Filthy in a Suit

  Filthy in a Suit

  Luke Steel

  Contents

  Copyright

  Also by Luke Steel

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Dirty in Charge

  Also by Luke Steel

  Copyright © 2017 by Luke Steel

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Also by Luke Steel

  Hard Boss

  Hungry Boss

  Dirty in Charge

  Wicked Billionaire

  Chapter One

  “You tell that little piece she doesn’t get anything. She should be paying me after what she put me through. You tell her—”

  “Danny,” I say and put up my hand. “Uncontested, remember?”

  For daring to interrupt him, the face and owner of Prince Charming Bakeries, Danny Michaels, stops chewing his tooth pick to nail me with a hard look. I just stare back. I’m a lawyer. Pretty tough to intimidate.

  “I thought you were supposed to be some kind of shark. Toughest divorce lawyer in town, and all that. ‘Wes Stanley, divorce lawyer who can screw anybody to the wall,’ Well, I’m telling you, I want to screw her!”

  I’m not going to waste my breath telling him, but screwing people isn’t how I describe what I do. Divorce attorneys sometimes enjoy the rep that comes with the nature of our business—the dissolution of a marriage is one of the most emotional and cataclysmic types of legal processes that anyone can face, and there are attorneys who like to wallow in their clients’ emotional muck as part and parcel of their cases. My firm, Stanley, Wade & Goreman, are a gold-standard exception. I know our reputation is fearsome, precisely because we’re more ice than fire in negotiation. Cold, sometimes ruthless resolution instead of theatrics and stunts.

  “Danny, my reputation notwithstanding, you and your wife agreed to a divorce process that is amicable and—more importantly—without demand. Which is how I’m representing both of you. Any demands like the ones you’re making now won’t get you anything close to that.”

  I don’t like Danny Michaels. That’s OK. He’s not paying me to like him, he’s paying me to divorce his wife. But even at $900 an hour, I’m not a fan of this guy and I think I’ve made a mistake taking on these clients. Danny’s the guy at the gym who brags about what he can bench without ever lifting anything. The guy at the bar who talks too loud about the huge deal he just closed without ever offering to pick up a round. And then stiffs the barmaid.

  Kari S. Michaels, the woman he’s divorcing, probably was a barmaid when Danny met her. Or a waitress. Some down on her luck little nobody dazzled by the too-slick, too-loud Danny-types of the world, eager for his money and all the fake fur and rhinestones he could buy her.

  I’m normally a little choosier about my clientele, which is a big part of what has made my practice a success. There’s no such thing as a divorce lawyer who can steer clear of the muck entirely, but the cases I take on are usually wealthy clients working with a corporate team of estate and family representation. I spend most of my time in rooms with other lawyers arguing the finer points of their clients’ prenups and stocks rather than this scorched earth bullshit.

  But something I learned very early in my career: the less there is to fight over, the harder people battle over scraps. Danny and his wife own a semi-successful chain of local bakeries. From what I’ve ascertained, the Prince Charming bakery business was good, and poised to get even bigger, before the marriage dissolved. But Danny and Kari Michaels are well-connected if not overly wealthy. I only took this case because I owe a certain someone a very big favor.

  I try a different tack. “As your lawyer, I’m going to advise both you and her to work it out now, so you don’t spend the next few years in court and so your business can get back to operations. Get free of this and move on with your life.”

  Danny switches the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. I start to gather up the papers on my desk, a hint that we’re done.

  But Dany bursts out. “I want her to pay!”

  This is TV and movie bullshit. This woman must have really done a number on this guy. Either that or he’s just a prick. Even money on either option. I toss my pen on the desk and level with the guy.

  “Then consider hiring someone to work for just you and that person will do whatever you want.” Danny’s eyes get big in his head—he even looks a little panicked—but I’m serious. Favor or no favor, I’m not in the business of wasting anyone’s time. Especially my own. When Danny first came to me, he told me he wanted blood then, too. But when I explained to him what that would cost (even with the friend-of-a-friend-of-the-family discount) he balked.

  Danny puts his hands up. “Easy, alright? I’m, you know, letting off steam. Sorry.”

  I let the silence get awkward for him before I reply.

  “I’m going to get you out of your marriage and on with your life. And since you came into the union with more than she had and you don’t have children, the court will likely not award her very much by way of assets.”

  “Yay for women’s lib. The little wife doesn’t need to be kept in the lifestyle to which she’s become accustomed anymore. That what you’re telling me?”

  I try to keep my contempt in check. “Something like that.” Humorlessly, I smile, “And this way you still split my bill.”

  Danny seems to understand that, if nothing else.

  “Ok, Mr. Lawyer, we do it your way. As long as that bitch keeps her claws out of my business.”

  I don’t bother to reply. He leaves a few minutes later. Love. Such a many splendored thing. This is why I will never get married. There’s even a chance of things ending up this way? No. Way.

  I reach for my phone and dial a number I’ve memorized. He’s got a thing about people writing his number down.

  “Uncle Leo Investigations. How can I help you?” The voice on the other line is smoky, almost choked. Uncle Leo.

  “You can explain why I’m representing this lowlife dirtbag, that’s something you can do.”

  “Hello, counselor,” Leo laughs, a raspy sound. “I see you just met Danny. And I brought you two clients, don’t forget.”

  “Two for the price of one is one, Leo. But yeah, Danny. Charmer, that guy. Listen, I don’t think this is going to go the way you want. For one, your boy Danny is ready to rumble, not to settle. What the hell is your connection to him?”

  “You’re a lawyer. Do you want to know?”

  I’m not Leo’s lawyer, but the man has a point. Leo Stanzione was a man of disreputable character of the criminal variety before he became a private investigator—one of the best in the city, probably because of shady connections from his former life. I’ve used his service for several cases over the years. But as an officer of the court, I probably don’t want to know anything I don’t have to about Uncle Leo, or my client. It’s vaguely unethical to be talking to Leo about this case at all, but I don’t know what his connection to my client—correction, clients—is, and therefore I’m technically only updating him that it’s progressing. The case became part of public record once they filed anyway.

  He’s connected to them somehow, though, because he’s the one who brought the case to me in the first place. And I owed him for a, shall we say, very delicate favor he did for me four years ago. I shrugged when he stopped by my office a few weeks back with the divorce story of Michaels v. Michaels, the Bakery mini-mogul and his a
rm-candy wife, and asked me to take the case. Anything for a friend. But then he told me what he wanted—for the Michaels to agree to an uncontested divorce and for me to represent them both in an equitable split of assets. And for me to leave out the part of his involvement—the referral would come via a “mutual connection.” It was an odd request, but there seemed no reason not to take it. The process is indeed everything I explained to my client: uncontested divorce agreements are an economical, less fussy alternative to court. Litigants generally dislike each other too much to agree to such a thing, preferring instead to fight it out. Which all evidence seems to indicate is the case here, too, at least on Danny Michaels’ side. He agreed because it was cheaper, but he failed to fully comprehend what it would mean.

  I realize now the full extent of the favor old Uncle Leo asked for and I’m pissed. I even say as much to Leo.

  “I’m not going to tip you one way or the other on this. I promised you. I just want you to get them in, get them out, that’s all. Get it done quickly.”

  Easier said than done. Still, I understand what he’s asking me. Ever read Bleak House? Leo’s worked plenty of cases with me, made plenty of money when the cases drag on and get ugly. If his interest is in getting the case resolved, then this is the best way to do it.

  “Well if the little woman is as charming as her ex, we’re coming out of this with you owing me one, instead of put paid. Understand?”

  “You haven’t met her yet?”

  “No, not yet. Later today I’ll—“

  Just then there’s a knock at my office door. I check the wall clock. It’s twenty-to-two. I’m between appointments.

  “Just a second!” I call toward the door, and then go back to Leo. “Listen, Leo, someone at my office door. I’ll call you later.”

  Whoever is behind the door must have heard wrong, because rather than waiting, the door opens as I hang up the phone.

  Cue the smoke and saxophone music. The woman who walks into my office is something out of a noir fantasy come to life. She’s in a dark gray tailored suit dress that follows the long curves of her body and ends just below her knee. And her legs … Jesus, her legs just keep going, made longer by a pair of patent leather peep-toe heels. The ensemble is just modern enough that she doesn’t look like she’s dressed up for a costume party, but that doesn’t stop names like Rita Hayworth or Ingrid Bergman from coming to mind. Classy. Classic.

  I’ve never been struck stupid by a woman before. But that’s exactly what happens when I first see her. The vintage baby look is so striking, I want to think that’s the only reason. But the woman herself is a total knockout. Her dramatic liner and makeup over perfectly outlined red lips. And she’s no powdered princess. Her skin is a creamy tan. The lightest caramel under smoky, dangerous eyes.

  “Can I help you?” I smooth my tie as I stand up.

  Her voice is sugary sweet. “Are you Wes Stanley?” She’s half in, half out of my office door. I feel a tingle of instinct in the back of my neck when she speaks—something about the pitch rings false—but I’ll admit I’m distracted.

  I smile and attempt some charm. “Says so right on the door there. How can I help you?”

  She tilts her head and the heavily lined cat eyes narrow, the sugar evaporating instantly. Next thing I know she slams the door so hard, books are knocked askew on the bookshelves on either side of the walls.

  “You can tell me just what in the hell you and that bastard think you’re doing to my business.” Her voice is low and sexy, raw with anger, yet not screeching. The lethal snarl of a tigress.

  She stands facing me full on now. The way she stands, her hands on her hips, her blouse and skirt pulled taught over a mouth-watering figure. This is one hot and pissed-off vintage princess.

  She points a finger at me. “You’re insane if you think I’m just going to roll over and let that son of a bitch take everything! Just who in the hell do you think you are?”

  I finally get my head together enough to flash back. “Ok, lady, you’re in my office so you know exactly who the hell I am. Just who in the hell are you?”

  I put some real steel in my tone—I can bring chattering courtroom galleries to heel with just one bark—but this woman seems completely unfazed.

  She draws up like a cat and hisses, “I’m the poor helpless wife your client thinks he can screw, that’s who I am!”

  “Right, well you’ve just described roughly half my client list. You’re going to have to be more specific. I’m a divorce lawyer, get it?”

  The woman inhales, her eyes still narrowed slits. “I’m Kari Michaels. Danny Michaels’ soon to be ex-wife.”

  Ah Jesus. Of course she is.

  Kari Michaels walks forward now and tosses a manila envelope onto the table. I recognize the packet—my own assistant assembles them for the clients to review. It’s an audit of all marital assets combined with a questionnaire, a packet that clients complete at the start of negotiations. The clients fill them out separately, marking down any assets they had before entering the marriage, and what they want to take away from it as they exit, and then turn them in to me. As the attorney for both, I then prepare a first draft with a first pass of equitable distribution. Ms. Michaels doesn’t seem to appreciate this memo any more than her husband did. At least in her case I can understand why not, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it when angry clients crash through my door, beautiful or no.

  Trying to calm the situation, I hold a hand out to her. “I can see you’re upset. If it’s the pages that upset you, we should definitely talk about them. But it was not my intention to upset you before our first meeting. Ms. Michaels, may I call you Kari?”

  She raises her chin in response. I have no idea what that means, but it makes her look imperious and cold. She does, however, sit where I motioned her, in the chair next to the one her husband was just in.

  “Ok, Ms. Michaels. I’ll explain what I told your husb—“

  “Ex-husband,” she corrects.

  “Soon-to-be-ex-husband,” I counter pointedly, and continue. “The packet is just a starting point for negotiation, to establish what you have and what you came into the marriage with. And then we take a stab at a fair split of the assets, looking at—“

  She interrupts me again, her eyes flashing. “’Fair’? Is what’s in that packet supposed to be fair?”

  “Yes,” I say, coolly.

  “How is it fair that he gets the entire business? All of it? I helped build it up to what it is. I was there almost every night in the bakery myself, and then more hours in the back with the books while he chased anything in a skirt.”

  “Ms. Michaels, it’s his name on the marquee. Danny is Prince Charming Bakeries.”

  Kari screws her face up in a tight grimace and for a moment I think she looks fit to burst. “Which was my idea! All of it. The marketing, the designs, the—“

  “Ms. Michaels—Kari—please understand. There’s no record of your having been a true partner in the business. Danny’s name is on everything.”

  She stops, lifts her chin. “And the recipe book?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The recipes, baking formulas, the oven?”

  “All business assets. They go with the business.” I stop when I see her blanche white. “But we have allocated to you the house and he’s even giving some of the property.”

  She drops her head back in the chair. “Yeah, thanks for nothing. A house that Danny mortgaged three times without telling me. And the parcel. The useless parcel my Prince Charming just had to buy without checking to see if it could be connected to city water and utilities. Generous.”

  Silently, I make note of what she said about three mortgages. That was not something divulged by Mr. Michaels in our audit.

  Kari looks away, and for just a moment, the anger melts and I see something scared and lost there. “Aren’t you supposed to be my lawyer, too? Or is this one of Danny’s schemes. Because he’s so good at those.”

  I wish she’d
stayed angry. Pissed off and hissing I could deal with. Kari Michaels lost, vulnerable, still so beautiful, is not easy to take.

  Instead, I try to reassure her. “Kari. It’s not going to be that bad. But with this allocation and no dependents, the court doesn’t care as much about splitting things evenly. Without children, there’s no reason that you can’t just leave with what you had when you married.”

  I said something wrong. Kari’s growing visibly upset again, her cheeks darkening, eyes narrow.

  “Save it. I’m not asking to be a house pet. I want what I built. What’s mine!” She stands up so abruptly, her clutch purse falls off her lap onto the floor. Whatever is in it must have spilled out because her face scrunches again and she bends over to wrest it up.

  I stand too, moving around the desk to help. Something from the purse must have rolled under the chair because she shifts to the left, still bent over to reach for it. And that’s how I run right into her luscious ass.

  “Oh!”

  Her hips are the only handhold I have as the momentum pitches us both forward. Everything stops as I take her in both hands and jerk her back against me, steadying us before she tips us both forward on her heels.

  My only thought in this moment: I can’t think of anything worse that could possibly happen than grabbing a woman I don’t know by her ass and pulling her back against my cock.

  No, scratch that. I can think of something worse. Doing it to a client. While I have a semi-hard-on in my trousers. Which is exactly what just happened.

  Kari rounds on me, her eyes wide and shocked. I step back fast, both hands up to show her that was absolutely, positively not what I intended to do. For a moment, both of us just stand and look at each other. And then her eyes move down to the front of my pants and stay there.

  Like a goddamn teenager, in a second I’m no longer at half-mast. With just a look Kari Michaels has my full attention.

  She changes then. Her eyes, her whole demeanor. There’s nothing shocked or innocent about the way she looks up at me next. More like a cat, who’s just found a brand-new toy to bat around.