Blindfolded Innocence. Alessandra Torre
aware of the butter all over my fingers—and dripping from the edge of my mouth. I licked my lips and said the first thing that popped into my mind.
“I’m not Tiffany.”
His smile faltered slightly, and he shook his head and chuckled. “I know.”
“I’m Julia. Julia Campbell. Broward’s intern.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I just asked Sheila where to find you. She said you were in here.”
“Oh.” A pause. His eyes never left mine. “Why were you looking for me?”
“Would you like to go to lunch?” He turned on some powerful, magical force, and radiated with intense sexual heat. I almost swooned, but caught myself. Keep it together, you damn woman!
“Umm, no.”
“No?” His grin increased and he looked almost incredulous. He glanced around as if wanting someone to witness this.
“No.” My voice grew in strength and confidence. Cocky prick.
“Why?” He moved closer and I lost all sense of reality. The man was like no one I’d ever met. I could see why divorcing wives would throw apart their legs and beg him for more than lawyerly duties. The man was walking, breathing sex. I had never found bodybuilders or large men attractive. I had pined for and worshipped the rail-thin, pretty look of male models. But this man was built like a god, with the disposition of Satan. I couldn’t imagine being an intern to this man and not doing more than filing his briefs.
I would have moved back farther, but the kitchen counter rail was already digging into my ass and no doubt now leaving a bruise. I met his amused gaze and tried to portray nonchalance.
“For one thing, you’re a little old.”
His eyes flickered a bit at that, but he kept his thoughts to himself. “And?”
“Annnddd, I’m not supposed to talk to you.” Even to my ears, that sounded juvenile.
His egotistic smirk was back. “Ahhh...yes. Broward wants to keep you all to himself.”
I didn’t like that response, but kept my mouth shut and let my eyes communicate my silent retort.
“Let’s go to Centaur.”
“No. I have work to do.”
“Come on—I’ll have you back in a flash. No one will even know you’re gone.”
“I—”
“Julia!” Sheila stood in the doorway, glaring at De Luca. He had the good grace to look sheepish, which also looked ridiculously sexy. Good lord. Someone needs to take this man out back and shoot him.
I fled to the safety of Sheila’s side, taking my buttery fingers with me and leaving my plate and knife behind.
“I need Julia,” Sheila said. “Are you all through with whatever it was you needed her for?” Her expression painted her opinion clearer than any billboard could.
De Luca nodded a goodbye to me and strode out of the kitchen, winking at me and patting Sheila on the shoulder as he passed. I could suddenly breathe a lot easier. Sheila turned and affixed me with a steely stare, all evidence of grandmotherly goodness gone. “Is this going to be a problem?” she demanded.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Good.”
Ten
11:45 a.m.
I didn’t know what I had been doing the past two and a half hours, but it hadn’t been anything productive. I twirled a pencil around my hand and debated whether or not I should ask someone for an Advil. My phone rang, a shrill sound that drilled into my headache with unsympathetic persistence.
“Julia Campbell.”
“It’s Beverly.” Beverly was Broward’s number two secretary, a plump redheaded woman who thought that stripes and polka dots matched, and had an extreme habit of oversharing everything. I mean everything. The second day I met her she “confided” in me that she’d once contracted genital herpes from a gas station restroom toilet. Need I say anything more? She would.
“Hi, Beverly.”
“We need you to run over to OfficeMax. Rick in IT just called, and apparently they’re having some kind of technical crisis that can only be solved by a...T-I44 FireWire cable port, whatever that is. We would go, but De Luca’s office is having us run a gabillion copies for some last-minute filing and the—”
“No problem, Beverly. I’ll do it now.” And stop by CVS and grab every hangover remedy they’ve got.
“Are you sure? I hate to ask you, but if we don’t get—”
“Yes. I’m sure. I’ll do it now.”
“Great! Thanks, Julia. Just run it to IT when you get back. It’s on the second floor, next to the—”
“I know where it is.”
“Oh-kay! Thanks, Julia.”
“You’re welcome.”
I hung up the phone and rose, glad for a chance to get out of the office. I slid my heels on, grabbed my purse and practically skipped to the elevator, avoiding even looking in the direction of the East Wing doors. Take that, Brad De Luca!
I took the elevator directly to the parking garage and exited, looking to the right for my car. One of the firm’s black town cars was idling near my Camry. The driver’s tinted window rolled down as I approached. A twenty-something white kid in a chauffeur’s uniform was seated in the driver’s seat, and spoke to me as I passed.
“Ms. Campbell?”
“Yes?” I stopped in surprise, staring at him.
“I’ve been instructed to drive you to the store.”
“What?”
“I’ll drive you to the store.”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
He ignored me and got out, walked around to the backseat door and opened it. I glared at him.
“I can drive myself. I’m a big girl.”
“Get in the car.” The order came not from the pimple-faced driver, but from inside the car. It only took a second for me to identify the deep, authoritative voice, and I shoved Pushy Driver aside and leaned over, looking into the car.
“You listen to me,” I hissed, pointing my finger in De Luca’s face. “I am not one of your strippers you can order around! I am busy at work and—” My tirade was interrupted when De Luca burst into laughter, his entire torso shaking. My finger sagged a bit but remained pointed at him, and I fought the ridiculous urge to laugh myself.
“Strippers! Jeff—did you hear that?” Jeff started to smile, and I turned with a snap and shot him the stoniest glare I could. His smile faded but stayed in his eyes. They’re laughing at me. Dammit. I don’t care if he is a partner in the law firm that my future is riding on, I—
“I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, but I take all the new interns out. Ask Todd. We went out as a group last week, but Broward had you stuck in preparation for that boring-as-hell mediation that he flopped at. I’ve taken that Asian intern out three times, for Christ’s sake—what’s his name—Anton Wu? Something like that. So, despite what you think of me, I am just trying to give you the same courtesy I give all the interns—the pleasure of my company and infinite knowledge.” He raised both hands in a “trust me I’m innocent” gesture. His cocky smile infuriated me, but my balloon of propriety had deflated.
I stared at him, thinking.