Hardass (Bad Bitch)(5)

He cleared his throat. “I expect you to be ready to travel at eight sharp tomorrow. Meet me in the parking deck at my car.”

He turned back to his e-mails and started typing again. I’d been dismissed. I stood and dropped my Rules of Evidence. It was accidental. Accidental on purpose. I bent over from my waist to pick up the book. By the time I’d straightened back up, he was staring intently at his computer screen, but his fingers were still.

I swayed my hips for the few steps to the doorway, my heels click-clacking along his wood floor. I opened the door and was about to step out when he spoke.

“Angola isn’t a picnic, Ms. Montreat. It’s full of murderers and rapists of the worst sort. I would suggest you dress a bit more conservatively. Please consult the employee handbook if you need any more instruction.”

I looked over my shoulder and clocked another look. This time his gaze had been glued to my ass.

“Yes, Mr. Granade.” I practically floated down the hall away from his office.

When I turned the corner he closed his door roughly, not quite a slam but just shy. I smiled. This assignment was getting better by the second.





Chapter Two


Caroline

I leaned against Mr. Granade’s car, the chilly morning air running up my bare legs and under my skirt. His engine was still ticking, as if he’d only just arrived. But he must have gone into the office, because he was nowhere to be seen.

I had a notepad and my bag. It was five minutes before eight. I was surprised I’d managed to make it early, especially given that I tried on six different outfits before deciding on my short, light gray skirt suit and cobalt blue top. The top was especially calculated, because it hugged my ample breasts just right. Being curvy meant I knew how to emphasize my assets.

I’d also spent an extra half hour getting my hair in perfect blond waves. I might not have been dressed for Angola, but I was certainly dressed for Mr. Granade. He just didn’t know it yet.

At eight on the dot, he strolled out of the elevator. He wore a perfectly tailored dark gray suit, white dress shirt, and lighter blue tie. I stared. Hard.

He stopped for a moment when he saw me, his blue eyes narrowing as he looked me up and down. He gave his head a slight shake. Did he even know he’d done it? Then he resumed his confident stride, though he looked everywhere but at me.

“Morning, Ms. Montreat.”

“Morning, boss.” I smiled up at him as he approached.

His gaze snapped to me as the word “boss” rolled off my tongue. He went toward the passenger door of his sedan, as if he were going to open it for me. Then, at the last second, he walked around to the driver’s side.

“Get in.” It was a gruff command.

I obeyed and slid into his black leather seat. My skirt rode up a bit, showing even more of my legs. Total accident.

He sank into his seat and started the engine. Voices took over the radio. Smart ones, at that.

“NPR, huh?”

“I like to learn something when I can.” He put the car in reverse, his gaze on the backup camera.

“Me, too. Did you hear last week’s segment about the alleged embezzlement that went down on levee reconstruction post-Katrina?”

He cut a glance to me before throwing the car into drive and maneuvering down the rows to the exit.

“I did. I hear the AG is looking into it.”

I slid on my sunglasses as we exited the deck. He pulled a pair from the center console and put them on. I didn’t think he could look any hotter. I was wrong. Washington Granade in sunglasses was a ladykiller. What was it about tinted glasses that gave such an air of mystery? I loved it.

It wasn’t long before we were on the interstate, still listening to the news of the day and maintaining a relatively comfortable silence. He was an interesting driver. Aggressive, but somehow cautious at the same time. Several times I would have been dropping F-bombs like the blitzkrieg, but all he did was breathe out his nose sort of hard and then go back to his usual stoic self.

When we got too far from the city to keep the NPR going, he switched it to a music station, nothing fancy, mostly Top Forty. It was just background. I saw my chance and took it.

“So, you’re from New Orleans?”

He took one hand from the wheel and laid it on the gearshift. The backs of his hands had a light dusting of dark hair. The fingers were long and the nails clipped to a reasonable man-length. Were his palms soft or callused?

“Yes. From here.”

I shifted in my seat, facing him at more of an angle. He moved his head toward me and then swiveled his attention back to the road. I couldn’t see his eyes behind the glasses.

“Family still live here?”

“Some of them.”

His terse answers were no doubt meant to shut me up. They had the opposite effect.