Chapter You Can Scream
Rosalie
Alone, I cross my legs again beneath the intimidating metal table secured to the floor, feeling as out of place as a raven in a nursery rhyme.
The heat clunks and whispers from a grate in the ceiling but fails to warm the interview room, and when the door finally opens, the heavy frame scrapes against the grimy cement floor.
My spine naturally straightens, and my chin lifts as my client stalks inside, his hands cuffed to a chain secured around his narrow waist. He doesn’t shuffle. Or walk. Or saunter.
No. This man . . . stalks.
His gaze rakes me, and I mean, rakes me. Black eyes—deep and dark—glint with more than one threat of violence in their depths. He kicks back the lone metal chair opposite me and sits in one fluid motion. The scent of motor oil in fresh rain, something all male, wafts toward me.
I swallow.
The guard, a burly man with gray hair, stares at me, concern in his eyes.
“Please remove his cuffs,” I say, my focus not leaving my client.
My client. I don’t practice criminal law. Never have and don’t want to.
The guard hesitates. “Miss, I—”
“I appreciate it.” I make my voice as authoritative as possible, considering I’m about to crap my pants. Or rather, my best navy-blue pencil skirt bought on clearance at the Women’s Center Thrift Store. I don’t live there, but I’m happy to shop there. Rich people give away good items.
In a jangle of metal, the guard hitches toward us, releases the cuffs, and turns on his scuffed boot toward the door. “Want me to stay inside?”
“No, thank you.” I wait until he shrugs, exits, and shuts the door. “Mr. Sokolov? I’m Rosalie Mooncrest, your new attorney from Cage and Lion.”
“What happened to my old attorney?” His voice is the rasp of a blade on a sharpening stone.
I clear my throat and focus only on his eyes and not the tattoo of a panther prowling across the side of his neck, amethyst eyes glittering.
“Mr. Molasses died in a car accident a month ago.” Molasses was a partner in the firm, and he represented Alexei in the criminal trial that had led to a guilty verdict.
“I take it he wasn’t in touch with you often? ”
“No.” Alexei leans back and finishes removing the cuffs from his wrists to slap onto the table. “You’re responsible for my being brought to this minimum-security section of this prison?”
Actually, my firm has juice and a named partner had made this happen. “Yes, and it’s temporary. You’re back to your normal cell block after this meeting.”
His chin lifts. “So this plush locale for our conference is for you, princess? The prestigious law firm doesn’t want you dirtied by the bowels of this place?”
Probably true. “I’m here to help you, Mr. Sokolov.”
His eyes glitter sharper than the panther’s on his neck. “Don’t call me that name again.”
I frown. “Sokolov?”
“Yes. It’s Alexei. No mister.”
Fair enough. I can’t help but study him.
Unruly black hair, unfathomable dark eyes, golden-brown skin, and bone structure chipped out of a mountain with a finely sharpened tool.
Brutally rugged, the angles of his face reveal a primal strength that’s ominously beautiful.
The deadliest predators in life usually are.
Awareness filters through me. I don’t like it.
Worse yet, he’s studying me right back, as if he has Superman’s X-ray vision and no problem using it. He lingers inappropriately on my breasts beneath my crisp white blouse before sliding to my face, his gaze a rough scrape I can feel. “You fuck your way through law school?”
My mouth drops open for the smallest of seconds. “Are you insane?”
“Insanity is relative. It depends on who has who locked in what cage,” he drawls.
Did he just quote Ray Bradbury? “You might want to remember that I’m here to help you.”
“Hence my question. Not that I’m judging. If you want to do the entire parole board to get me out, then don’t hold back. If that isn’t your plan, then I’d like to know that you understand the law.”
It’s official. Alexei Sokolov is an asshole. “Listen, Mr. Sokolov—”
“That name. You don’t want me to tell you again.” His threat is softly spoken.
A shiver tries to take me, so I shift my weight, hiding my reaction. I stare him directly in the eyes, as one does with any bully. “Why? What are you going to do?” I jerk my head toward the door, where no doubt the guard awaits on the other side.
Alexei leans toward me and metal clangs.
“Peaflower? I can have you over this table, your skirt hiked up, and spank your ass raw before the dumbass guard can find his keys, much less gather the backup he’d need to get you free.
You won’t sit for a week. Maybe two.” His gaze warms. “Now that’s a very pretty blush. ”
“That’s my planning-a-murder expression,” I retort instantly, my cheeks flaming hot.
His lip curls for the briefest of moments in almost a smile. “Women who look like you don’t usually have a brain.”
My eyebrows shoot up so quickly it’s a shock a migraine doesn’t follow. He did not just say that. “You are one backassward son of a bitch,” I blurt out, completely forgetting any sense of professionalism.
That smile tries to take hold and almost makes it. Not quite, though. “Fuck, you’re a contradiction.” He flattens a hand on the table. A large, tattooed, dangerous-looking hand. “As a rule, a beautiful woman is a terrible disappointment.”
Now he’s quoting freakin’ Carl Jung? “You must’ve had a lot of time to read here in prison . . . the last seven years.”
“I have.” A hardness invades his eyes. “You any good at your job?”
The most inappropriate humor takes me, and I look around the room. “Does it matter? I don’t see a plenitude of counselors in here trying to help you.”
“Big word. Plenitude. I would’ve gone with cornucopia. Has a better sound to it.”
I need to regain control of this situation. “Listen, Mr.—”
He stiffens and I stop. Cold.
We look at each other, and I swear, the room itself has a heartbeat that rebounds around us. I don’t want to back down. But also, I know in every cell of my being, he isn’t issuing idle threats. A man like him never bluffs.
Surprisingly, triumph that I refrained from using his last name doesn’t light his eyes. Instead, contemplation and approval?
I really don’t like that.
My legs tremble like I’ve run ten miles, and my lungs are failing to catch up.
I suppose anybody would feel like this if trapped with a hell beast in a small cage.
There’s more than fear to my reaction. Adrenaline has that effect on people.
That must be it. I reach into my briefcase and retrieve several pieces of paper.
“If you want me as your attorney, you need to sign this retainer agreement so I can file a Notice of Appearance with the court.”
“And if I don’t?”
I place the papers on the cold table. “Then have a nice life.” I meet his stare evenly.
“My funds are low. I don’t suppose you’ll take cigarettes or sex in trade?”
Is that amusement in his eyes? That had better not be amusement.
I examine his broad shoulders and, no doubt, impressive chest, beneath the orange jumpsuit.
How can he look sexy in orange? Plus, the man hasn’t been with a woman in seven years—he’d be on fire.
A little part of me, one I’ll never admit to, considers the offer just for the—no doubt—multiple and wild orgasms. “I don’t smoke and you’re not my type.
But no worries. My firm is taking your case pro bono until we unbind your trust fund. ”
He latches onto the wrong part of the statement. “What’s your type?”
I inhale through my nose, trying to keep a handle on my temper.
“Don’t tell me,” he continues, his gaze probing deep. “Three-piece suit, Armani, luxury vehicles?”
“Actually, that’s my best friend’s type,” I drawl. Well, if you add in guns, the Irish mafia, and a frightening willingness to kill.
Alexei scratches the whiskers across his cut jaw. “Right. When was the last time you were with an actual man? You know, somebody who doesn’t ask for guidance every step of the way?”
That fact that I don’t remember is not one I’ll share. My thighs heat, and my temper sparks. “Was this approach charming seven years ago?”
“Not really. Though I didn’t need to be charming back then.”
True. He was the heir to one of the four most powerful social media companies in the world before he went to prison. Apparently, his family had deserted him immediately. “You might want to give it a try now.”
His eyes warm to dark embers, rendering me temporarily speechless. “You don’t think I can charm the panties off you?”
“All right. You need to dial it down.” I hold out a hand and press down on imaginary air. “A lot.”
Heat swells from him. Somehow. “Dial what down?”
“You,” I hiss. “All of this. The obnoxious, rudely sexist, prowling panther routine. Use your brain, if you have one. It’s our first meeting, and you’re driving me crazy. You want me on your side.”
“I’d rather have you under me.”
I shut my eyes and slam both index fingers to the corners, pressing in. This is unbelievable.
“Getting a headache? I know a remedy for that.”
I make the sound of a strangled cat.
His laugh is warm. Rich. Deep.
Jolting, I open my eyes. The laugh doesn’t fit with the criminal vibe. It’s enthralling.
He stops.
I miss the sound immediately. Maybe I need a vacation.
Using one finger, he draws the paper across the table. “Pen.”
I fumble in my briefcase for a blue pen and hand it over.
He signs the retainer quickly and shoves it back at me. “What’s the plan?”
The switch in topics gives me whiplash. Even so, I step on firm ground again. “The prosecuting attorney in your case was just arrested for blackmail, peddling influence, and extortion . . . along with the judge, his co-conspirator, who presided over your trial and sentenced you.”
His expression doesn’t alter. “You can secure my freedom?”
That’s my plan, but I don’t want to raise his hopes. “I don’t know. My best guess is that I can secure you a new trial.”