She leans back. “That’s a . . . unique arrangement.”
I shrug. “A friend of mine had a similar setup when he was a young delinquent. It worked out really well for him. This way, Justin won’t grow up into an evil cybergenius who hacks the nuclear codes because Mommy didn’t love him. He’ll have someone keeping an eye on him. He’ll matter, Kennedy—and I think that’s what all this was about in the first place.”
She taps her fingernail on the table, thinking it over. “Four years. I want him supervised until he’s twenty-one. And no more banking ‘accidents.’ He pulls anything like this again, he goes to prison.”
I grin. “That vengeful streak is definitely sexy.”
She smirks at me, then holds out her hand.
And I shake it. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Counselor.”
Kennedy moves to stand, but I hold on to her hand—’cause I’m not done yet.
“I had something delivered to your house today. It’ll be there when you get home. I want you to wear it tonight, when you come to my place at seven sharp.”
I squeeze her hand. “Please say yes.”
She does me one better. She leans over the table and kisses me.
Then she says yes.
? ? ?
After all the formalities are taken care of, I walk Justin out of the courthouse into the warm, sunny day. He’s got Mrs. Potter’s number in his pocket and a bocce date at the park with Harold this weekend. Since he needs a ride home, we head down the steps toward the corner where Harrison will pick us up.
Halfway down, Kennedy walks out of the courthouse to head back to her office for the afternoon. Two federal marshals in civilian clothes trail a few feet behind her when she’s approached by a reporter in a yellow pantsuit with a notepad in her hand.
“Miss Randolph, what are your thoughts on the upcoming retrial of Gino Moriotti?”
Kennedy’s tone is confident. Cocky.
It’s pretty hot.
“Our case is every bit as solid as it was the first time around. I see no reason why the outcome won’t be identical. Conviction on all counts.”
“And how do you feel about the rumored contract that Mr. Moriotti has put on you? Are you concerned about your safety as the case moves forward?”
“Gino Moriotti has made a lifelong career of intimidating people, of getting his way through violence and fear. In this case, he should prepare for disappointment.”
And as I watch the tiny blond badass practically strut away, I think proudly, that’s my girlfriend.
16
This time, Kennedy shows up: at seven sharp there’s a knock on the door. I wait in the backyard while Harrison goes to open it. The whole afternoon, my energy level was buzzing even higher than usual. I tried to get some work done, but I kept wondering when Kennedy would get home.
And what her expression would be when she opened the box I’d had delivered to her—a big white box with a red bow. Large enough for the dress, shoes, and purse that were inside it.
My mother has a personal shopper she’s worked with for years. With the amount of time my hands have spent on Kennedy’s body, I know her dimensions pretty frigging well. Well enough to describe the perfect dress that’ll fit her like a custom-tailored glove.
And I’m every bit as good as I thought I was.
Because when Kennedy steps onto the back patio, she knocks the breath out of me. Her flawless neck and dainty arms are bare in the white strapless dress—practically glistening in the moonlight. The soft, shiny fabric hugs her breasts, pushing them up and together, creating a tasty cleavage line that I want to dip my tongue into. The dress cinches at her tiny waist, then flares just a bit, the gauzy chiffon fluttering slightly with the light breeze, just above her knees.
The dress is lovely. Sexy but elegant. Something a woman would wear on a special night out . . . or a girl would wear to her prom.
Her hair falls loose and curled around her delicate shoulders, her lips are shiny with a touch of gloss. And her smile—it’s all hope and wonder and amazement. My heart pounds in my chest—because I was able to give that to her.
Kennedy looks around the yard, at the twinkling lights strewn through the trees and bushes, at the candles glowing softly on the table set for two. “Kiss Me” by Sixpence None the Richer plays out of the speakers—they were a big hit in the nineties. When those stunning eyes fall on me, I know she gets it. She understands what I’m trying to do.
I shrug. “You didn’t get to go to the senior dance . . . I figured it’s time to rectify that.”
“Brent . . .” She sighs. “This is . . . wow.”
I bite my bottom lip with a nod. “Oh, there’s more.” I open the small box on the table and step up to her.