Chapter Seven
Wash
I’d been in my office for two hours. Two hours when I should have been reading e-mails, writing letters, doing any number of things I needed to do for my clients. Instead, I did the same thing I’d done all weekend. I thought about her, wondered what I could do to fix the situation.
I stared out my windows—something I rarely did. I’d worked my way into the corner office but never seemed to enjoy its perks. My coffee had long since gone cold. Caroline hadn’t shown up yet, but I didn’t expect her to. Not after Saturday night.
I’d stood in that bedroom, still awash in her scent and her taste, and tried to plot the safest course of action. After a few long moments at a total loss, I figured the best thing to do would be to explain that whatever I just said was idiotic and that I was sorry. I didn’t seem to be able to get a handle on my feelings. I was irrational, possessive. I’d kept an eye on her all night, the way she worked the room with Terrell.
I found myself more than once pondering what it would take to get Terrell fired. The way they were so easy together, the way he touched her, and made her laugh—all these things got under my skin. Even though I knew they were just friends and nothing more, I was jealous he got to spend so much time with her. So I did the only logical thing; I drank more. And then I drank some more.
And then I went too far, fucking her under Trent’s roof in the middle of a judicial fund-raiser. Fuck. I couldn’t regret it even if I tried. Her body, her sounds, all of her was embedded in my memory. It was the hottest thing I’d ever done, and even as I sat and stared at the cloudy sky and muddy river, I wanted her again any way I could have her.
“Mr. Granade.” Caroline’s heels clicked on my wood floor.
I turned to her, at a loss for words for once in my life.
She wore a dark turtleneck and gray slacks—demure for her. But it didn’t work. I could still make out every curve on her body and wanted to run my hands over them, kiss them, explore her inch by inch. She sank into one of my chairs and flipped the page over on her legal pad. All business.
“I’ve set up a meeting with Luke Graves for right after lunch. One o’clock at his office downtown. I didn’t give any details of why we wanted to speak to him, just said it concerned his brother. Also, we are set to visit the morgue on Friday morning.” She kept her eyes on her notepad. “Is there anything else I should be doing on the preparation front?”
I stared at her, willing her to look at me. My powers of persuasion were weak all of a sudden, because she continued scrutinizing her notes.
“Look, Caroline, what happened the other ni—”
She looked up, her gaze piercing. “Mr. Granade, please tell me if there’s any other legwork I need to be doing before our meeting this afternoon.”
Mr. Granade. She’d called me Wash Saturday night. I wanted her to call me that again, to call me that all the time. But I’d fucked it up.
She rose. “If that’s all, I’ll finish pulling all the information on Luke Graves. I’ll have a detailed list of high points for you in the next hour.”
“Okay. Yes.”
She strode out as I sputtered for something intelligent to say. Then she was gone and I was back where I started. Alone and consumed with thoughts of her.
After a while, I shook it off and forced myself to work. If she wanted to keep things professional—which she’d made crystal clear—then I would, too. After all, I was the partner. I should have been the one staying professional from the start.
I cleared my e-mails and was about to start looking at the various brief drafts on my desk when she reappeared, her face still in a careful mask and her eyes everywhere but on me. She handed me a bulleted list of information as promised. It was getting close to noon.
“Let’s go get lunch and discuss the interview.” I used the tone I’d come to wield like a baton. It got things done. It kept the associates in line.
“I don’t think so. I’ll just meet you over at his office.” She turned on her heel and left.
Chapter Eight
Caroline
I spent the entire elevator ride up to Luke Graves’s office primping myself in the reflective doors. I’d stuck to my guns earlier when I’d told Wash I wouldn’t go to lunch with him. I’d wanted to, but I couldn’t let myself slide right back into his mindfuck, or even his oh-so-good normalfuck.
The doors slid open, and I hoisted my messenger-bag-style briefcase higher on my side. Graves and Berns was a high-end investment brokerage, very high-end from the looks of things. Everything was marble, glass, and shiny chrome. The office was at the top of one of the tallest buildings in the city, so the views were spectacular.