Every lightweight pantsuit that fit was at the dry cleaners. Jackie ground her teeth together. Going to the dry cleaners was the forgotten task in the previous evening’s work session with Brandon Marshfield. The options were slim. Her dove-gray suit was stunning and comfortable, but it had a skirt, so she’d have to wear hose. Hose in this humidity would raise a heat rash in a place she didn’t have time or patience for. That left the one clean pantsuit in the closet. It had cream-colored linen trousers and a fitted short jacket.
Jackie looked down to her stomach and frowned. Those pants had fit last summer when she was running every day and thin from the stress of leaving her former job. Her nonfunctional brain caused her to flip back and forth between the tight pants and constricting hot pantyhose. Index finger extended, the count off began. “Eenie, meenie, minie, mo…”
Oh God, what was she doing? She had to get to work. With a violent wrench, she jerked the pantsuit off the rod and pulled the rod out of the wall.
“Shit, shit, shit!”
Her closet lay in disarray, much like what she felt her life was dissolving into. She had always imagined herself as being like solid oak, but lately her life resembled peeling, cheap veneer over particleboard.
Jackie determinedly sloughed off the onset of a pity party and dug the pantsuit out of the pile of clothes. The pants buttoned and zipped okay, but the fabric was snug against her ass. Did she dare look at her butt in the mirror? Best not. With any luck, the mirror would follow the clothes rod’s lead and shatter.
The hemming and hawing over her wardrobe cost her the cushion of time she’d built in to her schedule. Since she was running late, she grabbed a couple of raspberry-coconut Zingers and a Coke, stuffed them in her bag, and hurried out of her loft down to the street level.
Steam rose from the streets in sheets of silvery-white mist. With the gray skies, the dim scene gave the city the aura of a slasher movie set in hazy daylight. Parking would be impossible at the US Attorney’s building, so she looked down the street for a cab and spotted a free one. Before she could flag it over, another fare jumped in. She didn’t have the extra money to spare on cab fare anyway. Maybe the walk would stretch out the skintight pants.
After the brisk six-block walk to the US Attorney’s office, sweat beaded on Jackie’s brow and the back of her neck. Although not accustomed to being ogled by men, Jackie sensed male eyes on her as she strode confidently up the stairs.
Once that report from Gary was in her hands, hopefully she’d be able to trace those trades made in Italy on a Saturday. A couple of phone calls about Brandon should tie up those loose ends regarding why such a seemingly nice guy would be in cahoots with a scum like Ashe. That taste of victory was making its way back into the back of her mind. Maybe those leering men could sense her surging power. She smiled wide and pushed the revolving door to enter the building.
After passing through the metal detector, she took the stairs up the one floor to the US Attorney’s civil division office. Her stomach grumbled loud enough for the janitor sweeping the stairs to stare at her, then continue staring as she trekked up the last few stairs. With a few minutes to spare, she tossed her bag on the bench outside the offices. Reaching in, she grabbed a Zinger, popped it in her mouth, and then opened the Coke.
“Nice pants,” a familiar voice purred behind her.
Brandon Marshfield.
What the hell was he doing at the US Attorney’s office?
Jackie aspirated part of the Zinger, then violently coughed to clear her throat. Bits of pink cake and coconut flew from her mouth. The jerky spasms caused Coke to splatter over the front of her jacket and down the cream pants.
Brandon held her upper arm and pounded rhythmically on her back to dislodge the obstruction. Keeping her firmly in his grip, he turned her around to face him. The inch-wide gap between their bodies crackled with electricity.
“Are you okay?” He looked down at her with concern in those sexy, whiskey-colored eyes.
Jackie cleared her throat. “What are you doing here?”
He wiped at the corner of her mouth. Before she knew what was going on, he’d slid his thumb over and into her mouth. She licked away the cream. With his gaze locked onto her, he opened his mouth slightly and ran his tongue over his lips. His formidable oral skills beguiled her. Those long, teasing laps he’d given her pussy had driven her over the edge. Unable to hold back, her body heated up, sending a burning flush to her cheeks and engorging her genitals.
This should not be happening.
Jackie took deep breaths through her nose to steady herself. Nothing helped. Her breasts tingled and hardened at the thought of his hands touching her again. Between her legs, the slippery wetness built between swelling lips.
Determined, she looked him sternly in the eyes. “Brandon, not in public. Actually, not anywhere, at least not during this case. This is too important to me.”
She had to get away from him before she did something she’d regret. “I need to go.” She picked up her briefcase and turned to hit the women’s room before going to her meeting.
He pulled her back to face him. “What if I wasn’t the expert in this case?”
“But you are, so this conversation has to end.” She pulled her arm from his grip, although her body begged her to throw herself into his arms. With fast steps, she strode away from him, beating a path to the bathroom down the hall.
After using the toilet, Jackie suspected that all the gawking she attracted this morning was not about emanations of power. She turned around to look over her shoulder at the mirror. Turquoise polka-dot underpants were visible under the skintight cream pants. What did Brandon think about her outfit? And when did it matter so much what a man thought about her clothes? She steeled herself. It was time to go back to being hard as oak, not some flimsy imitation susceptible to the world’s forces. Or her heart’s forces, either.
* * * *
Brandon rubbed his finger and thumb together. Once again, he’d found himself acting impulsively with Jackie North. He considered himself a carefree kind of guy for the most part. It wasn’t that what he’d done with her was out of character. The troubling part was that he found himself doing it against his better judgment. Being carefree was different than being careless.
He looked at the directory on the wall. He’d gotten off the elevator too early. Could his compulsion to be connected to Jackie have somehow drawn him off the elevator three floors too soon? No, it was coincidence. He’d had no idea she was going to be there.
He got back onto the elevator and went to the fifth floor where the Fraud and Public Corruption Unit was located. He pushed through the frosted glass door and informed the receptionist he had an appointment with FBI Agent Jeff Weaver and Matt Erickson, the Assistant US Attorney for Fraud. After checking her computer, the receptionist made a call to announce Brandon’s presence.
Before he could settle into a chair and check his e-mail on his phone, two men came into the reception area. One was tall, even taller than himself, but lanky. The other was short and although not exactly physically intimidating, his icy stare gave Brandon the message that this guy could kick his ass in a heartbeat. The tall one introduced himself as Matt Erickson, the lawyer. That left the shorter guy to be the FBI agent. They shuffled Brandon through a maze of cubicles into a glass-walled conference room where they all took places at one end of a mile-long conference table.
Brandon looked down the shiny table and tried to lighten the mood. “Are we expecting company?”
The government men shifted their eyes at each other and then to Brandon. The FBI guy replied in a deep monotone, “No, why do you ask?”
Tough crowd. Better just stick to business. “Never mind. It’s just quite a big room for three people.”
Erickson shrugged. “It’s all we have. Did you bring the documents we discussed this morning?”
Brandon prided himself on his intensity, but these guys took the cake. Brandon opened his briefcase and pulled out the Boyers Report. After the meeting with Jackie, he’d met with Ashe and his father. It had been a distasteful way to finish the evening. He’d even taken an extra-long shower when he got home in the early morning to wash off the lingering sense of filth and corruption, which emanated from the younger Ashe like the stench of sewage from the gutter after a hard rain.
At least he’d been able to convince Ashe to let him have the Boyers Report and a good part of its supporting documentation in order to prepare for the trial. Brandon pulled the documents from his briefcase and stacked them tidily on the table in front of him. He rested his hands protectively on the reams of paper. “Gentlemen, I think you are going to be pleased with this information. But, before we continue, I need your assurances on a few matters.”
The government men shot sly glances at each other but leaned in over the table, practically salivating over the stacks of paper.
Erickson spoke. “What are we talking about? That little matter in Charlottesville from your college days?”
Brandon clenched his jaw, and the hair on the back of his neck bristled. Since when was the death of an innocent young woman a “little matter”? The memory of Brynn’s shy smile through her long, black hair that always fell over her face burned in his mind. He concentrated on keeping his hands still and tried to force the blood back from his neck, which he suspected was visibly red even through his summer tan.
Weaver leaned in closer. “Mr. Marshfield, we have been investigating Robert Ashe for two years. There’s not much we don’t know about his life and the lives of those around him. The situation in Charlottesville seemed to be”—he paused and tapped his fingers together while he held his hands in a prayerful position—“only the first in a series of mishaps surrounding Ashe and his friends. When he approached you to serve as the expert in the
Kovel
case, our interest was piqued. That’s why we contacted you last week. We suspect Ashe threatened you with some sort of exposure of the Brynn Rouvalis incident. We are prepared to offer you immunity from any future action relating to your role in her death.”
The attorney reached into a case sitting next to him and extracted several sheets of paper. He slid them across the table to Brandon. “Here’s our formal agreement. You obviously have the right to have counsel review it. However, time is of the essence here, Mr. Marshfield. We’ll need an answer within twenty-four hours.”
Brandon glanced through the document and frowned. “I don’t want to involve any more people. I’m ready to sign and to turn these documents over, but I have one other concern.”
Weaver wet his lips and looked at Erickson, who nodded.
“Ms. North?” Weaver prompted.
Brandon twitched. How much did these people know? He began to wonder whether there was anyone he could trust.
Weaver continued, “We know just about everyone Ashe is in contact with, including Ms. North. You’ve had a fair amount of contact with her too, recently, haven’t you?”
Brandon sat back in his chair. “I don’t appreciate being spied on. I thought we had civil liberties in this country.”
Weaver rolled his eyes. “Spare us the lecture on abiding by the law. Are we going to cut a deal or what?”
Being up against the wall wasn’t a position Brandon was used to. He contemplated getting up and leaving. Screw these guys. Then the picture of Jackie nestled in his sails filled his thoughts. He remembered the way she played with her hair when she worked. The fiery intensity that showed in her eyes both when she made love and when she kicked ass as a lawyer held him in his place.
Brandon took a deep breath. “She has these documents, and she’s smart. It’s only a matter of time before she figures out the extent of Ashe’s dealings with the less than upstanding part of our society. I know Ashe and what he’s capable of. She’s in danger. She needs to be protected.”
Erickson fidgeted. “Mr. Marshfield, I don’t know Jackie North personally, but I know her reputation in the legal community. You’re right; she is smart, one of the best, in fact. I doubt she realizes how good she is or what she’s sitting on right now. She’s also savvy and goddamned independent. Frankly, we don’t have enough FBI agents on this case to assign a tail to her. And I suspect that even if I tried, she’d find out and shove my briefcase up my ass. I’ve been ordered not to piss her off. I would suggest you do the same.”
Brandon couldn’t suppress a grin. “She does seem pretty intense.” His smile disappeared when the consequences crossed his mind. “This is serious shit, gentlemen. She deserves someone looking over her shoulder. If you guys don’t have the balls to do it, then I will.”
A vein bulged in Weaver’s neck. He stood up and casually set his left hand on his hip to expose his holstered gun where his jacket was pulled back. “We’ll do what we can, but right now, our focus is on Ashe. Matt’s right, though; you cannot, under any circumstances, let her know you are working with us. If all goes as planned, we’ll have Ashe in jail before she goes to trial. If she gets spooked, though, and Ashe thinks she knows something, it could blow our entire operation. You need to steer clear of her from now on. You fuck up, we’re back to square one, and our deal is off.” He leaned over the table toward Brandon and splayed his hands on the surface. “Are we clear, Mr. Marshfield?”
Brandon returned his steely glare. “Crystal, Mr. Weaver.”
Weaver sat down. “Tell us what you have.”
Brandon paged through the papers in front of him. He pulled out a page covered in columns of numbers. “When I reviewed Ashe’s documentation in preparation for my deposition, I found the Boyers Report, which at first glance exonerates Ashe from any wrongdoing.”
Weaver said, “How so?”
“It’s the report of an independent investigator. He’d been sniffing around Ashe Financial Services but couldn’t prove any illegal activity.”
Erickson held up a page showing columns of numbers. “What are all of these numbers and alpha-numeric codes?” he asked.
“They show transfers of money. The straight numeric codes are routing numbers for US banks like you see on a personal check. The other codes are international bank codes.”