Page 7 of Shared By the Highest Bidder

Celtic crosses, skulls, and an anchor are what I make out.

“Your designs are on a Mac?” Ford asks. “That means they’re possibly in the cloud.”

I lower my head. “They’re not there. Michael wiped them out.” I swallow, making Michael sound even more like a criminal.

One that a decent lawyer won’t touch with a ten-foot pole.

“Can you prove the designs are yours? Were they registered?” He pinches his chin. “I’m not a copyright lawyer.”

“I have no legal proof. Just my initials on the bottom corner of each drawing. I’m licensing the rights to Stella Raven.” I lean forward, feeling my boobs scrunch together. “Please help me.”

His eyes flicker to my cleavage, his jaw ticking in response.

“Defending someone for a sketchy drug case, based on my rate, cost of investigators, and court time, will cost around three hundred thousand dollars. Minimum.”

My heart falls into my stomach. “Obviously, I don’t have that.”

“Do you own a home?”

“No,” I groan. “I have a car. But it’s in California. I have a little bit of money. Around ten thousand.”

My savings are enough to stay in a nice hotel or an Airbnb here in Manhattan while I fix this mess, butthat’sallI have. Since most apartments want a one-year lease commitment as well as first, last, and a hefty deposit, renting my own apartment is out of the question.

Plus, Idon’twant to stay in New York.

Ford slides his glasses back on. “I would need a fifty-thousand-dollar retainer.”

Nodding, I pull my purse against my chest. I hadn’t considered what the designs were worth, other than my promise to Stella to deliver them.

My word. My integrity. That’s priceless, but it won’t pay this expensive legal bill.

All Michael cares about is getting free. There must be another lawyer who can do it for less.

Without saying more, I stand to leave. “I’m sorry I bothered you.”

Ford’s eyes stay on me, and heat crawls up my neck. “Miss Armstrong, wait.” He looks at the monitor again. “His case has been assigned.”

“And?” I squeeze my purse.

“The prosecutor. I know him.”

“Is there a conflict?” I hope so, then I have a plausible reason to tell Michael that Ford can’t take the case.

Force the scumbag to use a public defender.

“Not at all. Manhattan criminal attorneys and prosecutors fuck each other in bathrooms on Friday nights during happy hour.” He clears his throat, glancing up at me. “Sorry to be so graphic.”

His dirty talk only tightens my core, which is practically howling from how gorgeous this man looks at me.

“I lived in L.A. for years. Being graphic doesn’t turn me off.”

Smiling at my brave comeback, he says, “This prosecutor assigned to Michael’s case has a perfect record I’d love to fuck up.” He licks his plump lower lip discreetly, but I catch it.

Seeing a ray of hope, I gasp, “You’ll take the case? For less, or pro bono or something?”

“Oh no. I can’t do that. I’m not a partner here.” He sits back again. “Too much work and not enough freedom. I can help you get the money, though.”

The way he peers at me feels like something passed through my soul.

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