I remove all of the contents, pushing the small envelope and white-wrapped box aside, and look at the legal documents first, starting with the cover letter.

After the requisite formalities of my name, address, and the case reference, Reeve writes as follows: Dear Leary: His informal use of my first name is not lost on me. Enclosed please find Defendants’ First Set of Interrogatories, Requests for Production of Documents and Requests for Admissions. As you know, you have thirty days to answer these, but I’ll be happy to grant an informal extension of time if you need it. Sincerely, BATTLE, CARNES, AND PEARSON Reeve Holloway

He signs it “Reeve,” and I’m lost as to why this was a personal or confidential matter. These documents were expected. I plan on sending my own interrogatories and requests out to him late next week after I finish my other trial.

I start flipping through the pleadings, scanning the interrogatories, which are nothing more than questions that my client is bound to answer, in writing and under oath. They look pretty standard to me. Same for the requests for production of documents . . . all standard stuff, requesting my client’s medical records, both as a result of her surgery and those ten years prior, lost wage documentation, photographs, yada, yada, yada.

Finally, I pull out the requests for admissions. This is a method of discovery that a party can use to narrow down the issues by having the opposing party admit or deny certain statements. Normally you don’t see them used by the defendants in a case, so I’m slightly surprised to have them in my hand, but again . . . not by any means something that would be personal or confidential.

I scan through the requests for admissions addressed to my client, Jenna LaPietra. They’re ordinary . . . no surprises. Admit your name is Jenna LaPietra. Admit your age is twenty-three. Admit you sought out Dr. Summerland for a breast-reduction surgery. Admit you worked at Pure Fantasy as a topless dancer.

Yup . . . all benign, ordinary requests.

My eyes scan farther, seeing nothing that jumps out at me.

Until I get to request number eighteen. 18. Admit or deny that at the time of your employment as a dancer at Pure Fantasy, your job duties included taking off your clothing in exchange for payment of money.

Okay, that’s a bit inflammatory, but still within the bounds of a reasonable request, because we certainly aren’t hiding what she did for a living. It might not be considered the most respectable of professions, but damn it, she worked a steady job to provide for her family. No shame there.

I read the next one. 19. Admit or deny that at the time of your employment as a dancer at Pure Fantasy, you solicited and performed sexual acts on the customers in exchange for money.

What. The. Fuck?

I read the request one more time, and yup . . . they’re basically asking Jenna if she was prostituting herself.

My blood pressure rises and my head feels like it’s going to explode. I read through the rest of the requests, and there are no other questions that are inappropriate. Just this one.

I push the documents aside and turn to my computer, intent to pull up the contact information for Reeve Holloway so I can call him and give him a piece of my mind. But before my fingers can even touch the keyboard, a thought crosses my mind.

This was not a long list of inappropriate questions. All of the questions seemed well within the normal boundaries of what I’d expect. All except request number nineteen.

Which makes the hairs rise up on the back of my head.

If Reeve was trying to goad me, he would have sent me a slew of crazy questions. Instead, he only asked one, and he placed it in a chronologically appropriate place with the other requests asking about her work at Pure Fantasy.

Which means that he must have some type of information to lead him to believe that Jenna was selling herself in addition to just dancing topless.

Fuck!

I quickly dial Jenna’s number, needing to put this issue to rest as quickly as possible. I pray to God she tells me that it’s not true, because if it is, that’s going to throw a big fucking monkey wrench into her case.

She doesn’t answer and I leave her a voice mail, asking her to call me immediately.

Drumming my fingers on my desk, my mind starts working on overdrive. How will I handle this if it’s true? Can I do a pretrial motion to keep the information out? Is it even relevant? That will definitely call for more legal research.

My eyes drift over my desk, lost in thought over this conundrum, and come to rest on the white envelope and smaller box I’d pushed aside.

Reaching out, I decide to open the box first, because I love to get to the surprise. I peel the paper back efficiently and lift the top off a small black box.

Inside, nestled in deep-purple tissue paper, is a pair of black silk stockings. Picking them up, I see that they’re almost identical to the ones I had on last week when I chose to show Reeve my partial goods. Sheerest of silk with a two-inch band of black lace around the tops. The only difference is that these don’t have little red bows on them. My finger and thumb rub the soft material for a moment, then I set them down.

Picking up the white envelope, I break the seal and pull out a note card with blue-ink handwriting on one side. The message is simple:

Leary,

Stockings to replace the ones you ruined last week and to take the sting out of request number nineteen. It’s a legitimate question . . . check it out.

Reeve

P.S. Are you wearing black lace right now?

I read the note one more time, not sure how to feel. Reeve couldn’t have been clearer. He believes Jenna might have been involved in some criminal activity as part of her job at Pure Fantasy. He’s warning me loud and clear.

The silk lingerie is a different matter. He sent those stockings to remind me that there’s a sexual tension now existing between us. And his postscript? He’s telling me that he wants to continue our sexual byplay.

Everything about this note and gift is wrong, according to normal standards. He’s crossing personal boundaries and his gift is completely unethical. His postscript highly unprofessional.

But I’m not normal, and fuck . . . it turns me on.

CHAPTER 4

REEVE