Page 57 of Dare to Love Again

Chapter 13

DREAMY-EYED AND COUNTINGthe hours until they met again, it amazed Esme she got anything accomplished at work the next day. It wasn’t easy when her mind kept replaying the scene, and Finn’s utter mastery of her body. There was also the steamy good night in the parking lot, this time with him plastering her body against the car while kissing her senseless before tucking her inside. She’d been so flustered, he’d had to help her buckle in and hadn’t closed the door until she had recovered enough to drive.

She laughed to herself because even now, hours later, she still hadn’t bounced back fully.

If he’d asked, she’d have been perfectly happy spending the night in his apartment, but he hadn’t. They both had to work the next day, and he seemed determined to take things slow. Proving he had self-control and priorities other than instant gratification made him even more appealing. She added these traits to a growing list of things she liked about her deliciously dominant Master Finn.

With little choice except to wait until Saturday, she tried to focus on organizing her case notes and preparing for the deposition scheduled for Friday morning. Although it was only Wednesday, it had been a hell of a week with Mr. Reinhart as erratic as what was shaping up to be his norm. If this kept up, she’d be looking for another job, even if it meant a cut in pay; the stress wasn’t worth it.

As she reviewed the few notes he’d given her, about half a page of scribbles which weren’t all that helpful, she noticed the corner of a Post-it note—the fluorescent green Gerald always used—sticking out from the middle of the dog-eared legal pad. It blended in with the yellow paper, so she must have missed it the first round.

She flipped to it then stared in confusion at her boss’ barely legible scrawl. He’d scribbled two large dollar amounts, $30,000 and $50,000, listed next to two names she didn’t recognize, and next to each one, a twenty-one-digit alphanumeric reference number.

They could be clients. She didn’t work on every case, and they’d had an influx of new ones lately. Bradley handled at least half, and Mr. Reinhart had a few he handled exclusively. If they were payments, they should have gone to Jasmine, their legal secretary/receptionist/billing clerk rolled into one, not scribbled on a sticky note.

She thought to chalk it up to strange behavior to go along with everything else, but something about this didn’t sit right and added to her suspicion that something was going on with her boss. His odd business hours, including working evenings which he’d never done before, and the mystery surrounding his secret clients, another new twist, gave Esme the uncomfortable feeling he was doing something underhanded. And now she discovered what looked to be account numbers for either payments or deposits.

They weren’t the eight-digit client account numbers used at the office or the nine-digit ABA routing numbers used for US banks. Curious, Esme opened a Google browser and typed one in. A listing popped up for an IBAN Validator. Having no clue what that was, she took the next step, transferred the number into the search box, and hit submit. Immediately, it brought up information on an international bank, with a physical address in Switzerland.

A sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. Having foreign accounts wasn’t illegal, but their primary use, like hiding assets from the IRS, led to hefty fines and serious jail time. Why was Gerald funneling money into a Swiss bank? Had he set it up for these two mysterious clients? Or were these sums payment for his services?

Again, not illegal, but her boss wasn’t an international lawyer. He was a criminal attorney licensed to practice in the U.S., specifically in California. If the source of the payment was for legitimate business, why would it originate overseas?

And, if above board and lawful, it was unlikely he’d have scribbled the information on a sticky note and tucked it inside a legal pad. Further, he would have made Jasmine handle it rather than troubling himself.

She had way more questions than answers, and the whole thing stunk to high heaven.

A knock interrupted thoughts of tax evasion, the Feds raiding their offices and shutting them down, and worse. What kind of shady clients had Gerald gotten himself, and by extension, everyone in the practice, mixed up with?

“Miss Spade?”

When she glanced up, her lips parted in surprise at the sight of a courier standing in her office door, holding an enormous vase of exquisite blush roses. Coming to her feet, she smoothed the creases of her linen skirt with her suddenly damp palms.

“I’m Esme Spade,” she breathed.

“Then these are for you.”

Brimming with curiosity, she took a step forward. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten flowers. Abruptly, she stopped. The man would expect a tip, but when she bent to get her purse out of her bottom desk drawer, he set the vase on her desk.

“The gratuity has already been taken care of, miss,” the grinning young man explained, “generously, too. Enjoy them.”

When he left, he had to turn sideways to squeeze by Jasmine who peered into her office from the hall. The woman, who readily owned up to a severe case of nosiness, must have followed on the courier’s heels to get there so fast.

“Who are they from?” she asked eagerly.

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