Page 6 of Shared By the Highest Bidder

I tell him and hold my breath, while gingerly planting my butt into the narrow, upholstered chair in front of his desk.

He scans the monitor and then squints.

On a scoffed laugh, he says, “Designer drugs, huh?”

“I guess, I didn’t ask. I don’t do drugs, Mr. Montgomery.”

Ford’s eyes flash to me and their blueness, even behind glasses, takes my breath away.

“My specialty is getting evidence or entire cases thrown out based on illegal search and seizure.” He leans back and crosses his legs. “But in the corporate world. Who is Michael to you? Why are you here?”

Having nothing to lose, I say, “Weweredating, and then living together. But we hadn’t been getting along. I stopped thinking of him as my boyfriend weeks before his arrest. I was just biding my time until I could move out. I’d spent the weekend in the Hamptons with a friend and planned to tell him it was over when I got home.”

I exhale with bitter regret. The biggest mistake of my life was leaving behind my laptop bag with my design portfolio in that apartment.

“When I came home late last Sunday night, Michael was having this massive party with people I never met. I...”

I don’t tell Ford how his friends ridiculed me. I’m still traumatized by it.

“I tried to go into the bedroom, but he stopped me. He yelled at me. Then cops spilled into the apartment. It took until around three a.m., but I convinced enough officers I’d just gotten home.”

“And you’re hiring me because you’re standing by him?”

“Hell, no,” I blurt, then drag my teeth across my lower lip.

“Good girl,” Ford whispers low and sultry.

“Excuse me?”

He gives his head a soft shake, his eyes finally leaving mine.

I can breathe again.

“New York’s Finest shows up on a noise complaint and finds drugs.” Ford leans back and twirls his pen in long fingers with thick inked knuckles. “It’s something I can work with, depending on where the drugs were when the cops came in. I need to look at the police report. Your boyfriend—”

“Ex. Please.”

“Why are you helping out this man, especially after he nearly got you arrested?” Ford stares at me like I’m crazy for hiring a lawyer for an ex.

“He’s keeping some of my property from me until he gets out.”

“Keeping what from you?” Ford folds his large hands that look strong.

My eyes flutter. “Is blackmail a crime?”

“Is Michael blackmailing you?” He takes off his glasses, and I’m blinded by his raw, male beauty.

“Okay, here it is. I’m a fashion designer. I was working at a big fashion house, in marketing, but I started sketching my own clothes. As a side passion, but it grew. I built an entire collection. I have an interested buyer in L.A. A friend, who started her own fashion company last year. All my designsare...were on a laptop. I also had a physical portfolio with hand-drawn sketches and fabric samples. Michael stashed them somewhere and won’t tell me where.”

“How did he get them? If he broke into some place that was yours and stole them, that is a crime, and I can’t—”

“No.” I roll my eyes. “I left them in his apartment. The laptop is technically his. He gave it to me. He’s one of these people who needs to have the newest MacBook on the market. My old one was dying. In fact, it did die.” Or I’d have a backup.

“Even if your designs are on his computer...”

“It’s mine, hegaveit to me.”

“Regardless, the designs are your intellectual property.” He drums those fingers, drawing my eyes to the tattoos.

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