Risking It All. Beverly Bird
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as this in her life.
There were no visible beds and she blessed fate for that. God only knows what McKenna might pull with a bed in evidence. But there were doors on either end of the room and she figured that there was a bedroom beyond one, if not both, of them. Separating them was a sea of rich cream-colored carpet. Grace stared down at it almost dumbly. In a hotel? Weren’t hotel rooms supposed to be serviceable, built to withstand the masses? Then again, how many people could afford a place like this? In the Hyatt’s defense, there wasn’t a stain or a smudge to be found, not that she could see. And the decorator had had the good sense to place a forest-green and gold Persian rug beneath the cherrywood dining table, a table that could quite possibly be the size of her bedroom.
The chairs bracketing the table were done in the same elegant deep green as the rug. So were both of the sofas that formed a wedge at the far wall. There was a bar sided in smoky bronzed reflecting glass. Grace figured that, given the tab for this place, they’d probably already charged her for every bottle of liquor there. Opposite that was an armoire so huge she had to wonder how much clothing people generally brought to a place like this.
McKenna went to it and grabbed one of the brass handles to open the center doors. Of course, the people who stayed here would not want to store their clothes in the center room, Grace thought. It held a television the size of the country she’d escaped from as a teenager.
“We’re not here to watch TV,” she said a little hoarsely when he found a remote and stepped back to turn it on and play with the channels.
Flick, flick, flick. Channels flashed and vanished again as Grace watched.
“Of course not,” he said. “We’re here to—how did you put it?—just do this.”
She’d known that comment would come back to haunt her. Grace took her laptop to the table. “I’m not paying for premium channels.”
“No need. They’re free up here in heaven.”
“Are you serious?” She turned back to him, surprised.
McKenna switched to a skin flick and stepped back so she could see it. “That’s premium,” he observed.
“That’s—oh, my God!” Grace jerked around again fast and put her back to the television.
“Ah, come on. A savvy attorney like you, caught short on cab fare, must have more than enough aplomb to deal with a little skin-to-skin action like this.”
“That’s not skin-to-skin. It’s liver to pancreas.”
His laugh was rich, rumbling, genuinely amused. It made something kick inside her and Grace almost turned around again in surprise. She wondered if a man could manufacture a laugh like that just to make a woman move when she really didn’t want to.
She focused on plugging in her computer. “If the…ah, action on the television gets to be too much for you, you can simply grunt in response to my questions.”
“Will do.”
She would not look around at him. Her laptop purred to life and Grace seated herself at the table. “Let’s start at the beginning. You mentioned earlier that this is payback. I need to know exactly what you did to warrant payback of any sort.”
“I—whoa.”
“Whoa what?”
“Can women actually move like that?”
She would not look. “Stop it!”
“Well, you know, it’s bound to make a guy curious.”
“You’re paying four hundred dollars an hour to be curious?”
“Good point.”
Blessedly, there was another click and then the television went silent. Grace let out a careful breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He wouldn’t back off that easily. She knew the whole business with the skin flick had only been to get a rise out of her.
“Want a drink?” he asked. “It says here that the booze is complimentary.”
“The hell it is. I already paid for it. This room would have been three hundred dollars without it.”
“Well, we’re going highbrow tonight. So what do you think?”
“I think I just want to get your statement.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’ll help myself to a little of this Jameson’s. The better to dredge up nasty memories with.”
“By all means,” she said shortly. “As I said, it’s paid for.”
“That credit card receipt really knocked your socks off, didn’t it?”
“I’m wearing hose.”
“Oh, I noticed.”
Grace bit down hard on her tongue. “Exactly what did you do to warrant payback?” she tried again.
“I told you that already. At the restaurant.”
“Tell me again and give me the details.”
She heard ice tinkle into a glass. Something splashed delicately, then there was the suction-hissing sound of a bottle of cola opening. Grace couldn’t help it. She twisted around in her seat then she stared at him where he stood at the bar. “You’re mixing Jameson’s with cola?”
He cut a glance at her. “It’s Jameson’s, not vintage Bushmills.”
She didn’t know the difference. All she knew was that this room had cost her—until she put the chit in to the firm—seven hundred dollars plus change, so the liquor ought to be distilled from gold.
But she didn’t plan on admitting that she didn’t know the difference between Jameson’s and Bushmills until her next life. Grace lofted her brows. “I am impressed with a worldly man.”
“He would be your next case, honey. This man likes his Irish watered down. It lasts longer that way.”
He brought his glass back to the table and sat. He finally sat. Grace told herself that she should be grateful for that—now maybe they could get some work done. She watched him take a long swig of the whiskey and cola. He closed his eyes when he did it and he seemed to appreciate it deep in his bones.
“With the money they’re saying you took, you shouldn’t have to stretch out your whiskey,” she observed.
“The operative words there are…they’re saying.”
“Talk to me.”
“Sure. I grew up in a household where Jameson’s was considered manna from heaven. I still can’t take it for granted.”
Grace had to shake her head a little to clear her mind. She thought she’d finally gotten him on track. “Does that have anything to do with who’s…ah, framing you?”
He put the glass down on the table. “You were doing fine up until that ah.”
“What ah?” She pressed her spine to the back of the very well upholstered chair.
“As in…ah, framing you.”
“You said someone was framing you.”
“And—” He broke off to swig more whiskey. “You said ah.”
“What’s your point?”
“You don’t believe me. That ah was a classic measure of salt.”
That was an expression she knew. Grace clenched her jaw until it hurt. “My belief or lack thereof is not the issue here.”
“Of course it is. It’s the crux of the whole thing. It’s what stands between me keeping you or firing you.”
“We’ve been through all that.”
He grinned again. This time, she thought, it was