Why (Stalker Series Book 2) Page 3

  “Wouldn’t want it to spontaneously catch fire.” Libby chuckled.

  They shared a quiet laugh.

  “While Gen is right”—Mar nodded—“we all agreed …”

  “I know. I know. I’m turning it off.” Libby reached into her sweet pink clutch, covered her phone with her hand, and pulled it quickly under the table. The edges of her full lips kicked up, and a squeal resonated from the back of her throat.

  “What?” Larkin stretched out an arm and did the give-me fingers.

  “Stop encouraging her.” Marlis grabbed Larkin’s extended hand. “She’s not supposed to read it. She’s supposed to turn it off.”

  Rebellion reared its ugly head, forcing Genevieve to lean over and peer at her friend’s phone. It was a New York Times news alert. The headline read “The Golden Lawyer Wins Again.”

  “They’re talking about you.” Libby giggled.

  “Who’s talking about whom?” Marlis released her hold on Larkin’s hand, hiked both elbows on the table, and leaned closer.

  “Wait a minute.” Libby patted her upper lip with her index finger. “The phone police wants to know what the New York Times report on my phone says about our friend?”

  Marlis grimaced. “Yes. Yes, she does.”

  Genevieve straightened. It didn’t matter what anyone said about the case or her. The law and its effect on her career and her clients were all that mattered. Public opinion belonged in the toilet. She syphoned off the last of her champagne, ignoring Libby, her click happy fingers, and her phone. Someone had to maintain decorum. The other two leaned so far over the table that it just might upend and get them permanently banished from the most delectable foie gras—sorry, little duckies—that’d ever passed her lips.

  “Okay. Okay,” Libby began. “The seemingly unbeatable Golden Lawyer, Genevieve Holst, pulled out another astounding win against the city’s toughest prosecution team. A team on which Holst usually bats first. The usual prosecutor held her own against the city’s new lead investigator, Detective Owen Graham, and the evidence he and his team had meticulously cured from the most gruesome—” Libby waved her hand. “Never mind the rest. That’s amazing.”

  “The Golden Lawyer? Hell yes, she is.” Larkin lifted her glass and tilted it toward Gen.

  “That’s incredible.” Marlis’s cheeks reddened, as they tended to when she was tipsy and trying her best not to show it.

  They all stopped and looked at her, awaiting her reaction. She thought about it for a moment. The newspaper didn’t take it easy on anyone, and they’d given her props for a job well done.

  “Hell yeah, it is.” Genevieve grabbed her glass and realized it was empty. Not a second later, the server appeared, presenting them with yet another bottle of champagne more expensive than her shoes. And that said something. He filled each of their glasses and vacated the area.

  They did a classy, no noise cheer and drank deeply.

  Libby’s eyes were still downcast on her phone screen. Her thumb scrolled, and Marlis was so entranced in her own tasty libation that she didn’t notice … right up until champagne threatened to spew from Libby’s mouth. She choked and convulsed as silently as she could manage.

  “Shit, Lib, are you okay?” Genevieve leaned over and patted her back.

  “No.” She gaped and slid her phone across the table toward Gen.

  Owen Graham’s fine frame filled the screen. The picture must have been while he was at a crime scene because a stunning scowl screwed up his handsome face. Arms encased in a long-sleeve cotton T-shirt crossed over a chest that tested the fabric’s tensile strength. Jeans held up by a thick leather belt hung low on his hips. Stomp-your-face-in black boots completed the look she’d never seen in person. Thank the heavens for small favors. This picture had her overheating. In person, her lady bits would spontaneously combust.

  Marlis grabbed the phone and yanked it to her side of the table. Her eyes bugged, and her jaw nearly hit the table. “Who is he, and why isn’t he on the menu tonight?”

  If only Libby had been a good friend and choked to death before revealing the picture …

  “Because he’s the opposition,” Genevieve offered. “Detective for the prosecution.”

  “I’d murder someone just to get him to frisk me.” Marlis fanned her face.

  “Mar,” Larkin chided.

  “What?” Marlis grabbed her napkin and dabbed her mouth as though she were actually salivating.

  Larkin’s eyes darted in Gen’s direction.

  “Shit. I’m sorry.” Mar placed the phone onto the table.

  “It’s fine.” Gen rolled her eyes. “Let’s just drop it, okay?”

  Marlis nodded and shifted to slide the phone back to Libby, but Larkin’s hand clamped around Mar’s wrist.

  Larkin blinked. “That’s not a city investigator. That’s a cover model for Cycle World.”

  “Cycle World?” Libby asked.

  “It’s a magazine for motorcycle enthusiasts that has badass men on the cover on their equally badass bikes.” Larkin’s shoulders bobbed. “What?” No one spoke. Their gazes bounced around the table in confusion. “Beckett likes the articles. He learns about maintenance tricks and the best bike routes.” Again, she shrugged.

  The table got so quiet the sounds of the bustling kitchen and staff settled between them. Larkin fiddled with the dessert fork lying off the side of her plate. Her cheeks turned a bright shade of pink.

  “You’ve got it bad.” Genevieve couldn’t hide her grin. The woman who peddled weddings and babies, the same woman who swore a thousand times she wasn’t the relationship type, was in over her head, drowning in love.

  Larkin dragged in a deep breath. “I do.” She covered her cheeks with her hands and giggled like she was a twelve-year-old. “He called yesterday. They’re en route to the States. You were right, Gen.”

  “Naturally,” Genevieve agreed. Libby and Mar rolled their eyes. “Envious much?” She lifted her chin and turned to Larkin. “What was I right about?”

  “You’re hopeless. All of you children.” Larkin chuckled. “Anyway, he immediately picked up on my mood, so we talked for close to two hours. I’ve never talked to anyone on the phone for two hours, ever. And you were right. I explained my concerns. He salved my nerves, and I’m ready to do this. Long term. Long distance. We can make it work.”

  “That’s great.” Gen breathed a sigh of relief for her friend’s relationship and for her own hide. She’d subverted the majority of a conversation surrounding the hunky, high and mighty detective.

  “Yeah.” Marlis swatted the air. “That’s all great, but can we talk about Detective Hotness some more?”

  Larkin clapped and leaned toward Genevieve. “Yes, Gen, tell us more.”

  “I have to pee.” Gen grinned. “How’s that for more?”

  “Terrible.” Larkin glared.

  None of the girls rose to join her in the restroom. They were all too independent for co-peeing unless there was a real emergency. Then they were teens again all cramming into a single stall.

  Gen grabbed her clutch and headed through the maze of linen-covered tables toward the back of the restaurant when his face stopped her cold. He sat on the same side of the sleek booth as his companion. His suit covered shoulder nestled so close to the bare, younger one that not a molecule separated them. Their arms were similarly melded one to another and disappeared under the cool white linen. The woman, girl really, waggled her brows and giggled. If she was half Gen’s forty-three years, she’d be shocked. And he … he was … staring at her.

  Neither of them moved, not outwardly. Inwardly, Genevieve steeled herself. She drew a calculated breath and smiled. “Judge Faraday?”

  The man, older than Gen’s father by nearly two decades and his date by about five decades, detangled his hands from who knew where under the table and stood. He approached her with arms wide. “If it isn’t the Golden Lawyer of New York.” When he smiled, his white veneers threatened to blind her.

  She st
epped forward and embraced the devil she’d nearly lost her soul to. Nearly. He was smaller than she remembered. Fragile between her arms. The fear he’d once wielded over her seemed a product of childhood imagination, but it had been reality. Too much reality. Too quickly. But not as quickly as it had been for her sister. Because Gen was still here, choking in the scent of expensive cologne and decay. “If it isn’t my unwitting benefactor.”

  “Glad to see my investment turned a profit.” He hugged her tightly to his chest, surprising her with his strength.

  Genevieve was strong too. More so now than she’d been as a teen. Physically and psychologically. She clapped his back, grabbed his neck, and pulled his ear to her lips. “I have a safe deposit box that has reached maturity if your date hasn’t.”

  He pulled back. She held tight.

  It was his choice. Make a scene or stay put and answer her.

  “She’s legal,” he growled quietly. It didn't have the effect it used to.

  “I hope so because our agreement lasts right up until I spit on your grave.”

  “She’s painfully legal.”

  “You’re disgusting.” Gen relaxed her arm but kept her grip on his neck as she eased him away from her.

  “Maybe I’ll spit on yours, first.”

  “Oh, Faraday.” She grinned and shook her head. “I’ve told you time and again. Worry about my health more than your own. If I go first, you’re ruined for certain. My copies of the tape are digital now, plentiful, and have contingencies in place in the event of my death.”

  “Bitch.”

  “Good evening to you too.” She released him and headed to the bathroom without a backward glance. Her heart thundered in victory, not fear.

  Gen handled her business, washed her hands, and grinned at the slick, smart, and sexy woman in the mirror. “You did it.” It hadn’t been the conventional nor easy way, but by God—or in this case, the Devil—she’d done it. She smoothed a hand over her vibrant red hair and headed to the front to find her friends. They stood at the entrance waiting for her, unaware that she’d had a run-in with Faraday.

  Judge Delaney Faraday had changed her life. Gen had told the girls the family-friendly version of her upbringing on one of their first girls’ nights in. She met the esteemed judge at a low point of her life when she was to be tried at sixteen as an adult for aggravated assault and battery. He’d seen potential in her and had endowed her to the best law school in the country. He’d written her glowing recommendations and set her career on its trajectory. The night had been a chance for all the girls to dig deeper and explore the growing respect and camaraderie between them. After all these years, she still hadn’t told them, nor anyone else, the no-holds-barred truth about why that powerful man had changed her life.

  When they emerged from the building, Douglas, Larkin’s driver and newly-found-out biological father, stood at the ready with the door open to usher them in the limousine one at a time. Her friend had tried firing him or transferring him to a cushier office job, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He liked protecting her on the ground level just as he had for years.

  Genevieve kissed the dashing old man’s cheek. “Thank you, Daddy D.”

  He slapped a hand over the kiss and rubbed it in, as he always did. “My pleasure, darling.” God love him and she did too, because it was as innocent as it could be. If she’d ever really tried to plant one on him, he’d run screaming.

  She slipped inside the car next to Libby, and Douglas shut the door.

  “You keep that up, and one day, you’ll give him a heart attack,” Libby warned.

  “I’ve told him as much.” Larkin’s head shook. “He said, ‘What a way to go.’ Can you believe that?”

  “Yes.” Gen chuckled. The car pulled away from the curb and blended seamlessly with traffic.

  “So”—Marlis grinned—“what do you know about Detective Owen Graham?”

  “Gah!” Genevieve collapsed back onto the seat. “I thought we’d moved past this.” It was better than talking about Faraday but not by much.

  “You wish we had,” Libby countered. “We were just waiting until we had you cornered.”

  “I’m not above a tuck and roll,” Gen threatened.

  “In those clothes, you aren’t.” Larkin pointed at the pricey ensemble she’d bought especially for the victory. She really loved the bold red body-hugging Armani dress. It plunged low, revealing the perfect amount of cleavage. The pencil skirt accentuated her curvy bottom, completing the killer look. No pun intended.

  “Fine,” she caved. “He’s the enemy. That’s all I know.”

  “He wasn’t always the enemy.” Mar’s head shook. “You are a prosecutor by trade. You’ve been on the same team.”

  “No.” Gen thought about the man and his barely veiled disdain. She hated that he looked at her as though she’d had a hand in orchestrating the murders. “He wasn’t always in the department. He came in after Miller retired, just in time to catch Perry’s case.” Just in time to paint her as the villain. She had no problem wearing horns, but usually, she’d earned them fair and square.

  “Where from?” Larkin asked.

  “Brooklyn.” She’d hoped on a daily basis that traffic across the bridge would keep him from showing up in court. It hadn’t.

  “Hot,” Libby purred.

  “You only think that because he could be your neighbor,” Gen countered.

  Libby leaned across to the small bar and poured herself a shot of whiskey. “I already have a hot neighbor who won’t bone me. I don’t need another.”

  “He’s gay, for sure.” Gen nodded.

  “Your detective?” Marlis gasped.

  “No. Her neighbor. And he’s not my detective.” She motioned to Libby. “Hand me that.”

  Libby added some more liquor to the glass, pulled a large gulp, and then passed it over. “I don’t think so. My neighbor bangs the same chick once every couple of weeks.”

  “Girlfriend?” Larkin asked.

  “Again, I don’t think so.” Libby’s upper lip crinkled. “No Hallmark moments. Only screaming orgasms.”

  “Sounds fantastic.” Genevieve let another swig of whiskey burn its way down her throat.

  “Tell me about it.” Libby flicked her fingers, demanding the whiskey.

  Gen lifted the glass. “To screaming orgasms for all.”

  Four

  Genevieve shoved open the door to Carter, Cleary & McMellon Law Firm Inc. on the tenth floor of The Ashford Building. The eerie pitch of night greeted her as it had every morning for the past four days. Technically, it wasn’t nighttime, but no one else was behind enough on their caseload to show up at this ungodly hour. Apparently, she was the only one behind on anything. She’d been the only sorry soul in the place over the weekend. Good thing too. No one had been there to see her dust-covered gym shorts and oversized T-shirt. Better yet, no one had been there to find out about her secret hiding space for the cases she’d shoved to the side for Perry’s.

  The door clanked behind her. She didn’t bother locking it. Surely, the lazy sons of bitches she worked with, all Ivy League overachievers, would trickle in soon enough. She was an Ivy League overachiever, too, but in an entirely different way than the rest. A smile curved her lips.

  Stiletto pumps carried her tired body through the dark down the corridors she knew better than her own body. And that was saying something. She passed the receptionist’s desk and waiting room, passed some of the Ivy’s bests’ offices, passed the conference and break rooms, until she finally reached her dungeon door.

  She placed her hand on the knob, drew a deep breath to summon all the go get ’em she could muster, and then stepped inside. With a flick of the switch, the mountain range that’d become her office came into view. There was nothing scenic about the jagged rise and fall of boxes filling her floor and visitor’s chairs, nor the piles of folders bulging with papers covering her desk.

  Too bad she couldn’t get away with wearing gym clothes in the office on a we
ekday. There was still so much muck to shovel through. She smoothed a hand down her skirt. It provided little wiggle room, as did the goat path she’d left herself. One heel after the other, Genevieve teetered her way to her desk and eased into the chair, careful not to create a gust. A tantrum yesterday had left her with a landslide of epic proportions and a crick in her neck after fishing them from under the desk. She really should get back to yoga and men. Both helped with her flexibility. Despite the literal mountain of work in front of her, a chuckle started low in her throat.

  That buoyancy carried Genevieve through three case files. Sheer determination saw her through four more. Her stomach growled so loudly she braced for an earthquake of paper-slide proportions. When nothing fell, her gaze found the clock on the wall. 8:32 a.m. People would begin arriving soon. If she worked diligently, she could get through another small file. Maybe even two. She ignored the dent she’d yet to make in the mountain, pulled the two thinnest files from her for-today heap, and opened the first.

  Halfway through her third file, the door to her office burst wide open. The edge of the thick wood hit a stack of boxes five tall. They were files for Perry’s case but not all of them. Many still littered her house. Each box held so many papers with heavy, horror-ridden shit on them that the stack didn’t budge. It deflected the door like an enemy.

  “Look—” Genevieve didn’t have time to finish the warning before the door bounced off the wall of boxes and careened toward her assistant’s face.

  “Ugh! Ow! Gosh. Damn.” Luckily, Janney turned just in time to be rubbing her elbow instead of cradling a bruised jaw or a broken nose.

  “Janney, I’m sorry.” Gen stood, scrambled around her new to-be-shredded pile and shimmied toward the sweet older woman. “Are you okay?”

  Janney’s teeth gritted. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What kind of mess have you made?” Her words carried the barest hint of an Irish accent.