Page 39 of Cruel Lies

"That's convenient," I snarl.

"It's the truth. You can choose to believe it or not." He shrugs again. "But you beat me to it. You did more damage in twenty minutes than I could've done in twenty years. So. There's no case anymore. There's no Todd anymore, not really. The man is a ghost."

I look up at the silver letters again. THE AKOV FIRM. The same name from the worst spreadsheet I've ever built.

What if what he's saying is true?

What if this dark-eyed man is the only ally I have left in the world?

"One drink," I say finally. "And I'm still mad."

"I would expect nothing less."

His office is on a high floor, surrounded by huge panes of glass on two sides, the city spread out below. There's a marble desk, two chairs that look deeply uncomfortable, and a low cabinet built into the wall. He goes to it and pulls out a bottle and two glasses.

I stay standing by the window with my arms crossed.

"So this is where it happened," I say as I survey our surroundings. "Where Todd threw his money on the desk."

"He sat in that chair right there, the one on the left." He nods at the one in question. "I keep them uncomfortable on purpose. It tells me a lot about a man, how he handles being uncomfortable."

"And how did Todd handle it?"

"Badly." He pours two fingers into each glass and brings one to me. "He kept squirming. Trying to look like he owned the place. Men like him always do."

I take the glass but I don't drink. "'Men like him,'" I echo. "You say that like you're not one of them."

He raises an eyebrow.

"Big office," I explain with a sweep of my hand around the room. "High floor. Expensive suit. A bottle you've been saving for 'the right occasion.'" I raise the glass and eye him through the whiskey. "Smooth talk—the worst crime of all. The whole gender can take a walk off a short bridge, like I told you. But men like you and Todd? You're the front of the line."

His mouth curves, but his eyes have that dark, careful look again. "Let me remind you whatItoldyou:I'm not Todd."

"No," I agree. "You're cleverer. He came to you to do something cruel, so you took his money and sat on his case because you'd already decided you knew better than everyone what should happen. Now, you're coaxing me up here so you can play with your food." I set my glass down on the cabinet without tasting it. "That's not the behavior of a man who's done with the game. That's the behavior of a man who thinks he's about to win it."

He sets his whiskey down next to mine and leans against his desk, arms folded. He's long and lean, dark and handsome, too perfect in all the ways that I'm just now learning—too late, but hey, that's better than never—I should stay away from. Those eyes gleam like a starless patch of night sky.

"I'm interested in you," he says plainly. "I won't pretend otherwise. I've thought about you since that night at the bar. I watched you take your husband apart this morning and I have never wanted to know a person more."

It's a good line. I'll give him that. Delivered straight and confident, no flinching, those dark eyes right on me.

But I just spent eighteen months married to a man who said nice things to my face and stole my company behind my back. I justspent three weeks teaching myself to trust the data instead of the words. And the data on this man is simple.

He took Todd's case.

That's the only receipt I need.

"Here's the thing," I tell him. "I just got out. I clawed my way out of a marriage to a smooth, rich, charming man who told me exactly what I wanted to hear—right up until the day I found someone else's hair in my brush." I pick my bag up off the floor. "And the very first thing that I find when I walk out is another smooth, rich, charming man waiting by a column to buy me a drink. Fool me once, shame on you. But fool me twice, it's shame on me. I'm not stupid, Mr. Akov. No matter what you seem to think."

"Cali—"

"No." I shake my head and ward him off. "I told you at the bar and I'll tell you again now: I'm done with men. Especially men like you." I look around the office, the glass, the city, the uncomfortable chairs, all the signs that scream that he and Todd are two peas in a pod. They're all the same, these men. They hurt and hurt and take and take and the wordsI'm sorryare utterly fucking alien to them. "I'm going to go pick up my kids. I'm going to figure out the rest of my life. And I'm going to do it by myself, because I'm the only person I trust to get it right."

He doesn't try to stop me. He just stands there with his glass, watching me coolly.

"For the record," he says as I reach the door, "you didn't touch this drink, so I won't put it on your tab. That means I still owe you one."

I don't smile. But it's a near thing.