Julie James - About That Night

“It was a last-minute thing,” Rylann explained. “My boss needed me to cover for someone else.”

“I think he’s staring at your chest.”

It took Rylann a moment. Right, the photograph of her and Kyle. “He’s not staring at my chest, Mom.”

“Then what’s with the look? That’s the kind of look a man gives you when he’s seen you naked. Or wants to.”

Immediately, Rylann thought back to the daring way Kyle had held her eyes the moment that photograph had been taken.

He’d remembered her, all right.

“I didn’t notice anything strange about the look,” she fibbed.

Helen didn’t seem entirely convinced. “Hmm. Good thing your work on that case is done, or I’d probably have to give you some kind of lecture about staying away from boys like that. Motherly duty and all.”

Rylann smiled at that. “Kyle Rhodes is hardly a boy, Mom.”

“Oh, believe me, I noticed.”

Ewww. Rylann was about to change the subject, deliberately failing to mention that her work with Kyle wasn’t quite finished, when her mother beat her to the punch.

“So aside from the Twitter Terrorist case, what else do they have you working on?” Helen asked. Before retiring, she’d been a paralegal at a criminal defense firm in Chicago and enjoyed talking shop about Rylann’s cases—even if, as she often joked, her daughter played for the “other team.”

For much of Rylann’s childhood, the traditional gender roles had been reversed in the Pierce household. In fact, her mother had been the primary breadwinner during most of those years. Rylann’s father, an HVAC repairman, had injured his back when Rylann was seven years old, and despite treatment and physical therapy, he had never been able to work more than a part-time schedule after that. Thus, her dad had been the parent who would drop her off and pick her up from school, working a few repair jobs in between, and at six o’clock her mother would walk through the door, change out of her business clothes, and join them for dinner—usually entertaining them with stories about the cases she and “her lawyers” were working on.

Even as a young girl, however, Rylann had quickly realized one thing about those stories: she didn’t like it when the bad guys won. And from those seeds, her career as an assistant U.S. attorney had sprung.

Rylann spoke with her mother for a few more minutes, until her door buzzer rang. Then she ran downstairs to collect her food, and settled in for the night with her case files, a carton of kung pao chicken, and a glass of a Riesling she’d scored in the post-breakup division of the wine collection she and Jon had owned. Yet another quiet Friday evening, like many others she’d had over the last six months.

And, wow, she’d just come dangerously close to feeling sorry for herself there. Good thing she had work to focus on—that, at least, never changed.

Seated at the kitchen counter, she read through the files. Despite the fact that the Brown case was neither the biggest nor the most glamorous case she had ever handled, she’d already bumped it up to the top of her priority list. First of all, a man had been brutally beaten to death. Not much got the prosecutorial juices flowing more than that. Second, the case was clearly important to the U.S. attorney. And if the case was important to Cameron, there was no way that Rylann, the “new girl,” was going to screw it up.

Which meant that she and Kyle Rhodes had some unfinished business to tend to.

ON MONDAY MORNING, Rylann strode into the office charged and ready to take on a certain billionaire heir ex-con.

As soon as she’d settled in at her desk, she looked up the phone number for the law firm representing Kyle. Technically, she was permitted to contact him directly, since the matter she wanted to speak to him about wasn’t one for which he had obtained counsel or was under investigation. Nevertheless, she thought it prudent to reach out to his attorneys first as a courtesy.

A courtesy that, unfortunately, was not returned.

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told the FBI, Ms. Pierce. You’re out of your goddamn mind if you think I’m letting you talk to my client,” was the blistering reply from Mark Whitehead, Kyle’s lead defense attorney. “Not after the way your office railroaded him five months ago.”

“This has nothing to do with Mr. Rhodes’s case,” Rylann said in her best let’s-be-friends voice. “I’d like to speak to him about an ongoing investigation pertaining to an incident that occurred two weeks ago at Metropolitan Correctional Center. While I’d prefer not to get into specifics over the phone, I can assure you that your client isn’t under suspicion for any criminal activity in this matter.”

Mark scoffed at that. “My client wasn’t even at MCC two weeks ago. He’d been released prior to that.”

“Even more reason for you to trust me when I say he isn’t under suspicion.”

“It’s still a no. If you want to talk to Kyle Rhodes, go get a subpoena,” Mark said.

“With all due respect, we both know that I don’t need your permission. I’ll contact Mr. Rhodes directly if I have to,” Rylann said.

Mark laughed. “Good luck with that. I’m sure the Twitter Terrorist has several things he’d love to say to the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Although I doubt any of them would be helpful to your investigation.”

“We can do this the easy way, Mark, or I can go to the grand jury and drag him in. And if I have to do that, you don’t get to be there,” Rylann pointed out. It was the best card she could play, the fact that witnesses weren’t permitted to bring counsel into the grand jury room.

“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” Mark sighed. “And I thought Morgan was a pain in the ass. All right, I’ll call Rhodes. But I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you.”

Rylann hung up the phone, satisfied to have made at least some progress. She wasn’t sure what Kyle’s response would be given his history with her office, although she’d fully prepared herself for something along the lines of Kiss my felonious ass, counselor.

She smiled to herself at the thought. Let him try to ignore her. She could be quite persistent when she wanted to be.

A few minutes later, Rylann heard a knock at her door and saw a tall, very attractive man with brown hair standing in her doorway—a man she recognized from the press coverage of the Twitter Terrorist case.

The elusive Cade Morgan had finally made his appearance.

“I think I owe you a cup of coffee,” he said with a grin.

Rylann gestured to a Starbucks cup already sitting on her desk. “You’re off the hook. I’m fully caffeinated.”

He walked over to shake her hand. “Cade Morgan. I hear you covered my case on Tuesday.”

“No problem. I was happy to help.”

“Sorry I didn’t drop by earlier to introduce myself,” he said. “I was on trial all last week. Just got my jury verdict.”

“How did it go?”

“Convicted on all five counts.”

“That explains the victorious glow. Congratulations.”

“Thanks. I heard you picked up an interesting homicide case yourself,” Cade said. “Since I handled the Twitter Terrorist case, Cameron thought I should know that Kyle Rhodes might be one of your witnesses.” He leaned back against the bookshelf, looking casually self-assured in his navy pin-striped suit. “I don’t know if Cameron warned you, but I wouldn’t expect much cooperation from Rhodes. I probably burned that bridge by calling him a terrorist.”

Personally, Rylann had always thought that was extreme. But since she generally tried to avoid judging how other AUSAs handled their cases, she went with a more diplomatic answer. “You were obviously very passionate about that case.”

“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.