“No!” My fingers dig into my knees. “I mean . . . he didn’t agree to go back to his hotel because he said someone else was staying in his room with him. And then, somehow, we ended up kissing and I sort of started taking off his clothes—”

Her eyes flick to me again. “Right there in Benny’s?”

My face is burning. “Yes. In the VIP room. But I never asked for money.”

“How do private dances work? There’s a fee involved?”

“Yeah.” I swallow. “Two hundred for a half hour. He bought an hour.”

So, I guess I did ask for money. I hang my head and my face pulls into a grimace.

“And, did he ask you for sex?”

My stomach tightens, and I swear I’m going to be sick. “Not in so many words, but he kissed me . . . and I could tell he wanted it . . . if you know what I mean.”

The pen in her hand stops moving, and she levels me in her severe gaze. “You were clear that he’d paid for your services.”

“Yes.”

“And to the best of your knowledge, was he clear those services did not include sex acts?”

Panic starts to cloud my brain, twisting my thoughts into a jumble. “I told him he wasn’t allowed to touch me. There was a three feet rule.”

She jots another note. “At any point would you have given him reason to believe it was okay to break this ‘three feet rule’?”

I rub my forehead as the sinking feeling in my stomach intensifies. “I modified it to one foot.”

“But you didn’t tell him he could touch you.”

“No. He said he wanted to and I told him he couldn’t.”

“And did he?”

God, it’s hot in here. I wipe beads of sweat off my upper lip with the back of my hand. “Yes.”

“Who initiated the contact?”

When I don’t answer right away, she looks up from her pad. “I need you to be honest if I’m going to be able to help you.”

All I remember is his body pressed against mine, but I don’t know for sure how we got there. “That’s a little bit fuzzy.”

“Fuzzy,” she repeats.

I want to say it was Harrison, but I honestly don’t remember. What I do remember is that I wanted him. “I don’t know . . . it was pretty mutual.”

Her expression takes on a cynical edge. “So you just sort of collided in the middle of the room?”

“No.” I close my eyes and picture the room—where we were. I was at the door, totally embarrassed that I’d just propositioned him and he’d turned me down, and then the next second, we were kissing . . . “Up against the door. He came to me.”

She nods. “Good. If we’re going to go with an entrapment defense, that will help.”

“What if it’s just his word against mine? What if I can’t prove it?”

“The beautiful thing about the United States of America, Miss West,” she says, arranging the papers in front of her into a stack and tucking them into her briefcase, “is that you’re innocent until proven guilty. The burden of proof is on them.” She snaps her briefcase shut. “I’m assuming they can’t produce a witness?”

I shake my head. “We were alone.”

“Even if they have tapes, they won’t show proximity.” She scrapes her chair back and stands. “Don’t talk to anyone about the case without me present. I expect they’ll get your arraignment on the docket within the next day or two. I’ll come back before then to fill you in on what to expect.”

“So . . . how will this work? Can I go home?”

She leans her hands on the table. “Because you have no criminal record, and this isn’t a violent crime, I don’t think they’ll hold you here until trial.”

I lean back in my chair. “When will I know?”

“The judge will make that decision at the arraignment.”

I’m suddenly cold as my blood returns from my face to my bloodstream, the mortification ebbing. “So, I’m stuck here until then?” I say, wrapping my arms around my middle.

Her face softens. “Let me talk to them. I’ll see what I can do.”

She turns for the door, and as it clicks closed, I slouch into my chair, feeling more alone than I ever have in my life.

Chapter Thirteen

THERE’S A COBWEB in the corner of the window. No spider. Just a cobweb. I tried doing my karate kata to calm myself down, but this room is so small I nearly broke my foot on the cot with my first kick, so for the last three hours I’ve been watching that damn cobweb sway as the air conditioner kicks on and off.

I can’t stop my mind from running over everything that happened in the VIP room last night: the thrill of kissing Blake, the heat of his body against mine, the disorientation when he pulled out his badge. I’ve been over every detail a thousand times, trying to pick out signs I missed that he wasn’t who he said he was. So far I have nothing—no way I could have avoided this. I swear to God, I’m ready to dig out my own eyeball with a spoon just to give my mind something else to obsess over.

I haven’t seen my lawyer since she left me sitting in the interrogation room yesterday morning. Agent Nichols has brought me food and coffee, and taken me to the bathroom when I needed it, and that’s been the extent of my social interaction.

So when she steps through the door with a McDonald’s bag and sets it on my table, I jump off my cot and blurt, “When are you due?” just so she won’t leave right away.

Her hand migrates to her paunch, and her expression turns wary. “A little over three months. September twentieth. Why?”

“Just curious.” Or desperate. “Is it your first?”

She nods.

I reach for the bag and pull out a burger. “You want some of my fries?” I ask, holding the bag out to her.

Her wary expression pulls into a cringe. “I bought some for myself too. I crave french fries all the time,” she says with a swirl of her hand over her belly, “but my husband won’t let me have them. Says they’re bad for the baby. You’re my excuse to get my fix every day.”

I smile, plucking one from the bag and popping it in my mouth. “Glad I could help.”

She closes the door and moves deeper into the room, giving me a chagrined squint. “I know you’d probably like something other than McDonald’s for every meal.”

I shrug. “If I could get a chicken sandwich for dinner instead of a burger, you know, for a little variety . . . and a large order of fries, which I may or may not be able to eat.”

She smiles. “Hey . . . do you play cards?”

“Um . . . not really.”

“If you’re bored, I have a cribbage board.”

I need something to do before I drive myself crazy. “You’ll teach me?”

She nods. “Be right back.”

She’s back a few minutes later with a small plastic board and a deck of cards. We spend the better part of the next hour playing cribbage, but just as I’m figuring it out, my door clicks open and Harrison drags through with a file in his hand. He looks tired. I’m not sorry.

“Come with me, Sam.”

“Why?” I ask, splitting a glance between him and Nichols.

“Your lawyer’s on her way.”

My heart kicks in my chest. I hand Nichols my cards and follow Blake up the hall.

We settle into chairs in the interrogation room, and Harrison tosses his folder onto the table. He tents his fingers over the top of it and just stares at me, his gaze cold as ice. I’m starting to sweat a little, but I won’t break his gaze. I wonder if this is his version of Jenkins’s bad cop thing.

I put up the toughest front I can muster, which I’m sure isn’t all that tough, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he still affects me. I don’t want to show him anything I’m feeling. “You can use your intimidation tactics all you want. I’ve got nothing to tell you.”

He arches an eyebrow at me, and that’s the biggest reaction I’ve gotten out of him since he left me standing in the VIP room. “Am I intimidating you?”

I feel like the mouse as the cat bats it around in the air before snapping its neck. I should have kept my mouth shut, so now I do.

It feels like hours later, though it’s probably only minutes, when the door clicks open and Yvonne sweeps into the room. She swings her briefcase onto the table and lowers herself into the chair next to me. “How are they treating you, Sam? Is there anything you need?”

“Just for you to get me the hell out of here before I chew off my own arms and try to shimmy down the air duct.”

I can’t read her expression, and I wonder if that’s a skill all trial lawyers cultivate.

She looks down her nose at Blake, where he sits across from me. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

He stands and rests a hand on my shoulder on the way to the door. “We’ll be in as soon as you’re ready.”

My hand migrates to the burning path his fingers leave on my shoulder, and I force myself to lower it as he steps out of the room.

Yvonne watches after him as the door closes. “I could be mistaken, but isn’t he the bad guy?”

As I contemplate that, I realize how fluid good and bad are. Though I was only there for two weeks, I really liked working for Ben. He and Nora treated me well, paid me well, and believed in me enough to give me a shot, even when my own parents hadn’t. And now I know why their rules were so important. I never would have thought of them as bad.

And Blake.

It was more than his looks that drew me to him. He was so amazing: passionate and smart and sweet and vulnerable. Yes, if he’d never zeroed in on me, I’d still have my life, but could he really be the “bad guy”?

“I guess.”

Her expression turns skeptical. “So why is he touching you like you’re precious cargo?”

I glance at the door and my hand goes to my shoulder again. “I didn’t know he was.”