Adrian shrugs again. “Yes.”
“Why did you take a minimum wage job at a sofa factory when you’re trained as an engineer?”
“I have an interest in building furniture.”
Lucy sits back, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face. “I am better able to help you if you give me the truth.” She glances my way, as if for support. “Do you know about attorney-client privilege? Anything we discuss about your case will remain confidential and can’t be compelled from me in a court of law.”
I do nothing to intercede. This is her job. She can work for my money.
Adrian gives her a bored look.
She blows out a breath. “So you didn’t go back to the factory after work that night? Or stay late?”
Adrian shakes his head. “Nyet—no.”
She continues to interview him, jotting things down and studying both him and me. I remain silent. Let her wonder and worry.
I’m already making my plans. This afternoon I need to find out everything there is to know about Lucy Lawrence. And then I’ll know exactly what angle to take with her.
“I can probably plea-bargain it down to arson. It carries three to seven years in prison instead of four to fifteen for aggravated.”
“No,” I cut in. “He will plead not guilty. That’s why we hired the best to represent him.”
She doesn’t look surprised. “All right. I require a fifty thousand dollar retainer, payable before I enter the plea. And I will need more to work on if I’m going to win this case.”
I stand, signaling the end of the interview. “I’ll transfer the money today, and we will discuss the events some more. Thank you, counselor.”
She stands and walks around the desk. Her high heels would say fuck-me if they were red, but because they’re nude are more of an I’ll-fuck-you. Especially the way she struts in them like she lives at that altitude. I’ll bet she’s a barracuda as a lawyer. Paolo Tacone said as much.
The pregnancy does nothing to soften the edges of her imposing stature. If anything, it makes her even more goddess-like. The female form to be both worshipped and feared.
Except I know she’s the one who prefers to be dominated.
I’m guessing that’s a secret not many share. She was untried at submission when I had her. If she hasn’t pursued it since, I may be the only man who’s dominated her.
That thought shouldn’t get me hard, but it does.
I will dominate her again.
I adjust my cock at the idea, and her gaze drops to my crotch. Some of her regal composure falls away. A flush colors her neck and the flesh visible in the open V of her expensive blouse.
I take her hand when she offers it, and I squeeze, but don’t let go. Her intelligent brown gaze tangles with mine, and I hold it.
Her breath stutters and stops.
“Adrian, wait in the hallway for me. I’ll be there in a moment.” Adrian leaves, and I shut the door behind him, still holding her hand.
Her eyes slightly widen. She resumes breathing with a little gasp as she tugs her hand away as if I scalded her. “Ravil.”
A prickle runs through me at the sound of my name on her lips. Because she says it like she’s claiming it for herself. Like she, too, regretted the absence of personal details after our encounter.
But that’s impossible. If she’s carrying my child, she had every reason, right, and responsibility to contact Black Light and request my personal information. To contact me with the news.
And she didn’t. Which means she didn’t want to know my name.
“Do you have something to tell me, Lucy Lawrence?”
“No,” she clips, turning away, her business-like demeanor in full command.
I catch her arm, and she rubberbands back. I immediately release it when she shoots a laser-beam glare at my hand.
“You really should have called.” I give her belly a pointed look.
She draws herself up taller, the muscles in the front of her neck going stiff. “It’s not yours,” she blurts as color suffuses her face. Her pupils are tiny points of fear.
The lie hits me square in the chest. I was right. She didn’t want me to know the existence of this child.
I cock my head. “Why lie?”
Her neck and chest spread with color, too, but she keeps her voice as even and low as mine. “I know what you are, Ravil. I don’t believe your”—she clears her throat for emphasis— “profession lends itself to fatherhood. I won’t ask for child support. Don’t ask for visitation. Don’t make me prove in a courtroom why you’re unfit to parent.”
My upper lip curls at her threat. I am a man who’s reached the top of my organization and this city with quick, emotionless thinking. I don’t usually take offense. I don’t usually make things personal.
But this time, it’s fucking personal. Lucy Lawrence thinks I’m unfit to parent my child? She thinks she’ll keep this child from me?