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 woodsy 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 Telecom Summit Law Group.”
“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 three months ago.” Molasses was a partner in the firm, and he’d 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. “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 has 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. “So do you know the law? Usually women who look like you aren’t expected to use their brain. 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 say.
“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 counsellors 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 refrain from using his last name doesn’t light his eyes. Instead, contemplation and approval?
I 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 on the floor 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’d take cigarettes or sex in trade?”
