Two's a Couple, Three's the Law
By: Eve Langlais
Why do I always end up with the craziest cases and clients?
A prime example—and I meant prime, as in one hundred percent, hunky male sprinkled with way too much sexy—sat across from me.
“Let me get this straight, you’ve been charged with—” I peered down at the werewolf’s file, not because I couldn’t remember the charges but because I couldn’t hold his stare while reciting the ridiculous claims. “Digging holes in your neighbor’s yard. Howling after eleven and peeing on her roses.” I raised my gaze and had it snagged by my client’s chocolatey eyes. I should mention that when I said chocolate, I didn’t mean the cheap stuff you could purchase at the local 7-Eleven stuffed with peanuts and caramel. I was talking about sinful, melt-in-your-mouth, quality mocha that could almost replace an orgasm it tasted so damned good. Although, given Mr. Cavanaugh’s stellar good looks, rockin’ bod and general fuckable vibe, I imagined sex with him might prove even more enjoyable than the best chocolate available on the market. Not that I intended to find out in person. Good lawyers didn’t screw their clients—until they’d won their case at least and gotten paid. Contrary to popular belief, we did have some morals.
Disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, I mentally kicked my mind out of the gutter. “Are any of these claims true?”
“Yup,” he replied in a rough voice that tickled over every single one of my nerve endings, plus a few I never knew I owned.
Damn, I so needed to get laid if just a masculine rumble could get my panties wet. Horny or not, I frowned at his single syllable reply. “Yes to which charge?”
“All of them.”
Like I’d said, the craziest cases. I leaned back in my creaky chair and fixed him with a stare while tapping my ballpoint pen on my scarred metal desk—a government-issue relic from the eighties back before melamine took over the office world. “Are you admitting, Mr. Cavanaugh—”
“Call me Pete.”
“That you did all the things you’re charged with?”
“Yes I did.” A smug smile creased his face and his sex appeal went up another notch, as did my state of arousal. I shifted in my seat, crossing my legs under the desk. “I also peed on her petunias, but I see she’s not complaining about that, probably on account they’ve never looked healthier.”
With a claim like that, I dared anyone not to imagine a grown man whipping it out and using it as a hose. Oddly enough, it didn’t detract from his overall sexiness. “And you want to fight these charges instead of pleading guilty to a misdemeanor and paying the fine?”
“I do.”
Twirling my pen, I tilted my gaze up to my perforated, suspended-tile ceiling and counted to ten. One–Why the fuck did I become a lawyer? Two—Who did I piss off in a previous life to get stuck with this crap? Three—Where was a strong cup of coffee when I needed one? Four—Why couldn’t I stop wondering if he did those things while man or wolf?
He broke my moment of silence at Seven—I think I’ll have Chinese for lunch—with a clearing of his throat. “Is there a problem?”
I snapped an annoyed glance back in his direction. “You’re wasting my time.”
“How?”
“You’re guilty.”
“Yes. But she doesn’t know that for sure. She just knows something is doing those things and is assuming it’s me.”
“Because it is you.”
“She has no proof.”
“You just admitted it.” I couldn’t help the exasperation in my tone.
“Ah, but isn’t our conversation protected by that client/lawyer privilege thing we hear about all the time on TV?”
“Yes. Nothing you say while with me can be used against you,” I replied through gritted teeth. Damn television. People with a little bit of knowledge were so much more irritating to deal with. Ah, for the days of ignorance when clients just did as their lawyers told them to. While on a nostalgic track, why not rewind further to a time when hunky men didn’t pee on flowers and require flea collars.
“Then, as far as the world is concerned, I’m innocent unless she can prove me guilty. Isn’t it your job to make sure that doesn’t happen?” He grinned at me, an engaging tilt of his lips that tugged at my inner mischievous child.
I sent it to sit in the corner and scowled. “Mr. Cavanaugh—”
“Pete.”
“I’m all for defending the innocent, but your neighbor’s complaints are valid. To go to court is a waste of my time and yours, not to mention taxpayer money.” Of which I paid too much on a meager salary as far as I was concerned. “Do us all a favor and do the right thing. Plead guilty. Pay the fine. Then buy some candy and flowers, put on your nicest shirt, go over to her place, smile and apologize.” I almost told him to put his dick to better use than fertilizer where his neighbor was concerned but held my tongue. He didn’t need sexual harassment charges tacked on to his current case file. “Promise her you’ll never do it again and, from here on out, keep your peeing to your side of the property line and refrain from howling after hours.”
