"Oh," Taylor said. "It's fine. The show's about to start anyway, and I should, you know, sit by myself anyway."
"Why?" Selma asked.
"Oh, you know." She lifted her shoulders. "Bait."
"What do you--"
"Come on," Easton said. "We can talk in the back."
"What's going on?" Selma asked as Easton led her toward the dark hall that led to Tyree's office.
"Taylor has a stalker," he said. "And Landon's helping to lure him into the open."
"Oh!"
"That much I can tell you because several people in the bar already know. And I'm also doing some tangential legal work for Taylor. Helping her out of a bind. And that part I can't talk about. Privilege."
"I won't ask." She paused by Tyree's door. "Nice of you to help her out since you have such limited time."
"Selma..."
"It's just--"
"What?" he demanded. "I told you I can't handle the contract."
"Because of us? Or because of your campaign?"
"Does it matter?"
"Probably not," she admitted. "But I still want to know. Call it ego." Or call it libido. Because the more she was around him, the more she realized that legal work was secondary. No, what she wanted was Easton. He'd been on her mind on and off for too long. She'd walked away too fast all those years ago.
Now she wanted to satisfy that craving before she hopped on a plane for Scotland.
A few feet away, Tyree's door snapped open, shooting a wedge of light between them. He looked at her face, then Easton's. "You two heading toward the show?"
"Just clarifying one legal point," Easton said. "Then we'll be there."
"Fair enough," Tyree said, then hurried down the hall toward the bar as Beverly Martin, a rising film star who acted as emcee, started her contest schtick.
"Why are we here?" Easton asked.
And though she hadn't planned this out at all, she took one eager step toward him, rose up on tip toes, and captured his mouth with hers.
At first, he didn't react, and she feared he'd push her away. Then his lips parted and his tongue swept into her mouth, hot and demanding. His arm went around her waist, pulling her close, until their bodies were pressed flat against each other, her breasts hard against his chest--and his cock enticingly hard against her lower belly.
She'd changed clothes for the contest, and she was wearing a black silk tank top with a denim mini-skirt that she'd paired with Cuban-style silk stockings and a black garter belt.
His hand thrust beneath her shirt, and his palm against her lower back was making her crazed. Then he started to slide his hand over her ass--and she was certain he'd soon sneak his fingers under her skirt to find her soaking wet and pantyless...
Oh, God, yes, please.
She shifted, spreading her legs just slightly, her own arms going more tightly around his neck as she deepened the kiss, as if she could show him with her tongue what she wanted him to do with his fingers.
But then he broke away, the separation so fast and brutal it was almost painful.
"Jesus, Selma. What are you doing?"
"Me? I think this was definitely a we thing." He didn't answer, and she grimaced. "Fine. I thought you might be more persuaded by action than by words. And besides, you told me you wouldn't take me on as a client. But I don't recall any other protests." She rose up on her toes and kissed him lightly again. "Or am I wrong?"