Nikolai: The Complete Collection

4. Justine

4

JUSTINE

W hen a knock trickles in my ears, I stop splashing cool water onto my cheeks.

“Nikolai has been charged and processed for departure to Clark County Detention Center. He’s in a holding room, waiting for his legal team to be brought in. Roselyn has secured us five minutes with him. The team is ready to move in.”

“Okay. Just a minute,” I reply to Mr. Fletcher.

While patting my face dry with a paper towel, I raise my eyes to the vanity mirror.Although I’m running on less than three hours of sleep, my eyes are surprisingly bright, enhanced by a set of thick lashes my Italian grandmother gifted me. My cheeks are rosy, compliments of the numerous dashes I make between the courthouse and Schluter do I really want another?” Nikolai mutters more to himself than me.

I tighten my arms over my chest, praying it will hide my body’s inane reaction to discovering he finds me tempting. My lack of sleep must be playing havoc with my mind, as I’ve never been so poorly misguided.

Mr. Fletcher snaps my attention back to the task at hand. “You know I don’t play fair, Nikolai. Fair is not a word in my dictionary. Justine was brought in to entice your less astute head. Clearly her presence has piqued your interest.”

My jaw slackens as my eyes rocket to Mr. Fletcher. I knew I wasn’t hired solely because of my perfect bar scores and exemplary attendance record, but still, having him admit it in front of a client is shocking and, if I’m being honest, demoralizing.

“But Justine isn’t just a knockout. She’s the shrewdest member of my team. If you don’t want to sleep in a cell this evening, she’s your signed guarantee that will not happen. Not maybe. Not possibly. Will not happen,” Mr. Fletcher continues, dampening the anger bubbling in my veins.

“I have an attorney. I don’t need another,” Nikolai replies with his narrowed gaze rapt on Mr. Fletcher, his voice the most vicious I’ve heard.

With a rueful grin revealing he’s about to play his most lethal hand, Mr. Fletcher slides a piece of paper across the table to Nikolai. “Perhaps this will change your mind on who you want representing you.”

If I could tear my eyes away from the veins thrumming in Nikolai’s neck, I’d be enticed to discover what hand Mr. Fletcher just dealt, but since I’m stuck in a panicked trance, I keep my eyes locked on Nikolai, equally appalled and confused by my ditsy response.

My reaction can’t be helped. The same peculiar feeling I got when walking into our secure location this afternoon is knotting my stomach again.

After what feels like an eternity, Nikolai drops his gaze to the sheet of paper he’s clutching. Hostile silence deprives the air of oxygen as he reads the text on repeat. The longer he scans the document, the tighter he grips the paper.

Confident he has the facts straight, he raises his head and drifts his eyes to me. His gaze is more ruthless than any I’ve seen.

I stand taller, vainly trying to portray I’m not intimidated by his glance.

It’s all a ruse. I’m shaking so much I feel like I’m on one of those vibrating machines at the gym. You know, the ones that jiggle the cellulite off your thighs. I won’t need to visit my trainer for a month with how much I’m internally shaking. That is how wrathful Nikolai’s glare is.

After he scrapes his hand across his chin, Nikolai’s eyes stray to Mr. Fletcher. The volatility in them doubles when he warns, “If this is found to be untrue, the smile you’re wearing will drop two inches when I slit your throat and watch you take your last breath.”

His voice gives no indication his threat was meant to be playful. He is as upfront as his warning tone relayed.

Not intimidated by Nikolai’s threat, Mr. Fletcher guarantees, “You have my word. What I’m presenting is true.”

My eyes lower to the piece of paper when Nikolai dumps it on the tabletop. Although it’s scrunched into a heap, I can still read one sentence inscribed on it.

Erik Monstrateo—FBI Agent No: 1183429

Air traps in my throat, stunned Mr. Fletcher dug the grave of a former colleague and friend. Erik left Schluter & Fletcher the month before I arrived in Las Vegas, but his essence is still embedded in my office’s bones.

“Okay.”

Nikolai stubs out his cigarette and stands from his chair. His meekest movement has the armed guards sitting on edge, cautious of his every move.

“You have one chance to prove your worth. If all charges against me are dismissed, I’ll sign you as my counsel.” Mr. Fletcher strives to interrupt Nikolai, but he continues speaking, foiling his endeavor to assert I’m only a first-year intern. “No misdemeanors, plea bargains, or community service. All charges are to be dropped without record.”

“And?” I query when his demands seem unfinished.

I don’t know the man standing in front of me—before reading his dossier during my travels to Las Vegas PD, I’d never heard of Nikolai Popov—but something in his eyes tells me his list of demands is not yet finalized.

“And…” Nikolai draws out his one word as if it’s an entire sentence.

My pulse thuds in my ears when he veers around the table and heads in my direction. His swagger is pompous and reeks of attitude. I’m certain a man of his stature, much less looks, wouldn’t lack confidence, but I’m still stunned by his sheer self-assurance. He’s so cocky I doubt he needs assistance with his latest debacle. We walked into his trap, gifting him a new set of toys to play with.

My breaths turn ragged when he stops to stand in front of me. His eyes are even more exquisite up close, as are his sculptured face and shirtless torso. The stubble on his chin can’t dampen the razor-sharp cut of his jawline, and his lips appear as soft as a cloud.

When he sniffs my hair, Mr. Fletcher signals for the guards to move in. I raise my hand in the air, requesting them to stand down.

Years of studying criminal masterminds award me with the knowledge that this is a tactic Nikolai uses to siphon out the weak. If I fail this test, he will move on to the next set of pawns waiting in the wings, contending for his attention.

Furthermore, I’m not afraid of him. He intimidates me more than any man before him, but something deep in his eyes stops fear from being my first response.

The scent of cigarettes and alcohol lingers in Nikolai’s wake when he drags his nose down my neck before trailing it along my collarbone. His attention mists my skin with sweat and moistens my panties as well.

I pop my eyes back open when I lose the heat of his touch. He stares straight at me, his gaze unwavering and without reservation. I’ve always wondered what victims of crime felt in the hours leading up to their assault. Now I know because I just experienced it firsthand.

While tracing his index finger over the goosebumps mottling my wrist, Nikolai shifts his focus to Mr. Fletcher. “If you get within an inch of her, I’ll cut off your cock and feed it to you.”

Since his attention returns to me so quickly, he fails to see Mr. Fletcher’s response to his warning. A man who dishes out threats like Halloween candy doesn’t need to see Mr. Fletcher’s reaction to know it exists. He can smell the fear leaching off his skin. It’s potent and strong, nearly as intoxicating as Nikolai’s ruggedly virile scent lingering in my nostrils.

My pulse quickens when Nikolai pinches my chin to return my devotion to him. His heavy-lidded stare is more intimidating than any I’ve experienced—icy, pulse-quickening, and terrifyingly delicious.

“And don’t think I won’t know if he touches you, Justine.” He purrs my name in a throaty rumble, making it sound more feminine than it is. “I smelled your purity. I’ll know if it changes.” He whispers his last two sentences as if they are only intended for my ears.

I nod, spinelessly agreeing with his assessment. It isn’t because I’m fearful Mr. Fletcher will lose a beloved member of his body. Nikolai’s statement was laced with so much confidence that I’m not willing to test its accuracy. His eyes expose that he’d rather slay a man than be seen as a fool.

Nikolai smiles unabashedly, pleased by my cowardly agreement. When he steps back, I secure my first breath in what feels like several minutes.

“Let’s get this wrapped up. I have ‘supposed’ crack to be snorting.”

He stalks to the other end of the room by walking backward, his watch unwavering.

The junior associates jump to his demand, neglecting to notice he didn’t disclose whose chest he’d be snorting crack from. They flurry around the room, oblivious to the fact Nikolai’s eyes are filling in the gaps his mouth failed to speak.

Although his lusty eyes relay every thought streaming through his head, he articulates his notions out loud, ensuring I can’t mistake his eyes’ silent admission. “Don’t make plans this weekend, Ангел . Your calendar just got blacked out by the man determined to read your wicked thoughts.”

He smirks in a way I’ve only seen once before—when I went head-to-head with Satan.

“Nikolai was drinking at the same bar as the accused. That alone will dismiss his fingerprints on the bottle lodged in the complainant’s neck. Unless they have surveillance footage or a witness willing to side with the complainant’s account of events, it’s the accuser’s word versus our client’s. No judge will let that pass.”

My tone is more confident than my facial expression. I’ve spent the past forty minutes ensuring a minimum of four inches between Mr. Fletcher and me, and my exhaustion is more apparent than ever.

Mr. Fletcher shrugs, his tiredness after a long week also evident. “The vault-load of evidence the DA has isn’t our concern at the moment. It’s ensuring our client doesn’t spend Fourth of July weekend in lockup.”

“Nikolai can afford bail, so why aren’t we proceeding to a bail hearing?” My eyes roam the exorbitant amount listed at the bottom of Nikolai’s financial statement. “Even if the judge demands a record bail amount, it isn’t above our client’s means. I doubt he’d bat an eyelid at a multimillion-dollar term.”

Mr. Fletcher slumps into his chair before his eyes drift to Nikolai. I don’t follow his gaze. I’ve felt the heat of Nikolai’s eyes on me the past forty minutes, so I’m confident he’s watching me. You can’t mistake the heat of covetousness.

“With Nikolai being positively identified in a lineup and having a criminal record that rivals inmates on death row, I don’t see a judge agreeing to any bail terms presented. If it were a DUI or a misdemeanor, different story, but this is an attempted murder charge. The complainant has thirty-three stitches in his neck, and he identified his attacker. Our chances of securing bail are slim to none.”

“What about house arrest? Nikolai won’t technically be incarcerated and wouldn’t be tempted to skip bail. Then we will have the long weekend to work through the obstacles in front of us.” Michelle adds to the ideas bouncing between Mr. Fletcher and me.

Mr. Fletcher’s lips purse. “I considered that, but only one judge approves house arrests in Nevada.”

Michelle scoots to the edge of her chair, her interests unmissable. Michelle is an attractive twenty-nine-year-old female with platinum-blonde hair, olive-green eyes, and a trim body, but shockingly, not once in the past forty minutes has Nikolai’s focus diverted to her.

Should I be flattered or insulted by that notion? Is Nikolai watching me to entice flattery? Or is he trying to scare me? Considering every time our eyes subtly meet across the room, he smirks, I’d say it’s the latter.

Michelle’s enthusiasm is doused when Mr. Fletcher grumbles, “That judge is currently sipping champagne on a chartered jet, returning from a four-week writing retreat in Honolulu.”

I sigh, hating that forty minutes of tossing around ideas hasn’t unearthed a way to fix the error I made encouraging Mr. Fletcher to goad the complainant into identifying Nikolai. We wouldn’t have a case without the complainant formally pressing charges, but it doesn’t ease the guilt weighing heavily on my shoulders.

Seeking a way out of our predicament, I snag my iPhone from my bag to research Nikolai’s former charges. His previous defense attorney was a brilliant man, but even someone with Erik’s expertise would have had a hard time getting his client off his numerous previous charges, so there must be something we’re missing.

My heart thumps my ribcage when a notification flashes across the screen of my cell.

“Were you referring to Judge Ryder?” I ask Mr. Fletcher, my voice high with excitement.

When he nods, I disclose, “Judge Ryder’s flight landed fifteen minutes ago. With weather forecasts grim, it was either fly out six hours earlier than planned or wait for the storm to pass.”

“He decided to fly out early,” Mr. Fletcher intuits, his lips curling into a grin. “He’s always been an inpatient old bastard.”

With a smile, I nod.

“With the right amount of persuasion and an incentive or two, he could be in chambers within ten, fifteen minutes max,” Michelle exclaims, her pitch higher than usual.

Mr. Fletcher jackknifes into a half-seated position, startling me. “Get Judge Ryder’s wife on the phone.” He points to Trent, a junior associate at Schluter & Fletcher.

Mr. Fletcher’s eyes drift to Michelle, spearing her in place with his soul-capturing gaze. “I need the most expensive bag of golf clubs on the strip, and I needed them five minutes ago.”

Beaming, Michelle smiles before lurching from her seat. She exits the interview room with a bounce to her step that mimics the thump of my heart.

Kirk leaps into action when Mr. Fletcher’s attention locks on him. “Transport. I’m on it,” he perceives, reading the demand from Mr. Fletcher’s eyes. He darts out of the interrogation room, leaving only three people: Mr. Fletcher, Nikolai, and me.

Wanting to showcase that his impressive pull doesn’t solely work on members of the opposite sex, Mr. Fletcher removed the armed guards within seconds of Nikolai agreeing for us to counsel his case. Considering we’ve gone from ten members to three, the room feels surprisingly claustrophobic.

“We need to fill in the house arrest forms, have them signed by Nikolai and endorsed by the DA before lodging them with the court within fifteen minutes,” Mr. Fletcher mumbles, his words forced out of his mouth in a hurry.

“Eleven,” I correct, glancing at the wall clock that reads 4:49 p.m.

He grumbles a cuss word while snagging his briefcase from the ground. After seizing a five-page document from a hidden pocket, he thrusts it onto the desk in front of me. He rummages so recklessly in the breast pocket of his blazer for his lucky pen that a cotton thread popping breaks the silence between us.

Once he has everything in place, Mr. Fletcher shifts his focus to me. “If this works, I’ll begin preliminaries on your brother’s case this weekend.”

I want to scream. I want to slap Mr. Fletcher’s cheeks and smack a sloppy kiss right on his grinning lips, but instead, I tuck away the flare of excitement it causes and timidly nod. This is everything I’ve ever wanted, but I can’t get too excited. First, I must ensure a known criminal doesn’t spend a night in lockup. Then I’ll pop open the bottle of chardonnay chilling in my fridge and toast my success.

After pressing a kiss to my temple, Mr. Fletcher leaves the room, loudly shouting for an update on the location of the assistant district attorney, Sasha, on his way.