Julie James - About That Night

Cameron laughed. “Good for you.” She stopped in front of a midsized office. “Here we are.”

The bronze nameplate outside the door said it all:

RYLANN PIERCE

assistant u.s. attorney

Rylann stepped inside. It wasn’t a glamorous office, with dark blue carpeting and fairly inexpensive furniture, but as a senior AUSA, she at least had a view of the Hancock building and Lake Michigan.

“Everything should be virtually the same as your old office,” Cameron said. “Luckily, we don’t have to waste time training you on the phones and computer, since you’re familiar with those already. Oh, one thing I wanted to be sure of: you’re on active status with the Illinois bar, correct?”

Rylann nodded. “Yes. I’m good to go.” She had taken the Illinois bar exam the summer after graduating from law school and had gone back on active status as soon as she’d learned she’d gotten the job in Chicago.

“Perfect. With that said…” Cameron handed the stack of files over to Rylann. “Welcome to Chicago.” She cocked her head. “Am I going too fast?”

“Not at all,” Rylann assured her. “Just point me in the direction of the courtrooms, tell me where the nearest Starbucks is, and I’ll be all set.”

Cameron grinned. “The Starbucks is right across the street—follow the herd of people sneaking out of the office at three o’clock every afternoon and you’ll find it. The courtrooms are on the twelfth through eighteenth floors.” She gestured to the stack of files Rylann held. “Why don’t you take the morning to review the case files? Feel free to swing by my office this afternoon with any questions you might have.”

“That sounds great, Cameron. Thank you.”

“You’re actually the first AUSA I’ve hired since taking over. How am I doing so far with the welcome speech?”

“Not bad. The part where you softened me up by asking about the meth lab story was a nice touch.”

With a laugh, Cameron looked her over approvingly. “I think you’re going to fit in just fine around here, Rylann.” She paused in the doorway before leaving. “I almost forgot. You should probably check out the top file first—there’s a motion call tomorrow morning. The AUSA who’d originally handled the case had a trial unexpectedly rescheduled for this week, so I needed somebody in special prosecutions to cover for him. It’s an agreed motion, so I don’t expect you’ll have any trouble. There’ll be reporters, but just go with the usual response—that we’re satisfied with the resolution of the matter, have no further comment, that kind of thing. You’ve been doing this for a while now, so you know the drill.”

The prosecutor in Rylann was instantly intrigued. “Reporters for an agreed motion? What kind of case is it?” Curious, she opened the file folder on top of the stack and read the caption.

United States v. Kyle Rhodes

Thank God her six years as a trial lawyer had given her one damn good poker face; otherwise, her jaw would’ve hit the floor right then.

You’ve got to be shitting me.

Just seeing the name brought forth a sudden rush of memories. The amazing blue eyes and sexy smile. The lean, muscular, made-for-sin body. His mouth covering hers as she pressed closer to him in the moonlight.

Probably not the best time to let her new boss know that she’d kissed the defendant in her first case.

“The Twitter Terrorist case,” Rylann said casually. Sure, she may have been taken aback by this unexpected turn of events, but no one else would ever know that. Once upon a time, Kyle Rhodes had made her heart skip a beat with just a kiss, but that had been nearly a decade ago. Now she was Meth Lab Rylann—and on the job, she never let anyone see her flustered.

“I figured that would be a fun one to give the new girl.” Cameron paused on her way out the door. “Feel free to stop by my office anytime. My door is always open.”

After she left, Rylann peered down at the mug shot of Kyle that was paper-clipped to the top of the file. Not surprisingly, he looked serious and chagrined in the photograph, a far cry from the devil-may-care charmer who’d once walked her home on a warm May night in Champaign.

She wondered if he would even remember her.

Not that this mattered much, obviously. She had no doubt that Kyle Rhodes had kissed many a woman in the last nine years—and done a helluva lot more than that—so she considered it quite probable that he wouldn’t so much as blink when she walked into the courtroom tomorrow. Which was just fine with her. After all, what she remembered about that night was that her first impression of him hadn’t been all that favorable.

And if her second and third impressions had been any different…well, she would forever plead the Fifth on that one. Because a serious federal prosecutor like herself did not get all hot-and-bothered over the criminal defendants she faced off against in court.

Not even a criminal defendant who’d once said he would drive two hours to take her out for chicken wings.

Luckily, that was ancient history. Yes, the circumstances of their “reunion” were ironic, perhaps even laughable, but at the end of the day she would treat Kyle Rhodes no different from the many other felons she’d encountered during her career as an assistant U.S. attorney. She was a professional, after all.

And tomorrow, she would prove just that.

“KYLE! KYLE! WHAT are your plans for the future now that you’re a convicted hacker?”

“Have you spoken to Daniela since your arrest?”

Seated at the defense table in the front of the courtroom, Kyle ignored the questions and the flashes of the cameras behind him. They would get bored with him eventually, he told himself. In less than an hour, he would have his freedom, and then this would all be over.

“Do you plan to make Facebook your next target?” another reporter screamed out.

“Would you like to make a statement before the judge comes in?” someone else yelled.

“Sure, here’s a statement,” Kyle growled under his breath, “let’s get this show on the road so I don’t have to listen to anymore dumbass questions.”

Sitting next to him, one of his lawyers—inexplicably, there were five of them today—leaned over and spoke in a hushed tone. “Maybe we should handle all inquiries from the press.”

The courtroom door suddenly opened, and cameras began flashing wildly. A low murmur spread through the crowd, and Kyle knew it could mean only one thing: either his sister or his father had walked in.

He looked over his shoulder and saw Jordan walking up the aisle in her oversized sunglasses and cashmere coat. She wore her blond hair—which was several shades lighter than his—pulled back in some sort of knot or bun thing and coolly ignored the reporters as she took a seat in the front row of the gallery, directly behind Kyle.

Kyle turned around to face her and blinked at the multitude of flashes that instantly exploded in his eyes. “I told you not to take off work for this,” he grumbled.

“And miss your big finale? No way.” Jordan grinned. “I’m all atwitter to see how things turn out.”

Ha, ha. Kyle opened his mouth to retort—five months ago he’d given his sister free license to make jokes and, boy, had she ever run with that—when she took off her sunglasses, revealing a big, ugly yellow bruise on her cheek.

Aw…hell.

No way could he say anything sarcastic now. Kyle doubted he would ever stop feeling guilty over the fact that his sister had gotten that bruise and a broken wrist—and had nearly been killed—while working with the FBI as part of a deal to get him out of prison.

His fingers curled instinctively into a fist, thinking it was a good thing that the dickhead who’d caused those injuries was behind bars. Because a bruised cheek and a broken wrist would be the least of Xander Eckhart’s problems if Kyle ever got five minutes alone with the guy. Yes, Jordan was a pain in the ass, but still. Kyle had clearly set the rules back in sixth grade, when he’d given Robbie Wilmer a black eye for de-pantsing Jordan on the playground in front of the whole school.

No one messed with his sister.

So he humored Jordan’s Twitter joke with a smile. “That’s cute, Jordo.” Then he frowned as a dark-haired, well-built man wearing a standard-issue government suit walked into the courtroom.

“You invited Tall, Dark, and Sarcastic?” Kyle asked Jordan as Special Agent Nick McCall approached them. Despite the fact that his sister was now practically living with the guy, he and Nick were still circling each other warily. Since Kyle had been in prison the entire time Jordan and the FBI agent had been dating, he hadn’t been around to see their relationship develop. All he knew was that Nick McCall was suddenly there, in their lives, and Kyle was therefore being a little…cautious before welcoming him into the family.

“Be nice, Kyle,” Jordan warned.

“What?” he asked innocently. “When have I ever not been nice to Tall, Dark, and You Can’t Be Serious About This Guy?”

“I like him. Get used to it.”

“He’s FBI. The guys who arrested me, remember? Where’s your sense of family loyalty?”

She pretended to think. “Remind me again—why was it that they arrested you? Oh, right. Because you broke about eighteen federal laws.”

“Six federal laws. And it was Twitter!” he shot back, perhaps a bit too loudly.

Seeing his five lawyers exchange if-this-guy-implodes-do-we-still-get-our-five-thousand-an-hour looks, Kyle sat back in his chair and adjusted his tie. “I’m just saying that we could all use a bit of perspective here.”

“Hey, Sawyer—I’d recommend not using the ‘It was Twitter’ argument when the judge comes out,” Nick said with a confident grin as he took a seat next to Jordan.

Kyle looked up at the ceiling and counted to ten. “Tell your FBI friend that I don’t answer to that name, Jordo.” In fact, he hated that nickname—one he’d earned in prison because of a resemblance he supposedly bore to a certain character on Lost.

“But the ‘Rhodes’ nickname was already taken,” Nick said. He took Jordan’s hand, the one with the cast, and gently stroked her fingers as their eyes met.

When Kyle saw Jordan smile at the FBI agent—some sort of secret, inside-joke-type smile—he reluctantly had to admit that the two of them appeared very into each other. It was weird to have to watch them being all affectionate—and kind of gross, actually, seeing how she was his sister—but sweet nonetheless.

Just then, another murmur flowed through the crowd, and everyone stopped and stared as business entrepreneur and billionaire Grey Rhodes strolled in wearing a tailored navy suit.

He took a seat on the other side of Jordan. “Hope I didn’t miss anything. I’ve been twittering with excitement all morning.”

Jordan laughed. “Good one, Dad.”

Shaking his head, Kyle turned around in his seat and faced the front of the courtroom. Seriously, there were times when he thought that his family would actually be disappointed when this whole debacle was over. He half-expected to see them pull out popcorn and Cokes while they waited for the That Kyle Sure Is a Funny Asshole show to get started.

Speaking of assholes, Kyle checked his watch and looked over at the empty prosecution table. “Where’s Morgan?” he asked his lawyers, referring to the assistant U.S. attorney who’d called him a terrorist and demanded the maximum sentence. Not that Kyle had expected a mere slap on the wrist for his crimes. But he was no fool—the U.S. Attorney’s Office had sensationalized his case, seizing on the chance to make a name for themselves by dragging his name through the mud. He highly doubted they would’ve demanded the maximum prison sentence if he hadn’t been the son of a billionaire—and his lawyers had said the same exact thing.

“Actually, Morgan’s not coming today,” said Mark Whitehead, the lead defense attorney, in response to Kyle’s question. “He had a conflict with another trial. A new guy filed an appearance yesterday afternoon; I don’t remember his name. Ryan something.”

“So I don’t get to say good-bye to Morgan in person?” Kyle asked. “Aw, that’s a shame. We had such a special connection—it’s not every day a man calls you a ‘cyber-menace to society.’ “

The door to the courtroom slammed open.

Kyle turned around, curious to check out this mope the U.S. Attorney’s Office had rustled up on short notice, and—