Ruthless Rival (Cruel Castaways #1)(34)

“Should we be more tactical about this? Maybe scare her a little?” Claire perched her ass on the edge of my desk, folding her arms. I rolled my executive chair back, putting some space between us. Claire was a gorgeous, ambitious, well-off twenty-seven-year-old. But she was starting to become a liability, wanting things like weekends away and for me to meet her parents. I’d laid out the rules when we’d started sleeping together, explaining I was so deep in the playboy zone I couldn’t find my way out of it into a healthy relationship with a map, a flashlight, and GPS. She’d said she understood, and maybe she had, once upon a time, but things were getting complicated, which meant I was days away from breaking things off.

“You want me to start talking to B-grade journalists? Because prejudicing the defendant is third-grade tactics.”

“I’m saying Arya Roth is undermining our case.”

“No. She is sweating, and it smells. I’m not worried about her.”

But Claire wasn’t completely wrong. As I skimmed through one of the articles on her phone, I realized I should’ve taken into consideration that Arya was still cunning, resourceful, and—most maddening of all—talented at what she did. By the time the news about Conrad Roth’s sexual harassment case had broken, Arya had found a hundred different ways to spin it. She used all the dirty tricks too. Amanda Gispen was recently divorced. Her ex-husband had been cheating on her, it was claimed. Arya had portrayed Amanda as a man-hater. Bitter about her divorce, her ex-husband, and the opposite sex in general. Amanda had recently fallen behind on her mortgage—obviously due to the divorce. Now tabloids were speculating she was going after her ex-employer to try to make a quick buck. Which couldn’t be further from the truth, as Conrad had offered her more than enough to cover seven hundred mortgages to not take the case to court.

Arya was thorough and persistent, and she worked twenty-four seven.

Unfortunately for her, so did I.

“Claire’s right.” Traurig’s low tenor came from the door. Claire stood up promptly, smoothing her pencil skirt. Traurig pushed off my doorframe, pretending like he didn’t see her channeling her inner Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. “Ms. Roth may pose an issue. You should keep an eye on her. Media coverage is everything. You should know that, kiddo. You won that case at the DA’s office because you were the tabloid’s darling.”

My jaw ticced. More than Arya was undermining my case, Traurig was undermining my prestige by calling me kiddo. He wouldn’t subject Claire to the same nickname, no. That would be viewed as sexist. But I was another alpha male whom he wanted to put in his place.

“It’s under control.”

“All I’m saying is you cannot afford to lose this case. There’s a lot on the line.” Traurig took on the role of Captain Obvious. He meant my chance of making partner.

“The line is mine to conquer. Sit back and enjoy a cocktail.”

“That’s what I like to hear, kiddo.”

“And cut the kiddo crap.”

He laughed, elbowing Claire on his way out. “Touchy. You take care of that one, will you?”

Traurig left my office. Claire loitered behind, playing with the wisps of her silky hair.

I arched a sardonic eyebrow. “Anything else?”

“Look.” Claire cleared her throat. “This may be out of line . . .”

From experience, sentences that started like this always preceded something out of line. Already, my patience was thin, snappable, like crème br?lée.

“But I couldn’t help but pick up on a weird vibe between you and Arya Roth. Now, obviously, knowing you, I’m aware you would never jeopardize a case or take it on if there is any . . .”

She trailed off, hoping I’d volunteer some information. I flashed her a lethal stare, daring her to finish the sentence. She squirmed. “Funny business. I’m just wondering if you’d like me to take on more responsibility in the case where she is concerned. If she makes you feel uncomfortable in any way, maybe I could liaise with her directly so you don’t have to deal with her personally, or . . .”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Oh.” She faltered. “May I ask why not?”

Because I’m rabid with revenge and want a front-row seat when Arya finally gets what she deserves.

“Because I can handle a community-college-degreed aging teenybopper who has a few contacts at some local newspapers just fine.”

The way I’d managed to reduce Arya to nothing more than a glorified Bratz doll surprised even me. Although I doubted I was on point about most of those things. Her issue had never been a lack of IQ points but lack of a soul.

“Point made.” Claire nodded with dignity. “You know, you look different this morning. More . . . alive.”

I swallowed but didn’t reply. What could I say? That seeing Arya again gave me a hard-on from hell?

Claire swaggered her way to the door, then stopped on the threshold and knocked on the doorframe. “Just let me know if you need anything, Christian.”

How about Arya, spread eagle on my desk, panting my name—the old and the new one—begging me for mercy?

Well, now. I really needed to break things off with Claire if I’d started answering her that way. Even if it was just in my head.

“Absolutely.”