She rolled her window down and glared at me, her lips pressed into a thin line, any chance of a smile gone. “Yes, Mr. Granade?”
“Please, call me Kennedy.” I raised my face, though she didn’t smile. My odds weren’t holding up. “About earlier—”
“Which part? The part where you said I could suck on certain parts of your anatomy? The part where you assumed I was a secretary? Perhaps the part where the older men at my firm are, naturally, having sexual relations with me since I’m a female associate? Please be specific.”
“When you put it that way, I sound like a total dick.” I gave her the self-effacing smile that even worked on Faye on a couple of occasions. It was just that fucking good.
Nothing—no smile, definitely no laugh, and perhaps even more of a scowl than before. Tough crowd. “We’re finally in agreement on something.” She pushed the ignition button and her car purred to life.
I dropped all pretense and met her gaze. “I’m sorry. Really, Ms. Carmichael. I was raised better than that. Please accept my sincere apology.”
She narrowed her eyes, her pupils somehow boring into mine. “I assume you’re still interested in the cocounsel appointment?”
“Yes. Please.” The sound of cash registers ca-chinging played through my mind like a cartoon.
She sighed, but her look of disdain didn’t soften. “Fine, Mr. Granade. I’ll expect you at my office at one p.m., unless you have plans.”
“No plans.” I wasn’t sure if I had appointments or not. Either way, it didn’t matter—none of them had the potential payout this case offered. Faye could reschedule.
“Good.” She turned her head toward the street, preparing to pull into traffic. “And, Mr. Granade?”
“Yes?”
She cut her light blue eyes back to mine before letting them drift down my wrinkled shirt. “Please shower and shave before coming to Stone and Porter. As you stated earlier, we have a reputation. One we’d like to keep intact.”
She glanced over her shoulder again and pulled into the street.
I wanted to collapse onto the sidewalk, my heart beating fast enough to make a dent in my ribs. Had I really almost pissed away millions?
“Did you get her?” Faye called from the porch.
I gave her a thumbs-up as I stared at Ms. Carmichael’s taillights. Ms. Carmichael. Just from our few moments together, she was easily one of the stiffest, primmest, most uptight people I’d ever met. I closed my eyes and, as I often did with attractive women, tried to imagine fucking her. She was on her back, her eyes clenched shut, fake moaning, and she kept asking me if it was over yet. I opened my eyes and laughed. Definitely not worth it.
I strolled back up the walk toward Faye. “What did she say her first name was?”
“Scarlett.”
I took Faye in my arms and danced her around on the porch to her surprised guffaw. The boards creaked beneath our feet, but all I could feel between my toes was the sand on my own private beach.
“Millions, Faye. Millions.” I twirled her, but she wouldn’t return to me for the final flourish.
She smirked and crossed her age-spotted arms over her chest. “You need a bath. You smell like a bar.”
“I know. I know.” I bowed. “Only the best for Scarlett Carmichael. I have to be at Stone and Porter at one p.m. for more of her sparkling wit and Victorian fashion choices. Clear my appointments this afternoon.”
“You have no appointments.” She walked back inside.
“She wants me. You know?” I closed the door behind us and almost tap-danced down the hallway to my office.
Faye followed at my heels. “She might want you maimed. Possibly dead. Even dismembered. But I can assure you she does not want you, Kennedy. She’s way out of your league.”
“We’ll see about that. She won’t be my first debutante, and I hope and pray to all that is holy she won’t be my last.” I grabbed my keys and the contracts from my desk and headed toward the back door.
“Careful, Kennedy. Keep it in your pants or you may as well forget the millions.”
If Faye starred in her own comic book, it would be called The Chider. She excelled at it, and despite the fact her scoldings fell on deaf ears, she kept on trying.
“Don’t worry.” I pecked her on the cheek. “I’ll invite you to my beach house in the Bahamas at least once a year. Maybe for a day or two. But don’t get greedy.”
Chapter Three
Scarlett
“How was he?” Graham, my paralegal, asked.
“The worst. A nightmare. A venereal disease. A green scab that oozes and you can’t figure out why it’s still attached to your body.” I tossed my bag on my desk.