Lines of Defense

Ch. 18

ETHAN COLE

I dial Freeman's secretary like I've been doing for two days now, and when he picks up, he sounds ragged and barely coherent. Before I can get a word in, he spits out that Mr. Freeman is currently busy and can't talk right now. I roll my eyes, annoyed.

"Cut the bullshit," I say, a rough edge slipping into my tone. "Hand Mr. Freeman the phone unless you're interested in seeing him rot in a cell. Because that's where he's headed. There's evidence against him."

There's a pause on the line, just the sound of shuffling, then a muffled whimper—a woman's whimper. What the hell?

Before I can even process it, there's a throat clearing, and then Freeman's voice comes through, almost syrupy with forced politeness. "Ethan, my apologies for how rude my secretary's been. Why don't we meet somewhere to chat—say, that bar on Sixth? It'll be better to talk in person."

I agree, though suspicion pricks at me. He hangs up abruptly, and I shove my phone into my pocket, grabbing my briefcase as I walk out of the office, thoughts spinning around Freeman's sudden change in tone.

But I stop cold at the sight just outside the building. Amelia is standing by the front entrance, laughing, a cup of coffee in one hand, her smile bright and full as Jamie, our office flirt, leans toward her, saying something that only seems to make her laugh harder.

I freeze, irritation prickling at me. Jamie? She was into that kind of guy?

She tips her head back, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she laughs, the sound infectious. My stomach twists, and a thought I didn't expect creeps up: Jealous?

No way.  Amelia's not even close to my type. Rough around the edges, always challenging me, always rolling her eyes. And yet, images rise unbidden from the night she stood before me, bare and vulnerable, looking like sin itself.

Fuck, that body. I remember the curve of her breasts, round and firm, her skin soft under the light, the slight flush that had spread across her chest. The pink of her areolae, her nipples hard, peaked and begging to be touched. My throat tightens as I recall the soft, delicate skin just below her stomach, her smooth, shaven pussy glistening and inviting.

I grip the handle of my briefcase tighter, willing the growing tension in my pants to subside, but it's useless. I stand there like an idiot, just watching her, feeling a heat simmer under my skin. Had Jamie seen her like that too?

The idea is like a punch to the gut. Anger, unwelcome and irrational, surges through me. I bite down the urge to storm over there, to pull her away, to do something about this unexpected, uncomfortable emotion clawing its way up.

I turn on my heel, jaw clenched, heading to my car. I've got more pressing issues than this pointless, maddening jealousy over a woman who is the last person I should be thinking about like this. But as I drive off, her laugh still echoes in my mind, filling the silence in a way I can't ignore.

The bar looms ahead, sleek and modern, with just enough moody lighting to cast shadows along the walls, adding to its exclusivity. As I step inside, the rich scent of polished leather, wood, and faint cologne welcomes me, underscoring the silence. It's empty save for a few women, dressed to the nines in short, dark dresses, each one striking but standing almost statuesque against the bar's polished, dimly-lit interior. Their gazes flit over me with practiced neutrality, only softening when one of them steps forward, asking if I'd like a drink.

I shake my head, glancing around, taking in the scene. No patrons. Not even any bartenders. I arch a brow, curiosity mixing with a thread of unease. Did Freeman own this place, or had he rented out the entire bar? Either option was possible with him; power and wealth wrapped around him like an aura, and he wielded them just as ruthlessly as his words.