrestled to get his damn erection under control. Reporters from Channel Four lurked in the back and him sporting a hard on for the nightly news wasn’t on his agenda.

His opponent, the lovely Miss Summer Heat, was every man’s wet dream. Her black dress, which hugged her toned body like a second skin, was the type of garment a man enjoyed peeling off a woman. He definitely wanted to unwrap her, slowly, and discover her skin inch by delicate inch.

And her southern drawl was so damn cute. He’d hated making her blush when he’d called her on it, but rattling her was his goal. Miss Summer Heat didn’t rattle easily.

Even though her neckline was modest, he knew her breasts were round, high and most importantly, real. He’d seen enough silicone to know the difference, and hers would fit well into his hands. Her long red hair cascaded like a waterfall down her back, curls dancing when she moved. He could use those tresses to control her.

When her pink lips formed words, he had a hard time hearing—all he could envision was his cock sliding in and out between them.

Not only did her name put all sorts of things in his mind, she smelled just like her name. Like summer, with all its flowery fragrances. And heat, a smoldering, seductive scent.

She wore a perfume he didn’t recognize, but he sure as hell wanted to know what it was. The fragrance mixed with her natural scents, floated on the subtle air current in the room, and made him want to rub up against her—bare skin to bare skin.

No doubt, if he were a vanilla guy, Summer would fit him perfectly in bed. But he wasn’t vanilla, and she wouldn’t fit him. She hid behind a phone, playing it safe. He prowled in the shadows, and the only safe he knew was his partner’s safe word.

But still, he had to have her.

Beneath him.

Just a taste to appease his curiosity.

The judge cleared her throat and forced his mind back to credit card statements. The answer was in these charges; he just had to find it. It wasn’t his fault she’d refused to take a continuance, as if she had something to prove by challenging him. Summer Heat was smart, the best competition he’d had in a long time. She knew her stuff, wasn’t afraid to use it, and had an uncanny gift for reading people, for knowing what made them tick. She pushed his buttons left and right.

And she had nailed him. He knew the dynamics of the judicial hierarchy, and even though the judges, clerks, and other lawyers weren’t aware of it, he was the alpha in this arena, and others reacted to his presence on a subconscious level.

And she’d
ticked
him off several times.

“Mr. Preston,” said the judge. “Any other items you want to bring up.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”
Flipping, flipping. Huh?
This made no sense. “Miss Heat. Were you in school in February, 2012?”

“Yes.”

Her southern drawl was deep, seductive, sliding over his skin like velvet. “The entire month?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t take a vacation anytime during the month of February?”

“No.”

A delicate brow arched, causing a little dip between her eyes that he wanted to kiss away.

“According to your credit card statement, you were at Bill’s Gambling Hall and Saloon in Vegas on Tuesday, February 17, 2012.”

“Yes.”

“You stayed a day over three weeks, checked out on the eleventh of March.”

“Yes.”

“Yet, you’ve never taken a vacation during this time. How do you explain these charges on your card?”

“It doesn’t matter. The charges are mine.”

He leaned down and whispered to Madeline to research a hunch of his. He flipped two more pages. “And in April, 2012, you were in Atlantic City, yes?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”

“Really? Who doesn’t remember Atlantic City? Tell me about the Black Diamond.”

She stared at the table, chewed on her lower lip. This is where he’d usually say “gotcha” and close in for the killing bite, but Summer Heat nullified the instinct that had made him so successful.

All he wanted to do was tug her into his arms and kiss the hell out of her.

“Well, Miss Heat? You know—the place you stayed back in April.”

Madeline tapped on his arm and swung her laptop toward him.

“It was okay,” Summer replied.

“Miss Heat. The Black Diamond is a riverboat casino and its port is Palm Beach, not Atlantic City. You were never on the Black Diamond, never in Atlantic City, and never in Vegas. Your father, however, was.”

Her head snapped around, her gaze riveted to his. He broke the connection and read from the screen. “Your father’s been arrested several times since 2011, in lots of states for DWI, public drunkenness, careless and reckless, public nakedness, destruction of public prop—”