Lines of Defense

Ch. 14

ETHAN COLE

Seated in my car, parked just outside my house, I dial Freeman's secretary. The frustration's already boiling in my veins, but I keep it out of my voice-for now. When the line connects, I keep it straight to the point.

"Let Mr. Freeman know I need to speak with him," I say, leaning back in the seat, eyes narrowing as I wait.

There's a brief silence before the secretary responds, polished but distant. "Mr. Freeman is busy at the moment."

I grit my teeth, narrowing my eyes at the same response he gave me six hours ago. "Busy?" I echo, disbelief tainting my tone. "Does he realize this is Ethan Cole, his attorney, calling?"

"I'm aware," the secretary says, with the same robotic indifference. "But the answer remains the same, Mr. Freeman is unavailable."

I almost laugh, the absurdity of it thick on my tongue. Freeman, too busy for me? "Rude bastard," I mutter under my breath, hanging up the call with a bit more force than necessary. Tugging the car key from the ignition, I exit the car and lock it. What sort of client is too confident-or too damn stupid-to avoid meeting with his lawyer, especially when his life is on the line?

The thought sticks with me as I push the front door open, letting the familiar scent of my place greet me. Except...there's something different. Amelia's bag sits on the couch, slouched and out of place. She's home. I shake my head with a bitter half-smile. Of course she's home-less work now that she's dropped the case, apparently.

I head straight for the kitchen, opening the cupboard and pulling out the bottle of whiskey. My tie feels suffocating, so I yank at it, loosening it just as the sharp, amber liquid burns down my throat.

The faint hum of a voice catches my attention-Amelia. She's humming a soft tune, and I hear the faint click of her bedroom door unlocking. I don't think much of it, until she steps into the living room.

Amelia doesn't see me at first. She's humming, almost lost in her own world, and that's when I realize why. She's wrapped in nothing but a towel-a tiny, white towel barely clinging to her body, the ends riding high on her thighs. My breath halts, but she notices me at that exact second.

We freeze.

Her eyes widen, my hand gripping the whiskey glass so hard it might shatter.

Time stretches, and then-before either of us can say anything-she lets out a scream. Loud and sharp. Her hands fly to her mouth, eyes wide with shock. I'm about to turn away, to do something, but in the chaos of it all, her towel slips.

Pools right at her feet in one smooth motion, soft fabric cascading like water to the floor. And suddenly, there she is—completely bare.

The moment stretches, heat radiating between us, my pulse quickening as my eyes, unbidden, take in every inch of her. The swell of her breasts, the smooth curve of her hips, her skin glistening under the light, flawless and inviting. Her body is all soft lines and irresistible temptation, and I can't help but notice the way her breath hitches, her chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths.

My throat tightens, a thick wave of desire pushing against my control. Every curve, every subtle movement, screams of heat, of something raw and dangerous that flickers between us. There's something electric in the moment—a silent dare, a test of restraint.

But my gaze lingers too long, tracing her, feeling her heat without touching.

"Shit!" I curse, heart pounding as I immediately look away, turning my body to give her whatever privacy is left when she moves.