In her fifteen years as an attorney Charlotte had never let anyone throw her off
her game, and she wasn't about to let it happen now.
So why was she shaking in her Louboutins?
"Put your briefcase and purse on the belt, keys in the tray, and step
through," the officer said, waving her into the metal detector.
She complied, cold washing through her as the gate behind her clanged shut.
She glanced over her shoulder, thinking how much better she liked it when her
interpretation of bar remained singular.
"Name . . . ?" asked the other cop at the desk.
"Charlotte Andreko."
He ran down the list, checking her off, then held out his hand, waggling it.
"Photo ID and attorney card."
She grabbed her purse from the other side of the metal detector and dug into
it, producing both. After the officer examined them he sat back with a smirk.
"So you're here for that Frenchie dude, huh? What's he—some kinda big
deal?"
She eyed him coolly, hefting her briefcase from the belt. "They're all just
clients to me."
"That so." He dropped his gaze, fingering her IDs. "How come he don't have to
sit in a cell? Why'd he get a private room?"
Why are you scoping my legs, you big douche? "It's your jail.
Why'd you give him one?"
He cocked a brow. "You're pretty sassy, ain't you?"
"And you're wasting my time," she said, swiping back her IDs. God, times
like these I really hate men. "Are you going to let me through or what?"
He didn't answer. He just leered at her with that simpering grin as he handed
her a visitor's badge, reaching back to open the next gate. "Thank you." She
clipped it on, following the other cop to one more door at the other side of a
vestibule.
"It's late," the officer said, pressing a code into a keypad, "so we can't
give you much time."
"I won't need much." After all, how long would it take to say, No fucking
way.
"Then just ring the buzzer by the door when you're ready to leave." When he
opened it and she stepped in, her breath immediately caught at the sight of the
man behind it. She clutched her briefcase, so tightly she could feel the blood
rushing from her fingers.
"Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Andreko," Rex Renaud said.
Even with his large body cramped behind a metal table, the Mercier Shipping
COO never looked more imposing, and in spite of his circumstances, never more
elegant. The last time they met it'd been in Boston, negotiating the separation
terms of his company's lone female captain, Dani Lloyd, who had recently become
Marcel Mercier's wife. But with his cashmere Kiton bespoke now replaced by Gucci
black tie, he struck an odd contrast in that concrete room, yet still exuding a
coiled and barely contained strength. He folded his arms across his chest as his
black eyes fixed on hers, Charlotte getting the distinct impression he more or
less regarded her as cornered prey.
All at once the door behind her slammed shut and her heart beat so violently
she nearly called the officer back. Instead she planted her heels and forced
herself to focus, staring the Frenchman down. "All right, I'm here," she said
en français. "Not that I know why."
"J'ai oublié que tu avez parlé ma langue," he said. "But we'll keep to
English so there's no mistaking my meaning." His immaculate patent-leather shoe
nudged the chair opposite. "Have a seat, s'il vous plaît." He tsked. "I
mean—please," he added, smiling brilliantly.
If there was anything she remembered about Rex Renaud—which was nearly
everything because he wasn't easy to forget—it was how lethally he wielded
his physicality. How he worked those inky eyes, jet-black hair, and Greek-statue
handsomeness into a kind of immobilizing presence, leaving her weak in the knees
every time his gaze locked on hers. Which meant she needed to work twice as hard
to keep her wits sharp enough to match his, as no way would she allow him the
upper hand. Yet even though he was in jail, even with him jammed behind that
metal table, and herself looming over him, it was still a battle. Because with
every advantage on her side he still dominated the room, the situation, the very
airspace between them, so much so that Charlotte had to curl her hand around the
back of the chair to steady herself.
Too much coffee today, she reasoned. That's all it is. Even
though she knew that didn't even figure.
He nudged the chair again, his collar opened where his bow tie had been, his
only concession to the situation. "Please sit. You heard the flic. We
haven't much time."
"We haven't any time at all." She steeled herself. "It's not like we have
anything to discuss."
"Non?" His gaze offered her a challenge. "Then why did you come?"
She smiled, with delicious, malicious intent. She waited a long time to wound
him—and all men like him who dismissed women so easily—and as
swiftly and as deeply as she could. "Maybe for the pleasure of seeing you behind
bars."
"Really," he said, his eyes darkening as he drew closer. "Though the idea of
pleasuring you does hold a certain appeal."
Heat streaked through her as she slammed her briefcase atop the table. "Then
take a good look, because my watching you rot in here is about as close as
you'll ever be to getting me off."
He sat back, amused. "The lady finds her bliss in the strangest places.
Though if watching people in pain is your thing, I am acquainted with a few
gentlemen who'd pay you a nice piece of change to put all that aggression to
use." He cast her a glance that near stripped the clothes from her body. "I
believe all you'll need is a good deal of leather and some rather kinky boots."
Her jaw dropped. "Are you—you—"
She waved her hand in front of her.
"Me? Why non. I do like a bit of spark in my women, but I always
prefer it on top." His eyes hooded. "Metaphorically speaking, that is."
"You bastard piece of shit," she uttered, pressing her knuckles to the worn
steel. "I had to be out of my mind to come here when it's clear you're guilty of
everything you're accused of."
"And what's that?" he said, rising. "I'd love to hear it out of your mouth."
"Of sexual assault," she spit out. "Of everything vile and sick and violent
that men and their disgusting appetites are capable."
"Oh, how right you are, mon amie. How truly loathsome we are.
Repulsive animals." He leaned in, so closely she could feel his breath on her
cheek, his eyes malevolent and cold. "Men are indeed beasts, always stooping to
the lowest common denominator. Using brutality to get what they want, pugnacious
and vicious to the end. Unlike women, who've crawled out of the swamp and up the
evolutionary ladder to become so much more ruthlessly efficient. Who needs fists
when you have feminine wiles?" He leaned in even closer. "Why shed blood when
you can suck out a man's soul."
"What do you want from me?" she said, backing away. "Why would you ask me to
defend you, knowing what I think of men like you?"
"Because I believe you'll want to," he said, his eyes bleeding candor and
reason and some indefinable quality she found, God help her, unable to resist.
"After you hear what I have to say."
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