Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Maurizio
Two hours later I was getting my head around the alleged rape my new client had been accused of and charged with.
A lot of the evidence seemed circumstantial, but there was probably enough to make a decent case.
Add to that my client’s reputation as a bad boy, a womaniser, some resurfacing social media posts made during his ill spent youth and a few stupid errors in judgement that he’d made on the night in question, I could see why he’d come to me.
Not to be arrogant, but I was good at what I did, the best, and whilst I was expensive, I was worth every penny when a case came to court.
“Right, let’s go over it again.”
My client, RadMan, otherwise known as Peter Grey, sighed.
I levelled him with a hard expression. “I need to know everything there is to know in order to defend you. When you’re under oath and the prosecution make you go over and over your account of events and reveal something I don’t know, I may not be able to repair the damage.
” My tone was firm. He knew I meant business.
Now, I like my near perfect success rate, but if we lose your case I will still go home to my house and children.
” And nanny, I thought. “You, however, will be on your way to prison for a lengthy stay.” I let that rest in the air for a second, nudging back in my chair like I had no worries at all.
“So, shall we go over it again or shall I go home in time to put my children to bed and you can think about your life choices?”
Rad laughed. “There’s a reason you charge so much and have the reputation you do.”
I shrugged but continued to stare at the man opposite me.
“Fine! I went out with some friends . . .”
Rai continued to record everything while I listened and fired questions for the next two hours.
By the time I pulled up outside my house, I was exhausted but smiled, happy to be home.
The thought of Flora also helped push away some of the fatigue the day had left on me.
I took a moment to again consider how well the time she had been with us had gone.
How my home was running with effortless ease and the precision of a very expensive clock.
I considered the pull I felt to her, the obviously mutual attraction, and wondered just how much of a train wreck acting upon that could turn out to be.
I refused to be drawn on that particular question.
I’d had enough questions tonight. Instead, I looked at the house.
A few lights were on; the upstairs landing, lamplight from the lounge and the kitchen, which was fully illuminated.
I grabbed my things, strolled to the door and unlocked it.
I was greeted by the smell of garlic, tomatoes, basil and a variety of other gorgeous aromas that suggested food had been cooked.
My stomach grumbled in protest at being deprived of food since a quick sandwich at lunchtime.
I dropped my briefcase in the hall next to the table where I placed my keys and wallet before heading to the kitchen where the smells were emanating from, but it wasn’t the food that caused me to pull up short, it was Flora.
She stood, barefoot on her tip toes, reaching up, stretching to retrieve a glass from a high shelf and as she did so, I remained frozen on the spot, mesmerised by her.
She wore short pyjamas in a soft looking cotton.
The top fitted like a cropped t-shirt, while the shorts clung to her peachy arse and as she stretched there was a tantalising amount of cheek protruding from each leg .
. . barely a handful and yet that was all I could think of, cupping her behind and allowing my grip to tighten so she could feel my possession but without hurting her.
Briefly, my mind went back to Sophie, my wife, the woman who, months before had left me and the children.
When we had first been together and early in our marriage, we had been unable to keep our hands off one another.
Had it been Sophie I had walked in on like this I would have marched across the room and had her naked and spread out on the floor or a surface, with me inside her.
My hands would have been covering every inch of her body and my mouth claiming hers.
When the children had been born, things had changed and then continued to do so until there was very little intimacy between us.
I allowed myself an internal chuckle that the reason for that may have had something to do with the fact that she had left me because she had been having an affair with another woman and had recently confirmed that she was a lesbian, not bisexual, but a lesbian, so I guess I was never going to be enough for her.
I avoided wondering why she had married me or had the children.
Had she always been gay, or had she not realised until she’d met the right person?
Maybe none of it needed labels and it was just a case that she had realised our relationship didn’t fulfil her or make her happy, and her current one did, regardless of gender.
I had offered the option of being bi so as to give her a way back to me and the children.
She’d rejected it. Maybe she was stronger than me and I had simply given her that as an option for us to carry on as we had been and in turn had been hoping to make my own life easier.
I needed to stop thinking about this, torturing myself with ifs, buts and maybes.
If I was honest, neither of us had been happy for a while, not really.
Sophie had moved on, and my attraction to Flora suggested I might be able to do the same.
However, I did need to speak to Sophie and discuss next steps for the children and both of us.
Perhaps I should seek legal advice, too, in terms of the children and formally starting a divorce.
Returning my attention to Flora, I watched as she stretched further, the muscles in her legs tensing until everything was taut.
“Do you need a hand?” I asked, unsure if I meant with getting a glass or whether I was thinking of her arse in my hands again.
She spun to face me, her body dropping to its natural height as the glass that she’d finally got hold of came flying towards me. I jumped forward, just about catching it before it ended up in a million pieces on the floor.
Her breathing was fast and she clutched her chest which was completely covered and yet, the way the fabric clung to her curves drew my eyes until I was sure I could see her actual breasts rather than just the curve of them, although there was no mistaking the bullets of her nipples that pushed against the fabric of her top.
“Sorry,” we both said in unison, me for giving her a fright and her for throwing the glass in my direction.
We stared across at each other and a tension settled between us.
“I was getting a drink of water,” she said pointing towards the glass I still held.
I offered it to her. “And I was just coming home.”
We both laughed at our pathetic attempts to diffuse the crackle in the air.
“Would you like a drink of water?” she asked and flushed as she heard her own offer of my water from my tap in my kitchen.
“No, thanks, I’m fine, but you go ahead.” I didn’t want her to feel awkward because as much as this was my home it was her place of work and an extension of her home upstairs. Plus, the only reason she was here now was because she had done me the favour of staying over.
“I should go, home, upstairs, to bed . . . there’s some dinner in the fridge . . . pasta with chicken and vegetables . . . I saved you some, but if you don’t want it you don’t have to . . .” Her rambles trailed off as she allowed an over exaggerated and forced yawn to leave her mouth.
“Okay. Thank you, for tonight, the children, dinner, staying over . . .” Her rambling was clearly contagious.
“I’ll be off then.” She seemed reluctant to leave and I was enjoying some adult company in the evening, even if it was infantile and a little awkward.
“Okay.”
She made to pass by me and I grabbed her wrist, the air threatening to ignite around us as my touch appeared to burn us both, especially judging by how we jumped.
This was bad . . . I mean it was good, but like really bad, and if I was a wise man I would let her go and never consider touching her again.
“Or you could stay, and I’ll open a bottle of wine . . . we could chat, get to know one another.” The wise man had pissed off for the night, and I was clearly a fool.