I turn it over to show him. I studied the card on my walk from the hotel. The back is blank.
“I always write my personal cell number on the back of those cards when I give them to clients.” His jaw sets. “You found this in a hotel?”
I nod in silence.
“Which hotel?” He digs his cell phone out of his jacket pocket when a chime rings through the air. His gaze skims the screen before he looks back at me. “What’s the name of the hotel where you found that card?”
You’d think I’d know that. I could have stored it to memory before I stormed out the door and made my way here. I didn’t. I blame my anger for that. It left no room for logical thinking. “I can’t remember.”
“You can’t remember?” he repeats. “I’d say that’s a rather important detail in your story.”
“Story?” I take a deep breath, pushing back the urge to ask outright if he thinks I made up the experience. Instead, I go for a much more civilized approach. “I just arrived in New York three days ago. I may not recall the hotel’s name, but I can tell you exactly where it’s located.”
That seems to appease him for now. “Did you go to this hotel room with the man in question voluntarily?”
Is this an interrogation? I’m tempted to ask if there’s another attorney available who can represent me.
“I did,” I answer truthfully without adding the detail that I hesitated briefly when I was in the hotel’s elevator because it smelled like old pizza.
“What happened once you got to the room?” he asks matter-of-factly.
Am I supposed to run through the itinerary?
We kissed.
We had sex.
I didn’t come.
I opt for a question of my own to save both him and the woman standing next to me the gruesome details of my bad sexual experience. “What do you mean?”
“Did he hurt you or threaten you in any way?” There’s not a hint of concern in his voice.
I consider the question. He threatened to fuck me again after he came the first time, but I pretended to be sleepy to save myself the torture of another round of that. “No, it wasn’t like that. He didn’t hurt me.”
“Is this a one-night stand gone wrong?” His eyes give nothing away as he looks into mine.
I take a steadying breath to calm myself before I respond. I know that I don’t have to tell him anything, but since he’s the only link I have to my missing wallet and phone, I answer. “Yes. We met last night.”
He cocks his head as if he’s absorbing what I just said. “Joyce will help you sort this out. If I can be of any assistance, she’ll let me know.”
That’s great but who the hell is Joyce?
“I should have introduced myself sooner.” The woman next to me speaks as if on cue. “I’m Joyce Treadwell, Mr. Kent’s assistant. What’s your name, dear?”
“Piper,” I say softly. “I’m Piper Ellis.”
“Good luck with everything, Piper Ellis.” A smile eases across Griffin’s lips, as he looks me over. “And welcome to New York.”
Chapter 3
Griffin
“I hate him and I hired you to make him understand just how deep that hatred runs.”
I look across the conference table at Morgan Tresoni. She’s attractive if you’re into women who spend their days shopping, sipping over-priced cocktails and bashing their almost-ex-husband to anyone who will listen.
I’m paid to listen, so I nod. “I was under the impression that you hired me to represent you in your divorce, Morgan. This is the third time we’ve been through this process, is it not? You know how this works. You can hate him as much as you want, but you need to remain focused on the bigger picture.”