Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109769 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109769 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
“Is that so?”
I stood a little straighter. “I’m not going to let it turn into a media circus. There’s too much on the line.”
There was no way Amanda Gispen truly thought she had a case. She was obviously after Dad’s money. We were going to send her away with a hefty check and ironclad NDA and pretend it had never happened. It wasn’t Dad’s fault he’d hired someone who’d chosen to go this route when he’d fired her. Now it was all about minimizing the publicity this case was going to get. Luckily, Gispen’s lawyer, this Christian Miller guy, hadn’t brought any attention to the lawsuit. Yet. A calculated move on his part, no doubt.
“I’m sorry.” His smile turned from pleasant to downright chilling. This was when I realized his teeth were pointy. That the bottom front two were overlapping. A small imperfection that highlighted his otherwise-ravishing features. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”
“Arya Roth.” I turned to him, the pressure against my sternum becoming more prominent. My body tingled with danger. “And you?”
“Christian Miller.” He took my hand in his, giving it a confident squeeze. “Lovely to make acquaintances with you, Ms. Roth.”
My breath was knocked out of my lungs. I recognized a disaster when I saw one, and looking at Christian’s shrewd smirk, I knew for a fact I’d been played. Only one of us was surprised by the revelation of our identities, and that someone was me. He’d already had the upper hand when he’d walked into the reception area ten minutes ago. And I’d foolishly—unbelievably—played into his hands. Shown him my cards.
“The receptionist called you her boss.” Thankfully, my voice was still flat. Unfazed.
“Sandy’s fond of nicknames. Adorable, right?”
“You said you weren’t a partner,” I insisted.
He shrugged, as if to say, What can you do?
“Did you lie?” I pushed.
“Why, that wouldn’t be very sporting. I’m a senior associate.”
“So you’re . . .”
“Ms. Gispen’s attorney, correct,” Christian finished for me, removing his peacoat, his gray five-piece suit on full display.
The doors slid open, as if on cue. Christian motioned for me to get out first, his manners impeccable, his grin insufferable. It was both bizarre and amazing, how he’d turned from the potential father of my hypothetical children to the big, bad wolf in less than sixty seconds.
“Third door on the right, Ms. Roth. I’ll be there in just a minute.”
“Can’t wait.” I smiled sweetly.
I let my legs carry me to my destination, not daring to look back as I gathered my wits. I felt Christian’s smoky gaze the entire time, prickling the back of my neck. Assessing, calculating, scheming.
This man, I knew, was going to take every weakness I’d show him and use it to his advantage.
One–zero to the home team.
“Thank you so much for taking the time to be here, sweetheart. I know how busy your day is, and I’m, well . . . embarrassed.” Dad squeezed my hand as I took my seat next to him. We sat at the oval desk at Cromwell & Traurig’s conference room. The lantern-in-the-sky ceilings, ceremonial staircases, rose-gold-veined Italian marble, and brass penholders told me Amanda Gispen was not playing around. She’d probably sold a few internal organs for the pleasure of being represented by Mr. Miller.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Dad.” I rubbed my thumb across his outer palm. “A couple of hours from now, all of this will be ancient history, and we can go back to our day. I hate that you have to deal with this.”
“It’s a part of the job,” he sighed.
Terrance and Louie, Dad’s lawyers, sat to his right side, already making notes in their legal pads. They talked animatedly between themselves, paying us no attention. When all this had started, they’d explained that a complaint had been filed with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission against my father. Apparently this mediation was part of the EEOC’s conciliation process.
The mediator, a stern, silver-haired woman in a black dress and white Peter Pan collar, was typing away at her laptop, already waiting for the plaintiff and her team.
A petite, attractive woman in a knitted beige dress ambled into the room clutching an iPad and a clipboard, accompanied by a PA who balanced a tray full of beverages. The fashionable blonde introduced herself as Claire Lesavoy, a junior associate. By the way she completely ignored my existence, I gathered Christian had yet to fill her in about my slip of the tongue. I wondered if he filled her with anything else and hated myself that I even cared. He was a jerk. She could have him.
“What’s the holdup?” Terrance, who had the wrinkly face of an armadillo, regarded Claire like she herself was responsible for the delay. “Your client is running thirty-five minutes late.”
“I believe Mr. Miller is ironing out the kinks with Ms. Gispen ahead of the meeting. Shouldn’t take long now.” Claire smiled brilliantly, enjoying Terrance’s obvious impatience. She took a seat in front of us. Upon a closer inspection I decided Christian certainly fraternized with this staff. She was magazine beautiful.