Page 1 of Take the Bait

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Dani Welford looked around the prisoner holding room nervously and set her briefcase on the metal table in front of its steel handcuff bar, which was used for the more violent prisoners who came through this courthouse.

She caught sight of herself in the two-way glass and blew a stray strand of red hair off her forehead. It was stuck, though, in the sweat of August in New York City, and she pushed at it impatiently. The net effect was to stand up her red curls in twenty different directions. Crap. Now she had to find a comb and fix it all.

She rummaged in her briefcase, or at least she started to. But the door opened with a bang just then, and her gaze jerked up guiltily.

The man standing in the doorway like a conquering general was a full head taller than she was. He wore sneakers, athletic shorts that revealed a set of muscular legs and a sleeveless, wet T-shirt plastered to his bulging pecs and washboard abs. His arms…after mentally fanning herself…made her think of a Roman gladiator. He looked like the kind of man women would fawn all over and whom he, in turn, would bed like the powerful warrior he was.

Perspiration glistened on his deeply tanned forehead and chiseled cheekbones and his short hair was darkened from what she guessed to be honeyed blond to a color more akin to bronze. He freaking exuded vitality.

It dawned on her rather more belatedly than it should have that sweaty sports gear was not the accepted garb for attorneys meeting to discuss a client’s case. It showed a lack of respect for the client and a definite lack of respect for her.

Her gaze narrowed as he advanced toward her, dwarfing her. How was it this man could act totally confident and not the least bit self-conscious parading around half naked and soaking wet—to an official meeting in a courthouse, no less—when she was a wreck because a strand of hair was out of place?

Although, in reality, her discomfort was less about him and more about her own hang-ups about not being a misfit in the legal field.

I knew it. I should’ve worn heels like Zoey told me to.

Except negotiating subway stairs and walking a half-dozen city blocks in stilettos was a risky proposition for her. At the best of times, her balance in three-inch heels sucked. When she was nervous and running late, she was a menace to herself and anyone standing close to her.

Even if she’d had a few extra inches of height, though, Mr. Roman Gladiator would still tower over her when she stepped forward to shake hands with him. She sighed, resigned to giving him the first tiny win in the battle into which they were about to enter.

“Dan Welford?” he asked, looking over her shoulder into the corners of the tiny room. He frowned, not spying the male attorney he expected.

His rich, resonant voice caressed her like soft porn, invading her senses with a promise of delicious sexual excess. Holy cow.

“Sorry. Wrong room.” Good grief. His voice alone was enough to make her breathing go all fast and pant-y.

He started to back out of the doorway and she blurted, “No! Right room! I’m Dan. Uhh, Dani. I mean Danielle.” Dammit. She sounded like a breathless sorority girl meeting the captain of the football team. Worse, she’d just given him a second win by letting him throw her off balance like that.

If her criminal law professor had said it once, he’d said it a hundred times, three strikes and you’re out. She’d already served up this sexy attorney two strikes against her on a silver platter. Determination to even the score set her jaw in a tight line.

She thrust her hand out awkwardly. “Danielle Wellford. Whitney, Marcos & Pinter.”

The golden gladiator stepped into the room once more and shut the door behind him. “Cameron Townsend, Assistant District Attorney.”

His gaze traveled down her body and back up slowly, taking in every detail of her appearance. She felt stripped naked by that stare, mentally undressed and judged.

She froze, forcing her face not to reveal even a hint of how uncomfortable he was making her feel. No third strike for you, buster. Lawyers weren’t supposed to check each other out as if they were considering having carnal knowledge of opposing counsel right here, right now, on the metal table behind her, or maybe up against the wall, out of sight of the two-way mirror?—

At least his gaze didn’t convey distaste or disgust as he checked her out. She couldn’t help being short or a curvy girl. This athletic dude undoubtedly went for lean, stringy marathon runner-style women, or heaven forbid, six-foot tall, anorexic model types.

Not one to take an insult lying down, she returned the assessing look, letting her own gaze travel down his sculpted torso, past the gulp-worthy bulge of his crotch, down miles of muscled legs and all the way back up, past that narrow waist, broad shoulders, and perfect jaw to his eyes.

There was nothing whatsoever she could find fault with, no discernable flaw for her to feel even slightly superior or smug over. She was forced to revise her opinion of him from Roman gladiator to Roman god.

His gaze lifted to hers and she jolted, both mentally and physically. Heat snapped and sparked in them as if he was definitely considering suggesting a quickie with her.

Startled, she looked away, abashed. Please God, let him not see that she might seriously consider going for the quickie with him if he offered. She was no prude, but she also wasn’t into meaningless bangs with strangers.

Work. This is work. I’m a fully licensed, no kidding lawyer, now. And my client’s counting on me to get him acquitted and give him his life back.

She risked glancing back at Townsend and was arrested again by how mesmerizing his eyes were. They went from cobalt blue in the center to the midnight blue of an ocean whose depths went on forever around the edges. But what really captivated her was the intelligence glinting in them?—

Or was that amusement? At her?

His lips twitched. Definitely amusement, then.

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