Willful Violation (Lawyers Behaving Badly Book 3)

C
opyright
, Legal Notice and Disclaimer:

Willful Violation
© 2016 by Cleo Peitsche. All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without permission in writing from the author. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events, locations and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This book is for entertainment purposes only.

This book is solely for adults.

Cover Photo ©2016 by Cormar Covers. Ebook created with Vellum.

D
ear Reader
—

Thank you for purchasing this book. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, and I look forward to sharing more of my stories with you.

…
Why join my mailing list?
Because I release new stories at a special price to thank my readers!

xoxo,

Cleo

M
aisie fidgeted
with the sleeve of her pink blouse and shifted her weight. The limo’s seats were so smooth underneath her tight black skirt that she felt like she might slip off and land on the carpeted floor.

“Answer the question,” Trent said gently.

She glanced at her three bosses. Ethan Brennbach. Trent Banno. Raphael Lattimore. They were absurdly rich and powerful.

And right now, their expressions were grim.

Oh god, this was for real.

Maisie took a deep breath and dropped her gaze to her lap. Panic kept making her forget everything they’d rehearsed. “I had never met Davina before the night her husband disappeared—”

“No,” Ethan said. “Refer to her as Mrs. Ballystock. Stop looking down. Stop fidgeting.”

Maisie looked up and stared straight ahead. Outside, the city was passing in a blur.

She licked her lips and tasted apricot gloss.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “What time is it?”

“Forget about the time,” Ethan said. “We’ll go over this until you’re comfortable. The police will wait.”

She smiled a little, swallowed, and tried to get control of herself, but a feeling of disconnection from her body was creeping over her. She touched the long silver chain around her neck, then slid her fingers against her throat.

Underneath her fingertips, her pulse fluttered wildly.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. She’d probably uttered the phrase fifty times since getting into the limo ninety minutes ago. “I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”

“You’re nervous because you’re about to lie to the police,” Ethan said. “Look at me, Maisie.”

Accustomed to obeying his orders, she immediately stared up into his gray eyes. He was a sexy man, tall, with thick, dark blond hair. Maisie had come to love the prominent, smooth scar that covered his right jaw and cheek.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, giving each word enough weight that his meaning sank through her panicked haze. “This is our mess, not yours. You can still back out. It’s not too late.”

Maybe that had been true a few days ago, when Norman Ballystock’s murdered body was discovered. But that ship had sailed. She’d told her bosses she was up to this, and they’d made their own plans with the understanding that she would come through.

The situation was particularly dangerous because Norm’s brother was the assistant chief of police. He’d been suspicious of them from the start.

If she lost her nerve, she would be safe, but her bosses could go to prison. The night of Norm’s death, they’d gone to talk to him, to blackmail him in an attempt to keep him away from their client, a victim of domestic abuse.

They could go to prison? They
would
. Almost definitely.

She glanced at Trent, then Raphael. They were both conventionally attractive. Trent’s dark hair and eyes, and his masculine jaw and cheekbones, made him look like an action hero. Raphael’s hair was longer, though he kept it combed away from his handsome face.

Raphael’s blue eyes held hers until she looked away uncomfortably.

Everything would come down to how convincing Maisie could be during her interrogation, which her bosses kept referring to as an interview.

Maybe she was thinking about this the wrong way.

“I’m not going to lie to the police,” she said.

The words started slowly as she examined this new approach.

“I’ll just be telling a somewhat limited version of the truth. Unless they ask about my sex life, which is none of their business. Really, I’m fine.”

Her breathing was still uneven, but she felt weight settling into her body.

“Better,” Ethan said. “Let’s start from the beginning.”

T
he limo stopped half
a block from the subway.

Maisie reached for the door, but Raphael caught her hand.

“One more thing.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black velvet box.

Maisie stared down at the ring inside, a silver dome engraved with a fancy swirling design. It reminded her of Van Gogh’s
The Starry Night
.

“Let me.” Ethan took her hand and slid the ring onto her middle finger.

She’d thought her heart was pounding before, but now it was set to explode.
Ethan, Ethan, Ethan
, the rhythm seemed to chant. Oh, the fantasies she had about him, and now she could smell his aftershave: bergamot and citrus, pine and wood-smoke.

He squeezed her hand. Maisie felt his touch as a powerful, masculine strength that reminded her of how he liked to bend her over a desk and hold her down by her neck while he pumped his thick cock between her legs.

“Maisie,” Trent said with a little smile. “Will you be our recording device?”

She laughed too loud, the outburst shocking in the limo’s quiet interior.

Immediately she dropped her gaze to the ring; if her bosses had read something in her reaction, she didn’t want to know.

At the moment, she was technically unemployed, having been fired from her job as an executive assistant at LB&B Law. She needed to stop thinking of her former bosses as her bosses. She was glad she didn’t know how Norm had died. That was one less thing to worry about letting slip.

All those layers existed to protect her.

“How does it work?” she asked.

“Give it a twist,” Ethan said. “Clockwise to start, counterclockwise to stop. It only holds fifty minutes, so be aware of that. You want to be subtle. It’s better to let it run too long than to draw their attention to it. Try to keep your hands on the table. The audio will be cleaner.”

“What if they recognize the ring?”

“Impossible. We commissioned it,” Trent said. “It’s unique. You know what to do if you get into trouble, right?”

She nodded. “End the interrogation.”

“Interview,” Raphael corrected.

“What else?” Trent prodded, leaning forward. A lock of dark hair slipped over his forehead and brushed his eyebrows.

You can do this
, his expression said.

She sat up a little straighter. “Use the bathroom. Answer a slightly different question.”

Of course, those tricks would only work once.

* * *

M
aisie took public transportation home
—it was a precaution they’d all agreed on. If her apartment was being watched even casually, a chauffeured vehicle would be noticed.

She slid behind the wheel of her nine-year-old sedan.

Up until two hours ago, she’d spent the morning making the rounds of the employment agencies downtown, submitting her résumé in person. That had been Trent’s idea. He’d said it would give her an excuse to wear business clothes, which would immediately lend her more respectability in the interview.

Unfortunately, her bosses had taken back the pretty clothes they’d bought her. Letting go of the sophisticated skirts and flattering dresses had hurt, but they’d be returned to her when this was over.

If
this was ever over.

Her stomach growled painfully as she stopped at a red light. She’d skipped breakfast, and she doubted she’d be able to keep anything down now. Later, she was totally going to splurge on a slice of fluffy cheesecake drowning in a vat of whipped cream.

“You can do this, Maisie.”

She raised a hand to gently slap her cheeks. The ring’s band was cool against her skin.

Maybe the ring was the secret to not freaking out; it was heavy on her hand, its presence noticeable.

It meant she wasn’t alone.

Two minutes after her interview was supposed to have started, she parked in front of the police station. It was a newish building, but that wasn’t surprising for these suburbs. Wealthier taxpayers got nicer toys.

The evenly spaced bushes out front were identical, as if they’d rolled off an assembly line. The sidewalk leading to the station was blindingly white. Even the flagpole sparkled in the sun.

The whole thing reminded her of a storybook police station. The cops would all be square-jawed and handsome. Friendly. Trustworthy.

And she was going to lie to them.

The building would probably turn itself inside out and eject her onto the sidewalk.

Her fingers tugged at the silver chain. The puffy silver heart was dangling between her breasts, out of view. The paper clip she’d once had on the chain was now missing; a few days ago, Ethan had taken the necklace for safekeeping, and he’d returned it without the paper clip.

She inhaled, filling her lungs completely, then slowly expelled the air through her pursed lips.

This was it. The point of no return. Once she gave her official statement, she would be committed to it.

A heavy surge of bile rose in her throat, souring her mouth.

She flipped down the visor to check her appearance. Her mass of long, messy curls had been calmed into a neat ponytail—Raphael’s suggestion. The style made her look a touch younger, maybe twenty-one or twenty-two, and far more innocent, though her heart-shaped face seemed a little pinched at the moment.

Four minutes late, now.

She exhaled hard again, feeling like a weightlifter trying to get through a final set. “You can fucking do this—”

Her phone rang, the vibration and sound startling her, setting her heart to knocking against her ribs.

She looked at the display, in case it was one of her bosses with some last-minute advice or warning.

She groaned.

Heather Plithen. Heather was Maisie’s least favorite person on the planet. She had probably heard about Maisie getting fired—she’d always had a knack for digging up unflattering gossip, especially where Maisie was concerned.

Hitting the ignore button had never felt so good.

Five minutes late.

She forced herself to get out of the car, then forced herself to close the door, the
thump
sounding final and irrevocable, like the locking of a jail cell.

She walked into the lobby.

It was quiet inside, not a soul in sight. Maybe she’d seen too many police procedural TV shows, but she’d been expecting a teeming hive of blue-clad men and women.

A uniformed woman pushed through a pair of tan doors and headed for a white door. She barely glanced at Maisie.

“Excuse me,” Maisie called out. “I’m looking for Byron Ballystock.”

“I’ll send him out,” the woman said without turning around. She certainly didn’t seem to know or care who Maisie was.

That could be a good sign. At least the entire police force wasn’t sitting around, waiting for Maisie to walk in so they could rip her to shreds.

And really, why would they be waiting? She was a minor witness, that was all. She didn’t know anything about the crime itself. It wasn’t illegal to
not
volunteer information.

Right?

Maisie’s mouth was suddenly so dry that when she tried to swallow, she felt like she’d just choked down a carton of saltines.

“Ms. Novau.”

Maisie turned at the sound of the man’s voice and immediately had to look up.

“Yes,” she said.

“I’m Byron Ballystock. Thanks for making time.”

She nodded but didn’t say anything. That was part of the strategy—to establish herself as a quiet sort of person—but she suspected that if she did open her mouth, nothing but terrified squeaks would come out.

Byron was well over six feet tall and had the build and size of a former football player. His distinguished gray hair was cut in a style that screamed
investment banker
, and his suit looked equally out of place.

Norm Ballystock had been wealthy, but Maisie had assumed he’d earned the money himself. Now she was wondering if he’d inherited it.

While she was trying to keep herself from passing out, Byron was scrutinizing her. Verging on ogling. It made her skin crawl.

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t lie. He would know—she felt that instinctively, in every fiber of her being.

Her bosses would go to prison, and it would be her fault.

The seconds stretched out.

“This way,” Byron said.

And as she followed him through the tan doors, time sped up again, then continued accelerating, an out-of-control car heading at breakneck speed for a cliff.