“And I mean that literally and figuratively. Are you wearing underwear?”
“This skirt’s too tight. I didn’t want any panty lines.” I shrugged.
“Don’t bend over like that in Mr. Granade’s office. That’s all I can tell you.”
I winked and walked past him. “He’s into what I have downstairs, so it may be a good idea to do just that.”
“See.” He was at my heels. “This is what I meant by ‘toning it down.’”
“I got this. I am toned down. Stop your fretting. Besides, if I get fired you might get a chance for some alone time with him.”
He stopped. “Good point. You do you, Caroline.”
I threw him a small wave before turning down the hallway to Mr. Granade’s office. The door was closed. It was usually open. I hesitated outside, wondering if I should knock or just wait. I looked to Shirley, his secretary, in the cubicle at my back. She was on the phone and paid me no mind.
I smoothed my skirt down, given Terrell’s warning. It was still tight, but it didn’t display the goods more than I wanted. My top was low cut—as were almost all my tops (what’s a turtleneck?)—and I made sure my jacket sat on my chest so as to show just enough to keep it interesting.
I took a breath and knocked, heat rushing into my ears from sheer nerves. Get it together, Caroline.
“Come in.” His deep rumble skittered over my skin like electricity.
Tone it down. Tone it down. Tone it down. I pushed the door open and strode in. Then I almost dropped everything. He’d taken his jacket off. I’d never seen him without a suit jacket. His sleeves were rolled up. And was his hair rumpled? Had he run his perfect fingers through his almost-too-long hair? It was sex hair. I peeked behind me. Nope, there wasn’t some law clerk hiding out post-BJ.
“What are you doing?” He was typing, his eyes on the screen at the edge of his desk.
“I was just looking for—nothing. I wasn’t doing anything.”
“That’s not what we pay you for, Ms. Montreat. Close the door.” He kept typing as he spoke.
“Right.” I swung the door shut, catching Shirley giving me a pensive look as I did so.
I turned and took a step toward Mr. Granade, wondering if we were going to sit at his small conference table or if I should take one of the leather seats in front of his desk.
Several large windows graced his corner office, the sunlight streaming in and bathing everything in a golden morning glow. His décor was understated, as if to let the view of the New Orleans skyline rule the room. It did, buildings rising high and gleaming in the cloudless sky.
“Have a seat. I’m almost done.”
“Sure.” I threw a glance to the conference table but decided to choose the chair closest to his desk instead. I sank down and crossed my legs at the ankles before arranging my legal pad and rule book.
He finally finished his rapid-fire typing and clicked something on his screen. Then he focused his eyes on me, and the heat that had already been in my ears turned into an inferno. He was just so good-looking. It should have gotten him a censure from the bar for unfairly competitive behavior. He was thirty-one but had made partner at an unheard-of twenty-seven. And he was so much more than an unbearably pretty face.
I sighed. Wait, did I just sigh?
He cocked an eyebrow. “What was that?”
“What? Nothing. A yawn?” Ears at five-alarm-fire heat levels.
He shook his head and, wait for it, ran his hand through his hair. There it was, the cause of the rumpling. It was so masculine yet also so unusual. He was always perfect to a fault whenever I saw him, not a hair out of place.
“Never mind. Let’s just talk about the case.”
I poised my pen over my legal pad.
“Rowan Ellis.”
I popped my head up. “The Bayou Butcher?”
He nodded and leaned back in his chair, resting one hand on his desk. “But I never want to hear you refer to him as that again.”
“Of course not.” I began writing “Bayou Butcher” on my notepad in big, dramatic letters.
“We are heading to Angola tomorrow for our first face-to-face. I need you to be on point, be a second set of eyes and ears for me. Got it?”
“Yes.” Seen and not heard, got it.
“I expect you to take excellent notes. I want to be able to go over every fact, every scrap of information, once we’re out of there. This is the foundation of our case. We build our entire defense off this first interview, and I want it to be solid.”
I glanced up from my notepad, and he looked away. But it was too late. I’d seen it. He’d been checking me out, the girls in particular. I couldn’t have stopped my smile even if a gallon of Botox had been injected into my lips.