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“And you’ll call for a lift, and not try to walk home?”
“Promise.” But I cross my fingers behind my back, because I love walking the strip at night.
The energy, the lights, and the hum of the crowd excite me. Loving the Bellagio fountains is a cliché, but it’s my favorite spot to zone out. The buzz and the gushing water just turn me the hell on.
As Trista leaves, I swallow that down and all the dirty fantasies I can’t get out of my head.
I plan to give Mr. Harvard lawyer a piece of my dirty mind. A man who is so off-limits, he’s not a fantasy, he’s a death-wish.
I may not have a fancy Harvard degree. (I pronounce it nasally, like a four-year-old.) But I do have a solid one from good ole UNLV.
The near constant perfect weather and a plethora of corruption cases to work on trapped me here in Sin City like I’d stepped in wet concrete, and it hardened around my ankles. This is my home, where I belong.
As I approach Satan, he turns in his seat, one hand clasped around a tumbler, the other between his legs in a sexy taunt. His eyes draw me in and my ankles wobble at his cut square jaw, chiseled cheek bones, and dimpled chin.
Watching me, his full lips part and they tease a smile, but he immediately frowns as I get closer.
“A word, Counselor,” I say, clenching my stomach.
“Speak.” He levels his gaze at me, and I can’t remember my name for a moment.
“I don’t know what kind of deal you made with Director Vance, but I had charges a mile long against your brother with no firm defense from him. That case was important to me. We can’t all be rich like you with your fancy suit and expensive cologne.”
“You’re pissed,” he scowls into his drink, one I recognize by the sweet scent of expensive tequila.
Figures…
“Yes, I’m pissed.”
“I mean, you’re drunk.”
“You’re observant. But how much I drink is none of your business.”
“You’re a prosecutor in this city.” His brawny hand closes around my right forearm, the touch so personal and intimate, it rattles me. “You want people to see you like this?”
“I…” I hate that he has a point.
Before I argue further, he drags me to a tufted vinyl booth in the back of the bar. “Sit your arse down.”
“My… My bar tab and my purse,” I shriek, feeling around my shoulders, realizing I left it hanging off the back of my leather stool.
“I’ll take care of your tab and get your purse. Do. Not. Move.” He stalks off, signaling to a server and pointing to the booth.
It wouldn’t make sense to run. I won’t get very far without my phone, money, or keys.
A few moments later, while I’m hugging myself in embarrassment, O’Rourke returns with my purse clutched in his fist.
He places it next to him, and when I reach for it, he nudges it out of my way. “I talk. You listen.”
“I was assigned your brother’s case, but that didn’t mean I…” The rest of that sentence dies in my throat at the look he gives me.
“You’re a corruption prosecutor. Seeing the name O’Rourke didn’t give you pause?” How he says his last name with such pride but also fury at my disrespect is chilling.
“Can I have my purse?” I’m seeing two of him at this point.
“No.” He leans back, and when a server places a cup of coffee on the table, he slides that in front of me. “Drink.”
“I don’t need coffee,” I scoff and push it away.
