Page 4 of Take the Bait

An urge to giggle nearly overcame her but she managed to choke it off before it escaped and became a solid strike three against her. Women litigators did not giggle. Ever. Not in this testosterone-laden field dominated by barracudas in designer suits.

Planting the absurd image of Townsend in a jock strap and cowboy boots firmly in her mind, she said boldly, “What’s your offer?”

He flipped a few pages deeper into the file and picked up a piece of paper with a few lines of handwriting scrawled across it.

He read out rapidly, “Five thousand dollar fine, two years probation, a thousand hours of community service. He can serve those in a hospital if he wants. God knows, the emergency rooms around here could use the help.”

A pretty reasonable deal, truth be told.

But when she’d pressed Alex, insisting he give her a verbal yes or no answer to her request to negotiate a plea deal even if he planned to turn it down, his stare had dropped from the ceiling and landed on her. For an instant, the shutters in his eyes had lifted, and she’d seen a flash of the highly intelligent young man hiding behind them.

His expression had been intense, and furious if she wasn’t mistaken, as he leaned forward across a table much like this one and bit out, “I will take no deal, regardless of what’s offered. Is that clear?”

“Well?” Townsend demanded impatiently. “I don’t have all day, here.”

“Fine. Then I’ll make this quick,” she snapped. “No deal.”

Townsend’s head jerked up.

Surprise—and real interest—glinted in his stare. They both knew she had no leverage whatsoever in this case. Breathalyzer and blood alcohol tests confirmed her client had been drunk off his ass. No less than four radar guns had clocked him going a hundred miles per hour over the speed limit before he’d finally been cornered and forced to stop his joy ride from hell, whereupon he’d fought being handcuffed and broke a cop’s nose.

It was a foregone conclusion that any rational lawyer would accept whatever crumbs the D.A.’s office chose to toss his or her way on this case.

Townsend blurted in minor disbelief, “You’re not even going to counter? For real?”

The arrogance underlying his question irritated the living shit out of her. “No, Mr. Townsend, I’m not going to make a counter offer. My client would prefer to take this to trial.”

He smiled winningly. “Okay. You got me.” He added in his most charming voice, “Seriously. What deal are you asking for? I’m sure we can meet in the middle?—”

“I told you,” she interrupted. “We’re not negotiating a plea.”

He stared at her in open dismay before his stare shifted to anger. “You’re shitting me. No judge will let you bring this into his court. Jury trials are expensive and, in this case, a waste of everyone’s time. Not to mention even the worst jury on the planet would convict your guy in two seconds flat.”

He was not wrong. But she had her marching orders from her client. He’d been crystal clear in what he wanted her to do. She’d argued with him over it for most of the hour their meeting had lasted, but Alex hadn’t budged an inch.

Townsend was speaking again. “…be forced to throw the book at him. I’ll charge him with felony speeding, aggravated DWI, evading arrest, failure to follow police instructions, resisting arrest, aggravated assault, reckless endangerment, and anything else I can think up. I’ll get a multiple-count felony conviction and he’ll go to jail for years. We’re talking hard time, here. Your pretty boy will get ass-fucked by every gang banger in upstate New York.”

He was right, of course. They both knew Alexei Koronov was guilty. Hell, Alex knew he was guilty. But the guy was entitled to fight the charges and force the system to let a trial run its course.

She shrugged. “Last year the city of Manhattan alone had over a hundred DWI cases dismissed, almost half of all its DWI arrests. The state of New York had close to 4,000 cases dismissed for speedy trial violations alone.” She added lightly, “That, and my client’s innocent until correctly proven guilty.”

“You’re going to risk years in jail for your client in hopes that I’ll screw up?” Townsend demanded in disbelief. “I happen to be damned good at what I do, Miss…” he looked down at the yellow sticky note on the file in front of him. “…Wellford.”

“So am I,” she ground out.

“Let me guess. You’ve been out of law school, what? Two—three—whopping months? Is this your first criminal case? Honey, I’ve prosecuted well over a thousand cases. I’m going to chew you up and spit you out.”

She stood up, snapping her briefcase shut with a loud snick in the charged silence. “I welcome you to try, counselor. And I’m not your honey.”

He surged to his feet and she stifled a gasp as his angry, overwhelmingly masculine, presence towered over her and filled the tiny room.

She was not turned on by this misogynistic bastard! But damned if something hot and turbulent didn’t fire off deep in her gut at the anger blazing in his eyes. Maybe this was the thrill of the fight thing her law professors described. Yeah. That was it. She was just anticipating the fight to come between them.

She said sweetly, “I hear they’re having anti-sexual harassment training in this building, today. Perhaps you’d like to join a session in progress?”

His mouth fell open as she turned around and marched out of the room. What she wouldn’t give to be clicking out of here in a pair of Louboutin stilettos, four-and-a-half inches of red-lacquered fuck you to one Cameron Townsend, Esquire. As soon as she could afford a pair, she was buying some. Just for him.

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