Julie James - About That Night

“It’s fair to say the Twitter Terrorist case was at the top of somebody’s agenda. Just not mine.”

Rylann looked at him quizzically. “You lost me there.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I stand behind all charges we filed against Kyle Rhodes,” Cade said. “He broke the law and caused a whole mess of trouble. Worldwide trouble. No way could we have let that slide with a mere slap on the wrist.”

She raised an eyebrow. “But?”

“But this office was a different place five months ago. And I suppose you could say that we were a bit…overly vigorous in the way we handled that prosecution.” Cade’s expression changed to one of annoyance. “My former boss, Silas Briggs, made it clear that he expected nothing less from me. He was always looking for an opportunity to get this office—and himself—into the public eye, and he figured that the Twitter Terrorist case was the perfect chance to do that. No one cares when you pick on a billionaire heir.”

“Except the billionaire heir,” Rylann noted.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly thinking we’d need his help down the road.” Cade flashed her a good-natured grin. “Good thing that’s your problem now and not mine.” He pushed away from the bookshelf and paused in the doorway. “Hey—in all seriousness, if you need anything, I’m just down the hall. Feel free to stop by anytime, new girl.” He pointed. “And tomorrow, the coffee’s on me.”

Not bad, Rylann mused appreciatively after Cade left. He was definitely good-looking in an all-American kind of way. Perhaps a little on the overly confident side, but this was not uncommon among AUSAs, especially those in the special prosecutions division. Regardless, Cade Morgan was off-limits, and she’d known that before he’d even stepped into her doorway. Office romances had too much potential to get messy—and, as a rule, she didn’t let things get messy when it came to work.

Just then, her phone rang.

“Rylann Pierce,” she answered.

“It’s Mark Whitehead. I talked to my client,” he said, not sounding pleased. “For the record, I’m totally and completely against this.”

“Fair enough. That has been noted for the record.” No clue what he was talking about.

“Mr. Rhodes agreed to meet with you this afternoon, at his office. Alone,” Mark said with emphasis. “He was quite clear on that last point, despite all my attempts to persuade him otherwise.”

That certainly was not the response Rylann had expected. Judging from the five lawyers who’d been present at last Tuesday’s motion call—a fact she still found ridiculous—she’d been under the impression that multimillionaire Kyle Rhodes would never agree to a meeting with the U.S. Attorney’s Office without counsel present.

Still…this development served her interests, as well. She wasn’t exactly advertising her prior connection to Kyle, and they could speak more freely without an audience present. “Fine. I can meet Mr. Rhodes later today.” She grabbed a pen. “Where is his office located?”

“Well, Ms. Pierce, seeing how my client is unemployed, his current office is his home. Eight hundred North Lake Shore Drive. The penthouse. Mr. Rhodes will be expecting you at four thirty sharp.”

THE PHONE ON Kyle’s desk rang, the double ring that indicated the call came from the security desk in the lobby of his building.

“Ms. Pierce is here to see you, Mr. Rhodes,” Miles informed him when he answered the phone.

“Thanks, Miles. Send her up.”

Kyle hung up the phone and saved the document he’d been working on, thinking that this was indeed an interesting turn of events. If anyone else from the U.S. Attorney’s Office had asked to see him, he would’ve told him or her exactly where to shove that request. Even though they’d held up their end of the deal last Tuesday, they were still at the top of his shit list for the whole “terrorist” business, which meant no favors for federal prosecutors. Period.

Except he’d found this particular request, from the illustrious Rylann Pierce of the amber eyes and sharp tongue, difficult to say no to.

He was…curious to know what she wanted.

This story she’d told his lawyers, about some “investigation” into an incident that had occurred at Metropolitan Correctional Center two weeks ago, sounded a little fishy. He’d already been released from MCC by that time, so he wasn’t sure what knowledge, if any, he would have about anything that had happened after that. But according to his lawyers, she’d been quite vehement in her desire to meet with him.

And that intrigued him even more.

Last Tuesday, when he’d gotten home from court, he’d done two things: first, he’d gone on a long run, taking his sweet-ass time and going as far as he’d wanted without having to worry about ankle monitors, U.S. marshals, or SWAT teams storming the beach. Then the second thing he’d done was Google Rylann Pierce.

He’d found her on LinkedIn and saw that she’d clerked with a federal appellate judge in San Francisco before joining the U.S. Attorney’s Office. He’d also read press releases from the Northern District of California regarding several high-profile cases she’d prosecuted. From what he could tell, she’d had a successful career in California and then, suddenly, she’d moved back to Chicago.

He had a feeling there was a story there, but whatever it was, Google wasn’t saying.

Kyle heard a knock at the door. He got up from the desk and made his way through the penthouse, not realizing he’d been grinning the whole way until he saw his reflection in the foyer mirror.

Chill out, dickhead. She’s just some girl you walked home.

Perhaps this was, in fact, all a bizarre coincidence, and she really was there to talk about some case. Or maybe…it was something else. Maybe she’d been thinking about him all week, the same way he’d been thinking about her, and just couldn’t stay away.

His smile widened. Only one way to find out.

Kyle opened the door and saw her standing on his doorstep, long, dark hair a-flowing and looking like a Hitchcock heroine, with her belted trench coat and high heels, and carrying a briefcase at her side.

“Counselor,” he drawled.

“Mr. Rhodes,” she said, her voice slightly husky.

That was as far as they’d made it on Tuesday. But this time, there were no reporters, no cameras, and no team of defense attorneys. It was just the two of them now.

Kyle pushed open the door. “Come on in.”

“Thank you for meeting with me.” She brushed past him, the delicate scent of something floral and feminine trailing after her, and stepped into the foyer.

He shut the door, then turned and looked her over. Nine years ago, she’d been eye-catchingly attractive, but now there was something else, something more polished, sophisticated, and undeniably appealing.

Something a man who’d spent most of the last five months in prison would be hard-pressed not to notice.

“It’s been a while, Ms. Pierce,” he said.

Her lips twitched in a smile. “Actually, it’s only been about a week.”

He folded his arms across his chest challengingly. “Couldn’t stay away?”

She opened her mouth to say something, then appeared to change her mind. “Maybe we should sit down somewhere and talk.”

Right. About this mysterious “investigation.” He gestured to the open expanse of the loft-style penthouse. “Make yourself at home.”

Rylann walked into the living room area, curiously checking out the place. “Looks like you’ve done well for yourself these past few years.” She threw him a sideways look, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Aside from that tiny issue with Twitter.”

“Just so I know, how many jokes can I expect about that?”

“It’s almost too easy,” she said with a laugh. “You once said that someone was going to cause a lot of panic and mayhem if companies didn’t start paying more attention to denial of service attacks. How prescient of you.”

Kyle stopped. “You actually remember I said that?”

Rylann paused for a moment, then shrugged nonchalantly. “Only because of the Twitter fiasco.” Moving on, she took a seat in one of the sleek Italian leather armchairs and set her briefcase on the floor.

Kyle sat on the couch across from her, watching as she slid off her coat, revealing a dark gray suit with a cream silk shirt underneath. “Before you say anything else, maybe we should address the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room.”

She looked momentarily confused. “Meaning…?”

“About that night.” He held her gaze. “I assume you know why I never showed up for our date?”

Her expression softened. “Oh. Yes. I was very sorry to hear about your mother.”

“Thank you.” Kyle tried to lighten the mood, glad to have that bit of awkwardness out of the way. “It’s a shame, you know. Because I was going to be really charming on that date. You wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

She laughed. “I’m sure you think that.”

Kyle stretched his arm along the back of the couch, getting more comfortable. “So. What brings you here tonight, Rylann Pierce?”

She shifted in her chair, then crossed one leg over the other. “Murder, actually.”

Kyle blinked, and his grin faded. Whatever he’d been expecting her to say, it wasn’t that. “Murder?”

“Yes. An inmate was beaten to death at MCC two weeks ago.”

From her expression, he could tell she was serious. And just like that, the whole tone of their conversation changed. “You’re really here about a case,” he said, not realizing until that moment how much he’d begun to convince himself otherwise.

She cocked her head, as if not following. “Why else would I be here?”