Sexy Lies and Rock & Roll

  He wears his brown hair in a shaggy mess on top. From across the large expanse of The Pit, I can see he sports his trademark five o'clock shadow. And he totally rocks the musician look with faded jeans, a pair of black Chucks, and a ratty t-shirt. He has what looks to be several braided leather bands around one wrist, and a large, silver-looking ring on the middle finger of his other hand.

  Evan's looking at Midge as she says something to him, so I can't see his eyes, but I can imagine them. I looked at them long and hard that day many weeks ago, the hazel so damn mesmerizing against the fringe of dark lashes.

  I glance around the room. Every single female from lowly secretary right on up to even the senior associate attorney who is happily married and has three children is ogling Evan as he stands there and talks to Midge. I might be doing the same.

  And then... almost as if in slow motion, Midge turns slightly and levels her gaze right at me. She raises an elegant arm and points an even more elegant finger across The Pit straight at me.

  Evan turns, following her direction, and his gaze locks tight with mine.

  I hear a collective gasp from the women sitting around me, and my face flushes hot.

  With an almost feral smile leveled straight at me, Evan says something to Midge without even looking at her, and she chuckles in response.

  Then he starts walking my way.

  No... stalking my way.

  A nervous, energetic vibe seems to sweep through The Pit. As Evan winds his way through the desks--each woman he passes leaning in her chair a bit to get a good look at his backside--he never once lets his gaze drop from mine.

  My pulse starts an erratic flutter as he gets closer. When he stops on the other side of my desk, those hazel eyes pinning me in place, I actually get a little dizzy.

  "I need to talk to you," he says, and God... his voice sounds even better than I remember it.

  I glance nervously to my right and see Krystal with her mouth hanging wide open, her tongue in danger of falling out. Pushing my hair behind my ear in a nervous gesture, I take in a ragged breath before I ask, "About what?"

  "It's private," he says softly. "Can we go into one of the conference rooms or something?"

  "Um, sure," I say as I stand from my chair, thankful to have broken eye contact with him. I lead him through The Pit to the closest empty conference room, noting that the chatter starts back up. Even though I can't distinguish any particular conversation, I can tell by the excited hum to it that everyone's talking about Evan and me.

  I enter the conference room and stand by the door, closing it once Evan comes in. I glance out at The Pit through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls, and note almost every face staring back at us. My nerves start going into overdrive to be the subject of so much attention, and my hand slaps at the button on the wall beside the light switch. This immediately fills the double-paned glass with a dark gray smoke, completely obscuring us from everyone's view.

  Turning, I find Evan watching me like a hawk, those hazel eyes swirling with greens, and golds, and browns, and...

  Shaking my head, I nod toward a chair and mumble, "Have a seat."

  I take the chair at the very end of the table closest to the door, and Evan takes the one to my left. I sit straight as an arrow, my fingers nervously clutched together and my knees pressed tight to one another so they don't start shaking. Evan, on the other hand, pushes the rolling chair slightly away from the table and slouches down in a relaxed pose with one foot resting on the opposite knee.

  And he just stares at me without saying a word.

  He stares for a very awkward moment, before his gaze slides down to my legs locked tight, and his lips curve upward in a slight smirk.

  Compelled to fill the silence and get his eyes back up where they belong, I ask in a slightly perky voice that doesn't belong to me and is a desperate attempt to hide my nerves, "So what do you want to talk about?"

  His lips curve higher as his eyes come to mine, and I'm pretty sure he's amused by my overt attempt to mask my anxiety. "I wanted to thank you again for your help."

  I give a wave of my hand in dismissal. "That was just my job."

  And let's face it... I didn't do much.

  I walked out of the police station with Evan Scott and while our investigator was easily able to locate the redhead he was with but didn't know her name--a thought that is quite distasteful to me--this information was ultimately not even needed as they'd made an arrest in the case already. From what I've read, it looks like a drug deal gone bad.

  "I want to hire you," he says and my body actually jumps in surprise.

  "Excuse me?"

  "I want to hire you," he repeats simply.

  "For what?" I ask, still astonished to the point I don't think I'm following along as well as I should.

  "For a variety of reasons," he says casually and with a careless shrug. "Midge agrees you'd be perfect for the job."

  I honestly can offer no intelligent response, so I just stare at him with my mouth hanging open.

  He finds this humorous, and I know this because he chuckles. Then he sits up in his chair, rolls it a little closer to the table and leans in toward me. "So will you, Emma? Work for me?"

  I give a swift shake of my head back and forth a few times, not as a negative response, but to clear the mud my brain seems to be mired in. "I'm sorry... but I don't understand. What could I possibly do for you?"

  Another chuckle, which actually sort of annoys me because he's enjoying my discomfort, before he says, "There's a few things going on. My former bandmates are suing me over the rights and royalties to some of my songs."

  Geez Louise... I don't know anything about copyright infringement law--

  "And on top of that, I've got three major deal offers from record labels, and I need help navigating through the contracts to make sure I'm protected, if I decide to accept one of them."

  "Evan," I say firmly. "I can't handle all of that."

  "And that's not really all," he barrels forward. "I need a publicist... someone who can fend off all the media questions regarding all of these legal issues as we battle them out, particularly because, while there's been an arrest in Keith's death, he would have been involved in the suit for my song rights. That's going to be brought up. I don't have time for it, and frankly, I'm afraid of saying the wrong thing. I don't want to jeopardize my ability to fight that lawsuit."

  "Evan," I say even more firmly, and then I pause to make sure he doesn't throw anything else at me. "I'm not qualified to handle all of that."

  "Midge says you are," he counters.

  "She's wrong," I say with steel in my voice. "Not only can I not do it, but even if I could, I'm not interested. It's not the type of law I want to practice."

  "That would be contract law," Evan says with a knowing look. "Right?"

  My jaw drops wide open again. "How did you know that?"

  He runs his gaze over my outfit and then cocks an eyebrow at me. "Come on, Emma. You positively scream isolationist. I'm guessing you're most at home in a cavernous library, flipping through musty books. It's not that difficult to figure out, and that's one of the reasons you'd be great at helping me navigate those record label deals."

  "Try again," I say with narrowed eyes and a sneaking suspicion starting to sink in. "How do you know I want to do that type of law?"

  He smirks this time, and without any apology in his voice, he says, "Midge knows you've applied to several firms around this area for a position where you can keep your nose buried in a book."

  An equal mixture of anger and embarrassment fills me. Anger that Midge knows of my job search, which means she must have been reading my emails somehow, and embarrassment that she's busted me looking for another job on the sly.

  "And before you even think that Midge is snooping in your business, let me tell you that a few of the firms contacted her when they received your resume," Evan adds on with a knowing grin. "They were surprised someone from the great Knight & Payne would be making a break a
nd they wanted to know why."

  "Son of a bitch," I mutter under my breath. Am I going to be stuck at this job forever with no way out?

  Then an equally disturbing thought crosses my mind. "Darn it all to hell," I mutter again. "She's probably going to fire me since I've been looking for another job."

  "I don't think so," Evan supplies, but I ignore him, my mind now working overtime.

  "It's just as well," I say more to myself for reassurance as I look down at the glossy cherry table. "I wasn't cut out for this and wasn't happy here anyway."

  "She's not going to fire you," Evan says, but I ignore this too.

  Instead, I raise my gaze back up to his and say, "Unless there's anything else you want to talk about, I should get back to my desk. Well, assuming I have a desk when I walk out of here."

  "Emma," Evan says sharply to get my attention. "She's not going to fire you, and in fact, has approved you to work just on my stuff."

  I blink at Evan and shake my head again, because surely he can't still be harping on wanting to hire me.

  "I'm not qualified," I snap back at him, still feeling completely out of sorts by all of this. "So in case I'm not making myself clear, I'm not interested."

  "And if Midge insists?" he asks me slyly.

  A wave of furious heat washes through me, and I grit my teeth. "You're seriously going to pull the aunt card on me... just to get what you want?"

  His answering smile is mischievous and knowing. "I might have something else to offer you."

  "Like what?" I ask suspiciously, and then want to kick myself in the butt for even asking.

  "A job at one of the firm's you've applied to," he says straightforwardly.

  I jerk in surprise. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean," he says slowly and as if he's talking to a third grader, "you work for me on these issues and help me get past them. Then Midge pulls strings and gets you your dream job."

  My mind whirls with the possibilities.

  I could get out of here?

  I could work somewhere that gives me fulfillment and makes me feel like a productive member of the legal community. I could achieve my dreams.

  I'm on the verge of jumping on his offer when something inside of me causes me to ask, "Wait a minute... why do you want me to work for you so badly? I passed the bar exam less than a year ago. I've told you I'm not qualified."

  "Midge seems to think you are," Evan says dismissively. "Not to mention you have all the available resources here at Knight & Payne, as well as Midge's assurances she can help you if you run into a jam on any of the issues you're unsure about."

  "But--"

  "Think about it, Emma," Evan says softly... almost suggestively. "A few months of work on all my legal issues, some of which involves nice, long, boring contracts with I'm sure a shit pot full of fine-print details, and then a lifetime of working in your dream job."

  Oh, God.

  This could be it. What I've desired ever since I first started law school.

  My eyes bore deep into his and I ask just to make sure, "You promise... I help you out and then I get a new job."

  "Promise," he says clearly and confidently, and I trust that he means it. I also trust Midge has the power to put me where I want to go if I do this for her nephew.

  "Okay," I say quickly before I can change my own mind. "I'll do it."

  Evan gives me a slow smile, and there's something wolfish about it. But I don't let that plague my thoughts too much.

  And it's long after he's gone, promising we would meet soon to go over the legal issues, that I realize he never did tell me why he wanted me for this job.

  In fact, the more I think about it, I think he purposely steered me away from that.

  CHAPTER 5

  Evan

  I pull up to the curb that sits adjacent to Emma's house. I told her we'd get together soon to go over all the things she'll be doing for me, but I'm pretty sure she didn't take that to mean the very next day.

  On a Saturday.

  At her house.

  I get out of my car, which is a nondescript Nissan Maxima. I can afford much better but honestly, I haven't figured out what type of sweet ride I should get, so I'm still driving the same vehicle I had when fame hit me suddenly just over a year ago.

  After clicking the button to lock the doors, which causes the horn to give a short chirp of acknowledgment, I pocket my keys and cut across her lawn to the front porch.

  Her house is cute. Very small, very tidy, but also very cute, just like Emma. It looks to be well cared for on the outside with fresh paint and a doormat that says "Beware of Dog" on it with the right lower corner missing a big chunk to simulate a dog bite.

  I don't see a doorbell, so I give a sharp knock on the door, and immediately hear the booming bark of a dog that is sporting a sizable pair of lungs by the sound of it. The noise gets louder as the dog approaches from the other side, and then I hear Emma clearly say, "Get back, Sirius."

  There's a scuffling sound on the other side of the door--perhaps the sound of dog claws against hardwood floors--and then an exasperated growl--from Emma, not the dog--followed by, "For Pete's sake, Sirius. Can't you just once obey me?"

  I can't help the grin that pops on my face, because the little bit I've learned about Emma Peterson is that she likes a very ordered world and a disobedient dog has got to give her absolute heartburn.

  This is a reminder to myself that I don't know this woman hardly at all, yet I've finagled her to be my attorney--for the next few months at least--and it should give me a moment's pause over the craziness of what I'm doing.

  Yet, I can't find it within me to listen to those warning bells.

  Something happened in that police station with Emma Peterson and I'm acting on a gut instinct here. I can actually pinpoint the moment. It's where she lost control and, in a sudden burst of anger, yelled at me.

  Then called me names.

  Then decided to leave my ass behind, even if it meant losing her job.

  In that moment, she transformed from a woman of no consequence to me, to one who intrigued me very much. While I thought her beautiful in an understated way when I first saw her, she turned into an absolute temptress when she was riled up.

  And God fuck my soul... that turned me on in a way I don't recall ever having felt before.

  I haven't been this intrigued by a woman in a very long time. In my line of work, it's hard to find genuine people. They all want something from you, and they tell you want you want to hear.

  I don't need "yes" people in my life. I need people to tell me the truth.

  And I need people to believe in me, and there is one thing that struck me about that day... Emma Peterson believed my story and that sort of sealed her fate where I was concerned.

  I bided my time for weeks, waiting to see what would happen with the investigation into Keith's death. To say that I was beyond stressed is an understatement. While I would not have said Keith was a friend at the time of his death, because our band's breakup had left some seriously bad feelings on both sides, I was immensely saddened he was dead, and perhaps even regretful that we parted on bad terms. I went to his funeral and kept to the back of the church so none of the former band or their family and friends would see me. I slipped out just as covertly, as I didn't want them upset by my presence.

  But I paid my respects to Keith, I grieved for him alone, and that was all I could do.

  As for the investigation into his death, if the focus came back on me, I knew Midge would step in with all of her legal brawn and prowess, but I would have insisted Emma help her with the case. And Midge, that crazy aunt of mine, would have gladly agreed.

  After a few weeks, an arrest was made, and I knew I'd have to figure out another way to get close to Emma so I could figure out what this unusual attraction to her was.

  And it is unusual. She's not my type normally. I like my women a little more forward, to dress a lot sexier, and to have a little more outgoing of a personality. Emma wa
sn't anything like that, and still probably isn't.

  But I know she's got it lurking deep inside, and I have to say... there's a good bet that I'm doing this because she's presenting a challenge to me, because let's face it... the women in my life lately have all thrown themselves at me. There's not much mystery there.

  Finally, I hear her say on the other side of the door, "Good boy. Now stay."

  Then the snick of her door unlocking. The door swings open and I get just the barest glimpse of Emma--pressed khaki Bermuda shorts with a white button-up top--before a huge, furry black beast shoots toward me.

  I also get just a glimpse of the dog--rolling eyes, lolling tongue--and I immediately realize it's a puppy.

  A motherfucking huge puppy.

  I brace, inherently knowing I'm not about to be attacked, and hold my ground while the dog jumps up on me. Paws go to my shoulders and a slobbering tongue slaps at my face.

  "Sirius!" Emma exclaims, her hands going to his collar to pull him off me. I help by giving him a gentle shove, and she manages to drag him backward a few feet. I use that opportunity to wipe my face on my sleeve, invite myself in, and shut her front door behind me.

  I watch in amusement as Emma wrestles with the dog as it tries to lunge back at me in all its puppy glory, and with a few grunts and deep sighs, she manages to pull him further into her living room where she has a large, wired kennel for him.

  With a massive amount of struggle, she pushes him into the kennel, latches it behind him, and turns to face me with a flushed face and her hair in a mess all around her face.

  Reminds me of how she looked when she was directing her fury at me in the police station, and fuck... why do I like that shit so much?

  "What are you doing here?" she asks breathlessly as she tries to smooth her hair down. I want to tell her to leave it rumpled as it's far sexier, but I withstand the impulse.

  "Told you we'd get together soon to go over things," I tell her nonchalantly as I walk into her living room and carefully study some photos she has sitting on a table.

  "Well, I assumed you meant you'd make an appointment at the office to see me perhaps next week," she says in exasperation.

  "Don't have time for that," I say as I pick up one of the framed photos. I hold it out to her and ask, "Your mom?"