Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 173733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 869(@200wpm)___ 695(@250wpm)___ 579(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 869(@200wpm)___ 695(@250wpm)___ 579(@300wpm)
That's all it was supposed to be. Her. Him. Pleasure. And then a fast goodbye. He's a stranger. And yet, he's not. She knows him even though he doesn’t know her.
He's the powerful attorney, now world-renowned after coming off the trial of a century which was publicized across the country. And I'm one of the reporters that sat in his courtroom.
I watched him, studied him, got to know him from afar which isn't hard since I know his exact brand of confidence, arrogance, and wealth.
I know his type. I've dated his type. Which is why when I happen to come face to face with him, when sparks fly and heat simmers between us, I know what happens if I say "yes" to Reese Summer.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter one
Cat
Day 1: The Trial of the Century
Coffee is life, love, and happiness. Actually, it’s just alertness, and on a day that I’ll be covering the trial of the century along with a horde of additional reporters, I need to be sharp. That need is exactly why I’ve dressed in my sharpest navy-blue suit dress and paired it with knee-high boots before enjoying a fall walk to the coffee shop three blocks from my New York City loft. Only two blocks from the courthouse, it’s bustling with people, but the white mocha is so worth the line, and I’ve allowed myself ample time to caffeinate. In fact, I have a full two hours before I have to be inside the courtroom, and I plan to sit at a corner table and draft the beginning of my daily segment Cat Does Crime before heading to the courthouse.
I step into a line ten deep that slowly moves, and google the name of the defendant, looking for any hot new tidbit that might not have been live before bed last night. I tab through several articles, and I’ve made it to a spot near the front of the line when some odd blog linked to the defendant’s name called “Mr. Hotness Gets Illegally Hot” pops up in my search. Considering the defendant is a good-looking billionaire accused of killing his pregnant mistress, I buy into the headline and click. The line moves up one spot, and I move with it and then start reading:
I need help. I’ve done something bad. So very bad. I was told he would take care of me. Protect me. That was three months ago. I remember that day like it was yesterday. But now, it’s today, a world behind me and in front of us. I enter his office and shut the door. We stare at each other, the air thickening, crackling. And then it happens. That thing that always happens between us. One minute I’m across the room, and the next I’m sitting in his chair, behind his desk, with him on his knees in front of me. Those blue eyes of his are smoldering hot. His hands settle on my legs just under my skirt, and I want to run my hands through his thick, dark hair, but I know better. I don’t touch him until he tells me I can touch him.
I grip the arms of the chair, and his hands start a slow slide upward…
“Next!”
I blink out of that hot little number of a read and pant out a breath, feeling really dirty and gross, and with good reason. I’m hot and bothered over what I think is a fantasy piece about a man who is accused of pushing his pregnant girlfriend down the stairs and killing her. Correction, his pregnant mistress. Only the baby wasn’t really his, and he says he wasn’t her lover, and he was still charged over fingerprints on a doorknob.
“Cat!”
I jolt at my name as Jeffrey, who works the register as regularly as I visit, shouts at me from behind the counter. I take a step forward, only to have a man in a dark gray suit step in front of me. Frowning, I instinctively move forward and touch his arm. “Excuse me.” He doesn’t respond, and I am certain he’s aware I’m now standing right next to him. “Excuse me,” I repeat.
He doesn’t turn around, and now I’m irritated. I tug on the sleeve of what I am certain is his ridiculously expensive jacket and achieve my intended goal: He rotates to look at me, the look of controlled irritation etched in his ridiculously handsome face telling me I’ve achieved my goal. He now feels what I feel, and as a bonus: He now knows that despite my being barely five foot two, blonde, and female, I will not be ignored. “I was next,” I say.
“I’m in too much of a rush to wait for you to finish playing games on your phone.”
“Games? Are you serious?” I open my mouth to say more and snap it shut, holding up a hand to stop him from doing or saying something that might land me in a courtroom today for the wrong reason. “Wait your turn, like the gentleman you should be.”
His eyes, which I now know to be a wicked crystal blue, narrow ever so slightly before he turns to the counter. “A venti double espresso and whatever she’s having.” Mr. Arrogant Asshole looks at me. “What do you want? I’ll buy your drink.”
“Is that an apology?”
“It’s a concession made in the interest of time. Not an apology. You were the one on your phone playing—”
“I was not playing games. I was working, while you were plotting the best way to push around the woman who was ahead of you.”