Page 1 of Claimed by My Lawyers

One

Thestresslinesetchedacross Public Defender Frank Wallace’s forehead fail to put me at ease. The off-white walls of the overly small conference room that could hold four people max, isn’t exactly the shining backdrop of confidence.

“The burden is on the accuser to prove you were negligent,” he assures me.

There has to be more I can do than hope the prosecution fails. Diverting my gaze to the thin vertical window in the door, my breath catches at the sight of a sinfully handsome man who stopped in the hallway and is staring at me.

Our eyes lock, and I’m swept away from my problems.

“Miss Solis?” Frank clears his throat.

“Call me Yvette.” The breathiness of my statement hits my ears. I’m not sure if I’m saying it to Frank or the man in the hallway, who I can’t tear my gaze from.

I’m not ready to drift back to the cold, hard reality where I’m being sued by a customer who suffered anaphylactic shock while eating a donut in my barely-making-a-profit, peanut-free bakery. I still can’t figure out how it happened.

I’d rather stay lost in this stranger’s eyes, imagining a world where he’ll sweep me off my feet, sequester me in his mansion, and teach me about sexual needs I didn’t know I had. And if he could erase my legal woes, that would be a bonus.

That would be kidnapping. Wrong on so many levels. Unless of course, I didn’t object.

I’d like to choose door number one, please.Not the time for humor. Not the time to reconsider my life choices of putting my business success above dating. Not that a man like the guy in the hallway, who exudes wealth and power, would be interested in a simple-life-loving bakery owner.

“Sorry.” I force my attention away from the perfectly groomed and tailored man beyond the door, back to the kind soul across the table.

The possessive gaze from the hallway still weighs on me. Does the stranger feel the same attraction I do?

I’m such an idiot. I bet he assumes the defendants stuck in this room are guilty, poor, or both. My stomach sinks.

Am I guilty? No.

Am I negligent? Impossible.

Am I poor? I would be okay living off love.

Frank’s voice raises. “Miss Solis. Please focus. I only have the room reserved for a few more minutes. With the holidays coming up, it’s going to be harder to get in touch with people. Our time is limited. You need to gather information from your vendors stating their nut-free policies. If Nurse Aria hadn’t been in your bakery, Mister Benedict might have died. You have to take this seriously.”

“You think I don’t take this seriously? My bakery exists to give people with nut allergies a safe place to enjoy pastries.” The lump in my throat refuses to back down. Tears threaten. Anger takes over. “When I was seventeen, I held my little sister in my lap after jamming an epi-pen into her thigh and watched for any sign of life. I’d snuck her out of the house for a donut, thinking she was being deprived of one of the greatest pleasures on earth. My teenage cockiness and ignorance almost killed her. I triple-check food safety with each of my vendors and require my employees to watch a video on anaphylactic shock.”

Frank smiles and nods. “Good.”

“What?” I break. Tears stream down my face.

“That’s the story we need when you’re on the stand. Tear out the hearts of every jury member. And get me a copy of your employee—”

A whoosh of air hits me as the door flies open. Frank jerks back in his chair, and I whip my head to see who barged in.

The form-fitting navy-blue suit, the intricate paisley pattern of the silk tie that matches the pocket square, and the starched white shirt spanned over a broad, muscular chest delay the drag of my eyes to Mister Sinfully Possessive’s face.

He steps closer, forcing me to crane my neck as he towers over me. I can’t breathe. Has he consumed all of the oxygen in the room, or is my neck at a funny angle? Or maybe I am struggling to breathe because his rich, musky cologne infuses my core.

My sex tingles, as does every inch of my skin. I wish he would close the small gap between us and scoop me up. I’m ready.

“What’s going on?” a deep voice calls from immediately behind him. Time slows. Hopefully, the minuscule pause can be played off as surprise.

“Frank made our girlfriend cry.”

“Who?” the man in back asks as he squeezes himself into the room.

Good question. I sort the pieces one at a time. Okay, Mister Possessive and my public defender know each other. Mister Possessive must have me mistaken for someone else. That would explain why he stared at me. But even more intriguing is that he said, “Ourgirlfriend.”

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