Mad About the Man (4 page)

M
addox Monroe peeled off the bandage and stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. Reaching up, he gave the bruised, swollen area around his eye and cheekbone a tentative poke.

Fuck, that's sore.

Hastily, he pulled his fingers away, resisting the urge to scowl, since that would just make it hurt more.

Brie Grayson socked me good.

But he'd had worse beatings over the years, and according to the doctors, there was no damage to either the cheekbone, the eye, the socket, or the surrounding bone, just a lot of swollen, contused flesh. He'd been offered painkillers, which he'd refused. Instead he'd applied warm and cold compresses, tossed back a small palmful of Motrin, and gone to bed. He'd also sent Lila on her way, since a man could stand only so much fussing before he lost his temper and said something he'd regret later.

On Saturday, he'd traveled back to New York City rather than spend the rest of the weekend in the Hamptons as originally planned. Over the rest of Saturday and Sunday, he'd read through a few work reports, spent a couple of hours ridding the world of imaginary evildoers on his Xbox, and slept.

When he'd awakened to the buzz of his Monday morning alarm, he felt almost himself again. As for how he looked, getting back to resembling an urbane businessman rather than roughed-up brawler was going to take a while longer.

A shower and a cup of coffee later, he called down to the hotel kitchen for some breakfast. As owner, he could have anything he liked, anytime he liked—a genuine perk on mornings like this one.

He'd just taken a seat on the sofa and opened a news app on his iPad to scan the day's top stories when his cell phone rang. As he checked the caller ID, his hand tightened slightly. He hit “answer.”

“McNeal,” he said, not bothering with the niceties; he had too many other things to do today.

“Mr. Monroe, good morning. I hope this is a good time to talk. I know it's early yet.” It was eight o'clock and apparently the McNeal part of Marshall, McNeal and Prescott didn't know how to take a hint concerning conversational brevity.

“The time is fine,” Maddox said. “So, did you handle the matter we discussed?”

“Indeed, I did. That is, Mr. Prescott, Mr. Burns, and I met with Ms. Grayson first thing and presented your offer to her, exactly as you asked.”

“Yes?” he said, trying to contain his impatience. “And?”

“And she accepted, of course.”

Maddox's shoulder muscles abruptly relaxed. Even as juicy as the bait he'd told them to dangle in front of Brie might have been, he still hadn't been entirely certain she would take it. There was a willful pride in Brie Grayson that had been part of her as a girl and was clearly still part of her as a woman. He'd half expected to hear that she'd turned them down and sent the message via grapevine that he could go fuck himself.

But ambition had a way of convincing even the most principled of people to lay aside their scruples. Then again, there was the simple pragmatism of the situation. She was smart. Smart enough to know that if she turned down this opportunity over a distaste for him, she might likely find herself out of not just a lucrative client, but out of a job as well.

And jobs like hers—especially partnerships in top New York City law firms—didn't come along every day.

She'd done the wise thing and he planned to make the most of it.

He smiled, ignoring the stab of pain in his bruised cheek. “Excellent.”

“Yes, it is. And may I say that we're extremely pleased that MMP will be representing you and your company?” McNeal said. “In fact, the partners and I would enjoy showing you around the offices, then taking you to lunch. If you have the time, we could even do it today.”

“Brie Grayson can do that.”

There was a slight pause. “Yes, she'll be included, of course, but—”

“No, just Grayson. Tell her I'll expect her. One o'clock here at the M Hotel. My chef will prepare lunch and we can go over any necessary particulars then.”

“And the tour of the offices?” McNeal sounded rather at a loss.

“I'll see them another time, I'm sure. Good doing business with you, McNeal.”

“And you, Mr. Monroe.”

Maddox ended the call.

The ball would be in his court this time; he couldn't wait to see how she decided to return serve.

*   *   *

With five minutes to spare, Brie climbed out of one of the corporate Escalades that were kept for use by the partners. It was hard to believe she was now entitled to a car and driver rather than having to schlep around on foot or by subway or cab. It was even harder to believe the reason for her sudden ascent into the upper ranks. Bringing MJM Enterprises into the Marshall, McNeal and Prescott fold was a major coup regardless of how she'd managed it.

And then there was the other perk––Ol' BS was no longer speaking to her. She'd crossed paths with him earlier in the break room and he'd practically snarled at her, his eyes wild with undisguised rage.

“From this moment forward, you are dead to me,” he said, gripping his coffee mug so tightly she'd been surprised it didn't snap. “Monroe was mine and you stole him.”

“Look, Barrett, I was as surprised as you when I found out he was coming here to Marshall McNeal Prescott. If you want, I can talk to him and have you added to the account, although I can't guarantee any—”

“Don't bother. I have no need of your crumbs. The only thing I want to know is how you did it, especially being offered equity partner. What did you do? Sleep with Monroe? Or was it with one of the partners?”

Her back turned rigid. “I most certainly did not. And I'd better not hear that you've been spreading malicious gossip about me around the office or I'll bring my tennis racket to work and use it on
you
this time. Apologize. Immediately.”

His eyes widened. “Fine, I'm sorry. Jeez.” He took a step away from her. “Even so, you must have done something extraordinary to land the Monroe account, especially after you clobbered him with a tennis ball.”

She shrugged. “Maybe he likes my adversarial style. There's no telling about clients sometimes.”

“Maybe so, but Monroe would have signed with me if you hadn't been there.” Barrett glared. “I wish now I'd never taken you with me to the Hamptons.”

“Actually, I wish you hadn't either,” she said, since Maddox Monroe was back in her life in the most improbable and unwanted of ways. Still, Barrett's assumption that Monroe's business had been there for him to pluck like a ripe plum irritated her.

“I was this close to bringing him in on my own without your interference,” he grumbled.

“Oh please, Barrett, stop being delusional. We both know that Monroe was never going to come on board with you no matter what you did. So you didn't lose out on anything, because it was never yours to lose in the first place.”

Barrett's face flushed again, his mouth opening and closing with the rounded gasps of a fish out of water. “From now on, you and I”—he waved a pair of fingers in the space between them—“are no longer friends.”

“I didn't know we ever were.” Brie crossed her arms.

After one last furious glare, he'd stomped out of the break room.

She supposed he wouldn't be the only one with ugly ideas about why she'd been the one to bring Monroe into the firm when no one else had ever before been able to manage the trick. But she'd known there would be fallout when she'd accepted her devil's bargain with Monroe. Now came the part where she got to read the fine print and find out just what he wanted in return.

And if she didn't get a move on, she realized as she gazed up at the sophisticated glass and steel exterior of Monroe's luxury New York City flagship hotel, she was going to be late for her lunch with Lucifer.

*   *   *

Inside the lobby, she was met by the manager. A brief greeting later, he escorted her upstairs in a private elevator that could be accessed only with a keycard. He ushered her inside a top-floor suite—obviously by prearrangement—then disappeared with a discreet efficiency.

As she surveyed the black-and-white marble entry hall, her fingers tightened around the handle of her briefcase. She'd been given the Saddleback leather case in supple chestnut brown years ago as a law school graduation present from her parents. She supposed she would be able to afford better now that she'd be earning a partner's salary—once she came up with her six-figure buy-in check, of course.

Then again, if all of this turned out to be some elaborate hoax on Monroe's part, she'd be out on her ass searching frantically for a new job, just like she'd worried she would be this morning. Whatever happened, though, she liked her trusty old bag; it had been with her through hell and back more than once—a few of those trips worse than others.

Suddenly footsteps rang out and there was Monroe, looking even taller and more powerful than she remembered. She abruptly forgot all about briefcases and buy-ins.

If she'd thought he was attractive in tennis clothes, he looked red-hot scrumptious in a bespoke navy blue three-piece suit; the tailoring was just too good for off-the-rack. She might dislike his personality, but she couldn't fault his dark good looks or his innately masculine style. He was bite-me beautiful with a capital
B
.

Of course she didn't let any of her thoughts show as he walked closer. That's when she took in the full effect of the massive shiner on his face, his left eye and cheekbone a brutal collage of swollen blues and purples that reminded her of a cross between blueberries and raw meat.

I did that,
she thought with an inner cringe.

Which meant that he had to be getting revenge. Why else would he have made her his attorney?

She almost turned around to flee, but decided she might as well wait for the other shoe to officially drop. If she got lucky, maybe she'd get lunch out of it before she had to go back to the office to pack up her stuff.

“Brie Grayson, welcome,” he said. “Pardon me for not coming downstairs to meet you, but I was on a call. I trust Oscar didn't keep you waiting.”

Oscar, the manager, he meant. “Not at all. He was amazingly polite and efficient. If he weren't, he wouldn't work for you, would he?”

A smile spread over Monroe's face. “Exactly right.” He gestured for her to follow him.

She fell into step behind him.

“I've asked my chef to prepare our meal,” he said. “We'll wait in the living room while he gets things ready.”

“You mean we'll be eating here?”

He tossed her a look, whose appeal wasn't in the least diminished by his injury. “We'll have more privacy this way. The restaurant here at the M Hotel is excellent, but I prefer not to discuss business in public when there's a better option.”

Privacy and Monroe were two things she'd been hoping not to mix. She really ought to have insisted on meeting at her office.

Keeping her thoughts to herself, she followed him into the living room. The view was spectacular, the outside wall a panorama of glass that displayed Manhattan in its glory, all the way from the lush green rectangle of Central Park to the murky gray ribbon of the Hudson River.

She turned toward him. “Before we begin, I want to apologize.”

“You only just arrived. What could you possibly have done already?”

“Nothing. Well, nothing new. I just wanted to say that I'm sorry about the other day, about the tennis match and the accident with the ball.”

“Was it an accident?” he asked, a knowing expression in his dark brown eyes. “I got the distinct impression at the time that your serve landed exactly where you aimed.”

Unflinching, she looked back. “It did. Too bad your face got in the way.”

A brief smile moved over his lips. “Careful, Ms. Grayson, or I'll be instructing you to sue yourself on my behalf.”

“Then it's a good thing the law prevents me from doing so. Maybe one of the other partners could help?”

“Maybe. But we'll have to table that for another day. Now, what can I get you to drink?” Monroe asked. “Wine or a cocktail perhaps?”

Though Brie didn't let it show, she was secretly relieved that he didn't seem to be holding a grudge. Then again, she knew he was up to something. Just
what
remained to be seen. “Nothing alcoholic, thank you,” she said. “I don't drink at work.”

“Iced tea, then?” At her agreement, he nodded toward a waiter, whom she hadn't noticed until that very moment.

The man vanished, walking down a hallway that she presumed led to the kitchen. Listening, she thought she heard the sound of something sizzling in a pan. Then it was quiet again.

“Sit,” Monroe told her, gesturing this time toward a sofa grouping upholstered in rich brown leather.

“Perhaps we could find a table? I've brought papers for you to sign.” Might as well take a stab at calling his bluff.

“We can do that later,” he said, “after we eat.”

Well, she'd given it a shot. She wasn't taking bets, though, on walking out of there with an executed client agreement. Gritting her teeth, she sank down onto one of two armchairs in the room.

Monroe smiled as if he was fully aware she'd put as much space between them as possible, then took a seat on the sofa. He stretched a long arm across its back.

“So, Brie Grayson. What have you been up to since junior high school? Other than becoming a lawyer with a wicked tennis serve, that is.”

*   *   *

Maddox watched her, enjoying the slight look of discomposure that crept over her face at his question. He loved the fact that he could still get a rise out of her even now. Curious how so many years could pass, years full of separate experiences and events, emotions and expectations, and yet at the heart of it, they were still the same people they'd been as kids.