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“Relax, sweetheart.” He pulls my leg across his. “I went to school with him. I’ve run into him a few times since, but he was a dick in school and apparently still is.”
“He is what he is.”
“No trash talking?”
“Not my style,” I say.
“Good. It’s not mine either. For the record, him being a dick is a statement of fact that I could back up with evidence but I don’t have to. You know.” He moves on. “How did you meet him?”
“A party at my father’s offices. His firm partners with my father’s on occasion.”
“Did you love him?”
“If I did, I can honestly say that I don’t remember it now. And I don’t think you forget love.”
“What about the fuck buddy?”
“Did I love him? No. Who was he? Lance Parish. A professional sculptor, and where Mitch was a shark, Lance was a goldfish.”
“How long did your sculptor stay your fuck buddy?”
“He wasn’t my sculptor, and six months. It was sex. I told you that. He got the job done.”
“That is not the way a man wants his bedroom skills to be remembered.”
“You have nothing to worry about, and you know it.”
“I get the job done.”
“Yes.” I laugh, stroking his jaw. “You do get the job done, and for the record, I’m avoiding a joke with a certain nickname right now, despite the opening you’re giving me. Because I know you hate it.” I dive past the joke and turn the topic. “There has to have been some woman in your life.”
“In my early career, there was someone. But to her, my work was king, and that left no room for her.”
“Was she right?”
“Yes.”
“Did you love her?”
“If I had loved her, maybe my work wouldn’t have been number one. If she had loved me, maybe my work would have been more important to her, and less important to me. She wanted more. I didn’t understand her version of more.”
“And since her?”
“I don’t bring women to my apartment. I don’t take them into my bed. I don’t share this view. I don’t talk about my work or my life. I don’t fuck without a condom.” His hand slides to my face. “I don’t just want more. This is more to me, and I want to know where that leads. If you don’t—”
“I do,” I whisper. “But please don’t turn out to be an asshole.”
His eyes light with mischief, a hint of starlight in the depths of his blue eyes. “Since you said please.” His cellphone rings. “What do you think the odds are that this is my client actually calling me the fuck back?” he asks, pulling his phone from his pocket to glance at the screen and then me. “Royce. Let’s hope he has some good news.” He answers the call. “What do you have for me?”
He listens a minute, his leg tensing under my palm and calf that has landed on top of it. “When?” he bites out, followed by a pause, in which more bad news must follow, since his next reply is “Fuck,” followed by “Fuck.” He stands up, pressing two fingers to his temple to once again ask, “When?”
Feeding off his energy, I stand up, listening to the rest of the short exchange, with little understanding, on pins and needles, waiting to hear what has happened. Finally, Reese ends the call and looks at me. “Nelson Ward decided to leave the city by way of private jet.”
“Oh my God. You don’t leave on a plane while on trial for murder. What are his restrictions?”
“He had a liberal travel agreement compliments of me,” he says, “but it did not include traveling during the trial.”
“What does your gut say? Is he running?”
