Chapter 8
Raphael
My fist slams into the leather and a blunt thud fills the air. A powerful right hook.
The punching bag swerves to the left. By the time the pillar of leather rebounds, I’m ready with the left-right combo. Water pours down my forehead, my damp hair flinging sweat into my eyes. The stinging is barely enough to distract me from the troubling visions spinning in my head.
Eva pinned down beneath me, body throbbing, begging for me. Lips parted, legs spread, cream spilling onto the bed sheets.
I’m not a saint. I’m not on the Vatican’s short-list for canonization. In my line of business, sometimes, you have to do things in order to get ahead. But the one value that I’ve always held fast to is honor. I honor my friends. I value their trust. I respect their families.
I don’t kiss their daughters.
And that wasn’t an innocent kiss. It was a hard, commanding, potent kiss. It was an I’m-going-to-fuck-you-until-your-body-form-grooves-in-my-mattress kiss. So wrong. So inappropriate.
Fuck, Eva…
I just have to keep my distance from her until I get her back to Reyfield safe and sound in the morning. That’s why I’m here at the gym. It’s dangerous for me to be in my penthouse alone with her right now.
The gym at the Silver Metal Brokers building in the Financial District of Manhattan is state-of-the-art. The best treadmills and elliptical trainers money can buy. Every type of strength training equipment on the market. And the most qualified personal trainers, too. Anyway, to me, the greatest thing about this gym is that I’m one of the few people who have 24-hour access to the facilities.
That’s why I grow increasingly irritated when I hear the heavy slap of footsteps against the floor 20 minutes into my workout. I peer over my shoulder and find Chuck Humphries, our senior in-house legal counsel, padding into the room. He has a towel slung over his shoulders and his trademark shit-eating grin swallowing up his face. He’s the image of a cocky lawyer. The brushed-back hair slick from too much product, the over-the-top sports cars that draw the worst kind of attention and that entitled-white-guy vibe that gets under my skin.
“What’s up, Boss?” he shoots in his deep Bostonian accent. His stride slows next to the shoulder press machine and he folds his arms over his chest. His enormous biceps bulge, straining the seams of his extra-snug T-shirt.
I grunt in response without looking at him. I just keep punching that damn bag as if it’ll solve all of my problems.
“We’re friends, aren’t we?” He shrugs, giving me a smarmy one-sided grin. “Don’t shut me out. If you’re here at this time of the day, something is definitely wrong. So tell me – business problems or lady problems?” His teeth are so fucking white. I’m not a dental health professional but all that bleach must be bad for the enamels.
The bag swings away on impact with my angry fist. My eyes cut back to him. Slimy as fuck. We’re definitely not friends. And he’s not exactly the type of guy I’d spit out all my deepest emotions to but he is a lawyer – my lawyer, technically – which means that he’s got to keep his mouth shut. Attorney-client privilege, right?
“It’s some sick combination of both,” I mumble under my breath as he sinks onto the shoulder press bench and makes the necessary adjustments to the machine.
“Come on,” he prods, “Spill.”
I shoot him a look. “Y’know – you enjoy girl talk a little too much for a guy.”
He throws his head back and spits out a gleeful roar. “Are you questioning my manhood, Boss? Because if you saw the fine little chica I brought home with me from the bar last night, you’d be singing a whole different tune.”
Am I questioning his manhood? Not at all. I’m sure that the guy’s gay. Spends way too much time, effort and money overcompensating, like he’s trying to prove something. It’s ruining his finances. I know – I ran a credit check on him last month. I just wish he’d get out of the damn closet and put the tortured women of Manhattan out of their misery. I had to fire two of the admin assistants a few weeks ago for getting into a catfight over him.
“Anyway, if it’s even tangentially related to the business, then as legal counsel, it’s my job to stick my nose into it.” He smirks. The heavy clunk of metal hitting metal fills the room as he operates the weight machine with ease.
He’s right. As much as I hate to admit it, I do need to get some of this off of my chest before my ribcage explodes from the stress. So I start at the top, explaining that I went to an auction to meet with a potential client. I detail my horror at seeing my best friend’s daughter standing on the auction block. I leave out the part about how my entire body grew hot with lust, seeing her in that insanely tiny outfit and instead, jump to the piece where I paid a million dollars to get her out of that mess.
Humphries stares at me with arched brows and bulging eyes. “Holy shit,” he mutters low on his breath as he abandons his weight training, giving me all of his attention.
I’d expected a much more intelligent response from him. Didn’t he go to Harvard or something? “Not helpful, Humphries,” I grouse, shaking my head.
He holds a hand out defensively in front of him and speaks quickly. “Look – as counsel for the company, I’ve gotta keep my distance from this one, Boss. We can’t have this conversation. Let’s just pretend we never had this talk, okay?”
I narrow my eyes at him, irritated. Two minutes ago, he made the perfect argument for why I should bare my soul to him and now he’s backpedaling. Fucking lawyers!
“Human trafficking is a felony, my friend. You need your own personal attorney for that. Don’t go dragging the business into the middle of it.”
Scrubbing my hand down my sweaty face, I realize that he’s right. “Shit…”
“And you’d better get a lawyer who’s good, but low profile,” he advises, “You don’t want this getting into the press.”
Tension crawls into my muscles as the magnitude of the incoming shit storm starts to become clear. “Got any recommendations?” I ask.
He scratches the side of his head and I can see the wheels turning. “You’re from Reyfield, right? Reyfield, Illinois?” He pulls his phone out of the pocket of his sweat pants.
I nod. “Yeah.”
He taps away at the screen. “Okay. I just sent you the coordinates of one of the best lawyers in that state. Daniel Trotten, he’s called. He’s licensed to practice in New York, too. Smart as a whip. Far more discreet than any big name Manhattan lawyer.”
I check my phone to make sure I’ve received his text message. Daniel Trotten… I’ve heard that name before. He’s a partner at the firm where Eva’s brother, Prescott, works. If he’s the best, then I definitely want him on the job. I’ll just have to take extra precautions to make sure that Prescott doesn’t get wind of this whole situation.
This shit is getting even more complicated by the second but despite the risks, I don’t regret what I did. It drives me crazy to think of what would have happened to Eva if I didn’t step in the way I did.
I push another sigh as I grab my towel from the bench next to me and wipe off my face. I’m headed for the door. “Thanks, man,” I call out to Humphries as I march toward the exit. He may have just saved my hide. As much as I can’t stand the guy, I know that he’s an asset to my business. That’s why I keep him on the payroll.
He calls out after me. “Good luck, Boss. Trust me, if anyone finds out about this, you’re gonna need it.”