What is it about me that draws the craziest cases and clients? Did I have an invisible tattoo on my forehead that said, Bring it?

A prime example—and I meant prime, as in one hundred percent, hunky male sprinkled with way too much sexy and too much clothes—sat across from me.

“Let me get this straight, you’ve been charged with—” I peered down at the werewolf’s file, not because I couldn’t remember the charges, but because I couldn’t hold his stare while reciting the ridiculous claims. “Digging holes in your neighbor’s yard. Howling after eleven, and peeing on her roses.” I raised my gaze and had it snagged by my client’s chocolate-colored eyes.

I should mention that when I said chocolate, I didn’t mean the cheap stuff you could purchase at the local 7-Eleven stuffed with peanuts and caramel. I was talking about sinful, melt-in-your-mouth, quality mocha that could almost replace an orgasm it tasted so damned good.

Although, given Mr. Cavanaugh’s stellar good looks, rockin’ bod, and general fuckable vibe, I imagined sex with him might prove even more enjoyable than the best chocolate available on the market. Not that I intended to find out in person. Good lawyers didn’t screw their clients—until they’d won their case at least and gotten paid. Contrary to popular belief, we did have some morals.

A shame because were I a girl of looser moral fiber I would have totally thrown myself on that desk, and screamed, “Take me.”

Disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, I mentally kicked my mind out of the gutter. “Are any of these claims true?”

“Yup,” he replied in a rough voice that tickled over every single one of my nerve endings, plus a few I didn’t realize I owned.

Damn, I so needed to get laid if just a masculine rumble could get my panties wet. Mental note to self—hit the store for some C batteries on my way home.

B.O.B. and I were going on a date tonight.

Even though much of my blood had flooded my girl regions, I frowned at my client’s single syllable reply. “Yes to which charge?”

“All of them.”

Like I’d said, the office always seemed to give me the craziest cases. Then again, I enjoyed the challenge. It kept me from getting bored with mundane petty theft crimes.

I leaned back in my creaky chair—creaky because it was old and not because I needed to hit the gym more. Okay, so maybe I did need to hit the gym more, I didn’t need the furniture taunting me about it.

Keep it up and I will replace you with a new ergomatic model.

I fixed Mr. Cavanaugh with a stare while tapping my ballpoint pen on my scarred metal desk—a government-issue relic from the eighties back before melamine took over the office world. “Are you admitting, Mr. Cavanaugh—”

“Call me Pete.”

Call me yours. Ahem. “That you did all the things you’re charged with?”

“Yes, I did.” A smug smile creased his face and his sex appeal went up another notch, as did my state of arousal. I shifted in my seat, crossing my legs under the desk. “I also peed on her petunias, but I see she’s not complaining about that, probably on account they’ve never looked healthier.”

With a claim like that, I dared anyone not to imagine a grown man whipping his penis out and using it as a hose. Oddly enough, it didn’t detract from his overall sexiness.

“And you want to fight these charges instead of pleading guilty to a misdemeanor and paying the fine?”

“I do.”

I could see the court docket headline now, the state versus Mr. Cavanaugh in the case of Indecent Werewolf Exposure. I really should write a book about my experiences.

Or for once maybe I could have a normal day, one that didn’t involve dealing a guy who turned hairy on the full moon.

Twirling my pen, I tilted my gaze up to my perforated, suspended-tile ceiling and counted to ten. One–Why the fuck did I become a lawyer? Two—Who did I piss off in a previous life to get stuck with this crap? Three—Where is a strong cup of coffee when I need one? Four—Why can’t I stop wondering if he did those things while man or wolf?

He broke my moment of silence at Seven—I think I’ll have Chinese for lunch—with a clearing of his throat. “Is there a problem?”

My annoyed glance snapped back in his direction. “You’re wasting my time.”

“How?”

“You’re guilty.”

“Yes. But she doesn’t know that for sure. No cameras.” He smiled. “She is assuming it’s me.”

“Because it is you.”

“She has no proof.”

“You just admitted it.” I couldn’t help the exasperation in my tone.

“Ah, but isn’t our conversation protected by that client/lawyer privilege thing we hear about all the time on TV?”

“Yes. Nothing you say while with me can be used against you,” I replied through gritted teeth.

Damn television. People with a little bit of knowledge were so much more irritating to deal with. Ah, for the days of ignorance when clients just did as their lawyers told them to. While on a nostalgic track, why not rewind further to a time when hunky men didn’t pee on flowers and require flea collars.

Ever since werewolves came out of the doghouse, the world hadn’t been the same—and the stock prices on companies offering shotguns and silver multiplied overnight.

He leaned forward in his seat, his earnest puppy brown eyes capturing mine. “As far as the world is concerned, I’m innocent unless she can prove me guilty. Isn’t it your job to make sure that doesn’t happen?” He grinned at me, an engaging tilt of his lips that tugged at my inner mischievous child.

I sent it to sit in the corner and scowled. “Mr. Cavanaugh—”

“Pete.”

“I’m all for defending the innocent, but your neighbor’s complaints are valid. To go to court is a waste of my time and yours, not to mention taxpayer money.” Of which I paid too much on a meager salary as far as I was concerned. “Do us all a favor and do the right thing. Plead guilty. Pay the fine. Then buy some candy and flowers, put on your nicest shirt, go over to her place, smile, and apologize.” I almost told him to put his dick to better use than fertilizer where his neighbor was concerned but held my tongue. He didn’t need sexual harassment charges tacked on to his current case file. “Promise her you’ll never do it again and, from here on out, keep your peeing to your side of the property line and refrain from howling after hours.”

For those that wondered, I actually managed to say that all with a straight face. Get a few drinks into me later, though, and I’d probably wet my pants retelling it. Client confidentiality only went so far. The actual incident report was public knowledge, and given the giggles I’d get out of it, it had already made the top of my “Stupid-Shit-Of-The-Week” list to be shared with my closest, drunkest friends.

My advice didn’t receive a warm reception. The smile on his lips disappeared, and damn it all if he didn’t pout, which should have made him appear less desirable. Lower lip jutting, eyes flashing darkly, totally disgruntled, the perfect picture of a man not getting his way. So why did I want to gnaw on his mouth until his unrepentant grin reappeared?

“Apologize? Never. She’s a witch.”

Imagining myself straddling him as I licked my way down his neck to a surely superb set of pecs, it took me a moment to register his words. I must have misunderstood. Surely he’d said bitch, not witch. “Name calling won’t help.”

“Just saying it like it is. The woman is a witch.”

Forget cleaning my ears. I’d heard him right the first time. “A witch? As in a cackling, cauldron bubbling, incantation-reciting witch?”

He nodded. “With a cat. I hate cats. Especially this one.” An honest-to-goodness growl rumbled from him.

A shiver went down my spine—and tickled my pussy. Stupid hot werewolf. “And what has her cat done to earn your ire other than the fact it’s feline?”

“Damned thing keeps sitting in my window scaring my lovebirds.”

Once again, he said something completely oddball, ruining my fantasy of the ways I could make him growl…in pleasure. “You have lovebirds?” I sounded like a parrot.

“I do. Why are you looking at me so strangely?”

Could I help it if this conversation was making me cross-eyed? “You’re a werewolf.” Or so his license claimed. Ever since the Great Coming Out in early two thousand, anyone with a canine—or other—pedigree was forced to have themselves registered, or they couldn’t claim the newly instituted tax breaks. Apparently, the werewolf population believed flea remedies, vaccinations for ticks, and other usual canine supplies should count as medical deductions. Registering also meant they could seek protections under rapidly developed, and still evolving, laws.

“We prefer the term Lycan. And what does me sprouting fur and howling at the moon have to do with my choice in pets?”

“Werewolves don’t own lovebirds.” I don’t know why I believed that, but I did. Surely it was printed somewhere in the werewolf handbook of rules they all followed—available at all good bookstores for the low price of only $9.99. Thou shalt not own cute, tiny avian creatures. Or fluster human lawyers who finished top of their class and took a job as a public defender for the government. Little did I know, my choice would involve too many cases of alcoholic misdemeanors and hot tempers to trump common sense. So much for defending the innocent against evil.

“Listen, honey, whoever is giving you info on my kind needs to get their facts updated. I’d be more than happy to meet with you and give you a rundown on what Lycans are really about. We love animals. Except for cats. Stupid things think they’re so high and mighty.” Again, he rumbled, and for a moment, I couldn’t help imagining the vibration on a certain body part. Oh yum. “As for my lovebirds, I’ve owned Rocky and Periwinkle since before that old witch moved in and I do not appreciate her cat coming over and terrifying them.”

Yanking my mind from the gutter, I tried to focus on the conversation. “So you’ve been intentionally antagonizing your neighbor because her feline is sitting in your window staring at your birds?”

“In a nutshell, yes.”

Insane? Definitely. Still hot? Sadly, yes. “But the cat hasn’t actually done anything to them.”

“No, however, you can see the evil intent in its eyes.” He said it with a straight face.

My forehead hit the desk as I moaned, “Why me? Why?” Why did I always end up with the freaks? An office full of legal aides, government paid for and supposedly on a rotation, yet I ended up with more than my fair share of the whack jobs. And, even more cruel, why did he have to be so bloody hot?

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

“Of course it is,” I grumbled. “Actually, on second thought, no it isn’t. Why do I keep getting these cases? Why can’t I ever get a nice normal break-and-enter charge? Or an attempted murder?”

“Would it help if I told you it was because you’re good?”

I lifted my head enough to peek at him through the hair that flopped over my eyes. “Says who?”

He shrugged, which meant one massive shoulder lifted, a fascinating motion that sent a ripple effect across his whole impressive upper torso. “Says everyone who’s ever dealt with you. Apparently, you’re not only good at what you do, but you’re fair. And you treat Lycans with respect.”

“Because you’re people too.” According to the Supreme Court Judgment of Simpson Versus Fido.

“Not everyone acts like we are. Do you know how many times I’ve had to punch some idiot out because he tossed something and told me to fetch?”

“Violence isn’t the answer.”

“In some cases, it’s the only way to make people truly listen. Or at least mind their manners.”

“You can’t hit your neighbor.”

“I wasn’t planning to, but I’m also not paying a fine when she started this little vendetta. Listen, I know this isn’t the most glory-filled of cases, but I am not letting the witch win. I need your help.”

“Help to what? You’ve admitted you’re guilty and no judge in the country is going to care if the supposed witch next door has a cat that likes to sit in your window scaring your little birdies.”

“So what do you suggest I do? And forget apologizing. It’s not fucking happening.”

“I already told you what to do. If the cat is really bothering you, then get a dog.” Too late I realized how ludicrous that sounded. But then again, so was this entire meeting.

I expected some kind of outburst. Indignation at the very least. Instead, I got booming laughter.

Mr. Cavanaugh shuddered with it. Apparently, he was the type of man who, when amused, let his whole body in on the fun because his massive frame shook with energetic chuckles. Despite myself, my lips twitched into a smile.

“I like you, Ms. Bailey. I can see why you’re so popular. You aren’t afraid to tell it like it is. I appreciate that in a woman.”

“If you appreciate me so much, then do what I’m saying. Don’t drag this out.”

He slapped his knee. “You know what. I’ll pay the darned fine and leave the sorceress alone because I like you. But I draw the line at getting a dog.”

“I thought you loved pets.”

“I do, but dogs shed, and I hate vacuuming.” He spilled out of his seat, signaling the end to our meeting.

“You know, you could inform animal control about the stray cat roaming your neighborhood,” I offered.

Rising from my chair, I was reminded, even in my heels, of Mr. Cavanaugh’s impressive stature. There weren’t many men who towered over me. At six feet, plus another two inches in heels, I never slouched or downplayed my size. In spite of my height, I still had to tilt my head to meet his gaze. He thrust out his hand and enveloped mine in his large grip. I couldn’t see his feet, but if they matched the rest of him…

The roughness of his fingers grated pleasantly along my skin as he shook my hand. Tingles shot through me and let me know, in no uncertain terms, that I’d gone too long without taking care of my needs. Way too long, apparently, if I gauged it by the dampness of my crotch. I’d better stock up on batteries before going home because I don’t think a cold shower is going to cut it.

I only hoped the rumors of werewolves’ super ability to smell were exaggerated. I’d hate to think he could tell with a sniff how attractive I found him. Judging by the sensual grin and stroke of his thumb across my palm, though, I feared I might have just discovered the answer.

Slowly, he released my hand, a sensual glide that brought a vivid image to mind of how that same hand would feel stroking across my body. I tucked my over-imaginative appendage behind my back before it decided to place Mr. Cavanaugh’s hand in a more interesting spot to test my hypothesis.

“Now that you’ve solved my case, I don’t suppose we could meet for dinner?”

Having fielded this question numerous times, my answer emerged by rote. “I don’t date clients.”

“Are you sure? What if I promise to behave from now on?”

The noticeable bulge in his pants and the naughty gleam in his eyes stated in pretty vivid detail the unlikelihood of that happening. At least the attraction went two ways. What a shame about his mental state. Not only did I not date clients, I also tried to stay away from whack jobs.

What grown man actually thought he lived beside a sorceress? Scientists had disproved many times over the existence of magic. The only witches around were posers, women who mixed up herbs and vile concoctions claiming they were magical. There weren’t any real laws against it, unless they accidentally poisoned someone.

Not that Mr. Cavanaugh seemed to care that his neighbor practiced witchcraft; his issue centered more on her roaming cat. Why did it not surprise me that wolves didn’t like cute little kitties?

I terminated the meeting. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Cavanaugh.”

“Liar. I can see it wasn’t, but I’m sure glad I met you,” he drawled, adding in a naughty wink. “We’ll be seeing each other again real soon, Ms. Bailey.”

“Why? Are you intending to get in more trouble?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact I am.”

Somehow, I didn’t think he meant the legal kind. And, horny as I currently found myself, I kind of looked forward to it.