She tilts her chin, looking me in the eye. “Call me Bianca.”

“Bianca.” I nod back at her. “Another name for a powerful woman.”

Her answering smile is cool, almost predatory. “Let us hope so, Danica.”

•   •   •

“How did it go?”

I run my fingers through my hair, noticing Manuel in my doorway. “I think it went well. I gave her a list of all the information I need on her finances, and we went over what she can expect going forward.”

“And? What are your thoughts about her chances?”

“The evidence she mentioned is mostly just phone records and email printouts. Nothing concrete, unfortunately, but she seems to think that some digging will reveal more.” I smile, remembering. “Her exact words were ‘my husband is not as brilliant as he thinks himself to be.’ ”

“I got the impression that Mrs. Casiraghi is not a woman to be fucked with,” Manuel chuckles.

“So did I. Nate and Vera both agreed to help with discovery. I imagine there will be a lot of records to dig through.”

“Good,” he tells me. “We need all hands on deck with this one.”

“I think our chances are good, considering. I’m optimistic.”

“Well, one of us has to be.”

I snort. “And we both know that isn’t going to be you.”

“It isn’t one of my strong suits. Have you told your parents yet?”

I frown. “Not yet. I wanted to wait until after I’d actually spoken to Bianca.”

“I’m sure they’ll want to celebrate.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“It’s not the most terrible thing in the world that your parents are such good friends, Dani.”

I scowl at him, hating that he can read me so well. “It might be when they’ve been divorced for fourteen years.”

“In our line of work, we call that the perfect divorce.”

I don’t respond to that, just shake my head. Manny and I have a different opinion on my parents’ “perfect divorce.” He knows I don’t think such a thing really exists. If there aren’t any perfect marriages—and I’ve long decided there aren’t, since the one I held to the highest standard was never real—then it stands to reason that there can’t be a perfect version on the opposite end of the spectrum. Once you find out the life you knew was a lie, you stop believing in a lot of things.

“I’ll call them tonight,” I tell him instead.

“Good. Your dad and I are golfing Sunday, and you know I hate lying to him.”

“I’m aware. It’s annoying, really.”

He gives me a small smile. “Make sure to keep me updated on things with the Casiraghi case.”

“Your office is thirty feet from mine. I can just shout when I have news.”

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever works.”

He pushes away from the doorframe as if he’s moving to leave, and I stop him.

“Do we know who the husband has hired yet?” I notice Manuel wince, and a foreboding feeling creeps through my limbs when he turns back to give me a withered look. “No.”

“I’m told Mr. Casiraghi called Hart and Associates last Wednesday.”

“Goddamn it,” I huff. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to get any more stressed out about your meeting with Bianca. I know how weird you get where Ezra Hart is concerned.”

A flush creeps up my neck, and with my pale complexion, I know it will be noticeable. “I do not get weird,” I bite out. “I just hate the guy.”

When I’m not fucking him, that is.

“He’s not my favorite person,” Manuel offers, “and it’s going to make winning that much harder, but you’ve beaten him before.”

Not as many times as I’d like, I think bitterly.

“I’m sure he’s already crafting some bullshit defense about how the woman Lorenzo has been emailing is his personal trainer, and that’s why she’s so interested in his body.”

Manuel laughs. “Most likely. You’ll just have to find something Ezra can’t twist. You can’t skirt around solid evidence.”

“Right.” I nod, mostly to myself. “Right. I’m going to kick his ass.”

Manuel winks as he turns to go. “I have no doubt, kid.”

I sit at my desk and fume for a few more minutes, thinking about the stupid texts Ezra has sent this week where he conveniently left out that he’d be my opposing counsel. I sure as hell hadn’t waited more than a day before bragging about possibly representing Bianca. Did he know then? My earlier smugness now makes me feel a little embarrassed. God, he was probably laughing at me the entire time.

I snatch my phone from the corner of my desk, opening our text thread and furiously shooting one off.

Me: How long have you known you were representing Lorenzo Casiraghi?

I watch the dots appear with narrowed eyes, waiting for his response.

Asshole: At least a few days before your charming text. Did you end up landing the missus?

Me: You’re the literal worst person I know.

Asshole: Aw. I miss you too.

He sends me a GIF of Paul Rudd on the Hot Ones show saying “Look at us. Who would have thought?” and I roll my eyes.

Me: You know you won’t be able to bullshit your way through this one. Mr. Casiraghi doesn’t seem the type to have “spiritual advisors.”

Asshole: Are you implying something about my methods, Dani?

Me: That they’re bullshit. Yes.

Asshole: I’m wounded. Are we fighting? I hate it when we fight. Maybe you should come over so we can talk about it.

Me: You’d like that wouldn’t you?

His reply takes a bit longer than his previous ones, and I don’t notice my teeth pressing against my bottom lip until it pops up on the screen.

Asshole: I promise you, Dani. We’d both like it if you came.

I shift in my desk chair, remembering the last time I’d been to his place. Heat courses through me, the memory of his tongue on me and his body against mine leaving me disgusted with myself but still entirely horny. I hate that he always seems to catch me when I’m at my most stressed, that he knows orgasms are my weakness when I’m wound this tightly.

I can’t go to his place again. I know I will regret it tomorrow. I know.

I hear a ping as another text comes through.

Asshole: I’ve been thinking about touching you all week.

I grit my teeth, closing my eyes as a shudder passes through me.

I am not going to his place.

I’m not.

OceanofPDF.com

Three

I smile again at Dani’s short response of “Fine.” Then I check the time, thinking she should be here soon. I’ve been waiting patiently to see if Dani would end up as my opposing counsel on the Casiraghi case, hoping for it, actually, knowing she’d be prickly and sour about it. It shouldn’t be so appealing when she puffs up like my cat’s tail, but something about it really inspires the need to rile her up even more when it happens. Touching her is always that much sweeter when I have to work for it.

The aforementioned feline rubs against my ankle then, and I reach to scratch behind Purrgood Marshall’s ears.

“She likes you, at least,” I tell him.

Purrgood arches his fluffy gray body, flicking his tail as he stares up at me, looking bored. He scampers away after another quick rake of my nails against his spine, and I move across the apartment to the wet bar to make myself a drink. Two fingers of scotch usually helps prepare me to handle Dani’s verbal assault, which she insists on before she defrosts. A good therapist might suggest there is something seriously wrong with me if they knew how much I enjoy our strange dynamic.