Chapter Five
CHAPTER FIVE
TOOBADTHEREhadn’t been a security camera in the elevator. Then Ronan would have been able to watch the tape and verify that he hadn’t just dreamed what had happened that night over a week ago. He would have known for certain that he had actually had sex with Muriel Sanz, the most beautiful woman in the world.
He wasn’t being romantic or fanciful when he thought that. He was just repeating the fact that the world had already declared. She had recently been voted The Most Beautiful Woman in the World by Celebrity International, and she was on the cover of every magazine and all over the internet. He couldn’t get away from her.
And yet he hadn’t seen her in several days. Now he wasn’t sure that what had happened had actually happened. He hadn’t gotten any release from the tension that gripped his body even now.
But maybe he was tense because of this meeting his partners had called. Before anyone at the conference table spoke, he knew what it was about: him.
Tuesday was their usual day to discuss Street Legal business. This was Friday. Of course, the meeting could have been about their partner Stone Michaelsen’s upcoming murder trial. It was the highest profile case he’d had yet—representing a billionaire accused of killing his young bride. What if his case had been compromised? They suspected they had a mole in the office. Some notes from Ronan’s partner, Trevor Sinclair’s case files had been given to his opposing counsel. Trev still won the trial against the major pharmaceutical company, so it hadn’t been a big issue for him.
Not like those notes about Ronan that had been turned over to the bar association. Even though those had been forged, they could still affect him. He could lose his license or at least be sanctioned. And if that happened, it could affect the practice, as well.
He glanced around the table at his three partners. These guys were more than business associates. They were friends—longtime friends. If not for them, he wouldn’t have survived the time he’d spent on the streets as a teenage runaway. And because they were his friends, he needed to fix this so it didn’t affect them at all.
“Don’t worry,” he told them, because it was clear from their somber gazes and rigid jaws that they were worried. “I’ve got this handled.”
“You know who the mole is?” Simon asked hopefully. As the managing partner, he’d taken it upon himself to find the source of the leaked information, but he’d found love, instead.
Ronan would have preferred, and not just for selfish reasons, that Simon had found the mole. It would have been less dangerous for his friend than risking his heart.
“No.” Ronan shook his head. “I don’t know that...” The source had to be someone in their office, someone who had access to their case files.
“We need to find out,” Trevor said. He was still pissed that his big civil trial had nearly been compromised. Then he added, “You need to find out, so you know who the hell is behind this mess with the bar association.”
Warmth flooded Ronan. Trev cared about him. They all did. And he, despite his reputation for caring about nothing but winning, cared about them.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I’m the one who was supposed to find the mole,” Simon said.
“And it’s not like Muriel Sanz’s claims are true,” Stone added with unwavering support. “There’s no way you would ever suborn perjury.”
He was glad that they knew that, that they believed in him. If only Muriel could do the same...
She had to know the truth, or she wouldn’t have had to forge the documents. And despite her claims to the contrary, she must have been the one who’d forged them. But if they were credible enough for the bar to investigate, they must have looked authentic. How had she pulled off that without some help?
“Thanks,” Ronan said. “Glad you guys know that.”
“You don’t have to cheat to win,” Trevor said.
“Not anymore,” Simon murmured. He’d been a con artist, trained by his father at an early age to deceive people. Without Simon’s cunning and charm, Ronan and his partners wouldn’t have survived the streets. “But someone else is cheating. It was one thing to take notes from our files, but to forge them?”
“Maybe they only took the letterhead,” Trevor said, “and that model forged the documents.”
That was what Ronan believed—or had believed. After their interlude in the elevator, he wasn’t sure what he believed anymore. He wasn’t even sure he believed that had happened. He was still so damn tense and needy—for her. He hadn’t even bothered trying to ease that ache and tension with another woman. He knew only Muriel would satisfy him now—until he’d had enough of her.
Stone snorted derisively. “You think she’s smart enough to do that?”
Ronan tensed even more. “She’s not some empty-headed bimbo!” he snapped in her defense. It wasn’t like his friend to stereotype just because of her job. Ronan had known and dated plenty of smart models and so had Stone. “She’s not an idiot.”
Stone shook his head. “I looked over your case file. She had to be an idiot to marry that guy.”
“A lot of intelligent people marry the wrong people,” Ronan said. His father had been one of them, and he was a brilliant man in all matters but love.
“I don’t doubt that,” Stone said. “But you’re the one who painted her as the empty-headed bimbo.”
“He and Allison McCann,” Trevor said with a sigh that sounded almost regretful.
He used Allison McCann’s PR firm, McCann Public Relations, in all his trials, too. But then, Trevor handled the high-profile civil cases. Ronan handled the high-profile divorce cases.
Hell, everything Street Legal handled—down to the trusts and wills Simon wrote up—was high profile because of their reputation and their clients.
“It wasn’t just me and Allison,” he said. “It would have been all those witnesses she claims lied about her, too.” Was she telling the truth? He needed to know. He needed to know what the hell was fact and what was fiction.
Like if he’d really had sex in the elevator with The World’s Most Beautiful Woman or if he had only dreamed it.
“Bette thinks they did,” Simon said.
“Bette is her friend,” Ronan reminded him. And that friendship went both ways. Muriel had defended Simon’s former assistant, as well.
Simon tensed. “You don’t still think Bette had anything to do with Muriel getting that letterhead?”
He couldn’t rule it out, not until he had all the facts. And apparently he wasn’t the only one. Both Trevor and Stone glanced at Simon then quickly looked away.
“You all think she could have?” Simon asked.
“They’re friends,” Trevor said.
“So are all of us,” Simon said. But instead of adding on whatever point he’d meant to make, he cursed.
“And we’d all lie for each other,” Trevor finished for him.
Simon sighed. “Yeah, we would. But Bette wouldn’t lie to me.”
Ronan snorted. He’d never known a woman who didn’t lie. And he couldn’t believe that his streetwise friend had become so na?ve.
Yeah, falling in love was a mistake for everyone. It was a mistake that Ronan would never make.
Instead of getting angry, Simon just shook his head, as if he pitied Ronan. Simon was the one who’d tied himself down to one woman. His plan had been to seduce Bette to find out if she was the office mole, but she had wound up seducing him, instead. She’d conned the con.
Simon was the one deserving of pity. Not Ronan.
“Why do you think she won’t lie to you?” Ronan asked. And he was honestly curious now.
“Because she loves me.”
Ronan snorted again.
“She really loves me. It’s not infatuation, not lust—it’s real,” Simon said.
And Ronan was sad for him, that he believed love was real.
“Too bad you couldn’t pull that off,” Stone said. “If you could make Muriel Sanz fall for you, you could get her to withdraw her complaint to the bar association.”
“They’re really taking that seriously?” Ronan asked. Stone had a source at the bar.
His friend grimly nodded.
“Damn it!”
“Try the seduction idea,” Trevor suggested. “It worked for Simon.”
Simon chuckled. “It worked because I could get close to Bette. Muriel Sanz hates his guts. She’s never going to let him close enough to seduce her.”
Oh, she had let him close—close enough to kiss her and touch her and taste her and fuck her brains out and his, too.
What if there had been a camera in that elevator?
They hadn’t thought about that until it would have been too late. They hadn’t thought at all. And Ronan hadn’t talked about it. He hadn’t told his friends about either time he’d run into Muriel. He’d figured they would get worried that he had only made the situation worse and pissed her off more.
He was kind of worried that he had. She hadn’t even been able to look at him after...
Stone sighed. “And Ronan doesn’t have your charm, either, Si. You’re right. It would never work.”
“Want to bet on that?” Ronan asked.
Simon laughed again. “What—are you playing truth or dare right now?”
They’d played that game on the streets, daring each other to take stupid chances or tell the truth about the shitty lives they’d run away to escape. Ronan had always taken the dare. He intended to play that game with Muriel Sanz now.
He dared to try to get the truth out of her. “It’s a dirty job,” he said, “but someone’s got to do it.”
“I would make the sacrifice,” Stone said with a lustful sigh, “if I wasn’t just about to start this killer trial.”
“I can do it,” Trevor offered, and his blue eyes twinkled with lust. “I’d like to do The World’s Most Beautiful Woman.”
“No!” The shout surprised Ronan, especially since it had slipped through his own lips—just as some strange emotion coursed through him, tightening his stomach into knots and clenching his hands into fists. Was this jealousy?
It was something he’d never experienced. He had never been possessive of anyone before. Hell, he’d set up his friends with some of his exes in the past. Maybe that was the issue, though. He hadn’t had enough of Muriel Sanz yet.
“I know you think she’s a hellcat,” Trev said. “But I can handle myself. In fact, I kind of like it rough.” He chuckled.
And Ronan wanted to slug him. What the hell was wrong with him? These were his friends. He gritted his teeth and shook his head. “I will handle it,” he said. “I’ve already talked to her a couple of times since she turned me in.”
Trev leaned across the table and intently studied Ronan’s face.
“What?” he asked, unnerved.
“I’m looking for the claw marks.”
He touched his cheek.
And Trevor chuckled again. “She hit you.”
“I had it coming.”
“Oh, I’m sure you did,” Trev said. “So what makes you think you can handle her?”
He wasn’t sure that he could, but he damn well intended to try. “She’s my problem,” he said. “I’ve never had a problem I haven’t been able to handle.”
There was a sudden silence around the table. And they all glanced away from him like they had Simon when he’d been so certain that Bette wasn’t lying. They knew there was one problem he hadn’t been able to handle, not without running away: his parents.
But he wasn’t going to run away this time. He sighed. “Come on, guys, that was a long time ago. I can handle Muriel Sanz.” And he intended to put his hands all over her until she screamed again like she had in the elevator.
Or at least that was what he thought she’d done. He had to make sure he hadn’t dreamed it all.
“Just remember what you’re really after,” Simon advised. “You want her to withdraw her complaint to the bar.”
“And tell you where she got those documents,” Trevor added with a quick glance at Simon.
Before they could start arguing again, Ronan stood up from the conference table. “Challenge accepted,” he said, as he headed toward the door. But as he walked away, he realized Muriel Sanz might prove to be the biggest challenge of his life.
* * *
The doorbell pealed, making Muriel flinch. It had been ringing nonstop for days, ever since she’d received that ridiculous title that magazines made up to sell more issues. She wasn’t certain who even voted on these things. Her—The World’s Most Beautiful Woman?
Yeah, right.
The bell sounded again, so she picked her way through her suddenly overcrowded apartment to the door. When she peered through the peephole, all she saw were flowers—a colorful profusion of orange tiger lilies and red gardenias and yellow tulips. They were really beautiful. She couldn’t refuse them. With a sigh, she pulled open the door.
“You must be getting tired of bringing all of these up,” she said.
But then the flowers moved, revealing the face—the unfairly handsome face—of the man who carried them. It wasn’t Howard, the gray-haired doorman with so many wrinkles he looked like a bulldog. This was the man who’d been haunting Muriel’s dreams, keeping her awake in her tangled sheets.
He didn’t look as though he’d lost any sleep the past week. What a damn good-looking man. He must not have come from the office because he wore jeans and a T-shirt now, which left his arms bare—the muscles bunched up impressively with the load of stuff he carried.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her pulse quickening as she realized that he had somehow figured out which apartment was hers. Just the way he’d tracked her down at work, he had tracked her down at home.
He held up a bottle of wine that was in the hand not holding the arrangement. “We never went for that drink.” His dark eyes gleamed with naughtiness as he must have been remembering, like she was, why they hadn’t gone for that drink.
They had quenched their thirst in the elevator instead. No. That had just wetted Muriel’s appetite for more...of Ronan Hall.
“You’re not here for a drink,” she said as his gaze skimmed over her.
She wasn’t dressed like The World’s Most Beautiful Woman now. She wore an old pair of yoga pants and a tank top. But he stared at her like she was wearing only her Bette’s Beguiling Bows lingerie. Maybe he could see beneath the thin tank top and nearly threadbare pants.
He stepped forward, and she instinctively stepped back, which allowed him to pass in front of her and enter her apartment. Along with the wine bottle, he held up a big bag from which spicy and mouthwatering scents wafted. “No, I brought dinner, too. I remember you were hungry that night.”
“That was over a week ago,” she reminded him. “I’ve eaten since...” But she was hungry. It wasn’t for the food in that bag, though. She was hungry for him. Then her stomach growled, and she remembered that she hadn’t eaten lately.
He chuckled. “Not today.”
She snorted. “Not for a couple hours.”
He glanced down her body again. “You don’t starve yourself?”
She laughed now. “I wouldn’t look like this if I did.”
He nodded and a little groan slipped out between his lips. “No. You wouldn’t. I’m glad I didn’t bother bringing a salad, too.”
“What did you bring?” she asked, even as she knew letting him stay would be stupid.
They wouldn’t just have wine and food. They’d have sex, too. And maybe that was why she was going to let him stay.
She really, really wanted sex with him again. She wanted to know if it was as good as she’d thought it had been in the elevator. Or maybe it had just seemed like that because it had been so long since she’d had sex with anything but her vibrator.
“I brought Carmine’s.”
She pointed to the bag. “I can see that.”
“Pasta ragù and chicken parm...”
Her stomach growled again. “Good choices. And the wine?”
He held up the bottle again—it was in the same hand with the food. “Pinot noir.”
How could he have known all of her favorites? Then she remembered. She’d had to do an interview for the magazine that had bestowed the ridiculous title on her. She narrowed her eyes as she studied his handsome face. “You’ve done your homework.”
He didn’t deny it. Just grinned that damned sexy grin of his again. And his dark eyes twinkled. “Lucky for me your favorites are also mine.”
She didn’t know if she believed that or not. She doubted she could believe much of what he said. But she didn’t care at the moment. She was too hungry, and not just for the food.
She took the bag from his hand as she led him toward her small dining area. The table overflowed with flowers, too, like the coffee table and the narrow foyer table. The flowers were the only vibrant color in the apartment she had wanted to be a serene oasis for her after the chaos the divorce had made of her life. The walls and ceiling were white, as was all the furniture. And the floors were bare with no varnish or stain darkening the white oak.
“Looks like a funeral parlor in here,” he remarked.
“You’re not the only one who read that article,” she said. “These are all for congratulations.” From people she’d never even met, from designers and photographers and even a few movie producers. She shuddered a little, thinking of all the attention she’d garnered.
He held out the flowers. “Congratulations.”
She shrugged. “I had nothing to do with it.” If anything, it was probably because of him and all the publicity over the divorce trial. But what she added was, “Just genetics...”
He laughed. “So you’re not denying you’re beautiful?”
“Should I feign some modesty?” Too many people had told her she was beautiful, starting with her very honest grandparents, for her to say otherwise.
“You’d be lying if you did,” he said.
She gave him a pointed look. “And I don’t lie.”
He didn’t argue with her. He just grinned again and held up the bottle of wine. “Screw?” The grin widened and his dark eyes glittered with mischief. “Corkscrew, I mean.”
She stepped through an archway into her tiny kitchen and took one from a drawer in the white cabinets and handed it to him. Then she pulled down some plates and grabbed some silverware. This time she did intend to eat and drink first.
But she had no doubt what they were having for dessert: each other.