Risk (Brothers of Ink and Steel #4) - Allie Juliette Mousseau Page 0,2

her torso—before she spins around, nearly slamming into me.

When she catches a glimpse of me, a flash of lightning strikes behind her eyes.

Christ, she’s stunningly beautiful. Her long blond hair falls around her shoulders, framing her fair complexion. Two thin braids just above each ear crown her head.

Immediately, she turns on me. Full of contempt, her eyes sear into me as her breath labors in her chest and adrenaline causes her hands to tremble.

Her voice shakes. “About time you showed up.” She quickly peers down the hall, as if to make sure our conversation is private, then hisses, “You know, this may be just another pro-bono case to you, to fatten your resume and make you appear to do humanitarian work, but there are three lives depending on you. Try and be present.”

A quick and powerful assault, straight to the jugular. I’m glad I’m not the one in her crosshairs.

“Ma’am, I’m not who you think I am.”

Her glare crackles with wildfire. “Gregory Parker, esquire.”

“No way.” I shake my head. “I’m definitely not the dumbass who’s standing you up.”

The storm shifts but only slightly. “I apologize,” she says tightly. “That was terribly unprofessional of me. I should’ve inquired after your name.”

“No harm, no foul.” I quickly take her in. She’s wearing a light pink blouse with a sky-blue scarf that matches her eyes. A darker blue skirt flows to her ankles, draping over the top of a pair of Sorrell winter boots. Her wrist and forearm are adorned with a stack of metal bangles.

I feel the edge of my lip curl up and quickly stop it. I like the hippie look. “Are you a lawyer?” I’ve never seen her here before. I would’ve remembered.

“I’m an advocate.” She peers distractedly down the hallway, no doubt looking through the throngs of people waiting for their cases to be heard, for Gregory Parker, Esq.

“If this Parker doesn’t show and you need some legal representation”—I pull a couple business cards from my inner jacket pocket—“I may be able to help.”

She regards me distastefully but takes the card. “Thanks.”

“You don’t like lawyers?” I grin and bait. “Or is it just me?”

“I don’t like lawyers who promise a family they’ll represent them pro-bono then never show up,” she growls, nostrils flaring. “I also don’t like lawyers who can recognize obvious injustices but fight for clients who are clearly guilty.”

“Everyone is entitled to a fair trial.” I want to keep her talking and get her name.

“True, but there’s nothing fair about a scenario where those with the most money get to bury those with the least just because they can’t afford a good, experienced, committed lawyer. Because then it’s no longer a ‘fair’ trial.” She makes air quotes. “Then it’s purely economics.”

Beautiful and smart. Before I have a chance to respond, the buzzer rings. All the doors to the courtrooms down the hall open, including courtroom nineteen. The people sitting on the benches or leaning against the walls begin to pour into their designated rooms.

“I’m up.” I point a thumb toward the courtrooms. But running into this ardent hippie-goddess makes this day feel even more lucky. This day just keeps getting better. “I’d really like to continue our conversation sometime. You have my card, call me. I may be able to help.”

She worries her bottom lip. “Maybe I’ll have to.”

I won’t take that personally. The fire in her eyes has clouded over with fear. I wish I could help her now as I wonder what she’s heading into. “Good luck.”

“Thank you. We’re going to need it.”

Courtroom number nineteen doesn’t have an empty seat in it.

Every few minutes my gaze lights over toward the pretty-in-pink-and-blue hippie girl as she sits, back ramrod straight, three rows in front of me on the opposite side of the room. She keeps her eyes on the yellow legal pad in her lap where she keeps jotting notes.

The first hour rolls by and the room begins to thin. I keep watching the door for the advocate’s douchebag help to arrive, but no one new enters.

Maybe she’ll call me. My motives are absolutely only half-selfish.

Shortly, the bailiff stands and announces, “Prescott versus Prescott.”

That’s my cue. Show time! Gripping my briefcase, I rise to my feet.

Off to the right of me, hippie girl stands at the same time.

What the…? My skin prickles with a chill. It must be a coincidence.

She glances back and notices me in an instant. Her brow creases as a scowl crosses her face. We both approach the front of the courtroom and